Category Archives: Family

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Inspiration … scenery or scenes?

Yesterday, I left my house. Since I’ve been writing seriously, that’s something that happens less and less. My husband and I were invited to spend a few hours up in the mountains and we accepted. It’s so peaceful up there, and I always imagine what my life would be if I could stay permanently. Would the surroundings remain as inspirational as I imagine or would I soon take it all for granted?

It’s not that I don’t get an abundance of story ideas down here in the smoggy valley, and the stories form in my head, not in the crystal clear air. Staring at a computer screen is the same whether outside is a pine forest or city streets. So, I expect, it’s an empty excuse when I tell myself I could be a better writer, if I lived somewhere inspiring.

Life is inspiration, wherever it happens, wherever it takes you. Gorgeous scenery can make your heart sing. It can make your spirit soar. It can make your Muse pour forth streams of beautiful words. But if you write about people, if you write about relationships, a scene like the one below—a landscape of the heart—can trump all others.

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Be it ever so humble …

First, I want to thank all who took the time to read my short story, “Perchance to Dream“. I didn’t mean to leave that post up so long. I had hoped to publish a new one this past Sunday, but during my time spent in Indiana, I had even less internet access than I thought I would. I returned to my Pacific Time home yesterday afternoon, exhausted, and went to bed still on Eastern Time. After ten hours sleep, I feel almost normal. So I’m up before dawn writing this post.

Today’s photo is of my son and his grandmother (my mother), taken after his doctoral commencement at Ball State University. That ceremony was the highlight of my trip, of course. The next day, we had a big Syrian dinner with my husband’s family where both the wine and conversation flowed like water. Most of my time away, I spent with my mother and two sisters in the home we moved into when I was fifteen.

It’s always a weird experience when you return to a place that never changes. No, my mother hasn’t kept everything the same since the late 60’s, but the décor in La Maison de Cassidy, for the most part, has not changed since the 80’s. Every mirror where I checked my hair, makeup, and clothes on high school mornings and before weekend dates still hangs where it did then. Unfortunately, I look completely different in them now.

Okay, it’s now over three hours later and I still haven’t finished this post. Life intervened. But what’s life without life? I do have a few writing-related things on my mind, so expect a bit more meat next time.

… there’s no place like home.

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If life hands you a lemon … just whine on your blog!

In the midst of writing a thoughtful post pondering why we write fiction, I answered my own question, rendering the post moot. So now, I’m writing a ten-minute free-write glimpse into my mind and hoping it doesn’t result in someone calling for the butterfly net. Okay, go!

I am afraid to write my next book. I spend just about as much time talking myself out of it as I do writing it. It’s not because I think Brevity is so fabulous that I can’t hope the next one will live up to it. I think it’s more that I fear Brevity is as good as I can write. And yet—and I think I said this to someone once—how will I know unless I try? ‘Tis a conundrum.

The other day, I saw someone on Twitter, or maybe Facebook, bemoan that they were too old to still be getting zits. I feel that way about a lot of things. I’m too old to be so socially awkward. I’m too old to be so indecisive. I’m too old to be such a … wimp. That’s what I feel like. Grow up, already!

I haven’t been back to Indiana since my father died five years ago today. I will be going there next week, and I’m reluctant. I think, in some tiny corner of my mind, I like to believe he’s still there. Plus, my mother’s health has deteriorated since he died and the last time she came here to visit, and I don’t want to face that. I’m a coward. But my youngest son will be receiving his PhD at Ball State, so go I will.

How maudlin. Let’s move on.

Everyone on Twitter is talking about Google+ … except me. You had to be invited to join. My invitation got lost in the email, I guess.* Or maybe it’s just for Blogspot bloggers. People are setting up circles, apparently. The rumor is, circles will replace Facebook … or is it Twitter? … or both? I will probably never know. I think I’m a square.

But really, do I need more social networking? I said to someone this morning … or was that yesterday … that I feel like I’m whirling around constantly and I expect to pass myself eventually. I probably won’t recognize me, though. I still think I’m young and thin and look like I have a clue.

Time’s up. Now I have to figure out what sort of illustration will fit this bizarre post.

If you can find anything above to comment on … have at it. Please.

*Shortly after I wrote this, I received an invitation to join Google+ … now, will someone explain the circle thing to me?

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Creating, one way or another

What a week to start a new book. I’ve had only one uninterrupted day so far, and no writing will occur on this day or night either. Don’t misunderstand; I’m not complaining. I’m still accessing my creativity. Two days this week I worked on a major craft project. Emily wanted us to make a doll. Great! Then she saw a stuffed filing cabinet in a book and wanted to make that. Darn.

Of course, she doesn’t use the sewing machine, so the actual work fell to me. Her role was head designer. The “doll” she chose was not in a craft book, meaning there was no pattern or directions, so I had to create my own.

In typical Emily fashion, she wanted a modification. She wanted the file drawer to slide in an out, with removable file folders. Barely had I mused aloud how we could manage that on essentially a stuffed rectangle, when she came up with a solution. She’s a natural problem solver.

