It's Not Easy Being A Blogger

I saw this title via another blog I follow, but when I went to read it... well, have you ever expected to relate to somebody because of a shared experience and when you get to talking you find out that what you feel is nothing like what they feel.  So I'm blogging about this from my own place.

Top 7 Reasons I Find It Hard To Blog

1. I get off my routine.  I had a good groove going, shooting for Sunday night or Monday morning as my time frame when I could fit in writing a post without feeling that I was taking too much time away from my dear husband and kiddos.  Then I went to Texas for a long overdue visit with my family, came back and had a full week's schedule waiting to be tackled as I hit the ground running, while trying to do the post-trip decompression.  Heck, things have been a bit hectic and off kilter ever since. 
2. Change of Calendar Season.  I know it's not officially Summer yet, but it's felt like it to me for two months now.  Only thing is, I've been sort of vacillating between the calendar on my wall and the one in my mind.  So I don't have a clear plan formulated for these months "in-between" one school year and the next.  It's desperately lacking and interfering with my ability to blog, among other things.
3. Inspiration eludes me.  Simple writer's block, old as pictograms and cuneiform.
4. Too many ideas when there's not enough time.  I jot them down when I can; then I come back later and check on them.  Some are rightful gems; however, more were silly court jesters masquerading as wordy valedictorians.
5. Illumination and Energy are on different schedules.  I often feel the tickles and tingles of imagination sparkling like fireflies, coming on just around the time dusk begins to settle.  But I'm also entering a season of feeling as tuckered out as a toddler once the sun snuggles down for the night.
6. Doubt.  I thought this might be a good moment to interject a quote so I looked around online. Funny how around half of the words confessing one's self-hesitancy and misgivings are written by writers.  Point made.
7. I can't talk about it.  The balance between being open and forthright on the one hand, yet considerate of the privacy of others is ever present before me.  And sometimes the latter area of my life is so tremendously large and consuming, I find it to be rather a dis-service to these weighty issues to attempt blogging about the more modest routines of life that are helping me get by.  
8. You name it.  I know this is a list of The Top 7, my favorite number, but then this last one knocked and demanded entry.  All too often there's something - another hobby, a particularly trying child, hospitalizations, the freezer konks out and I'm forced to marathon cook for three days, whatever.  Its the unexpected arrival or intrusion of something that squeezes out or necessarily minimizes Life's other activities and obligations.  For the past two weeks its been Japanese Beetles - you know the buggers?

My mojo has been missing for a while now, but just blogging about it has helped.  

Thanks, ya'll.

Where To Look When It's Not On The Tip Of Your Tongue

I am a writer.  Despite the fact that there is a mental voice that immediately compares me (unfavorably) to a whole host of other far more superior authors whose voices I greatly admire and realize I whisper only in their shadow, I still know - I am a writer.  I am also a homeschooling Mom, and so writing has always been my absolute favorite subject to teach my children.  The confidence I hear in my sons as they discuss their love of reading and writing (now all in the middle of or past their college years) always thrills me with the knowledge that I am an inseparable part of what they now own.

This is a battle today more than ever before.  In this day and age, the gift of language and knowing how to handle it well is not held in honor among the masses.  Not only are vocabularies as undeveloped as third world countries, but words are routinely truncated with wanton disregard, hacked and amputated into unrecognizeable blurbs.  The inheritance is seen as no more than a cheap hand-me-down.

Not at my table.

At present, I am in those years of coaxing self-assurance and abilities in my daughters along the roads of communication - in word both spoken and written.  Ah, how they'd laugh to hear me describe what I do as the gentle verb "coaxing."  I do possess a relentless dedication in this, I must own. That I might teach them so that a day will come when they can ably make themselves known to others with clarity - this is my Quest.  Actually, writing is one area where the tears of frustration that may come are not by my instigation.  I really desire for them to love it as I do; and so although I might inwardly cringe at what I have to work with as we begin, my patience is supplied in triplicate.  Only by this might I be able to lead them into the daring steps necessary to develop familiarity, boldness, and assurance with a pen.  My hope is that they will come to describe, depict, and distinguish with literary confidence.

When I began writing in earnest, my father directed me to a thesaurus - my new best friend.  I couldn't believe what a treasure trove was suddenly at my fingertips.  An avid reader since the summer I turned nine when I cracked open Gone With The Wind in my grandmother's basement - this book began forging deep connections between words familiar in my mental safebox and my new attempts to organize creative expression of my own.  Once I began teaching my children to write and they then entered the realm of self-driven drafts, introductions were made to my old friend the thesaurus.

However, a few years ago, one of my sons brought home a new guest, a companion whom we have come to love just as dearly.  The Synonym Finder does the job of a thesaurus, only one step better.  In addition to illuming the vast myriad of choice there is to substitute for the worn-out dishrag of a word like "cool", it holds and reveals truisms and sayings that see too little of the light of day anymore. Figures of speech, turns of phrase, axioms and platitudes all born of man's desire to coin an expression that would stand the test of time are introduced here and saved from being lost forever.

