This morning, in addition to being grateful for the miracle of the SNOOZE button (55 minutes worth), I am also grateful for all of the weird stuff in me. I don't mean biologically -- although I am grateful for organs and molecules and blood and strange little bubbling things -- but I mean the weird stuff that hangs out in my... brain? soul? Where are these things stored? My feet? The meat of my lower abdomen?
It is never more clear how odd my subconscious than in November when I participate in NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month challenge. Across the 30 days of November, writers all over the planet start with a blank page and then produce 50,000 words of a novel. That's a lot of wordage -- particularly for someone with historically poor follow-through (That's me.). There are three primary things that disturb me about the month of November:
1. I write very very poorly when pressed;
2. I develop crushes on my characters; and
3. I am in touch with alternate realities.
I don't fancy I am unique in this. I believe we are all tuned into some pretty unnerving behind the scenes activity. I am sure that living in a media blitz ingrains all kinds of characters and scenery in our hidden centers. Writing writing writing just uncovers them by scooping off the top protective layer. Writing becomes a lot like dreaming -- sorting through the images we have absorbed and aligning them into something that makes neurological sense.
There are many who begin NaNoWriMo with a researched outline, and I think that's smart. Beginning with focus streamlines the process, I would imagine. But I like to begin with an absolutely blank as blank as blank white screen. This year I began with two characters and two sites. Word One was Word One in its truest sense, and I have been surprised at every line since.
I do it this way, I think, because I am addicted t0 the spontaneous reveal -- the layer peeling, fly-by-the-seatedness of it. I feel like I am revealing my darkest truths and am fascinated by the capacity of words on a page to show me exactly who I am. Didn't I know all this time? I am obsessed with trying to figure out what I look like on the inside.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
word count. by Patresa Hartman
Today I am grateful for the word count tool in Microsoft Word. NaNoWriMo started today, and I began a thirty day obsession with words.
NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is a ridiculous charge to spill 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. I don't know where these 50,000 words come from, but every November, thousands of people find pages and pages of sentences lurking in their fingertips.
I successfully met 50,000 words for the first time last year. It's a valuable process, this word purging. The extent of my imperfection was stunning for at least the first 20,000. The nasty critic who lives in my brain was absolutely aghast at the crap I slung. Cliche's were rampant, descriptions flimsy and incomplete, sentences crooked and loosely constructed. But somewhere around word number 20,001, things shifted. My writing did not improve, but my attitude did.
I forgave myself the crummy composition and just wrote. As soon as I let go, plot aligned and characters directed themselves. I had no idea where the story came from, but it made me trust the process more. It made me believe that writing is a lot more like channeling than it is like creating. It made me understand the value of staying open.
I'm sure it is about more than just writing.
NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is a ridiculous charge to spill 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. I don't know where these 50,000 words come from, but every November, thousands of people find pages and pages of sentences lurking in their fingertips.
I successfully met 50,000 words for the first time last year. It's a valuable process, this word purging. The extent of my imperfection was stunning for at least the first 20,000. The nasty critic who lives in my brain was absolutely aghast at the crap I slung. Cliche's were rampant, descriptions flimsy and incomplete, sentences crooked and loosely constructed. But somewhere around word number 20,001, things shifted. My writing did not improve, but my attitude did.
I forgave myself the crummy composition and just wrote. As soon as I let go, plot aligned and characters directed themselves. I had no idea where the story came from, but it made me trust the process more. It made me believe that writing is a lot more like channeling than it is like creating. It made me understand the value of staying open.
I'm sure it is about more than just writing.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Spilling Contents. by Patresa Hartman
I tell my students this, but I'm not sure if they believe my sincerity: I love what they write. I believe writing peels off a sticky lid and allows the author to spill her contents. Spelling and grammar, punctuation and sentence structure -- these are cosmetics. The value of writing, as I experience it, is a thinking process, a method of discovery, spelunking into the gooey center of consciousness. I don't always like what my students say, but I like that I am privy to it.
So many of my students come to me terrified of (or angry about) having to write. They have been told year after year of their weak mechanics, each paper bleeding red for all their ideas incorrectly composed. It is true that their papers are not lovely in form; but it is a shame what we do to thwart expression. There is a concept we discuss in my Communication Skills class: the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis. This hypothesis suggests that our language influences our thoughts and attitudes. And so what happens when we clamp off our language like faulty spickets? Do we also clamp off our thoughts? And to clamp off the very action of thought, do we thwart our own evolution? So big, this case for writing is. Enormous.
At the Tuesday night writing lab I helm and in the regular classes I teach, I read papers with shoddy grammar and confusing structure. I squint through lumpy paragraphs and run-on sentences and decode cryptic vocabulary. But when I look past these cosmetics, I see a consistent pattern in student writing: Somewhere in the third quarters of their essays, they discover they have something to say.
The realization of something worth saying is incomparable motivation to keep talking.
