tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40488743983534888832024-03-05T19:22:08.196-05:00Renee is WritingShare the writing life with Renee Howard CasseseReneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.comBlogger193125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-33697120305443230522018-05-04T13:52:00.005-04:002018-05-04T13:52:56.669-04:00Poems for Mother's Day<span style="font-size: large;">Every once in a while I go back to my first poetry collection. I re-read the poems and peruse the art work. With a title like, "I am My Mother's Only Poem" I think this is a fitting gift for any mom.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-w8MzywBkjO0oEEKJzUo5hph9E-uBlMv8qlDdF9_NMEEpHU_7KNays2lAo7kisubw2xJC6GbV1IL3a-XAw_oLgVj0C7W9jyM86n-zE-m83yklNZPCjqqo70Qpn7dEpKv_zMEnDWae1M/s1600/book+front+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1104" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-w8MzywBkjO0oEEKJzUo5hph9E-uBlMv8qlDdF9_NMEEpHU_7KNays2lAo7kisubw2xJC6GbV1IL3a-XAw_oLgVj0C7W9jyM86n-zE-m83yklNZPCjqqo70Qpn7dEpKv_zMEnDWae1M/s320/book+front+cover.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Here are some samples of what you can find between the covers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>mourning doves</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>perch in pairs</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>never alone ~</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>your voice in my ear</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>constant and new</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>autumn ballroom</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>frost painted</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>bare feet sashay and slide</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>expose my soul~</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>for you to know</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>like your own hand</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-61370574347571494382018-05-01T15:00:00.000-04:002018-05-01T15:00:20.235-04:00Ideas are like Rabbits<span style="font-size: large;">The question writers get asked the most often is, "where do you get your ideas?" For poets, short story writers, and novelists who write a book a year or several series a year the need for ideas is a constant. How do they have ideas for so many stories or poems?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For me, ideas are like rabbits.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSpS_u63uaOIgLePbJnpW8eFW8Z_VgMRB8UCDzuGZVWHF67GY_YIr04PPLTS0sl7vuK1ONn0DnO9TV5pjUEs-b-g2A6deuLcE8tZqfgzWQS_rCI8oThaP7lGcyTWloZBee7ZsLJir2AM/s1600/rabbits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="1595" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSpS_u63uaOIgLePbJnpW8eFW8Z_VgMRB8UCDzuGZVWHF67GY_YIr04PPLTS0sl7vuK1ONn0DnO9TV5pjUEs-b-g2A6deuLcE8tZqfgzWQS_rCI8oThaP7lGcyTWloZBee7ZsLJir2AM/s320/rabbits.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They multiply at a rapid rate. And in the same way that rabbits create more rabbits, ideas create more ideas and the more I have the more I get.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Craft books are profuse with ways to get story ideas:</span></div>
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Brainstorm</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Read newspapers</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Observe people in the cafe</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Play the "what if" game</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Eavesdrop on conversations</span></li>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Each of those methods is helpful and can elicit an array of story or character ideas for your writing. I have on occasion used a few myself. Mostly, however, I don't search for ideas, they find me. And just like those fertile little bunnies, ideas increase exponentially. They float in thin air and crawl inside my ear. They arise from some cells deep within me and gnaw at my brain until I catch them and get them on the page. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have ideas for more stories than I can ever write in a lifetime and they vie for attention every minute of every day and they are highly competitive. Each one wants to be dealt with NOW. They don't want to wait until this story is written, or this poem is revised and submitted, or until this present novel-in-progress is completed and sent to an agent. Each and every idea, in whatever genre it is cloaked in, wants to be written today. They parade through my head like the walking dead or like the the six characters in search of an author in Pirandello's play. Each one is a shiny object flashing her significance like sunlight on the lake, begging me to pick her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So which do I choose? Which story do I write now? Which character will get my attention today?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The choices are impossible to make. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-76789375698180839032018-04-29T14:15:00.002-04:002018-04-29T14:15:39.960-04:00The Sacrifices of Writing<span style="font-size: large;">Like the lamb brought to slaughter there are many sacrifices a writer must make in the name of his passion. Many books on writing as well as those on success discuss this little issue that we either don't acknowledge, or take for granted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Several years ago I spent my long commute too and from work listening to the audio book "The Success Principles" by Jack Canfield. There is a world of experience, knowledge and advice in this book as well as in Canfield's online and in-person courses but this one point regarding sacrifice stood out to me then. It comes back to haunt me now, in even bigger ways.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To paraphrase, Canfield says that if you want to succeed at something you must be willing to give up all the other things in your life that interfere with achieving that success. At the time I used work as an excuse for everything. And as I drove along the Northern State Parkway, part of that long serpentine, barely moving, snake of cars, I thought about how many pages of a novel or short story, or how many poems, I could write during those two to three hours of driving five days a week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But of course that's an excuse and honestly I managed to write a good many poems, stories and novels even while I was working. But Canfield's words did sink in and whether or not I chose to take that particular item of advice, it was now ingrained in my mind and I couldn't ignore it. I addressed the issue by sacrificing my forty-five minutes of Morning Pages each morning to write three to four pages of my novel, or respond to a prompt for a flash fiction story. It worked!! I also sacrificed some television and reading time at night to write a few more pages or outline a scene or chapter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is now several years later and I am retired. Can't use work or commuting as an excuse not to write. My resistance to writing comes in the form of wanting to linger over a few more chapters of the suspense novel I'm reading, or watch art videos on YouTube, or go play in my many art journals. And I still hear that voice admonishing me to sacrifice all else in the pursuit of my dream to be a successful writer. And so art will have to be sacrificed in the name of authorship. In the name of becoming the writer I always dreamed of being.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With the help of the Diamond Valley Writers' Guild, and the more consistent attendance at a local critique group, as well as abandoning my art on most days, I can achieve success at writing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If sacrifice is the name of the game, then I will lay my heart on the altar and do what I must do.</span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-23561615666638524862018-04-26T14:55:00.000-04:002018-04-26T14:55:35.817-04:00Chasing a Dream<span style="font-size: large;">In order to write a novel--meaning a first draft, several revisions, a final edit and then writing a synopsis and query to submit to agents and publishers--I need to stop chasing all the shiny new objects that parade through my mind.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyqcwjDEijF3IdSCEQwO1gHblGoUsp6I8cST0MnxS9mypxTszOWNyJi1DM9wI91wOUSNpbliDiI2q4seCNoje_pX8n54SLgubsmQcO-DwUAs3vfLTXO90fgXrdYCL14Q8WTwqcSGnFuY/s1600/balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="681" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyqcwjDEijF3IdSCEQwO1gHblGoUsp6I8cST0MnxS9mypxTszOWNyJi1DM9wI91wOUSNpbliDiI2q4seCNoje_pX8n54SLgubsmQcO-DwUAs3vfLTXO90fgXrdYCL14Q8WTwqcSGnFuY/s320/balloon.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">While I have had this novel mapped out several times and gotten 130 pages of a first draft written, it still isn't finished. I refuse to admit how many years ago I began writing it, or how many iterations it's gone through. And I blame my own resistance to the hard work as well as the lure of those shiny temptations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Shiny objects appear in the form of poetry collections to edit and submit, short stories, blog posts, a chapbook of short stories written specifically for a contest, which by the way I did not even place in. They also appear in the form of art journaling and other art forms I like to play around in. But I can't keep chasing these shiny objects and still expect to complete a novel, and then go on to write more novels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I am coming to believe the solution lies in ridding myself of black/white thinking. Too often I think I need to make a choice among my many creative interests and perhaps there is a better way. Why do I think I have to give up art entirely? Sure, novel writing takes commitment and focus, but I am retired and somehow I need to balance my life better. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can block out hours each day to get this novel down, but also allow myself an hour or two a few days a week to art journal. Just like I find time to eat, walk, workout, read or meditate and journal, I can art journal too. And art journaling is a purely visual, hands on process during which my brain can be sorting out character development and plot twists. Why deny myself either of these creative pleasures?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe I don't have to deny myself anything and I can do it all. There is still time left, hopefully 20 years or more, in which to develop a novel writing career. As they say:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The time is now!</i></span></div>
Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-56867358693843579022018-04-25T15:30:00.001-04:002018-04-25T15:30:18.127-04:00A Bit of Writing Prompt Fantasy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X7UVuWEKrA4BnFO5R0xdmb1u51Y7bOrJPc6arwZyNGd73ITYa1GRh00RPBZoAnJl5mrdtEspL25rBxegr4ERa2jvkqhCY0UGBrEh7m4RVApZaJLE4yA2aiwHWg1vH2IsEmbwIPzt2BY/s1600/mystery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1233" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0X7UVuWEKrA4BnFO5R0xdmb1u51Y7bOrJPc6arwZyNGd73ITYa1GRh00RPBZoAnJl5mrdtEspL25rBxegr4ERa2jvkqhCY0UGBrEh7m4RVApZaJLE4yA2aiwHWg1vH2IsEmbwIPzt2BY/s320/mystery.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't typically write fantasy or surrealist fiction but several years ago I took a writing class and one of the daily prompts produced this little story. Not something I would have devised on my own, but apparently it was in my head someplace because it emerged easily onto the page.</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">MAGIC
POTION LOTION<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Knee high by the Fourth of July.