The original cabinet was tan and gray … a boy. Not too exciting. Then we went shopping for the materials, and I found out Emily was thinking bright pink and lime green. Cool! I decided, since our file cabinet was a girl, she should have eyelashes and hot pink lips—instead of heavy eyebrows and huge teeth like the boy version.

A tiara was Emily’s final touch. Mine was a second-degree burned index finger (glue gun accident). But surely, I also gained some new brain cells with all that that designing and engineering.

Cute, you’re thinking, but this is a writing blog. So does this have anything to do with writing? Of course it does. Writing takes this same kind of imagination. Good writers use their crafting skills to take a tan and gray idea and transform it into pink and lime … with a tiara!

How are you using your literary craft supplies today?

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Crank up the cello and listen for the words!

A sick seven-year-old has graced me with her full-day presence the past two days. Now, I’m behind on all things computer based, including email. I’m not complaining about the time spent with my little prolific reader. She’s amazing. (That’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.)

Of course, since I had no time to write during the days,  The Muse picked that time to come calling. I’d been mulling over a short story idea for a while, but suddenly a few key pieces fell into place.

So the last two nights, when I disconnected and slipped some YoYo Ma cds in the player, the words flowed along with the notes. The first night I totaled 902 words. Last night I added 436 more.

I know some of you knock out more words than that daily, and I have too in the past, but I’ve had some trouble getting back in the groove. I’m please with my progress on this story. Whether this story will end up a winner is still open. As stubborn as I am, I won’t give up on it easily.

By the way, I’m unclear on using a famous person in fiction. I’m using an actor’s name and likeness, but he only exists in my MC’s dreams. Anyone know the rules on that?

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Oops … I embarrassed my mother!

“Linda used the F-word in her book! And here I’ve already told my friends at church to read it.” This is what my mother said to my sister in a wake-up phone call yesterday. I had sent my mother a copy of Brevity, and she started reading it as soon as it arrived. My sister works nights, and I can imagine my mother watching the clock until she thought it was safe to phone my her.

My mother is 87 years old. She’s also forgetful. I warned her mine was not a book her elderly, Christian friends would like. (Though they probably all watch the same soap operas she does, and you can see and hear “everything but” on those.) But she’s proud of me and couldn’t resist a little bragging—at least that’s my take.

Once upon a time, I was in a critique group session when the topic turned to the advisability of using four-letter words in your writing. At that point, the most vocal opponents had read only chapters of Brevity that contained PG dialogue, so I cringed when I heard them express their opinion that only weak writers resorted to using curse words.

Don’t get the wrong idea. My writing is not rife with words to turn my mother blue. Out of 87,351 words, I used some form of the “F-word” 13 times. Even damn appears only 21 times. I don’t think that’s out of line for contemporary fiction aimed at adults.

I do not cuss—all right, I slipped once and said, “Damn it!” But I see nothing wrong with my characters using expressions that would come naturally to them. Renee, one of my Brevity characters, is a streetwise bar waitress. She’s outspoken and has a temper. I think it would be laughable if she said, “Oh shoot!” or “You darned jerk!” or even “That frickin’ idiot.” In other words, she wouldn’t speak like me. I don’t even use the euphemism frickin’.

So yeah, I embarrassed my mother, but she still loves me. I think.

Your turn: How do you feel about “street language” in fiction? And why?

 

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The Brevity of Roses is not just a novel

In a sense, it took me decades to write The Brevity of Roses. No, it’s not a memoir I had to live before writing. It’s not a non-fiction work on my thirty years in Antarctica. It’s a novel. And not a particularly challenging novel to write. It took me that long to get to the “place” where I could write.

I reached adulthood during the second wave of feminism—the “Women’s Liberation” movement of the 1960s-1980s. But I was too involved in getting married and having babies to pay much attention to it. I had made the choices those women were questioning. I wanted to fully embrace the roles they thought I should rebel against—or question, at the very least.

As women around me put their children in childcare and sought other careers, I delighted in being a full-time wife and mother. Though I complained of constant exhaustion, I loved my life. It was hard. There was never enough money, but we survived. And judging by how they turned out, I think I did a darned good job raising my sons.

What I did not do, is take much time for myself. As I said in a previous post, I spent a LOT of time reading during those years. That was my schooling, my grand “filling up” period. That’s when the idea that resulted in my becoming a published novelist came to me. Not that I realized it at the time.

Before I knew it, my role changed. My children had grown into independence. I had time on my hands. One day, a few second’s encounter in a mini-mart sparked a question. That question sparked the idea that had gestated all those years. I could write a book. And so, it began.

What did my book popping up on Amazon last week signify? It was proof of my personal “liberation.” I no longer thought of myself only as Wife or Mom. It was also evidence of my selfishness. I had put myself first, done something just for me.  Sure, it looked like  an ordinary novel, but it was a declaration. I am Linda. Hear me roar.


Photo credit: http://brrb.deviantart.com/