Anecdote Archives - Writing Like a Dancer

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.

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

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 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.

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.

WRITING YOUR TRAVEL MOMENT II

Posted on April 4, 2015 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Travel Writing, Uncategorized, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Finding Your Muse

Writing Leap #52

Hi Writers,

Back to Paris, this time in my imagination. It’s been hard for me to leave behind all the writing inspiration I find there. And my daily indulgences like pain au chocolat and an afternoon café au lait that fed my writer’s spirit.

Here’s another Paris moment, brought alive back home in front of my computer by a series of photos on my phone. While my notebooks and pens were always in my bag, ready to be scribbled in, I was too immersed at this particular moment in what I was hearing and seeing to take notes. Quick photos would have to do.

We stepped out of our courtyard onto the Rue Dauphine into the round full sounds of a jazz saxophone. It floated down our street from the next corner and the glorious notes slipped around my ears. I was so happy to be here, to be walking single file down this narrow street with tiny sidewalks towards the music.

“Woody Allen,” we both said, “From ‘Midnight in Paris.’”

By the time we reached the corner the deep bass had jumped in, as well as the plunk-plunk of the banjo, the birdcall of the clarinet and the low, velvet sounds of the trombone. A small crowd was gathered around five musicians of a certain age and no one was talking. Everyone was smiling. All eyes were on the five men caught up in the joy of their mellow music. They were clearly seasoned professionals, the music was that good. I stared. The melody, the riffs, the sunshine filled me up. I grinned like a happy child. I felt an increased admiration for Woody Allen, a kinship. A pride to be an American too. Spectators were tapping their feet, clicking their fingers. Some were nodding, Aaaah, Wood-y All-en. Accent on the last syllable. Sensationelle.

Woody Allen, it seems, loves Paris. He sees Hemingway there, and Fitzgerald. Corny? Not for me. So do I.

So Writers, Pull out your phone, capture something great, and WRITE ABOUT IT.

LINKING THE ARTS

A Good Word: Jazzy, as in lively and spirited

A Favorite Book: A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.

I liked it even better the second time. He doesn’t always write in short, clipped sentences.

WRITING THE TRAVEL MOMENT

Posted on March 3, 2015 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Travel Writing, Uncategorized, Writing, Writing from a detail, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse, Writing the Vignette, Writing What You See Leave a comment

Writing Practice and the Muse who is ALWAYS THERE

Writing Leap #51

Hi Writers Out There,

We were recently in Paris for three weeks and near where we were staying there is a papeterie, a tiny store that sells newspapers, pens and glorious notebooks of many kinds. You can find all sizes stacked on shelves, some lined, some plain and my favorite, notebooks with graph paper.

I carried three in my bag and tried my dear husband’s patience when I pulled one out at most street corners to capture a moment or a glimpse of something. “You wouldn’t see this, or hear this, or feel quite this way back home!” I would say.

With your writer’s sensibility to “stories” all around you, notebooks for grabbing the freshness of a moment while traveling are essential. Later when you are back home you can fill out your stories from your authentic first impressions and not just from your memory or photo shot.

So Traveling Writers. Lots of pens and lots of notebooks.

Here’s one of my moments, expanded from a few scribbled lines.

I stared at the Louvre across the Seine. It stretched the length of three quais. Hundreds of beautiful tall French windows. Poor Louis XVI and the thousands in attendance to him whose home this was. Beheaded with his wife Marie Antoinette because of all his high-ceilinged rooms gilded pure gold, his walls covered in silk brocade, his powdered wigs, his delicate lace cuffs–all given to him and him alone by God himself.

A woman draped in a dreary shawl picked something up from the sidewalk and approached me.

“Madame, excuse me, but look at this ring,” she said. “It looks like real gold.” She showed me some markings on the inside of the ring. “Sadly, I can’t wear it.” She began to try it on her fingers to show me. Her accent in French was foreign and she mumbled. I wasn’t sure if she said it was too small for her or that it was against her religion to wear it.

“I want you to have it,” she said and held the ring out to me. “You should have it,” she said. I saw kindliness in her face. I looked at her and smiled back. I had an impulse to accept it and actually took it in my hand.

My friend coughed in her glove and threw me a stern look. “No, no,” she said. “Just put it here on this closed up book stall. Come on. Right on top.” I gave the ring back to the woman and she walked away.

Then she turned back and said, “Please, just a few coins. My children are very hungry.”

My friend and I hustled on. “Do you suppose that was a set-up?” I asked. “Rather,” she said.

But I was wondering what the woman’s name might be. Maybe we should have given her something.