I think the trouble is that many students are trained not to notice. If they recognize the emergence of voice and intent at all, it is too late; they have waited too long to complete the task and do not have time to revise or expand. Just as they finally warm up to start, they stop. They turn in their work with aborted ideas, only an inkling of the beautiful things they know and understand, sitting dormant under a flimsy layer of crud.
I am grateful for the opportunities I get to talk with students about their writing. It is my favorite part of my job, the one that makes me feel like I matter. I like to see the change in posture that occurs when I hold up a mirror to show them their own wisdom. "See here? What you said here is brilliant." The voice in their second paper is always more self-assured than the voice in their first paper, and I always wish we had more time. Just as we finally warm up, the semester ends and we stop.
So many of my students come to me terrified of (or angry about) having to write. They have been told year after year of their weak mechanics, each paper bleeding red for all their ideas incorrectly composed. It is true that their papers are not lovely in form; but it is a shame what we do to thwart expression. There is a concept we discuss in my Communication Skills class: the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis. This hypothesis suggests that our language influences our thoughts and attitudes. And so what happens when we clamp off our language like faulty spickets? Do we also clamp off our thoughts? And to clamp off the very action of thought, do we thwart our own evolution? So big, this case for writing is. Enormous.
At the Tuesday night writing lab I helm and in the regular classes I teach, I read papers with shoddy grammar and confusing structure. I squint through lumpy paragraphs and run-on sentences and decode cryptic vocabulary. But when I look past these cosmetics, I see a consistent pattern in student writing: Somewhere in the third quarters of their essays, they discover they have something to say.
The realization of something worth saying is incomparable motivation to keep talking.
I think the trouble is that many students are trained not to notice. If they recognize the emergence of voice and intent at all, it is too late; they have waited too long to complete the task and do not have time to revise or expand. Just as they finally warm up to start, they stop. They turn in their work with aborted ideas, only an inkling of the beautiful things they know and understand, sitting dormant under a flimsy layer of crud.
I am grateful for the opportunities I get to talk with students about their writing. It is my favorite part of my job, the one that makes me feel like I matter. I like to see the change in posture that occurs when I hold up a mirror to show them their own wisdom. "See here? What you said here is brilliant." The voice in their second paper is always more self-assured than the voice in their first paper, and I always wish we had more time. Just as we finally warm up, the semester ends and we stop.
Labels:
Sapir-Whorf hypothesis,
teaching,
thinking process,
writing
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Get-Away by Angie Ledbetter
I'm in New Orleans and it feels surreal to be here. I have not been away from home in a really long time, so it took a day or so to begin to relax, to stop the constant worry over my kids and family. "What if something happens while I'm gone?" I've been asking myself. But since I committed to attending this writer's conference eight months ago, I might as well enjoy it to the hilt and try to have a little trust and faith. And if I'm needed back home for some reason, I'm only an hour away. This circular reasoning makes me feel a little better; a little more able to relax and enjoy the rhythms of a strange, good place for awhile.
The conference is being held at the Monteleone on the edge of the famous French Quarter. I wish everyone could visit here with its gilded appointments, luxurious rooms, view of the Mississippi River, rooftop pool and revolving bar - the Carousel. Horse-drawn buggies wait out on the street to take visitors and tourists to famous places. Five star restaurants and delicious hole-in-the-walls are steps away. A lone saxophone player makes music a few blocks down. In this area at least, Katrina's devastation is not noticeable.
I appreciate this vacation from reality and the people who have worked so hard to put the conference together, especially friend and writer, Deborah LeBlanc. I'm very grateful to be with friends, to have time to recharge my batteries, to meet with other crazy writer people, to pursue my dreams and goals. Thank you to the service industry people who made my trip wonderful. You made the hotel live up to its image -- "New Orleans' Timeless Address." I enjoyed learning a bit of your stories, and if I were a millionaire, I'd share my largess with you!
If you ever get a chance to visit New Orleans, consider stopping over at the Monteleone for a night, a meal or a drink as you spin slowly and unnoticeably around. You won't be sorry. http://http//www.hotelmonteleone.com/
The conference is being held at the Monteleone on the edge of the famous French Quarter. I wish everyone could visit here with its gilded appointments, luxurious rooms, view of the Mississippi River, rooftop pool and revolving bar - the Carousel. Horse-drawn buggies wait out on the street to take visitors and tourists to famous places. Five star restaurants and delicious hole-in-the-walls are steps away. A lone saxophone player makes music a few blocks down. In this area at least, Katrina's devastation is not noticeable.
I appreciate this vacation from reality and the people who have worked so hard to put the conference together, especially friend and writer, Deborah LeBlanc. I'm very grateful to be with friends, to have time to recharge my batteries, to meet with other crazy writer people, to pursue my dreams and goals. Thank you to the service industry people who made my trip wonderful. You made the hotel live up to its image -- "New Orleans' Timeless Address." I enjoyed learning a bit of your stories, and if I were a millionaire, I'd share my largess with you!
