I hate seeing that headline. Not that I don't find these newspaper articles or TV specials well-researched and fascinating; many of them lately, in fact, have been some of the best reading or watching I've done all summer. After all, how many newspaper recipes where the main ingredient is eggplant (because no one knows what to do with it once they've grown some) can one plow through, or how many TV game shows can one watch, where the main thrill seems to be the bleeping of words the host "accidentally" let slip out?
The problem I have with anything that begins with the phrase, "fifty years ago today" is that I was there. Well not there, there, exactly, as in hovering around "Mission Control" in Houston during the 1969 moon landing, or hanging over the edge of the infamous bridge in Chappaquiddick, but there in terms of being alive at the time. There is just something about opening a history textbook and being able to read about an event that occurred in one's own lifetime that is a little disarming...especially when the chapter describing said event is only about halfway through said volume.
Back when I was in high school, my history textbook ended with a picture of General MacArthur returning to the Philippines almost a year before he accepted the Japanese official surrender on a ship in Tokyo Bay. Never mind that by the time I was a senior (and the same book was still in use) four more presidents had passed through the Oval Office, the Korean War had been fought, and thousands of soldiers were currently entrenched in Vietnam. There was also a wall built in the middle of Berlin, a so-called Cold War waging with the Soviet Union and when they weren't burning bras or draft cards, most American teenagers spent their time listening to Rock 'n' Roll. All of these things, by the way, have now had at least a 50th anniversary celebration.
According to my granddaughter, history textbooks are now electronic, thus eliminating the dilemma of how to "keep up" with the latest historical events. While I have to admit this is an excellent solution to the educational gaps of the past, there was something to be said for kids having to find out some of this information on their own. Once, when I was teaching in a small private middle school, one of my advisees came to me in despair over a history project he'd been assigned.
"What do you have to do?" I asked sympathetically.
"Well," the boy groaned, "we're studying the Vietnam War and I have to interview someone who was alive at the time and get their perspective on the events."
"That seems interesting," I said. "What seems to be the problem?"
He groaned again, then threw up his hands and sank miserably into a chair across from my desk.
"Where am I ever gonna find someone like that?" he complained. "I don't know anyone that old!"
Then there was the time I was teaching in a girls' boarding school...my first teaching job, actually...and several of my colleagues and I were playing "where were you when..." in the dining hall one evening. Depending on our assorted experiences and ages, we were comparing memories of Kennedy's assassination, while our students bolted their unidentifiable food, fascinated by this adult conversation.
Finally, one of them looked up excitedly and cheerfully added, "when Kennedy was assassinated, I was in the hospital!"
Alarmed, I turned to her and anxiously asked, "In the hospital? What was wrong with you?"
She looked at me somewhat confused, then stated proudly, "I was being born!"
Age is truly relative.
So, here's what I'm thinking. In 2069, there will be a 50th anniversary celebration of the Best Selling novels from 2019...the only reason this has not happened before being that this year saw the publication of more truly exceptional works of literature than any in the past. Among these books, of course, was the newest novel by the now well-known American author, Erni Johnson, whose books, because her writing skill was not truly recognized at the time, had gone out of print. (Hey, if you're thinking this is a stretch, it's not...the same thing happened to F. Scott Fitzgerald, you know.) Now of course, all six of Johnson's novels have been republished and are flying off the shelves.
At a special ceremony on Cape Cod, Johnson's granddaughter (now 65) accepts a plaque to be placed on Long Beach in Centerville in her grandmother's honor. When asked what she thought of her grandmother's literary contributions, Johnson's descendant replies, "well, I wasn't much of a reader at the time...in fact, few of us were...but now I, like everyone else, truly appreciate how talented she was!"
"If only she were here to see this," the reporter responds sadly, as a respectful silence blankets the crowd.
Not really sure why I imagine this happening...or for that matter why I even wish that it does...unless, of course, there really is an afterlife and I can be hovering above Long Beach to see it.
A few weeks from now is the 50th Anniversary of the original Woodstock Music Festival and I was there. I mean really there, there. We had to park two miles away and it rained for three days; or at least for the day and a half we were at Woodstock before my friends and I gave up and went home. I actually bought a ticket... for $6...I imagine it would be worth a fortune today; however, it was in the pocket of the jeans I immediately threw in the washer (and dryer) as soon as I got home. Maybe that 2069 literary achievement celebration is not such a great idea after all.
Friday, 19 July 2019
Saturday, 13 July 2019
Cleaning out the Frig
Every Friday morning, I clean out the refrigerator, because that's the day we go to the dump...and, if I'm feeling especially ambitious, I peruse the freezer as well. Don't let anyone ever tell you, by the way (as my mother once did) that you can freeze something and "it will last forever." I label everything that goes in there and there are times when I pull something from the back that even I don't recognize in its current state. It took me a while, for example, to recognize that a completely frosted over, somewhat grayish lump labelled "ORP" was actually Oven Roasted Potatoes as opposed to, say, Old Rotten Pork.
Then there are the "special treats" I buy for my grandchildren when they come in the summer...that are still there the following spring: "Buffalo Chicken Tenders," which when thawed and cooked are an even more gross color orange than they were when they were frozen; and "Pizza Bagels," which according to the label are "best by" a date three years in the future. (What is in those things anyhow, that makes them potentially last that long?). And did you know that if you keep popsicles in the freezer for more than a year, they gradually separate into chunks of clear crystal that literally drips some kind of colored slime as soon as you remove the wrapper?
These are things that as a mother I never experienced, because anything that goes into a refrigerator or freezer in a house with three teenagers is usually gone by the following afternoon. Not only did our kids eat everything in sight, often not knowing exactly what it was, but our house, being centrally located, tended to be a gathering (and eating) place for their friends as well. We started keeping a shopping list on the front of the refrigerator so as not to be accused of forgetting one child's "favorites" over another's. It wasn't long, though, before we began to notice a number of additions in unfamiliar handwriting; i.e., the kids' friends wanted to make sure we didn't forget to buy their favorites as well.
These days though, it's just the two of us, and when I plunge my head into the refrigerator on Friday morning, I tend to pride myself on how little food we waste, as generally, there is very little to "clean out." I'd like to credit this to our frugal method of grocery shopping or careful meal planning, but the truth is, our lack of waste is more attributable to our children becoming adults and moving out on their own. Gone are the days when we had to alternate the vegetables we served each night so that at least one kid would eat them; nor do we have to remember who has suddenly become a vegetarian, or which kid is now on the "rice diet," or notice when the biology teacher has recently warned his students of the dangers of nitrates in hot dogs.
In other words, if it's in our refrigerator nowadays, we can probably make some sort of dinner out of it, and with the perfection of microwaves, it's also possible to be serving currently frozen meat a short time later without having to plan hours in advance or run it through the dry cycle in the dishwasher first.
