Writerly Wednesday: No one knows

 

No one knows 

when the introvert, 

the quiet one, 

the one who stayed 

on the periphery, 

the one no one 

could hear,

the one who hide within

the babble of voices, 

shimmied out of 

her shell. 

No one knows

the one who always 

listened,

at ease 

with her place in 

the well 

of shadows, and thoughts

swimming 

through her brain.

No one knows

the introvert, the quiet one,

who found a place to be, 

to rest, to live, 

to dream.

The introvert, the quiet one, 

lived among the rest,

content 

with those  

who lived externally. 

No one knows 

what came between

except she found 

her voice.

And burst, 

quietly of course, 

and reached 

politely, of course,

between 

the lines, 

On to the scene,

And took her place 

in the light. 

A to Z Poetry: One True Sentence

In the mornings I've been reading several snippets daily from A Year of Writing Dangerously instead of one a day, taking notes and mulling things over, and finding encouragement.  I may write a few sentences, a poem, whatever comes to mind in response.

127 One True Sentence:  

"In a Moveable Feast Ernest Hemingway writes: 'I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think. 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now.  All you have to do is write one true sentence.  Write the truest sentence that you know.'  So finally I would write one true sentence and go from there.  It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone way."

 *******

One true sentence,

nothing fancy, nothing prosaic. 

Just write. 

Easy. 

Simple.

One. 

One word. One Sentence. 

Then more.

A paragraph until you've filled 

the page with words. 

A picture, 

painted in script. 

Flowers made of nouns,

a verb, an adjective. 

A person, a place, a thing

from your imagining.  

No rules, no goals, no end game.  

Pen to paper,

thought to hand. 

Let it all out and see where you land. 

A trail of letters, a path of paragraphs.

lead you to an adventure,

a journey that never gets old.

Flowers, brilliant and glowing,

lead you to a knowing.

Words, soft and quiet,

Tell a story, 

Only you will know, 

If you don't put pen to paper.

One letter, one word, one paragraph.

One true sentence.

Let it all out and  see where you land. 

*****

  

Writerly Wednesday: Moving Forward

Artist - Marie Anne Foucart

Moving Forward

Keep moving forward, looking ahead,

staying in the present,
learning from the past.

eyes to the future. No regrets.

Thoughts, fast and fleeting,

heart beating a timpani,

nerves and stress.

Nothing in reserve.

Time to regroup.

You gather yourself together.

Give up what you can't control

and charge forward.

Time to write, 

time to ponder,
wonder and believe
everything will fall into place.

You press for movement.
Do this, do that. 

Why nots and how comes,

demand a finish date.

How do we pay for it all?

Ever anxious, always afraid to ask.

We sit back in wonder.

Grateful, thankful.

Possible becomes probable.

Money, help, advice
Comes to hand,
never early, never late. 

Creativity stilted, blocked, quieted, 

hums in the background,

never ending, waiting for hand

to put pen to paper.

Some days,

one sentence, two.

Other days, pages.

Angst, thanks and snafus.

Characters jump to the fore.

Hello, what's new?

Not stewing, if that's what you think

Living, loving, breathing.

We'll jump back into place,
ready when you are.

We've made new friends
in the meantime.

Would you like to meet?

Characters, old and new.

How do you do?

We're ready, let's move.

~R.L.McCormack

Writerly Wednesday: Persistence and Practice

I'm currently reading Jordan Rosenfeld's A Writer's Guide to Persistence: How to create a Lasting and Productive Writing Practice.   Every year I find an inspirational book that lights a fire under me, spurs me on to continue writing. I have a tendency to let family and work demands, stress and worry, all life's obligations short me out. I read about the writers who write through thick and thin, like the postman who works no matter the weather, those who have been writing all their lives and I start comparing myself to others. The well dries up and I escape into a book, the internet, television avoiding the page. Which leads me back again to the question, "Why do I write?"  

