It's Over...Or Just Beginning

by Elizabeth

Here in Texas, we weren't much inundated with political ads over the last many months. Or maybe we were; I don't really watch TV, and I listen to NPR in the car, so what do I know? Well, I know that both the Republican and Democratic parties figured Texas would go to Romney, as indeed it did, so it's my assumption that we were spared the deluge battering folks in places like Florida and Ohio and Colorado.

But now, the election is over, and whether you are happy with the outcome or not, chances are you are glad it's at least over. As for me? My lips are sealed; I don't enjoy talking politics with friends, much less strangers, and I have no desire to risk alienating potential readers.

Which brings up a point, something I've wondered about many times over the course of this writing journey. How is it that some writers, in this day and age of words are forever, thank you Internet, risk their reputations or maybe just readership by spewing opinions that are likely better left unsaid? I'm not suggesting that political conversations are inherently inappropriate or even lacking any pleasure. (Just because I don't enjoy them doesn't mean many do; I have friends and family who relish nothing more than a good slog through the muddy waters of government policy and practice.) What I am saying is that, if you write, and especially if you write fiction, why say something that cannot be erased to people you don't know but whose good will you would like to court? (Non-fiction could be another story, of course.) If last night's presidential results taught us nothing else, it should remind us of this: about half of us feel one way for the most part, and half the other way. I hope the victors remember that, and I really hope I do. I have a big mouth a lot of the time, but I try to keep it shut when it doesn't matter to anyone but me.

This isn't to say, either, that we as writers don't have valid opinions, and that those can be shared if we choose. Rather, I'm suggesting that any hopeful writer just keeps in mind that what they say can come back to haunt them. And it's not only politics; I learned my lesson early on when I posted a copy of a query letter online and found someone had admired it so much that they posted it all over several other writer sites as an example. Not what I wanted; agents look at these sites, too, and the last thing I wanted was for my query to be stale before it even reached the inbox of my potential agent. "Little girl, be careful what you say when you make talk with words..." wrote Carl Sandburg, and he was of course right.

If you have opinions, and they matter to you, and you feel confident with them out there, by all means, throw them to the wind and let them flutter bravely. But be aware as you do so; know what you are doing, and why, and take into account that there is risk involved. It may well be risk you are more than happy to take. And if your work, fiction or not, is issue-driven, it may be a good and driving force to get your opinion out there, a platform builder. But take care. Know what you say, and mean to say it.

Because after all, another thing campaign seasons teach us is the power of words that escape on accident. Nearly every politician has had that happen, and in some cases, my guess is they'd say it cost them dearly.

"So, little girl, when you speak greetings,
when you tell jokes, make wishes or prayers,
be careful, be careless, be careful,
be what you wish to be."

Achieve the Amazing

By Pamela

Yesterday I sat at the kitchen table and helped my girl with her homework. "I'm bad at math," she said as she  rested her forehead on her arms in defeat. Granted, math is not her forte, but I wasn't about to let her go down that dark road.

So, I will tell you the story I told her.

I used to be bad at remembering names. Someone would introduce herself to me and, moments later, I'd realize I had no idea what her name was. Sometimes she would be a person at a party and I might never see her again; other times the person was a business acquaintance, and I would need to contact her later. In both cases, learning her name was equally important. She took the time to tell me her name; I should have remembered it.

But because I knew I was bad at remembering names, I gave myself the excuse to not try very hard at it. Then I met Elizabeth J. She was amazing at remembering names. Really amazing. Not only would she remember a person's name five minutes after she was introduced to her, but days, weeks, months later. That's when I decided I wanted to be more like Elizabeth J.

I made up my mind that I, too, would be awesome at remembering names. And so I worked at it. I tried to relate a new person with someone else I knew with the same name. Or I'd play association games until it stuck. ("Jim is wearing GYM shoes" is one I used the other day.) Do you know what happened? I became really good at remembering names! I might not be as awesome as my friend Elizabeth J (she sets the bar really high), but I am waaaay better than I used to be, all because I changed my way of thinking.

Flickr Creative Commons image by SD Dirk.