That’s how many strands of red licorice I had collected for my patriotic
installation at the campus art gallery. Now I needed materials in blue and
white and they had to come by the color naturally, I wasn’t allowed to paint
anything and I only had two hours left to finish the piece in time. I ran down
the hall of the dorm pounding on doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wake up! Get to the lounge! I need
help!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you want now?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was five o’clock in the morning
but my dorm mates were used to my ill-timed bursts of creative energy. They
dragged themselves down to the lounge. I looked at the sleepy hung-over
congregation of students and begged. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please, I need all your aspirin,
Tylenol, generic pain relievers—anything white.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some looked at me in alarm thinking
I would swallow all the pills to escape my fractious artistic mind. The rest
either smiled and ambled back to their rooms in search of white pills or
mumbled, “I don’t have any little white pills.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was known for my unique,
innovative art and if I didn’t deliver the art department would never ask me to
exhibit again. Now all I needed was some natural blue material and I needed a
lot of it because the installation had to be at least half my height or taller
to qualify.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I searched the village parks and
gardens for rocks in any hue of blue but only found white and pink stones. I
searched for blue flowers but only found red ones and some gnawed at yellow
corn cobs. I went fishing outside the village but only caught brown and silver
fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a blue fish in the water. Even the water
was a sad shade of gray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I trudged back to campus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turning a corner I came to the delivery dock
for a grocery story. There on the back of an opened trailer truck sat cases of
clear blue seltzer bottles that reflected the sun in crystal sparkles of light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
had to have them. I approached the man, eyed the bottles and rubbed my sweaty
neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, can I have three cases of
seltzer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? Yeah. I’m taking these to the
Piggly Wiggly. Go buy as many as you want.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, wait. You have to give them to
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man turned away and continued
unloading the truck. I got closer and explained that my installation had to be
done in an hour and I wasn’t allowed to spend any money to buy materials. I had
to find everything I used in the structure. I’d collected all the licorice
strings from students on campus, going door to door in the dorms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here,” the guy said as he scratched
his grizzled chin. “I have two cases of lotion that’s outdated. You can have
those.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The lotion was white in clear
bottles. I needed something blue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, you don’t get it. It has to be
blue.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, paint the damn bottles. Paint
anything you can find blue. What’s the difference?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t. I have to use materials
that are already the color I need. It has to be red, white and blue. And I only
have an hour left to finish.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take it,” the man urged. “Trust me.
Just leave a window open and this will work.” He winked and continued his job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back at the gallery I arranged the
licorice in three piles and sprinkled them with the white pills. I opened the
bottles of lotion, and hearing the man’s voice in my head, “Trust me,” I poured
the white lotion around the piles and drizzled it up the sides. I shrugged and
opened the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In seconds a blue cloud undulated
like a sea monster and entered the room. A million blue butterflies fanned out
and hovered over the streams of lotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I ran outside to see where they had come from but all the butterflies
were inside now and the sky was clear. I strolled back to the gallery but
before I went through the door I saw a truck parked across the street. It was
the seltzer delivery man. He waved and saluted then drove away. A blue
butterfly hovered on his side view mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-7534337028027384022018-04-20T23:02:00.002-04:002018-04-20T23:02:17.110-04:00Writing with Passion<i>I believe that writing fiction based on what I am passionate about makes my writing stronger. When there is a fire in your soul and you write it into a story you not only express your feelings but you present an issue to your readers that resonates. I grew up in a family where there were always young children around, I raised two sons, and I had a thirty year career in early childhood education. I am passionate about the care, safety and education of young children and this is one of the stories that emerged from this passion.</i><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SAVIOR<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
it was again. The brittle wail of a baby crying. It could have been the two
neighborhood stray cats fighting. It was hard to tell the difference. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I got out of bed
to check. A window lit up in the house next door though it was three in the
morning. A voice called out, “Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Could
Sue be yelling at her two year old son? Every night for two weeks I’d heard the
crying and shouting and wondered what this child could have done to elicit such
anger. He was chubby and cheerful when I’d seen him run around on his little toddler
legs. I wanted to take him into my arms and rock him, cuddle him, and soothe
him back to sleep. But he wasn’t mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I went back to
bed, put the pillow over my head and tried to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning I heard him crying again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut
up!” the mother yelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
got dressed, went next door and knocked with the tarnished brass knocker. The
door opened. There stood a tall skinny woman wearing cut-off jeans and a skin
tight pink tee-shirt. Her long blonde curls were caught messily on top of her
head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can
I help you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
live next door. I heard the baby crying and you sounded upset. Can I help you?
Maybe watch the baby for an hour or two.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nah.