We still use my old and well-loved thesaurus - literally, the very one my father handed to me - although it is now in two parts. But I give The Synonym Finder my highest recommendation as a tool for helping your kids (and you) to navigate the challenge of capturing reflection in word.  It will not only provide a wonderful welcome to concepts and utterances from our shared past, but will readily provide just the expression you are searching for in composing your very own thoughts.

Linked at Far Above Rubies, We Are That Family, Simple Lives, and Petals to Picots

The Perfect Gift for Writers

A pad of paper lies on my bedside stand, but I've never been able to establish the habit of jotting middle of the night thoughts down there, probably out of a desire not to disturb my sleeping husband.  I used to walk through the dark into the schoolroom down the hallway, not bothering to turn on a light as I scribbled down to-do lists that would not let me rest, cogitations that I hoped would make sense in the morning. Then I could quietly return to my bed and the sleep of unburdened peace.  At some point we removed that board, but I think it would be good to return it to its well appointed and sensible spot.

I've had myriads of notebooks over the years, of course; as many as six at a time placed in various strategic places awaiting deposits of creativity as they strike me.  But this simply seems to create a jumble of what are already chaotic snatches.  Sigh...

I have a smart-phone, and my most used app is the notepad.  I don't really like hen-pecking out my memory joggers, but when it's all I've got - better to save my reflections there than allow them to vaporize.  I also carry a little mini black composition book in my purse - three for a dollar, and one of the best purchases I've made within the past five years.  I often have my girls take dictation of whatever is on my mind while I'm driving - phone calls, grocery lists, cryptic blog ideas.

However, the shower has always been my most fertile plot for original thought, and therein lies my dilemma of frustration.  With wet hands, I try to keep a grip on my meditations, repeating key phrases and attempting to arrange them in some sort of anagrammatical order as I lather and rinse.  They slip away faster than a silky bar of soap.  The tighter my desperate attempts to cling to them, it seems the more uncertain my grip will be.  Foam, bubbles, a lingering scent are all that remain of but a few.  I'm lucky if I still have hold of a solid sliver when I get out and am able to find a pencil to scribble something down.

And so I recently went in search of the answer to my particular predicament and found two websites that offer exactly what I am in need of:  AquaNotes and Rite in the Rain.  They seem to be close in price and are both environmentally friendly!  AquaNotes does have the "benefit" of suction cups used to attach the notepad (and one for the included pencil as well) to the shower wall.  I say "benefit" simply because I've found those little suckers to be an unreliable bunch, haven't you?  Still, it is a thoughtful touch and particularly suited to my need for retaining ideas while washing - if they work.  

Put this on my list, Santa! (Along with that Moravian Star....)

Linked at Time Warp Wife, Far Above Rubies, We Are That Family, and Simple Lives Thursday

It's On Again - Round Six

My hands momentarily left the wheel last night as I drove home from attending a glorious wedding in Macon, GA held over this past weekend.  What brought such delight to my clapping hands?  Well, the announcement of the next Three-Minute-Fiction-Challenge hosted by NPR.  The rules are simple:

Our contest has a simple premise. We're looking for original, short fiction that can be read in less than three minutes — that's no more than 600 words.

Each writing assignment has its own distinctive parameters, and Round Six is as follows:

 At some point in your story, one character must tell a joke. And, one character must cry.

To be clear, the character who tells the joke can also be the character who cries, and the crying does not have to be in reference to the joke. Just at some point within your 600-word story, those two actions have to happen,

Listening to the Judge of this Round, I sighed inwardly in despair.  She is not a fan of the Knock-Knock joke.  Aaah - a strike against me from the get-go.  While I am one who is quick to laughter despite my serious nature, and moderately moved to tears over touching sentiment, I am definitely not a joke-teller.  This will be a very daunting assignment for me.

Still, as I showered this morning (one of my most fruitful places of inspired thought) I had a story line come to me.  We'll see if it will stand the test as it undergoes the pre-tumbling process of thinking through, or the beginning sketches of composition; but inside I am still clapping my hands at the fun of it all.

Join me?  If interested, you can find out more at NPR's website.  And once again, I'll post the story I enter right here, at a later date.

The following is an original I made up while returning from our weekend's adventures yesterday with my kids.
Me: Knock-knock
L: Who's there?
Me: Attorney
L: Attorney who?
Me: A turney road we must travel as we make our way home.

If only my dear L were the Judge, it'd be in the bag.  She just loves my jokes.