So, dear writer, I challenge you to change your way of thinking. If you say to yourself ...

I'm horrible at grammar
I suck at spelling
I'm awful at metaphors
I'm the worst at writing dialog
I can't write a decent query letter
I'll never get an agent

... then you give yourself an excuse to not try very hard. You're living up to your own expectations but you've set the bar waaaay too low. Change your inner mantra. Even if today all you can muster is: I'm pretty decent at grammar, then that's a start. Maybe next month you'll surprise yourself by saying: I'm pretty amazing at grammar. Then the next thing you know you'll be saying: I'm freakin' awesome at grammar! You'll never know unless you try.

Set that bar high!

November at What Women Write

By Julie

Hurricane Sandy seems to have turned everything upside down and inside out, even if you were watching from a distance. Here at What Women Write, we were only affected in tiny ways, but we send well wishes to any of our readers who have had to deal with flooding or power outages or simply the heartache of seeing beloved areas devastated by this frightening storm.

(Photo credit: Russell Stainer, whoever he is!
 Found on Facebook, thanks to Kim Bullock!)

I was near Ithaca, New York, earlier this week for a writing retreat and found myself sitting in airports for two days attempting to get out of the area ahead of the storm. The irony is I arrived home three hours before I originally intended to be home, but it felt a bit like two weeks as my fellow travelers and I watched the television screens--first, reports about the terrifying movement of the storm nearer and nearer the East Coast, then the horrifying coverage after Sandy struck. But in Ithaca, all was mostly calm, and we were mainly waiting on the airline industry to untie the knots created in the midst of the unknown. My problems were easy. The only positive thing I have to say for all the rest is about the hope I feel when I see photos and coverage of people pulling together to get stuff done in the midst of the last few days of a crazy election season.

Between my little adventure and upcoming travel preparation for Susan, we decided to use the law of averages and post here once today instead of once each Wednesday and Friday. We should be back to our regularly scheduled programming next week. And pardon the mish mash of topics, but my brain is telling me to talk about a few different things today.  

First of all, are any of you attempting NaNoWriMo this year? 

A little patch of sky through a
hole in a leaf, 

near Ithaca, NY. 

(photo copyright: Julie Kibler 2012)

In my usual fashion, I'm making up my own rules.

I hope/intend to write about 30,000 words on my new project. I'm also going against the grain of what I've been preaching for the last few years about outlining. Outlining worked spectacularly with Calling Me Home, from the very first, and I became an evangelist for the process. I assumed I'd be able to drop one right down on the page for the new book and follow it like a lovely little road map. But as usual, my muses are having the last laugh. I feel as if those sneaky Girls in the Basement are reminding me they're still in charge.

I feel as if I'm going to need to wander around a bit more in this new story before it truly gels. So, my 30K may not end up looking like any neat, linear 100-page chunk of story. It may be 30K words' worth of random monologues, random scenes, and maybe many things that never make it into the final draft. I'm listening to the Girls and trusting them to do it right. It's a little scary, I must admit. It's a reminder every single book will likely be a new, uncharted adventure.

Tell us, in the comments, what your goals and thoughts are, if you have decided to use NaNoWriMo as a jumping off point this November.

Stumps always make me think.
(Photo credit: Julie Kibler 2012)

Next. I'm having to embrace that writing retreats don't tend to be very productive for me, writing-wise. I know many other writers who manage to knock out huge chunks of new words on these getaways. I'm easily distracted, so it seems I really need my regular environment to write lots of words. I find that on retreats, I mostly putter around. I explore the building. I engage others in the kind of face-to-face conversations I can't have at home, as much as I love my chats online. I go outside and take a million photos of the tiniest details of geography new to me (or at least not seen very often from my suburban home). I eat vegetarian food for four solid days, and realize it's not so bad. I sample sips of new beers in my never-ending attempt to find one I actually like. (No luck, so far, except Lindeman's Lambic, which hardly qualifies as beer even if delicious.)

