August #3: In Search of Answers

 Before the pandemic, we visited the Tucson Rock & Mineral Show, a sprawling exhibit with miles of rocks and dinosaurs and curiosities. There, tucked away in an obscure shop, we came across these amazing three puppets. The vendor picked them up from a friend of a friend, with no provenance. He's trying now to discover what culture or what artist created these puppets. And I'm curious enough, some six months later, to wonder.

Oh, these are storytellers, with the elder pointing the way. Their gnarled fingers and bound feet suggest long journeys ahead. Their beaded walking sticks and intricate costumes hint at a sophisticated culture, and their bodies wrapped tightly in furs may protect them against cold -- or discovery.

Every culture I'm thinking of . . . Pacific Northwest Native? African? Australian? But the symbols don't match, or the furs don't quite fit the climate. Even Google search by image doesn't help.

But aren't these beautiful sculptures? More than puppets. So, perhaps I'm left with the vision of an unknown artist. What do you think? Any suggestions?

In reality, these are the kinds of mysteries I daydream about. There might be a story here. Perhaps a distraction from these days of pandemic which wear on into the fall, just about the time these creatures may be heading south. 

August #BlogBattle: "Everest: One Step at a Time"

Image by mdhondt at Pixabay

 Allen paid an extra $2 for a private room when he checked into the WanderLust Hostel on his first night in Kathmandu. All he wanted was to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Instead, he wandered downstairs to the open air patio for a snack. A few young men sat on cushioned benches, talking about how to best hike to Mount Everest. Allen took his plate of momos, delicate thumb-sized dumplings drizzled with a tangy sauce, and nodded hello to the group.

Most of the hikers were young. One man, about Allen’s age, leaned back against the wall, listening to the day hikers and adding bits of what he knew with a British accent. He might make a good hiking partner, Allen thought.

The next morning, Allen wasn’t surprised to see John at an early breakfast at 6:30 am, balancing a cup of tea with a rolled crepe filled with goat cheese and greens. 

     “Want to travel together today?” asked Allen. “Even if I’m American?”

     “I forgive you.” John nodded. “After I finish my tea, I’m ready.” He pointed to his pack by the door.

     Allen nodded – his fifty-pound pack also by the door. 

     Just outside the hostel, they caught a local bus, crowded with families with crying babies and vendors carrying racks of weaving. Live chickens, tethered together with string, squawked. Allen and John sat on their packs in the aisle for the nine-hour ride to Lukla that marked the beginning of the trail to the Everest Base Camp.

     “You travel much?” asked John.

     “My goal is to travel the world. So far, so good.” Allen didn’t talk about what pushed him away from the United States, the sense of claustrophobia he had since Viet Nam.

     “How many hours do you hike?” asked John.

     “The usual. Five, maybe six a day. That okay?”

     “Righto,” said John.

     They hopped off the bus at Lukla.

     “Time to stretch our legs. We got a short, five hour walk if we move out,” said John. 

     “Yeah. With fifty pounds on my back, I’m sure we can make it before dark – if we run.”

     As the sun edged down, Allen nodded to John. “Hey, pal. Looks like we didn’t have to run, and we get to sleep at a hostel.”

     “At this altitude, and this temperature, I didn’t think we’d be sweating so much,” said John.

     “Better wipe it off with a towel. I bet we don’t get a shower up here,” said Allen.

     At Namche, they took several days off to acclimate. Grateful for the respite from hiking, they simply napped, ate, and chatted with the locals. 

     Three days later, they strapped on their packs, anticipating each day’s climb to a higher elevation, with a brief break when the trail took them down through a valley. 

     “I don’t actually want to climb Mt. Everest,” said Allen.

     “Me either. Not at over 8,000 meters,” said John.

     “That’s 29,000 feet. I don’t think I can do that, but I want to see the mountains.” 

     John took a deep breath. “And I wouldn’t mind a cuppa.”

     They hiked past a Sherpa guide organizing a small group of tourists. Two Sherpas used a band to wrap two and three backpacks together, then loaded the packs on their backs, twisting the band around their foreheads. A fourth Sherpa loaded the remaining packs onto three gaily decorated yaks. 

     “If we hear bells when we’re on the trail, look out for yaks . . .” began Allen.

     “I know. Jump off the trail away from the downslope.” They began to laugh. Both had heard stories about hikers being brushed off the trail into the ravine below.

     “I like the sound of the bells,” said Allen. “Mostly. Especially if they’re on stupas.” Allen pointed out a small stupa beside the trail, surrounded by painted stones. “That’s a mani stone. The letters and the colors form an important mantra to Buddhists all over the world. If I remember correctly, it reads Om Mani Padme Hum.”

     “Well, what does it mean?” asked John.

     “Its meaning depends on where you are. Essentially, the saying reminds us to move from like where we are, that is not meditating, to focus on purity and how to wake up our souls. In a way, we’re then constantly on a journey to enlightenment.”

     “Sounds difficult to achieve.”

     “Yeah, but like this hike we’re on, one step leads us closer. Om Mani Padme Hum,” Allen intoned in a low voice. “Each step. Om Mani Padme Hum.”

     John struggled between laughing and trying to breathe. “Okay, Om. I’ll just say Om.”

     As they staggered closer to Base Camp, they come across a small tea house. 

     “I want some real tea,” said John. “Not those dried out bags of Tetley I’ve been carrying for months.”

     “This may be your last chance,” said Allen. 

     They stared at the little hut. “You’re sure this is a tea house?” asked John.

     “I don’t know, but I’m ready for a little coffee.”

 
     “Come in, come in,” called a little old woman, nearly bent in half and standing as high as their elbows. The two men stooped down to enter and sat by a rickety table on tiny home-made chairs. The old woman ladled their beverage from a boiling pot into two tin cups.

