#11 Where did 'determined' come from?

Fight or flight never meant much to me.
Sometimes you stand and take it.
Sometimes you run.
They can't hit you if you keep moving.

Just maybe there's a happy-ever-after
in the week or year ahead.
More likely, someone will tease you
for wearing a sweater with holes.
I practiced being invisible
sitting in the back row, hiding 
behind glasses,
but they still saw me.
I was lucky I was tall.

Now folks say I have an unforgiving nature,
the old two strikes, blah, blah.
Don't push. 
I'm getting out.
Just call me feisty
and determined.

Dressed up and determined.

Writing a poem a day for October seems to happen either early in the morning or late at night. Today's dark little poem comes in response to the prompt from Poets on the Page for OctPoWriMo. The prompt began with a quote from Douglas Macarthur, "Life is a lively process of becoming." Explore your relationship to one of these words: lively, spirited, gutsy, determined, feisty, zealous. And the first line just popped out. 

Why not go see what others have written HERE? We up to nearly 80 poetry writers! Surely someone had a happier vision?

#10: Heritage unfolded . . .

I have an undated photograph
of my grandmother, Carolyn Mable Johnson,
taken when she was about 8 years old.
She sits scowling on a cane-backed chair 
between her mother and father, but 
the names don't match.

Her mother, Clara Mary Linthicum,
a dark-haired beauty just sixteen,
lounges on a hammock;
her father sits in full uniform, not quite at ease.
Walter Thomas Franklin,
served as a soldier at Fort Reno, Oklahoma. 

So why is my grandmother's birth name Johnson
and not Franklin?
The photo taken sometime in the early 1900's 
shows his mother, a spare woman, 
her mouth a straight line. 

Maybe someday I'll resolve the mystery
of these people sitting on this porch. 
Was my great-grandmother part Cheyenne?
And his mother named Caroline Missouri,
another mystery not even the internet
can resolve.

Click to see a larger size

I actually got a little genealogy research done with today's post. Not quite a poem, but maybe a reflection about family and questions that cannot be resolved.

#9 Discouraging debate?

Sorry.
No poetry tonight.
I should have written
this morning and not waited 
until after the debate.
Sigh.
I admire my candidate's hopeful visions,
but why does everyone have to interrupt?
Even the commentators yell at each other,
as if raising their voices brings insight.
Bullying is now part of the democratic process?
I have little to offer, except
this is not my American Dream.

Fall Pond by Jeffrey Stemshorn

#8: Freaked out . . .

Are we on a journey,

turning left instead of right,

talking instead of listening,

waiting and waiting

for just the right porous moment

to spill our hearts onto the page?

Sometimes in the morning,

I'll find a poem

nestled like a starling in some

incongruous place,

unloved, humble,

yet raucous and so hungry.

These fledglings scrounge for seed, 

rather like a writer

with too many words,

too many stories,

and not enough poetry.

Today's OctPoWriMo poetry prompt was a little hard to dive into -- simply the word "porous." So I went online at random to find PoetryPrompts and this enchanting picture -- which then reminded me of those mental journeys we take when we write. Don't ask how I found this poem. It's a mystery! 

"Freaked Out" at Poetry Prompts

You might find Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompts at Writer's Digest useful. For now, why not read what other OctPoWriMo writers have written HERE?

#7: Another Tasty Treat . . .

Venus Verticordia - Dante Gabriel Rossetti- 1866

Maybe because I grew up fast and hungry,
I attack food as if someone
were going to take it away from me.
Don't come too close at supper time.  
I keep my arms curled around my plate,
and my knife ready.

Have a tasty treat, the old woman said;
she was no Aphrodite, but she offered me an apple. 
My teeth broke the red skin with that first bite, 
the apple juices a jolt of rapture 
roiling on my tongue,
then that little death, a drugged sleep.

No Snow White, no happy munchkins
lining up, far shorter than me,
for a supper that doesn't quite spread
to feed so many. 

Where is that old woman
with her red, red apples?
I could use a little deception
or a nap.

I don't really know where this poem came from today. I sometimes wish my writing didn't have a dark twist, that I could easily write happily-ever-after stories, but today's prompt, "tasty" should play into some good memories, for I love to eat. I've eaten chicken toes in Canada, fried grasshoppers in Turkey, and an unforgettable Brazilian stew of beans called feijoada. But why not turn to myth, Snow White and Aphrodite, or even that famous apple that some say was a tasty treat for Adam and Eve.