He’s okay. I don’t need help.” She flicked a hand in the air then braced both
fists on her hips. “And I don’t know you. You think I’d leave Billy with a
stranger?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure
you know me. I live next door. We said hello over the fence a couple times.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,”
she said. Her blue eyes went dark. “Yeah, I didn’t recognize you. Out of
context, ya know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So,
see it’s okay. Do you want to go out? I can stay with Billy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
okay, whatever. By the way my name’s Sue.” She offered her hand. “Could you
hang here for an hour now? I could go do some food shopping without having to
drag Billy with me and buy him candy just to keep him quiet.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
cringed at the thought of wanting to keep this exuberant boy quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ll
be back in an hour? I have to go to work later and I need to shower first.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
problem.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sue
disappeared for a few minutes. I scanned the small neat living room wondering
there were no photos of Billy on the shelves or tables.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When she came back
she had on jeans with the same shirt and her hair was combed out in a wavy
blonde curtain over her shoulders. She’d also managed to apply some snazzy
make-up. She grabbed her hot pink hobo purse and flew out the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
turned to see Billy standing in the doorway between the living room and the
kitchen, his thumb was in his mouth and tears glistened in his blue eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
Mommy go?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
to the store Billy. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.” And I knew he would now that he
was with me. “Let’s read a story. What’s your favorite book?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Three
Pigs,” he informed me. “But I want to go to store. With Mommy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
take you to the store.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
face lit up and he took his thumb out of his mouth to smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do
you have a special toy you want to bring with us?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mmm
hmmm.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
ran to his room and returned with a stuffed rabbit whose once bright pink fur
was balding and turning gray.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
got Billy into the car. I didn’t have a car seat but I strapped him in with the
seatbelt and I knew enough to put him in the back seat for safety. We drove
toward town but I kept driving right through and headed for the cabin in the
forest my grandfather left me when he died. Yes, I knew Billy would be safe
now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<i></i>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-53222310596451915302018-03-31T16:07:00.000-04:002018-03-31T16:07:30.349-04:00Reading and Writing for Success<span style="font-size: large;">Not all readers desire to write, but all writers must read. Books in their genre, as well as fiction in other genres, creative nonfiction and poetry. Reading in the genre you write in is of course primary as that is how we learn what works and what doesn't work, where the trends are and which trends are being abandoned for something newer, more exciting, perhaps darker and more mysterious.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaSpHleeLo0eoExvhAYi822-ix32doiYse7zw0dzfCTy2QlTCeeAMkyPmyi01AyEKnY8XLsEfjjaB279B6peLurzEBD4YEtcy6AJAAtiHqZQnabavK9dfIaAzpR2V8ucoXISNf34qDOE/s1600/poetessa+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="716" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaSpHleeLo0eoExvhAYi822-ix32doiYse7zw0dzfCTy2QlTCeeAMkyPmyi01AyEKnY8XLsEfjjaB279B6peLurzEBD4YEtcy6AJAAtiHqZQnabavK9dfIaAzpR2V8ucoXISNf34qDOE/s320/poetessa+2.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Reading in our chosen genre, which for me is romantic women's fiction and romantic suspense, helps to integrate the narrative and plot structures expected in these novels. It exposes us to new writers that we can connect with on social media and hopefully run into at writers' conferences and book signing events.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Reading outside of our genres helps enhance our skills in using language in creative and engaging ways. Poetry opens us to imaginative language as well as specificity and concision.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Presently I am reading and re-reading the Ten Poems series by Roger Housden. The poems inform my writing style and the accompanying essays share insight into human thoughts and emotions which definitely helps with character understanding and development.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-UDMkgjlvSji521aOn35OXXfudfL_aPJzydzc2v7pzN9FaieS-JKRbG76O_ZyP0rmdx-atraYbeS4Pe7V6T_v8yvApVE8kG6IL4pOKIWVxJxTiQOgrHp71vKfGFTwXAKz2Cyoq_ukfY/s1600/housden+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-UDMkgjlvSji521aOn35OXXfudfL_aPJzydzc2v7pzN9FaieS-JKRbG76O_ZyP0rmdx-atraYbeS4Pe7V6T_v8yvApVE8kG6IL4pOKIWVxJxTiQOgrHp71vKfGFTwXAKz2Cyoq_ukfY/s320/housden+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm also reading Jennifer Probst's writing craft book, "Write Naked." It is a great resource for any fiction writer though her focus is romance. She balances a huge dose of encouragement for new and seasoned writers alike, with scoops of reality about developing a career as a writer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Since I am focused on writing a series I am also reading Karen Weisner's book "Writing the Fiction Series." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">All in all it's a reading and writing life for me. I will continue to share the process as well as books that act as stepping stones along my journey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-29361734353021296132018-03-09T22:31:00.000-05:002018-03-09T22:31:07.770-05:00Good Writing/Bad Writing<span style="font-size: large;">It was a brisk winter afternoon in Manhattan and my husband and I were spending it exploring the Museum of Modern Art, better known to Big Apple residents as MoMA. The exhibits were as diverse as the pale snowflakes falling outside and as mysterious and intriguing as the latest Nora Roberts/J. D. Robb suspense novel. Some unique exhibits even rivaled the likes of a Stephen King horror story. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In one exhibit hall a young couple intensely stared at a huge canvas and were in deep discussion about it. I watched in fascination, wondering what the interest was in a square canvas painted all red. I just couldn't see the need to discuss, except perhaps which shade of crimson, scarlet, or burgundy the artist had used.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now what, you might ask, does this have to do with writing. Honestly at the time I couldn't have told you. But today, several years later, it occured to me while reading the book "Fearless Writing" by William Kenower. In this book, which by the way is a juicy tidbit for successful and struggling writers alike, he discusses the issue of bad-vs-good writing. It reminded me of how I had judged that gargantuan red canvas as not worthy of discussion, or even of looking at for more than a passing glance. Beauty, in art or in writing, is indeed in the eye of the beholder. It's all about judgement.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgD0AhrM-Pqltj_gOyrj_YqJOBGou3Ir65OMPvb6WJQDoH9GmAfOzB2gXVW7jrJ41lodKx2gXrI6Wa-W7f9o6pm7IoCerNj6knwC4wyKkGpP7PSR2BmYV9-5by8_xLNp0hYsUMOahovM/s1600/final-cover_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="302" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgD0AhrM-Pqltj_gOyrj_YqJOBGou3Ir65OMPvb6WJQDoH9GmAfOzB2gXVW7jrJ41lodKx2gXrI6Wa-W7f9o6pm7IoCerNj6knwC4wyKkGpP7PSR2BmYV9-5by8_xLNp0hYsUMOahovM/s320/final-cover_2.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Kenower shares an example of how two reviewers made conflicting judgements about the same sentence in a novel. One praised it like a sparking diamond, the other made a comparison closer to the black coal before compression. How could one sentence be both gemlike and disastrous. And what does it all say about the wonderful author who penned those words? According to Kenower it isn't about judging our own writing as good or bad, worthy or not, but about writing from your heart. Writing the story that calls you and keeps you up at night. The story that keeps the pen sliding across the notebook page, or the fingers swing dancing over the computer keys. It's about finding and writing the story only you can write. You can't please every reader, but you can't please any reader if you aren't pleased while you're writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This whole issue recalls a writer friend of mine who revised an entire manuscript based on one writer/editor's comments. A story, by the way, she had read to our critique group and that was loved by everyone of us. I was filled with love and humor. She then sent said manuscript off to an agent who told her to rewrite the whole thing in a totally different way. A way that her fellow critique groupers thought sucked the humor and life from her genuinely funny and heartfelt style. In the end she couldn't sell the manuscript and went on to write something entirely new.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It just shows that editors, agents, and your readers all have their own subjective opinions about what they like. And whether or not they like a story or not is not a reflection of it being good or bad writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Like that red canvas at MoMa, every novel, every story, every poem, will be seen differently by all who behold it. In the end unless the writer loves the story she is writing as she writes it, no reader will spend hours reading it and waxing poetic over the quality of its redness.</span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-34906531215029137592018-02-24T21:48:00.001-05:002018-02-24T21:48:47.535-05:00The Artsy Poetessa<span style="font-size: large;">I believe I was born a poet. I've been writing poems since I was able to hold a pencil and form letters. I fell in love with poetry hearing and reading nursery rhymes. My mother had a set of children's books, a thirteen volume compendium of leather covered books in shades of blue and green. I continued to read the Nursery Rhyme volume long beyond the age when I was reading chapter books and more. That was the birth of this poet. As a child I loved art also but lost that creative niche many years later. Now, in my older age I have rediscovered the pleasures of filling a page with color and shape. Of using crayons, pencils, pens, paint and many other mediums to make art. I have combined my loves of art and poetry more and more and here is a sample, honoring my declaration of becoming the Artsy Poetessa.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWwJbBuHrEepHhdQoedonXEp724ZRGCOX09gdmm5z3V6aTxP6iEEiRVKmxF23aysjp64OVuCVT1QMUXwIcc1grEo6B9up3L1s1vgImsGnW6svG3-0WCtx5ivl4ZUSOmdAKBZxhdKtDsY/s1600/poetesasa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWwJbBuHrEepHhdQoedonXEp724ZRGCOX09gdmm5z3V6aTxP6iEEiRVKmxF23aysjp64OVuCVT1QMUXwIcc1grEo6B9up3L1s1vgImsGnW6svG3-0WCtx5ivl4ZUSOmdAKBZxhdKtDsY/s400/poetesasa.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">THE POETESS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She sits on a soft chair of pink and green chintz in the
corner of the room. Her legs curl beneath her long blue flowered dress. Her