     Allen took a sip. “Tastes just like coffee.” 

     John stared at his cup. “What’s this white stuff on top?” 

     “No English.” The woman pointed at the white layer on top of the tea. “Curdled yak’s milk.”

     Allen drank his down. “Really good coffee.” He bowed his head to thank the old woman. 

     She nodded back and watched John as he tentatively sniffed at his cup and finally took a sip. 

     John’s face eased into a blissful smile. “That’s lovely tea. Now I’m ready to climb mountains. Om. One sip at a time.” 

Mani Stone (Wikipedia)

 Afterword: This story (967 words, just under the challenge limit of 1,000), was inspired by #BlogBattle’s challenge word for August, “tea,” and by Allen’s tales of trekking in Nepal back in the early 1970s. Today, that is, before the pandemic, about 40,000 people take the trail to Mt. Everest Base Camp each year, a sharp contrast to those less travelled times back in the 1970s. 

Both Allen and I love to travel, and in these days of stay-at-home, I enjoyed researching Nepal. Maybe someday, we’ll travel again, in search for that perfect cup of tea – and perhaps enlightenment!

Learn more about the #BlogBattle Challenge, and the rules for this month's #BlogBattle (challenge prompt = tea). Post your story by the end of this month to join in!  

IWSG #7: Perseverance furthers . . .

Yesterday, I sat under a canopy in the back yard with two other writers, safely distanced, as we shared our latest writings and commiserated about the changes in our lives brought by the pandemic. We ate blissful chunks of cool watermelon, drank iced coffee, and listened to our voices, winging words and hopes into the hot afternoon.

I know we writers work alone, and yet community (small gatherings like yesterday) nurtures us. In a very similar way, each month, the Insecure Writer's Support Group brings us together to reflect on a question and calls on us to support and to read what others have written. 

IWSG's August 5 question begins with an anonymous quote: "Although I have written a short story collection, the form found me and not the other way around. Don't write short stories, novels or poems. Just write your truth and your stories will mold into the shapes they need to be." Have you ever written a piece that became a form, or even a genre, you hadn't planned on writing in?

This month's question fits right into my writing journey. Way back in 2006, I retired, ready finally to write, and took my first creative writing class. We were to write ten short stories in ten short weeks. Aargh!!! But what a plunge into the unknown that was. Those stories became my first publication, The Mermaid Quilt & Other Tales. 

One of those stories simply led me to 1842, the Industrial Revolution, and Scotland. My first novel, historical fiction, somehow morphed into a series with two more novels.

I have learned so much through the last fourteen years about writing -- with much more to learn as I dabble with different genres and the challenges indie writers face. My latest, The Seventh Tapestry, an art crimes mystery, swirls with history and a stolen tapestry. 

All of this leads me back to yesterday afternoon, sitting in the warm afternoon, and sharing the first chapter of the next book. And to tomorrow, the next scene, this time, set in Egypt, where I once touched a pyramid at Giza.

May you be blessed with much good writing and writing friends as we continue to persevere with our craft during pandemic. 

Thank YOU to the co-hosts for this month's post for the Insecure Writer's Study Group: Susan Baury Rouchard, Nancy Gideon, Jennifer Lane, Jennifer Hawes, Chemist Ken, and Chrys Fey!

Weds Post: Back Home Again . . . and Writing!

Something about this pandemic makes me want to hit the road. So, after four and a half months of sheltering-in-place, we traveled south. Drove 7 hours straight to Oregon, only stopping for gas, with our masks in place. A four day escape to visit dear friends from long ago. We sat on their expansive patio as dusk fell, admiring the garden of flowers and the deer who came to browse. Four wonderful days of talking with friends face-to-face. Not on Zoom. Not on FaceTime. Four days without news.

Even on the way home, we could appreciate each change in the landscape, from rolling farm hills, along a sort-of-tunnel road to the Columbia River, then up the east side of Washington home to the high plateau of dry pines and mountains. We appreciated anew our solitude, the birds who visit our tiny patio, and quiet in the morning for writing.

Update for The Seventh Tapestry: The last two months have been challenging as I wrestled with Amazon and Draft2Digital over who had rights to publish my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry. Sales were blocked for a time -- as were reviews. Finally, all the behind-the-scenes issues have been resolved.

Would you like to review The Seventh Tapestry? I would be thrilled if you said yes. Let me know by e-mail to bluebethley@yahoo.com, and I will send you a free copy (e-pub, PDF, or mobi, your choice), and only ask that you post your honest review on two outlets by August 20. Your choice: Amazon, GoodReads, or Barnes & Noble.

Update for latest writing project, The Missing Sarcophagus. Yes, I'm already hard at work on the sequel to The Seventh Tapestry. This new story has Sandra and Neil mired in another missing museum artifact. The setting? Cairo, Egypt, where I was lucky enough to travel not so long ago.

Egyptian Blue Water Lily (Wikipedia)

This morning's research led me to find the lovely and sacred Blue Water Lily, also known as the Blue Lotus, known for its poisonous and mild psychedelic properties. How did that flower get into the welcome bouquet delivered to Sandra and Neil at their hotel, just as they arrive in Cairo?




May you be well, nurturing yourself and all those who need you, saving some time for creativity and to appreciate (even now) the beauty of each day.

IWSG #6 July: The Next Decade????

I've stopped counting days that we've spent staying at home since the pandemic began, for us in early March. We still wear our masks and observe social distancing with family and friends. We're not quite ready to go out to a restaurant or grocery shop. We are in at least one of those vulnerable groups who live cautiously, at least for the immediate future.

So, that's why when IWSG's question came along this month, I kind of groaned.