Leaves on Cayuga Lake. Of course I photoshopped it! :)

(photo copyright: Julie Kibler 2012)

Last week looked like that, though I had hoped to get a huge amount written. Add to that the worry during the last days about getting home ahead of the storm, and I'm not completely sure what I accomplished. But I think I'll eventually be able to admit comfortably and without guilt that I accomplished relaxing, relationship-building, brain-filling, new-food-and-drink-testing days of fun. I filled the tank back up. Which is also important. Perhaps I will be ready to do some serious work at our upcoming annual What Women Write retreat. Or perhaps I will do a little more puttering and filling up the tank. 

Now it's time to jump into my first Manic Writing Session for NaNoWriMo. What's going on with you?

Happy Birthday, Madelyn, from your sisters

by Joan

Two years ago when I turned 50, my sisters sent me this lovely poem. I’ve mentioned my three sisters before, but this time it's my youngest sister’s big 5-0.

She is the travel goddess who took me to the Emmy’s, the one whose home is open to all, and the one I wasn’t nice enough to as we were growing up. Somehow she forgave me and we are closer than ever before.

A few years ago, Maddie's daughter was a guest author here, posting a poem titled I Am From. So in that vein, I wrote my own corny version and want to share it here, to wish my baby sister a happy, happy 50th birthday.

Ellen, Joan, Madelyn and Adrienne

You are from Russian ancestors signing in at Ellis Island
From tears and smiles and golden curls

The baby of four Wheaton sisters 

From Sylvia and Monroe’s ’40s ballroom wedding twirls

Monroe on his wedding day, Aug 7, 1949

You are from dad belly-laughing at Johnny Carson, mom cold-creaming and hairnetting

From Elby Street to Connecticut Park and Belt Junior High

From shared bedrooms and snug as a bug in a rug

And sneaky big sisters tiptoeing downstairs in the nigh’

You are from bickering dinners, iceberg lettuce and peas from a can

From icy porch stairs, snow tall as the sill

From éclairs and popsicles bought from a truck

And real or imagined glass chips, I was a pill

Sylvia and Madelyn

You are from Stoneybrook camp, sassafras soda and gimp necklaces

From kick-the-can summers, fireflies in jars

From back-to-school clothes, hand-me-down bib dresses

And split-level, avocado carpet tobogganing wars

Joan and Madelyn

You are from matzoh ball and split pea soup with a meat bone

From muffins with half the sugar, honey

From did you brush your teeth, push that glass from the edge

And, no, that sweater costs too much money

You are from drives in the country, soft custard cones

From cousins with scary Bouvier des Flandres and hide the Afikomen

From presents on Chanukah and Christmas morn

Bowed bicycles hidden behind sofas, carrotted snowmen

Nephew Joel and Madelyn

You are from a ten-minute stay at Kaufman camp, murderous Datsuns and re-learning to breathe

From mom’s prize-winning chicken soup, matzoh balls that can take out an eye

From rotary phones with cords, Formica counters and chairs that swivel

And sandy wood porches, Dorsey Hotel fruit cups, Wildwood Beach, sigh

You are from frequent flyer miles, posh resorts and perfect ringlets dried straight

From a chef’s hat, latkes, cornbread stuffing, not dressing

From copycat marriages, babies and homes

From waking at three, asleep by eight or stressing

Austin and Erin

You are from fights and scratches and laughs and cries

From nieces and nephews cute enough to smooch

Dueling with big knives, flying Easter eggs bonking heads on the White House lawn

You are from Ali and Andrew and Oliver the pooch

You are a genuine heart and the best of the bunch

You are friend to all and stranger to no one

You are our time capsule, our past, present and future

Happy Birthday, little sis, with you around, we’ve won

The Foxworthys and the Moras

The Greatest Gift

By Kim

Robert Ahrens and Mildred

I am currently in that no-man’s land called Between Books. My editing is done, the synopsis and query letters are written and have been sent out. Now I wait and try to figure out what to do next. I have a solid idea for the next novel which I have not yet started, hoping I will soon receive “the call” and be thrust me back into a story that still won’t let me go.

Perhaps it is because I live with constant reminders around me—paintings, photographs, Madonna’s bracelet, my daughter’s miniature “Carl feet” and even my own reflection. Perhaps it is because people regularly contact me to add their Ahrens work to my catalog.

