Slow Down

I'm not sure how many times this message must present itself to me. One thing is for sure, the words slow down will continue to work their way to the surface until I heed the meaning. I've battled an ever-changing rash for the past two weeks. It began while I was on my trip and raged for a week afterwards. At first I decided to ignore its existence. Ha. It showed me a thing of two. Last week was much better, but it is far from being gone. I know exactly what has caused the nasty creature to show itself. My lack of concern for myself. On the days I slow down and relax, few and far between, the rash seems to heal and disappear. But just let me commit myself to something I shouldn't, that I really don't want to do, but say yes to anyway, and boom it is back in full bloom. If a stressful situation should show itself, there it is among the chaos, striking me with all its force. 

For some reason, I feel this need to prove that I am a writer. Never mind that I've published well over fifty pieces since the first of the year. It's not enough. Always I say yes to projects that take me away from my focus, novel, novel, novel. It's as if I'm sabotaging myself. So, once again I know I must clear my desk and life of intrusions and trust that my work will speak for itself. I have three book reviews due in the next months. After this, if I don't take on anything else, I will be free to focus on nothing but polishing the novel and then presenting it to those who can help me shop it. I so hate that word, shop. 

I will focus on taking on only what lends me peace not obligation. We shall see. Next week Little Daughter and I will go stay with Oldest Daughter for a week. This will be down time for me. Even though I will take my laptop--I take my laptop everywhere--I will not write except in my notebook and journal. This will be a good time to fill up the well and enjoy my daughters and grandchildren. So, I will take next week off from blogging. I will struggle to slow down. 

I think slowing down is a lesson on many readers' plates. I wish you luck. I let you know how my attempt goes. 

Ann 

Fireworks, Eighty-three, and Pool Fun

Hubby, Little Daughter, and I began our Fourth with a cookout. My mother in-law and two brother in-laws came to our house. Mother in-law is eighty-three and beginning to show the wear and tear that age takes on one's life. As we ate our hamburgers and hot dogs out on our deck, I couldn't help but wonder what this strong lady has seen in her lifetime. Sure I've heard the funny and even some sad stories told over and over. But what about the ones never told? One can just look into the face of Miss Ruth and see a map of the most intricate kind. What would her family know if they heard all the tales? 

I guess it's the writer in me that seeks out the untold stories. Just the thought allows my imagination to run wild. But the fact is Miss Ruth has seen many Fourth of July holidays. What about The Fourths when her husband was fighting in Germany? She's seen a world that has changed radically and continues to change. And now she observes it all from her wheelchair and more often these days with foggy thoughts anchored in the past. But still she has much to give to anyone who will take the time to work around the many obstacles. 

As the day came to a close, we loaded Miss Ruth and her boys up to go to a fireworks display. The picture above shows her waiting like all of us for the great event. Right at dark the first firework was shot into the sky. Daughter and I sat on a blanket in front of Miss Ruth. I heard girlish giggles from behind me and turned to find Miss Ruth beside herself in pleasure. How simple was that pleasure? So simple that many would not take the time to embrace it. Red, Gold, Silver exploding in the night and Miss Ruth giggled on. The giggles were contagious and soon both Daughter and me were laughing too. 

The night lit up and I thought of my father, gone now for twenty years. He had a soldier's pride in The Fourth. He served in three wars beginning with World War II. He knew the meaning of freedom up close and firsthand. 

As the grand finale came to a close and all the people scrabbled to get to their cars and pull away first, Miss Ruth, sitting in her wheelchair, looked at Daughter and said, "You want a ride." My heart cracked open when Daughter said, "No Maw Maw. I'll push you." We made slow progress but progress all the same. I began to see the true meaning of patience as we snaked through the traffic. How often do we label an event to turn out a certain way and grow deeply disappointed when it doesn't pan out to be what we see as a success? When we made it back to the car, all the traffic had cleared out. We were free to go home at any pace we desired. 

