My father passed on November 2nd of this year. We had a "homecoming" service for him and were invited to get up and say something. I had written down what I wanted to say because I was afraid that I would be so overcome with emotion I would not be able to wing it and/or get through it. I was right on both counts as it turns out.
My father loved humor and is probably the reason why I carry on the family tradition. So, with a wounded heart, I approached the podium with my notes in hand. I looked out to an audience of standing room only and in his honor began, "My name is Karen. I am the oldest daughter of Kenneth Smith....and his favorite." The room erupted in laughter and I winked at my two sisters laughing through their tears. I relaxed a little and then looked down at my notes, praying I could remain strong throughout my speech. However, due to the glare of the lights on the podium and my old eyes, I realized I could not read my notes; not without my glasses... which were in my purse....in the social hall. That's when my previous self prediction proved right on. I could not wing it and I was unable to say what I wanted to say without my life preserver of written notes. I said what I could and left the podium before my heart broke and leaked tears.
So, dad....this is for you:
My father was both a master shipbuilder and captain of my ship in life. He was a brilliant man who could and DID do the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen. He helped me build my ship with planks of humility, iron rods of belief, ropes of kindness and sails filled with the winds of laughter. He taught me how to sail through the waters of life, see a storm on the horizon and know when to turn for home and when to batten down and wait it out.
I learned so much from him about the seas of life. I learned that you have to love what you do or you will never live up to your potential. He always said, "Do your best and be the best at what you do". I learned that nothing is more important than family because there is not one concert, marching band performance, music competition, school play, you name it, that he was not front and center: not one. I learned that children are disciplined, not punished and praised for doing the right thing just as often if not more than reprimanded. I cannot remember in my entire life ever hearing my father curse or even raise his voice: ever.
My father was my dock that I could return to any time I felt unsure of taking on the seas of life or needed advice on how to navigate my ship that he had helped me build. As I got older, I visited the dock less often but was secure in the fact that it was still there. I would always be safe as long as he was there.
Now he's gone and the hole that is left by that fact is almost unbearable. But he was such a good father to me that I am able to stand here today and know that I have been taught by the best and my ship is the strongest one out there. I know that I have been well prepared to take on the roughest seas because I got the best captain. I will always miss him, but I will sail on. And one day, I know that he will be that lighthouse sitting on that last horizon to guide me home.
In Memory of Kenneth Garland Smith May 3, 1937 - November 2, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Daddy's Girl
My father is dying. Renal cancer, they say. How long? Month to month is the best they can give us. Two to three months is the most we can hope for.
I sat with him on his front porch in Palmyra last week. It was a beautiful day; sunny, but cool. I was trying to decide how to say goodbye to someone who showed me what a man should be. I wanted to tell him thank you for never missing one event. Whether I was a flower with no lines in a third grade play. Or marching the wrong way in a debut performance on a high school football field. I wanted to thank him for that talk about boys and their lies when I hit puberty. I was going to tell him that even then when I realized he was once the kind of boy he was warning me about and his star lost a bit of shine, he was still the brightest one in the sky. I wanted to remind him of the day we spent in New York city and ice skating at Rockerfeller. "Ta-da" is the old family joke and we still chuckle at that. That's still just for us.
I wanted to look into those kind blue eyes with the star bursts at the corners and let him know that because he believed in me even as I wandered aimlessly through those early adult years, I believed in myself. I wanted to tell him that I have always been and will be until the day I die; a Daddy's girl. He was the first man I ever loved and the one I will always measure others against. I needed him to show me how to say goodbye.
But he slept with the cup he refused to let me hold slowly tilting toward the ground. The pain medication he takes allows him little time out of the fog. But his face was pain free and that's all that mattered to me. So we sat out there together as the wind chime played in the breeze. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind moves it way through the trees and tried to let it bring peace to my aching heart. I opened my eyes to see the tops of the trees bend and sway with the wind as it moved through and I realized something.
Those trees are close but separated most of the time. But when a strong wind blows through, they move in synchrony or are finally allowed to embrace. When things calm down, they are back to standing strong and tall; close but separate. I couldn't help but smile at the message being played out in the dance of the trees. I looked over at my dad, his face slack with fatigue and muscle loss. I wanted to say so much, but that opportunity has gone. I can speak, but he can no longer maintain an alert state in which to carry on a conversation.
The wind isn't done with us yet. As long as I live, I will be Kenneth Smith's eldest daughter. Thank God for that. Thank God for him. I thank God that I was blessed with a father that I will miss for the rest of my life. I thank God that we had the type of relationship that will always allow me to be a Daddy's Girl.
I sat with him on his front porch in Palmyra last week. It was a beautiful day; sunny, but cool. I was trying to decide how to say goodbye to someone who showed me what a man should be. I wanted to tell him thank you for never missing one event. Whether I was a flower with no lines in a third grade play. Or marching the wrong way in a debut performance on a high school football field. I wanted to thank him for that talk about boys and their lies when I hit puberty. I was going to tell him that even then when I realized he was once the kind of boy he was warning me about and his star lost a bit of shine, he was still the brightest one in the sky. I wanted to remind him of the day we spent in New York city and ice skating at Rockerfeller. "Ta-da" is the old family joke and we still chuckle at that. That's still just for us.
I wanted to look into those kind blue eyes with the star bursts at the corners and let him know that because he believed in me even as I wandered aimlessly through those early adult years, I believed in myself. I wanted to tell him that I have always been and will be until the day I die; a Daddy's girl. He was the first man I ever loved and the one I will always measure others against. I needed him to show me how to say goodbye.
But he slept with the cup he refused to let me hold slowly tilting toward the ground. The pain medication he takes allows him little time out of the fog. But his face was pain free and that's all that mattered to me. So we sat out there together as the wind chime played in the breeze. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind moves it way through the trees and tried to let it bring peace to my aching heart. I opened my eyes to see the tops of the trees bend and sway with the wind as it moved through and I realized something.
Those trees are close but separated most of the time. But when a strong wind blows through, they move in synchrony or are finally allowed to embrace. When things calm down, they are back to standing strong and tall; close but separate. I couldn't help but smile at the message being played out in the dance of the trees. I looked over at my dad, his face slack with fatigue and muscle loss. I wanted to say so much, but that opportunity has gone. I can speak, but he can no longer maintain an alert state in which to carry on a conversation.
The wind isn't done with us yet. As long as I live, I will be Kenneth Smith's eldest daughter. Thank God for that. Thank God for him. I thank God that I was blessed with a father that I will miss for the rest of my life. I thank God that we had the type of relationship that will always allow me to be a Daddy's Girl.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Do You Wanna Dance?
