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WRITING STORIES FROM HISTORY

Posted on November 4, 2017 by writ7707 Posted in Fiction Based on Fact, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing Historical Fiction, Writing Muse Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting Up With Your Muse

Writing Leap #75

Writing Stories From History

Hi Writers,

Historical Fiction is a blend of your imagination and historical facts. It takes place in a definite period of time and place in history. Your characters are involved in a conflict or situation that is real for that time period.

The serious challenge for us writers is to avoid historical cliché. We have to do our research on the period and then plunge ourselves back there. You don’t have to spell out the historical facts but they should be hovering underneath your fiction.

So writers. Do you have a moment or place in history that feels curiously familiar? Or that intrigues you? You could take yourself on an imaginary time travel trip back there, absorb what it looks like, feels like, sounds like. Did you meet anyone you liked? Loved? Feared? Then transport yourself back home and write about it.

I’m intrigued by the First Thanksgiving in Plymouth Colony in Massachusetts in 1621. I’m also sympathetic to fourteen-year-olds wrestling with their beliefs. Both appear in my story.

I thought about what might have gone on between the colonists and members of the Wampanaug tribe around that long wooden outdoor table. Did they talk somehow or did they gesture? Did they eat much? Were they suspicious of each other or trying to be friendly? Based on two slim accounts, 32 colonists and 90 Wampanaug feasted together on duck, geese, venison, maybe pumpkin and squash. Nobody knows if the Wampanaug were even invited or just showed up. With five deer. But they were welcomed. Chief Massasoit had signed a peace treaty with the Pilgrims.

Here’s my imagining of that first gathering.

The First Thanksgiving

He would eat standing up. To sit next to an ash-skinned man at a crowded table, maybe have to touch arms, would kill him.

He was fourteen.

He was a ferocious Wampanaug warrior.

And he would stand.

As far away from those moon-colored faces showing all their teeth as he could.

Which wasn’t far. He felt his father’s eyes flashing fire at him.

But even if his father suspected his thoughts he would never see them on his son’s face. The muscles around the young warrior’s eyes and mouth were as still as stone.

His sharpened weapon hung loosely at his side begging him to grab it.

Lots of gunfire this morning from this white settlement. Surely an attempt for a full out attack on his whole tribe. Peace Treaty? Ha. He wasn’t a fool. His blood raged. He would devour them. Chop them up like whale meat. He was well aware of how easy that would be for him.

She brought him a platter of paleface overcooked venison and stupid-looking sqishy cranberries. She was his age, he thought, but mush. Not hard and magnificent like his mother and his sisters.

“Seconds,” she asked? Washed out blue eyes. Worst of all she had yellow straw for hair. A freak.

He just stared.

And then pinched her breast through her starched apron. Hard.

Her mouth flew open and her eyes rolled back and she collapsed to the ground. In a dead faint.

He didn’t have to look at his father to see the gesture of fury directed at him. It said, “Leave. NOW.” He walked back into the woods and mounted his horse. Had his fearless father gone soft? His heart shrank with pain at the thought. No, impossible. He stiffened as he felt the terror coursing inside his body. He leaned forward and put his head on his horse’s neck. “Is it just you and me now,” he whispered in his horse’s ear? He rode on through the woods like that, leaning over with his head resting on his horse’s neck, for a long time, even closing his eyes.

The horse sped up. The young warrior sat up straight, squinted his eyes and clenched his mouth. He was ready for his public shaming, in front of the whole tribe, sure to come.

***

Happy Writing Everyone and Happy Thanksgiving!

LINKING THE ARTS

An Evocative Engraving by Charles Henry Granger, 19^th century, entitled, “The Pilgrims Receiving Massasoit.

Maybe my fuming young warrior is in this crowd?

This post is a rewritten version of my November 16, 2013 post, “Writing Historical Fiction.” I reimagined the character of my young Wampanaug warrior, putting myself deeper into his head and heart. What might this experience felt like to him?

I Like this Book

Thanksgiving by Sam Sifton, National Editor and former restaurant critic for The New York Times. He is very funny. His book is full of tips and comments both culinary and amusing.