Meanwhile, are you writing a poem a day for October's  OctPoWriMo, a poetry challenge sponsored by Poets on the Page? Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today.

#6: Tantalizing . . .

The Pap Lady by Charis Tsevis

So it begins: We women
have our own routine as we prepare
for the day. Yet, we tantalize
as we infuse each act with beauty.
From such small moments,
we shape the world for our children
and our lovers. Maybe
we take scraps from between
to make something of beauty
out of ourselves,
for ourselves
and those we love. 


Today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, that challenge to write a poem a day, asks us to explore the meaning of "tantalizing." 

Late last night, a quilting friend posted the amazing work of Charis Tsevis on Facebook. Tsevis, a Greek artist, uses small squares to create the most 'tantalizing' and stunning prints that look as if they have been quilted. He recently created a series of prints for the American house at the 2016 Olympics. See more of his work HERE.

So what is tantalizing about his work? I thought it had been quilted, and I thought a woman created this image. Surprise. As a quilter, I was first drawn to the creativity of color and design shown in Charis Tsevis' prints. But to write this poem, the woman herself and her beauty in daily routine became the focus. Tsevis' work is shown online; I've written for permission to use it here.

Meanwhile, are you writing a poem a day for OctPoWriMo? Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today. And now I don't know whether to write or quilt!

#5: Look Sharp

"Look sharp," my grandfather used to say
when he took me hiking.
His arthritic fingers tracked the horizon,
the color of the sky,
pointing out shifts in wind and cloud,
insignificant specks of gray 
that foretold storms. 
"People don't watch the weather 
nowadays," he said. I agreed. 
Why did we have to? I was no farmer,
no hunter. I did not fear storms.

Once, we huddled in the hallway 
while the television blared: Take cover! 
At the same time, a tornado passed overhead. 
Thump, thump, thump,
the sound indelible.
I could taste my fear.
Would we be that random
family, house and possessions 
strewn about in the yard, a morass of lumber
and disbelief, shocked to be alive, 
weeping into loss?

We drove through a tornado once, my husband and I,
the sky filled with that awful round swirling gray cloud,
cars pulled by the side of the road next to trees,
as if that would protect them
from the howling wind.
Our car lifted from the road now and then,
but we made it through the storm.

I have no lessons today.
Storms of many kinds pass with little grace
as relentless as seasons.
But I remember hiking with my grandfather, 
his stories of cowboy days, 
wild horses, rattlesnakes, rodeo,
singing in bars with his guitar during the Great Depression,
the one who taught me to see the sky.

Today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, that challenge to write a poem a day, asks us to explore the meaning of "sharp." I wasn't sure how to find my way into a poem until I remembered hiking with my grandfather, his connection with nature, and how he watched the sky. 

The photo is one I took through our car's windshield back in 2007 as we traveled through Minnesota. My husband and I drove through that storm, the circling cloud filled the whole sky, and the car actually did lift from the road a few times. We drove until we found a motel in a small town miles from the passing storm. That night I dreamed of being tossed through the storm cloud. 

These powerful, violent storms, some hard-to-understand result of geography, wind, and temperature, leave devastation behind, impossible to understand. We watch with concern as we wait for news about Hurricane Matthew, a Category 4 storm now making its way through the Carribean toward the east coast of Florida. Flooding. Wind damage. Displaced thousands and thousands of people. I'm hoping the storm will turn East and dissipate out in the Atlantic.

Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today. Why not just join in.

#4: Purple Home

I can see these mountains,

the Santa Catalinas,

from my sister's backyard near Tucson.

They promise coolness in the summer,

In the morning, my spirit

reaches out to possibility,

purple rapture,

the scent of mesquite,

the chirp-chirp of cactus wrens,

my writing notebook open.

Today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, that challenge to write a poem a day, asks us to simply write a poem about the color purple, some memory or reaction. The poem began with a photo by Jeffrey Stemshorn of my sister's back yard.

Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today, or why not just join in.

#3: Glitter Day

Everything to enchant us: 
glitter crown, fuzzy gloves, 
pink chiffon, tennis shoes
splashed with sprinkles, a parade
of politicians, trumpets, and high-stepping
high-school bands. 
At the end of the day, we gather
to watch exploding sparkles 
fill the night sky.

