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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Colour Me A Camper

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Relationships, Travel, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on August 11, 2013| 9 Comments »

There’ll be hell to pay for this post. I will have all happy holidaying nature-lovers in a tizzy. Thor will rain down and strike me with his what are you thinking? club. I’ll be frowned upon by the Gods of all things multi-wheeled and RVQ’d and I hang my head in shame. I do.

But, as I watch my husband drip with sweat, nip his fingers, work harder than a pack mule and swear bloody murder over and over, my mind meanders across the fence to the other side where dark things grow.

Shaded tendrils of twisted tarnish creep and curl around my closing throat. Vicious vines slither through the naughty nooks and corroded crannies of my mind.

“Why?” They hiss.

We have a lovely backyard, a wonderful deck, running water and a conveniently located fridge and yet….sigh, and yet, we pack up everything including the kitchen sink and putt off into the wild blue yonder to snooze on gritty sheets and feast from swampy coolers. We cram our clothes into damp outside wardrobes and eat off paper and perfunctory plastic. It takes ten times longer to do things and the room service bell is long out of order.

Gearing up for a camping trip takes days and decamping, even longer and somehow, after six years of owning a tent trailer (we used to tent – shudder), we still don’t have it down pat. You’d think we’d be bursting from the Velcro seams at this point, but somehow there’s always a ten yard dash before every excursion which includes us whipping out the worn and weary Visa at least twenty times over.

So, back to the why. Well, like I said, it’s that blue yonder thing, the dream that we’re free as birds while living under an azure sky. I’m not a nature girl by any means, but there’s something to be said for cooking in the open air and sipping a cider while flipping the morning’s flapjacks. At what other time is booze before breakfast ok? Well, pretty much never.

And, as parents, we take solace in the knowledge that the teens we now drag along will one day look back and have memories they will probably distort, but at the very least, cherish. The swearing, sweating and screeching, the worrying, working and waiting, worthwhile. We’re learning what life’s all about and passing it on, but most importantly, we’re bonding. Our little family is growing into a well-oiled machine, albeit slow and somewhat painful.

I guess swampy and gritty bring out the rainbows.

Our home for the next ten days

Our home for the next ten days

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Hazy Crazy

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , on August 6, 2013| 11 Comments »

Hazy Incognito

It was unsettling.

Everywhere I turned; “Hazy! Hazy! Sign here!” “Hey Hazy, will you write this postcard to my mom for me?” “Aww Hazy, what I wouldn’t give to pick your super-creative, ultra-talented brain for an hour.”

Shouting from every corner, greedy fingers with long black nails clawing at my sleeves, hundreds of white-hot flashes blinding me and oh so many offers of representation, I couldn’t keep track. It seems Hazy had become a household name.

I was overwhelmed. What sort of unmanageable monster had I created? I had to stealthily dart down dark, deserted streets and hide behind parked cars. I had to use an alias. I went incognito.

Okay, maybe the hood was because it was raining and my $14.99 tourist rip-off umbrella broke after 1 minute of use. And perhaps the grim look on my face was not due to the hoards of people vying for my attention but because I was paying tribute to the victims of Ground Zero at the time. Still, it’s nice to imagine, isn’t it? Success of a certain magnitude?

And, why not? I don’t believe that only a select few are earmarked for stardom from time of conception. I doubt we come equipped with some sort of unique barcode that’s scanned at birth and separates us into two distinct piles:

~ will be famous

~ will be a janitor

Not that there’s a darn thing wrong with being a janitor, of course. It takes all kinds to make the world tick. I myself, tend to get a definite and deep satisfaction from the sheen of my freshly washed floor, albeit short-lived. (The sheen, that is)

I believe anyone can be anything provided they believe it too. So work towards it, grasp it, nurture it, buy it, own it, polish it and believe it. Pretty soon, you’ll need a hood as well.

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Thrive

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Heroes, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on July 26, 2013| 15 Comments »

Convincing yourself you’re too busy to read is almost worse than convincing yourself you’re too busy to write. The truth is, you are never too busy to do either. Yes, there are things that may shrivel if they aren’t tended to. Creditors might start calling, friends might stop calling, a few pounds may be gained and your menu de jour may suffer, but I’ll tell you what won’t bloom if you fail to stop and sniff the dust jackets – your dreams.

