My online presence will be a bit scarce for a while. Preparing for wonderful visitors and more…I will check in as I have time, write to prompts, if I’m able, but won’t post them since I will not have time to do much visiting and commenting. I’ll be back as soon as possible.
Image: picpuddle.com
I will be looking forward to sharing another year of creativity with you, my poet/writer friends. May it bring you many blessings and good health.
What are your writing resolutions for 2015–if any?
I’ve been almost AWOL in my blogging world for the past six-seven weeks, and now I will share with you one big reason: my husband has been away–in the desert–overseeing and working on a major remodel–primarily of the kitchen. If you ever wonder what your spouses or partners do all day, send them on an extended vacation. It’s been busy.
While he’s been away, I worked on the final edit of the novel I finished several years ago, The Sin of His Father, and am expecting the proof to arrive on Tuesday. I haven’t decided whether to launch it before the holidays or to wait for the New Year. I have a few things happening in November, including surgery on my elbow which may impair my ability to engage.
Cover Photo: Birgit Lehner
Cover Design: Victoria Slotto
I’ve also launched another blog–“Be Still and Know That I Am God”–spirituality with a Christian twist. I hope you will stop by for a visit.
Have a happy, creative and productive week. I’m off to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne to celebrate David’s return!
Check out my website for a preview of “The Sin of His Father,” Chapter One. WHEN YOU GET TO THE PAGE, YOU WILL NEED TO SCROLL DOWN. Thank you.
I’ve spent a good part of the day raking leaves that have fallen from our Ash tree. As I worked, a breeze continued to out-smart me, reminding me that sometimes our best efforts seem to fall short. And yet, if I hadn’t raked, what would it be like tomorrow?
Every effort we make moves us toward achieving a goal. Sometimes it seems tedious, futile. It would be so much easier to sit back and let the leaves fall where they will. Or wait for someone else to do the work…and be able to claim the success of completion.
This is true in so many aspects of our lives, including writing. How many pages have you written only to toss them out or delete them? How much drivel, purple prose? How many cliche-ridden pieces of garbage? But without putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard where would we be? Every now and again out of that garbage heap, something of brilliance arises. Like those leaves, poor writing can become mulch that serves to nourish next season’s yield.
As I raked, I couldn’t but reflect on the nature of my perfectionism. If I’d tried to make it perfect, I would be crazier than I am. Same with writing, don’t you think? At some point I find it necessary to say, “Okay. That’s enough for now.”
There are still tons of leaves on the Ash. And, between the front and back yard, eight more trees that haven’t even the process of letting go. There are still plenty of words waiting to be played with and committed to sentences, paragraphs, prose or poetry. So, let’s keep on raking, writing.
Have a happy week.
Photo: V.
Because my mother became a war widow when I was just an infant, we spent the first seven years of my life in the home of my grandparents. My grandmother had congestive heart failure and was unable to do a lot, so my mother assumed responsibility for household chores. This symbiotic relationship had a profound effect on my development, as my sedentary grandmother played a critical role in the five years before she died.
I recall that early mornings, most every day, I would drag a pile of Little Golden Books into her bedroom. There, still in bed, she read to me for hours at a time. She spoke to me using adult vocabulary. I fell in love with words before I could read them, and when it came time to learn to read, it came so easily.
One little vignette I will never forget. I suspect it was in the months or even weeks before her death. Her patience had waned along with her strength. I was playing with a toy plastic Brownie camera as she read Lewis Carroll’s fantasy to me. She asked me to cease and desist…several times. I didn’t and she (apparently very calmly) took the camera from me and hurled the length of the living room where we were sitting, I on her lap. To this day I dislike the classic “Alice in Wonderland.”
That being recounted, I have, over the years, continued to develop my love of reading and have, at any given time, several books of various genres on my current reading list. It’s not a leap, and writers know well, that reading nurtures those of us who write and helps to develop imagination in children and adults.
I worry that so many things are supplanting reading. Back in the 1940’s and 50’s when I was a child, there was no virtual reality and, until I was 5, no television. Life was simple and nurtured simple things. Okay. I confess. I’m sounding my age. The point I want to make, the question I ask—what are we doing to promote reading among children and adults?
An addendum/disclaimer: it’s good to see so many YA books appearing on the various best-seller lists.
Just for the fun of it—what do you like to read? What are you reading now?
