Writing Archives - Writing Like a Dancer

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.

WRITING ABOUT NARCISSISM

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

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #74

WRITING ABOUT NARCISSISM

Hi Writers,

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

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

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

Here’s my narcissist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

Images

Books

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, 1890

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

WRITERS AND SANTA

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

Writing Practice and Finding your Muse

December 26, 2016

Hi Writers,

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 2017 and love to your writing.

WRITING SOMETHING CRAZY

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

LINKING THE ARTS

Literature

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

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

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

The Visual

Three different responses to a red zinnia

WRITING THE POLITICAL MOOD

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

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #72

Hi Writers,

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

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

The First Thanksgiving

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

He was fourteen.

He was a ferocious warrior.

And he would stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just stared.

He pinched her breast through her starched apron. Hard.

Her mouth flew open.

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

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

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

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

Happy Writing and Happy Thanksgiving all you writers out there,

WRITERS AND POLLYANNA

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

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your Muse

Writing Leap #71

WRITERS AND POLLYANNA

Hi Writers,

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

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

Here’s my most recent Pollyanna moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Writing Everyone,

LINKING THE ARTS

Art

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

I really love Pollyanna.

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

WRITERS AND 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.

WRITERS AND THE FEAR OF WRITING

Posted on April 8, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Art and Writing, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writers and the Fear of Writing, Writing, Writing Emotional Moments, Writing Muse Leave a comment

Writing Practice and Meeting up with your MUSE

Writing Leap #65

Hi Writers,

Have you ever seen a little baby flip from deep wails of despair to a sunshine grin and happy gurgles in less than two seconds? I feel that way sometimes when I’m in the middle of a writing project. I wake up at dawn with a queasy feeling in my stomach. I turn over and moan, “I am afraid of my book.” It’s so unsettling and perfect terrain for the inner critic to dismiss everything I’ve written so far. Then, a few scribbles in my notebook on my night table, fresh thoughts, hooray! And I’m all excited again. I clutch the notebook page and dash for my computer.

I am illustrating my picture book-in-progress with an artist friend. I have an official art background. But I have been creating with words not paintbrushes for a long time. My studio is my writing studio, not my art studio. My desk, my computer and my books dominate the space. Except—-I have a long white table along one wall of my studio covered with drawing pads, pastels, drawing pencils, snippets of wallpaper, tissue and rubber cement for collage. I sneak in small art projects from time to time. But illustrating my picture book is not a small art project. It’s a big art project.

Now I’ve been waking up terrified of my illustrations as well as my writing. But just like babies I can go from “Help!” to “This is me. This is what I was born to do,” in two seconds. I don’t know what part of my heaven is better. The part with the beautiful sentences or the part with the beautiful colors.

Am I the only one who feels this way? Frightened/Elated?

Let’s treat our muse with lots of love and gratitude.

Happy Writing Everyone,

Henry Miller’s landscape

H.G. Welles’ Self-Portrait

WRITERS AND DOGS

Posted on March 2, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Literary categories, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing, Writing about Dogs, Writing about Young Children, Writing Emotional Moments 1 Comment

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 ABOUT CHILDHOOD HURTS

Posted on February 1, 2016 by writ7707 Posted in Character Description, The Writing Life, The Writing Muse, Writing, Writing about Childhood Hurts, Writing about Young Children, Writing Emotional Moments, Writing Muse Leave a comment

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