Probably because I get all crotchety and grumpy when all those thoughts, feelings, ideas, and characters are waiting in the back of my brain festering, wanting, needing to be expressed. Why do I resist instead of persist?  Then call it what you will - God or coincidence, synchronicity - I'll stumble back to the page and the well opens up again.  

This time I found Jordan's book who encourages writers to persist and practice their craft.

..."Writing is not just a means to an end but a way of life, of processing information and experience and expressing oneself on a regular basis...   Writers must write. How you do it, where, when, and why are all up to you. Excuses are a way of keeping yourself 'safe' from the demands of a writing practice... Writers are the people who find a way, no matter what, to keep writing, polishing, and persisting.  No excuses.  No one will do it for you. Your writing practice is in your hands."

Rosenfeld then takes it a step further with asking 'what is the value of your writing?"  

"If your burning reason to write is because it makes you happy or releases the wild voices from your head or helps you analyze the world around you, you are exactly where you are supposed to be.  You must learn to please yourself in the process of your practice or you will become vulnerable to discouragement, despair, and giving up. At the end of the day 'writing must be its own reward' as  Anne Lamott famously said."

"The moment you see it as a 'practice' that derives from an authentic place inside you, you step outside the bounds of success and failure and enter a wholly new, deeper territory in which everything you do for and with your writing is a part of the greater sum.  No words or work are ever wasted. No failure is ultimate, instead everything is another step further on the path of your writing practice."

"Everything counts as long as you choose to see it in that light. The value of your writing practice is ultimately up to you. And once you know what the value is, no one can take it away from you through rejection, criticism, or competition." 

And the icing on the cake of life, again synchronicity, is Laura Benedict's post over on The Kill Zone - Quit Trying to Write  and her very simple statement 'If you're writing, you're a writer. Keep writing' and quoting Yoda's sage advice. "do or do not, there is no try."  I love Star Wars. *grin* 

No procrastination, no resistance, no excuses as I persist and practice, spilling words onto the page on a regular basis.  At the beginning of the year I joined the 10 Minute Novelists 365 Writing Challenge and set writing, editing, consistency goals for each week which has helped keep me on track as well.  

This month is also Mytwoblessings 12th Anniversary and I'm looking forward to sharing my continuing journey on a more consistent basis.  

"Let perseverance be your engine and hope your fuel."

 ~H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Writerly Wednesday: Creativity and Cats!

Writerly Wednesday: Getting Organized

Our two week Christmas break from lessons is over and time to get back into the groove of learning. Every Sunday I fill out James weekly assignment sheet. The other evening I sat down to fill out his schedule as usual. I happened to look at the pile of books and notebooks in my writing nook, thinking how I'd fit my writing and blogging and everything else in for the day while he's busy working on his stuff, when the idea hit me. To do's and notes and bullet journals just were not working. I needed something simple and always accessible, not buried in a notebook. 

I should make an assignment sheet of my very own to follow weekly! 

I ignored the voice of the editor in my head saying it's another way to procrastinate from what I really needed to be working on, which is the story board. "Hey you," I say to the criticism, "I printed out the story, put it my notebook and I bought a trifold bulletin board so I'm ready to jet. Lots of changes are percolating around in my brain, so shut it." *grin* Besides, I'm being creative.  The lines aren't perfect and that's a bit annoying which I'll blame on paint and having to do a bit of rework since Word wouldn't let me save it in jpeg for some reason.  Pdf yes, Jpeg no.  *facepalm*

I'm psyched and ready to roll! 



 

Writerly Wednesday: Stolen Moments

James Ensor Old Lady with Blue Shawl (1881)

 Stolen Moments 

Dorothy stroked the soft hand-crocheted shawl draped over the back of her mother’s rocking chair.  Her mother had had it for as long as she could remember. Once a brilliant blue, it had faded with time.   Elizabeth walked into the room with three tea cups and arranged them on the end stand.  The china clinked, fragile and empty. Her eyebrows furrowed as she gazed at Dorothy. 