Occasionally I receive an e-mail that reminds me of the greatest gift that writing The Oak Lovers has given me. It’s not dreams of fame or fortune, which would be nice, but have nothing to do with why I write. It’s not simply about restoring my great-grandfather’s legacy, much as I hope to do so. No, the greatest gift is that a century-old family rift has been mended. I'm an only child and don’t have a big family, so I cherish any new relatives I can find.

Emily Ahrens

My grandmother grew up knowing her father had another wife before meeting her mother. The topic was not openly discussed, but it was certainly not a secret in her generation or my father’s. I always knew about the family scandal, but did not learn the name of Carl’s other wife and children until I read Madonna’s memoirs as an adult. Names were all she gave.

Inside one of my late grandmother’s scrapbooks I discovered a photocopied letter addressed to “Kim” from “Grandpa Ahrens.” It was about living on an Ojibwa reservation as a child and could only have been written by one of the sons from Carl’s first marriage. Where had it come from? There was no envelope. No clues. My aunts knew nothing about it.

Martha McGowan, Kitty Turgeon, Kim, and Janice McDuffie

Years later, while researching Carl’s file in the local history room of the public library in Kitchener, Ontario, I found a letter. It was written by a woman named Martha McGowan and asked for information about her ancestor, Carl Ahrens. A simple Yahoo people search led me to my half second cousin. It turned out she had found my grandmother in the early 80s and had a brief correspondence with her. She had also forwarded along the mystery letter, originally written to a cousin of hers who shares my name.

Martha and I decided that a century was quite long enough for the two halves of the family to have been kept apart, and we agreed to meet at the Roycroft campus in East Aurora, New York. The very same place where Carl met my great-grandmother and eventually left Martha’s. We laughed about the irony of the situation. About a year later we met again, along with Martha’s mother, a granddaughter of Carl and Emily, at an exhibition of Carl’s work in Ontario.

This week I've had the pleasure of corresponding with the very same Kim who received the mystery letter from “Grandpa Ahrens” when she was in 6^th grade. She has showered me with photographs of a family I never thought I would get the chance to know. It has been Christmas in October.

The biggest treasure arrived in my inbox this morning – the only known photograph that includes Carl and Emily. It was most likely taken as the basis of a painting to be done by Canadian artist George Reid, a friend of Carl’s. Reid is the man seated backwards in the chair. Emily kneels on the floor hunched with two children and seemingly crying. The boy peeking through the chair is Carl and Emily’s son, Robert. Carl is the hunched figure in the background. If you look close, you can see he leans heavily on a cane. He, too, appears to be grieving. What is especially haunting about this pose is that it is a metaphor for his first marriage. Emily, a maternal woman, sheltering their children and keeping her back to the invalid in the corner. The man who has disappointed her for years. Even more telling is that there is someone sitting between them.

Thanks to the internet, chance, curiosity, and a century of time for old wounds to smooth over, you would barely notice a scar where the family rift used to be.  A tremendous gift indeed!

Update: I have just learned that the photograph isn't a photograph, but rather an image of a completed painting by George A. Reid called "Family Prayer." It is one of his best known works and hung in the Salon in Paris in the 1890's. This explains why Carl, who was only 26 at the time, appears to have white hair. Reid could have used his frail build as the basis for an old man and changed his hair color. 

((hug)) an (unpublished) Writer Saturday

by Elizabeth

Okay, I know it's not Saturday. Hump day, so not even close, and for a lot of us, the slog of the week is still ahead. But come tonight, we are over halfway to the weekend, and for a lot of us (again), that means fun, relief, a change of routine. Good things all. And I'm going to propose we all add one more good thing, piggybacking on the wonderful idea Pamela proposed a couple days ago.

