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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 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

WRITING SOMETHING CRAZY

Posted on December 12, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Character Description, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing 1 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!

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LINKING THE ARTS

Literature

This is a quote from the 19th 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

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red-zinnia-beth-kluth

  

writing crazy writing inspiration writing muse writing your characters

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,

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Writing the Political Mood

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,

Autograph

LINKING THE ARTS

Arabella Ann

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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.

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writing about children writing inspiration writing life writing muse

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.

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LINKING THE ARTS

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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.

writers and the environment writers and their muse writing inspiration writing life writing outdoors

WRITERS AND FAMILY MEMORIES

Posted on May 29, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Uncategorized 3 Comments

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your MUSE

Writing Leap #67

Hi Writers,

WRITERS AND FAMILY MEMORIES

One place our muse seems to like hanging out is anywhere she can hear family stories. A casual comment about an ancestor heard around the dinner table sets her imagination flying.

We can pluck these stories and hazy memories and let them creep into our writing. We can use them for writing practice, just to try and make beautiful sentences, fictionalize them or create a longer piece.

Little snippets of writing practice every day can teach us what writing is all about—even when we are already writers. Especially when we are already writers. It’s writing for the joy of it. It’s sinking so deep into the moment and swimming around in our unique selves to bring up words that only we can put together in quite this way. It’s when one o’clock becomes three o’clock in five seconds.

Here’s my ancestor, fictionalized

The idea of buildings that scraped the sky and New York, America, made seventeen-year-old  Eva’s heart flutter. It was 1909 and of course her parents were not about to let her embark on such a journey on a ship stuffed with who knows what kind of people with possible diseases. She could just stay right here in Ukraine on the farm with her nine brothers and sisters.

“But Mama, Papa, please! I have an idea. I’ll marry the pig farmer (so old and smelly) like you want me to. I will. And he can take me to New York!”

So Eva and her smelly husband boarded the ship and sailed for America. Eva couldn’t stand him. His beard was scraggly, like a drenched squirrel’s tail, but she had skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty on her mind. With the flaming torch.

When Eva and her scraggly-bearded husband walked down the plank at Ellis Island and their immigration papers were in order, she took a sharp turn to the left and he took a sharp turn to the right. They never saw each other again. Eva went to distant relatives in upstate New York.

A month later Eva said to Harry, her handsome young man from Kiev, brought up in a monastery, “Yes, Harry, I’ll marry you! We’ll live in New York City. Next to the Flatiron Building on Fifth Avenue.”

She wasn’t at all troubled by the fact that she was already married. So what! It’s America!   

Happy family-memory-exploring, writers! And give yourself the gift of daily writing practice. Just snippets. That’s enough.

Cynthia

LINKING THE ARTS

Eva and Harry in love in America

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Eva crossing the Atlantic with smelly husband

Wonderful word: dreams, as in follow them one way or another. Like Eva, don’t let them slip away.

WRITERS, READERS AND PEEKING INTO MOMENTS

Posted on May 7, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Uncategorized Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Keeping up with your Muse

Writing Leap #66

Hi Writers and Readers,

As writers we read for many different reasons. One is the delight of peeking into moments we may never experience. Here are such moments shared by my now daughter-in-law, Margaret Wetzler–with Prince! 

I WAS PRINCE’S PRIVATE CHEF

INGLEWOOD, CA - FEBRUARY 19: Prince performs live at the Fabulous Forum on February 19, 1985 in Inglewood, California. (Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)

© Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images

By Margaret Wetzler

As seen in foodandwine.com

As told to Gabrielle Langholtz

Once he wanted a chocolate fountain but when I asked where to put it, he looked at me, waited a beat, and said, “I do the music.”

         I was barely out of cooking school when I heard that Prince was looking for a private chef.

         It was 2008 and I had moved to LA right after graduation with dreams of breaking into food TV. Then Andy, a friend of a friend who occasionally cooked for Prince, told me the singer sought someone 24-7. Until cooking school, I’d lived on take-out. Now I had about three weeks of real-world experience under my belt. I was like, “No way.”

         “You should do it!” Andy said. “I bet you could split it with someone. Just try out!”