“The girl,” She waved toward the kitchen, “is making tea. Margaret, I think.”

“Maggie.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. I just can’t keep them straight these days.”  She sat, hands folded primly in her lap.  “Now then, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

Dorothy had learned a long time ago to go with her mother’s flights of fancy.  She smiled. “It’s Dot.”

“You’re a friend of my daughter? Where did she go?”

“She’s out in the garden.”

Maggie bustled into the room with a silver tea service tray and set it on the coffee table. “So there are our tea cups. You had me wondering darlin’ where they went.”

Her mother flipped a hand, “Thank you, you’re dismissed.”

“Yes mum.” Maggie winked at Dorothy. “We’re in a bit of royal mood today. Mind your p’s and q’s.”  She did a far imitation of a courtesy, poured the tea and handed a cup to Elizabeth.  She chuckled as she left.

Dorothy poured a cup for herself, and settled back in the rocking chair.  She lifted a corner of the shawl, rubbed it against her cheek.  Her mother’s jasmine fragrance clung to the material.  She inhaled, the scent taking her back to the days of old, wrapped together in her mother’s arms, loving away a child’s pain.  The magic shawl, her mother used to say.  It soothed the hurts, comforted the sick and kept away the wallygogs.  She never quite figured out what that meant.

“I made that, you know.” 

“Yes, it’s beautiful”

“When I was pregnant with my Dorothy, everyone else was knitting booties.” She rolled her eyes.  “Not my style. I finished it the day of her birthday.  A princess blanket for my princess.”

Dorothy sucked in a breath, her hand tightening on the shawl.  She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.  A memory her mother had never shared or it could be a new one made up to fill in holes in her mind.  She preferred the former, hoped it was true.

“She wore it for her wedding; so beautiful.  I have a picture somewhere.”  Her mother rummaged through the shelves.  

“Yes, I remember.”  Dorothy chuckled.  Her something borrowed, something blue.  It had looked hideous with her wedding dress, but it had been important to Elizabeth.

“Ah, here it is.” She pulled out a photo album and patted the cushion beside her.  “Come, look.”

Dorothy rose, pulled the shawl off the back of the chair and draped it over her mother’s narrow shoulders.  Elizabeth leaned against her shoulder, the album on both their laps.  She opened the book to a random page, eyed the pictures, shook her head and flipped through more pages.

Dorothy laid her hand over her mom’s to still it.  “What are you looking for, perhaps I can help.”

“It’s not here.”  A shiver ran through her mom’s frail body.

“Oh mama.”  Dorothy rearranged the shawl over both their shoulders and cuddled against her mother. After a few minutes, Elizabeth took her hand and stroked the ring on Dorothy’s finger.

“I gave this to you on your eighteenth birthday. Do you remember why?”

Dorothy closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes, do you?”

Her mother chuckled, “I may be old, but not stupid Dorothy Myers.”  She leaned back and gazed at Dorothy with lucid, life filled eyes.  “I feel asleep on you again, didn’t I?”

For just a few minutes. I love you mom.”

“I love you too, my princess Dorothy.”

Writerly Wednesday: conciously unconscious writing

Fascinating!  I'm reading Dorothea Brande's Becoming a Writer which was first published in 1934. Now I think I know where Julia Cameron got her idea for morning pages.  As we all know, in order to be a writer, we must write.   Brande says:

You must reach the unconscious to flow into the channel of writing.  Psychologists will forgive us for speaking so airily about 'teaching' the unconscious to do this or that.  To all intents and purposes that is what happens; but less elegantly and more exactly we might say that the first step toward being a writer it to hitch your unconscious mind to your writing arm.

She recommends rising early, half an hour or even an hour and without doing anything else, write. Write anything that comes to mind. Then the next morning, do it again without reading what you wrote the day before.  This basic exercise is training you to write.  After a while, increase your output by a few more sentences, a paragraph or two.  And soon, writing will become effortless and no longer 'arduous or dull."  Your subconscious and conscious will quit fighting....hopefully.