Optional July 1 question - There have been many industry changes in the last decade, so what are some changes you would like to see happen in the next decade?

How can I look ahead ten years to the 'changes in the industry' when I don't understand truly how I, as a writer, have been affected by the past decade? So I'll start by looking back ten years:

• RESEARCH: I rely so much on the internet for research into historical and other settings. For example, yesterday I watched a YouTube video that took me on a walk through a crowded, open air market in Cairo, Egypt. If I need to understand the psychology of a criminal, Google it.
• WRITING SKILLS: I was an early adopter of technology, back in the 1970s, and I love learning new things. Today, though, I no longer head to the library first or subscribe to writerly magazines. Instead, I leap onto the keyboard, in search of my favorite writing gurus. I subscribe to far too many newsletters and enjoy online writing challenges, including this monthly post for IWSG. OK, I'm privileged with too many devices -- and I can sync them.
• WRITING ITSELF remains pretty much the same. I dream, draw, and freewrite, then outline (somewhat) my way into stories. Sometimes on paper, more often on the computer. I do insert pictures into my drafts (visual writer) to keep me anchored in this story world. I still print out drafts to go over them again and again.
• PUBLISHING. Way back in 2012, my first little self-published book of short stories came out. Four novels later, I remain quite happy to be an older-than-average indie writer. The publishing 'industry' has shrunk; technology keeps changing the 'how,' with competing resources increasing like mama's chickens, Amazon's gifts to indie writers like me still mean access to readers. Who could imagine back then, readers would one day  read my book on their iPhone???
• MARKETING. Aargh. I'd rather be writing. Even traditional publishers ask their writers to do more. But we indie writers have many options that include building our own blogs, setting up readings (just not now), being active in professional associations, and developing a social media profile that is consistent and connected to our readers.

So what's coming in this next decade for writers, up to 2030? 

1. I hope to still be alive and writing -- still an indie writer.
2. Technology will ramp up in ways we cannot imagine, even in just ten more years, so we need to stay 'in the curve' of learning.
3. Who we are will continue to be shaped by events around us. As writers, we may need to be more disciplined to not fall down the rat hole of unending distractions and change. 
4. We have choices. Our passion, commitment, and the stories we write influence others. So, the themes we choose, our heroines and heroes, can influence others. Writers offer more than a reflection of life around us.

Do you remember reading Orwell's 1984?

What writers have you read that changed how you view the world? That challenged your understanding of life's potential?

What books will you write in the coming decade?

Stefan Keller (Pixabay)

The Insecure Writer's Support Group, is led by intrepid and fearless Alex Cavannagh, and with the help of this month's co-hosts: Jenni Enzor, Beth Camp (that's me!), Liesbet @ Roaming About, Tyrean Martinson, and Sandra Cox. The IWSG offers many resources to help and encourage writers at all stages. Why not join in this wonderful community of writers?

And remember our current mantra: Stay safe, wear that mask, and practice safe distancing --- and, perhaps most importantly, cherish each day!

NOTE: I don't normally do this, but since you actually read this far . . . David Gaughran, one of those writing gurus referred to above, just released his 4th edition of Let's Get Digital: How to Self-Publish and Why You Should. It's free as of today (July 1st), so you could check it out 

Kindle freebie through June 29th!

Just a quickie to say you can download Poetry in a Time of Pandemic for free through June 29th.

Here you’ll find poems that may make you laugh, think about places and times far from today's pandemic – from Giza to the Old West, and poems that affirm the beauty of each day.

Share with a friend -- or just enjoy! 

Get your copy on Amazon.

Weds Post: An excerpt for you!

These days of pandemic and protest, I'm never really sure what new tragedy will shake my optimism. Each morning seems to present new challenges. What keeps us hopeful? 

For me, family and friends -- online and nearby -- make the difference, even when we don't agree and especially when we do. That nurturing community keeps me motivated, except when the news is so outrageous, I cannot do anything at all. I feel helpless to bring about any real change and saddened by the grief of families who have lost everything through senseless violence.

I do try to follow a routine of writing every day and have made a commitment to post each Wednesday here. You might have noticed I missed last Wednesday. That's OK. We still have Wednesdays to come.

Today's post is a little gift, an excerpt from my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry. I hope you enjoy -- even as you persevere with challenges in your own life, to be safe, yet involved, to be creative and committed to your own dreams. May the coming month be a good one for us all.