***

WRITING ABOUT NARCISSISM

Posted on April 1, 2017 by writ7707 Posted in Character Description, Commentary News, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing, writing about empathy, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse, Writing the Political Mood Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #74

WRITING ABOUT NARCISSISM

Hi Writers,

Wikipedia. “Narcissism is the pursuit of gratification from vanity or egotistic admiration of one’s own attributes.”

Most of us have had some acquaintance with narcissistic personalities, either personally or in fiction or in public figures in the news. Narcissism can reach across a broad spectrum from “self-involvement” to serious psychiatric disorders.

This is rich territory for writers. Do the characters in your story get pulled in by your fictional narcissist? Do they fight it? Do they suffer from it? Each response to the narcissist can reveal deep layers in your other characters. Why are they responding this way? How does this affect the plot?

Here’s my narcissist.

Richard spun completely around when he spotted the sleek orange car parked on the cobblestones near the main piazza. He let out a long, low whistle. “Man!” he said. “That’s a brand new Ferrari convertible!” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his Virginia Tech baseball jacket and peered inside. The dashboard, steering wheel, the whole interior gleamed up at him, an awesome, lustrous saddle brown nest for two.

“Can you imagine winding around the narrow coast road in that car,” said Richard’s friend, Maudie? “Yikes.” She pointed to the steep cliffs bordered below by a ribbon of a road that looked down onto an aquamarine ocean. “I bet you’d give anything to drive that car.” Richard ignored her. He seemed mesmerized.

Their student group had just arrived in Ravello, down from Naples in the Gulf of Salerno on the Amalfi coast. It was the last leg of their tour. Maudie played the part of Richard’s buddy since he had informed her straight out, in front of some other students on their tour, that he and Maudie were friends, just friends, nothing romantic. He had given her a glance that said, “My girlfriend? With a jellyroll behind like yours? I don’t think so.”

Maudie was smart. Richard cut her off every time she talked about medieval Italian history or spoke a few words of Italian. He would just budge in and mimic an Italian accent in English. Richard wasn’t learning a word of Italian. He had trouble with languages, a fact he denied to himself. Only idiots bothered to learn a language they would never use, he claimed.

Richard walked around and patted the back of the orange Ferrari where the huge engine lived. A Ferrari was sheer power with a capital “P.” Ferrari’s ruled the road. And guess what. Richard made damn sure he ruled his universe. His gaze was slightly threatening, his bearing straight and unyielding. He WAS the Ferrari, irresistible, he thought, unconquerable.

A young man with a sweater tied around his shoulders in that nonchalant Italian way came into view. Maudie just knew he lived here, was born here. He walked down the narrow sloping street as sure-footed as a graceful mountain goat. Maybe he lived in one of those big white stucco houses in the steep cliffside gardens high above sea level? “So beautiful,” Maudie thought, as her eyes swept across the cliffs bursting with wild purple orchids and big stretches of moss green olive trees dotted with pink blossoms. She had done her botanical research.

“Hey, that’s the son of the owner of our hotel,” said Richard. He showed his palm to Maudie and traced out a dollar sign. “They have big bucks. His father owns lots of hotels.”

“Ciao,” said the young man approaching the car. He put his hand on the door handle.

“Ciao,” said Maudie. Naturally he had big brown eyes and dark curly hair and a smile full of Italian sunshine. Did her new white jeans make her look too fat? Yes, of course they did. Everything made her look fat. Because she was fat. Not huge fat, but clearly chubby. Richard had actually said in front of the whole group at dinner last night that she should lay off the pasta, ha-ha, and once again her face had flushed humiliation red.

“Uh, ciao,” said Richard. “Really cool car.”

“No Inglese,” the young man laughed, but reached out to shake hands with Richard and Maudie. “Beppe.” He pointed to himself.

“I’m Richard. We’re staying at your hotel.” Beppe concentrated. “Ah, l’albergo di mio papà.”

Maudie nodded and stuck out her hand. “Maudie.”

Beppe swept his arm out to offer a ride in the Ferrari. He put up one finger to show there was only room for one passenger.

Even though Maudie had made an effort to appear carefree and continental and had put a flower in her hair, she made no attempt to get in the car before Richard. “Beppe is dynamite-looking,” she thought. “He would never want to take me anyway.”