Once you are writing with ease every morning, take the next step.  Everyone has time in their day, so make use of it.  Schedule time during the day to write for 15 minutes and stick to it.  A debt of honor.  If you say you are going to write at 3:00, then do it, without complaint or excuse, no matter where you are or what you are doing.   The same as morning pages, write anything at all.  After a while, choose a different time.  You are basically teaching yourself to write at any time of the day without having to fight your subconscious. 

The important thing is that at the moment, on the dot of the moment, you are to be writing that you teach yourself that no excuse of any nature can be offered when the moment comes....You must learn to disregard every loophole the wily unconscious points out to you.  If you consistently, doggedly, refuse to be beguiled, you will have your reward.  The unconscious will suddenly give in  charmingly, and begin to write gracefully and well.

My conscious is already fighting with my subconscious - but what about your work days, how will you manage and blah,blah, blah.  Put up your dukes, subconscious.  

I adore Dorothea Brande and loving her book about cultivating a writer's temperament, teaching your two sides - left brain and right brain to cooperate - as well as making writing a habit, as well as displacing old habits.  Looking forward to reading 'the rest of the story' as Paul Harvey use to say. 

As for the rest of the story, go see what my fellow writers have to say over at row80 and give them a little pep talk if needed.

Writerly Wednesday: Leap of Faith

I wandered through the ancient forest on a narrow trail covered in moss and leaves.  The wind whistled through the trees, branches rustling and singing, while scattered leaves flew all about me. I could see the bridge now and hear the roar of the waterfall. The breeze pushed and pulled me, leaves crunching and crackling under my bare feet.  Crack! I jumped out of the way as a huge tree crashed behind me with a  bone jarring thud. Once the dust cleared, it blocked the pathway and now I’d have to take the long way home.  The wind whipped up again, pulling me along and I sprinted as fast as I could.  I’d heard about the bridge but never seen it.  Awe inspiring. Two huge oaks trees stretching across the water towards one another, the roots forming a natural walkway.  Warm and bumpy underneath my feet, I walked to the middle and stared down at the water.  The river roared underneath and emptied into a crystal clear lake, surrounded by ferns and wild lilies of white, yellow, gold and orange. Sunlight sparkled off the water and fish swam in aimless circles.  Looking out across the ancient forest, the church steeple rose high above the tree tops and the tolling of the bell drifted by on the wind.   A soft breeze caressed my face and whispered ‘I will catch you when you fall’.  The breeze plucked at my clothes, once again pulling me towards the edge.  The leap of faith, that’s what all the kids called it.  I can do this.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and jumped.

Writerly Wednesday: All for Charity

All for Charity!

Charity drove through the front gate of her property and parked at the foot of the front steps. She laid her head on the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. Someone had been following her all day long. An amateur at best, since he’d gotten close enough for her to see him several times. Probably one of Moore’s goons. They’d never been too bright. Finally, she had lost him on the back roads of the town after taking several deliberate wrong turns.

She stepped out of the car, paused when her phone trilled. The text message from her accountant stated a simple “It’s done.”

“About time." Giggling, Charity strode up the steps and was just about to slip the key in her lock, when she saw the plant next to the door knocked over and dirt strewn all over the porch. She shook her head and set it upright. “I’ll deal with the mess later. Darn coyotes after the verbena again.”

Charity unlocked the door and walked into the foyer, frowned when the lights didn’t automatically turn on. She flicked the switch and huffed out a breath when nothing happened. “Damn circuit breaker." Glad to have made it home just before dusk, she trudged down the hall into the kitchen. After grabbing a flash light from the kitchen drawer, she went out the back door and stopped, surprised to find a wheelbarrow full of dirt parked next to the electrical shed. She looked around but couldn’t see the gardener and had been too distracted to notice whether his truck was still in the drive. Why had he gone home in the middle of the job?