Have you ever heard the sound of a broken heart? Have you had the misfortune to have your heart broken? Live long enough and you can answer "yes" to both. I was listening to a song today that reminded me of a heartbreak many, many years ago. I was on my way to work in the early dawn of this morning when the chords began. Instantly, I was transported back to the time when I thought I would never survive the pain.
Isn't it funny how music does that? How it can take us back, bring us up, make us fall and have us closing our eyes to ride the melody. It's one of the reasons I have had a love affair with music all my life. It has been my drinking buddy, my shoulder to lean on, my courage, my lover, my salve. I can remember during one of the darkest times of my life, seeking out the solace of a well-tuned piano in a Fine Arts building and playing until the burden was not so heavy.
When the first hauntingly beautiful notes began to play from the song that soothed my broken heart so many years ago, I smiled. Not from the memory of that time. At that time in my life, my heart was shattered and it took a long time to heal. No, it was from the memory of how I completely believed at that time that I would never get over the hurt. I would never be able to stand all the way up ever again. Yet, here I am.
The song played on and I thought with sadness of what was lost. However, I also realized that I would never have chosen certain paths if not forced to do so with that one event. By passing through the fire of that pain, I shook off the ashes, spread my wings and flew. I did get over the pain and my heart healed over time.
I'll have to keep that in mind in the fire-laden paths stretched before me now. Will I have to pass through the flames? Yes. Will it be painful? Most definitely. Will I survive the journey? You betcha! I'll do it with a musical score in my head. Because if all the world is a stage, then we are the players. And when life gives you music, you pick up the singed hem of your dress and you dance.
Isn't it funny how music does that? How it can take us back, bring us up, make us fall and have us closing our eyes to ride the melody. It's one of the reasons I have had a love affair with music all my life. It has been my drinking buddy, my shoulder to lean on, my courage, my lover, my salve. I can remember during one of the darkest times of my life, seeking out the solace of a well-tuned piano in a Fine Arts building and playing until the burden was not so heavy.
When the first hauntingly beautiful notes began to play from the song that soothed my broken heart so many years ago, I smiled. Not from the memory of that time. At that time in my life, my heart was shattered and it took a long time to heal. No, it was from the memory of how I completely believed at that time that I would never get over the hurt. I would never be able to stand all the way up ever again. Yet, here I am.
The song played on and I thought with sadness of what was lost. However, I also realized that I would never have chosen certain paths if not forced to do so with that one event. By passing through the fire of that pain, I shook off the ashes, spread my wings and flew. I did get over the pain and my heart healed over time.
I'll have to keep that in mind in the fire-laden paths stretched before me now. Will I have to pass through the flames? Yes. Will it be painful? Most definitely. Will I survive the journey? You betcha! I'll do it with a musical score in my head. Because if all the world is a stage, then we are the players. And when life gives you music, you pick up the singed hem of your dress and you dance.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
In the Blink of an Eye
Anniversaries and birthdays are alike in that the longer the time the shorter it seems. When one sits back and watches the internal movie of their life or a marriage, the paradox springs, "How did I cram so much into the blink of an eye?"
My parents will celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary August 29, 2009. My sisters and I wanted to throw them a party extravaganza, but they would have none of it. You see, our annual Smith Family Reunion is held every year in late July and with six grown children and 14 grandchildren spread all over the country, my mother did not think that all would return a mere month later to celebrate something as trivial as a wedding anniversary. No amount of cajoling, sweet talk, feigned anger and true disappointment would sway her. Very well, I thought, if Mama won't come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mama.
Borrowing picture albums from my mother and two sisters, I began the painstaking task of scanning picture after picture into my computer. Then I began to build a powerpoint presentation, complete with animation and music, creating the very real fairytale of my parents fateful meeting, playful courting, loving child rearing years and finally, retirement adventures; 139 slides worth.
Through all of the work, there were many times as pictures spun onto a slide in horizontal 8 x 11, that my breath was held suspended by a memory. I cried at the captured laugh on my favorite grandmother's young face as she held my toddler father up on a picnic blanket. I stared at a picture of my father "wrestling" with my sister and I. We were probably three and two; her with her blue Keds, me with my red ones. I wondered at the look of promise on my face as my mother pinned a corsage on my dress for prom. Being the creator of the stroll down memory lane, I had the advantage of being able to stop and smell the proverbial roses of memory at my leisure.
Finally, it was done. The songs were chosen and the slides timed to transition smoothly from one period into another. At the reunion, I announced that my sisters and I had put together a "little entertainment" to honor our parents on their 50th wedding anniversary. I further confessed that, yes, we were taking advantage of a captured audience, but "the dinner and movie are free, after all, so just sit back and enjoy it."
The LCD TV sitting atop an inverted computer paper box slowly lit up up to reveal a slide with a red curtain and then the words, "A Modern Day Fairytale.....started over 50 years ago". Canon in D played by a flawless quartet oozed from speakers as pictures of my grandparents, designated king's parents and queen's parents faded into view. My parents as children grew up to Barry Manilow's "I Am Your Child" . These years flowed easily into the dating years and newlywed days accompanied by my parent's chosen song from years ago, "True Love" by Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly. As the slides ticked by of me on the potty chair through my sister standing in a graduation gown, Tracy Adkins sang "Then They Do". The moment lightened up a bit as my dad's promise during his marriage proposal of "Stick with me, baby, and I'll take you places" was proven true with a myriad of slides showing trips around the world while Frank Sinatra crooned, "Come Fly With Me".
Through all of that, I anxiously watched my parent's faces as they were transported quickly through those busy years where they were so tied up in doing the best they could they didn't realize they had set the bar for all of us. I glanced around quickly to scan the faces of my father's brothers and sister and all of those that had shared in those years being portrayed. I watched as my aunt's hand flew to her mouth at the picture of her standing among her four brothers and holding her fifth brother in her arms. I chased the wink by my Uncle Billy directed at my father over the picture of him as a teen saluting my dad in his VMI uniform. My mom blushed, denied and then preened as one of my cousins commented on how tiny her waist was as she stood holding a python across her shoulders as a gimmick shot in Florida.
Then magic happened in that garage in the wet heat of a late July afternoon. The music became hauntingly quiet and Josh Groban's smooth voice started to sing "When You Say You Love Me" as grandchildren were introduced on the slides. There were my two boys, infants and then bashful toddlers staring out at me and it was yesterday again. My dad's face, now frozen with the mask of Parkinson's disease, was animated again; mimicking the wide-mouthed squeal of my year old neice. My mother's ebony hair slowly took on the salt and pepper of middle age and then the silver of a grandmother's wisdom.
Picture after picture played across the screen and my parents aged before our eyes. But that was not the surprise for me. My children grew up in a matter of minutes and then I was staring at teenagers finishing high school. I breathed out the word "Oh" just loud enough to get my mother's attention and she turned slightly in her seat to smile at me and she understood. She was me all those years ago and now I was her and it was happening all too fast. With tears in her eyes, she nodded and turned back to watch as the years flew by on screen.
