Listening Is Part Of Writing

I just finished listening to a podcast on Writers On Writing hosted by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett. This show was an interview with Elizabeth Strout. Her book Olive Kitteridge just won the Pulitzer for fiction. It is an amazing book of short stories. The voice rings so true. Let me tell you folks: you know Olive Kitteridge. I'm providing a link to Writers on Writing so you can download and listen to the podcast. http://writersonwriting.blogspot.com/

Scroll down the page and click on the download for Elizabeth Strout, or go to the I-tunes store and subscribe to Writers on Writing. Then you can listen to all the great interviews they do on this show. It is well worth the effort.

Also remember my ebook Life on Black Mountain is still avialable for a free download. I'm not sure how much longer it will be available. I'd love to hear what you think.
http://www.deadmule.com/fiction/2008/08/life-on-black-mountain-the-book/

click on download the pdf file.

Enjoy

Losing Your Child At A Church Dinner or Please Help Me Things Are Becoming A Bit Much

You may ask yourself how can a mom lose a nine year old at a birthday dinner at the church? A party that is taking place in a fairly small room? Well, I did and now it's even funny to nine year old daughter, but let's face it: I traumatized my child.

The evening started off rushed. Husband comes home and we make a mad dash to reach the dinner on time. We arrive just as the last person is making herself a plate. At this moment, I realize we will eat my pasta dish for supper the following night. Oh well, my chin is up. I'm looking forward to eating a meal that someone else has prepared. Ah, there is a catch. We are the last people to go through the food line and yes, most of the good dishes have gone the way of other dinner plates. But there was that yummy pasta dish that was brought by the family who was late. Once again I am determined to make the best of the situation. At heart I'm a idealist and search for the best case scenarios. I rarely admit defeat. We sit down and have a lovely dinner with my brother and mother in-law. I didn't allow myself to wonder why they wouldn't have called dibs on some of the better dishes in our honor. I would have done this for them. No, I wouldn't let my mind entertain this idea at all. I ate my canned biscuits--all the homemade ones were gone--and pasta. Oh yeah, I did score a large salmon patty--that's southern for salmon croquettes, breaded in cornmeal and deep fried. It was a treat. Two bites into the our dinner, the preacher's wife announced that they would sing happy birthday to the preacher and cut the cake. Husband began to shove food in his mouth so as not to miss a piece of the birthday cake. Ah, but I knew we had no fears. Brother in-law had purchased the cake.

Now, what you have to realize about brother in-law is when he buys the cake, the whole state of Georgia can attend. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter my table is blessed with cakes of all sorts. At Halloween we received three dozen assorted cupcakes, a mummy cake--this is a cake that looks like a a mummy's face--and a ghost cake.

At the church dinner, there was two huge sheet cakes, one chocolate and one strawberry. My eye was on the strawberry. After dinner I decided to socialize with a few friends. Socializing for a writer is rare. I spend most of my time here creating important blog posts for my followers. No seriously, I can spend days without speaking more than ten words to an actual adult. I'm not talking about Husband. So I go to another table and begin a wonderful conversation with a friend from high school. We both like to read and love similar books.

In minutes I realized I haven't seen nine year old daughter. Husband walks by and I grab his arm. "Where's our child?"

He shrugs. "She's not with you?"

"Maybe you should find her." There are several reasons I gave him this task, but the main one is: it was his turn.

I continued my talk and minutes went by with me glancing around the room to see if my daughter had appeared. It was around this time began to hear a loud bump. BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP! No one else seemed to notice, so I decided it was a bad frig or a furnace turning on. The sound continued. Husband walked by.

"Did you find her?"

"No, did you?"

My heart began to beat like that of a mother who has not been at her post as she should. The annoying noise continued.

"Where is she?" I tried not to scream at him.

"I'll look outside."

I refrained from pointing out he should have done this the first time. The noise grew louder. No one seemed to notice. I felt like I was in a bad horror movie. The preacher's wife looked up and went to a closet, opened it, and looked inside. She shrugged to herself and went back to her seat. The noise began again. I walked back to the hall where the closet was located. There was the ladies bathroom. I whispered to the door. "Are you in there."