So what does this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Because after all, this blog is supposed to be me writing about writing, remember?) There are actually more similarities than you might imagine. First of all, the search through the refrigerator for items that need to be thrown out is much like editing a short story or the manuscript of my latest novel. There are some aspects that are just simply no good and need to be completely eliminated, while others, if combined or used more creatively could be even better than they were originally.
A similar analogy can be extended to the freezer, if you compare it to the computer file I keep of half written stories and novels; i.e., I'm not going to use what's in it right away, but they seem like real possibilities for the future, so I'm making sure they don't go to waste. Of course, as a writer, I also have to recognize what I have stored here won't be good forever, and at some point, I either have to take them out and put them to good use, or toss them altogether to make room for new ingredients.
And the special treats I buy for my grandchildren (who, I should add, are rapidly becoming teenagers)? You know, the ones they liked last summer but are no longer interested in this year? This is similar to the various competitions a writer enters again, because the first time he/she made the shortlist and the entry money seemed well spent. It is only after you submit again (and once more pay the hefty fee), then receive an immediate rejection notice, that you wonder what you were thinking trying this same thing again.
Then there's the fact that my children are grown and planning or preparing meals is a lot different than it used to be. What I now place on the table for the two of us is no longer greeted with such encouraging comments as "what's this stuff?" or "Chicken again?" or my personal favorite, "I'm not hungry, I ate at Jen's house." When I was taking courses in college and graduate school, someone (a professor) was always evaluating my work based on his/her subjective view, which if you think about it, is a lot like cooking for teenagers. But now when I write something (just like when I cook dinner) the only critique potentially comes from me...well, or from my husband, who in both cases knows better than to be anything but positive about my "work."
So is there a moral to the story? A lesson to be learned from the refrigerator analogy? Sort of. As far as food goes, it seems as if I should now buy only what we (my husband and I) want to eat and not worry about what anyone else thinks. Then, when I clean out the frig or the freezer, I should consider whether these items can be combined or recreated effectively, or whether I should just throw them out. And if I decide to buy or make something specifically because I think someone else will like it, I need to be prepared for my efforts to be spurned or ignored completely, but still be happy that I made the effort. Get the connection? Not bad, huh?
But wait, there's more; there's also the food in the refrigerator that I leave in there, even though I know I probably won't use it (or suspect no one will eat it if I do); or the stuff in the freezer I'm keeping because I'm hoping someone will appreciate my efforts in putting it there or perhaps even creating it in the first place. Yesterday was Friday, so I cleaned out the frig before we went to the dump; but today is Saturday, so I think I'll start working on a new novel. After all, I've got a whole week before I have to think about whether or not to keep what's in the frig.
Then there are the "special treats" I buy for my grandchildren when they come in the summer...that are still there the following spring: "Buffalo Chicken Tenders," which when thawed and cooked are an even more gross color orange than they were when they were frozen; and "Pizza Bagels," which according to the label are "best by" a date three years in the future. (What is in those things anyhow, that makes them potentially last that long?). And did you know that if you keep popsicles in the freezer for more than a year, they gradually separate into chunks of clear crystal that literally drips some kind of colored slime as soon as you remove the wrapper?
These are things that as a mother I never experienced, because anything that goes into a refrigerator or freezer in a house with three teenagers is usually gone by the following afternoon. Not only did our kids eat everything in sight, often not knowing exactly what it was, but our house, being centrally located, tended to be a gathering (and eating) place for their friends as well. We started keeping a shopping list on the front of the refrigerator so as not to be accused of forgetting one child's "favorites" over another's. It wasn't long, though, before we began to notice a number of additions in unfamiliar handwriting; i.e., the kids' friends wanted to make sure we didn't forget to buy their favorites as well.
These days though, it's just the two of us, and when I plunge my head into the refrigerator on Friday morning, I tend to pride myself on how little food we waste, as generally, there is very little to "clean out." I'd like to credit this to our frugal method of grocery shopping or careful meal planning, but the truth is, our lack of waste is more attributable to our children becoming adults and moving out on their own. Gone are the days when we had to alternate the vegetables we served each night so that at least one kid would eat them; nor do we have to remember who has suddenly become a vegetarian, or which kid is now on the "rice diet," or notice when the biology teacher has recently warned his students of the dangers of nitrates in hot dogs.
In other words, if it's in our refrigerator nowadays, we can probably make some sort of dinner out of it, and with the perfection of microwaves, it's also possible to be serving currently frozen meat a short time later without having to plan hours in advance or run it through the dry cycle in the dishwasher first.
So what does this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Because after all, this blog is supposed to be me writing about writing, remember?) There are actually more similarities than you might imagine. First of all, the search through the refrigerator for items that need to be thrown out is much like editing a short story or the manuscript of my latest novel. There are some aspects that are just simply no good and need to be completely eliminated, while others, if combined or used more creatively could be even better than they were originally.
A similar analogy can be extended to the freezer, if you compare it to the computer file I keep of half written stories and novels; i.e., I'm not going to use what's in it right away, but they seem like real possibilities for the future, so I'm making sure they don't go to waste. Of course, as a writer, I also have to recognize what I have stored here won't be good forever, and at some point, I either have to take them out and put them to good use, or toss them altogether to make room for new ingredients.
And the special treats I buy for my grandchildren (who, I should add, are rapidly becoming teenagers)? You know, the ones they liked last summer but are no longer interested in this year? This is similar to the various competitions a writer enters again, because the first time he/she made the shortlist and the entry money seemed well spent. It is only after you submit again (and once more pay the hefty fee), then receive an immediate rejection notice, that you wonder what you were thinking trying this same thing again.
Then there's the fact that my children are grown and planning or preparing meals is a lot different than it used to be. What I now place on the table for the two of us is no longer greeted with such encouraging comments as "what's this stuff?" or "Chicken again?" or my personal favorite, "I'm not hungry, I ate at Jen's house." When I was taking courses in college and graduate school, someone (a professor) was always evaluating my work based on his/her subjective view, which if you think about it, is a lot like cooking for teenagers. But now when I write something (just like when I cook dinner) the only critique potentially comes from me...well, or from my husband, who in both cases knows better than to be anything but positive about my "work."
So is there a moral to the story? A lesson to be learned from the refrigerator analogy? Sort of. As far as food goes, it seems as if I should now buy only what we (my husband and I) want to eat and not worry about what anyone else thinks. Then, when I clean out the frig or the freezer, I should consider whether these items can be combined or recreated effectively, or whether I should just throw them out. And if I decide to buy or make something specifically because I think someone else will like it, I need to be prepared for my efforts to be spurned or ignored completely, but still be happy that I made the effort. Get the connection? Not bad, huh?