The Seventh Tapestry -- An Excerpt

SANDRA’S OFFICE PHONE chimed, interrupting her study of museum holdings.
     “Director Hadley would like to see you upstairs,” said Margaret. “Now.”
     “I’m on my way.” Sandra rolled the kinks out of her neck and stared at the low-hanging ceiling in her office. She loved working for the Museum of Medieval Art, but she wondered what he wanted. She hotfooted it through the basement employee lounge, closed the door to the tiny, iron-scrolled elevator with a click, and hit the button for the third floor. She tucked her honey-blonde hair behind her ears and wished for the gift of clairvoyance.
     Margaret ushered Sandra into the inner office overlooking an expansive view of Princes Street Gardens below, but Sandra’s attention was on Mr. Hadley, impeccably dressed in a gray suit with matching vest, and his guest. Both rose as she entered.
     “Sandra, please join us. This is Neil McDonnell of Scotland Yard’s Art Crimes Unit. I’ve told him you are relatively new to our Curatorial Affairs department.”
     The tall man next to Mr. Hadley nodded, his face still; his hand reached out to shake hers, firm and warm. Sandra automatically catalogued him: Hair a little long, tall, lanky, sure of himself, well dressed in a casual way, sweater vest and tie with a gray tweed jacket. Perhaps too good looking?
     She sat on the edge of one of the chairs near a settee and waited.
     “Tell us what you think of our main storage area.” Mr. Hadley’s eyes looked bloodshot; his expression not as welcoming as it was on her first day at the museum.
     “The storage area seems adequate, so far.” Sandra paused, not certain what to say.
     “Were you alone in the storage area,” Mr. Hadley glanced at his notes, “on the nights of Tuesday and Thursday last week, after museum hours?”
     “Yes, sir. I was working on my preliminary collections report for Roger, I mean Mr. Ferguson. I was assured I could do so.”
     “And your findings?” Mr. Hadley glanced at the man seated beside him.
     “I’m still working on my report, but . . .”
     “Can we see your findings?” Neil interrupted, his sharp green eyes missing nothing.
     “Yes, of course,” said Sandra. “The report is little more than a list of artifacts and locations just now. I can go downstairs to print them out.”
     Mr. Hadley shook his head. “Tell Margaret the file name. She will print it out for you.”
     Within minutes, Margaret handed out copies of Sandra’s database report.
     “I haven’t finished my review of the first floor storage unit,” Sandra explained.
     Mr. Hadley waved his hand to cut Sandra off. “We can see your progress. Notice this, McDonnell.” He tapped on something in her report. “Do you have any other comment on the Saxon axe hammer than what is here?”
     Sandra shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
     “Was the hammer in Case 24 when you last visited?”
     “Yes, sir.”
     “Ah,” said Neil. “Can you explain why that item is no longer in its case?”
     “What? It’s missing?” Sandra’s stomach lurched. While not a major item in the collection, the hammer was still priceless. But nothing should be missing. “What do the surveillance tapes show?”
     Mr. Hadley and Neil exchanged a glance.
     “The cameras were deactivated,” said Neil.

To be continued . . . in The Seventh Tapestry!

IWSG #5 June: Secrets I Never Wished to Keep

Welcome to June's question of the month from the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Led by Ninja Alex Cavannagh, and with the help of this month's co-hosts, Pat Garcia, J.Q. Rose, and Natalie Aguirre, this group offers resources to help and encourage writers at all stages. Why not join in and build a community of writers?

And this month's question is: Writers have secrets! What are one or two of yours, something readers would never know from your work?

My secret life is very much hidden. Only in recent years, have I begun to talk about my childhood, perhaps to finally heal. Tall, nerdy, quiet, and, yes, with glasses, I tended to stay close to the door of any classroom. Ready to escape.

My favorite mode of escape? Books I chose from the library (fiction of every kind and history). The thickest ones I could find. Two Years before the Mast was a favorite -- which led me to fantasize about running away to sea. Later, much later, I met DH and we pretty much have traveled on every continent, except Asia, Micronesia, and Australia/New Zealand (though that's on the current list).

How would readers know about my childhood? I'm not sure. Perhaps the themes underlying my first four books: abandonment, violence, economic upheaval. In each book, my main characters struggle for survival. Thankfully, I believe in happy endings.

Though I don't easily talk about my childhood, some of the healing has come from writing my memoir. Yes, all the details, though this memoir may never be published. Perhaps I've learned to accept my past.

With my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry, just out May 1st as an e-book, this story takes readers right into a mystery about a theft from a museum set in Edinburgh. Sandra, a curator, and Neil, an art crimes investigator, attempt to retrieve a priceless tapestry with its own history.

This one was so much fun to write with settings in Edinburgh and Paris (and the 15th Century), that I'm already knee-deep in research for Sandra and Neil's next adventures in Egypt and the Pacific Northwest.

That's my update for the month. Even with the coronavirus (Day 86 of staying-at-home), and these latest rounds of protests to call for change following the tragic death of George Floyd, we all need nurturing, compassion, and hope for the future.

Thank you for reading. May you cherish each day.

Here's the LINK.

May 30: Endings and Beginnings

So many days have passed
in quarantine, staying at home,
seeing loved ones well past arms length,
unable to hug, to console, to comfort.
Each 24-hour span brings more death,
more frustration, more willingness for some
to simply let go of wearing masks,
not caring for the risks to others.
My eyes do not want to remember
those crowds bullying their way into a courthouse,
swastikas and guns and MAGA hats,
a protest of a sort that marks only endings,
that doesn't mean anything at all to me.

If I ever grew restive about the singular repetitious
recounting of coronavirus cases and deaths,
I never wished for this:
the death of a man, George Floyd,
at the hands, or I should say knee
of a police officer, honor bound to serve and protect.

Still home, still quarantined, now I watch flames
and crowds of protesters, heartfelt voices raised
against this cruelty, maybe manipulated by some
to violence, now an appalling nightmare
spread across our country that doesn't stop.
This was not the legacy I wished for,
this domestic war between worlds.
How will we create new beginnings,
hope for tomorrow, and trust in those young people
with visions for change.

"Hands" by Jackson David (Pixabay)

Wednesday Update: Covers and Projects, Oh My!

This last week (and the week before), all the news about pandemic has made me feel a little wobbly, like so many others. Luckily, the daily walk up to a nearby pond comforts me. The weather finally is warmer, the birds are out in force, and  red-headed blackbirds and yellow-head blackbirds squabble for space.

This staying-at-home is not for the faint of heart. Some days are more challenging than others, especially as each day brings more distressing news, but we have enough to eat, the hot and cold water works, and so do our computers.

Now that The Seventh Tapestry (an art crimes mystery) and Poetry in a Time of Pandemic are relatively complete, I have a new project. Whenever I feel a little claustrophobic, I can dive into researching Egyptian artifacts, museums, and crime as I follow Sandra and Neil on their next honeymoon-inspired adventure.

Just for fun, I made two covers, even though the final story is most likely two years off. So, which one do YOU like?