         That week, Prince was hosting an after-Oscars party and Andy roped me in. A pescetarian at the time, Prince loved Asian flavors and, since I’d tested recipes for Williams-Sonoma Food Made Fast: Asian (by Farina Kingsley, my teacher and mentor) I wrote a quick menu. The party started at midnight and music blasted down the hallway into the kitchen. Stevie Wonder was there. I cooked potstickers for hours on end. Salma Hayek ate a Vietnamese summer roll right off my cutting board. I thought, “Maybe I can do this…” At 4:30 AM, I met with Prince’s assistant in his giant office. I told her I’d never been a private chef but that I’d love to try. She said they’d call me.

         A few afternoons later my phone rang at 3:30 PM. Prince wanted me to do a tryout. In two hours. And serve three courses.

        I ran to buy ingredients—including salmon filets and a bottle of Soy Vey marinade, which I stealthily poured into an unmarked glass bottle so it looked homemade—and raced back to Prince’s. He, his manager, and his girlfriend sat at the kitchen counter to watch me cook, while Prince explained that his next record deal ought to be better than Madonna’s. Inside my head I was like, “Don’t listen! Don’t look at them! Don’t fuck up! Just make it taste good!”

I cooked teriyaki salmon like I used to make for myself all the time (with that Soy Vey assist!) with grilled asparagus on the side, plus a hot-and-sour soup that I’d literally never made before and a coconut sorbet with fresh mango for dessert.  It was terrifying.

Prince had guests about every other night— Orlando Bloom, Cornel West, Kristin Chenoweth. He kept a floor-to-ceiling stack of Jehovah’s Witness Bibles and gave one to every guest.

The assistant had warned me that Prince eats like a bird, but he finished everything and asked for seconds. I drove home so proud. Even if I didn’t get the job I’d have a story to tell my grandkids someday.

A few days later I was en route to a wedding in Vegas when Prince’s assistant called and said, “You got the job but you can’t split it, he only wants you. You have to be on call 24-7. Oh and by the way – he’s nocturnal. And you start tonight. Ryan Seacrest is coming to dinner.”

         I turned around, missed my friend’s wedding, threw my suitcase into my apartment, grabbed my chef’s jacket, and ran to Whole Foods with no idea what to make.

        An hour later I was back in Prince’s kitchen cooking miso-glazed sea bass over a “noodle pillow” – something I had made exactly once before, back in cooking school. But I stupidly made the noodle pillows first and they’d gone completely chewy by the time I served the dish. It was an epic failure. I served it to Prince and Ryan Seacrest myself, trying not to sweat, carrying it down a long hallway to a very formal dining room. For dessert I made ice cream with a sugar crisp, the kind you liquefy and then pour onto a Silpat baking mat to cool. But I made it too thick and watched Ryan get his teeth stuck in it. I thought I’d be fired on my first night.

Instead, Prince’s assistant texted me a little while later that “P” was downstairs (practicing on the full, in-house stage) and wanted a cappuccino. I had never made one in my life and had to call someone to talk me through how to use the machine. I carried it down to him, the cup trembling on the saucer. He was riffing on the guitar, alone in the dark, but paused to thank me. I went back to the kitchen to clean up. When I thought he was done, I looked around the corner and saw him strutting down the candle-lit hallway to bed, in white boots with clear high heels studded with flashing red lights.

For the next three months I was always on call. Every day I’d wake up, watch TV and wait. They’d call around 3 or 4 and say, “He’s hungry.” But about once a week they’d call and say, “He’s going out.” When the phone rang, my heart would pound.

        I never knew what to cook. I kept a list of ideas but would inevitably call friends in a panic for advice. It was like being on Chopped every single day.

         The assistants—one of whom wore a three-piece suit even when doing the laundry—made me bring all my own pots and pans (back at my apartment I had exactly one knife, one pot and one cutting board). They said they could only afford to hire a dishwasher when there were more than six guests.

They had told me not to speak to Prince unless spoken to, and at first I felt like I couldn’t even look at him, but over time he made me feel comfortable. Prince was very private, mysterious and eccentric but very polite and kind. He introduced every single guest to me, even though he didn’t know my last name, where I was from or if I had a boyfriend.

         Prince had guests about every other night— Orlando Bloom, Cornel West, Kristin Chenoweth. He kept a floor-to-ceiling stack of Jehovah’s Witness Bibles and gave one to every guest.

