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Author Archives: writ7707

WRITING ABOUT OUR ANCESTORS

Posted on March 3, 2022 by writ7707 Posted in Uncategorized Leave a comment

The evil attacks on Kiev and Ukraine are shattering my heart in a very personal way. I am Ukrainian on my mother’s side. My grandmother, Eva Stupki, came to the United States from Ukraine when she was a teen-ager. During the sixty odd years that she lived here she barely learned to speak English (she refused) and she never learned to read or write in English or Ukrainian. She yearned to go back home to Ukraine….but it never happened. She always wore a babushka and I remember she was mostly gloomy and very feisty.

Nanny grew up on a farm outside of Kiev with eight brothers and sisters. One day her father was driving his horse and cart filled with farm produce into Kiev. He never returned. The story in our family was that he was captured by the Cossacks. In the early 1900’s young Eva begged to go to the United States. Her mother only agreed if Eva would marry first and cross the Atlantic with a husband. Her family found her one…a much older, infirm, horrid man. She married him. She couldn’t bear him. When they debarked at Ellis Island she turned left off the gangplank and he turned right, never to meet again.

Once connected with Ukrainians living in Cortland, New York, Nanny met my grandfather, Harry Colton. He was handsome and educated, having been brought up in a Russian Orthodox monastery in Kiev.

They married! She never bothered to divorce the first husband. If anyone dared to bring it up she waved it away wth a dismissive gesture. 

Am I illegitimate? I like the idea.

Be well my fellow writers. Any strange ancestors in your family?

Cynthia 

grandmothers illegitimacy illiteracy immigration Ukraine

WRITERS AND ACTUALLY WRITING

Posted on June 15, 2020 by writ7707 Posted in The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing, writing about empathy, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse 6 Comments

WRITERS AND ACTUALLY WRITING

June 15, 2020

Hi Writers,

I hope you are all staying safe and are well. The despair is deep all around us. I wonder what you might be writing (or not writing.)

I’ve been reading so many creative and sound tips on how to keep on writing, watched lots of great writing webinars, while living mostly in a cocoon. But when I attempt to pull out my writing notebook and favorite pen, I get sleepy.

Emily Hanlon is a wonderful writing teacher I’ve known for a long time. www.emily@emilyhanlon.com

She once suggested gazing deeply into the middle of a flower. Notice the layers of petals, the center that connects them, the colors, the fragrance, any wilting. Notice how it makes you feel.

Then write.

I sat on my garden bench and gazed into this peony for several minutes. Like the petals I began to feel the many layers of myself. It was lovely.

But it didn’t inspire a story. And you know what? I’ve accepted that it’s okay. I have all these big wafts of time and I’m not writing much. And it’s okay.  

 

 

 

 

For me, my days are nevertheless very creative. They are flowing more deeply and at a slower pace. We are surrounded by woods and I spend many hours outside gazing at the tulip trees intertwined with the elms, maples and beech trees swaying in the wind and scraping the sky. The robins and bright bluebirds swoop and flutter. A huge mama turtle inched across the little hill behind our house. I caught a glimpse of the arrogant bushy-tailed red fox trotting at a fast pace not thirty feet from me. It was a gift. He owns the grassy paths too, of course!

I spend hours and hours reading one book after another—literary fiction, children’s classics. They have expanded my humanity. I can feel it. My dear husband Garrett and I have a great marriage-saver. He watches TV news with earphones and I read. Both happy and together.

For those of you who are absorbed in your writing, may your writing muse continue to touch you deeply. For those of us who are not writing at the moment, we are still always writers. Maybe our imaginations are just in the unconscious collecting mode!

Love, Cynthia

 

Public marketing for my middle-grade book, “Witchy Magic and Me, Maggie,”

www.witchymagicandmemaggie.com is more or less on hold. But I have high hopes for Maggie down the road!