But wait, there's more; there's also the food in the refrigerator that I leave in there, even though I know I probably won't use it (or suspect no one will eat it if I do); or the stuff in the freezer I'm keeping because I'm hoping someone will appreciate my efforts in putting it there or perhaps even creating it in the first place. Yesterday was Friday, so I cleaned out the frig before we went to the dump; but today is Saturday, so I think I'll start working on a new novel. After all, I've got a whole week before I have to think about whether or not to keep what's in the frig.
Thursday, 4 July 2019
Okay This One is Kinda Sad
I lost a friend today. Actually, I lost my friend over two months ago, but I didn't know, because no one he knew when he died, knew me. And so, no one told me he was gone. What happened was, that I knew he was ill, and because we corresponded regularly, when I stopped getting any response to my emails I became concerned. I found the obituary online. Sometimes technology is frighteningly informative.
We met when we were in college; he was a tough city kid who was there on a scholarship and I was a clueless prep school product who went to college because I was expected to. As it turned out, we both loved poetry, and for opposite personal reasons, were careful not to admit this to the wrong people. The difference was that I loved reading it and he loved writing it, which if you think about it, was probably the reason we became friends.
I tried writing poetry, but it was truly awful. I just had too much to say in what seemed like way too small of a space. But the thing about his poetry was he could take that small place and fill it so full that it was always a surprise to realize that his complex thoughts actually fit perfectly. So I gave up and wrote stories instead, and we both heard the universe breathe a collective sigh of relief.
After college, we went our separate ways, largely because in those days that's what men and women who were friends did; in other words, you couldn't just be friends, you had to be something else...or else nothing at all. But the fact that we were both writers in a world where this craft is largely misunderstood (or mostly ignored) led to our continued communication in letter form.
This correspondence followed him as he lived and studied in England and Ireland, and me through marriages and children and a wide range of potential careers. Our literal paths crossed only once when we found ourselves occupying the same teaching position in the same school, not at the same time, but in immediate succession. He had moved on to a new job in another nearby prep school and I, in my first real teaching job, opened my new desk drawer to find a folder of notes on the Shakespeare play I would be teaching, in an all too familiar handwriting.
Our correspondence was by no means regular; sometimes years passed with neither of us being in touch, or periodically, not even in possession of an accurate address with which to do so. But then, one day, I'd get an envelope with some poems enclosed and a note saying, "Tell me what you think of these." Then I would check the return address, and package up my latest story and respond in kind. He always remembered my birthday as well.
Email, of course, made all this easier and more immediate. But the relationship remained much the same. Though we lived closer now, we still never saw each other in person or even talked on the phone, preferring instead to communicate as we always had, through our love of writing. There is just something about stringing words together in this expressive connection with each other that makes what you have to say more specific, more poignant, more perfected than anything could be spoken out loud. I tried my best to do this well, but he always did it better.
When my friend published his first and only volume of poetry, he told me that he did it because he wanted to leave some evidence that he had walked on this earth. I started writing novels for the same reason, and together we joked about how all six people who bought our books would certainly remember us well. Just to be sure we remembered, though, we included each other's names in the book dedications, where they would always confirm our long friendship. But as more and more people disappear from my life, I've come to realize it isn't being forgotten that's the hardest, it's being remembered.
We met when we were in college; he was a tough city kid who was there on a scholarship and I was a clueless prep school product who went to college because I was expected to. As it turned out, we both loved poetry, and for opposite personal reasons, were careful not to admit this to the wrong people. The difference was that I loved reading it and he loved writing it, which if you think about it, was probably the reason we became friends.
I tried writing poetry, but it was truly awful. I just had too much to say in what seemed like way too small of a space. But the thing about his poetry was he could take that small place and fill it so full that it was always a surprise to realize that his complex thoughts actually fit perfectly. So I gave up and wrote stories instead, and we both heard the universe breathe a collective sigh of relief.
After college, we went our separate ways, largely because in those days that's what men and women who were friends did; in other words, you couldn't just be friends, you had to be something else...or else nothing at all. But the fact that we were both writers in a world where this craft is largely misunderstood (or mostly ignored) led to our continued communication in letter form.
This correspondence followed him as he lived and studied in England and Ireland, and me through marriages and children and a wide range of potential careers. Our literal paths crossed only once when we found ourselves occupying the same teaching position in the same school, not at the same time, but in immediate succession. He had moved on to a new job in another nearby prep school and I, in my first real teaching job, opened my new desk drawer to find a folder of notes on the Shakespeare play I would be teaching, in an all too familiar handwriting.
Our correspondence was by no means regular; sometimes years passed with neither of us being in touch, or periodically, not even in possession of an accurate address with which to do so. But then, one day, I'd get an envelope with some poems enclosed and a note saying, "Tell me what you think of these." Then I would check the return address, and package up my latest story and respond in kind. He always remembered my birthday as well.
Email, of course, made all this easier and more immediate. But the relationship remained much the same. Though we lived closer now, we still never saw each other in person or even talked on the phone, preferring instead to communicate as we always had, through our love of writing. There is just something about stringing words together in this expressive connection with each other that makes what you have to say more specific, more poignant, more perfected than anything could be spoken out loud. I tried my best to do this well, but he always did it better.
When my friend published his first and only volume of poetry, he told me that he did it because he wanted to leave some evidence that he had walked on this earth. I started writing novels for the same reason, and together we joked about how all six people who bought our books would certainly remember us well. Just to be sure we remembered, though, we included each other's names in the book dedications, where they would always confirm our long friendship. But as more and more people disappear from my life, I've come to realize it isn't being forgotten that's the hardest, it's being remembered.
Wednesday, 26 June 2019
Continuing Education
There are days when the rejection notices pile up faster than the written pages...today was one of those days. When I first started my so-called second career as a writer, I instituted a complex filing system that consisted of a folder for acknowledgements of submitted work, another for acceptance letters, and another for rejections (not to mention I created lists and pertinent information in digital form). Guess which folder is overflowing?
As a result, last week, I had a temper tantrum and viciously deleted the digital file in which I had stored the pertinent information for competitions I had entered (and been rejected from) in case I wanted to enter again...right, like I'd do that, I thought furiously. Has hell frozen over? I asked myself. Of course, I also have to admit that less than a minute and a half later, I "recovered" the file from the "Trash" and put it back on my desktop. You never know, right? I might just write something so incredible that no contest judge or editor could ever resist publishing it. It's that half full glass again.
So today I decided it might be time to do something a little more productive about the situation, other than just assume I'm simply not that good a writer...because I am...I think. For Christmas one year, right after I first plunged into this whole authorship thing, my thoughtful daughter-in-law gave me a subscription to The Writer magazine, a publication that offers many informative (and thankfully, encouraging) articles on writing skills, publication, and marketing, among other helpful topics. Every month, the magazine also highlights a conference one can attend to improve one's skills.