If you ever get a chance to visit New Orleans, consider stopping over at the Monteleone for a night, a meal or a drink as you spin slowly and unnoticeably around. You won't be sorry. http://http//www.hotelmonteleone.com/
Labels:
conference,
down time,
New Orleans,
the Monteleone,
vacation,
writing,
writing workshop
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Daydreams and Nightmares by Nannette Croce
"When one of your dreams come true, you begin to look at the others more carefully."
-Anon.
Lately I’m experiencing the convergence of dream types––the day kind and the night (mare) kind. In a few weeks I’m attending a writing workshop where, for one week, I will live the college life for the first time in 33 years.
In the day I dream of the workshop leader meeting me over coffee to (privately) praise my work. Casually mentioning she knows the editor of the New Yorker and, by the way, will judge the Best Story in the World competition this year––wink, wink.
At night I dream of being stranded, naked, in a dorm bathroom, forced to walk down the hall to my room––all my jiggling flesh exposed. Or sprouting a full beard because I have no light or mirror to pluck my chin hairs.
This is not really about the physical. I am not so vain I can’t spend one week not looking my best with people I don’t know. It’s really the opposite, that dressing professionally and talking myself up won’t do it this time. I have to produce.
By day I’ve dreamed of attending this workshop since I passed it up four years ago to attend my daughter’s graduation. It’s not Bread Loaf, but they don’t accept everyone. In my night dreams I worry. Am I really still good enough? The story I submitted was an old one. Am I too old? Can I handle the rigors? Can I produce in short periods of time with others around?
I guess I’ll have to see, but I know one thing. My worst nightmare is a life with no more challenges. Deep down, it’s challenges like this that keep me feeling vibrant and alive and dreaming.
-Anon.
Lately I’m experiencing the convergence of dream types––the day kind and the night (mare) kind. In a few weeks I’m attending a writing workshop where, for one week, I will live the college life for the first time in 33 years.
In the day I dream of the workshop leader meeting me over coffee to (privately) praise my work. Casually mentioning she knows the editor of the New Yorker and, by the way, will judge the Best Story in the World competition this year––wink, wink.
At night I dream of being stranded, naked, in a dorm bathroom, forced to walk down the hall to my room––all my jiggling flesh exposed. Or sprouting a full beard because I have no light or mirror to pluck my chin hairs.
This is not really about the physical. I am not so vain I can’t spend one week not looking my best with people I don’t know. It’s really the opposite, that dressing professionally and talking myself up won’t do it this time. I have to produce.
By day I’ve dreamed of attending this workshop since I passed it up four years ago to attend my daughter’s graduation. It’s not Bread Loaf, but they don’t accept everyone. In my night dreams I worry. Am I really still good enough? The story I submitted was an old one. Am I too old? Can I handle the rigors? Can I produce in short periods of time with others around?
I guess I’ll have to see, but I know one thing. My worst nightmare is a life with no more challenges. Deep down, it’s challenges like this that keep me feeling vibrant and alive and dreaming.
Labels:
Bread Loaf,
college life,
daydream,
New Yorker,
nightmare,
writing,
writing workshop
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Over the Rainbow by Angie Ledbetter
It's been a hectic week with several writing projects coming due at the same time, a major school fundraiser that sliced eight hours out of my Saturday, a double shift at work all week, two family members ill, my old Jeep's A/C went out (not pleasant in the South even in April!), tuition is coming due for two of my kids, my middle son got in a wreck helping out at the fundraiser yesterday...and a bunch of other stuff. Most of all, I'm sleep deprived and just plain feeling old. I've felt like my rainbow has led to a Port O' Potty instead of a pot of gold.
Okay, so what's there to be grateful for? It's that, in the end, I know everything is going to be okay. I can only control how I look at things and let them affect me. Like that rainbow photo, I can choose to focus on the not-so-nice portable bathroom, or I can look up and see the overwhelming beauty of a rare rainbow. Changing my focus and looking more into the future instead of at the immediate gives me hope. And, as always, prayer and faith in good people lift me up.
Revised week with the "rainbow" view instead of the "potty" view: I'm glad I got my writing assignments in on time and I feel a sense of accomplishment, the fundraiser went great and the athletic association earned some much needed money (plus I brought home leftover BBQ chicken for family and a bucket of baked beans to serve at the men's shelter), my brother is healing from surgery and Mom seems a bit better, my Jeep probably just needs a shot of freon, school tuition will be paid, and I'm really thankful no one was hurt in that wreck yesterday. All in all, I feel much better after a good night's sleep.
Rainbows or port o' pots...it's all in how you look at it.
Okay, so what's there to be grateful for? It's that, in the end, I know everything is going to be okay. I can only control how I look at things and let them affect me. Like that rainbow photo, I can choose to focus on the not-so-nice portable bathroom, or I can look up and see the overwhelming beauty of a rare rainbow. Changing my focus and looking more into the future instead of at the immediate gives me hope. And, as always, prayer and faith in good people lift me up.