Photo: V Slotto
Writing Practice—Colors
One of the books I turn to for writing inspiration is Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. A few days ago, I read a short chapter on Writing Practice. Goldberg suggested that we make a list of topics from which to choose when the well runs dry. She offered a list of ideas.
Part of my “morning time,” most days, includes about 30 minutes of writing. Often it reads a bit like a diary or personal journal, but there are plenty of days when I begin with “I don’t know what to write about,” and then when I do, it’s sheer drivel.
So yesterday I combined one of Goldberg’s ideas along with one of my own. Her’s: I remember… Mine: color. And so far have written two days worth of I remember pink. I won’t go into detail, although this afternoon I recalled that I wore a pink formal to my senior prom. And my childhood bedroom was pink—all pink.
The bottom line is, it’s important to write daily and it helps to have a topic for those times when you are at a loss for something to write about. Oh, and don’t worry about results, Goldberg emphasizes. Just write!
Check out my previous post for some “Pink” photos I took on today’s walk.
It seemed to take “forever” but, finally, the proof of The Sin of His Father arrived. As I plunge into yet another edit, I’d like to share a few suggestions to help in the editing process.
Though these apply, for the most part, to prose fiction, I hope there may be some suggestions for those of you writing in other genres.
Set your manuscript aside for a while (weeks or months) before revision. The distance will give you better perspective when you return to what you have written.
Look for echos–that is to say unintentional repetition of words or phrases. Sadness hung in the air like dense fog. I could see that she was sad, is an example of an echo.
Read your writing aloud to yourself and/or another. This process promotes the discovery of grammatical, syntactical and spelling errors.
If you choose to change point of view within the text, make sure that you have provided the reader with a clear distinction between characters. Use spaces or chapter changes to shift point of view. Or use an omniciscent narrator.
Lose adjectives or adverbs whenever an active verb or noun achieves your goal. Consider the following two sentences that deliver the same message:
She felt very afraid.
Fear crept in and overwhelmed her–her breathing quickened.
Which do you think better engages the reader’s emotions?
This next suggestion may surprise you: reread your manuscript in its entirety (chapter-by-chapter or scene by scene for short fiction) but start at the END. This technique enables you to identify unresolved story lines, chronology issues and other inconsistencies. When I applied backwards review to Winter is Past I found that I had changed the name of a secondary character somewhere along the line–the kind of thing that happens when you’ve worked on your novel over a longer period of time.
While doing your backward review, double-check to make sure that every scene has a goal and propels the plot forward.
These are but a few of the things I look for. I hope these are helpful to those of you who face the daunting task of making it better.
Image: Jackson Paul Baer
Have a good week–whichever stage of the writing process you’re working!
Today I’m sharing a short story I wrote in 2007, about 3 years into my first novel. Like all new creative writers, I’d read a plethora of books on the writing process, attended writing conferences and tried my best to provide myself with the closest thing to a MFA that I could expect at 50-something.
Taking to heart all the advice offered by the “experts”, I tried to do it perfectly. Little-by-little the reality dawned on me that every writer has the freedom and the need to discover what works best for them. The theme of this story is part of my experience; the details are pure fiction.
Photo: distraction99.com
Location, Location, Location
A Short, Short Story
Becca grasped the aquamarine notebook in her trembling hands, reached for pen with its padded surface and took in a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she announced to Nimble, her rough-coated Jack Russell Terrier. “Where’re we going?”
She’d prepared for this moment for days—no, years. The time had come to embark on her life’s quest. After all, she was about to turn fifty.
Longhand would flow through her fingertips, unfolding onto the paper. True, there’d be the drudgery of transcription, but writing is an art form and like the sculptor with clay, she longed to touch the medium of her creation.
After she hooked Nimble to his leash, Becca hopped in her Neon and headed off into her future. “You’re my lucky totem, boy, my muse.” The dog cocked his head, nipping at her words.
When she arrived at Rancho San Rafael, Becca spotted a picnic bench beneath the boughs of a spreading Oak. She stopped, unloaded and retrieved the virgin journal from her backpack and opened it.
Closing her eyes, Becca strained to conjure up the brilliant storyline that had visited her at two in the morning. Before she’d put her pen to paper, a pigeon in the tree above her delivered an enormous pea green dropping that splattered on the pristine page. Becca yelped and tore the first few sheets from her tablet, crumpled them and slam-dunked the wad into the waste receptacle nearby. She stomped back to her car, Nimble in tow, and didn’t write that day.