However, the conferences cost money; i.e., there's no such thing as a free lunch. Added to the basic registration cost, there are also travel expenses, meals, accommodations, and "extras," such as a 15 minute conference with a "professional editor or literary agent" who will happily "critique" your work, for a "small additional fee." Like this is something I need...I can just call some of my friends (or read through my bulging rejection file). There are "scholarships" available, of course...like if you work at a nail salon and speak fluent Norwegian, or if you are the CEO of a plastics manufacturing firm looking to improve your environmentally conscious image...but nothing I really qualify for.
And here's the Catch-22: where does one get the money to attend a conference where one can improve one's writing skills? From the income one has received as a successful writer, of course. But if one had received such payments, then why, one asks, would one need to attend a conference to improve one's skills?
Sadly, I'd still like to go to a writing conference. In the first place, it's hard to come up with a viable excuse for not going (other than the lack of cash), when as a teacher, I spent years telling my students that "learning is a life-long process." And secondly, in my past careers as innkeeper and teacher, I have to confess that I did actually learn something during such events.
At the innkeeping conferences my husband and I attended, for example, I learned that literally anything can be monogrammed (even toilet paper), you need at least six rooms to make a profit (we had four), you can buy a mix for making "homemade" muffins, and that economy rental cars cannot successfully negotiate the hills in San Francisco (at least the one leading to the Fairmont Hotel where that particular conference was held). The Saturday night parties are also fun, as long as no one makes me wear a Hawaiian shirt.
I have to admit that the teaching conferences I attended were a bit more productive. At the first one I went to, I was scheduled for the workshops my school signed me up for (after all, they were footing the bill, so who was I to complain?). With my trusty notebook and pen in hand, I entered the first such session and sat down expectantly in the first row. In the front of the room sat the panel of experts, one of whom turned out to be my brother, a piece of information that had somehow passed me by during the registration process. "We could have just talked on the phone," he told me afterwards. This was at the pub down the street where we had lunch together, instead of eating the "complimentary conference buffet," which my brother, a veteran presenter at such events, wisely advised against.
Overall, though I did acquire a number of new teaching skills at the assorted conferences and "in-service" days I attended during my teaching career. The latter type of events are the ones that take place at one's own school. This gives the kids a day off, and thus successfully stresses out all the mothers in their pink sweats, who have happily dropped their children into your care each morning, and gone off to exercise class...because they now have to find childcare. Somehow this made me feel vindicated, so these days always started out well, even though after a day off the kids were always more hyper and had never done their homework.
I do have to give the in-service planners at my most recent school credit, being that it was a K-12 school and coming up with an inspirational, educational, day-long program that would apply to the teachers of this vast age span was probably more impossible than squeezing toothpaste back into the tube. Nonetheless, one of the earlier workshops on "bullying" was not exactly what I'd call a rousing success.
While the leader of the session, a very talented first grade teacher, was patiently explaining the various "models" used to teach the "bully" empathy for the child he was tormenting, all I could think of were the names my high school students called each other on a daily basis. One time I had to look up one such name and by the time I had become truly horrified by the definition, and come up with a way to negotiate the situation, the two kids were already laughing and happily throwing ice cubes from their Dunkin' Donuts drinks at each other across the room.
What I used to dislike the most about any of these educational opportunities was ending up in a workshop where they expected you to participate...you know, role playing and whatnot. Or the ones where you had to break into small groups and make lists on gigantic drawing pads with partially dried up markers. I just wanted to sit there and listen, or pretend I was taking notes that quite possibly I would never refer to again, and you know, just be inspired, without making any real commitment. Kind of like the way I approach life in general.
I learned this approach to educational situations from my students, in fact. One time, I actually confronted one of them, who, despite the fact that I was delivering what I thought to be a detailed, fact-filled, and intellectual lecture on the Lost Generation in Paris, simply sat there staring at me. "Don't you want to take some notes?" I asked him at last. "This will be on the test, you know." He simply smiled at me and tapping the side of his head said, "I'm absorbing. It's all up here."
Then there was the kid who appeared to be seriously concentrating while taking voluminous notes on his laptop. Suddenly, about halfway through my lecture, he threw his hands up the air and shouted "all right!" The kid next to him leaned over and peered at his screen. "Hit a new level?" he asked. I'd like to say both kids failed the test, but sadly, not. At least there aren't any tests at conferences.
So, bottom line, I may just go to a writing conference sometime soon...what can it hurt? I might actually learn something that would make me a better writer. So I'm going to sign up...right after I make enough money as a writer to cover the registration fee.
As a result, last week, I had a temper tantrum and viciously deleted the digital file in which I had stored the pertinent information for competitions I had entered (and been rejected from) in case I wanted to enter again...right, like I'd do that, I thought furiously. Has hell frozen over? I asked myself. Of course, I also have to admit that less than a minute and a half later, I "recovered" the file from the "Trash" and put it back on my desktop. You never know, right? I might just write something so incredible that no contest judge or editor could ever resist publishing it. It's that half full glass again.
So today I decided it might be time to do something a little more productive about the situation, other than just assume I'm simply not that good a writer...because I am...I think. For Christmas one year, right after I first plunged into this whole authorship thing, my thoughtful daughter-in-law gave me a subscription to The Writer magazine, a publication that offers many informative (and thankfully, encouraging) articles on writing skills, publication, and marketing, among other helpful topics. Every month, the magazine also highlights a conference one can attend to improve one's skills.
However, the conferences cost money; i.e., there's no such thing as a free lunch. Added to the basic registration cost, there are also travel expenses, meals, accommodations, and "extras," such as a 15 minute conference with a "professional editor or literary agent" who will happily "critique" your work, for a "small additional fee." Like this is something I need...I can just call some of my friends (or read through my bulging rejection file). There are "scholarships" available, of course...like if you work at a nail salon and speak fluent Norwegian, or if you are the CEO of a plastics manufacturing firm looking to improve your environmentally conscious image...but nothing I really qualify for.
And here's the Catch-22: where does one get the money to attend a conference where one can improve one's writing skills? From the income one has received as a successful writer, of course. But if one had received such payments, then why, one asks, would one need to attend a conference to improve one's skills?
Sadly, I'd still like to go to a writing conference. In the first place, it's hard to come up with a viable excuse for not going (other than the lack of cash), when as a teacher, I spent years telling my students that "learning is a life-long process." And secondly, in my past careers as innkeeper and teacher, I have to confess that I did actually learn something during such events.