Revised week with the "rainbow" view instead of the "potty" view: I'm glad I got my writing assignments in on time and I feel a sense of accomplishment, the fundraiser went great and the athletic association earned some much needed money (plus I brought home leftover BBQ chicken for family and a bucket of baked beans to serve at the men's shelter), my brother is healing from surgery and Mom seems a bit better, my Jeep probably just needs a shot of freon, school tuition will be paid, and I'm really thankful no one was hurt in that wreck yesterday. All in all, I feel much better after a good night's sleep.
Rainbows or port o' pots...it's all in how you look at it.
Labels:
fundraiser,
perspective,
port o' pot,
rainbow,
stress,
tired,
wreck,
writing
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Getaways by Angie Ledbetter
"Time for work - yet take much holiday for art's and friendship's sake." ~ George de Wilde
I'm thankful for this past weekend, as I got a chance to run away with women friends to a sleepy little bayou town for two days of communing with each other, nature, poets and other writers at an annual seminar.
There's always something interesting to learn, but more importantly, I get to experience the feel of a feather-soft bed and pillow, fresh coffee brewed in my hotel room, the relaxation of a couple hours' drive, the sharing of meals and thoughts with others whose company I greatly enjoy. I'm grateful for these opportunities and thankful they come my way a time or two every year. Even though I worry about what's going on at home -- this weekend was one of my son's Jr./Sr. prom and I missed the excitement of watching him don his first tux; sharing in my daughter's happiness in her new college life; the proudness I experience watching one son play school baseball and his brother compete in an State algebra tournament -- and in general, being available for all the mom things that happen every day of my "regular" routine, it was nice to be doing something different.
Without the very healthful and necessary-to-the-soul down times away to recharge my own personal batteries, I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate the never-ending stuff that goes on with my family nearly as much. As a bonus, upon my return, we gathered as a family to celebrate my dad's 71st birthday. What a way to end my mini-vacation!
All in all, a great weekend...one which I hope to repeat soon.
I'm thankful for this past weekend, as I got a chance to run away with women friends to a sleepy little bayou town for two days of communing with each other, nature, poets and other writers at an annual seminar.
There's always something interesting to learn, but more importantly, I get to experience the feel of a feather-soft bed and pillow, fresh coffee brewed in my hotel room, the relaxation of a couple hours' drive, the sharing of meals and thoughts with others whose company I greatly enjoy. I'm grateful for these opportunities and thankful they come my way a time or two every year. Even though I worry about what's going on at home -- this weekend was one of my son's Jr./Sr. prom and I missed the excitement of watching him don his first tux; sharing in my daughter's happiness in her new college life; the proudness I experience watching one son play school baseball and his brother compete in an State algebra tournament -- and in general, being available for all the mom things that happen every day of my "regular" routine, it was nice to be doing something different.
Without the very healthful and necessary-to-the-soul down times away to recharge my own personal batteries, I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate the never-ending stuff that goes on with my family nearly as much. As a bonus, upon my return, we gathered as a family to celebrate my dad's 71st birthday. What a way to end my mini-vacation!
All in all, a great weekend...one which I hope to repeat soon.
Labels:
canine friends,
family,
nature,
vacation,
writing
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Words by Angie Ledbetter
"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug." ~ Mark Twain
I'm thankful when I can find just the right words to say what I'm thinking, to express ideas, to exchange feelings with family and friends, to make students feel inspired to learn, and to create stories, articles, and poetry. Although the arts of letter writing and conversation are in danger of becoming extinct, we must still communicate in order to live fully.
Have you ever thought how important the words we speak and write are? They have the power to uplift or crush. To encourage and bring delight. To impart important thoughts or ideas. It always amazes me how words in the hands of masterful speakers or writers can mean totally different things. I'm not talking about grammatically perfect writing; there are typos, danging modifiers, and other nits in almost everything I write. I'm talking about the power behind the words. Without creative pens and unique voices, we'd pretty much just muddle along in our own worlds, closed off individuals.
Words fill our lives in books, movies, music, poetry, and song, not to mention our interactions with others. What a heroic person Helen Keller was to overcome barriers to communication by sheer force of will and still leave her thoughts for generations to come. I ask myself if I put forth good effort in order to make my conversations and lesson plans stand out? Do I care as much as I should how my words come across?
I hope to choose carefully; to speak and write what I mean from the heart. I'd much rather produce a few lightning strikes than let loose lightning bugs that burn out so quickly, you wonder if they were ever really there.
I'm thankful when I can find just the right words to say what I'm thinking, to express ideas, to exchange feelings with family and friends, to make students feel inspired to learn, and to create stories, articles, and poetry. Although the arts of letter writing and conversation are in danger of becoming extinct, we must still communicate in order to live fully.
Have you ever thought how important the words we speak and write are? They have the power to uplift or crush. To encourage and bring delight. To impart important thoughts or ideas. It always amazes me how words in the hands of masterful speakers or writers can mean totally different things. I'm not talking about grammatically perfect writing; there are typos, danging modifiers, and other nits in almost everything I write. I'm talking about the power behind the words. Without creative pens and unique voices, we'd pretty much just muddle along in our own worlds, closed off individuals.