Richard pushed her slightly and slid into the low, curved passenger seat. It wrapped his body in utter comfort. He ran his hand across the leather on the side of his seat. Soft as butter. He tapped Beppe on the shoulder. This will be so funny, Richard thought. He pointed to Maudie and acted out being sick to one’s stomach. He pretended to throw up all over the perfect leather steering wheel. He pointed to Maudie’s stomach and shook his head, “No, no.” Beppe shrugged his shoulders, smiled at Maudie in an embarrassed way, and pushed the red thumb start button on the wheel.

What a steering wheel, full of controls and the Ferrari insignia, a yellow and black prancing horse. “Cool, so cool.” Richard said. They buckled up and took off, a lightning bolt skirting around the busy piazza. Maudie heard the initial roar of the incredible motor settle into a low hum of contentment. Richard waved at Maudie without turning around. She heard him shout, “Sorry Maudie!” I bet she wishes she were me, he thought. Within ten seconds he had completely forgotten about her.

***

Richard is a real narcissistic jerk, right? He wants to ride in the Ferrari and he WILL ride in the Ferrari. Why? Because this is what he wants, that’s all. He humiliates Maudie just because he can. Empathy is not an option for him. Her feelings? He has no idea about them. Besides, Maudie’s intelligence may show him up at any given time.

Narcissistic characters in your stories can sneak into the lives of your other characters and cause chaos, puffer fish that poison unsuspecting diners. We dislike characters so blatantly self-absorbed and cruel. However, authentic antagonists deepen our story. We just have to watch out that our narcissistic character doesn’t become one-dimensional, an unbelievable caricature. So maybe Richard could rescue a wounded alley cat, bring him to an animal shelter and not tell anybody about it? Then we ask, does he do it to feel magnanimous or does he just do it?

Go ahead writers! Create your narcissist. He or she will open up a treasure chest of possible reactions from your other characters. Maybe Maudie goes back to the hotel and organizes a group of her fellow students to shun Richard? Or maybe a friend helps her to really understand that her humiliation in the piazza was Richard’s problem and not hers? Let’s have Maudie get her ride in that sensational orange Ferrari. Let’s have her laugh with her friends and fall in love with Italy.

***

Doing the research for a piece of writing is for me one of the best parts of the whole process. Thank you to my sister, Laurie, an enthusiastic connoisseur of Italy, for giving me a picture of the geography of the area. Thank you to my son, G.J., a passionate car person if there ever was one, for deepening my appreciation for the incredible Ferrari. Our “research trip” together to a Ferrari automobile showroom to see the actual car, chit-chat with a salesman in love with these cars and get caught up in the Ferrari mystique was more than fun.

And finally, I have been floating around in a semi-haze of writer’s block for three months. The current political news, and my writer’s obligation to respond to it (indirectly), snapped me out of my creative fog. I am so happy to be back. Thank you New York Times. You are definitely not fake news.

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

Images

Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, 1890

Look what happened to poor Dorian Gray, the quintessential narcissist.

WRITERS AND SANTA

Posted on December 26, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Uncategorized, Writers and Santa, Writing, Writing Muse, Writing Time 1 Comment

Writing Practice and Finding your Muse

December 26, 2016

Hi Writers,

Don’t give up on Santa quite yet! He doesn’t just disappear on December 25th.

Santa can be anywhere. He is in a gift from someone who picked it out for you knowing exactly why you would love it. My sister gave me a book on the history of the ballet. I’m a dancer. That book will be on my night table where I will get lost in my magical world of dance for many months to come.

Here’s a Santa moment that makes me slightly uncomfortable to share. I’m basically shy, but aren’t we all in some way? (Except for D.T.) A friend said they were happy around me. Oh, wow. That felt like a gift alright and inspiration to tune into the specialness of others three times over. And tell them. That’s how Santa works.

You may be awestruck by the bright twinkling milky way in a dark silk sky. Your eyes open wide. The person with you sees your starlit gaze and is taken by the infinite dots of light even more. He then passes on the moment to someone else. I think that’s how Santa works.

Hey Santa Claus, I’m so grateful you hang around all year. You are my muse. Let’s not ignore him writers. He’s there for us.

Happy 2017 and love to your writing.

WRITING SOMETHING CRAZY

Posted on December 12, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Character Description, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #73

Hi Writers,

Sometimes a character may feel compelled to do something that he or she thinks is a little crazy. Your readers may not expect this from your character but the unexpected always makes them turn the page faster. The caveat is, however, that “the crazy” probably shouldn’t come out of nowhere and thus make your character unbelievable.