The screen show ended with a picture of my parents taken back in the 1970s. The photographer, probably me, caught my parents just as they were about to kiss. Their lips are about an inch apart and their eyes are almost closed. It is the most romantic picture. Across the top of the screen were the words, "Happy 50th Anniversary". Under the picture rolled the words, "From Princess Karen, Princess Valerie and Princess Carol". Everyone dried their eyes and then clapped. My mom bussed my cheek and then turned to accept the many hugs and congratulations from those in attendance. I knelt before my father who smiled in his way and said, "That was wonderful, angel." Then he joked, "I'm not sure it was always a fairytale". I hugged him, marrying our wet cheeks and said, "It is for me dad. It always has been." My husband took our picture as I knelt there by the king's chair, smiling through tears and holding him tight. Another picture to try and hold a moment in time captive. That was my weekend; a moment in time, gone in the blink of an eye.
My parents will celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary August 29, 2009. My sisters and I wanted to throw them a party extravaganza, but they would have none of it. You see, our annual Smith Family Reunion is held every year in late July and with six grown children and 14 grandchildren spread all over the country, my mother did not think that all would return a mere month later to celebrate something as trivial as a wedding anniversary. No amount of cajoling, sweet talk, feigned anger and true disappointment would sway her. Very well, I thought, if Mama won't come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mama.
Borrowing picture albums from my mother and two sisters, I began the painstaking task of scanning picture after picture into my computer. Then I began to build a powerpoint presentation, complete with animation and music, creating the very real fairytale of my parents fateful meeting, playful courting, loving child rearing years and finally, retirement adventures; 139 slides worth.
Through all of the work, there were many times as pictures spun onto a slide in horizontal 8 x 11, that my breath was held suspended by a memory. I cried at the captured laugh on my favorite grandmother's young face as she held my toddler father up on a picnic blanket. I stared at a picture of my father "wrestling" with my sister and I. We were probably three and two; her with her blue Keds, me with my red ones. I wondered at the look of promise on my face as my mother pinned a corsage on my dress for prom. Being the creator of the stroll down memory lane, I had the advantage of being able to stop and smell the proverbial roses of memory at my leisure.
Finally, it was done. The songs were chosen and the slides timed to transition smoothly from one period into another. At the reunion, I announced that my sisters and I had put together a "little entertainment" to honor our parents on their 50th wedding anniversary. I further confessed that, yes, we were taking advantage of a captured audience, but "the dinner and movie are free, after all, so just sit back and enjoy it."
The LCD TV sitting atop an inverted computer paper box slowly lit up up to reveal a slide with a red curtain and then the words, "A Modern Day Fairytale.....started over 50 years ago". Canon in D played by a flawless quartet oozed from speakers as pictures of my grandparents, designated king's parents and queen's parents faded into view. My parents as children grew up to Barry Manilow's "I Am Your Child" . These years flowed easily into the dating years and newlywed days accompanied by my parent's chosen song from years ago, "True Love" by Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly. As the slides ticked by of me on the potty chair through my sister standing in a graduation gown, Tracy Adkins sang "Then They Do". The moment lightened up a bit as my dad's promise during his marriage proposal of "Stick with me, baby, and I'll take you places" was proven true with a myriad of slides showing trips around the world while Frank Sinatra crooned, "Come Fly With Me".
Through all of that, I anxiously watched my parent's faces as they were transported quickly through those busy years where they were so tied up in doing the best they could they didn't realize they had set the bar for all of us. I glanced around quickly to scan the faces of my father's brothers and sister and all of those that had shared in those years being portrayed. I watched as my aunt's hand flew to her mouth at the picture of her standing among her four brothers and holding her fifth brother in her arms. I chased the wink by my Uncle Billy directed at my father over the picture of him as a teen saluting my dad in his VMI uniform. My mom blushed, denied and then preened as one of my cousins commented on how tiny her waist was as she stood holding a python across her shoulders as a gimmick shot in Florida.
Then magic happened in that garage in the wet heat of a late July afternoon. The music became hauntingly quiet and Josh Groban's smooth voice started to sing "When You Say You Love Me" as grandchildren were introduced on the slides. There were my two boys, infants and then bashful toddlers staring out at me and it was yesterday again. My dad's face, now frozen with the mask of Parkinson's disease, was animated again; mimicking the wide-mouthed squeal of my year old neice. My mother's ebony hair slowly took on the salt and pepper of middle age and then the silver of a grandmother's wisdom.
Picture after picture played across the screen and my parents aged before our eyes. But that was not the surprise for me. My children grew up in a matter of minutes and then I was staring at teenagers finishing high school. I breathed out the word "Oh" just loud enough to get my mother's attention and she turned slightly in her seat to smile at me and she understood. She was me all those years ago and now I was her and it was happening all too fast. With tears in her eyes, she nodded and turned back to watch as the years flew by on screen.
The screen show ended with a picture of my parents taken back in the 1970s. The photographer, probably me, caught my parents just as they were about to kiss. Their lips are about an inch apart and their eyes are almost closed. It is the most romantic picture. Across the top of the screen were the words, "Happy 50th Anniversary". Under the picture rolled the words, "From Princess Karen, Princess Valerie and Princess Carol". Everyone dried their eyes and then clapped. My mom bussed my cheek and then turned to accept the many hugs and congratulations from those in attendance. I knelt before my father who smiled in his way and said, "That was wonderful, angel." Then he joked, "I'm not sure it was always a fairytale". I hugged him, marrying our wet cheeks and said, "It is for me dad. It always has been." My husband took our picture as I knelt there by the king's chair, smiling through tears and holding him tight. Another picture to try and hold a moment in time captive. That was my weekend; a moment in time, gone in the blink of an eye.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
No Regrets
I was reading an always enlightening blog from a favorite blogger of mine, sendchocolate ref http://www.sendchocolatenow.com/2009/06/you-cant-do-time-warp-again.html and it brought up a lot of memories for me. It reminded me of a conversation about life I had with a real "up close and personal" friend of mine just the other day. Our conversation revolved around balancing living your life to the fullest while minimizing, or more importantly, in anticipation of regrets.
When I was of age to be married (we'll just say over ten years ago, way over), many of my friends were getting married or at the least engaged to be married within the next two years. This would put them married just on the other side of twenty. It might cause a grunt of disbelief now, but back then one didn't reach the age of thirty and remain single without a reason.
Now, perhaps those friends of mine that did purposefully marry before the age of twenty had lived what they considered a full life (I know one of them did, anyway), but I had led a relatively sheltered life up to that point and I was wise (or stubborn) enough to know that I had not.