A friend suggested that an Egyptian setting might be a setting other writers have already done. Maybe I should consider art crime closer to home, right here in the Pacific Northwest. That's a bit intriguing, and I've already found evidence of amazing thefts where I least expected. I spent some time on Bainbridge Island just west of Seattle when I was a kid, and I still remember digging in the sand there for buried treasures.

Tonight, my daughter said, "Mom, the pandemic isn't over! Where's your poem-a-day?" So, just maybe, I'll find a poem in that morning hour before everyone else is awake.

What about you? What are you doing to keep yourself reasonably happy during these stressful times?

I hope you are well, safe, and able to nourish yourself and those around you. Even if restrictions are easing, consider wearing a mask, please! And cherish each day that brings something that gladdens your heart.  --Beth

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Something beautiful happened this morning.

On its landing page, Google celebrated what would have been Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's 61st birthday with a snippet to his rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

I burst into tears at the beauty of his voice. Part of this may be related to the pandemic. After all, today marks Day 72 for our family, and aren't we all missing so much? And concerned in so many ways for loved ones and those at risk.

But part of my reaction may be that over the last few weeks, I've been struggling with my writing, hampered by too many directions to go, and, additionally, issues with publishing that seem beyond my ability to correct.

Google explains that some of the illustrations used in the video honoring Kamakawiwoʻole are actually kapa, complicated designs that carry meaning far beyond what those of us outside Hawaiian culture can understand. One stood out to me:  "The eye with no fear."

Isn't that what we need to live through these days? To face our own challenges and persevere? And so, I shall dive back into my writing, nurtured by the creativity and beauty that always surrounds us.

Rainbow on Maui, Hawaii (Staxy1 on Pixabay)

Google's video is here: https://9to5google.com/2020/05/19/israel-kamakawiwoole-google-doodle/

May IWSG: Writing Ritual or Routine?

Living in this time of pandemic is hard. I keep thinking of all the people I know who have been affected. We know this litany: lost jobs/income. Serious health issues and sometimes the loss of loved ones. Hellacious conditions for those on the line, health workers and first responders. And some affected more than others.

I don't know about you, but the constant and impassioned nattering of news announcers gets to me. In fact, I mostly read my news now, because I can't handle that emotional overload when I'm already worried about the ones I love and our wider community as we struggle along. Plus, for people in a vulnerable group (that's me, older than dirt), we have to stay home. Yep. Day 56 for me. I've almost mastered ordering groceries online -- and having to wait 8 days before picking them up!

So IWSG's challenge question this month seemed to fit right in. The Insecure Writer's Support Group (IWSG) asks: Do you have any rituals that you use when you need help getting into the ZONE? Care to share?

At first, this self-enforced staying at home (which began for me on February 6), was unsettling. Two somewhat connected strategies help me now write nearly every day.

1. Writing Challenges and resources. Who doesn't love a challenge? April brought National Poetry Month, and Robert Lee Brewer's daily poetry prompts. Just that process of falling into a poem centered me. Add Pixabay's library of visual images, and I was transported far beyond my view of the garages just outside my office window. 

After a morning of writing, I try to hit the e-mails, deleting as fast as I can. But, there are always gems -- those newsletters from writers teaching other writers; their generosity and helpfulness inspire me -- most recently Kate Weiland's discussion of theme and how it shapes all else. Current favorites include: Kate Weiland's Helping Writers Become Authors, Joel Friedlander's The Book Designer, and Anne R. Allen's blog with Ruth Harris. So this kind of reading feeds back into my writing and gets me ready for the next day.

2. Commitment to a writing routine. Just now, NaNoWriMo sends out an occasional e-mail, maybe once a week with a cute graphic offering tips to help writers on their social, physical, and mental well-being -- and writing. Early on in this pandemic, their advice was simply to create a routine. And this led me to make a commitment to what I really want to do -- and to make that goal visible and achievable by breaking it into smaller steps.  

As Kristin Lamb says, 

“Wash, rinse, repeat for writing success. 

Just write those 500 words every day!”

Part of my ritual in getting ready to write is to open up my file called May Daily Work which sets goals for the month (easily modified). Here, I track and update my musings about and progress each day in about three categories (writing projects, marketing, and other). Each category lists between 3-7 specific tasks. I may not finish them all each day, but they're present and ready for tomorrow. And so am I.

Maybe IWSG was looking for something a bit more quirky? Like that 18th Century poet who was inspired by the smell of rotting apples kept in his writing desk?  Let's be inspired, by routine and/or ritual!

Image by John Hain, Pixabay

Why not visit IWSG's HOME PAGE at www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com to see what others have written — and to thank this month’s hosts: Feather Stone, Beverly Stowe McClure, Mary Aalgaard, Kim Lajevardi, and Chemist Ken!  And make it a good week ahead. Stay home. Stay safe. Cherish yourself and those you care about.

Seventh Tapestry Cover Reveal!

In the midst of pandemic, we can celebrate some things, yes?

Just finished The Seventh Tapestry, after a mountain of formatting and nudging into final format. And it's now live -- and wide!

This romantic suspense novel was fun to write as I followed Sandra's efforts to find a 16th Century tapestry from Edinburgh to Paris. Did she find the tapestry and a sweetheart along the way?

Didn't Angie Zambrano do a great job on the cover?

There's a bit of the story behind the cover.

Back in 2004, Allen and I spent about a month in Paris. One of our favorite places to visit was the Cluny Museum, or the National Museum of the Middle Ages, home of the very famous 'the lady and the unicorn' tapestries. I was so intrigued by the story behind these tapestries, woven sometime in the early 1500's. They were lost and not discovered until 1841. Not until two years ago, did I begin my own story of a seventh tapestry.