  

My Entry

Well, the NPR Three Minute Fiction Challenge finally ended and the winner was chosen.  To say that my paper was not among those mentioned would seem as though there must be the taint of sour grapes upon my words, but there simply isn't.  I had a really great time writing a piece of fiction again after many years' hiatus.  It held all the fun of an assignment's parameters - without the pressure of a grade.  We were given the first and last lines, which I have underlined, and a limit of 600 words.  I didn't like my title, so I'm leaving that out of this post.  Any suggestions?

Some people swore that the house was haunted, although everyone knew the niece delivered groceries to her back out in these hills once a month.  That’s just the kind of wicked thing kids would come up with, spinning tales to add delightful pleasure to torment.  No one else ever drew near, and her world held safe and secure as it had for the past twenty-eight years.  Only the monthly exchange of food and essentials for the waste she bagged up to be removed broke the routine of her days.  Library books traded in and out on her niece’s card.  Occasionally they would exchange small talk, but what was there to say, really?  Her niece didn’t read.

She looked out the hazy window from her one chair, pausing her rocking at the end of a sentence, mid-paragraph.  The niece’s visit had been three days ago; however her ears caught the unmistakable intrusion of tires.  Instinctively, she took her glass of water, wiped the ring of condensation from where it had rested on the window sill, and stepped back into well-known shadows.

An old can-opener of a Buick crept close; it’s every advance whispering secrecy and shame, even in this remote place.  Ever so slowly it rolled to a stop.  She could see waxen hands behind the windshield, clenching and unclenching the steering wheel.  The door uttered audible protest and two tennis shoes emerged, resting lightly on the gravel.  The steady hum of the sun continued.  A girl emerged to stand unsteadily on white legs, her movements painful and jerky.  Opening the back, she pulled out an oblong swaddling of pale fabric and limped into the sagebrush.  The swaying straw grasses caught one another as she crouched down like a rabbit, murmuring soft and vulnerable words.  After long moments, the rhythmic scratching song of crickets rose with her and she returned to her car.  Nothing would change.  The door slammed shut with a muffled oath and the ignition turned over; she circled around and drove off, the dust barely rising behind her.

Behind the grey clapboard of the house, the controlled beating of the older woman's heart continued.  Eventually she took measured steps toward the window, scrutinizing the faded scrub some twenty feet or so from her.  A world away.  She lifted her glass to her lips and drank.  As she returned to her chair, it gave a simple wheezy sigh, receiving her with companionable familiarity. 

She turned the pages, her every sense crackled sharply to what lay outside in the chasm of distance.  In the hours following, all other accustomed sounds were muffled by the silence that met her ears, straining for a vibration unusual to the norm.  Dinner was eaten in regular solitary stillness.  Cleaning up and preparations for bed passed like the steady count of an old clock. 

Deep in the dark blue of night a mewling, poor and faint, stroked its finger over her sleep.  She remembered that softness.  She knew.  Two tight fists were struggling within the cotton folds of that bundle in the dark.  Life was wrestling, pleading to be recognized.

The worn floorboards creaked in anticipation beneath her bare feet as she walked slowly forward and peered out.  Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Type-Trash Is My Friend

I have a half an hour to write before I shoot out the door for the evening.

Well, after ruminating for a while I tossed my initial idea for the Three Minute Fiction out. I came up with a secondary story, sat down and began tapping away, intermittently back-spacing, cleaning up as I went along. My right hand was really getting rather sore with all the deleting I had to do. Writers always have that proverbial trash can nearby, hoop shots and slam dunks filling and overfilling it. But things have changed and in this day and age we hit backspace and erase over and over again. I have dubbed it type-trash, not wanting to let go completely of my old imagery.

I have written a full 528 of the allotted 600 words, leaving what I hoped was a decent amount of room for deleting, revising, and polishing off. But five full days have gone by and my thinker has been tinkering, and coming up with much more major changes than I'd expected. It's a good thing I still have another four days because a pretty sizeable shift in my scenario has developed. Ah well, I wasn't completely sold on Story Two anyway - and I knew it, but I figured anything was better than nothing.

Still do.

Three Minute Challenge

Three hours there, three hours back. I drove to Raleigh yesterday to visit R, take him to lunch and soak in the dearness of him and how the Lord is working in and shaping him. Truly priceless, and I treasured every second.

The drive there was given to out-loud prayer, first and foremost. I love the cloister of communication my car becomes when I am out and about. A long drive is perfect for uninterrupted conversation, pleas and requests, the savoring of thanks.

Then I called my Mom and we gadded about all the happenings in our concentric circles of family, sharing our concerns and joys. Sisters, brothers, children, mamas and papas - we covered them all with a quilt of love and care, shaking our heads over the lines in laughter or the bearing of burdens.