 

writing and feeding the imagination writing and not writing writing inspiration

WRITERS AND OUR LEGACY

Posted on March 6, 2020 by writ7707 Posted in Magical realism, Our legacy, The year 2120, Writing about the future 3 Comments

Hi Writers,

Since my middle-grade children’s book, WITCHY MAGIC AND ME, MAGGIE, was launched in November, 2019 I have seen it in the hands of many 8 to 10 year olds. This dream is more deeply gratifying than I ever imagined. The children seem to be responding to the magical realism, the friendship and family issues and to Maggie’s journey.  “I guess I’m really shy,” in the beginning evolves into, “Now I know I’m gutsy inside and out!”) at the end. 

Marketing is challenging. Sometimes my head is spinning with libraries, schools, bookstores, social media, and non-pushy conversations. How excited beyond all excitement I am to learn that Maggie will be among the treasures selected by the Pound Ridge Historical Society for a time capsule to be buried in front of the Town Hall and to be opened in——-one hundred years!  2120.

Here’s a little story from my imagination and some reading about the future.

***

     The two girls teleported to their meeting spot under the ancient oak tree on the village green. Banana, aged nine, folded her new yellow-flowered wings behind her and waited for her best friend, Heavenly, to join her here on earth. Heavenly was ten and lived on the moon.

Banana’s inner messenger told her that Heavenly would be landing in ten seconds.

Whoosh! Heavenly popped down on the grass. She folded her wings in the shape of a moonbeam behind her.

“Hi!”

“Hey back!”

They hugged and half talked out loud and half talked by word-beaming. Word-beaming was silent and they liked it better. They liked feeling each other’s thoughts.

“This is sooooo exciting,” Banana beamed. Here it is!!! She produced a book, a real book from out of the air. They read the title out loud, “Witchy Magic and Me, Maggie,” by Cynthia Magriel Wetzler.

“Written in 2020! One hundred years ago!” Heavenly danced pirouettes among the oak leaves.

“I’ve never touched a book before and I’ve only ever seen one behind glass in the floating museum.” Banana beamed her thoughts to Heavenly, as she touched the book cover lightly.

“Let’s read it!” Heavenly and Banana held the book between their two foreheads and held hands.

“Let’s talk out loud now,” Banana said, so we don’t interrupt the flow of the book. They closed their eyes and listened.

“Oh, Maggie wants to be an artist like you, Heavenly!”

“Isn’t it funny that Maggie calls Grammy Apple magical? I mean, she’s does what we do—normal. What is magic anyway?”

“Oh, her Dad teases her. That feels familiar,” Heavenly said.

“Wow, and Maggie is mean to her best friend, sometimes.” Banana squinted and looked into Heavenly’s eyes. “Tasha was so hurt, but now they made up—like us.”

They hugged again and the book almost slipped from between their foreheads.

“Listen! Maggie’s heart starts beating a little faster when she talks to her brother’s best friend, Ben. Oh! Maggie says she has a crush on Ben. What’s a crush?”

“I guess we can figure that one out.” Heavenly giggled.

“Maybe hearts and feelings don’t change over one hundred years,” Banana said.

And then! The girls looked up. One hundred little songbirds swooped into the ancient oak tree and started singing a sweet song. “Hearts and feelings doooooo not change,” they warbled.

***

Happy Writing everyone! What do you think it will be like in one hundred years?!!

 

 

 

magical realism middle grade fiction writers and their legacy writing about the future

WRITERS AND SANTA

Posted on December 20, 2019 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Editorial Commentary, Personal Writing, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writers and Santa 5 Comments

WRITERS AND SANTA

Writing Practice and Finding your Muse

December 15, 2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi Writers,

Here are parts of something I wrote a few years ago. I felt it strongly then. But now I feel it even more deeply than ever.

I wrote:

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.

You may be awestruck by the bright twinkling milky way in a dark silky 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.

And now it’s Christmas time 2019 and I take such comfort from those long Santa hugs in the middle of chaos.

Happy 2019 and love to your writing from Maggie and me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m so excited to announce that my children’s middle-grade book (ages 8 to 11) had its debut on November 1, 2019.