You see, I believed that once I became married and started a family that my life would change immeasurably (understatement) and I would not be able to pursue things that a single and unentangled woman might (husbands tend to frown on carousing). Therefore, I made it my mission to "live the Charlene song". Have you heard this song? It was one of those one hit wonders of the 1970s made popular in the early 80s http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7NFKwPWIJc&feature=related . Do you know it? Okay, forget the hokey speaking part near the end, but really listen to the lyrics. I took that to heart. I told myself, "One day I'm going to be holding a screaming infant at 2 o'clock in the morning after a pissy day. I want to know at that moment that I have missed nothing. I want to kiss that tiny screaming infant and know I am right where I'm supposed to be."
So, I did it. I came as close to "living the Charlene song" as I cared to and loved every single minute of it. I have some great memories - some I'll gladly share and some that are just for me. Regrets? Sure, some. See, you can't really live life and NOT have a few. But I did hold that screaming infant at 2AM after a pissy day (more than once) and I did kiss that little wrinkled brow and hold him closer because I was ready for it. I was where I was supposed to be at that moment and I had missed nothing.
So, live your life, build your memories and do so trying your best to do it without regrets, realizing that you will fail in the regrets portion. Because the truth of the matter is, YOU are largely responsible for stoking the fire that will forge the person you were meant to be at this moment...and then this moment...and then..
Live well, love all, be true to self...be who you were meant to be and not one ounce less.
When I was of age to be married (we'll just say over ten years ago, way over), many of my friends were getting married or at the least engaged to be married within the next two years. This would put them married just on the other side of twenty. It might cause a grunt of disbelief now, but back then one didn't reach the age of thirty and remain single without a reason.
Now, perhaps those friends of mine that did purposefully marry before the age of twenty had lived what they considered a full life (I know one of them did, anyway), but I had led a relatively sheltered life up to that point and I was wise (or stubborn) enough to know that I had not.
You see, I believed that once I became married and started a family that my life would change immeasurably (understatement) and I would not be able to pursue things that a single and unentangled woman might (husbands tend to frown on carousing). Therefore, I made it my mission to "live the Charlene song". Have you heard this song? It was one of those one hit wonders of the 1970s made popular in the early 80s http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7NFKwPWIJc&feature=related . Do you know it? Okay, forget the hokey speaking part near the end, but really listen to the lyrics. I took that to heart. I told myself, "One day I'm going to be holding a screaming infant at 2 o'clock in the morning after a pissy day. I want to know at that moment that I have missed nothing. I want to kiss that tiny screaming infant and know I am right where I'm supposed to be."
So, I did it. I came as close to "living the Charlene song" as I cared to and loved every single minute of it. I have some great memories - some I'll gladly share and some that are just for me. Regrets? Sure, some. See, you can't really live life and NOT have a few. But I did hold that screaming infant at 2AM after a pissy day (more than once) and I did kiss that little wrinkled brow and hold him closer because I was ready for it. I was where I was supposed to be at that moment and I had missed nothing.
So, live your life, build your memories and do so trying your best to do it without regrets, realizing that you will fail in the regrets portion. Because the truth of the matter is, YOU are largely responsible for stoking the fire that will forge the person you were meant to be at this moment...and then this moment...and then..
Live well, love all, be true to self...be who you were meant to be and not one ounce less.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Foggy Bottom Blues
I think as Americans, we spend too much time rushing. Rushing to work to count the hours before we can rush back home. Rushing to the next big 25% off sale where everything has been marked up by 50% for one day. Rushing to finish dinner so that we can watch the Netflix movie and return it tomorrow so the next one in our queue will be on the way. Rushing to be the first for whatever it is; as long as we can be the first.
But I have found one premise to be true. When we stand in the middle of chaos, close our eyes and take a deep breath...our brains quiet themselves and when we open our eyes again, we see all there is to see and more. When we remove ourselves from the melee as a participant and become an observer instead, we are able to appreciate the world around us.
I am visiting Washington, DC today and like any big American city, it can be quite the epitome of rush, rush, rush. After trying to find my way around the town to see this sight and that, I stopped to buy a chicken salad sub and Arizona tea at Potbelly's Sandwichs. As I sat outside under an umbrella in the dying light of the day, a street musician started to play the saxophone. I closed my eyes while a soft breeze caressed the bangs off my forehead and smiled.
I enjoyed one of the best chicken salad subs I've had in a long time listening to the lonely, seductive sounds of a saxophone while my hair danced with the breeze. Although the traffic continued to be heavy and the number of people walking past me talking on cell phones did not decrease, my world slowed down. And although, I had only a rough idea how to make it back to my hotel, I walked leisurely home with the tune of "Georgia On my Mind" echoing in my head.
But I have found one premise to be true. When we stand in the middle of chaos, close our eyes and take a deep breath...our brains quiet themselves and when we open our eyes again, we see all there is to see and more. When we remove ourselves from the melee as a participant and become an observer instead, we are able to appreciate the world around us.
I am visiting Washington, DC today and like any big American city, it can be quite the epitome of rush, rush, rush. After trying to find my way around the town to see this sight and that, I stopped to buy a chicken salad sub and Arizona tea at Potbelly's Sandwichs. As I sat outside under an umbrella in the dying light of the day, a street musician started to play the saxophone. I closed my eyes while a soft breeze caressed the bangs off my forehead and smiled.
I enjoyed one of the best chicken salad subs I've had in a long time listening to the lonely, seductive sounds of a saxophone while my hair danced with the breeze. Although the traffic continued to be heavy and the number of people walking past me talking on cell phones did not decrease, my world slowed down. And although, I had only a rough idea how to make it back to my hotel, I walked leisurely home with the tune of "Georgia On my Mind" echoing in my head.
Friday, January 30, 2009
One Word
I recently came across an interesting project on WeBook where the creator ask the writer to describe themselves in one word, but then we kind of cheat a little and explain ourselves. Did you ever write something personal about yourself, say in a journal and then have an "aha" moment? That's what this exercise did for me. I know I am breaking a pattern by blogging again so soon, but what the hell. Here is my submission:
One word to describe myself: Evolving
My Story:
For some reason, when I was a kid, I thought that 26 was my magical age. I don't know why. It was not printed on a fortune cookie or anything. I just felt that 26 would be it. I would be complete and happy and well.... there.
I was wrong. I can quickly sum it up like this:
In my twenties, I was free and wild. I had it all going on, you know what I'm saying. I was ready for the world, but was the world ready for me? This is it, I thought, I don't ever want to get any older. I'm grown and loving it.
My thirties were fabulous! Not only did I still have everything going on, but now I knew what to do with it. This is it, I thought, I'm in my prime. I'm going to squeeze every last drop out of my thirties, because at 40 it's over.
