Category Archives: Writing about Young Children

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #72

Hi Writers,

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

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

The First Thanksgiving

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

He was fourteen.

He was a ferocious warrior.

And he would stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just stared.

He pinched her breast through her starched apron.  Hard.

Her mouth flew open.

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

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

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

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

Happy Writing and Happy Thanksgiving all you writers out there,

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #70

Hi Writers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LINKING THE ARTS

Books:  Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White

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

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

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your MUSE

Writing Leap #64

Hi Writers,

People have unique relationships with their dogs. Digging deep in  your stories and showing how that plays out can illuminate many layers of your character as well as the particular personality of the dog.

I will never forget the moment in the movie “Oliver” when the villain kicks his little dog hard because……who knows why? But in the story Dickens showed how desperate and disturbed the villain was just by that kick. And the reader cringes.

Here’s my dog story. The characters are real but the story is fiction.

Teddy and Murphy

Mom left me alone with my baby brother, Teddy, and now he’s lying in his crib screaming so hard his face is purple.

Annoying. Can’t I just snuggle with Murphy, my new puppy? Mom surprised me with Murphy in the hospital after my operation because I was brave.

Now Teddy’s crying in big gulps. Is he sick? Like I was in the hospital? Oh no.

I pried Murphy off my chest and lifted him into the crib. Teddy put his face next to Murphy’s and fell asleep. “Murphy will make sure you won’t go to the hospital,” I whispered.

Here’s to your wide-awake imaginations, Writers! Do you have a dog story?

LINKING THE ARTS

Teddy and Murphy

A Very Favorite Book about Dogs for children

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your MUSE

Writing Leap #63

Hi Writers,

When young children are diminished, passed by or pushed into the background by adults or other children the result is often a deep feeling of, “Something is wrong with me.” If your  young characters experience such hurts it colors all aspects of who they are. Evoke the hurt and your young person will come alive on the page.

Hemingway said, (something like) “Find where the pain is and write about that.” He also said, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” Here’s my story about Mae, a six-year-old who carries around isolating feelings of not measuring up.

The Plaid Dress

     A lady with a soft round face and gray curls sat down near the front of the bus on a seat facing the aisle. Settling in, she smiled at a little girl in a plaid dress across from her who was sitting next to her mother. The little girl didn’t smile back. Instead she lowered her eyes. The lady with the soft round face saw right away that the little girl’s misty eyes were blinking back a veiled sadness. The lady sensed that this was not a sudden sadness, but one that lived deep inside this little girl.

     “Did you have a nice time in school today, Mae? The mother leaned over and put her arm around her daughter.”

     “Yes.”

     “It was a very soft ‘Yes.’ Mae jiggled her foot in a nervous repetitive motion.

     The lady with the soft round face and gray curls sniffed twice. It was a magical sniff. She was a magical person. She looked at Mae across from her and here’s what she saw.

     It was Mae’s classroom. Her teacher, Mrs. Perkins, was saying, “Sophie, Lisa and Bethany, please come up front by my desk.” Three little girls in plaid dresses got up from their desks and stood beside Mrs.Perkins. “Now you, Peggy, and let’s see, you, Alison. Come up to the front with the others.”

     The five girls giggled and whispered to each other. Mrs. Perkins arranged them side by side in a line and asked them to hold hands.

     “Now there you are, all in plaid dresses,” Mrs. Perkins said. “Go next door and show your principal, Mr. Green, how pretty and adorable you all look.”

     And then the round-faced lady on the bus saw something else in her vision.  She saw a little boy next to Mae stand up from his chair and wave his hand madly at the teacher. “Mrs. Perkins, Mrs. Perkins. Wait. You forgot Mae! She has on a plaid dress!”

     Mrs. Perkins looked at Mae and glanced away. “No, no, not today. Mae has a sweater on.”

     The last thing the lady with the soft round face saw was Mae trying to force a smile. The lady closed her eyes and felt her heart break. The bus pulled over to a stop. Mae and her mother and the lady all got off. The lady leaned down to Mae and said, “May I say that you look so very pretty in that plaid dress! I have a granddaughter about your age and I think I’ll get her a plaid dress for her birthday.” The lady started to walk away, then turned. “She looks a lot like you. Big beautiful eyes and bangs. She lives far away.”

     A tiny smile crept onto Mae’s face. It almost stretched into a big smile. “Thank you,” Mae said to the lady with the soft round face. “Say Hi to your granddaughter from me, Mae.”

To write about a child’s deep sadness, from the child’s perspective, can be challenging. What do you all think, writers?

May your writing run deep in any form you choose: realism, humor, fantasy and poetry.

Mae’s plaid dress

Sophie’s plaid dress

Lisa’s plaid dress

Bethany’s plaid dress

Peggy’s plaid dress

Alison’s plaid dress

Writing Practice and The Muse Who is Always There

Writing Leap #42  Writing About Young Children

Hi All You Writers Out There,

Young children love to look up to you and announce the most surprising things; little bursts of observation that can be funny, troublesome, endearing or savvy. We are often charmed because they are small and new to this world.

Capturing a ‘child moment’ is sometimes a challenge for writers. We are not three years old and unless we have young children around us we may harbor pre-conceived notions about what childhood feels like. Our memory may not be reliable and cliches about children like to insinuate themselves into our writing.

Cliche is a place we do not want to be. As much as possible I try to creep into the child’s experience and write that. With adults reacting to children I try for a spontaneous response.

Go ahead writers and create a story around a child. You may feel refreshed by this work, as I do.

Here’s my attempt.

The outdoor arbor of branches and twigs was bedecked with small flowers and ribbons. The light scent of roses wafted among the seated wedding guests and you could feel the buzz of anticipation and excitement in the small grassy meadow. The groom and minister were in place under the arbor and the processional was about to begin.

All eyes were turned to the back where Oliver, the five-year-old ring bearer, held fast to his satin pillow that cradled the two gold rings. He was standing with the groomsmen ready to walk down the aisle. Light music from the musicians’ violins began to fill the meadow.

Oliver pushed his round glasses higher on his nose, looked up at the best man and whispered, “Don’t you think this is so romantic?”

The whisper was a loud whisper and it floated down the aisle bringing on many soft chuckles.

Halfway through the service, during a relative’s recitation of “How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways,” a small voice whispered to the best man, “I have to go to the bathroom. Badly.” It was again a loud whisper and again amused, delighted  titters spread though the gathering.

The minister paused and grinned down at Oliver. The relative stopped reciting.

“Me too,” one of the little flower girls piped up.” “I have to, too.” The other flower girl, a toddler, stepped out of line.

Oliver’s mother rushed up and escorted the three to the house. They were squeezing their legs together.

There were only one or two “shouldn’t the mother have taken care of this beforehand?” Haven’t they ever had a similar emergency?

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

                                                                                        A Huge Responsibility. Must arrive safely to the alter.

Children’s Writer’s Word Book by A. Mogilner and T. Mogilner

When writing from a child’s P.O.V. I really like to consult this vocabulary book organized by grade in school. If the child is a genius (and most mothers’ children are geniuses) you can skip a grade or two.