long blonde hair flows over her right shoulder. In her delicate hands she
cradles a notebook and dances a silver barreled pen across the snow white page.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Beside her, on a small round table, tea in a china cup
decorated with faded roses. A paperback anthology of poems perches opened, its
pages like the wings of a dove. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When other students pass by on their way to football games
or frat parties she tilts her head just so to let her hair fall like a curtain
at the end of a melancholy play. She hides from the curious stares that she
knows stalk her when she is wrapped in poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She sits in her corner, writing and reading, the poetry that
sustains her until after curfew. Alone in the stillness of the lounge she
closes her eyes and absorbs the night air as it chills and the silence that is
so elusive during the day. She feels a tap on her shoulder but she doesn’t
startle. She knows it is her muse coming with new poems and words of
encouragement soft aa angel wings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-24366883002499259042018-02-20T14:54:00.000-05:002018-02-20T14:54:01.031-05:00Writing "Looking through Windows"Birthing a short story collection is a challenging yet exciting endeavor. I had written many short stories, a few of them published in literary journals, and I wanted to compile them into a book. A place readers could go to read all the short stories I was so proud of. And so I began the gestation of "Looking through Windows."<br />
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The first step was to gather the stories I wanted to include in the collection. Then, despite some of them having been published. I had to read and revise them all. I had to be sure each word and each scene was perfect. Well, perfect at least in my writer's mind. Then there was the task of putting the stories in the right order. Finally I had a manuscript I could submit. I got some help designing the cover and formatting the book. Then I sought fellow writers as well as former writing teachers to write blurbs for the back cover. Each step a stone in this marvelous process of birthing a book.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Looking-Through-Windows-Howard-Cassese/dp/1500129623/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1519155654&sr=8-25">https://www.amazon.com/Looking-Through-Windows-Howard-Cassese/dp/1500129623/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1519155654&sr=8-25</a><br />
<br />
It was an experience I hope to repeat in the future. You may order the book from the link above. Here is a sample story originally published at <a href="http://www.metromoms.net/">www.metromoms.net</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">HOLE IN MY HEART<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula stared
at the box wrapped in brown paper that sat on her coffee table. She traced the
return address a hundred times with her finger until the bold letters swam
together like oil on a summer day. But it wasn’t summer, and rain dripped down
the living room window like the tears on Paula’s cheeks. When she couldn’t
delay the task any longer she ripped off the brown paper and opened the flaps
of the box. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Bright yellow tissue paper burst into
the late afternoon darkness and from the cloud of sunshine Paula pulled a
love-worn teddy bear with one glass eye, one furry ear and a body matted with
the moisture of kisses and tears. On the bear’s chest was a red felt heart dark
with age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula bit
her lip and leaned back on the sofa. She remembered the last time she’d seen
this stuffed bear over ten years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">*********<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was only
seventeen years old then. She lay on her bed in the hospital waiting for a gift
she couldn’t keep. It had been wet and cold and the room was dark with shadows.
The door opened soundlessly and a nurse with curly red hair walked over to
Paula and handed her a bundle of pink blankets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you want
me to stay while you feed her?” the nurse asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, I’ll be
okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula took
the baby from the nurse and cradled her daughter in her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,
Suzanne,” she said and watched as the baby’s mouth puckered into an O.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She settled
the baby on the bed inside the V of her legs and unwrapped the blankets.
Immediately arms and legs twitched and stretched and Paula stroked the velvety
new skin with the same fingers that would sign away this tiny girl to the
Ambrose Adoption Agency in less than an hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula
couldn’t take the baby home, she couldn’t take care of her and she couldn’t
undo the mistake she had made nine months ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love you,
Suzanne,” she said. “Some day when you’re a big girl I hope you will believe
that. I hope you won’t hate me for letting you go. I’ll pray every night that
you have a happy life.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suzanne
cooed as if to tell Paula that everything would be all right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula laid a
hand on the baby’s tummy to steady her and leaned over the bed where she picked
up a brown paper bag. From the bag she took a soft brown teddy bear with a red
ribbon around his neck and a red felt heart glued to his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is for
you to keep you soft and warm. Take care of him like I wish I could take care
of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula fed
Suzanne her bottle and the baby drank in the warm white liquid. She fell
asleep, her head a presence on Paula’s arm that would never completely go away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The red
haired nurse returned and took Suzanne from her mother’s arms. Paula kissed the
cool pink forehead and the tiny fingers and whispered goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula
showered letting her tears mingle with the hot water that sluiced over her bare
skin. She dressed in jeans and a red sweater and waited for Mrs. Sanders to
come from the adoption agency. When Mrs. Sanders arrived, the blonde-haired
woman with the half smile handed papers to Paula and rested a steady hand on
Paula’s shoulder as she signed them. When she handed them back, she asked a
favor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Will you
make sure that wherever Suzanne goes to live, she takes this teddy bear with
her?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, I can
do that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe
someday they will tell her it was from her mommy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mrs. Sanders
smiled a smile that never stretched to her eyes. Paula turned her head away as
the woman left. The door whispered shut and Paula was alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">********<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In her
darkening living room Paula turned on a table lamp and looked at the tag hung
on the bear’s neck with gold embroidery floss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look inside
my heart,” she read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She touched
the felt heart on the teddy bear’s chest. She lifted the ragged piece of felt
and found a rough hole torn in the bear’s fur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look inside
my heart,” the tag commanded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula’s fingers
obeyed the plea and withdrew a pastel scrap of paper from the cavity beneath
teddy’s heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Mommy,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
know you loved me. I wish I could have stayed with you,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>but
I’m not mad at you. My new family is very nice and I am<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>happy.
I love you. Maybe someday I can see you again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Thank
you for the teddy bear. My new Mommy told me that<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>it
came from you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>Love,
Suzanne<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paula
clutched the bear against her middle. Her second child had lived and died in
her womb. There would be no more babies for Paula.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She threw
the bear across the living room where it slammed into the white brick
fireplace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love you
too. I love you too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-11022265994818488852018-02-16T17:32:00.000-05:002018-02-16T17:32:00.434-05:00Driving Backwards<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">DRIVING BACKWARDS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">LESSONS LEARNED IN A ‘63 CHEVY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was sixteen years old and held a
long coveted driver’s permit in my wallet. My fingers trembled as they adjusted
the rear view and side view mirrors on my father’s 1963 Chevy Impala, it’s
turquoise blue paint job sparkling in the sunshine of an autumn Saturday
afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Start the engine,” Daddy said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I twisted the key in the ignition
and the car shuddered into life. I pulled away from the curb using the proper
hand signals and set off for a practice drive. At the corner I slowed for a
stop sign and heard the familiar admonition from Daddy, “It says STOP, not SLOW
DOWN.” But he said it good naturedly and with the hint of a chuckle. It amazed
me how patient and happy he was, despite the fact that he probably hated
teaching his children to drive more than anything else. He was a truck driver,
and he much preferred being behind the wheel and having control of the car. Any
time we went anywhere with members of the family, he insisted on doing the
driving, even though my uncles were also truck drivers for the Rheingold Beer
Distributor my father worked for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had already mastered the parking
lot of John Glenn High School, so this would be my third trip out on the road.
I maneuvered the car, what my mother called a lethal weapon when cautioning me
on the responsibility of driving, through the streets of Greenlawn. I
remembered to STOP at all the stop signs and to give a wide berth to
pedestrians walking on the side of the road where there were no sidewalks. And
when I forgot to do that Daddy would reach over and steer the wheel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had trouble keeping the car moving
ahead in a straight line and overcompensated when I drifted to the left or the
right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look straight ahead,” Daddy
reminded me. “You already know where the car is, keep your eyesight ahead of
you so you can see where you’re going.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As with almost everything Daddy
said, there was a life lesson here. Keep your eye on the future so you know
what to do next. Know your goals so you can take the right steps on your
journey to your destination. If you know where you are headed, you will
discover how to get there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once out of the neighborhood I drove
along curving country roads with barely enough room for the car in each lane. I
would drift to the shoulder when a car came along in the opposite direction.