Charity reached up to unlock the shed door to find it ajar. She shivered as she scanned the back yard, the heavy shadows of the woods bordering her property loomed as the sun sank. It was quiet, too quiet. No birds or crickets. In the silence, she heard the gurgle of the small creek beyond in the trees. Her phone buzzed again and she jumped, let out a shriek, and then caught her breath at the message from Grady, “He knows. Get out”

“Relax. No problem, I’ve gotten plenty of time. What can he do from jail?” She texted Grady back, then gathered her wits and pushed open the shed door. The gardener hung from the rafters, his eyes bulging out from his purple face. She screamed, stumbled back and fell over the wheelbarrow. It tipped over, covered her in dirt and grass and debris. She climbed to her knees and reached for her phone, but it wasn’t there. She pawed through the dirt, and then froze.

A creak, then a whisper of cloth had her pressing a hand against her mouth to muffle the whimper. She scrambled to her feet, her ankle going out from under her, having twisted it in the fall. She hopped and limped to the house, stumbled through the door, shut it and slammed the lock home as soon as she made it inside.

Panting, she grabbed the cordless phone and lurched into her bedroom. She slipped on the throw rug and landed on her hands and knees. The phone shot out of her hand and slid underneath the bed.

“No. No. No.” Tears blinded her as she lay down and looked under the bed, but it was too dark to see, the flashlight gone along with her cell phone. She stretched out and felt blindly, her hand bumping packages and papers but no phone. She stilled when the hallway floor boards creaked. The door, she hadn’t locked it! Crawling to the door, she grabbed the knob and leaned as hard as possible against the wood. She held her breath until he gave it up for locked and continued down the hall and started up the stairs to the second floor.

“Think, think, think. My keys and another cordless phone should be on the table in the front foyer.” She waited until he started rummaging around in one of the upstairs rooms, then snuck out of the bedroom. Avoiding the squeaky floorboards, she crept to the bottom of the stairs, listened, and then bolted for the front door. Charity raced to the car, put the keys in the ignition, but didn’t turn it on. The cordless phone had a limited range and wouldn’t work past her driveway. She dialed 911, but her voice wouldn’t cooperate when the operator answered. It took her a couple tries to squeeze out any sound.

“He’s dead. Someone’s in my house. 2222 Makstore Lane.”

The operator’s voice buzzed in her head as the front door opened and the large man, dressed all in black, stood silhouetted in the door, holding a machete. She screamed, turned the key and threw the car in reverse as she stomped on the gas. He raced down the steps after the car.

Charity couldn’t do anything, but drive backwards, her hands frozen on the wheel, blind to what was behind her, her sight going gray and blurry with fear as the man ran straight towards the car. She whipped her head around, inadvertently whipped the steering wheel as well. The car veered off into the trees and she stomped on the brake.

In the glow of the headlights, the man stopped, a grim smile plastered on his face. Clayton Moore! Panting, she made up her mind. She slammed it into drive, pressed down on the accelerator. He barely jumped out of the way, the car clipping his legs. He threw the machete and it sliced into the windshield, cracking the glass. Too scared to slow down, she raced down the drive, rammed through the closed gate. The air bag popped in her face blinding her as she desperately stomped on the brake. Off in the distance, she could hear the sirens, but didn’t know if they’d make it in time. She beat at the bag, pushed it down and wobbled as she climbed out of the steaming car.

She whimpered as Moore pulled himself to his feet, moved toward her, dragging his injured leg. Backing up, she grabbed the machete. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll throw it. I will.”

He growled out in a gravelly tone, “Seriously doubt you have it in you, little girl.”

“Wanna bet?”

He grimaced, then stumbled to his knees with a groan before he pitched forward on his face.

Charity started to move forward, but thought maybe he could be faking it. She raised the machete and just stood there as the police cars pulled up, gravel flying as they skidded to a halt.

Officers jumped out of the vehicles, guns drawn. “Drop the knife, down on your knees.”