A few days later on a boulevard in another Paris neighborhood, a man leaned down and picked up a gold ring off the sidewalk. He offered it to my husband and me.

LINKING THE ARTS

A Good Word for Writers: Wallop, as in “Writer’s Wallop.” Feeling a moment in your gut and getting it down fast before it loosens its hold.

WRITING AN ANECDOTE

Posted on July 23, 2014 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Literary categories, Literary Genres, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing Muse 1 Comment

Writing Practice and The Muse Who is Always There

Writing Leap #43

Hi Writers Out There,

An anecdote is a short piece, written or spoken. (Short except for those who go on and on. We writers, of course, feel for our readers and listeners and keep our anecdotes bared to the bones.)

The anecdote can portray a situation or something that happened. Fiction or non-fiction. Sometimes it’s funny or thought-provoking or scary. It’s meant to entertain or enlighten.

It usually starts off with “You won’t believe this.” Or, “The silliest (most terrifying, surprising, etc.) thing happened.

So writers, find your anecdote! I’ve discovered it’s great practice for writing prose that is clear, simple and evocative.

Here’s my attempt.

An Adventure in Another World

It was imperative to find a large, long watermelon. The smaller round ones available in the markets would not do at all for my project for my daughter’s baby shower. This entailed carving the watermelon into the shape of a cradle, scooping it out, making two baby grapefruit faces (she’s having twins) and filling it up with fruit salad.

My husband Garrett and I headed to Hunt’s Point Wholesale Market in the Bronx, despite warnings that it’s off limits to the general public. I was obsessed.

The Hunt’s Point Market is a huge complex of warehouses. We walked in-between the 18 wheelers lined up everywhere and found the watermelon people. Up a ramp and an outdoor staircase we came upon hundreds and hundreds of shiny, green watermelons. As well as crowds of strong, busy workers hauling them and calling to each other in Chinese, English, Spanish and maybe Russian.

A grouchy lot. All men. Were they all ex-longshoremen?

I felt a surprising flicker of fear. Me, the only woman.

Someone pointed to Freddy, the manager, who was occupied behind a counter. He barely lifted his head, true annoyance wafting in our direction. We begged. He jabbed his finger in the direction of a huge bin.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “It’s a party for my daughter. She’s having twins.”

What was wrong with me? He didn’t care a fig that my daughter was having twins.

A non-communicative worker climbed up into the high bin and brought down a lovely, huge watermelon.

Freddy wouldn’t accept any money. He waved us off. For a second he actually smiled at me.

Garrett clutched the heavy watermelon to his chest and we walked down the ramp. I held my breath. My muscles tightened too. If he dropped it? There was no way we could go back up there.

Happy Anecdotes Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

A Book I Like

A Good Word

Plop: As in finding oneself plopped in the middle of a new situation

The Photo, dedicated to Freddy

SPECIFICITY IN WRITING

Posted on August 1, 2013 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Description, Personal Writing, The Writing Life, Writing, Writing Description, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse, Writing the Specifics, Writing What You See 2 Comments

A WRITING BLOG About Playing Around with a Story Line in Different Literary Genres and Different Literary Categories

Writing Leap #26

Hi Writers,

Specific details open up larger worlds.

Generalizations do not. And they are no fun to write or to read. They leave no room for free floating associations. Readers glide over them and forget them a second later.

Generic descriptions kill deeper responses to our writing.

A writing teacher once told me, “Don’t write, ‘She wore jeans.’ Write ‘She wore old cut-off jeans that were tight across her tush.” Now that’s a comment that has stayed with me for twenty years.

Specificity. Could this be the golden key that unlocks our imaginations and the imaginations of our readers?

Go ahead, writers. Have a good time with specificity in your fiction, your essays, your descriptions. What details in your world have struck you lately? From a book? A conversation? A film?

The Story Line is:

I Notice, Therefore I Am!

(Please pardon the ridiculous pun.)

Here’s mine.

Did you hear President Obama’s recent speech on racism? Politics aside, he used specifics that for me pierced like a laser.

He was crossing the street one night and passed a parked car with people inside. He heard the click of the locks as he walked by. He was a United States Senator at the time.

I imagine how that must feel and I am sick. I realize this would never happen to me.

He was followed in a store by some stranger, “keeping an eye on him.”

I imagine what this must feel like and I am sick.

He was in an elevator and saw the lady next to him hug her purse in tighter and look away.

I realize this will never happen to me. For several moments I “become” that man in the elevator and I feel sick.

Specificity. It’s the writer’s magic wand.

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

A Poem

Have you ever noticed how poets use specificity instinctively?

William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

You’re there, right?