At the innkeeping conferences my husband and I attended, for example, I learned that literally anything can be monogrammed (even toilet paper), you need at least six rooms to make a profit (we had four), you can buy a mix for making "homemade" muffins, and that economy rental cars cannot successfully negotiate the hills in San Francisco (at least the one leading to the Fairmont Hotel where that particular conference was held). The Saturday night parties are also fun, as long as no one makes me wear a Hawaiian shirt.
I have to admit that the teaching conferences I attended were a bit more productive. At the first one I went to, I was scheduled for the workshops my school signed me up for (after all, they were footing the bill, so who was I to complain?). With my trusty notebook and pen in hand, I entered the first such session and sat down expectantly in the first row. In the front of the room sat the panel of experts, one of whom turned out to be my brother, a piece of information that had somehow passed me by during the registration process. "We could have just talked on the phone," he told me afterwards. This was at the pub down the street where we had lunch together, instead of eating the "complimentary conference buffet," which my brother, a veteran presenter at such events, wisely advised against.
Overall, though I did acquire a number of new teaching skills at the assorted conferences and "in-service" days I attended during my teaching career. The latter type of events are the ones that take place at one's own school. This gives the kids a day off, and thus successfully stresses out all the mothers in their pink sweats, who have happily dropped their children into your care each morning, and gone off to exercise class...because they now have to find childcare. Somehow this made me feel vindicated, so these days always started out well, even though after a day off the kids were always more hyper and had never done their homework.
I do have to give the in-service planners at my most recent school credit, being that it was a K-12 school and coming up with an inspirational, educational, day-long program that would apply to the teachers of this vast age span was probably more impossible than squeezing toothpaste back into the tube. Nonetheless, one of the earlier workshops on "bullying" was not exactly what I'd call a rousing success.
While the leader of the session, a very talented first grade teacher, was patiently explaining the various "models" used to teach the "bully" empathy for the child he was tormenting, all I could think of were the names my high school students called each other on a daily basis. One time I had to look up one such name and by the time I had become truly horrified by the definition, and come up with a way to negotiate the situation, the two kids were already laughing and happily throwing ice cubes from their Dunkin' Donuts drinks at each other across the room.
What I used to dislike the most about any of these educational opportunities was ending up in a workshop where they expected you to participate...you know, role playing and whatnot. Or the ones where you had to break into small groups and make lists on gigantic drawing pads with partially dried up markers. I just wanted to sit there and listen, or pretend I was taking notes that quite possibly I would never refer to again, and you know, just be inspired, without making any real commitment. Kind of like the way I approach life in general.
I learned this approach to educational situations from my students, in fact. One time, I actually confronted one of them, who, despite the fact that I was delivering what I thought to be a detailed, fact-filled, and intellectual lecture on the Lost Generation in Paris, simply sat there staring at me. "Don't you want to take some notes?" I asked him at last. "This will be on the test, you know." He simply smiled at me and tapping the side of his head said, "I'm absorbing. It's all up here."
Then there was the kid who appeared to be seriously concentrating while taking voluminous notes on his laptop. Suddenly, about halfway through my lecture, he threw his hands up the air and shouted "all right!" The kid next to him leaned over and peered at his screen. "Hit a new level?" he asked. I'd like to say both kids failed the test, but sadly, not. At least there aren't any tests at conferences.
So, bottom line, I may just go to a writing conference sometime soon...what can it hurt? I might actually learn something that would make me a better writer. So I'm going to sign up...right after I make enough money as a writer to cover the registration fee.
Saturday, 8 June 2019
How Much Is Really In That Glass?
The first time I actually heard that explained, the difference between the glass being half full and half empty, that is, was in the Tick Tock bar in Canton, New York when I was attending St. Lawrence University. It was in the beginning of my sophomore year and I had just discovered that I was intellectually helpless when it came to the Philosophy course I had so eagerly signed up for a few weeks prior to this occasion; a fact now evidenced by the large red "D" scrawled across the top of my first assigned essay.
"The whole course content is just too vague," I complained to my friend, Bob, as we sat at the bar drinking some low grade, albeit cheap, draft beer, an activity which, I should point out, was pretty much our solution to every academic or personal disappointment in those days.
Bob simply shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
"This, too, will pass," he said, which, I should also point out, was also pretty much his response to all above mentioned disappointments in my life.
"Okay for you to say," I replied, in a somewhat snarky tone, I must admit. "You have the same last name as the campus administration building, whereas I...I must actually pass all my courses to graduate."
Bob just sighed and reaching across the bar, he pulled my glass toward his and lined the two of them up, side by side. Then he proceeded to drink half of his beer, after which he leaned over the edge of the bar and poured half of mine in the sink on the other side. Then he placed the two glasses next to each other again.
"What do you see?" he asked, turning his bar stool to face me.
"I see two half empty glasses of beer, " I grumbled, "one of which used to be mine, and both of which I paid for. What's your point?"
"Ah," he replied, "that's where you're wrong. Yours is half empty because I poured half of it in the sink, but mine is half full because I drank the first half and completely enjoyed doing so, and now I have the same amount to drink again."
At this point, I did the only logical thing: I chugged the rest of the beer in both glasses (after which, as I recall, I felt infinitely better about everything, even my essay grade).
But despite my intellectual limitations when it came to studying Philosophy (I dropped the course, by the way, and signed up for a British Literature class instead), I did understand what Bob was trying to tell me; that no matter what the situation, one's response all depends on how one looks at it. Whereas I was seeing my college career as half empty at that point, ultimately my realization that I should take classes I was really interested in (instead of the ones everyone else said were so cool), was a realization, in fact, that led to many happy years as a high school English teacher. In other words, the half full glass filled all the way up all because of my changed perspective.
As an aspiring author, I subscribe to several "trade" publications as a way to discover new ideas and gather advice on how to effectively approach this pursuit. One of these is a newsletter written by a talented, and apparently quite successful mystery writer. I have to admit I mostly read this publication because she researches writing competitions and publication opportunities, and lists them at the end of each newsletter. But Hope Clark also writes a column every week or so, offering sound advice and practical thoughts, so sound and logical, in fact, that they even make me miss my grandmother a little less than usual.
A recent column was all about the exact subject I mentioned above: the whole half full/half empty syndrome, specifically when it comes to writing. Although I have communicated with this author several times, complimenting not only her novels (which I have read several of and enjoyed, even though I'm not much into mysteries), but also her words of wisdom, I am hoping I am not one of her readers who, as she points out often happens, complain about my lack of success as being someone else's fault.