A little “crazy” is one way to add layers to your character and avoid one-dimensionality.

Mike was a regular guy. People liked him. He smiled, said “hello” easily and never got too ruffled when things didn’t go his way. He wasn’t one to get overly excited by, say, a bright blue sky or the flowers in his wife’s garden. Oh, he admired the garden from afar. He just didn’t want to get in there and dig.

What Mike loved was his family and his work. He trained engineers. His young daughter gave him a bunch of zinnias from the garden to put on his desk at work. They were yellow, orange, pink and one big red one. The red one caught his eye right from the beginning. As the zinnias began to wilt he threw them out one by one into the wastebasket. But not the red one. It was as fresh as when his daughter had picked it three months later.

Mike could not get over the tenacity of this flower. He began to talk to the zinnia, privately, in his head. “You are something,” he thought. “What stick-to-it-ness.” And as the weeks went by and the flower stayed red and perky Mike whispered to it, “I love you.”

When the zinnia finally began to wither after four months of red radiance Mike accepted that the flower needed to rest now. This zinnia had almost made it to Christmas!

Mike snuck into the garden making sure nobody spotted him. “This is, of course, totally nuts,” he thought. He buried the red zinnia in a clump of dirt in the corner of the garden that had been put to bed for the winter. After months of loving the red zinnia, putting it to rest in the garden seemed right. He felt good. Really good. He just wouldn’t tell anybody, that’s all.

Happy Writing Everyone!

LINKING THE ARTS

Literature

This is a quote from the 19^th century American poet, Walt Whitman. It’s from the poem “Song of Myself” included in his work “Leaves of Grass.”

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.”

I think Walt Whitman explains Mike and perhaps all of us.

The Visual

Three different responses to a red zinnia

WRITING THE POLITICAL MOOD

Posted on November 17, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Character Description, Fiction Based on Fact, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing, Writing about Young Children, Writing Emotional Moments, Writing Historical Fiction, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse, Writing the Incident, Writing the Political Mood Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #72

Hi Writers,

As writers we are in a unique position to express how we are experiencing events in the current political climate through fiction. Fiction enables us to make our point indirectly through showing rather than telling. Showing is always more powerful and immediate.

This new edit of my Thanksgiving post from last year sprung from my gut reaction to the current mood concerning women in our country.

The First Thanksgiving

He would eat standing up. To sit next to an ash-skinned man at a crowded table, maybe have to touch arms, would kill him.

He was fourteen.

He was a ferocious warrior.

And he would stand.

As far away from those moon-colored faces showing all their teeth as he could.

Which wasn’t far. He felt his father’s eyes flashing fire at him,

But even if his father suspected his thoughts he would never see them on his son’s face. The muscles around the young warrior’s eyes and mouth were as still as stone.

His weapon hung loosely at his side begging him to grab it.

Lots of gunfire this morning from this white settlement. Surely an attempt for a full out attack on his whole tribe. His blood raged. He would devour them. Chop them up like whale meat. He was well aware of how easy that would be for him.

She brought him a platter of paleface overcooked venison and stupid-looking cranberries. She was his age, he thought, but mush. Not hard and magnificent like his mother and his sisters.

“Seconds?” she asked. Washed out blue eyes. Worst of all she had yellow straw for hair. A freak.

He just stared.

He pinched her breast through her starched apron. Hard.

Her mouth flew open.

He didn’t have to look at his father to see the gesture of fury directed at him. It said, “Leave. NOW.”

As he turned to go the young girl took the platter of venison and cranberries and dumped the whole mess on his head. And then she did something surely God would punish her for. She gave him a hard pinch on his behind. He let out a roar, looked at his father and willed himself to stand stark still.

The girl walked back to her mother, sure of step and mouth set. She sat down at her place at the Thanksgiving table and forced herself to breath evenly. In a quiet voice her mother said to her, “Good.”

Last year the young girl fainted. That was last year.

Happy Writing and Happy Thanksgiving all you writers out there,

WRITING ABOUT EMPATHY

Posted on October 30, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, writing about empathy 1 Comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #71

Hi Writers,

Does your character have empathy? Does he or she have to learn, maybe the hard way, what it feels like to walk in another person’s shoes? Or is your character a naturally sensitive soul? Showing empathy or the lack thereof is one way to portray your character’s deepest self.