A Painting

Appraisal, 1931 by Grant Wood

To me this painting is wonderful to look at not only for its artistic merits but for the clarity of the narrative. It’s so evocative of the American farm because of the artist’s attention to specifics. The furs, the hat pin, the jeweled bag, a city lady perhaps. In contrast to the wool cap and rough jacket of the farm boy holding his speckled hen. A few visual details and the whole story is there. The viewer is there too.

WRITING FUNNY

Posted on December 28, 2012 by writ7707 Posted in Anecdote, Art and Writing, Literary Genres, Personal Writing, Writing, writing funny, Writing Inspiration, Writing Muse Leave a comment

To my email subscribers. Click on WRITING FUNNY above for complete blog and color

Hey there Writers and Readers,

Writing funny is funny. If you overthink it–it falls flat. If you try to sound like someone else who is funny, it won’t work. But if you just happen to think of a situation or comment that makes you laugh everytime it pops into your mind–that’s it! Write about that.

Bonni Brodnick is a wonderful friend. She is also a dynamite writer who has a spot-on sense of comedic timing that brings on the big laughs. Bonni is my guest blogger, an end-of-the-year treat for all of you. She writes a very snappy, sassy column for the Huffington Post.

The New Storyline is

Moments

Home For the Holidays: Children Back in the Nest

It was 12:30 on Friday night when the telephone rang. Panic jolted my heart as I picked up the phone. Who calls this late?

“Hi, Mom,” my college-age daughter said.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Laughter ensued. (On her end of the line. Not mine.)

“Everything is fine,” she said. It sounded like her head turned to the side as she yelled, “Quiet!! I can’t hear!”

“Is everything okay?” I asked again.

“Yes, Mom. I finished my final exams and a bunch of friends and I decided to drive home tonight rather than tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

“It’s almost one o’clock in the morning,” I said. “Aren’t you tired after finals?”

“My friends and I thought we’d save time,” she said.

(Although there is never [n-e-v-e-r never] traffic on the roads it takes to get to her school in upstate New York.)

“We took the wrong turn though and we’re lost in the Poconos,” she continued. “But I have the GPS on.”

This was pathetic on a few levels:

1. My daughter is in her senior year and has driven from home to school to home to school about 500 times.

2. She had the GPS on and still got lost.

“Anyway, we should be home by about two,” she said. “Also, it’s sort of late to drive my friends home. Do you think everyone could sleep over? Do we have any extra sleeping bags we could use in the guest room? Would it be a pain to fill up the air mattress, too?”

Just what I was in the mood for at what was now almost one o’clock in the morning.

“Sure,” I said. “Just drive carefully.”

I raided the linen closet for sheets and towels. Sleeping bags were laid out and the air mattress was blown up — (which is what I literally wanted to do with it).

It was well past three in the morning when five sleepy-eyed college kids dragged into the house. Driving through the Poconos at night looked to have been as challenging as their exams were earlier that morning.

But finally, my 22-year-old daughter was home for the holidays. As she fell into my big mamma bear hug, I was brought back to her being my little girl. I looked at the shape of her fingernails and remembered watching how adroitly she picked up Cheerios with her thumb and pointy finger. I remembered the feeling of dropping her off at preschool and my son at kindergarten and thinking, “I have three-and-a-half hours to myself.”

I remember the feeling of having what felt like a broad horizon of time before me.

Life truly flies by in a second. As fast as my children were babies was as fast as they were teenagers, is now as fast as they are in college. It goes by in a snap and a flash.

Embrace the little moments of your children being home this holiday week. Don’t fret at the 100 pounds of laundry they lugged home because they didn’t do it all semester. (Now I know why my daughter kept saying she had nothing to wear.)

Leave their room alone. Don’t get udgy if their suitcases are left unpacked the entire time they are home.

Soon, once again, you’ll have all the time in the world when they take flight and return to school. With your nest newly emptied — once again — you might even find yourself yearning to do their laundry.

(I didn’t actually write that, did I? Cancel, cancel.)

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/bonni-brodnick/empty-nest-home-for-the-holidays-college-children_b_2362659.html

So Writers–give yourself, your computer and others a chuckle or two and write something funny! Didn’t you just laugh about something really hard in the past few days?

Happy Ha-Ha Writing and a New Year full of wonderful writing inspirations and Sparkles.

Warmly,

LINKING THE ARTS

Classic Funny

A Good Word

uproarious, as in can’t-catch-your-breath laughing

Funny Writing from Woody Allen

(feel free not to laugh–funny is different for all of us)

“I think crime pays. The hours are good, you meet a lot of interesting people, you travel a lot.”

“I had a great evening. It was like the Nuremberg Trials.”