Visit Maggie and her magical Grammy Apple at www.witchymagicandme.com to find out secrets about Nantucket and Maggie’s magical dog, Blissful.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Imagination and writers Santa Writers and Christmas

WRITERS AND BOOK PUBLISHING

Posted on July 31, 2019 by writ7707 Posted in Writers and Book Publishing 2 Comments

WRITERS AND BOOK PUBLISHING

We can all commiserate about our book publishing journeys. The exhilarating moment when the actual book is in our hands is a feeling like no other. But oh, unless one is very lucky and/or persistent, the torture of submitting to agents and publishers can be discouraging . So many “almosts.” So many rejections. The writer’s mantra, “Rejection is part of the writing process,” doesn’t always make us feel any better when the form letter appears.

I began to realize that unless I decided to publish independently, I would have very little to say about the design of the book, the illustrations and the cover. And I had a very strong vision of how I wanted my book to turn out.

I slid into an easy decision to publish independently. And now it’s happening. With the help of a production company I am making decisions and bringing my ideas to all aspects of the book, beyond the writing. I will have my children’s book ready to market to middle-graders in November, 2019, and I’m calling my publishing company, Saltwater Press.

This path to publishing my book is just right for me and a very doable option for writers with a manuscript and a passion to be published. There are many ways to go about it and much “How To” literature to help.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nine-year-old Maggie Eva Elizabeth Cottle Greenleaf takes on the threats of a grouchy old Cap’n Hatch on Nantucket, with the magical help of her Grammy Apple.

“Witchy Magic and Me, Maggie” is a story from my heart, written as magical realism. All I want is for fourth and fifth graders to relate to Maggie and feel like they can be strong, especially when they don’t feel strong.

 

Here’s the Prologue.

Two Maggies

Maggie Greenleaf admired her art teacher beyond imagination. Her teacher sure could draw. Three quick ink strokes on paper, and there was a perfect whale jumping off the page. Every morning so far this summer, Maggie tucked her art pad and pastels in her bike basket and rode extra fast to the harbor for her outdoor art class, her heart going thumpity thumpitywith excitement. What cool things would the class draw today? The white sailboats? The busy sandpipers pecking for food in the sand?

Maggie and her teacher had the same first name, but Maggie Greenleaf called her art teacher, who was nineteen and grown up, Maggie One. She, Maggie Greenleaf, became Maggie Two. Maggie One was big, bulky and comfy looking. She often wore loose, faded, flowered jeans. So artistic. Maggie One was even preparing for her very own art exhibit at her college in Boston where she’d be going back for her sophomore year in September.

Maggie One never said things like, “Don’t make the lighthouse wiggle, Maggie Two. Lighthouses are straight.” Instead she said, “Yes! You’ve put a wiggle in the lighthouse.”

And on top of all this wonderfulness, Maggie One had looked at Maggie’s drawing of a horseshoe crab crawling out of the water and had said to Maggie, “You have a whole bunch of talent. You are a real artist.” These beautiful words landed in Maggie’s imagination, where they lit up her current dream: her dream that must come true, please, please to be accepted into the Nantucket Art Fair for Adults Only.

Much inspiration and smooth sailing if you decide to take this path, writers!! It’s exciting.

book publishing independent publishing magical realism middle-grade children's books

WRITERS AND TECHNOLOGY

Posted on July 5, 2019 by writ7707 Posted in Literary Genres, The Writing Life, Writing 1 Comment

WRITERS AND TECHNOLOGY

 

Hi Writers,

 

I love my computer. It’s a beautiful little MacBook. It welcomes my writerly thoughts and stories and remembers them. It helps me edit my writing. It organizes my illustrations. How wonderful is that? I open the cover and a picture of a café in Paris appears. I could be sitting there, writing. My computer is my friend.

But not always. Sometimes it acts up and hides the cursor, pops on to an unrelated topic of its own accord or loses drafts for no reason, never to be found again. These are heart-sinking moments.

Here’s my flash fiction story about such times.

 

The mom was sitting in front of her computer, a vase of yellow daisies just touching the edge of the screen. Her head was down.