My forties have been awesome! I still got it going on. I not only know what to do with it, but when to actually put it to good use. I also realize that this is NOT it. I am always evolving. Every accomplishment, every failure, every sob cried in the dark, every laugh captured by the wind forges who I will be. I cannot wait until my fifties and beyond.
So, who am I? I am evolving and loving it!
Found at www.webook.com
Project: Power of one
One word to describe myself: Evolving
My Story:
For some reason, when I was a kid, I thought that 26 was my magical age. I don't know why. It was not printed on a fortune cookie or anything. I just felt that 26 would be it. I would be complete and happy and well.... there.
I was wrong. I can quickly sum it up like this:
In my twenties, I was free and wild. I had it all going on, you know what I'm saying. I was ready for the world, but was the world ready for me? This is it, I thought, I don't ever want to get any older. I'm grown and loving it.
My thirties were fabulous! Not only did I still have everything going on, but now I knew what to do with it. This is it, I thought, I'm in my prime. I'm going to squeeze every last drop out of my thirties, because at 40 it's over.
My forties have been awesome! I still got it going on. I not only know what to do with it, but when to actually put it to good use. I also realize that this is NOT it. I am always evolving. Every accomplishment, every failure, every sob cried in the dark, every laugh captured by the wind forges who I will be. I cannot wait until my fifties and beyond.
So, who am I? I am evolving and loving it!
Found at www.webook.com
Project: Power of one
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Yippee Kai-yea, Mamacita!
Well, it started innocently enough. I wrote a couple of articles for a collaborative book and it was chosen for publication. Finally....published! No, it's not a full length novel that I sweat out over a couple of years, but hey; published is published. Now, here's the fun part. Because we live in a global community age, advertising jumped all over that particular bandwagon. An email went out to the 28 authors of "101 Things Every Man Should Know How To Do" asking for a short video revolving around our contribution(s).
I wrote two articles: "How to Be a Chef in the Bedroom" (all about the art of foreplay outside of the bedroom) and "How to Cook One Thing Well". Since they were both "kitchen" based, I decided to do a video set in the kitchen. I wanted to make it funny and memorable. I dressed up in a red apron with hearts (how apropo, thought I) and had a pot of water up to full boil in the background.
My neice filmed it on her digital video camera and I flubbed the first few times. But once I was up and running, we did it in one take. We watched it play back and laughed and laughed. Now... to transfer it to the computer and send it to New York. What's that? No memory card in the camera? Where's your transfer cord thingy? What?! You don't know? Well, hells bells! I've filmed it and now have no way to get it onto the computer and EDIT it.
Not to fear. My resourceful husband took the cassette disk thingy out of the camera and presto magico, converted it onto a DVD by configuring two devices and lots of color coded wires. Now, I'll just pop this into the computer and.....well, hell! Turns out, I can play it, but can't load it or EDIT it. Through all of this trial and error, I am in constant communication with WeBook Publishing in New York. Finally they just got tired on waiting on me to catch a clue. They suggested I just send them the disk. I did with an email apologizing for the UNEDITED bloopers and invited them to slice and dice as needed to make it fit for the promotion.
The next email I received talked about how clever, how very funny the video was, ESPECIALLY THE BLOOPERS....(gulp). They went on to say it was up and running on YouTube under WeBookCommunity videos and thanks again. I immediately pulled it up by link provided and yup: There I was in my red apron saying the "F" word. Should you want to view my blunder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX0VbIDZkdg
I broke the news to my mother Saturday. She took it rather well actually.
I wrote two articles: "How to Be a Chef in the Bedroom" (all about the art of foreplay outside of the bedroom) and "How to Cook One Thing Well". Since they were both "kitchen" based, I decided to do a video set in the kitchen. I wanted to make it funny and memorable. I dressed up in a red apron with hearts (how apropo, thought I) and had a pot of water up to full boil in the background.
My neice filmed it on her digital video camera and I flubbed the first few times. But once I was up and running, we did it in one take. We watched it play back and laughed and laughed. Now... to transfer it to the computer and send it to New York. What's that? No memory card in the camera? Where's your transfer cord thingy? What?! You don't know? Well, hells bells! I've filmed it and now have no way to get it onto the computer and EDIT it.
Not to fear. My resourceful husband took the cassette disk thingy out of the camera and presto magico, converted it onto a DVD by configuring two devices and lots of color coded wires. Now, I'll just pop this into the computer and.....well, hell! Turns out, I can play it, but can't load it or EDIT it. Through all of this trial and error, I am in constant communication with WeBook Publishing in New York. Finally they just got tired on waiting on me to catch a clue. They suggested I just send them the disk. I did with an email apologizing for the UNEDITED bloopers and invited them to slice and dice as needed to make it fit for the promotion.
The next email I received talked about how clever, how very funny the video was, ESPECIALLY THE BLOOPERS....(gulp). They went on to say it was up and running on YouTube under WeBookCommunity videos and thanks again. I immediately pulled it up by link provided and yup: There I was in my red apron saying the "F" word. Should you want to view my blunder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX0VbIDZkdg
I broke the news to my mother Saturday. She took it rather well actually.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
What Drama in Yonder Window Breaks?
There are days like today that I really wonder if one of two things are happening: has Ashton Kutcher decided to punk little old me or has the world gone clinically mad? When I was growing up, one of my favorite shows to watch was Candid Camera. Oh my! How I laughed at the surprised looks on the faces of the duped. How I looked forward to Allan Funt coming forward and saying, "Smile, you're on Candid Camera!" In moments like the many today, I kept thinking someone had revived the show and I kept waiting for the prank to be revealed. Where are the cameras?, I wondered in those "truth is stranger than fiction moments".
One of my personal favorite sayings of my own making is "When life hands you lemons, cut 'em up, stick 'em in a Corona and make the best of the moment at hand". But even me, Pollyanna, Suzie Sunshine, Silver lining and all that crap.....even the smile on my face cracks in the face of unrelenting melodrama. Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part, said Garfield...the cat, not the President. Amen and pass the chicken!
So prevalant was the drama I was cast in today, I even said at one point that should it continue, I would need to pass out Oscars by days end. No sooner than one histrionic person would exit stage left, but another would enter stage right proclaiming, whoa-is-meisms. Still, I kept waiting for the prank to be revealed. Surely, not everyone was this Florida-dinner-theater emotional!
Then, it was revealed....twas a full moon but the night before. Ahhh, such answers to my wandering reason do appeal. But, of course, the full moon and it's instinctive control over mankind and their emotions. It was the one reason I had not considered. Seems I was punked by the best; mother nature!
One of my personal favorite sayings of my own making is "When life hands you lemons, cut 'em up, stick 'em in a Corona and make the best of the moment at hand". But even me, Pollyanna, Suzie Sunshine, Silver lining and all that crap.....even the smile on my face cracks in the face of unrelenting melodrama. Failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part, said Garfield...the cat, not the President. Amen and pass the chicken!