Nimble nudged Becca before seven the following morning. She awakened slowly. The story-line had reappeared and hovered just below the surface of her consciousness. She grabbed her pen and diary in a desperate move to recover her thoughts, but the canine whined to go outside and pee. Becca hauled herself from bed and opened the door for her dog. The tale scampered out with Nimble. She returned to bed and ensconced herself beneath the downy comforter. If I don’t stir too much, maybe it’ll come back. But nothing happened.
She grabbed her pen and paper, propped she up in bed and began to write, just for the sake of writing but Nimble’s whining pierced her concentration. Becca set aside her work and peeled back the covers to let the dog back in the house. A relentless cramping gripped her trapezius and she had to admit that writing in bed didn’t work either. Another day passed without a written word.
The following morning the phone jolted her from sleep. Becca croaked a drowsy Hello.
“It’s eight thirty, her mother’s voice informed her. “Tell me I didn’t wake you up–aren’t you writing? I’m not subsidizing extra sleep!”
Becca hesitated. “I’ve got a problem. I don’t know where to write. Monday, I tried the park and yesterday, in bed. I can’t find the right location and I refuse to be stuck in an office. Any ideas?”
“I’m paying bills for three months so you can jump-start your book, not a minute more. I expect results.”
“That’s only thing I want, Mom. Honest.”
“Then check out that little coffee shop down the street from you—the one with the easy chairs. Maybe that will inspire you—it’s a very artsy location.”
“I’ll go there today, great suggestion!”
Becca arrived at ten o’clock. The smell of coffee assaulted her. The crowd was sparse. She paid for her latte, sprinkled a dash of cinnamon on the froth and made her way to her nest in an overstuffed chair by the unlit hearth. She scrounged for her supplies, opened the notebook and poised to scrawl. The plot remained vague so she titled her work THE NOVEL, printing the letters in upper case.
The opening line’s got to grab their attention, she reminded herself. She wrote in cursive script that would’ve done the nuns proud: The morning started out calmly enough. Angela could not fathom the unfortunate turn of events that awaited her on that July afternoon.
A young couple meandered over and sunk into the love-seat opposite Becca. She watched as they ogled one another, oblivious of their surroundings. Sexual tension shimmered and invaded Becca’s space, dissipating her focus. Gathering her belongings, she relocated to a table toward the front where the sun’s glare bounced off the front window, causing her to fumble in her purse for sunglasses. Becca penned a second sentence.
Two women entered the café, choosing seats nearby.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stand William,” the younger one stated. “He doesn’t pull his load and nothing I do is good enough for him.” And on she rambled.
Becca attempted to ignore the tirade but couldn’t. She downed the tepid coffee, seized her gear and went home. That day she cleaned out the garage.
In the days that followed Becca continued her hunt. She drove to the library, but couldn’t settle in the lumpy chair. The daily story telling for children, now out of school, distracted her. The reader’s singsong voice and conspicuous pauses grated on her nerves.
Returning home, she arranged a low plastic mesh chair in a corner of her yard. Nimble tormented her with his ball and pull toy. Bees swarmed and mosquitoes buzzed. She spent most of the time swatting.
Then Becca rearranged a corner of her office and dragged an abandoned rocking chair from storage. She fetched a pail of soapy water and spent the afternoon scrubbing off the cobwebs. She caressed the ancient pinewood with lemon-scented polish. The cushions were beyond redemption so she shopped the next day to replace them. That night she added two paragraphs of description, but the plot remained fuzzy and she didn’t know where to go next.
“I’ll read a how-to book on novels,” she told her dog. “That ought to get me going.”
Five weeks passed. Baca’s Mom invited her for a stay. “Maybe you can work on the beach—it’s peaceful there.”
Becca booked her flight, packed her duffel bag and left Nimble at the canine hotel. On the plane she studied character development and point-of-view. “Angela’s a Pisces,” she said aloud, startling the overweight man in the middle seat. Point of view continued to confuse her.
Every morning Becca packed a PBJ and hauled her macramé bag to the shore. Ideas flowed like molasses. Her skin crisped and wind fought battle with the pages. Guilt forced her to observe this ritual with compulsion. At the end of a two-week labor she’d delivered three chapters and returned to Reno. The coast had left her dry.
Nimble greeted his mistress with frenzy. Separation guilt had dampened Becca’s creative energy and she succumbed to his need for walking and swimming in the river. Three weeks evaporated.
“How far have you gotten?” her Mother asked at the end of two months.”