It wasn't until the drive back that I actually turned on the radio. News and events and special pieces were given my attention as the asphalt flew beneath me and the sun began its descent for the day. As I listened, my ears tingled. A true gem was being shared. Have you ever heard of NPR's Three-Minute Fiction Challenge? Well, last night the bell for Round Five was rung. The first and last lines of a short story are given, and it is up to you to fill in the body - which cannot exceed 600 words. Oh. My. Gosh. How fun!!

The first line is: "Some people swore that the house was haunted."

The last line must be: "Nothing was ever the same again after that."

Rather pedantic, but oh well. Mentally, I began considering this proposition. I envisioned pulling out a wooden drawer full of door knobs, digging through them as I looked for my story. Why door knobs? Symbols of openings into closed off rooms, I suppose. It quickly became apparent there would be no time for development, immediacy would be elemental. One or possibly two characters only. Who would they be? Regarding the story itself - Genre? Setting of time and place? And what would precipitate the last line? I dismissed the miraculous as being too abstract and quite honestly, unbelievable, to most of today's audience. The weird or macabre would probably receive a better reception, but my days of foraying into those realms are past.

I think I know where I'm going, or at the very least I at least have an idea. That's the first step. What a brilliant invitation!

Captivated by This Bizarre Love Child

I just love our Pastor, Giorgio Hiatt. I love that he loves words and everything about them. I love that he understands that words mean something. I went looking to see if he might not have a blog I could read, thinking it would most certainly be interesting and thought provoking. It was.

The Blog In My Own Eye
I vowed to never blog. It was immoral--the bizarre love child of the voyeur and the exhibitionist.

Don't you just love his way with words, his turning of a phrase, the way he gently mocks both himself and us at the same time, like a teasing big brother? He cleanly drives home the point of his blade, while remaining above the fray, arms folded behind when you looked to see - ouch! Who poked me?

"The bizarre love child of the voyeur and the exhibitionist." Hmmm.......

I have mused over this clever little synopsis of what it means to blog. Personally, I abhor the word itself. It lacks any of either the finesse of the word "writing" or the empathy for all of the mental considerations and sweat that goes into this craft. But I am speaking from my own personal point of origin.

Bloggers do so for any number of reasons and come in all manner of styles - political, advisory, ministerial, alternative, online clubs, seekers, sensationalists, artists, hermits, movers and shakers, activists, travelers, missionaries, the lonelies, and my personal favorites - the foodies. Certainly among those I've thought of (and the countless others I've missed), there are the voyeurs and the exhibitionists. I'll even allow for at least a 1/4 cup of those qualities in every blogger out there, your's truly included.

Giorgio's comment nudged me to consider why I undertook a blog, myself. Blogs, for lack of a better name, are both books and galleries - both of which I could spend hours within their pages or walls. For me, it is writing; it is art. I drool over the beauty of other's cover pages. I envy their splendid cameras that can deliver such perfect photos. I groan in admiration and jealousy over the writing of another. I get over it and do my own thing. Most of all, I get to express myself in the medium of my heart. And like my walk, I am challenged to do this thoughtfully, in a way that is in right keeping with a good response to I John 2: And now, dear children, continue in Him, so that when He appears we may be confident and unashamed before Him at His coming.

It could be today! So blog like it.

A Brief History of My Writing Career

I feel worn out today.

Perhaps not the best day to post... and I might just delete this later. I just want to write anyway. I don't know what I want to talk about. I just want to write.

I love writing. That's why I began this blog. I'm still feeling my way with it. Some things seem too personal to share in such a public arena. Some things that parade across my thoughts might hurt or damage relationships so they're understandably off limits. Some wonderful topics I might discuss sometime simply do not call to be written today.

When I was in school, writing was what came naturally to me. I loved to have my papers read anonymously in class, smiling with delight inside at the quiet praise. My teachers encouraged me to go into the journalism field. While flattered, of course, I mentally recoiled at the thought of abandoning my children. I was a mother already in my heart. ;D Someday I would write, when my children were all grown.

In my younger years I journaled religiously. I occasionally cut and pasted pictures from magazines to illustrate my entries. I loved the freedom that lay in putting forth somewhere my thoughts, rants, and dreams. Years later I picked them up and went through them nostalgically. I am sentimental about the here and now, but I'm not one for keeping momentos really. No family photos all over the house, or even many in boxes. Off the books went to the garbage bin. It wasn't really great writing anyway.

Once I had my kids, all of that got put away; my life was at the same time too busy and too boring. I'd always known that once my real life of Wife and Mommy commenced, I would no longer have room for such a regular literary indulgence. This was the time for fully living, and who knew but that I might not have something worthwhile to write about someday?

You'd have to be a Mama to understand how that previous paragraph fits together so perfectly.

My husband got me this laptop last fall. It was the perfect gift at just the right time for me. Although we write today with these handy electronic traveling keyboards, my heart still feel the words are penned with ink like the woman in my caption. My children are not completely grown, but if I start writing now I might actually be a real writer someday when I grow up.