So prevalant was the drama I was cast in today, I even said at one point that should it continue, I would need to pass out Oscars by days end. No sooner than one histrionic person would exit stage left, but another would enter stage right proclaiming, whoa-is-meisms. Still, I kept waiting for the prank to be revealed. Surely, not everyone was this Florida-dinner-theater emotional!
Then, it was revealed....twas a full moon but the night before. Ahhh, such answers to my wandering reason do appeal. But, of course, the full moon and it's instinctive control over mankind and their emotions. It was the one reason I had not considered. Seems I was punked by the best; mother nature!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Life interrupted
Well, what do you know? Turns out that when writing isn't what's earning you a paycheck, what does will take precedence sometimes. Okay, well, most of the time. Sometimes, I may have an idea or two bouncing around in here, but have to treat it like an anxious child and say, "Not today, but soon....soon." Because life gets complicated and this "little hobby" of mine has to take a back burner.
But, then that little kid named Story residing in my imagination, gets tired of waiting and really starts to whine. I don't know how many parents are reading this, but I can tell you that the kids have figured out the best way to get their way is to make a nuisance out of themselves. It becomes glaringly apparent that the only way you are going to get anything done is to make good on that promise of time out for them and just do it. That's the only way they are going to shut the hell up! So, you do and they do and everything goes back to status quo....until the next time they're told to wait.
Well, obviously a story idea that has some weight to it acts the same way. Lately, it was that way for me. I had two short story ideas that just wouldn't sit on the couch and be quiet. I was quite embroiled in a hot drama in the parenthood realm (and still am really) and I just didn't have "time right now. Not today, but soon...soon". Well, those ideas just kept bouncing around the house, getting louder and louder until finally I sat down and just took them out to play until about 2AM, knowing full well I'd pay in the morning. But it was quiet when we were done and that was reward enough.
Are they good little children, my little twin short stories? Who knows? You can pop over to webook.com, check out my short story collection "Got a Minute" and look 'em up: The Passenger and HANGMAN. But it's quiet once again. Although, I do hear the teenager Novel starting to get louder upstairs.....
But, then that little kid named Story residing in my imagination, gets tired of waiting and really starts to whine. I don't know how many parents are reading this, but I can tell you that the kids have figured out the best way to get their way is to make a nuisance out of themselves. It becomes glaringly apparent that the only way you are going to get anything done is to make good on that promise of time out for them and just do it. That's the only way they are going to shut the hell up! So, you do and they do and everything goes back to status quo....until the next time they're told to wait.
Well, obviously a story idea that has some weight to it acts the same way. Lately, it was that way for me. I had two short story ideas that just wouldn't sit on the couch and be quiet. I was quite embroiled in a hot drama in the parenthood realm (and still am really) and I just didn't have "time right now. Not today, but soon...soon". Well, those ideas just kept bouncing around the house, getting louder and louder until finally I sat down and just took them out to play until about 2AM, knowing full well I'd pay in the morning. But it was quiet when we were done and that was reward enough.
Are they good little children, my little twin short stories? Who knows? You can pop over to webook.com, check out my short story collection "Got a Minute" and look 'em up: The Passenger and HANGMAN. But it's quiet once again. Although, I do hear the teenager Novel starting to get louder upstairs.....
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Art of Letter Writing
How many "writers" out there still take time to write a long letter to someone? I'm not talking a 10 slide powerpoint you're forwarding on with a "personal" comment from you. I'm talking a heart-felt, well thought out letter full of descriptive updates on the well being of family members, a "take me there" account of an important event that you know they may have wanted to be there for or how much they truly mean to you and why.
In this age of technology where we no longer have to wait for a letter to reach us through a mail carrier and where even emails are now considered too long-winded, the art of letter writing is akin to caligraphy. It's just not practiced anymore. What a shame!
Do yourself a favor and find some letters written years ago by ordinary people who had no other means necessary or readily availabe to them. Visit one of the war-time exhibits or museums and read the correspondence between husbands and wives, mothers and sons or sweethearts. It's some deep stuff! Go futher back and peruse the letters that read like short novels full of prose. It seems everyone was a writer. What era do most of our classic or contemporary classic writers come from? When people were still sending long letters back and forth. Could there be a correlation?
During that era of communication, one took time to put their thoughts and hearts into words when composing a letter. They knew what they wrote would have to take the place of words, loving glances and caresses. They were sending out themselves and every word was important. The practiced art of letter writing couldn't help but develop the skills of those doing the writing.
Become an artist! Pick a relative, an out of state friend or a stranger penpal and start writing letters. Make it your goal to write letters two to three pages long. It will help to develop two things: your ability to sit and write anything, removing the anxiety of the blank page and the ability to convey your thoughts and feelings through the written word. Practice may not make perfect; not in a writer's continuous self-editing mind, but it will make writing easier and better.
~Keep writing
Karen
In this age of technology where we no longer have to wait for a letter to reach us through a mail carrier and where even emails are now considered too long-winded, the art of letter writing is akin to caligraphy. It's just not practiced anymore. What a shame!
Do yourself a favor and find some letters written years ago by ordinary people who had no other means necessary or readily availabe to them. Visit one of the war-time exhibits or museums and read the correspondence between husbands and wives, mothers and sons or sweethearts. It's some deep stuff! Go futher back and peruse the letters that read like short novels full of prose. It seems everyone was a writer. What era do most of our classic or contemporary classic writers come from? When people were still sending long letters back and forth. Could there be a correlation?
During that era of communication, one took time to put their thoughts and hearts into words when composing a letter. They knew what they wrote would have to take the place of words, loving glances and caresses. They were sending out themselves and every word was important. The practiced art of letter writing couldn't help but develop the skills of those doing the writing.
Become an artist! Pick a relative, an out of state friend or a stranger penpal and start writing letters. Make it your goal to write letters two to three pages long. It will help to develop two things: your ability to sit and write anything, removing the anxiety of the blank page and the ability to convey your thoughts and feelings through the written word. Practice may not make perfect; not in a writer's continuous self-editing mind, but it will make writing easier and better.
~Keep writing
Karen
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Writing Through UpHeaval
How many of us only write when we have the time and everything is set? For example, for me the perfect writing environment would be a quiet morning or afternoon, a fresh cup of coffee in my favorite cup (well, really any cup would do) and a head full of stories just busting to get out. No worries, no background fighting from the rivaling siblings, no "honey, did you pay that electric bill", and no one interrupting me to play mom or "honey". Yeah, that would be nice. And on occasion, when the kids are in school, it actually happens.