Not one word of soldiers,
Paul Revere's ride through the dark night,
the distrust of neighbors who might be Tory
or Patriot, or those through the years
who have served our country,
those who have voted, those who chose
not to vote, and those
who could not vote at all.

We share this imperfect union,
this fragile democracy;
sometimes a blaze of glittering generalities,
but still free speech
and fierce patriotism,
respect, honor, sacrifice,
commitment to ideals that shine
like fireflies in the night.


Today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, that challenge to write a poem a day, asks us to write about some aspect of -- glitter. Today was a very full day. The poem began with this picture of Leda, July 4, 2016.

Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today, or why not just join in.

#2: The Blank Page . . .

The blank page,
now the blank screen,
is rather like the sky at dawn,
that gray-blue with hints of sunlight 
at the horizon that spills into morning.
Possibilities, endless, really
a matter of choice,
first, one word,
the next and
the next,
to build meaning, a connection, some
sense of order out of chaos,
some way of making
sense of this day,
this precious
life.

Today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, that challenge to write a poem a day, asks us to consider the void, what happens when we writers cannot write. I'm not sure I have a response other than to say when the writing becomes more difficult, the words hidden, I try to persevere. Poetry is like an embellishment for me. Stories tell the whole through characters and conflict; poetry turns a word, helping me dive into meaning.

Click HERE to read what some 70 poets have written today, or join in. Write a poem in response to the prompt or just leap into the void. Celebrate the creative spirit!

Picture: Lake Chelan (September 2016).

IWSG: From Eggbeater to Writing Focus

I'm feeling a little like I'm caught in an egg beater these days. Each week, I set goals and struggle to stay current. My volunteer projects keep growing. Despite getting up early, my writing time gets pushed to the side of my rather crowded desk. And so I circle around, wondering how I can make progress at all on my writing.

And then I opened this week's e-mail from Lorna Faith to find her blog post, "3 Enemies of Productivity for Writers." 

Alas, all three 'enemies' rang true for me, but Lorna offers strategies to face down each challenge:

1) Minimize uncertainty about what comes next by ending each writing session with a short note to yourself about what you will work on in your next writing session. This could be research, drafting back story, or writing dialogue, or tightening the plot. Creating a focus makes it easier to slide into work mode.

2) Sidestep procrastination by changing your inner dialogue. Instead of saying, “I only have 30 minutes, so I can’t do any real writing now.” Say: “I have 30 minutes. What can I get done?”

3) Avoid being overwhelmed by breaking a large (and intimidating!) task into smaller steps. This classic project management strategy is always helpful -- when I remember to use it.

And so I thank the Insecure Writer's Support Group that asks participating writers to talk about what they find most challenging about their writing this month. Tomorrow morning, I will begin again.

Afternoon walk (October 2016)

#1: Sometimes Fall Begins . . .

Sometimes fall begins

as just another summer day,

endless promise.

Come walk in the park,

to see the first leaves turn to red. 

We'll rest by the pond

where Canada geese settle,

before flying south,

snow birds.

OctPoWriMo begins on October 1st, with participants writing a poem a day throughout the month. Why not join in? Morgan Dragonwillow and Amy Phelps McGrath will lead our way in this fifth year of celebrating poetry. I can't promise more than snippets this year . . . my goal to finish final edits on Rivers of Stone before the New Year looms large. Click HERE to see what others have wrritten.

Photo: Manito Park, Spokane, 2016.

IWSG: Summer Surprise

Whenever writers are deep into a project, doubts can surface. Luckily, we have many resources that can help to motivate us to recenter our purpose and faith, to sharpen our analytical skills, and to persevere.

Last month, I celebrated finishing that first real draft of Rivers of Stone. Rereading this draft, though, was not a celebration. The middle section sagged for it needed to cover four years. 

I could fudge the dates, but in historical fiction, real dates matter. Especially if the story pulls in characters based on persons who actually lived in that specific time. So while a four-year gap may not matter in worlds that are entirely made up, a historical setting changes the game. 

First I asked was this section really essential to the story itself, my character's development, and the resolution of issues and themes throughout. 

Next I acknowledged the time and work that this additional planning, research, writing, rewriting, and editing will involve. I let go of deadlines. Writing my novel is not really a linear process, say like making bread, the steps sharply defined beginning, middle, and end.

On the positive side, what's next is very clear. This pantser, someone who writes and discovers the story as it unfolds, is going back to work to tell the rest of the story.