A writer must do many (oh so dauntingly many) things to hone and cultivate their craft, one of which is, you guessed it, writing. But the other is reading. It’s crucial to a writer. What to do, and often times more to the point, what not to do, can be learned from losing yourself in someone else’s work.

For what seems like forever, I’ve been depriving myself of this easily accessible and potentially enjoyable education. Except, it hasn’t been forever. As a child, teen and young adult, I was a gluttonous reader. And, when my own kids were young and I was only slightly less than housebound, I devoured whatever I could get my hands on; Anita Shreve and Frank McCourt kept me company even while furious fingers and miniature mouths savagely suckled syrup-sweet sustenance.

Yes, while flying in planes, riding in cars, enduring long waits and relaxing under stars, I would read; an insatiable, undeterrable, indisputable addict of the written word.

So, what changed? Put simply, me.

When did I change? Just so happens it was during the most crucial time possible; the time when I began to think about writing in a more serious fashion.

Why did I change? I’m not sure even I understand it completely, but here’s the gist. I developed a mindset – if I wasn’t writing my own stuff, I didn’t deserve the privilege of reading others’.

Big, no…enormous mistake. Reading is inspiring, enlightening, developmental and motivational. Why would I deprive myself of that?

Well, it’s also shaming.

A writer’s writer hat rarely, if ever, gets tossed onto the banister or into the back seat. We read with writing on our minds. We taste each word with a different condiment. A boatload of gravy; “Awesome, that’s the way I would’ve written it.” A pinch of salt; “Ooh, I wish I’d thought of that.” A dollop of sour cream; “If I’d actually sit down and write, I could come up with something just as good.” Too much salt; “I am so jealous, my mouth is puckering.” So much rich chocolate sauce it gives you a bellyache; “I will never write as well as that.”

In all honesty, dreaming, talking and writing about writing will get us nowhere. It takes focus and intent. It begs experience and exploration. It demands we eat, sleep and breathe our craft and that of likeminded others. Never forget this. As writers, we not only deserve to read the work of others, we owe it to our own readers even more. Without it, we are just babbling buffoons.

If you need a pivotal place to partake, I hear that Khaled Hosseini guy is pretty proficient.

Oh, the shame.

Me, inhaling "And The Mountains Echoed" at the lake this week

Me, inhaling “And The Mountains Echoed” at the lake this week

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What Matters

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Relationships, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on July 13, 2013| 12 Comments »

This is a rewrite. The original is here. Just wondering what you think. As usual, all feedback welcome…

What Matters

His hand, light as paper, slides off his chest onto the sheet beside him. Blue veins press at the waxy skin and pulse pointless blood through his withering form. I touch his arm. Although heavy with burden, he resembles feathery tissue tufting from a Kleenex box.

Stiff in every joint, I shift my chair to face his side table, its bottom drawer becoming a makeshift footrest. I allow my head to idle a mere moment on the back of the vinyl chair, perplexed that the once unwelcome din of the fluorescents has become a comforting presence during these last silent days.

A sigh rattles the stale air and I startle until I realize it’s mine. It’s the end. Our laughs and labours all coming to an abrupt finish, our last scene falling to the cutting room floor as the director decides he doesn’t like the ending we’ve scripted for ourselves. Waiting for death is proving ruthless in every sense of the word.

I turn on the soft lamp brought from home and get up to quiet the bright overheads. He stirs slightly as I walk to the switch near the door.

“Abi?”

His voice shakes me. It’s dry and haggard, breathy. It’s been so many days since I’ve heard him speak.

“I’m here, honey. Right here.”

“Abi.” His fluttering eyes animate an otherwise dormant body, moths frantically searching for light.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Rest now, love.”

His feet begin to glide back and forth under the sheet like fins, sharks just below the water’s surface, circling their prey.

I look away.

“I haven’t,” he stops, unable to catch his breath.

I cup his hand in both of mine and squeeze each finger soothingly.

“No, not now, Paul. Please, you need sleep.”

“Abigail.”

“Hush. No talking. We’ll do plenty of that later,” I fable, willing him childlike naiveté.

“There was a time,” he chokes, “when I failed you. God, I failed myself.” Air catches, unearthing another enormous wheeze. “Not a day’s gone by that I…if only I could change it, Abi.” 

Reaching to stroke his face, I remember the many moments he had done the same for me in much less severe times of need. His skin is cool and clammy, expiring. Remorse courses over his temples and darkens parts of the worn, blue fabric covering his pillow.