She heard her ten-year-old son come into her study and quickly dabbed at her eyes and lifted her head.

“Wait,” he said. “What? Mom are you crying?”

“Of course not!”

“You are,” he said. “You’re crying.”

She turned toward him and saw a look in his eyes—so wise beyond his years.

In the kindest, gentlest tone ever and without making her feel bad, he said, “I can help you with that, Mom.” He retrieved the lost document—bing, bing, bing.

Her heart filled. When did it happen that her son took care of her? So loving. So kind.

Her eyes misted over again. This time for a lovely reason.

 

Happy writing everyone and may all your computers behave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


flash fiction the short short

WRITING ABOUT TREES

Posted on August 24, 2018 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Personal Writing, Setting as Character, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing about the Environment, Writing about the natural world, Writing about Young Children, Writing Inspiration 2 Comments

Writing Practice and Meeting up with Your Muse

Writing Leap #76

Writing About Trees

Hi Writers,
 
My writing muse, the dancer Isadora Duncan, continues to twirl softly in my imagination. I’m thrilled by her passion to stay true to her own “Isadora” song, to nurture it, to love it, and then express it in dance.
 
Isadora now keeps company, however, with more of my muses: everything that lives and grows and coexists outside, sheltered by the sky. I have always been in awe of the natural world and now I seek out trees, flowers, shorelines and woodland paths to inspire me. They speak a non-human language. Sometimes I draw them first before writing.
 
Do you love farmlands, leopards, hummingbirds? A fleeting feeling of recognition and connection can morph into a page or pages of writing. For a writer there is nothing more soul-satisfying, right?

I sat for a long time in front of a very old scraggly beech tree in the hush of a grassy glen. The scene and the moment were protected by a low stone wall that looked more ancient than the tree. After awhile a little girl popped into my imagination. Here she is.

         Annie ran and ran deeper into the woods, letting the tears fall that she had scrunched behind her eyes all morning. It was her ninth birthday and Mama was in the hospital.

         She found her tree, so, so tall. She looked up and felt the comfort of the sunlight peeking through its leaves and branches. Her tree must have been here a long, long time, she thought. It was a grandpa tree—bark peeling off, branches that hugged each other, as if they were holding each other up.

         A little beetle landed on Annie’s arm ever so gently. She looked into its tiny eyes. “I love you, little beetle.” She couldn’t help herself.

         A rustle of the wind brought the beetle’s words to Annie. “I know you are sad,” he seemed to say. “I’m sad sometimes too. But you know what I do?”

         “What?” Maggie whispered. She didn’t think it at all strange that the beetle was talking to her. Or that she understood him.

         “I climb on the old stone wall over there, clear to the top,” he said. “And I feel better. The wall cradles me in a kind way.” The beetle shifted positions on Annie’s arm and went on. “Then I climb up the stem of that yellow buttercup by your tree and rest in the middle of its petals. I can tell the buttercup loves that I’m there.” He paused. “Then I look around and notice all the different shades of green leaves that I see in this clearing—bright green, yellow-green, dark, dark green almost black, and I feel the leaves, big ones, pointy ones, raggedy ones, all sending me comfort. They like me.” The beetle turned its eyes towards Annie’s face. “And most important of all I beam love back to them.” The beetle showed his wings and started to fly away. “And when I go back to my home under the tree roots I may still have some sadness but I know I’m not alone.”

         Annie watched the beetle land on a bent blade of grass. Right next to her worries about Mama, she made room in her heart for the comfort of the grandpa beech tree, the protection of the old stone wall, and the friendliness of the butterflies dancing around the soft-colored wildflowers.

Happy Writing Outdoors Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annie’s Grandpa Tree

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sweet book for children and grown-ups

nature trees writing about children writing about nature writing about the natural world

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, 19th 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 historical fiction writing inspiration writing inspiriation writing muse

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

writing and narcissism writing inspiration writing muse writing your characters

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

santa_in_sleigh

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.

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Writers and Santa

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Recent Posts

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