Today's post, a part of a monthly commitment to the Insecure Writer's Study Group (IWSG), will hopefully encourage other writers to persevere. Maybe those who like to read will come away with a sense of what goes in to writing and finishing a story -- at least for one writer. 

Stop by to read what other IWSG writers have posted HERE -- and enjoy the diversity and celebration we writers are sharing.

IWSG: About community

Today, August 1st, is our anniversary. About 41 years ago, Allen and I began our adventure together. I look back and think we were impossibly young and didn't know the challenges that lay ahead. He wrote stories; I wrote poetry. He believes in me and gives me the courage and sense of security to simply write. 

He always says that writing is not an activity that requires a community. He's that kind of writer who reflects and writes very slowly, one word at a time, and he tells beautiful stories. In public, he's charismatic, putting on the public face of an entertainer. But he prefers the life of a hermit. I know other writers like this.

Allen and me, Los Angeles, 1975

When I write, I'm rather a sprinter. Gosh, look at those fingers fly over the keyboard. I write and revise, loop back and revise again, a rather circular process until the story sings. In public, I'm shy. My persona is rather that of a manager and teacher, charged up to get things done. I love working with others, even committees, that sense of accomplishment when I can help motivate folks to get things done, whether at work or through volunteerism. But I also prefer the quiet life at home, surrounded by books (increasingly Kindle-based) and close to my computer.

Enter the internet. For the internet has brought me a wonderful sense of connectedness to other writers. My current favorite groups include the Facebook group Ten Minute Novelists, because this group of hard-working writers focuses on craft, just like the Insecure Writers' Support Group. 

Online writing groups, like our group, the Insecure Writers Support Group, the Internet Writing Workshop, and the challenge-based community of NaNoWriMo (I'm a first time camper at Camp Nanowrimo this year), and even Google+ introduce me to other writers and help me dig more deeply into the craft of writing.

Although I'm not very good at writing my own promised quarterly author's newsletter, I subscribe to any number of writers who send out frequent e-mails full of insights about writing. Perhaps too many, for my inbox is typically full. I tell myself I'll catch up tomorrow.

And that's my lament for today's post for the Insecure Writers Support Group. How many tomorrows will there be? 

Both Allen and I are now in our seventies, older than average writers. My ideas for future writing projects stretch out to infinity. Do I have regrets for all those years I worked for corporations and in academia and wrote poetry and short stories in snatches? No. Mostly not. For I did not have the courage to simply let go of that worry: Who will pay the rent? How will we eat if I do not work at a job that has a regular paycheck?

But since retiring just eight years ago, I've been writing. Each book I finish is a celebration. Those issues I care about -- a sense of history, how the human spirit survives despite obstacles -- are embedded in my stories. 

Later this morning, we'll leave on our first trip since March. We're driving up to the mountains near Colville to explore that territory that fur traders once took for granted. A man-made lake now covers what was once an early Hudson's Bay Company fort, but the mountains remain.  

Meanwhile, whether you prefer to write alone or write somewhat connected to others, I challenge you to write those stories that are closest to your heart.  

And why not visit a few other writers who are a part of this monthly check-in for the Insecure Writers Support Group.

On memory and revising . . . one scene.

Frank E. Henry, c. 1920

So many times I think of my grandfather as I write. I was the oldest girl, tall and awkward. He took me out hunting, talking softly of the tracks we spotted and teaching me how to walk in the woods. 

Neither of us would guess how his memory walks with me even today.

I thought of my grandfather today as I wrote and revised this passage from Rivers of Stone, a story about Catriona (Cat), a young girl disguised as a boy, who works for the Hudson's Bay Company in mid-19th Century Canada.

-----

    Jacob was awake when Cat and Kitchi returned to camp, carrying five snow geese, skinned and with the bones removed. Kitchi squatted by the fire, Cat beside him. He showed Cat how to wrap the flesh of the birds over branches. He staked the birds over the fire to roast, taking particular care with the liver.

    “You could have taken me with,” said Jacob.

    “Maybe next time,” said Kitchi. “You were sleeping.” He used his knife to saw off a piece of the partly cooked liver. “You want some?”

    Jacob shook his head. “I’ll come back when the bird’s cooked. I don’t eat no blood.”