At first, I wanted a picture of one of those very famous tapestries on the cover of my new story, but the Museum has imposed commercial restrictions.

What did I have for my cover? A beautiful pillow we found at Stirling Castle, once the home of James V, a ruler who loved tapestries and unicorns.

Why not go and take a look on Amazon (paperback) or (ebook). And let me know what you think!

Meanwhile, the sun is shining outside, and the temperature's getting a little warmer. Maybe it's time for a walk? Stay well, keep your mask handy, and cherish each day.

April 30: Two Littles

She reads to her sister now,
bedtime stories, and then,
they cuddle through the night.
In the morning, she'll tell
stories. They'll hide
in the closet for a meeting
to plan out their day,
little one following big one
to chase around and around
in the kitchen,
climb on the roof, or
take turns petting that kitty
named Cupcake.
I do remember those endless days
marked only by
a yellow school bus,
stories told before bedtime,
heartfelt hopes
the parks will open, and
summer will come.

Childhood by jyliagorbachevya (Pixabay)

Today's prompt, the last one for National Poetry Month, comes from Robert Lee Brewer, who challenges us to write a praise poem. But, this morning, I'm missing the grandchildren who give freely such big hugs and run as fast as they can, being nearly eight and five, into their next adventure. Even in quarantine, with only virtual hugs, they spread love.

April 29: Blank?

Maybe no writing
of a poem today, for the prompt
goes sideways: 'total blank,'
and that's what I am, pulled like taffy
stretched too thin
in that shop on the boardwalk,
the ocean outside, relentless
in the early spring afternoon.

I keep hoping for inspiration,
wanting to take that unexpected leap
into what? A total blank?

Where does art hide
when we wish it to smooth
those rough edges?
Don't call her a flighty muse,
for I have seen her
at work, healing my soul.

"Vintage" by ArtsyBee on Pixabay

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer is simply write to a poem about a 'total blank.' Unfortunately, that's how the day has gone. At least I can rely on the visual inspiration of photos from Pixabay, and I did get the laundry done.

April 28: Look Back or Don't Look Back

Today I picked up a 20-pound bag of rice.
Wore a mask inside the store.
Didn't stop for a latte.
Felt like I was preparing for Armageddon.
Don't look back.

Two months ago, grocery shopping,
a sensual delight. Marmalade made
of bitter oranges from Seville.
Artisan breads reek of rosemary
or garlic. Fresh bananas and sushi:
let me count the ways
I will cook for you.
Oh, look back.

I pace my apartment, ready to fall
into my computer, far from
these four rooms and yet, at home,
books, quilting, the next writing projects,
friends a click away . . . zoom!
Cooking ever a challenge: Where
did those eggs go? What can I make
with the last can of black beans?
Maybe I'll water a few struggling house plants;
today's sunny outside on Day 50
of stay-at-home. Birds
scrabble after seed in the feeder,
freshly full, and my love sleeps.
Don't look back.

Finch by 272477 at (Pixabay)

Today's prompt for National Poetry Month comes from Robert Lee Brewer who asks us to respond to this prompt: 'look back' or 'don't look back.' I couldn't help it. I chose both, for these days, aren't we all poised between looking back to what once was and, somehow, not wanting to look back?

So, I'm sending wishes to you all, whether at home or not, that you stay healthy, close to family and friends, and as we move into an uncertain future, stay brave.

April 27: The path ahead

Path in the Woods by Aitoff (Pixabay)

Sometimes the path ahead is dark.
We can't help ourselves.
We go forward, hoping
that bit of light will lift
this massive sense of foreboding,
the walls closing,
too many loud noises, too much clatter,
virtual and otherwise, lists and maps
show where and when and who,
too much death, too much crime,
even dropping a knife on the kitchen floor
is an omen. 'Nevermore,' the raven calls,
a murder of crows gathers on the front lawn,
unexpectedly, a bear lifts his head to sniff
before crossing a city street.
We all wait and watch, perched by our windows.
Spring rain falls, and we hope for some sweet glimpse
of tomorrow, maybe the past deconstructed,
reconstructed anew, and when
we least expect a glimpse of hope,
someone begins to sing.

Jonny West, last night on American Idol, simply sang, "What a Wonderful World." This morning's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asked writers to write a poem about something massive. I kept thinking of Jonny West and his simple, direct affirmation. Let it be.




.

April 26: Lessons from an Elephant

I'd rather be third
in a line of elephants
ambling somewhere
in that endless, grassy savanna,
or the next wet wadi
where I could roll in the warm mud
and not think about change.

Something about elephants
makes me calm.
Their eyes aslant,
their bodies slow to move,
their ears flutter and
their trunks wave
in a language of touch,
close to their companions or
to herd that little one.

I saw an elephant in Tanzania strip bark
from a tree with his expressive trunk
and lift his head to trumpet a warning.
They twist and rip grasses
from the land, as they follow each other,
a measured pace, close together
for protection, undulating across the land.

Never underestimate the creativity
or change that hunger brings.
In times of drought, those tusks
can dig the earth to find water.
Female elephants don't discriminate:
they mother any baby in their herd.
We could learn much from elephants,
though I'd rather not weigh up to ten tons.

"Elephants" by Alex Strachan (Pixabay)

Today's prompt for National Poetry Month comes from Robert Lee Brewer who challenges us to write a poem about change or not-change. I wasn't sure what to write about until I found this photo by Alex Strachan, an image that took me far away from staying-at-home and our world of coronavirus. I'm wondering what animals appeal to you just now and why?

April 25: The Tenth Muse

Did Sappho write every day,
fret over words that clung
in strands of clumps,
and stare within?

She was an island girl, living in a Mediterranean clime,
blue skies and blue seas. She ran wild like any other girl
with violet hair, along a ridge path, taking care of sheep,
looking out to sea.