“Six chapters.”
Silence answered Becca, reinforcing her escalating panic.
I’ve got to do something. Becca tossed the wretched notebook on her desk, booted up the computer and began to copy the manuscript. As she transferred the written word onto the keyboard a miracle occurred. She typed the six chapters, accomplishing a first rewrite in the process, but couldn’t stop. Her fingers dashed across the letters of the alphabet, directed by a higher power. The next day she returned and the days after that. Nimble remained psychologically tethered to her side. Each afternoon, at precisely two o’clock, she’d take a break and reward him with a walk along the Truckee, then hurry back to her computer.
Becca shed her concern with location. She dragged her journal to a jazz concert and added pounding music to a passionate love scene. She drove to Tahoe and in her car transported serenity to a moment of intense communication. On a bus she described the blur of buildings as a backdrop to a clandestine encounter then tuned out conversation in a restaurant or Baskin Robbins. Or tuned it in and added it to her story.
“The place for writing is right inside me,” she announced to her Mother, towards the end of her sabbatical. “The first draft is finished. I’m letting it sit for a few weeks, and then I’ll do my rewrite. In the meantime I’m working on a short story that I started at a basketball game.”
My wish would be that this may help at least one reader setting out on the daunting task of writing creatively.
I’m spending my time grappling with the technological aspects of self-publishing my second novel. Sorry I haven’t been around to read much, but I still try to visit those who comment and to read some of the wonderful work you post. Have a good writing week. Live it to the fullest.
Image: Jason Newcomb
Although I am not Jewish, I have found much nourishment in studying spiritual aspects of Judaism, in particular the Hebrew Alphabet (Aleph Beit). Jewish mystics and scholars believe that God used the letters of the Aleph Beit to bring about creation. Consider the power of the Word. This morning I spent time with the letter Kaph. It means “palm” as in the palm of the hand. There is power in the hand–we raise a hand in blessing, we use our hands in the act of creating, through the hand healers channel their healing energy–think of Jesus, or Reiki Masters. It is intention, kavannah, that enables this power. Kaph is the first letter of kavannah and, as such, invites us to bring intentionality to our daily actions. A few hours ago I spent some time doing the domestic thing: folding laundry, doing the dishes, a quick “pick up/put away storm” around the house. The idea of kavannah came to mind and, as I was making the bed, I realized that I can do it grudgingly or with grace. Bringing the intention of love to simple chores transforms them–making our home a blessing. It’s true that this is something I learned at an early age, but it’s something I have to continue to strive to remember. It’s so easy to slip into unconsciousness and go through the actions of every day without awareness. So, we write. How can kavannah/intention affect this part of our life? What happens when, before we put our palms on the keyboard, we remember that we are instruments of God’s creative Spirit?
Today’s Monday Meanderings is a special invitation to those who primarily write prose (not to exclude the rest of us.)
alanbevere.com
You may have heard that April is National Poetry Month. Perhaps you even read and or write poetry. I love to consider the impact of poetry on prose writers, and vice versa. Every now and again you will read a positive review that describes a writer’s prose as “poetic.” When someone pays me that complement, I relish it.
For me, it’s important for those of us who write prose to pay a attention to this often undervalued art. Many prose writers, especially those who write literary fiction, dabble in poetry–either as readers or poets. Or both. They find that doing so enriches their own work. Here are a few things to consider:
POETRY:
Engages the senses
Pays attention to detail
Uses symbolic language
Expresses thoughts succinctly
Respects the rhythm and sound of words
Makes use of metaphor and simile
Uses description to express feelings
Breaks the rules!
In celebration of this month of poetry, I invite you to treat yourself to a book of poetry and brew a cup of tea or coffee. Now, hunker down in your favorite chair and read. My preference is for poets who are not so obscure that you need a lit professor to help interpret their work. Here are a few of my favorites, most of them contemporary: Ted Kooser, Kim Addonizio, Jane Hirschfiled, Jane Kenyon, Ellen Bass, William Carlos Williams, and oh so many others. You might want to subscribe to some poetry blogs or websites that offer a daily poetry fix.
tweetspeakpoetry
Happy writing. Enjoy the process…and try writing a poem of your own.
For National Poetry Month, Day 7, I’ve written a Haiku:
a communion of sorts
ripe strawberry love
slice open, reveal two hearts
taste and know sweetness
Photo: Public Domain
Victoria C. Slotto, Author 