But then there are weeks like this week. Where my schedule is all flipped around and I have so many "commitments outside the home and office" that I'm beginning to seriously doubt that the little green man was correct in calling me "superwoman". And then of course, there was that proverbial "other shoe" dropping moment of yesterday. Yeah, those times when life just sticks it in and twists. How fun it that?!
That's when all the ideas waiting in the writer's lounge of my brain are forced to continue flipping through their outdated magazines while the big bully of worry occupies my front office. It sucks for both of us, really. But you know what I found? Sure you do. You probably discovered this eons ago. That when I'm under stress....if I make myself sit down and write "for an hour", I free myself. That's right. Maybe it is just an hour, but it's cathartic. Many times, it ends up being a full writing session (3-4 hours). It may be late night or even the wee hours of the morning. Writing everyday, no matter what, gives structure and continuity to my life. And when the entire world is a chaotic sea around you, it's the one piece of drifting wood you need.
Keep writing,
~Karen
But then there are weeks like this week. Where my schedule is all flipped around and I have so many "commitments outside the home and office" that I'm beginning to seriously doubt that the little green man was correct in calling me "superwoman". And then of course, there was that proverbial "other shoe" dropping moment of yesterday. Yeah, those times when life just sticks it in and twists. How fun it that?!
That's when all the ideas waiting in the writer's lounge of my brain are forced to continue flipping through their outdated magazines while the big bully of worry occupies my front office. It sucks for both of us, really. But you know what I found? Sure you do. You probably discovered this eons ago. That when I'm under stress....if I make myself sit down and write "for an hour", I free myself. That's right. Maybe it is just an hour, but it's cathartic. Many times, it ends up being a full writing session (3-4 hours). It may be late night or even the wee hours of the morning. Writing everyday, no matter what, gives structure and continuity to my life. And when the entire world is a chaotic sea around you, it's the one piece of drifting wood you need.
Keep writing,
~Karen
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Writing Non-Fiction; Will They Read it?
When does one decide what they have to say is interesting enough to write down and share with everyone? What makes a true life account, one event or a lifetime's work worth telling? How narcissitic must one be to say literally, "Hey, listen to this!"?
I have wondered this myself. I have written one novel about the field of nursing, full of true stories and little human lessons I learned along the way. I am now starting to write about the struggles of raising an Asperger's Syndrome child. Why? Do I fashion myself on the next competition show of "So You Think You Can Write?". Do I seriously think my writing skills so sublime that no matter what I write, people will flock to read it? No, not even close.
As with any writer, I'm sure, I am quite positive that a "real writer" would tear my pathetic peices apart. But I can't help myself. I have to write and a daily journal entry just won't suffice. So, what do I do? I let all those stories bouncing around in my head come out to play in a Word document. That space will never be empty; although those in the know would claim it already is, perhaps. Because with all five senses up and operating daily, my mind is continuously playing the "what if" game.
And the true to life stuff? They were the bullies of my mind's playground. They were big undertakings and very, very scary. But every once in awhile, you have to face up to your bullies, maybe even try to befriend them. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find they are interesting enough to introduce them to everyone else. Maybe just interesting enough to start to line up speaking engagements!
So, will the non-fiction be read? That's not the question, after all. The question is really: is the non-fiction work worth the telling? Will it in some way benefit the reader and/or targeted audience? If you can answer "yes" to those questions, then take a minute to really look at that bully of an idea that's been pestering you. Is it time to make friends?
Keep writing ~ Karen
I have wondered this myself. I have written one novel about the field of nursing, full of true stories and little human lessons I learned along the way. I am now starting to write about the struggles of raising an Asperger's Syndrome child. Why? Do I fashion myself on the next competition show of "So You Think You Can Write?". Do I seriously think my writing skills so sublime that no matter what I write, people will flock to read it? No, not even close.
As with any writer, I'm sure, I am quite positive that a "real writer" would tear my pathetic peices apart. But I can't help myself. I have to write and a daily journal entry just won't suffice. So, what do I do? I let all those stories bouncing around in my head come out to play in a Word document. That space will never be empty; although those in the know would claim it already is, perhaps. Because with all five senses up and operating daily, my mind is continuously playing the "what if" game.
And the true to life stuff? They were the bullies of my mind's playground. They were big undertakings and very, very scary. But every once in awhile, you have to face up to your bullies, maybe even try to befriend them. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find they are interesting enough to introduce them to everyone else. Maybe just interesting enough to start to line up speaking engagements!
So, will the non-fiction be read? That's not the question, after all. The question is really: is the non-fiction work worth the telling? Will it in some way benefit the reader and/or targeted audience? If you can answer "yes" to those questions, then take a minute to really look at that bully of an idea that's been pestering you. Is it time to make friends?
Keep writing ~ Karen
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sweet Inspiration
Have you ever read anything like a complete novel or short story or even a magazine article and thought to yourself "Damn, I wish I'd have thought of that!"? Similar to an invention on a late night infomercial, it seems so obvious. "A little robotic floor vacuum that cleans continuously requiring little to no work for the owner?", you say, "Man! It was such a small jump from the remote control car my son keeps running into my feet. Why didn't I think of that?"
It's called inspiration. Yeah, think about it. Some woman or man was sitting there thinking "I spend too much time vacuuming up this house because of this family. Every day, I have to lug that thing out of the closet and vacuum (or sweep the floor). I'm tired of it. There has to be a better way - Ouch! Timothy, please stop running that dadblasted car into my---Heyyyy. Let me see that thing!" Of course I have no clue how that idea came to fruition. I play to prove my point.
Here are some pointers on coming up with fresh ideas from inspiration:
1. Think of an ordinary situation; fixing up an old car, catching a cold, going hiking in the woods. Then think of what would make that an extraordinary situation. The old car is a live thing that once fixed takes on an evil life of it's own and possesses the owner (Christine by Stephen King). Or it's not a cold but a biochemical weapon let loose on an unsuspecting US and only 5% of the population is immune and still manages to divide into good and evil (The Stand by Stephen King). Or it's a little girl hiking with her family that gets separated and lost in the woods and she survives by losing her mind a little (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King). Okay, I'm a Stephen King fan, but you get my drift I hope.
2. What's your favorite story and why? What made that a good story? Was it the twist ending, the irony, the good conquering evil.....what? Now, can you duplicate that with an idea of your own? Take that "feature" that you admired or that hooked you and use it in the world you know and can write about.
3. Is there a true story from your life that makes people laugh till they cry, mist up with emotion or gasp in empathetic horror? Turn it into a fictional story and hey, here's the best part...you can change the ending to suit you if the original wasn't your best moment. It's called fiction for a reason and you, as the author, have what they call creative license.
4. Is your life or work stranger than fiction? Would your memoirs be worth a read? Willing to share it? Write it down!
In short, there are ideas out there. I've said it before, ask yourself "what if?". When I ask myself that question and my imagination answers, I've got a story in the making everytime.