Here’s my story where a group of children are shocked into understanding what it feels like to be different.

Trick or Treat

The wind was fluttering the red leaves on the big red maple tree in front of mean old Mr. Mooney’s house. Whoosh! The setting sun cast creepy shadows along the walk to his porch. It was Halloween and the shadows were extra creepy, like long arms that could reach out and GRAB YOU!

“Shall we risk it?” asked a small boy in a big Batman cape. “My mom says he’s a witch, only he’s a man.”

“I say let’s do it,” said a pint-sized astronaut, safe behind his helmet.

“You know he has the best candy on the street,” added the cowboy, fingering his toy gun.

They marched up to the porch.

“Can I come too?” said a small girl in a Hillary Clinton mask and a sweatshirt that said, “Girls Rule.” Oh, how she wished her voice didn’t sound so shaky. But she was Hillary Clinton and she was going to ask, even though these boys just today had called her “freak” again.

“No way,” hissed Batman.

“We don’t want you around, freak. Who has one big ear and one little ear?” said the cowboy.

“Yeah, so weird,” said the astronaut.

The front door opened. Mr. Moody! “Come on up here, Miss Hillary Clinton. No, no, you boys just wait out here on the porch.”

“Well, well, Miss Hillary. Shall we give those boys the what-for?” He mumbled a few words and opened the door.

“One of my ears just grew bigger than the other!” said the astronaut.

The cowboy’s hands flew up to his ears. “Mine too!”

“And mine!” said Batman.

“So, you three.” Mr. Moody shot a terrifying look at the boys who were clutching their ears, mouths open. “Your ears are going to stay like that for five days. After that, I just think you might have something to say to Miss Hillary here.”

The boys suffered terrible taunts about one big ear and one little ear. Their friends wouldn’t sit with them at lunch and held their noses when any one of them passed by. Even the teachers snickered about them behind their backs.

Five days passed and the boy’s ears went back to being the same size. “We’re sorry,” they said to the little girl. “It sucks to be different. But we’re your friends now, for always. We want you to be brave.”

The little girl smiled at them and patted her “Girls Rule” sweatshirt. She was never taking it off. She and magical Mr. Moody were now best friends forever.

***

Happy, Spooky Halloween, Writers,

LINKING THE ARTS

Word: The little girl with one ear much bigger than the other wishes in her own way that another word for empathy could be spontaneous kindness, the great equalizer.

WRITERS AND POLLYANNA

Posted on October 2, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing, Writing Emotional Moments 1 Comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #71

WRITERS AND POLLYANNA

Hi Writers,

Pollyanna is a novel by Eleanor H. Porter written in 1913. It is a classic of children’s literature and there are several sequels. In her books Pollyanna found something to be glad about in every dire, sad, or unpleasant situation. In our modern collective unconscious a “Pollyanna” is for some a “goody two-shoes.” I, for one, do not consider myself to be a “goody two-shoes” by any means but I am immensely grateful for my flourishing, inner Pollyanna.

Think of the “Pollyanna” possibilities for your characters! A young man exasperated with his wife’s sunny disposition, a little girl in a hospital comforted by the “glad game,” or a grandfather who refuses to fill his life with negativity and makes the conscious decision to be content and enjoy his moments.

Here’s my most recent Pollyanna moment.

What to do with my set of totally outdated World Book Encyclopedias from the 1960’s, packed away in eight cardboard boxes? My husband and I simply had to clear out our overflowing closets. Strand second-hand bookstore in New York City didn’t want them. “Too many around,” they said. Ebay was not an option. Too heavy to ship.

Goodwill said they would take them. There may have been another place to bring them. A collector? But we couldn’t find one.

We pulled into the parking lot at a Goodwill Center. I felt horrible. The Goodwill worker ripped open the boxes and dumped the books into big bins. “But they’re supposed to be together!” I said. The worker shrugged.

I closed my eyes. My father, passed away a long time now, had given me those books. A glad, deep feeling of love dashed into my memory and my heart. A Pollyanna moment, triggered by sounds of the cartons ripping. I remembered and felt how generous and loving my father could be. I felt that love rush up again and I was enveloped in a warm, safe Daddy cocoon. Lucky me to feel it so immediately once more.