But Daddy directed me to stay put, and have confidence that the other driver
didn’t want to hit my car any more than I wanted to hit his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We came to a particularly steep
curve in the road where I began to drift in and out of my lane, not sure how to
control the speed or direction of the car. But Daddy believed I could succeed
at anything I tried. He made me drive through that curve over and over again
until I got it right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Slow down before you get to the
curve and let the pitch of the road steer the car. Then speed up as you enter
the curve to pull the car through.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking back on that I see another
life lesson: When things get hairy, slow down and think, then once you find the
solution to the problem, pick up speed and work your way through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a pleasant afternoon of
driving practice. The car windows were open and the crisp autumn breeze blew my
long blonde hair, and carried with it the scent of rotting leaves, apples and
pumpkins. In between driving directions and hints, Daddy and I shared happy
conversations about the family, about my high school activities and my future
plans to go to college and become a teacher. And, as always, there were the
wonderful stories of his childhood in the hills of Kentucky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once I had managed that curve
correctly several times, we headed for home. Back at the house Daddy told me to
back into our driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t drive backwards,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure you can. It’s the same as
driving forward, only in the opposite direction.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The humor in his voice and in his
blue eyes was a reassuring anchor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With ongoing hints and hand-over-hand
help, I adjusted the car so that I could back into the driveway. I made several
attempts that missed the mark and then I gave up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t do this,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can. And you’re not getting out
of the car until you get it right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His smug smile made me laugh as I
remembered the curve I just mastered and knew I had to keep trying till I got
it right. Eventually I managed to straighten the car and steer backwards so
that the car was straight in the driveway. I shut off the engine and withdrew the
key, handing it over to Daddy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“See,” he said. “Now in the morning
we can just pull out straight ahead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I smiled and got out of the car,
eager to eat dinner, change my clothes, and meet my friends for the homecoming
football game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Daddy’s words come back to me
now, so many years later, as yet another wise and helpful life lesson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes in life we need to take a
few steps backwards in order to move ahead. Maybe make some changes in our
goals, or our steps toward our destinations. Or maybe we need to reassess life
as it is, take a few steps backwards and move ahead in a new and straighter
direction. And maybe, too, we need to speed up once in a while to pull us
through the rough times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every time I back my car into my
parking space at work I remember Daddy’s words and know that at the end of the
day I can move forward toward home, toward my loving husband, and toward my
blank computer screen or blank notebooks, and know my direction lies in my
writing, no matter how many curves I encounter along the way.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-30729275256104278732018-02-01T13:03:00.001-05:002018-02-01T13:03:07.775-05:00Life Book Project 2018<span style="font-size: large;">One month of the year is gone already, but I feel a bit accomplished for a change. Usually by now I have successfully abandoned my goals and dreams before the first of February. One of my goals for 2018 was to sign up for the Life Book Project. This is a year long series of weekly art and self development lessons presented by Tamara LaPorte. You can find information at her website <a href="http://www.willowing.org/">www.willowing.org</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tam is a wonderful teacher and a compassionate supporter of artists and guide in self-compassionate growth. Her lessons are detailed with explanations that make it easy for an immature artist like me to follow. She has also gathered a cadre of art teachers who also present lessons in Life Book 2018. Here is my first wobbly attempt at the first lesson.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcE9DRcDaARINly_mgamm-IMJi3T73HiHBEgeG9YjhkNcDMlLzEklqAcfEcnz6HLAJ_bqypvaSB68-GUDg-iollvhvYrXovLAm0poXpYjlBi2UXs0o1UZaIaFfOxP0101P_dcPO1bsPDg/s1600/garden+fairy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcE9DRcDaARINly_mgamm-IMJi3T73HiHBEgeG9YjhkNcDMlLzEklqAcfEcnz6HLAJ_bqypvaSB68-GUDg-iollvhvYrXovLAm0poXpYjlBi2UXs0o1UZaIaFfOxP0101P_dcPO1bsPDg/s1600/garden+fairy.JPG" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It was a challenge but I have given myself the task of pushing my artistic boundaries this year. My drawings are childish and my painting is unpolished, but for me it's about learning about the fun of the process. I know there will be classes during this year that work in mediums like clay or encaustic or fabric that are beyond my interests but even watching those videos is instructive and inspiring.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I encourage artists of all levels to try out this course. I also encourage those of you who don't believe you have artistic talent to stretch your wings. At the very least check out Tam's website. She offers some free and inexpensive online classes that will let you experiment with a gentle and encouraging guide.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Here are a few more of my meager attempts at art in this class.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-20535462225374802502018-01-29T13:38:00.003-05:002018-01-29T13:39:26.887-05:00A Perfect Day for Imperfect Poetry<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m still trying, and failing, to
adapt to this new climate. Still trying to acclimate to eighty degree
temperatures in January. Southern California is so unlike Long Island where I
made my home for sixty-seven years. But since I tend to be an optimist I see
the value of being able to take a pleasant morning walk in the middle of “winter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
early in the morning the air is cool on my skin and the sunshine is bright and
joyful. I’ve become more committed to my daily walks since I got a Fit Bit that
tracks my every step and buzzes my wrist when I don’t hit my goals. But what
has made my morning walks more enticing and enjoyable is my new interest in
audio books. In the past I would walk silently and though I enjoyed the rustle
of dry leaves and the songs of finches somehow those walks seemed boring. I
would set out to resolve some life issue, or plot issue, and end up thinking
mundane thoughts. Now, instead, I listen to inspirational books and poetry read
by David Whyte or Mark Nepo. Today it was Mary Oliver reading poems from her
collection “On Blackwater Pond.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
value is multi-faceted. Mary’s rich voice recites poems about the miracles of
nature, the flora and fauna that teach us lessons if we get out of our own
heads and pay attention, stop chatting to ourselves and listen to the Mother Nature
as she speaks her wisdom. Observe the earth with the care and warm heartedness
the way Mary does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
poems are perfectly polished gems. I’ve read that she revises each poem up to
fifty times before releasing them to the world where minor poets like me kneel
on the sacred ground she writes about with such reverence. I whisper prayers of
gratitude to her for her perfect poetic gifts, her meditative descriptions of
peonies (“the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart,”)
her picture of swans as gentle boats of white flowers, and a grasshopper with “large
and complicated eyes.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Me,
I write imperfect poems and only make minor changes in words and ideas. I’ve
lost the motivation to attempt to get published and prefer to create poems from
my heart and leave them in the form which they arrive in my soul. I integrate
them into my art and collect these artful poems in journals that one day, when
I’m gone, someone will discover and learn who I am. I will share them on my
blogs like these poems below. My imperfect poetic gifts to my readers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">in the cellar<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">of my heart<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">a secret room—<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">excavate it<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">then you will know me<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">between each eye crease<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">sleep untold stories<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">between each laugh line<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">deep secrets<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-35813549937308402492018-01-27T14:58:00.002-05:002018-01-27T14:59:17.218-05:00Mama's Rings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes a writing prompt can be found right on your own hand and spiced with memories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">MAMA’S
RINGS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Mama
and I sat in the VA hospital waiting room waiting for the doctor. The previous
night Mama had a bout of high blood pressure with its typical headache and
shortness of breath. She had gotten it down with her medication but it was time
to get checked out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Normally
the wait to be seen by a medical professional at the VA was long so we had each
brought a book to read but the books lay at our sides and we talked instead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “Is
there anything you want before I get rid of it?” Mama asked. She had always
been a minimalist but in her late 80s she was even more determined to unload
her possessions as she didn’t want to burden my brother and I with having to
deal with them when she was gone. It was a sad conversation but she’d been
preparing us for our parents’ deaths since I was in high school so I had become
a bit inured to the topic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “Not
really,” I told her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “How
about my good dishes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “No,”
I said. I didn’t like those dishes though I wouldn’t tell her that. “I have two
sets of dishes, that’s enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “CDs?