"Gosh Mom, it took you long enough! I've been in here forever. The lock is broken. I can't get out! Where were you? Couldn't you hear me beating on the wall?"

Friends, take this as a lesson. Don't become so accustom to blocking out loud noises that you don't hear a cry for help! Oh well, Daughter is fine, even if she's not so sure about her mother's rescue capabilities. But I'd be willing to bet this will be one of those stories she tells her own kids. And as for me, I need a vacation. Anyone out there know where I can get a cheap writing retreat. Free would be great.

Excitement In A Rejection

First as I write this email a dear friend should be undergoing a liver transplant. It has been a long wait and she never gave up. So keep her in your prayers.

Second, I received the best rejection today. I never thought I'd write that. A year and a half ago I sent a story to a rather large magazine, knowing or thinking I would never hear from them. It's one of those magazines that has a story in each New Stories From The South anthology. It is a tough magazine. This morning I received an email about the story from so long ago. First they told me how sorry they were that their response took so long. It seems my story went into the hands of every editor and was debated. They loved the voice and style of writing, but felt the story wasn't right for the magazine. Then--this is the good part--they went on to say that they were so 'impressed' with my writing that they wanted me to take this email as an encouragement to send them more stories soon. Whoa, this is a magazine I never thought I'd hear from. This is a magazine that publishes the likes of Louise Erdrich, Ellen Gilchrist, and Amy Bloom.

So, now I just have to decide what stories to send. Wish me luck.

Ann

Writing Underwater

Up until this point in my life, I've never experienced the dreaded 'B' word. You know the word that all writers hate. Block. I have never had it in my vocab list. Why? Because I've always had a wealth of ideas and had no trouble acting on them. But since October of last year, I've dead in the creative sense. It's only when this opressive weight lifts that one can see the weight you were under.

My block built a stone wall around me and everything that wanted to make art. What caused it? Well if I knew that, by gosh I'd be a rich woman. I could point fingers, but honestly, I can only say that a combination of overwork, underplay, and refusal live my life a different way brought on this malady.

I had the ideas by the dozen. I would sit down to write, sometimes I would even write pages, only to find that I hated everything about the idea. My characters had claimed up, no longer speaking to me. My inspirations for essays went dry like a drought ridden river. I moaned: Why, why me. Is my writing over. I knew this couldn't be because I thought about it all the time.

And then, I had a dream that I was pregnant with a neglected baby. Hm. When I gave birth in the dream, I was told if I nutured the child it would grow, but I couldn't continue doing things in the same way I had before. I had to approach life in a fresh new way. I woke that morning sure it was a sign that I should revive some old work of mine. Nope not at all.

I began to look at me work and my whole approach to life. What was different? Well, by gosh, everything! But mostly I was different. I had blocked myself inside a shell of what I thought writing was supposed to be and it had caught up with me.

The first thing I did was go to the library. I hadn't been since October when I taught the writing workshope. I was surrounded by the workers when they saw me. Where have you been? We missed you? This warmed me. Then I began to choose books and books. More books than I could ever read in my alloted time, but took them anyway. Ten books and two audio books.

As I was leaving, one of the workers said, "Good to see you with us again." That's when I realized I had been living underwater. And folks, writing doesn't work well underwater.

The following week a new character came out of the blue and began to speak to me. I'm on a roll again, but I'm careful, careful not to caught up in what I think should be and just allow what will happen.

Thoughts On The New Year

Here we go. A list. Oh Yes a list. Things I want to accomplish this year.

1. To finish the first draft of my novel in-progress.

2. To read twenty novels.

3. To read twenty nonfiction books.

4. To spend ten minutes in stillness each day.

5. To continue journal writing.

6. To give. I want to be a part of a group locally that makes giving a must.

7. To spend more one on one time with hubby.

9. To spend more time with my brother.

10. Learn to say no. (Boy that is a big one.)

I could go on with more, but honestly lists sometimes defeat me, so I will stop here. What do you have in mind to do this year?