Words fill our lives in books, movies, music, poetry, and song, not to mention our interactions with others. What a heroic person Helen Keller was to overcome barriers to communication by sheer force of will and still leave her thoughts for generations to come. I ask myself if I put forth good effort in order to make my conversations and lesson plans stand out? Do I care as much as I should how my words come across?
I hope to choose carefully; to speak and write what I mean from the heart. I'd much rather produce a few lightning strikes than let loose lightning bugs that burn out so quickly, you wonder if they were ever really there.
Labels:
authors,
Helen Keller,
Mark Twain,
speaking,
writing
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Living La Vida Loca by Barbara Quinn
My husband is traveling for a couple of days which means I have some extra time alone. I’ve been married almost 35 years and I know how lucky I am to have hit the love lottery. I enjoy our couple time together.
But when Tom travels it means I can drop into my crazed artist phase. I guard these times and make sure not to clutter them up. I may skip a meal or two, eat breakfast for dinner, stay up late, and sleep in. I can forget about all the daily errands, avoid making or answering phone calls, let the laundry pile up, and the bed stay unmade. And I write till my eyes glaze over and nothing makes sense. Then I catch some sleep and start all over again. It's a productive time that I enjoy. It's the sleep part that gets a little rocky when he leaves.
When I was first married I didn’t sleep right when my husband left on business. He never traveled that much, but every time he left I tossed and turned most of the night. Now when he is gone I have less trouble, especially if I move into the center of the bed and take the whole thing over. His pillow stays close to mine and I can breathe in his scent. That calms me and I eventually drift off when I'm really tired. But I still don't sleep the same without him there.
When he calls to say goodnight, he’s the one turning in. I turn on late night TV and eventually I may drop off, but I’m just as likely to hit the computer again. A real benefit is that if I don’t sleep enough at night, I can take a huge nap in the afternoon. It’s such a joy to be able to do that. Since I’m a night owl, when I’m on my own I do tend to stay up till all hours. In fact, it’s really good that Tom keeps me on more of a normal schedule. Being blissfully unaware of the time is truly one of my favorite states of being because that’s when I find I have the best focus, but I need someone to drag me back to the normally scheduled world. Otherwise I might permanently forget to comb my hair, change out my pajamas and leave the house. I'd stay up all night and sleep all day, slipping into vampire mode. I'm lucky to have a guy who puts me to sleep!
But when Tom travels it means I can drop into my crazed artist phase. I guard these times and make sure not to clutter them up. I may skip a meal or two, eat breakfast for dinner, stay up late, and sleep in. I can forget about all the daily errands, avoid making or answering phone calls, let the laundry pile up, and the bed stay unmade. And I write till my eyes glaze over and nothing makes sense. Then I catch some sleep and start all over again. It's a productive time that I enjoy. It's the sleep part that gets a little rocky when he leaves.
When I was first married I didn’t sleep right when my husband left on business. He never traveled that much, but every time he left I tossed and turned most of the night. Now when he is gone I have less trouble, especially if I move into the center of the bed and take the whole thing over. His pillow stays close to mine and I can breathe in his scent. That calms me and I eventually drift off when I'm really tired. But I still don't sleep the same without him there.
When he calls to say goodnight, he’s the one turning in. I turn on late night TV and eventually I may drop off, but I’m just as likely to hit the computer again. A real benefit is that if I don’t sleep enough at night, I can take a huge nap in the afternoon. It’s such a joy to be able to do that. Since I’m a night owl, when I’m on my own I do tend to stay up till all hours. In fact, it’s really good that Tom keeps me on more of a normal schedule. Being blissfully unaware of the time is truly one of my favorite states of being because that’s when I find I have the best focus, but I need someone to drag me back to the normally scheduled world. Otherwise I might permanently forget to comb my hair, change out my pajamas and leave the house. I'd stay up all night and sleep all day, slipping into vampire mode. I'm lucky to have a guy who puts me to sleep!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Celebrating Self by Shellie R. Warren
Isn’t it weird (and a little sad) how you don’t really make the time to think about what you are thankful for or appreciative of until Thanksgiving rolls around or you meet someone like Angie Ledbetter who just flat out asks you?
A couple of days ago, she told me about this wonderful project she was doing with some writer friends, but I must admit, when she offered me the invitation to submit a rant, rave or two, it took me a second to even come up with something type-worthy.
Not that I am spoiled or anything, but to be honest with you, I have spent so much time focusing on “wanting more” that I haven’t really thought about “what I have” in quite some time. The irony of this blog platform is that without my initially realizing it, I’ve discovered that it’s actually an answer to one of my prayer requests and goals for the New Year: to celebrate myself, personally and professionally.
When it comes to writing, I am now celebrating my eighth year as a professional writer. Now, if you have this same claim to fame (being a writer for a living, I mean), then you know it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Even today---literally today---I’m trying to figure out how to pay my Internet bill so I can send off my invoices to get paid for some of the articles I did months ago; ones that, had the money come in on time, hustling for cash wouldn’t be an issue at this second---literally this second.