Books? Videos?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “No,
nothing really. You sound as if the doctor is going to examine you and tell you
you’re going to die tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “He
is.” She smiled. Mom’s attitudes were hard to understand and yet I understood
her all too well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “Let’s
see how it goes. You sound fine right now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “So,
really, there’s nothing you want?”<br />
“The only thing I would want
is your diamond ring. I always loved it and Daddy gave it to you so it means a
lot to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Mama
took off the ring and handed it to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “Not
now,” I said. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. All you had to do was
compliment her on a piece of jewelry or an article of clothing and it was
yours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “No,
no,” she said. Take it. Enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> I
slipped it on my finger knowing it was useless to argue. A week later I took it
to a jeweler to replace one of the diamond chips and have it sized to my
finger. The ring sat alone on my right hand ring finger for two years before
Mama succumbed to pneumonia and passed away in the VA hospital. When I went to
her apartment to sort out her things and talk to her landlord I found her
wedding band on her dresser. I slipped that on my finger along with the
engagement ring and they sit there to this day. Shiny gold and diamond
reminders of the woman who taught me everything I know about life. These rings
bring sadness of her passing but they also make me smile. Simple in their
beauty, the way Mama was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-19291929109284327962018-01-24T16:35:00.000-05:002018-01-24T16:35:01.654-05:00Training Wheels for Writers<span style="font-size: large;">We each remember the day we learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels. It was a feeling of triumph not to be believed. Finally we could venture out into the unknown on our trusted steads and see the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The magic thrilled us though in the beginning it was scary to try and balance on only two wheels while steering around corners and speeding down hills. Writing is like that and so is life. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you write you may need training wheels in the form of craft books and magazines, a community of writers to hold you while you learn to balance, a list of prompts to get you started and perhaps some rituals and routines to ensure a daily writing habit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Life requires training wheels as well. Some guidance to help navigate the chaotic world while keeping a balance in your daily life. Training wheels offered me a prompt for writing as I remembered back to the day I first rode my bike without training wheels.</span><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
TRAINING
WHEELS<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Summer
evenings stretch out like magical hours when you’re seven years old. Dinner is
over and bedtime is as far off as the first star that sparks in the darkening
sky. That was the hour I learned to ride my blue two wheeler bicycle without
the sissy little training wheels bolted to the rear wheel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I’d
been trying and failing for a few days and on this humid night in Levittown my
Dad promised I’d be riding before the street lights blinked on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Running
behind me like a guardian angel Dad held the rear bumper of the bike so I
wouldn’t tip over as I pedaled around the block. It was hard to balance because
I kept looking behind me to see if he was holding me up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Look
in front of you,” he kept saying. “You’ll stay straight and balanced.” So I
kept looking ahead of me because Dad was a man you could trust to steer you
straight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Finally,
after four turns around our neighborhood block, I stopped at the corner next to
our house and tried to catch my breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
know,” Dad said, “you rode halfway around this time by yourself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
wasn’t holding the bike all the way from the other corner! You did it all by
yourself!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
dropped the bike and hugged Dad. “I did it! I did it!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
wouldn’t have to be embarrassed to ride my bike now, afraid of being called a
baby by the other kids in the neighborhood. And the next day I would ride to my
best friend’s house and tell her the good news. She already could ride her bike
without training wheels and now we could ride together for hours in our safe
1950s community. A time when a bicycle was an activity and not just a means to
get from one place to another and then thrown on the ground to wait while kids
went indoors to play video games.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Now
I’m an older woman trying to figure out what the rest of my life is supposed to
be about and I have no training wheels for this last third of my life. I wish
Dad was still here to help me stay balanced. When I look behind me now for
clues to which way to head, there is no tall handsome guardian angel holding me
upright. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Now,
as each summer afternoon more quickly fades into navy blue evening I remember
Dad’s words of encouragement and paraphrase them, “Look behind you. You did it
all by yourself.” And it gives me hope I can do it all again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So go take off your training wheels and dive right into whatever it is that will make your life soar down those wonderful hills with the breeze in your hair, the sun on your face, and a smile to light the future.</span></div>
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Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-5285549359877797102018-01-22T15:54:00.001-05:002018-01-22T15:54:51.041-05:00Enter Writing<span style="font-size: large;">I wake before dawn, the air cool and charcoal dark. Dreams are a quickly evaporating haze and I am surrounded by stillness. Just the way I like my days to begin. I rise and head to my writing desk with a glass of warm water, lemon juice and honey. A few sips. I light two candles; one coconut vanilla, the other a pink salt candle holder. I set the timer on my iphone for ten minutes, cradle a pink quartz crystal in the palm of my hand and meditate in the stillness of a new day holding new promises like delicate blooms in a reed basket. Soft chimes on the timer signal it is time to get to work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I enter my writing zone trying not to predetermine what I'm going to write about. Words flow from the pen, seemingly along a direct trail from heart to hand. It might be a poem, or a childhood reminiscence. It could be a list of things I need to do, or a list of writing and art projects I want to start on. Sometimes it's a musing on the present state of affairs in my heart, my life or in the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've given myself to writing, poems, essays, short stories not by choice but by some universal cosmic design that has overtaken me ever since I was a little girl. I see it as a calling, and a very joyful one at that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I spend about a half hour on the pages of my spiral notebook while just behind me the morning turns silver and birds begin to chirp, hummingbirds flutter their delicate wings and come to sip the sugar water in their feeder. The sky turns pink then yellow then blue strung with gauzy white clouds. My muse becomes restless. She doesn't like daylight. But I am working on gently coaxing her out into daylight so I might have more moments to write. So I might uncover more poems and remember more times of my life to write about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am a writer. I know this and I remind myself of it every morning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-32676659205808593592017-11-16T15:13:00.000-05:002017-11-16T15:13:19.251-05:00A Flash of Fiction<span style="font-size: large;">The days have grown shorter and night falls somewhere around 4:30. I've never liked this time of year. The short daylight hours are depressing and like some folks I have experienced that SAD that slows us down in winter. However, as a writer, there is a plus side to all this darkness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's early morning and I fill a glass with warm water, lemon juice and honey and head to my writing room. I light a vanilla scented candle, cradle my rose quartz in my palms and close my eyes. The silence and stillness of morning calms me and sends me into a writing mood. After a few minutes of meditation it's time to get to work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At present I am working on a self-made course under the tutelage of poet and teacher Lorraine (Bird) Mejia. I have the new collection by Mary Oliver titled "Devotions" and I am using that as a guide. Each morning I open the precious book to a random page and read the poem. I copy down a line or two that strikes my heart and then write my own poems from those ideas. It's a challenge since I generally write poems that just pop into my head. I usually don't like writing poetry from prompts but I love a challenge and I'm enjoying this. I'm also trying to write longer poems that have more meaning. Sort of following the pattern of Mary Oliver's poems that hone in on details of nature and then attach a universal human element or life lesson.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I can't compete with the beauty and depth of her poems but I can do my best and hopefully come out at the end with a new collection of my own.</span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-8145968488714149032017-10-26T23:21:00.001-04:002017-10-26T23:21:30.307-04:00Be the 100th Monkey<span style="font-size: large;">In the early 1950s a group of monkeys on an island was observed and a very important lesson emerged.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sweet potatoes were dropped from airplanes for the monkeys and they began to eat them. However, not liking the grit of the sand on the potatoes, one young monkey went to a nearby stream and began washing the sand off the potatoes. She taught her mama to do the same and pretty soon all of the monkeys on that island were washing sand off the sweet potatoes in the stream.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At a certain point a total of one hundred monkeys were engaged in this potato washing activity and, to the surprise of scientific observers, at the same time monkeys on other neighboring islands began to wash their sweet potatoes too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is speculation as to whether or not this actually happened or if it is a folklore story used to present a point. The point is this: If enough people, or monkeys as it were, engage in a specific activity, soon other tribes will begin to do the same. The lesson seems clear and is especially poignant for the times we are faced with today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hatred spreads because that's what we see. Anger begets anger, prejudice and aggression beget more of the same. The time has come for all of us to take action by engaging in kindness and acceptance, by helping one another and spreading positive messages. Perhaps kindness can beget kindness. If enough of us behave in a compassionate manner maybe, just maybe, compassion can overtake the waves of hatred crashing across our country.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Go out in the world and spread kindness and compassion. Be that 100th monkey who causes a tsunami of good deeds, gentle words, and right thought to spread throughout the world.</span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-63038184180635568172017-10-10T20:24:00.000-04:002017-10-10T20:24:16.221-04:00The Power of PoetryI believe that poetry, both reading and writing it, has the power to fill our hearts, change our minds, and feed our souls. When prose refuses to bend and comply with my expressive wishes I turn to poetry in order to get my feelings on paper. I prefer accessible poems and poets who I can relate to, who see the world in such minute detail that I view the world in new ways and come to think and feel differently.<br />