Ann

Choosing Joy To The World

We have a hawk that appears to have adopted our yard--I think because we have a tiny patch of trees. He flies in at the most surprising times. Sometimes I will have completely forgotten about him, and he will streak across the yard with his wide wing span. He has come so close to perch that I've actually had time to study his beauty. Native Americans believe the hawk is a totem of strength. When I watch this bird swoop and glide across the sky, I think of grace. He never seems to be in a hurry, even when looking for supper.

Our house sits right on the edge of Atlanta. At night you can see the skyline from my bedroom window. I have a love-hate relationship with this area. At times I long for open spaces and quiet. But I know I would miss this place. I know I'm where I'm supposed to be. I've come to know what to expect here: the grumpy drivers, the firehouse nearby, the school, other walkers, the city workers. I have a community.

This is a time of year where we focus on community more. For example, my church has adopted a women's shelter down the road. Eight children--ages newborn through seventeen--live there at this time. We are finishing homemade Christmas cookies to complete the stockings that have been stuffed.

This is the time of year for choices. Do we take the time to make a difference or do we look at the season through Mr. Scrooge's eyes? Do we say we don't make enough money to help anyone this year? Or do we give because we are to give no matter how little we have?

The women of this shelter can be found under the bridges of Atlanta every evening without fail. Why? Because they take part of their supper to those who don't have a place to sleep. They do this without fail with an open heart, filled with Joy.

Joy is not something that falls upon us when we receive our favorite present. Joy is chosen. Joy comes because we choose to experience it. And the good news is we can choose it at any time, even in the seems to be the most trying of times. The experience is easy, much easier than fighting it.

The hawk can fly higher than any bird with the exception of the eagle. It is known that often instead of choosing to fight, he moves to an altitude the enemy can't reach. He rises above.

The fine women at the shelter have chosen to rise above, even while others feel sorry for them, even while many people walk around saying they can't 'afford' to help anyone this season. These women haven't called off Christmas because they can't afford to spend money. They have taken to a higher altitude. They are experiencing the true joy of the season.

Where will you fly?

Who Do I Think I Am?

Twice during this week, from two different sources, I was told to search out some of the WPA essays. These are essays written by out of work writers for the government during the depression. So I googled WPA Essays. Wow! The amount of hits were mind-boggling. The subjects covered everything from knitting to history. But I was drawn to the slave narratives. These are scans of the original handwritten interviews of former slaves still alive in the early 30s.

These pieces of art--they are art--are archived in a digital form on the Library of Congress' website. I couldn't imagine these treasures had been around and I never knew about them. The writer in me wanted to read this work, these stories. I began with an one hundred year old former slave still alive in the 30s in south Georgia. At any time in my life I would have been entranced with this writing, but now, it holds a more poignant interest. My family became richer and more diverse with my youngest daughter's wedding a couple of summers ago. And with the birth of my new granddaughter, a new history and culture was added. I guess what I'm trying to say is all those years of pledging that I would continue my outspoken belief in civil rights and my open love of the many different voices we have in this country just became personal, more than wonderful words. And maybe it was this personalizing that led me to read these essays with new eyes.

A germ of an idea sprang up two-thirds of the way through the second essay. I could begin a body of work concerning slavery. Whoa! Who do I think I am with my white southern relatives, who always believed the south was a country of its own and who weren't always people I wanted to claim as kin? I couldn't even pretend to crawl into a skin of a different color. Or could I? Is it not expected of me as a fiction writer to be open and willing to be any character that presents itself? The thought is scary. Why was it I wanted to begin this project? I spent the afternoon pondering this question. And then it came to me. I always write about what is nearest and dearest to my heart. A body of work always begins with a need. The need in most cases involves me finding the answer to a questions. In this case there is more than one? But the biggest is: how important is our family history in our lives? How does our relatives' choices form who we are, even if we never knew them?

So, I have decided to take on the challenge of writing from a completely different point of view. Who do I think I am? I am a wife, mother, and grandmother, who wants to leave a legacy for those far ahead of me, a path to explore. Yes I will take the road less traveled on this one and prepare to open to my art and allow it to flow in the direction it chooses.