But yet, when I think about the years of my life before 2000: years of being in school and not knowing what the heck to do; years of working in Corporate America and hating every minute of it; years of not knowing what my purpose in life was or what my personality and talents were meant to accomplish, these past eight years---house-sitting with cars about as old as I am and all---have been some of the greatest times of my life.
Writing is not paying the bills as much as I would like (yet), but I can say that I am a full-time freelancer, and because I spend a lot of my writing time putting, as my mother would say, “emotional throw-up” on paper, as a survivor of sexual abuse, assault, promiscuity, abortion and just plain ole’ confusion and depression, it has saved me a mint in therapy, and so yes, for that, I am mighty thankful.
But what it has also done is given me a voice in this world---maybe for this time, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. When it’s right, I will be heard. How do I know? A best-selling author by the name of Alice Randall once told me that we write because we're destined to. It may not be for this generation. Someone may find something you scribbled on a napkin 50 years ago, but when they find it, that’s when it is supposed to be read, processed, heard.
I think that is what I am most thankful for. That of all of the gifts God has to give to his children, he entrusted me with the gift of writing. Even when I doubted, he believed that I had a voice that needed to be heard. Thanks to this blog, now and who knows, maybe even 50 years into my future.
Shellie R. Warren is a full-time writer in Nashville, TN. When she's not writing an assignment or pitching one, she's getting her non-profit, Butterfly Angel (http://www.butterangel.org/) off of the ground or working on her second and third books, "Make Him Weak in the Knees (in Prayer)" and "Dramaholics." Her memoir, "Inside of Me; Lessons of Lust, Love and Redemption" was released in 2004. For more information go to www.myspace.com/missnosipho.
A couple of days ago, she told me about this wonderful project she was doing with some writer friends, but I must admit, when she offered me the invitation to submit a rant, rave or two, it took me a second to even come up with something type-worthy.
Not that I am spoiled or anything, but to be honest with you, I have spent so much time focusing on “wanting more” that I haven’t really thought about “what I have” in quite some time. The irony of this blog platform is that without my initially realizing it, I’ve discovered that it’s actually an answer to one of my prayer requests and goals for the New Year: to celebrate myself, personally and professionally.
When it comes to writing, I am now celebrating my eighth year as a professional writer. Now, if you have this same claim to fame (being a writer for a living, I mean), then you know it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Even today---literally today---I’m trying to figure out how to pay my Internet bill so I can send off my invoices to get paid for some of the articles I did months ago; ones that, had the money come in on time, hustling for cash wouldn’t be an issue at this second---literally this second.
But yet, when I think about the years of my life before 2000: years of being in school and not knowing what the heck to do; years of working in Corporate America and hating every minute of it; years of not knowing what my purpose in life was or what my personality and talents were meant to accomplish, these past eight years---house-sitting with cars about as old as I am and all---have been some of the greatest times of my life.
Writing is not paying the bills as much as I would like (yet), but I can say that I am a full-time freelancer, and because I spend a lot of my writing time putting, as my mother would say, “emotional throw-up” on paper, as a survivor of sexual abuse, assault, promiscuity, abortion and just plain ole’ confusion and depression, it has saved me a mint in therapy, and so yes, for that, I am mighty thankful.
But what it has also done is given me a voice in this world---maybe for this time, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. When it’s right, I will be heard. How do I know? A best-selling author by the name of Alice Randall once told me that we write because we're destined to. It may not be for this generation. Someone may find something you scribbled on a napkin 50 years ago, but when they find it, that’s when it is supposed to be read, processed, heard.
I think that is what I am most thankful for. That of all of the gifts God has to give to his children, he entrusted me with the gift of writing. Even when I doubted, he believed that I had a voice that needed to be heard. Thanks to this blog, now and who knows, maybe even 50 years into my future.
Shellie R. Warren is a full-time writer in Nashville, TN. When she's not writing an assignment or pitching one, she's getting her non-profit, Butterfly Angel (http://www.butterangel.org/) off of the ground or working on her second and third books, "Make Him Weak in the Knees (in Prayer)" and "Dramaholics." Her memoir, "Inside of Me; Lessons of Lust, Love and Redemption" was released in 2004. For more information go to www.myspace.com/missnosipho.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
On Doctors & Writing by Lauren Baratz-Logsted
So yesterday I was at the hospital, having a procedure known as a stereotactic biopsy, and as I was lying on my stomach for an hour getting squeezed and tested, it came home to me again how lucky I am to be a writer, how lucky to live this life I live.
Lots of times, I hear other writers say that people aren’t interested in what they do. I always find that odd since, seems to me, everywhere I go people are interested once they find out. Even when I was on the phone trying to set up one of the earlier tests leading up to yesterday’s biopsy, when the nurse asked my profession and I told her, she started asking me questions about it. While this was going on, my husband was hissing at my side, “You’re calling about your breasts, and someone’s trying to pump you for info on how to break into publishing???”