The truth of the matter is, it's not only that I am a terrible marketer, as well as entirely too sensitive when it comes to criticism from (or worse yet when I feel completely ignored by) friends or family members, but quite honestly, I'm just not that good. I'm not saying this because of the pile of rejection letters I've accumulated, or the lack of sales/glowing reviews/ best-selling status of my novels, but also because as a writer, I do what all writers should do: I read voraciously. And let me just say this: there are some incredibly well-written, well-crafted, and compelling works of literature out there, books that are also significantly humbling to those of us attempting to produce the same.
But here is the half full part: I don't seem willing or able to give it up, my writing that is. There is something in me that says I can do it, and when I go back and read what I have written in the past, it seems like the glass is filling rather than emptying out, and that quite possibly this means that the fuller the glass gets, the more likely someone else might notice it. We'll see.
I haven't seen or heard from my friend Bob in many years...like many of the important people in my life, I carelessly lost track of him. But one thing I know for sure is that if I ever run into him again, I think I'll buy him a beer, filled to the very top of the glass.
"The whole course content is just too vague," I complained to my friend, Bob, as we sat at the bar drinking some low grade, albeit cheap, draft beer, an activity which, I should point out, was pretty much our solution to every academic or personal disappointment in those days.
Bob simply shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
"This, too, will pass," he said, which, I should also point out, was also pretty much his response to all above mentioned disappointments in my life.
"Okay for you to say," I replied, in a somewhat snarky tone, I must admit. "You have the same last name as the campus administration building, whereas I...I must actually pass all my courses to graduate."
Bob just sighed and reaching across the bar, he pulled my glass toward his and lined the two of them up, side by side. Then he proceeded to drink half of his beer, after which he leaned over the edge of the bar and poured half of mine in the sink on the other side. Then he placed the two glasses next to each other again.
"What do you see?" he asked, turning his bar stool to face me.
"I see two half empty glasses of beer, " I grumbled, "one of which used to be mine, and both of which I paid for. What's your point?"
"Ah," he replied, "that's where you're wrong. Yours is half empty because I poured half of it in the sink, but mine is half full because I drank the first half and completely enjoyed doing so, and now I have the same amount to drink again."
At this point, I did the only logical thing: I chugged the rest of the beer in both glasses (after which, as I recall, I felt infinitely better about everything, even my essay grade).
But despite my intellectual limitations when it came to studying Philosophy (I dropped the course, by the way, and signed up for a British Literature class instead), I did understand what Bob was trying to tell me; that no matter what the situation, one's response all depends on how one looks at it. Whereas I was seeing my college career as half empty at that point, ultimately my realization that I should take classes I was really interested in (instead of the ones everyone else said were so cool), was a realization, in fact, that led to many happy years as a high school English teacher. In other words, the half full glass filled all the way up all because of my changed perspective.
As an aspiring author, I subscribe to several "trade" publications as a way to discover new ideas and gather advice on how to effectively approach this pursuit. One of these is a newsletter written by a talented, and apparently quite successful mystery writer. I have to admit I mostly read this publication because she researches writing competitions and publication opportunities, and lists them at the end of each newsletter. But Hope Clark also writes a column every week or so, offering sound advice and practical thoughts, so sound and logical, in fact, that they even make me miss my grandmother a little less than usual.
A recent column was all about the exact subject I mentioned above: the whole half full/half empty syndrome, specifically when it comes to writing. Although I have communicated with this author several times, complimenting not only her novels (which I have read several of and enjoyed, even though I'm not much into mysteries), but also her words of wisdom, I am hoping I am not one of her readers who, as she points out often happens, complain about my lack of success as being someone else's fault.
The truth of the matter is, it's not only that I am a terrible marketer, as well as entirely too sensitive when it comes to criticism from (or worse yet when I feel completely ignored by) friends or family members, but quite honestly, I'm just not that good. I'm not saying this because of the pile of rejection letters I've accumulated, or the lack of sales/glowing reviews/ best-selling status of my novels, but also because as a writer, I do what all writers should do: I read voraciously. And let me just say this: there are some incredibly well-written, well-crafted, and compelling works of literature out there, books that are also significantly humbling to those of us attempting to produce the same.
But here is the half full part: I don't seem willing or able to give it up, my writing that is. There is something in me that says I can do it, and when I go back and read what I have written in the past, it seems like the glass is filling rather than emptying out, and that quite possibly this means that the fuller the glass gets, the more likely someone else might notice it. We'll see.
I haven't seen or heard from my friend Bob in many years...like many of the important people in my life, I carelessly lost track of him. But one thing I know for sure is that if I ever run into him again, I think I'll buy him a beer, filled to the very top of the glass.
Thursday, 23 May 2019
How Does Your Garden Grow?
I am an avid gardener. I'm not really sure what that means, by the way, I just like how it sounds when people say it. I think the expression actually came about as a way to suggest that a person thus described is somehow talented at growing things, when in truth, it means he/she just works really hard at it, because it is something that person loves to do. I'm one of those people.
I first became interested in gardening as a way to spend time with my grandfather, a former bank president who had raised one son and before my arrival had also grandparented another male child (my brother); thus, apart from a number of uneventful years spent with my jolly and complacent grandmother, he had little experience with girls. I think he was surprised at first by the interest I took in the whole process of gardening, which to him, now that I think about it, was more or less an extension of his banking career; i.e, one chooses a prescribed area within which to invest one's energies, dividing that area into specific sections in order to successfully produce the expected yield.
Imagine his horror, then, when entrusting his 10 year-old granddaughter with a packet of carrot seeds, he witnessed her merrily scatter the seeds randomly over a patch of dirt, simply hoping for the best to happen. (Now that I think about it, of course, this is possibly why I never went into finance.)
But, being a man of good humor (as well as infinite patience), my grandfather let this moment pass, smiling briefly, then silently continuing to drop his seeds in carefully delineated rows, at perfectly prescribed distances apart. For the record, both carrot patches grew and produced equally well. I have to admit, though, that it pained me to "thin" perfectly healthy little seedlings, so the others would have the space to grow, but I since learned this is necessary for a successful crop.
Years later, when I first planted my own garden, I found myself recalling (and often following) my grandfather's gardening advice. Of course, it didn't hurt that he lived well into my adulthood, and this subject was often the topic of the letters we exchanged long after he had abandoned his garden plot for the confines of a retirement home. Nonetheless, his memory of the years spent tilling the soil, and all he had learned in the process never left him, and he happily continued to share them with me, even though I was new at the task.
And how did my gardens grow, you may ask? Certainly not with silver bells...albeit once I moved to Cape Cod there were some cockle (aka scallop) shells all in a (somewhat crooked) row. This is to say, that there were, of course, some successes and some failures; plants I labored over or gently nurtured for weeks simply shriveling up and dying for no good reason, while others, accidentally ignored, grew huge and sturdy all on their own. Then there were the vegetables: the ones I wanted most to eat like beets or broccoli or corn yielded little or no produce, while the zucchini, eggplant, and rhubarb became obscenely huge, eventually dominating and ruling the entire garden.