Yesterday I wore the shoes of Miss Ruth. I went to spend the afternoon with Oldest Daughter, Her Hubby, and Grandchildren. Granddaughter is pictured above in their pool. I will save you from the sight of me in the pool. Grandson put on his own display of jumping and splashing to my complete pleasure. At one point Granddaughter said, "Granny go underwater." Of course I didn't want to do this. I had my makeup on and it would run all down my face and into my eyes. I heard the request again. Why was it so important for me to go underwater? I don't know but somehow I saw it was much like Little Daughter pushing Miss Ruth. It was an offer, a closeness. Just when Granddaughter was quite sure I would never go under, I plunged into the water. 

I heard voice on top, muffled. "She did it!" The magic of a grandchild's approval. 

We came together around the table, eating fresh tomatoes, lettuce, and of course hamburgers. I came home with a bagful of fresh green beans and tomatoes. The taste of summer. The taste of love and hard work. We can learn so much from the old and the young. And we know that old is after all only someone's opinion. 

Ann

The Meeting With The Muse

Let me start by saying no trip ever turns out the way we imagine. That's because we put so much pressure on this get away time to be perfect. Always there are challenges. But if we open ourselves to the changes, we might find some inspiration at the very least. My challenge came in the form of no power, as in light bulbs and air conditioning, in our cabin when we returned the first night at 9. Our day was wonderful. We went to Clingsman Dome, where I watched a thunderstorm move in. It was awesome. Hubby caught the different phases of the storm's movement in photos. His work is so wonderful. We pretty much spent the day on top of the mountains. 

While I was there, the muse whispered many times, teasing me with ideas just out of reach. When we returned to the cabin and found no power, I was angry and ready to scream at someone. Then, the place where we were staying upgraded our cabin. Not so bad. It had a good size table that I was able to drag onto the large porch. I worked next to the river as the muse revealed to me new work. I accomplish quite a bit. Each morning there after I woke, wrote in the early morning light, meditated--I haven't taken the time to do this in months--and listened to music. The days were filled with enlightenment. I now know that my next novel will take place in the Smokemont area. This area was once a booming logging town called Bradley Town. Yes, this is where I saw the ghost. I know that a preacher will be involved. 

I also found the house that Emily, one of the protagonists in my current project, lived in, complete with the shed that she converts into a studio for her art. I took several pictures so I can look at the details as I go back to the polishing. Now I can bring this part of the setting alive. I've included a photo above. This turned out to be quite a creative trip in spite of the challenges and there were plenty. 

Ann  

Bear Hunt

On our trip we went on a bear hunt. Twenty-five bears were given to local artists in Cherokee to do with what they wanted. Fifteen can be found by driving around town. Here are four of my favorites. You must see them in real life to get the full beauty. 

I will write more later about encountering the muse and where she took me.  For now there's a glimpse of the cabin we stayed in during the trip at the top of the page.

Ann 

Not One Minute Too Soon

Did you ever get the feeling that the walls are closing in on you? I've spent the past few days with the tedious part of writing. I've been going cross-eyed looking over proofs of my introduction and story that will appear in Literary House Review. I have to go over these several times, searching out typos or formatting problems. When I'm proofing another writer's work, this is not such a tough job, but on my own work, that is another story. Those nasty little mistakes such as new when I meant knew hide out in plan view. The whole time my artist child is screaming to write, really write. 

Part of this weekend I spent revising a book review that will appear in Internet Book Review Magazine. Dear American Airlines is the name of the book. I'm not at liberty to talk about it, but people you must read the review when it's published. Making editor changes, once again, makes my artist child throw a tantrum. She is very angry at this point. So, angry she is insisting on listening to Sheryl Crow's Best of Music on my I-Pod. Rebellious to the core.