Yet that’s the way it’s always been. Cocktail parties, airplanes, examination tables – people are curious, as if this thing I do that I can’t seem to not do is somehow as exotic as being a belly dancer. And yesterday was no different. The tech assistant asked what kind of work I do, I answered “Novelist” – because I’ve learned to take the more direct route, rather than saying “Writer,” which only leads to more preliminary questions – and we were off and running. The tech assistant, the doctor – the whole time they were squeezing me, taking pictures of me, numbing me and sticking needles in me, they had endless questions about my work and publishing and books in general.
You know what? I’m fine with that. Eighty-one percent of people responding to a New York Times poll said that they believe they have a book in them. And some days, it feels like I’ve met all 81% of those people. But yes, I’m OK with that. I love it that I do something that so many people feel connected to, whether they‘ve actually written or tried to write or merely still dream about it. I love it that there are people who feel connected to my work, even caring about the writer through it. I love it that I can lie on a table for an hour, the metal painfully sticking into my ribs, and be distracted by the interest of others in this seemingly exotic thing I do.
I am grateful, every day, to make a living doing something I love so much. I hope I get to do it as long as I draw breath.
[Note: As I was writing this article, I got the call: Me and my breasts are good, at least for now.]
As of January 2008, Lauren Baratz-Logsted has had eight books published in a variety of genres for both adults and children, the latest of which is Secrets of My Suburban Life. You can read more about Lauren and her work at http://www.laurenbaratzlogsted.com/.
Read a review of Lauren Baratz-Logsted's How Nancy Drew Saved My Life on Roses & Thorns.
Lots of times, I hear other writers say that people aren’t interested in what they do. I always find that odd since, seems to me, everywhere I go people are interested once they find out. Even when I was on the phone trying to set up one of the earlier tests leading up to yesterday’s biopsy, when the nurse asked my profession and I told her, she started asking me questions about it. While this was going on, my husband was hissing at my side, “You’re calling about your breasts, and someone’s trying to pump you for info on how to break into publishing???”
Yet that’s the way it’s always been. Cocktail parties, airplanes, examination tables – people are curious, as if this thing I do that I can’t seem to not do is somehow as exotic as being a belly dancer. And yesterday was no different. The tech assistant asked what kind of work I do, I answered “Novelist” – because I’ve learned to take the more direct route, rather than saying “Writer,” which only leads to more preliminary questions – and we were off and running. The tech assistant, the doctor – the whole time they were squeezing me, taking pictures of me, numbing me and sticking needles in me, they had endless questions about my work and publishing and books in general.
You know what? I’m fine with that. Eighty-one percent of people responding to a New York Times poll said that they believe they have a book in them. And some days, it feels like I’ve met all 81% of those people. But yes, I’m OK with that. I love it that I do something that so many people feel connected to, whether they‘ve actually written or tried to write or merely still dream about it. I love it that there are people who feel connected to my work, even caring about the writer through it. I love it that I can lie on a table for an hour, the metal painfully sticking into my ribs, and be distracted by the interest of others in this seemingly exotic thing I do.
I am grateful, every day, to make a living doing something I love so much. I hope I get to do it as long as I draw breath.
[Note: As I was writing this article, I got the call: Me and my breasts are good, at least for now.]
As of January 2008, Lauren Baratz-Logsted has had eight books published in a variety of genres for both adults and children, the latest of which is Secrets of My Suburban Life. You can read more about Lauren and her work at http://www.laurenbaratzlogsted.com/.
Read a review of Lauren Baratz-Logsted's How Nancy Drew Saved My Life on Roses & Thorns.
A Coat of Many Colors by Barbara Quinn
The sunset is glorious tonight. Pale pinks and blues, hints of purple and gray are stretching across the horizon. Below this Easter-egg colored sky sits the dark rim of the Ramapo Mountains which I see from my office window. I’m not at the shore but in my home in a small town in Rockland, NY called Montebello. Now that it’s winter, the mountains are visible and it’s postcard perfect outside. The wintry silhouettes of the trees reach toward the colors overhead.
I’m an evening and night person. I haven’t seen too many sunrises in my life, but I’ve made an effort to appreciate sunsets when I can. Most days I’m too busy to look up at the sky. Yesterday, I stopped in the Foodtown parking lot and took in the gorgeous colors. I must have looked odd standing there on the asphalt with busy shoppers and carts rushing by. Cars pulled into and out of spaces. Everyone else had heads tucked down against the gathering cold and dark. I stood by my car and watched the sky change colors. I didn’t stay for more than a couple of minutes. Then I went into the market and shopped. The sunset stayed with me for quite some time.
Tonight’s is just as pretty. The colors keep changing, melting into one another and blending in new ways that are splendid. I’d like to have a sunset coat to wrap around myself. Joseph’s coat of many colors would have nothing on mine. Till then I’ll be grateful for the hues that appear without fail each evening, wrapping up my day in their vibrant and dependable tones. What a gift they are.