Usually, by mid-July I had spent considerable time planting and replanting, as well as thinning, trimming, and feeding, until it got to the point where there was nothing more I could do with the results but simply accept and enjoy the gardens as the best they could be for now. I could always improve them the next year, I told myself, after they had a chance to sit idle and perhaps develop more on their own.
I do have to admit that a lot of the pleasure I derive from my gardening projects comes when visitors wander the flower and vegetable patches and compliment me on my efforts. On the other hand, it can also be discouraging when friends or family members, many of whom have never grown any sort of garden themselves, offer unsolicited advice on what I might possibly be doing wrong. Worse yet, are those who spend entire afternoons in our yard and never even glance at, much less admire, the fruits of my labor, especially when they frequently claim to be great lovers of gardens in general.
But here's what keeps me coming back to my gardens every year: one early fall day, right before I left for college, I went over to say good-bye to my grandparents. Finding the house deserted, I wandered out into the backyard where I found them sitting next to my grandfather's garden in identical lawn chairs, their hands clasped in the space between them.
"Hey!" I called as I approached where they sat, "what are you doing?"
They both turned, looked over their shoulders, and smiled happily.
"We're just admiring the garden!" My grandfather declared cheerfully. "I think it looks better than ever this year, don't you?"
Of course, at that moment to me, my mind totally on the excitement of college and the great beyond, my grandparents' garden looked much the same as it always had...colorful, cheerful, healthy, and hearty, but still much the same. But, not wanting to disappoint my grandfather, I quickly agreed.
"It's absolutely beautiful!" I announced as I grabbed an empty chair loitering on the lawn nearby, and sat down beside them. We stayed there like that for some time, gazing out at the flowery abundance before us in companionable silence.
"This is what makes it all worth it," my grandfather said at last, as he and my grandmother stood and began folding their lawn chairs, "all the planting and weeding and thinning and so forth."
"You mean so you can have a showcase garden everyone will see and admire," I replied, folding my chair as well, and following them back toward the house.
My grandfather stopped and turned to look at me in surprise.
"Everyone?" he said looking confused. Then putting his arm around me in the way he always did when about to impart a piece of his legendary wisdom, he said, "I don't work hard to make this garden beautiful for everyone else, I do it because I love doing it, and if I create something that someone else enjoys as well, then that's simply a bonus."
It's been over 40 years since my grandfather died, and even though he lived to meet my children, see me graduate from college and begin a teaching career, regretfully he was gone before I started to write. Still, I have never forgotten this piece of sage advice, as it has come in handy on many occasions...and not just when it comes to gardening...
I first became interested in gardening as a way to spend time with my grandfather, a former bank president who had raised one son and before my arrival had also grandparented another male child (my brother); thus, apart from a number of uneventful years spent with my jolly and complacent grandmother, he had little experience with girls. I think he was surprised at first by the interest I took in the whole process of gardening, which to him, now that I think about it, was more or less an extension of his banking career; i.e, one chooses a prescribed area within which to invest one's energies, dividing that area into specific sections in order to successfully produce the expected yield.
Imagine his horror, then, when entrusting his 10 year-old granddaughter with a packet of carrot seeds, he witnessed her merrily scatter the seeds randomly over a patch of dirt, simply hoping for the best to happen. (Now that I think about it, of course, this is possibly why I never went into finance.)
But, being a man of good humor (as well as infinite patience), my grandfather let this moment pass, smiling briefly, then silently continuing to drop his seeds in carefully delineated rows, at perfectly prescribed distances apart. For the record, both carrot patches grew and produced equally well. I have to admit, though, that it pained me to "thin" perfectly healthy little seedlings, so the others would have the space to grow, but I since learned this is necessary for a successful crop.
Years later, when I first planted my own garden, I found myself recalling (and often following) my grandfather's gardening advice. Of course, it didn't hurt that he lived well into my adulthood, and this subject was often the topic of the letters we exchanged long after he had abandoned his garden plot for the confines of a retirement home. Nonetheless, his memory of the years spent tilling the soil, and all he had learned in the process never left him, and he happily continued to share them with me, even though I was new at the task.
And how did my gardens grow, you may ask? Certainly not with silver bells...albeit once I moved to Cape Cod there were some cockle (aka scallop) shells all in a (somewhat crooked) row. This is to say, that there were, of course, some successes and some failures; plants I labored over or gently nurtured for weeks simply shriveling up and dying for no good reason, while others, accidentally ignored, grew huge and sturdy all on their own. Then there were the vegetables: the ones I wanted most to eat like beets or broccoli or corn yielded little or no produce, while the zucchini, eggplant, and rhubarb became obscenely huge, eventually dominating and ruling the entire garden.
Usually, by mid-July I had spent considerable time planting and replanting, as well as thinning, trimming, and feeding, until it got to the point where there was nothing more I could do with the results but simply accept and enjoy the gardens as the best they could be for now. I could always improve them the next year, I told myself, after they had a chance to sit idle and perhaps develop more on their own.
I do have to admit that a lot of the pleasure I derive from my gardening projects comes when visitors wander the flower and vegetable patches and compliment me on my efforts. On the other hand, it can also be discouraging when friends or family members, many of whom have never grown any sort of garden themselves, offer unsolicited advice on what I might possibly be doing wrong. Worse yet, are those who spend entire afternoons in our yard and never even glance at, much less admire, the fruits of my labor, especially when they frequently claim to be great lovers of gardens in general.
But here's what keeps me coming back to my gardens every year: one early fall day, right before I left for college, I went over to say good-bye to my grandparents. Finding the house deserted, I wandered out into the backyard where I found them sitting next to my grandfather's garden in identical lawn chairs, their hands clasped in the space between them.
"Hey!" I called as I approached where they sat, "what are you doing?"
They both turned, looked over their shoulders, and smiled happily.
"We're just admiring the garden!" My grandfather declared cheerfully. "I think it looks better than ever this year, don't you?"
Of course, at that moment to me, my mind totally on the excitement of college and the great beyond, my grandparents' garden looked much the same as it always had...colorful, cheerful, healthy, and hearty, but still much the same. But, not wanting to disappoint my grandfather, I quickly agreed.
"It's absolutely beautiful!" I announced as I grabbed an empty chair loitering on the lawn nearby, and sat down beside them. We stayed there like that for some time, gazing out at the flowery abundance before us in companionable silence.
"This is what makes it all worth it," my grandfather said at last, as he and my grandmother stood and began folding their lawn chairs, "all the planting and weeding and thinning and so forth."
"You mean so you can have a showcase garden everyone will see and admire," I replied, folding my chair as well, and following them back toward the house.