And this brings me to the best part of this post, the part artist child is itching to tell you. We leave for a four day trip to the Smoky Mountains this week. This trip hasn't come a minute too soon. I can already feel the cool, crisp morning air. The rows of mountains, resembling ocean waves, gives artist child a peace she can't find anywhere else. The important tools are ready to be packed away in the car. A writer never leaves home without her laptop and writing notebook. And, of course there is the I-Pod. Artist child needs her music to create. 

We will stay in a little cabin not far from Raven Fork River and only three miles from the entrance to the park. Artist child is the boss on these trips. She insists that all writing projects are left at home. No work allowed. What she takes is imagination and of course the muse is somewhere hiding, waiting for just the right moment to reveal herself. There seems to be a trend among artists, especially writers, not to believe in muses. I'm of the old school. My muse is both my best friend and enemy. She flirts with me and then disappears, leaving me to do the hardest part of my creative work. But always she knows best. And always she channels some delicious character or scene my way.

I know not to wait on her because she'll never show. Instead, I begin to string words together into sentences, paragraphs, and pages. But she never fails to appear. She especially loves when I give artist child a trip. Her visits are then full of insight and inspiration. They are such good friends after all. When artist child and muse play together, I'm reminded of why I turn down that lunch date with friends, or unplug my phone so I don't get caught up in conversations. I'm brought back to pen and paper. To images and silly poems. To Sheryl Crow and funny jokes. 

Sometimes we can get so lost in the career part we lose sight of the art. My trips to the mountains refill the well. Have you ever slept in a tent beside a rushing creek? Or dozed on a warm boulder, absorbing its wisdom? The Cherokee believe rocks hold wisdom and teach us. Have you watched the mist settle in the mountain valley for so long, sprites and fairies begin to appear in the dusky light? This is the magic of taking artist child along. She makes up for all her whiny ways. 

We're packed and ready to hike to that one waterfall that allows us to walk behind the wall of water without getting wet. While there, we'll stand still on the edge of a world we only visit. We'll explore the old cabins and cemeteries. Scenes, characters, images will paint on our canvases their own unique stories. Imagination will be the rule of the day. 

Ann

Workshop, Father's Day, and The Muse Speaks

Last week I faced one of my biggest fears in the face. I taught a writing workshop to thirty rising 3rd graders to teens. It's one thing to teach adults what you know about writing. It is quite another to approach a large group of children that possibly 'had' to be there. It didn't take me long to fall in love. The group was so creative. We made friends as they revealed their wonderful imaginations. It was a magical night as we built a story together. We concentrated on character, setting, and plot. We hung out long past our allotted time. I will teach a writing workshop to the adults in the fall.

On Sunday we did what most fathers in our area wanted to do for Father's Day. We played hooky from church and took to the road. Here's my hubby and daughter, spending quality time together at the lake. Please notice the bunny ears that have appeared close to Hubby's head. Mom is on shore taking time to finish her latest book review. 

Everyone must buy Tomato Girl by Jayne Pupek when it comes out on August 26th. It is one the most profound books I've read. Watch for my book review. 

Next week we leave for a trip to the Smoky Mountains. I'm already planning on what to take: my hiking boots, i-pod, and laptop. Who needs clean clothes and food? :). When I a new project is stirring, several things happen. The first is the giving birth dream. I always dream I'm giving birth. I can feel the child kicking in my womb. It is weird. Then not so long after the dream I get an antsy feeling. You know like something is about to happen but hasn't yet. Sometimes it takes a few weeks but I'll be somewhere doing something and I see a picture, a friend is talking, or a sentence will shoot through my head. I never know what will trigger the yearning, but when it hits, I know a big project is brewing. Yes, I've had the dream, the antsy feeling, and last week I picked up a book on churches in the Smoky Mountain Park. Bam! The yearning feeling nearly knocked me to my knees. I pulled the book off the shelf. One picture from 1915 keeps calling to me. It is a picture of an old bridge crossing a river. The bridge is full of people and the banks of the river are dotted with several people. The women are wearing long dresses and the men suits and Sunday dress hats. In the river stands who I presume is a preacher and a man about to be baptized. 