I’m an evening and night person. I haven’t seen too many sunrises in my life, but I’ve made an effort to appreciate sunsets when I can. Most days I’m too busy to look up at the sky. Yesterday, I stopped in the Foodtown parking lot and took in the gorgeous colors. I must have looked odd standing there on the asphalt with busy shoppers and carts rushing by. Cars pulled into and out of spaces. Everyone else had heads tucked down against the gathering cold and dark. I stood by my car and watched the sky change colors. I didn’t stay for more than a couple of minutes. Then I went into the market and shopped. The sunset stayed with me for quite some time.
Tonight’s is just as pretty. The colors keep changing, melting into one another and blending in new ways that are splendid. I’d like to have a sunset coat to wrap around myself. Joseph’s coat of many colors would have nothing on mine. Till then I’ll be grateful for the hues that appear without fail each evening, wrapping up my day in their vibrant and dependable tones. What a gift they are.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Shore Things
January in the northeast may seem like an odd time of year to be writing about the beach, but for me, being near the ocean any time of year is joyful. I’ve always wanted to live near the water and a few years ago, I was fortunate to accomplish that dream. My shore condo is in Bradley Beach, a small town on the Jersey shore where I am situated a block from the water.
My love affair with the ocean began when I was first born. There’s a black and white photo of me as an infant in my mother’s arms. She’s smiling, wearing a black one-piece suit, sitting on the sand holding me. There’s another photo of me in a saggy diaper toddling toward the ocean where my father waits in swim trunks. My parents often told me that they took me to the beach within days of my birth. They headed to the Island from the City, the island being Long Island and the city being the Bronx. We had a small cottage not far from the Great South Bay. My grandparents had a permanent home on a canal that led to the bay and I grew up walking to their house where we held lots of outdoor family gatherings. We fished from the dock, and hauled in crab and eel traps that dangled on ropes from the pilings. We went together on clamming, eeling, and crabbing expeditions. We fished for blowfish, and bluefish, fluke and flounder. Afterward, my large Italian family gathered, cleaned the fish, and shucked clams together. We cooked, talked, yelled, and ate till we were stuffed and the daylight faded away. These days those relatives are gone. I still make a lot of the recipes I learned at their elbows: barbecued stuffed clams, linguini with clam sauce or crab sauce, baked flounder. I’m thankful for more than the recipes they taught me.
Today I walked along the boardwalk, bundled up in my winter coat, bathed in the pure shore light, and I smiled. The waves crashed gently, their ceaseless sound a familiar comfort and a reminder of my family ties for which I am grateful.
My love affair with the ocean began when I was first born. There’s a black and white photo of me as an infant in my mother’s arms. She’s smiling, wearing a black one-piece suit, sitting on the sand holding me. There’s another photo of me in a saggy diaper toddling toward the ocean where my father waits in swim trunks. My parents often told me that they took me to the beach within days of my birth. They headed to the Island from the City, the island being Long Island and the city being the Bronx. We had a small cottage not far from the Great South Bay. My grandparents had a permanent home on a canal that led to the bay and I grew up walking to their house where we held lots of outdoor family gatherings. We fished from the dock, and hauled in crab and eel traps that dangled on ropes from the pilings. We went together on clamming, eeling, and crabbing expeditions. We fished for blowfish, and bluefish, fluke and flounder. Afterward, my large Italian family gathered, cleaned the fish, and shucked clams together. We cooked, talked, yelled, and ate till we were stuffed and the daylight faded away. These days those relatives are gone. I still make a lot of the recipes I learned at their elbows: barbecued stuffed clams, linguini with clam sauce or crab sauce, baked flounder. I’m thankful for more than the recipes they taught me.
Today I walked along the boardwalk, bundled up in my winter coat, bathed in the pure shore light, and I smiled. The waves crashed gently, their ceaseless sound a familiar comfort and a reminder of my family ties for which I am grateful.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
36C - Life in Lingerie
One of my novels is called, 36C. It's the story of a lingerie shop girl's search for the perfect fit.
You can read more about it at:
http://www.diskuspublishing.com/barbaraquinn.html
Here's a short summary:
Tressa Connell dreams of finding the right fellow, of putting her graphics art degree to work, and of traveling to Venice. The reality is that she's stuck in a dead-end job selling lingerie to rail-thin women who prowl the high-end Manhattan boutique where she works. Hounded by a helmet-haired boss, befriended by a troubled Latina makeup artist, and wooed by a Jewish cop, Tressa also dreams she has a giant grandfather clock strapped to her back, a bushel of eggs in her arms, and her mother cracking a Pampers whip over her head.
You can read more about it at:
http://www.diskuspublishing.com/barbaraquinn.html
Here's a short summary:
Tressa Connell dreams of finding the right fellow, of putting her graphics art degree to work, and of traveling to Venice. The reality is that she's stuck in a dead-end job selling lingerie to rail-thin women who prowl the high-end Manhattan boutique where she works. Hounded by a helmet-haired boss, befriended by a troubled Latina makeup artist, and wooed by a Jewish cop, Tressa also dreams she has a giant grandfather clock strapped to her back, a bushel of eggs in her arms, and her mother cracking a Pampers whip over her head.
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