On Saturday, hug an unpublished writer. Someone without a published book, maybe without a contract, maybe without an agent. Heck, maybe without a single completed manuscript. Or anywhere in between. You can write the snail mail Pamela suggested (what a great idea!), or send an email, or make a phone call. I know weekends can be a slam what with household projects and/or soccer games and groceries and maybe even a party--send a text, even. Just take a minute or two to pat the back of a writer you know who may or may not actually need it. Even if they don't "need" it, I'm willing to gamble an ice cream sandwich (those familiar with my pathetic Skinny Cow habit know that means two) they'll appreciate it.

Me This Week*

I'm unpublished. I have two completed manuscripts that are lounging under my bed, two half-written manuscripts lounging in notebooks and on my computer, and a couple new ideas lounging in the conscious and subconscious regions of my brain. This week is a tough one. I could use a hug on Saturday. But really, what would be even tighter than a hug is the idea that other writers out there are getting one because someone read this and stretched their arms.

I already know who will be getting my hug. (Who says hugs must be in person?) You have three more days to decide. It doesn't have to be me--in fact, I almost want to insist it's not me. You can send out two or three hugs if you want, but do try to send one.

As for hugging a writer Monday through Friday, I mixed up the days just a little. I already had tickets to see an author on Tuesday, so come Friday, I'll take Tuesday's task, and I already have the writer in mind. Later today, I'll hit the bookstore and shell out the money for a new book. Tomorrow I'll reach into my stationery drawer and maybe even grab my fancy fountain pen and do one of my favorite things: hand write a letter to an author with sincere praise for their work. I'm still deciding between a well-established author I've loved for a couple decades and a new author who has perhaps not yet gotten as many props. Don't they both deserve it? Maybe I'll write two. As for Monday: I've been enchanted by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie lately, just finished one of her novels last week, and now must wait for her next because I've read everything she's published. I left left this note at Amazon:

"This novel was brilliantly written, warm and heartbreaking and true. Adiche captured a moment in history in a way that wanted me to learn more about it. Her characters were real, heroic, flawed, and perfectly drawn. I've never been to Nigeria, but she made me see it--the country, the people, the struggles, the triumphs.

I read her book of stories That Thing Around Your Neck upon picking it up in the library, and rushed out for her other work. I just finished Purple Hibiscus, which was also a wonderful read, and I anxiously await every new word this wonderful writer produces."

Thanks, Pamela. Looking forward to the rest of the week.


*Okay, really that's zombie makeup from the school haunted house a few days ago, but it's a pretty good representation of how I feel this week.

((hug)) a Writer Week

By Pamela

I've blogged before about how cruel the world can be to writers, with the anonymity of the Internet providing the perfect cover for people to unleash their fury. You write the best book you can, land a publishing contract and get a book into the hands of the public only to have them lambaste you for your efforts. It's perfectly fine to dislike a book; it's another thing to rip a fragile author's ego to shreds.

So, in the spirit of Paying It Forward or just plain good manners, I propose a ((hug)) a Writer Week. Anyone care to join me? Here's your assignment:

MONDAY--Choose the most recent book you've read and loved and post a positive review on Amazon, B&N or Good Reads. Heck, type it up in Word and copy and paste it in all three places! Why not?

TUESDAY--Select an author you enjoy and 'like' their page on Facebook or follow them on Twitter. While you're there, leave them a note about how much you enjoy their work. Easy.

WEDNESDAY--Buy a new book from an author, either online or at a book store. Pay the extra few dollars for a new version even if you usually buy used. Sure it's green to buy used, but authors don't make royalties on second-time-around purchases.

THURSDAY--Write a note to an author and tell him/her how much you enjoy his/her writings. Then mail it. Yes, snail-mail it. You can find contact information online. If he/she doesn't have a direct mailing address, send it to the publicity department. They'll make sure he/she gets it. Sure this takes a little bit more effort, but what a treasure it will be for the author to pull out and reread whenever he/she is having a rough day.

FRIDAY--Make a date to attend a book signing or other author event. Check your local paper, check online for upcoming events in your town, or check out your favorite authors' websites, Twitter or Facebook accounts. If you live in a small town and authors rarely pass your way, pick an alternate way to help them out such as telling a book-seller or librarian how much you love a particular author.

I'm sure there are other ways to spread the love (and the hugs), so use your imagination. You just might make an author's day. How cool is that?