One day, she turned to pen. Who knows
what drove her then, what night of terror, what loss,
what inner music; only fragments remain
that soar and soar.

Around her, others went about their work,
made bread, sewed clothes, or directed slaves,
for Greece was then a democracy
for the very few.

Perhaps a slave caught her eye, some tragedy,
some loss. Perhaps her mother died,
her lover sailed away, her family scattered,
and she alone.

So, in the mornings, when the light came,
this tenth muse began to write,
her words a music of their own, still lost,
still inspiring us all.

Sappho of Eresos (Wikipedia)

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a remix poem, that is to take a poem from long ago and shake it up entirely. So here's a new version of a poem written in 2009, a musing about Sappho who lived on an island of women long ago (about 630-570 BC). She wrote poetry meant to be sung with a lyre. and invented a poetic form (3 longer lines, followed by a shorter line), which I have tried to follow.

Sappho may have written as many as 10,000 lines, but only fragments remain. One such fragment: “Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us.”

April 24: My Cowboy

My grandfather was a cowboy,
back in the 1920's, just before
World War I. He used to entertain us,
as we sat around the campfire,
poking at the logs, with stories
of his life then, bears and wolves,
rattlers and mean snakes of men
who took a shot at him.
He made cowboy coffee so strong
it would curl your teeth,
and a cornbread pudding that lay
on your tongue like a promise
of Christmas. He'd wake us girls
up in the morning,
stick his head in our bedroom door,
"You gonna' let the sun burn a hole in you?"
He taught me how to shoot,
even if I was a girl and nearly
shot my foot off in the process.
He dared me to shoot a rabbit we spied,
far off on another ridge.
Guess he thought I couldn't hit it.
I did. Later, I borrowed money from him
when I went away to college.
Paid him back too. What did he say?
"You didn't have to do that.
Nobody else paid me back."
I guess even now, telling stories
about my grandfather nurtures me,
like half-remembered lessons
that led me here, to be with you,
safe, loved, and happy.

Frank Henry, about 1920

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write  poem about nature -- or nurture. Who knows exactly how a poem/story begins. I was thinking how much we need nurture now and remembering times I'd watch certain animals, elephants or gorillas, and how they constantly touch each other and hug each other, in a reassuring way. Truly, what is it that nurtures us -- even when we are alone?

By the way, that cornbread pudding can be sweet or a little spicy, depending on how you mix up the ingredients. Out on the trail, and sometimes at home, the taste depends on what you have on hand. Here's one recipe to try, if you like.

April 23: Social?

My socks say it all
'cause all
I want to do
is take my socks off,
run barefooted
in the green spring grass,
lay on a picnic blanket
under the pines, and
watch the sun flicker
between spring clouds,
while kids shriek and
run after a soccer ball.
Yes, I want it all,
even a cat.

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write a poem about some aspect of social, as in the 'social blank' (and fill in that blank. Busy today with proofreading, I nearly didn't write a poem today until I went sideways, inspired by my new socks, comfortable in front of the computer, but truly wishing we could ALL go outside. For real. I'm not anywhere near protesting, but . . . I can fantasize that soon our quarantine will end. Maybe in another six weeks or so. Meanwhile, I'll cuddle up next to my computer -- and work away!

April 22: Quirky?

Writers are supposed to have their quirks.
I know one who kept apples in his desk,
breathing in the scent as inspiration.
Not me. My quirks are simple,
switch the hat from morning writer
to afternoon editor and formatter.
Think about it: Two hours to
insert headers and footers
in a 55,000 word novel.
Who could be inspired by that?
But once the task is done,
I can move on. Since my books
take a luxurious two to three years
to write, well, smile with me.
Once this puppy is out the door,
I can switch the hat back
to morning writer
for many days to come.

Writer by Angela Yuriko Smith (Pixabay)

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer asks us to explore a quirk we may have -- or that someone else may have. The famous writer referred to above was 18th Century German poet Fredreich Schiller; he literally did keep those apples rotting in his desk as he wrote. I truly can't imagine doing that, though a nearby cup of coffee with lots of milk or hot tea sounds good.

You know which hat I was wearing when this poem came along? After all, it's afternoon, but I truly did finish two monumentally difficult formatting tasks today! Hooray!

Have a wonderful day. It's raining just now, but afternoon movies or a nice read await. Enjoy the quiet.

April 21: Tribute to a Soddy

"Come with me," he said.
"We'll move out to the Great Plains.
We'll have our own place,
a long way from all this."

She said yes. They bundled up
their belongings, and,
carrying what they could,
walked west,
too poor to take a train.
They hitched a ride,
filed papers in Lincoln, Nebraska,
grateful for the Homestead Act of 1862
and 160 acres.

By then, she was pregnant.
He built her a soddy out there,
dirt floor, sod blocks for walls,
one window to look out
at the stretch of endless, rolling grasslands,
coveted by ranchers.
"We have to stay five years,"
he said, dirt ingrained in his hands.
"Five years, the wheat will grow.
We'll be all right."

Remember those men and women
of the plains, and their sod cabins.
Many didn't know how to farm,
there were failures,
and then the cattle came.
But some persevered, facing
isolation and years of work
for a dream of something better.

A sod house, called a soddy (Wikipedia)

Great Plains near Lincoln, Nebraska (Wikipedia)

Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompts for National Poetry Month always take me someplace unexpected. Today's prompt (influenced by our current preoccupation with coronavirus), asked writers to write a love poem or an anti-love poem.

My poem began when I thought it must take more than love to follow your man out to the Great Plains and live in a soddy. When I went looking for images, I found this lovely photo of a sod house and another of the Great Plains -- near Lincoln, Nebraska, where my grandfather once lived. He was a cowboy.