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Early morning is the most conducive time to write poetry, read poems, or read about poetry. The stillness and quiet, the blue gray light of dawn, a bird singing somewhere on a tree branch. The sun peeking like a rose over the tips of the trees all lend an ethereal feel that sings poetry to me.<br />
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Today I received Mary Oliver's newest collection of poems called "Devotions."<br />
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It is a collection of poems from all of her previous books. I never tire of reading her work. So singularly does she describe the fauna and flora of her native homes of Ohio as a child, Provincetown, Massachusetts as a grown woman, and now Florida as she enters her 80s and continues to be the diva of nature poetry.</div>
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Having all these poems in one book is heaven, and knowing these are favorites fills my heart. Touching the book brings pleasure and I will drink in each poem slowly and with great attention and care.</div>
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I plan to use these poems as launching points for some new poems of my own. She is such an inspiration in all ways. No one I have read ever has described a swan as a boat filled with white flowers, or a blue heron as a Buddha, or the tight green fist of a peony bud as something powerful enough to break her heart as the pink lace like petals unfurl in the spring sunshine.</div>
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I know reading these poems again will enable me to see my own natural environment as the treasure that it is and to be able to write poems that honor each moment I spend outdoors in this world.</div>
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Thank you Mary Oliver for your poems and your astonished attention to nature, and to your ability to tell about it in the most beautiful ways.</div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-29436362260631633112017-10-09T12:41:00.001-04:002017-10-09T12:41:53.938-04:00Rejuvenating My Writing EnergyFor the past few weeks art has overtaken my writing energy. I love art journaling and using visual images to express myself. I also love getting paint all over my hands and engaging in play on the page through intuitive abstract painting. But at heart am a writer and I need to get my head back in that game.<br />
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I did accomplish quite a bit of writing in the online class I took in August, but once it was over I returned to art. Now it's time to write and as synchronicity would have it Melanie Faith is offering a prompted daily writing class through <a href="http://wow-womenonwriting.com/">WOW-womenonwriting.com</a>. It begins on November 1st--just in time. I have a few weeks to reset my mind. Melanie is a wonderful and supportive teacher and I have taken many classes with her in the past, both in fiction and poetry. Her guidance is wonderful and she shares lots of prompts, quotes and inspiration on a daily basis. The class lessons are guided by Natalie Goldberg's book "Writing Down the Bones" which is an iconic writer's guide I've read it twice and look forward to rereading my dog-eared copy when I take this class.<br />
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Let's face it, or let me face it, I don't think writing a novel is in my life. It's an onerous task and I'm too old for it, though I haven't totally trashed the idea yet. It seems any time I open a novel and begin to read the urge to write a novel returns. It sends tiny electrical charges through my nervous system and my veins and I can almost feel my fingers tingle with the anticipation of moving pen across the blank page or letting my fingers tango over the keyboard. I'm destined to write, or doomed to write, whichever way you, or I, wish to see it. It's like breathing to me and to not write is to suffocate.<br />
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I hope to post some of what I write in this class on this blog though I am still not sure of copyright issues or the potential to have a story stolen. Perhaps that fear ignores the fact that who wants to steal my stories anyway. I'll figure it out but I hope my readers will join me on this journey. Perhaps send out a few words to your writer and reader friends to hop on this blog and see what I come up with.Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-18598106667687674332017-08-06T14:08:00.001-04:002017-08-06T14:08:44.765-04:00Writing for 20 Minutes a Day<span style="font-size: large;">I recently enrolled in an online class that requires writing for twenty minutes a day. The class is offered by Story Circle Network which is an international organization that provides support and resources for women who want to tell their stories. If you are a woman who writes I highly recommend joining. The class I'm taking is facilitated by Len Leatherwood who is an amazing teacher. I've taken several classes with her and have always benefited by her encouragement and guidance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This class has helped me to rearrange some of my thoughts about writing. Initially I thought the class would help me do more free writing. I just finished a poetry collection and a chapbook of flash fiction and I wanted a break from such structured types of writing. But in the end the reverse actually happened and it has opened an old but sealed off door for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the first week of the class I used my morning journal time to write pieces to submit. In the process I reawakened my desire to write novels. I had abandoned my novel in order to write shorter works as well as to work more in my art journals. But I know I can never totally stop writing novels. I love to read them and they are fun to write. Yes, at times I don't feel like writing. Yes, at times the idea of writing a 300 page manuscript is overwhelming, and then there is the reality that it will need at least three revisions in order to call it finished. But I'm running out of excuses not to write my novel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have plot and subplots. I have characters. I have a strong outline. And I've written several pages already. Well, many pages.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I concluded is that in the next three weeks of this class it would be an excellent and productive use of my twenty minutes of daily writing if I spent those writing minutes writing the third version of a first draft of this novel that has been plaguing me for seven years. Why not use the time to get this novel back on its feet instead of just writing three pages a day that will go nowhere?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The challenge is set. I need to use this time to write my novel and I hope that those twenty minutes stretch into a couple hours a day of writing so I can get this done.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'll keep you posted. Come along for the ride!</span>Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-30838972292314048282017-06-11T15:58:00.001-04:002017-06-11T15:58:41.799-04:00A Community of WritersWriting is of course a lonely activity. You sit at your desk with silence and solitude your best friends. Closed doors are a treasure and you get settled in, shutting down your phone and disconnecting your internet. You don't want distractions or interruptions, Alone at the keyboard or notebook you let the plots of your novels unwind as you meet new characters who help or hinder your protagonists' goals. Along the way you conjure up stories in the most magical but comprehensible language you can muster and it is a lovely way to spend a few hours a day.<br />
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But eventually you need a community of other writers. When I lived in New York I had such a group. Over a period of fifteen plus years we met one Saturday a month to commiserate over wine and good good. We shared what we had been writing and received gentle but honest critiques. We talked about our personal lives and about the challenges of writing and trying to get published. It was a welcome three hours a month for writers who spend so much time alone.<br />
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We called the group "Tapestries" because we saw ourselves as seven women intricately woven together in this writing journey. Over the years some members came and went but there were three of us who endured for most, if not all, of those fifteen years. We were lucky because we all had a common commitment to writing and to the group. Our writing ability was fairly equal and finally in the last few years we were each writing a novel. A critique group working on a common genre is easier to navigate and more effective. Lucky too that our personalities meshed well, which isn't always easy with a group of women. We got along so well that finally we created our own writing retreat.<br />
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Twice a year we headed to Montauk Point and stayed in the Sea Crest Resort on the Atlantic Ocean in Amagansett. There we experienced the privacy and solitude we needed to write since we were away from family and household errands and chores. There was nothing to do but write and read, and of course eat and drink wine and tea.<br />
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Though three of us shared one apartment and we were not totally alone, we were all there to work on whatever novel we were in the process of writing or revising. There is something about that collective energy of a group of people sharing a similar goal with a similar need for silence and time to work. That energy infuses the writer with motivation to do the work that must be done to get a novel written and ready for submitting to agents or editors. And it worked sublimely. Even chilly and windy walks on the beach added to an ambience that enriched our creativity and our writing.</div>
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Now that I live in Southern California I don't have a writing group. I am looking for one because I want the support and critique of other writers. But it will never be the same as "Tapestries." There will never be that bond among a group of women with like spirits and like commitment to writing. I miss those gals terribly and wish I could fly back to New York once a month for our meetings. If not that than I would love to fly out twice a year and join them in Amagansett. </div>