         One time he decided to throw a late-night party for every A-list celebrity in town—and only gave me two days’ notice.  Another time he asked for a birthday cake—at 11 PM (I bought it at the grocery store). He liked to eat healthfully but then he’d ask for quiche and a milkshake. Once he wanted a chocolate fountain but when I asked where to put it, he looked at me, waited a beat, and said, “I do the music.”

One day I thought I could try a new restaurant for lunch before he needed me, but my phone rang at 11 AM. It was the assistant saying, “P wants to host a traditional English tea party—in an hour.” Scrambling, I ordered everything from scones to cucumber sandwiches to go, and raced back to serve it as if I’d made it all myself.

But Prince also loved to relax, like anybody. He asked for that salmon teriyaki nearly once a week. I know he made himself scrambled eggs for breakfast because the pan would be waiting in the sink when I showed up. One night I made fill-your-own soft tacos, which he and his girlfriend ate in front of the huge TV watching American Idol and basketball, right in the open room where I cooked. They sprawled on the couch next to a beautiful, aerodynamic white piano with just two legs. It was surreal.

And of the 75 three-course dinners I made, he returned exactly one dish: a five-spice soup. Since I’d omitted the chicken stock to make the recipe meat-free, I doubled the amount of onion (I’d read somewhere this can enhance flavor). But the result was horribly bitter. There was nothing I could do to fix it but he had guests, and I needed three courses. Minutes later he carried his full bowl back into the kitchen, put it on the counter and simply said, “No.”

         But more often, he expressed gratitude. One night I made mung-bean crepes stuffed with vegetables, followed by fish over black rice. He came back to the kitchen and said, “This is so beautiful. All my guests are very happy.”

My only break was the three days he played Coachella. When he got back to the house afterwards, he said, “Where were you? I thought you’d be backstage.”I explained that his assistants had said I couldn’t come, and he said, “We’ll fix that.”

         He led me downstairs to the private theater and together the two of us watched the playback of the whole show. He told me what an idiot the sound guy was, and how the police told him to stop but he played five more songs anyway.

After three months, I asked the assistant for two days off, even if they weren’t next to each other, but she said that wasn’t possible. I knew if I kept it up I would never go on another date or even have a drink with a friend, so I quit. I needed a life.

         Prince loved soy candles burning all evening on every surface, so on my last night, I bought him one and wrote a note saying, “I know you love these, and I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed my experience, and how much I learned from you.”

         He opened it while getting a private pedicure and his girlfriend came out and said Prince liked my gift and wanted to invite me to Bible study.

         It was tempting to have an excuse to see him again, but I said, “I’m not religious. I’m sorry but thank you for the invite.”

         To this day my friends still sing to me: “I just want your extra time and your qu-qu-qu-qu-qu- quiche.”

***

 Margaret Wetzler never returned to private cheffing. Today she is Vice President of Marketing at chef Michel Nischan’s non-profit, Wholesome Wave.

Happy Writing and Happy Reading Everyone,

Autograph

And Happy Cooking?

 

 

 

WRITERS AND THANK-YOU THOUGHTS

Posted on November 19, 2015 by writ7707 Posted in The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Uncategorized, Writing, Writing our Gratefuls, Writing Thank-You Thoughts Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting Up with Your MUSE

Writing Leap #60

Hi Writers,

It’s Thanksgiving season and a writing friend suggested writing about our gratefuls. This can be a lovely writing journey and can touch deep down to a place where creativity lives. Writing our thank-you thoughts can crystallize our own personal moments as well as moments for your characters.

Give your characters one of your thank-you thoughts. Or ask them, “Are you grateful for anything?” Your character may surprise you and take you into one of their interior moments.

Here’s mine.

There are some moments that give me glimmers into my soul. To twirl under a tree and be part of that dance when fall leaves swirl to the ground. To bring my baby grandchildren to a pumpkin patch and see those new toothless grins. I’m grateful for the wonder. Even crying about the Paris attacks brings me closer to my humanity. So yes, such moments for me, happy and sad, are simple ones. They reach wide and make me more available as a person. They help to withstand the wallops, light and heavy. I’m grateful, really, just to be here.

Enjoy your Muse who might be sitting next to you at the Thanksgiving table. Happy Writing and Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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