“I called. He killed my gardener, he tried to kill me.”

“Drop the weapon, ma’am.”

Charity dropped the knife, then slumped to the ground sobbing. One of the police officers crouched down by her side. “We know who he is. He escaped from custody three days ago. He was arrested for murder in several states. You are one lucky lady.”

Charity drew in a deep breath, and then rested limply against her damaged car. More lucky than the cops would ever know.  Now, the money was all hers.

Writerly Wednesday: Render the Tree, Capture the Forest

The latest exercise in Chapter 3 of The Making of a Story is all about capturing the details called Render the Tree, Capture the Forest.  By carefully choosing a few details, attempt to capture an entire place, a town, a city, a county.

Since I'm working on editing Eyes in the Ashes, figured my main character driving through town would be perfect for this. During the writing, quite a few new ideas sparked about the story so have to say very helpful exercise.


In the early dawn light as the clouds pearled over the redwood trees, the sheriff drove into town. He passed the bakery where Jacky usually started baking around 4:00 a.m. His stomach grumbled as sourdough and butter, cinnamon and blueberries competed with chicory and roasted espresso beans. Danny waved, loading the truck for his early morning deliveries down at the marina. All the windows along Main sparkled, shiny and clean in time for the May Day parade and the beginning of the fair.

In a couple days, the streets would be packed with folks from all over the valley. All the merchants busily preparing for the big day as they created window displays to attract every eye.

Madison books had recently updated their front window to show off local author Jeremiah Gleason’s new thriller “The Dark Gate.” His book sat on a mossy tree stump in the center, surrounded by an assortment of cookbooks, and local travel guides, ringed by greenery from the forest. Down the boardwalk, hanging plants lined the walkways with rocking chairs scattered in front of Patty’s Pizza Palace.

Next door at Four Tunes, the art studio’s front window remained covered. Sebastian and Helene, no doubt had something clever planned. He hoped they would exhibit pieces created by local artists, instead of one of their latest wacked out creations. However, they were being secretive about the whole thing.

As Greg drove the windy road, the marina came into view and reminded him of the miniature diorama displayed in the library. Jackson’s three white, tall sail masts towered above the rest of the boats. Out in the bay, the Greek’s yacht anchored for the week. The mayor had been a bit obtuse about the man and his companion. Although, now that he thought about it, how coincidental that Jackson had showed up as well. He had yet to come by the office, so now would be the perfect time to find out what the heck was going on.

He drove to the end of the pier, parked and headed down the steps to the slips. Seagulls kited above, their cries competed with the chatter and clanking of the fishermen while they offloaded their catches of the morning. As he neared Jackson’s boat, the scent of coffee overrode the moist fish laden air.

Then the man himself appeared on deck, a broad grin on his face, and a cup of steaming coffee in one hand. “You’re late.”

Greg climbed aboard and eyed his friend, took in the pinkish scar that ran down his cheek and the cane in his other hand. “So it seems and the stories of your demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

Writerly Wednesday: You fill up my senses!

Write a paragraph using all the senses including place, time and unknown, in addition to the normal five senses:

Ashley was quite mystified by the classless little hovel Gordon had picked for their meeting.  The candle lit restaurant buzzed with conversation and the tinkling of silverware while the pianist in the corner lost himself in his rendition of some classical piece she couldn’t quite identify.  She sipped from the goblet and the spicy liqueur with hints of licorice and cherries teased her tongue. She arched a brow when the idiot plopped down in the seat, reeking of cheap musk and his cheap, off the rack suit, looked as if he had slept in it. The elderly couple eating their dinner in the next booth had more class in their wrinkly pinkies that he would ever have in a lifetime. He glanced around before he drew an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it across the table.  She frowned, fingered the much too slim, slightly grimy, grey rectangle, then covered it with her napkin and slid it into her purse. She sighed and wondered if she lost her mind as she signaled to her driver at the bar to bring over the package.