    Kitchi smiled and ate the liver. “Good.” He turned to Cat and lowered his voice. “Eat light if you have to. Better to not eat at all. That way, your body listens for danger.” He tipped his head at Jacob now walking back to Stores. “Be careful with that one.”

-----

Now this is only a few paragraphs, so you might wonder how much time went into revising this passage?

I wanted to doublecheck a few things, most important how to cook the birds. One way is to roast the bird in a hole, dug into the earth and with coals on top. My grandfather taught me how to spit the birds and cook them more quickly over an open fire.

But then I found background on native culture that reinforced my idea that nothing goes to waste. These people are too hungry. Another article suggests that before hunting, warriors would not eat at all, partly a spiritual preparation and partly to ensure the body stayed at full alert.

As I wrote, I remembered an incident with a beloved native poet, Tim Bowman, now long gone. Tim had invited me to talk with a group after a reading. I hovered on the outside of the group. He finally said, "Beth, come join us. Didn't you see me tip my head?" Such signals replace speech, but I would have to know that. Being outside native culture, I had waited. 

My other research about native culture suggests that all that is known is not shared outside the community. My hope is to not overly romanticize what I do not know.

And that's this week's report on the revising. My goal is still to finish the edits/revisions by the end of the year. May your own projects go well.

Revision and more revision . . . Barn Owls or Cougars?

This month, I'm working on the first real read through of Rivers of Stone. I wish I could report that each day is relatively the same as before, but some sections require deep revision and other days additional research. Yesterday's challenge was to accurately report Cat's dream and hint at her fear of abandonment.

My first draft had her dreaming of the scream of a mountain lion. Preliminary research suggests there may have been some mountain lions (cougars) in the rolling pine forests and swampy marshlands at York Factory in Upper Manitoba. But the sightings are quite rare and tend to be word-of-mouth. Here's that mountain lion sound:



If there were few mountain lions in Upper Manitoba, could I use an owl's scream instead? What really does a barn owl sound like? Does it sound like a woman's shriek? I never could have answered these questions without the internet!




But apparently, barn owls do not travel as far north as York Factory. Instead, swampy owls and barred owls (not barn owls) make their home around Hudson's Bay. Unfortunately, their attack calls sound 'cozy' compared to the barn owl. 

So after all this research, I'm back to the cougar. Here's the passage from Chapter 14, Rivers of Stone:

The morning the Fur Brigade left began dark and cold, with the men scrambling to bring cargo down to the landing and to fulfill the last directives from Mr. Hargrave. Shouted orders, groans, and a few curses filled the air as those who were leaving York loaded the boats and canoes. A few of the voyageurs held out for a last farewell from their native wives, the children clinging to their fathers, but Dougal stayed away from Cat.

Cat was afraid she would cry. Last night she had heard an cougar shrieking in the night. Everyone was right; it did sound like a woman screaming. The men had laughed uneasily; perhaps it was a bad omen for those who were leaving this morning. Cat still thought she could have slept by the river, with nothing between her and the wild creatures but a carefully tended fire. She could have kept up with the deadly pace Dougal had described. She was sure of it.

Available on Amazon

What am I reading this week? L. A. Meyer's Bloody Jack: Being an Account of the Curious Adventures of Mary "Jacky" Faber, Ship's Boy caught my eye. 

The title pulled me in first because my current wip, Rivers of Stone, features Catriona, a young woman disguised as a boy. Bloody Jack is also written in roughly the same era as my book.

After reading that first paragraph, I was hooked. Meyer uses an engaging and delightfully earthy first-person narrator (somewhat rare in historical fiction). For example, Jacky's reaction to signing on that sailing ship as a ship's boy? A girl what's born for hangin' ain't likely to be drowned.

My thoughts exactly.

Reaching: About a Reading

Available on Amazon

This week, Allen Dorfman, my hubby, talked about his book, Reaching, to a small group of retired military men, some with experience in World War II, some served during the Korean War, and one during the Vietnam era. 

He began by talking about how his memories of his service in Vietnam and his stories have somewhat mixed as nearly 50 years have passed since he was in the Army there, during the Tet Offensive in 1968. 

Allen, Vietnam, 1968

He told of marching across those rice paddies towards a treeline, knowing the enemy was there, waiting for their platoon to advance. Sometimes the enemy soldiers were chained to trees, high above them. 

One particular day, their platoon moved in on a bunker that was firing on them. Because Allen was the squad leader, he and two others surrounded and attacked the bunker, firing heavily as they entered.