The memory segued into a moment when I was two. My father, who later built a successful business, was a salesman on the road at the time. It seems he skipped lunch to buy me a teddy bear, having enough money for only one or the other. I imagine his expression was the same excited one as when, many years later, he brought me Supplements to that 1965 edition of The World Book.

Plop. Into the dumpster bins. Thank you Pollyanna for turning this unpleasantness into sweet, deeply felt memories.

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

Art

A statue of Pollyanna in Littleton, New Hampshire in honor of Eleanor H. Porter who lived there.

I really love Pollyanna.

Words: Optimism and Pessimism and all the gray shades in between can figure in the core of your characters.

WRITERS AND MEMORY BEAMS

Posted on September 21, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Personal Writing, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing about Young Children, Writing Emotional Moments, Writing from a detail, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #70

Hi Writers,

You know how the flash of a memory can suddenly bloom in your heart, full of feeling and clear visual details? These beams from the past can illuminate rich, loamy soil for story-growing. Another source of inspiration!

For me, the moment comes unbidded, unlike moments I may search to remember. That’s the beauty of a memory beam. It’s our muse whispering in our ears from deep down. I’ve found the moment usually carries a lot of emotion. I’m there. I feel it in my pulse.

I’ve even wondered if these memory flashes appear to writers for a reason. To push us to write? To understand? Or for me, this time, to relive a loving closeness between me and my then six-year-old son, G.J., thirty-three years later.

G.J. and Mama in Vermont. As it Really Happened and Brought Back by a Memory Beam

The long farm table in the small country dining room was set at one end for just four people; G.J., me and the husband and wife proprietors of a small inn near Sugarbush, Vermont. We were the only guests, there to ski.

Was that LASAGNA I smelled coming from the kitchen?! I looked at the wife as she brought in the warm fragrant dish and set it down in front of G.J. “Your Mom told me this was your favorite, favorite thing to eat. I made it special for you.”

I looked up at her sweet face. “How kind and wonderful. Thank you,” I said softly. The atmosphere called for softness. G.J.’s big brown eyes grew wide and his smile was sunshine on his adorable face. (I’m allowed this. I’m his mother.)

“Wow,” He said. “That’s a lot of Lasagna! Thanks!”

And later, “She doesn’t even know me and she made me Lasagna.”

After a day of skiing we tromp back into the Inn covered with snow. We had left a copy of “Charlotte’s Web,” a book we are reading together on the night table. The husband says, “I saw your book, G.J. Hope you don’t mind that I read it. One of my favorites from when I was your age.”

This tickles G.J. who was feeling so good about his runs down the mountain. He was a great little skier, advanced for his age, and I was hoping he believed me when I praised him and that he really felt it. Like most children, he had a little shy streak. I looked at him taking off his boots. I felt our special time together.

At some point the doorbell rings at the Inn and the couple greet friends. “Evening Brother John. Evening Sister Mary. Come in!”

Perhaps they were Quakers. I don’t know. But they created an environment where G.J. and I were so happy. I love thinking of them. I cherish the memory of our trip to Vermont, just G.J. and Mama. Thank you, my muse, for bringing it back in such a gush.

So Writers. If you like, create a story around a spontaneous memory. As it happened or as inspiration for your fiction. You never know when a memory beam will light up an idea. Here’s to your very own muse,

LINKING THE ARTS

Books: Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White

Sharing a book with a child is an act of love.

Word: Kindness. As shown by the gentle innkeepers in Vermont. The spontaneous whoosh that flows out golden and can make a child feel much loved.

WRITING ABOUT CHILDREN

Posted on August 10, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Uncategorized Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #69

Hi Writers,

WRITING ABOUT CHILDREN

Writing fiction can be a heart-expanding journey. With all characters that we create, we succeed most when we are able to inhabit their internal world. With children we are challenged to hop back into their experience and bring them to life as they really are, not seen through the eyes and pen of our adult selves. Fictional children, to come across as authentic, require that we go right to a most sacred part of ourselves, our empathy, our ability to feel another person deep down. If we can become our fictional child, without looking down on her because she is shorter, that child will come alive in our stories.