More than once this weekend I've been moved to look at this photo. I've learned when all this happens, I just wait, bide my time, and soon the character begins to speak. The exciting thing is I will have the opportunity to visit this very bridge next week. I can stand on it as long as I'd like. I can also walked the quarter of a mile into the woods and visit the church nearby. Maybe if I'm lucky the character will choose then to speak to me. 

Stranger things have happened. 

Ann

Would You Know A Ghost If You Saw One?

We leave for the Smoky Mountains in less than two weeks. I always look forward to making the trip. The rewards are wonderful. But today I'm thinking about the first visit I ever made. 

Hubby has been going to the mountains ever year since he was born. For the longest time they went to the same place, a campground just inside of the park, called Smokemont. My first tagging along on this trip took place when I knew Hubby almost a year, 1992. He was so excited to take me camping. Now you guys got to realize my idea of nature back then was walking around the block of my urban neighborhood, but I went. And it rained. It always rains at this campground when it's not raining three miles down the road. 

On the fourth night of our seven night stay, the stars were out and the temps were cold. Hubby and I stayed up past all the family, eight more members, had gone to bed. Remember we were still young and romantic. We just needed time to stare into each other's eyes and be in love. He He. That night we just sat in front of the fire until it turned two in the morning. No one in the campground was stirring. I was so tired from all the hiking I couldn't move from my chair. Hubby was awake watching the fire. 

I looked up and saw a figure moving toward us from the little road. Now, this is a National Park with no electricity except in the bathroom. A bathroom stood several campsites over from us, but its outside light could be seen. It did not light our campsite. The figure came closer. I looked at Hubby, who looked back at me. On its path, the figure would walk right through the middle of the campsite instead of down the path that took you to the bathroom. I remember thinking of all the nerve. The figure did not carry a flashlight or lantern. As it came into the campsite I saw it was a woman. Her hair was piled on her head in a ball with lots of little wisps curling around her face and down her neck. She had no shoes. I noticed this first because the direction she had come took her over gravel and through some tangled brush. She looked to be in her early thirties of spanish decent. She wore an old fashion slip that hung to the ground. Not what one would wear to sleep in while camping. The slip was edged with what looked to be handmade lace. I know my antique clothes and this looked like a slip from the mid to late eighteen hundreds. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. 

She walked in the middle of our campsite, right past the big fire, stood, looked at me, but more like through me. Around her neck was a tiny cold chain. The expression on her face made me think she had to be sleepwalking because she wasn't there with me and Hubby. She turned away and continuing walked toward the bathroom. 

This particular bathroom had a door that screeched so loud when it was open it woke me in the night. 

I looked at Hubby. "She was weird."

"What was her deal? She gave me the creeps." 

I kept waiting for her to open the bathroom door, but never did I hear the sound or see her walking away. 

A few minutes later I looked at Hubby. "She never went to the bathroom. The door didn't squeak." 

He shrugged. 

"Let's go in the tent." And we did. 

The next morning I still couldn't get the woman off my mind. I decided to walk in the same direction as she had come. If she were real, she had to cross a rushing river and walk through heavy woods, not to mention the afore mentioned gravel and tangle of brush. 

Who was this woman? I did some research when I got home and found that two cemeteries were on the Smokemont property. A logging camp had settled there in the late 1800s before the land became part of the park.

I told my future mother in-law at the time and she only smiled and said, "Child you've seen what my granny would have called a haint." 

I've been back to Smokemont countless times. The woman has never showed up again. I have not camped in the campsite either. I refuse to test fate, and mostly I go to bed around ten. 

But the woman is always remembered. The kids and adults alike ask to hear the story each time we stay, always in front of the campfire. 

Would you know a ghost if she came walking up to you? 

Ann