The lone, young soldier was dead. He had been left behind, injured, medicines and photos of his family arrayed beside him. 

The Vietnamese interpreter, called a Chieu Hoi (former Viet Cong) and assigned to the unit, sat down with Allen and translated the many documents, including personal letters written by the soldier who had been killed. He had missed his family and hoped to marry when he returned. 

The Chieu Hoi picked up the helmet and gave it to Allen, saying: "This is not a war souvenir. I want you to keep this as a memorial so you will know the enemy we fight are people too."

One day, we will go again to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D. C., and Allen will put this helmet there. A memorial.

IWSG: Seemingly Insurmountable

On the first Wednesday of the month, a few hundred writers (including me), all fans of the Insecure Writer's Support Group (and famous founder Alex J. Cavanaugh), blog about some issue we've been preoccupied with.

So this month, I'd like to write a little about revision goals. Especially when those goals seem insurmountable. Even though I'm a seat-of-the-pants writer more than a planner, my basic revision process is to:

1. Think about what I'd like to accomplish.
2. Set a deadline.
3. Break that large task into smaller pieces.
4. Set a daily goal of hours worked (or words completed).
5. Try to work methodically until the overall goal is met.
6. Try to get feedback at key points from readers I trust.
7. Forgive myself if I don't make my goals every single day.

I want to revise Rivers of Stone, now that the unwieldy dratted first draft of roughly 90,000 words is finished. I did fall into one section and thought I would never climb back out! Now, that first draft is done -- complete with photos, maps, drawings, notes, and questions mixed throughout the story. 

I stepped away from immediate revision and let the rough draft rest for two whole weeks while my beta reader reads. I remained in limbo, between writing and actually revising, uncertain of the next step to take -- until an e-mail from Kristin Kieffer at She Writes popped into my inbox, inviting me to participate in Camp Nanowrimo. 

Now July 1st marks my first ever immersion into Camp Nanowrimo. 

This morning well before anyone else woke up, I printed out the first 25 single-spaced pages and dug in. How exhilarating! 

What's my process? 

1. Print those pages.
2. Read the first chapter out loud.
3. Stop whenever something doesn't sound right and make notes or revise with a pen right on the paper. **
4. Read aloud. Repeat #3.
5. Repeat #4.
6. Reread from the beginning until this chapter is 'finished'.
7. Move on to the next chapter.

** Those who know me well know I work primarily on the computer, so writing notes on paper slows me down and lets me 'see' what needs revision. I also keep a daily work diary for notes on characters, or missing research, or unanswered questions, or just random thoughts. 

Somehow being accountable to Camp Nanowrimo to report those words completed/time spent revising each day sets me up for the entire month. I may not finish all revisions by month end, but I will be closer to that goal of completing this story, Rivers of Stone, the third book about the indomitable McDonnell family.

And that's the point. We go forward, develop processes that work for us, share what we learn, and we write. We writers are part of a larger online community of writing challenges and resources. I'm grateful for every nudge, every word of encouragement, every tip for success. 

This afternoon, a woman who looked vaguely familiar stopped me to ask, "When will your next book be ready to read?"

If she only knew. Just maybe by the end of the year!

Monday Musings: Disposable?

Many of the writers I've met online talk about the difficulty of balancing 'real life' with a commitment to writing. Some work full-time and write early in the morning, late at night, or on weekends. About half chase the dream of being traditionally published; others self-publish and take on the added challenge of marketing their own work.

I've spent the last three years researching and drafting my historical novel set in 19th Century Canada during the fur trade era, Rivers of Stone. 

Tonight I printed out paper copy for the first read through of the entire mss (some 90,000 words), and realize anew the level of work ahead to revise, edit, and copy edit. I almost would rather go camping near Banff as we did last summer.

Breakfast view near Banff (Camp 2015)

That's almost. For this morning at the gym, two friends asked when my next book would be finished. I keep saying this year. As a self-published writer, that's a big commitment. I'll sink back into the story, the fur trading culture, the rugged mountain crossing in winter, my heroine's dilemma. I'll edit again and again, questioning every level of story structure plot, conflict, characterization, and emotional resonance. Maybe by the beginning of winter, September or October. Wish me well.

This week I was inspired by a writer I know. 