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Maybe then I could get this novel finished.</div>
<br />Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-38170517491549500832017-05-09T14:27:00.001-04:002017-05-09T14:27:45.834-04:00Writing Begins with YogaI wake at dawn as soft light penetrates through the window blinds mere feet from my bed. Though the idea of staying cozy beneath the sheets is tempting my bladder and my brain have other ideas. The bladder, well that needs no explanation. When she calls I must answer and once I'm up my brain kicks in and going back to sleep is a lost and foggy idea.<br />
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As I brush my teeth and wash sandy sleep from my eyes, ideas begin to tumble along neural pathways and lodge themselves in wormy gray matter. Even if I'm sleepy, and crawling back into bed with my snoring husband is inviting, I push myself to my writing room. These precious silent minutes alone are perfect for a writer. What chances I get once my husband is awake will have to be carved out of the daily grind, or other adventures we take in our new home in Southern California. There is so much to explore and of course shopping, laundry and cleaning are additional critters pushing away delicate hours I could spend constructing poems or revising the new short stories mounting up in my notebook. Then there is the novel outline I've been sculpting for too long.<br />
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So I go to my room and gently close the white door, effectively blocking out the rest of my life. I walk to the window and as gray light turns golden I begin to stretch. I have found that yoga is a way to center myself before I get to my desk. It revs up the pathways in my brain and lets my muscles know they better wake up.<br />
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After stretching each muscle group and opening up my chest and hips with delicate asanas and deep breathing I go into sun salutation, a nice flow of yoga poses that both calm and alert my mind and body.<br />
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Now I am ready to sit at my desk, awake and focused. I begin with morning pages as per Julia Cameron and "The Artists' Way." This not only lets me vent any concerns and get the minutiae out onto the page, it also helps me focus my writing goals for the day, week, month, year. Now I know where I am headed and I have a trail of deadlines to follow to get to the end. Morning pages also allow me to write about my diet and fitness goals. You can't sit in a chair all day and not get up and move. I have to have a plan to keep my body healthy and strong so I can accomplish all these writing projects.<br />
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Beginning the day with yoga helps bring focus and flexibility to my body and to my writing.<br />
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I will add some candlelight and watch the pages and stories mount up as the light gentle flickers and scents the room with vanilla.Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-28282964441211255182017-04-19T21:20:00.001-04:002017-04-19T21:20:33.085-04:00Synchronicity for Writers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Synchronicity comes in a variety of packages and at myriad times if only we are open to hear those whispered voices. For writers and other creatives synchronous events and unexpected connections are the gifts we need to keep going when challenges or deadlines get too much for us. Recently certain connections have made it possible for me to get back into writing mode and set art journaling aside. Oh I'm not giving up art journaling but I'm definitely curtailing it to two or three times a week. Writing every day is more crucial if I'm to meet my goals. So here are the happenings that lead me to focus more.<br />
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Firstly I heard about a woman in the Temecula Valley Woman's Club who has written and published three novels and I am meeting with her on Friday. The value of a partner in this writing life is crucial and since we moved from New York to California I am missing my writing group of amazing women.<br />
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Last night we attended the monthly meeting of the Temecula Valley Art League and I happened to be talking with a woman about possible places I could find a writing group. A few minutes later, during an acrylic painting demo that was truly remarkable, she tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to a man who belongs to a critique group. At first I feared it was the local library group that turned out not to be very welcoming but no, it's a different group. I will try it out to see how it fits.<br />
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Yesterday I discovered that one of my favorite online teachers, Melanie Faith, is offering a novel outlining class in September. Part of me wants it to be sooner so I can get my novel set up to write. But it actually works out fine. I enrolled in the class and I know it will be coming up but in the meantime I will take these few months to finish my two current writing projects.<br />
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The first is a chapbook of haibun and tanka prose that I am writing for a contest in August. I have three online poetry classes over the months of May and June and that should result in enough poems for the chapbook and give me the month of July to revise and properly order the poems.<br />
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The second is a chapbook of connected flash stories that I've been nurturing for a while now. I'm using my present online class in Writing Short with Len Leatherwood to write and get some critique on a few of the stories. And this project, called "Thursdays at Seven," has just given rise to an ongoing writing project I am heartily looking forward to.<br />
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I want to take the main character of these stories and expand it into a novel. The chapbook project will give me time and space to develop her character and her problems and find a direction for the novel. Though the chapbook and the novel will be able to stand alone, the novel will be a direct spinoff from the stories in the chapbook. From there I would like to take three other characters and create novels with them as the protagonists. It will be a romance series with a setting in the vineyards of the North Fork of Long Island. Again, writing these flash stories will give me a chance to build these characters and there stories. A way to get to know where I can go with bigger stories about each one.<br />
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Everything seems to have aligned this week to put me in writing mode and I can't ignore the signals. The colorful paint will have to be brushed aside and replaced with my blue, purple and red pens, and yellow highlighters. The canvases and art journals will be replaced by spiral notebooks and moleskine journals as well as my computer and printer.<br />
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The writing life awaits at the tip of my pen and I am ready for it.Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4048874398353488883.post-58652446707813105952017-04-18T11:44:00.003-04:002017-04-18T11:44:33.966-04:00Is Poetry Dead? Please say it isn't so!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At least once a month my husband and I spend a morning in Barnes and Noble sipping coffee and exploring. He will browse art magazines and cookbooks while I explore books based on my current topic of interest.<br />
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On Sunday we spent just such a morning. When we got to Barnes and Noble soft music was playing, just right for reading, but it soon morphed into something more popular and downright annoying. I want classical or smooth jazz and preferably instrumental when I'm reading. I would also prefer the absence of other people's conversations but it is a public place after all and I have to adjust.<br />
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At various times my focus has been art magazines and books, literary journals, self-help books, inspirational musings or sometimes health and cookbooks. I always spend some time among the shelves of fiction looking for a new author or one of my favorite author's latest release to add to my ever growing pile of fiction. Sometimes my focus is on writing and that may include novels, memoir, short stories or poetry. This particular visit was focused on poetry.<br />
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There were new books by Marie Howe, Billy Collins and Philip Levine to look at. I was also browsing for new poets to get to know and maybe even find a book about writing poetry but alas poetry has been relegated to a small space.<br />
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April is National Poetry Month but apparently Barnes and Noble did not get that memo. It was not advertised and none of the new poetry collections were highlighted. In fact the poetry section of this particular store is hidden in a back corner behind children's toys. It is not part of the literature section as it is in other branches of B and N. And it is small and wanting. There are few if any collections by the likes of David Whyte, Marie Howe, Sharon Olds or other well known poets of our times. And the books that are there are out of order though the little metal label on the shelf says "in alphabetical order." I managed to find two of the books I wanted--"My Lost Poets" by Philip Levine and "The Rain in Portugal" by Billy Collins but I was frustrated and annoyed at the slim pickings offered.<br />
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It occurred to me though that perhaps poetry is dead. Well it surely isn't for me or for the other new poets out there squeezing poems from their veins and trying to get published and known. But it's reign seems somewhat diminished and that disturbs me.<br />
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How can we raise poetry to the level it should be? How can we advertise and increase its importance?<br />
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There are poems of love and protest, grief and longing, birth and death. Each line of poetry written not only displays the poet with her heart and soul wide open but helps her heal, helps her have a voice, helps her reach out and touch other human life forms. We need to send this message out to young people, students and teachers, seniors and scholars.<br />
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Bring poetry back to the classroom but make it real not a chore. Study the newer poets and the accessible poets. Billy Collins and Philip Levine who write of everyday man and his struggle for life worth living. David Whyte and Mark Nepo who touch the soul with words that open you up to the world. Mary Oliver who will show you all the life there is on this earth and teach you to notice it, be astonished by it and respect it.<br />
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The world needs poetry now more than ever. Pull it out of the darkness, out of the corner of the store behind the bright colored toys and for heaven's sake, if you are a book store, at least give a little sign that you are aware it is National Poetry Month.Reneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11794490534290259061noreply@blogger.com0