Keep writing,
Karen
It's called inspiration. Yeah, think about it. Some woman or man was sitting there thinking "I spend too much time vacuuming up this house because of this family. Every day, I have to lug that thing out of the closet and vacuum (or sweep the floor). I'm tired of it. There has to be a better way - Ouch! Timothy, please stop running that dadblasted car into my---Heyyyy. Let me see that thing!" Of course I have no clue how that idea came to fruition. I play to prove my point.
Here are some pointers on coming up with fresh ideas from inspiration:
1. Think of an ordinary situation; fixing up an old car, catching a cold, going hiking in the woods. Then think of what would make that an extraordinary situation. The old car is a live thing that once fixed takes on an evil life of it's own and possesses the owner (Christine by Stephen King). Or it's not a cold but a biochemical weapon let loose on an unsuspecting US and only 5% of the population is immune and still manages to divide into good and evil (The Stand by Stephen King). Or it's a little girl hiking with her family that gets separated and lost in the woods and she survives by losing her mind a little (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King). Okay, I'm a Stephen King fan, but you get my drift I hope.
2. What's your favorite story and why? What made that a good story? Was it the twist ending, the irony, the good conquering evil.....what? Now, can you duplicate that with an idea of your own? Take that "feature" that you admired or that hooked you and use it in the world you know and can write about.
3. Is there a true story from your life that makes people laugh till they cry, mist up with emotion or gasp in empathetic horror? Turn it into a fictional story and hey, here's the best part...you can change the ending to suit you if the original wasn't your best moment. It's called fiction for a reason and you, as the author, have what they call creative license.
4. Is your life or work stranger than fiction? Would your memoirs be worth a read? Willing to share it? Write it down!
In short, there are ideas out there. I've said it before, ask yourself "what if?". When I ask myself that question and my imagination answers, I've got a story in the making everytime.
Keep writing,
Karen
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Time to Pause
The kids are back in school and I am given the freedom (when not working at my real job) to sit in front of a blank screen and create. And sit.....and sit...and....sit. *sigh*
Wouldn't it be great if we could turn our creativity on and off like our kitchen taps filling up an empty glass. Empty glass, time for a drink, turn on tap, fill with water and drink. Ahhhhhh. Empty house, uninterrupted time to write, turn on creative juices, flowing freely, fill page after page and 2-3 chapters written. Ahhhhhhh.
But, no. Here I am with a fresh cup of coffee sitting by the keyboard or laptop at 9:00am, kids at school until 3:30pm, cell phone on vibrate and an unknown number of chapters left to write on my novel in progress. Nothing. So, what do I do.
What I used to do was "take a break" and read other's work "for just a few minutes", do a household chore hoping creative lightning would strike somewhere between the rinse and spin cycle or play (blushes guiltily) computer games.
But then, I just started to write anything....whether it was good or not, typos and all, just nonsensical rambling. After all, this is the computer age and we have "delete" and "cut". And you know what, nothing happened at first - the first couple of times I did this (slow learner, I guess). But then, it did! I'd be typing along and "well, whaddya know, I think this is going somewhere. Because for me it's the getting started that's the hard part. Once I start, I can't shut up!
Give it a try, when you're blocked and let me know what happens. Who knows, there could be a story in that somewhere
~Karen
Wouldn't it be great if we could turn our creativity on and off like our kitchen taps filling up an empty glass. Empty glass, time for a drink, turn on tap, fill with water and drink. Ahhhhhh. Empty house, uninterrupted time to write, turn on creative juices, flowing freely, fill page after page and 2-3 chapters written. Ahhhhhhh.
But, no. Here I am with a fresh cup of coffee sitting by the keyboard or laptop at 9:00am, kids at school until 3:30pm, cell phone on vibrate and an unknown number of chapters left to write on my novel in progress. Nothing. So, what do I do.
What I used to do was "take a break" and read other's work "for just a few minutes", do a household chore hoping creative lightning would strike somewhere between the rinse and spin cycle or play (blushes guiltily) computer games.
But then, I just started to write anything....whether it was good or not, typos and all, just nonsensical rambling. After all, this is the computer age and we have "delete" and "cut". And you know what, nothing happened at first - the first couple of times I did this (slow learner, I guess). But then, it did! I'd be typing along and "well, whaddya know, I think this is going somewhere. Because for me it's the getting started that's the hard part. Once I start, I can't shut up!
Give it a try, when you're blocked and let me know what happens. Who knows, there could be a story in that somewhere
~Karen
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The Jungle of Writing
I read somewhere that an unknown first time author trying to get published has a 1:15,000 chance. A 1:15,000 chance! Not exactly what one would call incentive, is it? Of course, the purist would say, "It's not about publication. It is about the need to write, the need to express oneself, the need to bleed words upon a page, blah, blah, blah". And that's part of it, sure.
But, who doesn't want someone to read your work and confirm it's worth in general? Or want someone with fresh, unbiased eyes to catch the awkard phrase here or the wasted sentence there? If you can honestly say, "Not me. I write for the pure enjoyment of putting words to page and I don't care if no one ever lays on it!" Then I say to you, "Good for you! You win the award for purity...Now, get off my page. This is not for you. Take your hummus and your hemp weaved shirt and go caligraphy somewhere else."
This page and accompanying blogs are for those writers struggling to write something that someone will read and mutter, "Damn! That was a good read!". We want our writing out there and we want the feedback (good or bad) to encourage us to refine ourselves, search for the perfect word in that one sentence out of our large vocabularies.
It is said that when writing "Madame Bovary", Gustave Flaubert took five years because every word of every sentence had to say something. Wow! right? I don't hope to write as he did (I just plain don't have the patience for it), but to be able to write a short story or novel sans need for skimming? Ah, now that is obtainable!
Keep reading
~Karen
But, who doesn't want someone to read your work and confirm it's worth in general? Or want someone with fresh, unbiased eyes to catch the awkard phrase here or the wasted sentence there? If you can honestly say, "Not me. I write for the pure enjoyment of putting words to page and I don't care if no one ever lays on it!" Then I say to you, "Good for you! You win the award for purity...Now, get off my page. This is not for you. Take your hummus and your hemp weaved shirt and go caligraphy somewhere else."
This page and accompanying blogs are for those writers struggling to write something that someone will read and mutter, "Damn! That was a good read!". We want our writing out there and we want the feedback (good or bad) to encourage us to refine ourselves, search for the perfect word in that one sentence out of our large vocabularies.
It is said that when writing "Madame Bovary", Gustave Flaubert took five years because every word of every sentence had to say something. Wow! right? I don't hope to write as he did (I just plain don't have the patience for it), but to be able to write a short story or novel sans need for skimming? Ah, now that is obtainable!
Keep reading
~Karen
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