My grandfather stopped and turned to look at me in surprise.
"Everyone?" he said looking confused. Then putting his arm around me in the way he always did when about to impart a piece of his legendary wisdom, he said, "I don't work hard to make this garden beautiful for everyone else, I do it because I love doing it, and if I create something that someone else enjoys as well, then that's simply a bonus."
It's been over 40 years since my grandfather died, and even though he lived to meet my children, see me graduate from college and begin a teaching career, regretfully he was gone before I started to write. Still, I have never forgotten this piece of sage advice, as it has come in handy on many occasions...and not just when it comes to gardening...
Monday, 13 May 2019
A Cat's Eye View
"It's easy," I told Izzi the day before we left on our trip to Charleston. "All you have to do is write about writing. Whatever comes to mind. You've watched me do this plenty of times. PJ could even help you!"
Izzi and PJ are my cats. And before you think I'm completely crazy assigning a blog entry to two furry companions whose main purpose in life is to sleep, eat, unroll toilet paper, and shove the wind-up mouse under the refrigerator, crying plaintively until we pull the appliance out to retrieve it, you should know they have had a certain amount of experience at the writing game. Of course for them, this basically involves lying on either side of me on the big red couch in my living room (my favorite spot to write) and periodically flick their tails across my laptop keyboard.
While this activity, in itself, has provided an effective excuse for the various typos in my work, I do think Izzi might have other observations to make and advice to offer, given the opportunity. Also, not that this especially surprised me, given the way my writing career has been going, but just as I was ready to go away and thus neglect this blog for the next two weeks, my "readership" quadrupled after the last entry. Kind of like not being able to fill the bird feeder after dozens of avian breeds suddenly started flocking to the little perches...just to suggest a comparable feline analogy.
Anyhow, here are some of the thoughts on writing that Izzi (with PJ's help) was able to come up with while we were gone. (I corrected her spelling and grammar a bit, but otherwise these are her original ideas.)
10 Helpful Tips on Writing by Izzi Johnson
1. Choose the time of day for writing carefully. The sun generally shines on the right end of the red couch around 3 in the afternoon, which makes it the best time to sit there. It might also warm the other end of the couch in the morning, but this is when I have to be in the family room watching CNN on Daryl's lap.
2. Never try to write on an empty stomach. I always make a point of stopping by the food bowl before settling down on the red couch. This allows for at least an hour of solid writing time before I have to hit the food bowl again.
3. Allow yourself to be distracted regularly in order to inspire creativity. Some of my favorite choices for this include: abruptly running up the stairs for no particular reason and scratching furiously on the guest room door even though no one is inside; casually wandering into the kitchen and opening all the cupboards and drawers (pulling out a few dishtowels and knocking over the recycling is also helpful); and finally, PJ's personal favorite, decide you want to sleep on the end of the couch where the other cat already is, and then both climb back and forth across Erni and her laptop until she finally gives up and starts petting you instead of typing.
4. Always read all writing out loud when editing. While this probably makes no difference in its ultimate quality, it has a decidedly soporific effect on your companions. (I have no idea what that word means, but PJ found it in the thesaurus, which she says is also a necessary writing tool).
5. Learn where the delete button is on the keyboard and be able to find it easily and casually without even looking. Although hitting this button does cause some temporary noise and distress, it forces one to rewrite, and thus sit on the red couch longer than originally planned.
6. Be sure and keep plenty of liquids handy while writing. While I have tried that wine stuff Erni leaves on the coffee table sometimes, I personally prefer water...in a glass, not a bottle (see #3 "distractions" above for further explanation).
7. Never decide before you start writing how long the finished product will be (such as a list of 10 Helpful Tips). When you run out of things to say it can be stressful and make it hard to nap.
The End
Okay, so maybe next time I go on vacation, I should take my laptop along with me...
Izzi and PJ are my cats. And before you think I'm completely crazy assigning a blog entry to two furry companions whose main purpose in life is to sleep, eat, unroll toilet paper, and shove the wind-up mouse under the refrigerator, crying plaintively until we pull the appliance out to retrieve it, you should know they have had a certain amount of experience at the writing game. Of course for them, this basically involves lying on either side of me on the big red couch in my living room (my favorite spot to write) and periodically flick their tails across my laptop keyboard.
While this activity, in itself, has provided an effective excuse for the various typos in my work, I do think Izzi might have other observations to make and advice to offer, given the opportunity. Also, not that this especially surprised me, given the way my writing career has been going, but just as I was ready to go away and thus neglect this blog for the next two weeks, my "readership" quadrupled after the last entry. Kind of like not being able to fill the bird feeder after dozens of avian breeds suddenly started flocking to the little perches...just to suggest a comparable feline analogy.
Anyhow, here are some of the thoughts on writing that Izzi (with PJ's help) was able to come up with while we were gone. (I corrected her spelling and grammar a bit, but otherwise these are her original ideas.)
10 Helpful Tips on Writing by Izzi Johnson
1. Choose the time of day for writing carefully. The sun generally shines on the right end of the red couch around 3 in the afternoon, which makes it the best time to sit there. It might also warm the other end of the couch in the morning, but this is when I have to be in the family room watching CNN on Daryl's lap.
2. Never try to write on an empty stomach. I always make a point of stopping by the food bowl before settling down on the red couch. This allows for at least an hour of solid writing time before I have to hit the food bowl again.
3. Allow yourself to be distracted regularly in order to inspire creativity. Some of my favorite choices for this include: abruptly running up the stairs for no particular reason and scratching furiously on the guest room door even though no one is inside; casually wandering into the kitchen and opening all the cupboards and drawers (pulling out a few dishtowels and knocking over the recycling is also helpful); and finally, PJ's personal favorite, decide you want to sleep on the end of the couch where the other cat already is, and then both climb back and forth across Erni and her laptop until she finally gives up and starts petting you instead of typing.
4. Always read all writing out loud when editing. While this probably makes no difference in its ultimate quality, it has a decidedly soporific effect on your companions. (I have no idea what that word means, but PJ found it in the thesaurus, which she says is also a necessary writing tool).
5. Learn where the delete button is on the keyboard and be able to find it easily and casually without even looking. Although hitting this button does cause some temporary noise and distress, it forces one to rewrite, and thus sit on the red couch longer than originally planned.
6. Be sure and keep plenty of liquids handy while writing. While I have tried that wine stuff Erni leaves on the coffee table sometimes, I personally prefer water...in a glass, not a bottle (see #3 "distractions" above for further explanation).
7. Never decide before you start writing how long the finished product will be (such as a list of 10 Helpful Tips). When you run out of things to say it can be stressful and make it hard to nap.
The End
Okay, so maybe next time I go on vacation, I should take my laptop along with me...
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