So writers. Create a child and have a wonderful time, “scoring that home run with the older kids.”

Here’s mine.

Emma snuggled in between her Grammy and Grandpa. It was a magical time to be out, really late, like 10 o’clock. Nice music floated out of the gazebo in front of them and the summer moon looked pretty in the dark sky.

Emma clutched her doll, Arabella Ann and gave her a quick kiss. She looked over at Daddy’s sad face. Tears flooded Emma’s eyes again and the ache came back. She held Arabella Ann even tighter against her chest. Where was Mommy? Why had she left? She’s been gone since Tuesday. That’s three whole days. Emma let herself sink into Grammy’s arms and felt herself shaking. “Shhhh, my darling,” Grammy whispered. Her voice cracked and Emma heard the pain. “We just don’t know why she went away.”

Emma’s eyes followed a couple dancing on the grass. She got off Grammy’s lap and walked with Arabella Ann over to the gazebo and the music. Clutching her doll close, she began to dance and twirl around and around and around. She stopped twirling. “I’m your Mommy, Arabella Ann, and I will take care of you forever and ever and not leave. Even if you are a bad girl. Well, I’ll be mad if you are bad, but only for twenty minutes and then I will hug and kiss you and make you birthday cakes even when it’s not your birthday.” Emma ran back to Grammy’s lap and held on to her hard. She and Arabella Ann fell asleep.

May your muse be bright,

LINKING THE ARTS

Arabella Ann

Books

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

Harry Potter has grown up. We struggle along with Albus, his youngest son, who hates being a wizard like his famous father. We become Albus, fighting to discover who he is and we feel a personal thrill when he triumphs.

WRITERS AND THE ENVIRONMENT

Posted on July 13, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing, Writing about the Environment, Writing Emotional Moments, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse, Writing the Vignette 1 Comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #68

Hi Writers,

Delve into how your character relates to the natural world and see how you can evoke deeper aspects of his personality. Maybe he’s an obsessive recycler, a passion that comes from his relationship with his mother who refused to recycle anything. Or maybe your character scoffs at the idea of global warming because she’s a very conservative thinker. As with other grand issues like religion, love relationships, power struggles, your character’s take on the environment can reveal much about how he maneuvers through your story.

Here’s mine.

Gilly was happy to be an assistant counselor at Junior Environmentalists Camp for a hundred reasons. She loved that the campers and staff picked their way through the woods like she did, breathing in the oxygen offered by the trees, breathing out carbon dioxide to send back to them. She loved using electric lights and computers sparingly. She loved teaching her little campers not to pick the wildflowers. “Enjoy them where they grow! Aren’t they beautiful?” She was part of a huge commitment to revere the environment and the feeling of belonging to this little community assured her that she measured up, that she was on the right side of things and that consequently she was an appealing person.

Gilly also loved Jake, a fellow counselor. They shared the same birthday, July 29, when they both turned fifteen. They gave each other “Surviving in the Wilderness” manuals for presents. They had both read The Legacy of Luna, The Story of a Tree, a Woman and the Struggle to Save the Redwoods.

But Gilly had a shameful secret that burned in her stomach and chest. She was terrified of bugs. She couldn’t help it and she was in constant fear that some one would find out. One day in the woods with Jake and their campers she felt something crawling up her leg. Ugh! Involuntarily she slapped off a large, green, pokey thing, Ugh, and then squished it with her sneaker. She looked down. It squirmed. Then it didn’t. Dead.

“Oh,” she said. She felt her mortification pop out all over her. “I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“That was bad, Gilly,” Jake said backing away from her. “What did that bug ever do to you?”

He turned his back and walked away. The campers followed him. First they looked at Gilly in disbelief, then, Gilly could sense it, with disdain.

She was a fraud. For sure Jake thought so now. She had no business being in this camp. She was shallow compared to every other person here. Gilly flushed red and wished she could melt right into the leafy path and disappear.

End

Note: I could never just leave this story here. I would have Gilly find her gumption and most of all her sense of self-worth some other way and she would triumph inside herself!

Happy summer writing everyone. A perfect time to find your muse outdoors somewhere.

LINKING THE ARTS

Julia Butterfly Hill lived on a platform in a redwood tree for 738 days to protest the clearcutting of a grove of giant redwood trees in California. And then she wrote about it.