Annette Drake's blog post "Disposable or Indispensible" tracks that moving journey of a writer who works for a major company in a big city and yet commits herself to being a publisher and professional writer. 

Not with those hesitant steps that may someday lead to success, but with heart-stopping leaps of faith to navigate the world of self-publishing. She asks what is it that brings joy to our lives -- Our families? Our jobs? Our writing? What is it that makes us indispensible?

Here's her new cover for Trombone Girl, formerly Bone Girl. Annette's books (and audiobooks) are well worth a read, as is her post. 

See her page on Amazon or visit her website.

IWSG: Thinking about blogging

Today, the first Wednesday of the Month, we fans and followers of IWSG, the Insecure Writers Support Group, hosted by Alex Cavanaugh and minions, post something related to our writing -- perhaps our struggles or our motivational thoughts, but something that just might help us all along that long and complex journey of writing.

So, I've been thinking about blogging, especially because my blog, started way back in September of 2005, is nearing 100,000 hits. In fact, Memorial Day's post, highlighting some writing by my husband, a Vietnam Vet, got 120 hits. 

Wow! That seems amazing to me, for this blog has meandered all over the place -- with author interviews, thoughts on writing, hats off to those who have inspired me, and excerpts from my own research and writing (historical fiction). And yet, some folks who've stayed to comment feel like friends. Thank you!

This year, I've renewed my commitment to reaching out to readers and writers with my blog. This started with two very helpful blogging challenges: the 2016 A to Z Blogging Challenge and A Round of Words in 80 Days. My goals are simply to try to post every Monday (Monday's Musings) and every Friday (Friday's Fooling Around).

And just for IWSG, here's that first post from September, 2005, that shows that blogging wraps around my writing like a kind of compass (giving direction), or a mirror (reflecting), or even like my keyboard that, in spite of those letters fading, spills my words on the page.

A word about writing.

It doesn't matter what I write. It matters that I write and write for myself. Like a discipline of yoga, this requires dedication, concentration, commitment. So, today is the beginning. I can write 15 minutes each day.

Yes, I have a long project nearly finished and need to gather courage to take it to the next step of actually sending it out. The characters are present almost physically, and I gave the whole mess to a friend for a first real read. But it's not a mess really. Writing that story was a diving in and letting go, even healing, a process over three summers of daily writing. 

It's just when we come home, real life returns, teaching becomes immersion, with no time for writing. But, the novel doesn't want to stay quiet until next summer. My characters borrowed from snippets here and there, the imagination, all that childhood stuff I don't like to think about, now have taken on a life of their own. And they want my attention. Write the little vignette that opens the story. Now.

It's fall. The birds outside squabble over the seeds, swaying on the little wooden hanging feeder, tossing sunflower seeds over their shoulder as if winter were not closer every day.

Imagine a community fair with lots of food booths, colorful balloons, old car exhibits, a climbing rock for the kids, lots of strollers, a few on the fringe, and a sunny day. Spokane reopened its Monroe Street Bridge with city celebrations. A police officer explained why there were bars on the back windows of his patrol car. 

"They come in so out of control," he said, his eyes squinty, on the defensive, as if I couldn't understand, "they don't want to be caged. Even with cuffs on, they kick the windows out. And that's a cost of $120 per window." The front seats were protected from the back with heavy plastic shield, pretty common, I've seen this before. The front seats were also pushed way back; the limited leg room meant a reasonable person would have a hard time moving. No barrier to a person on angel dust, not even bars.

"I haven't killed anyone," he explained, his black uniform pulled tightly across his belly. "But we had an incident last week. A bad one. He was out of control. We had to restrain him." 

The words spilled out as if he had told this story many times. "So we tied him down, you know, on one of those gurneys, to immobilize him, so he wouldn't hurt himself." His hands moved ineffectually in the air, sketching the flat gurney. "And then he was gone. He just died. 

"The first report said he died by asphyixiation, like he choked on his own vomit. But the coroner's report came in, and it was like he cooked himself. His body temperature went up to 109, from the adrenaline surges they said." 

I found out later that the second report shifts liability from the police to the individual. But the officer said, "You don't know what it's like. Every year a little bit worse than the year before. Even in a town as small as Spokane."

Read what others have posted for the Insecure Writers Support Group HERE. Why not visit a few other blogs? Leave a comment of encouragement!

Mark Waggoner, "Monroe Street Bridge, Spokane"
Source: Wikipedia