April 20: Isolation

Long after you resume
the coming and going freely,
that swirl of errands
and work and children,
my grandchildren,
I shall remain at home,
isolated,
a member of that compromised group,
one who has lived too long,
perhaps with nothing to contribute
to that bustling world,
like butterflies that pass before me,
I see, but I cannot touch.
I feel, but I cannot speak.

Free Photos at Pixabay

TODAY'S PROMPT from Robert Lee Brewer at Writer's Digest focuses in on the effects of the coronavirus, that daily reminder that life has irrevocably changed, affecting us all in ways large and small. 

How do we confront each day? Some days, we comfort ourselves with routine, checking off that to-do list, and taking a daily walk. We can exhaust ourselves to sleep by binge watching TV, or reading, or making phone calls to loved ones, enhanced by FaceTime or Zoom, still missing the physicality of hugging our loved ones. 

The chaotic frenzy of 'breaking news' -- each broadcaster more intense than the last -- makes me want to get insanely drunk. In a loud bar. With a sports channel screened overhead (soccer, maybe something more physical, football?). Trump's assertion that the coronavirus can simply 'wash' over the country infuriates me. We have over 40,000 dead in the United States today. We may have plateaued, but that's the size of a small city. So many lives and dreams lost.

Yes, I embrace isolation -- no sharing of germs. But I still look forward to that day my extended family will gather together at dinner, or I can quilt with sewing friends, or I can walk at the park with my grandchildren, my only fears for them, a scraped knee.

April 19: A word or two from Shakespeare

If I were to resolve

that moment when

an embrace became a bump,

leaving me lonely, 

howling against the dark, dark night,

then I would be Shakespeare,

a fixture on the stage, pacing

back and forth, mourning 

that damned spot,

and crying, "Out! Out!"

Shakespeare by JJ Jordon (Pixabay)

Not every thought is sun-filled on Day 48 of quarantine. Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer of Writer's Digest fame (and celebrating that commitment to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month), asks us to write a poem around six words that Shakespeare invented:  Resolve, bump, embrace, fixture, howl, and lonely. The result is a little dark, for I haven't read Shakespeare in decades. But I do remember the shock of Lady MacBeth (not a namesake).

Tomorrow begins 9 days of free Kindle books. Starting Monday, April 20 through April 22, you may download the Kindle version of Standing Stones for free. Partly as a thank you for reading my blog, partly to celebrate the almost here release of my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry, and partly to offer another reading respite from this quarantine. Share the link!

April 18: A Polite Pineapple

If every word or action
could be decoded, we introverts,
happily quiet in these days of quarantine,
would wish for pineapples
to give those friends who
yet stop by.

For long ago, when travelers came to
plantations by coach,
and visits were measured
by weeks and months,
each morning, a fresh pineapple
would appear in the visitor's room,
perfectly sliced, juicy
and with a silver spoon.

Until that morning when
two pineapples arrived:
One to enjoy this morning
and one for the road.

"Pineapple" by ssenjakelabu (Pixabay)

Today's poetry prompt from Writer's Digest poet Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asks us to write a poem about a message, perhaps the message itself, how it was received, or what ever came to mind. This prompt reminded me of summer driving trips through the southern United States, where each plantation featured pineapples carved on the gateposts. I'm thinking now of a fruit salad for supper. No fresh bananas. No pineapple.

April 17: On Visiting Giza

I have stood on the banks of the Nile
and stared into the eyes of the Sphinx,
wandered between the tumbled small pyramids
of the three queens, and watched the sun
change the colors of the three great pyramids:
Cheops, Khafre, Menkaure.
They all hoped for that divine sleep
that closed their eyes,
but kept their souls alive.
Each gold-framed jewel, each sarcophagus,
each mural painting, each ritual prayer,
a great preparation. The ka/soul
now wanders lost without its body,
their mummies now carted off to museums
for public display. All three tried to buy insurance –
Cheops had four solar boats to ferry his soul to the next life,
Tut’s three sarcophagi intended to hold and protect
his mummified remains, the innermost one of solid gold.
Oh, how the pyramids at Giza cry out for respect,
The most solemn prayers warn intruders away.
The size of the pyramids, a competition,
Each larger than the last, each one saying
Pick me! Pick me!
The grave robbers came almost before
the painted seals were dry, almost before
the closing rituals were complete,
before the concubine’s tears had dried.

Tourists wander this large complex,
ready with cameras to catch images of themselves,
standing in front of the Sphinx,
the ‘Horus of the Rising Sun,’
guardian at one with pharaohs and the gods.
Tourists line up to buy a memory of this moment:
postcards, a tabletop pyramid, calendars,
a bust of Nefertiti or Alexander the Great,
an Egyptian flute, its melody in minor key.
They line up to ride the Bedouin camels,

gaily decorated with tapestries 

of green, red, and yellow yarns.
All this – even the tourist buses
which pull up in a great flurry of dust,
all this seems dwarfed by simple reality:
I sit on a giant stone block next to
Khafre’s temple. The nearby causeway, still flat,
reaches down to the Sphinx, the clouds
shift above the three great pyramids.
Even my tears dry in the wind
as black-hooded falcons fly, and
camels race awkwardly, their unshod feet smack
the pavement, and their drivers’ cries echo.

Pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure, Giza

The Sphinx at Giza

At the base of a pyramid, Giza

Today's poetry prompt from Writer's Digest poet Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asks us to write -- an exotic poem. This could lead in so many directions. I chose to travel back in memory, to that wonderful month spent in Egypt doing research, when all seemed possible. This week, I'm starting a new writing project, a story set in Egypt, where once I saw the black-hooded falcons fly.