“Paul, you’re upsetting yourself. There’s no need, sweetheart. Close your eyes now.” 

I climb up onto the bed and with the tip of my finger; his lids are gently drawn one at a time. I pull him in and he folds like a stack of cards. I lay whispering sweet nothings, his sharp hip poking at my belly all the while.

I begin recounting our first years as what’s left of his hair waltzes with my every word. The silly card we’d fought over, the day we’d gone for a quick shop and ended up stuck in the snow, slowly grazing through the groceries we’d thankfully packed into the back seat. Breaking off bits of cheese and chunks of baguette, we’d sung all the songs we knew and some we didn’t, almost regretful when the tow truck finally showed up. I chuckled at the memory of Paula’s quick and comical birth, straining my neck to see if he was smiling. He looked wistful at best.

I talk about how he had patiently taught me to swim despite me being terrified of the water and convinced me I was good enough to attempt art school when I’d felt less than worthy. I tell him that he’s been an incredible father and that I’m so very thankful to have been his partner. I whisper the hours away, revisiting each page of the life we’ve written together, skipping only one.

It’s not until the short beeps become a solid strike piercing my heart that I turn back to it; “I knew about her, Paul. I always did. She just didn’t matter to me as much as you.”

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If You Knew

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Relationships, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on June 26, 2013| 14 Comments »

They look so cute in the movies and are seriously irresistible when attached to someone else. They’re pretty and polished when on display, but it’s simply impossible to know how much work that takes until you have some of your own.

I’m talking about children in case you’re confused. I have nothing against them of course. In fact, I have three of my own and am really quite fond of each one of them. Alright, I love them to death, if you must know.

But let’s cut the to the crazy here – they are work and they wreck the house. No, no, they don’t mean to cause any bother. They’re just living their little lives, going about their important business, learning to function in this great big world. But man, nothing is left standing in their wake.

So, save your money, folks. Do not invest in wildly wonderful and exorbitantly expensive treasures. They will not go the distance unless they’re bubble wrapped, vacuum packed and under lock and key, stored nowhere near where you actually live.

 

You might feel I’m being a drama mama. I’m not. I swear.

They’ll work on ‘projects’ in your freshly cleaned kitchen and you will find melted wax and splattered paint in every corner for weeks on end. You’ll spend scrupulous hours decorating their rooms only to find your carefully chosen and expertly applied paint sabotaged with stickers, posters and pushpins. You’ll buy new pillows and discover them on the hair-infested floor, which reminds me, children will also use their magical powers to convince you that welcoming animals in to share your home, not to mention help them in their endeavor of destruction, is somehow a great idea.

You’ll wash and iron their clothes and uncover them back in the basket a (very) short while later with a pocket torn away. You’ll haul the couch covers off to give them a spin and find an ink stain ten minutes after you’ve put them all back on.

And, you’ll cherish all of it.

I’ve been married 20 years today and my kids are 17, 14 and 12 and a ½. I wouldn’t trade any of them it for a pristine house in the Cotswolds, even if they did carve “poop” into my dining room table.

Poop 2

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Weekend Wanders

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Parenting, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on June 14, 2013| 10 Comments »

Well folks, it’s Friday. The weekend has arrived and it’s found my husband and I relaxing and reminiscing about our childhoods, our weekends and basically the things we used to think were the bee’s knees.

Although I admit I thought so at the time, my parents weren’t really over the top strict.

Side note: In the summer the other kids were usually playing outside as I watched from my bedroom window on tiptoes, clad in pale yellow baby-dolls. (Bedtime was a sharp 7:30!) And on two separate occasions, I was grounded for two weeks, once, because a friend was overheard swearing (logic says I must be swearing too) and the other, due to the fact that I was caught riding my bike with no hands.

 

Alas, I digress.

 

I wasn’t allowed to be a hooligan, I wasn’t allowed to swear, as mentioned above, and I had to be respectful, which is basically the first two points summed up into one. Easy, right?

I wasn’t allowed junk food, they would’ve liked me to get good grades and I had lots of chores.

Case and point: doing the dishes after dinner, no we didn’t have a dishwasher, included; rinsing, washing, rinsing again, drying, putting away, clearing up leftovers, wiping counters, wiping the table, cleaning the stovetop and sweeping the floor. That was every night and only counted as one chore.

 

I wasn’t allowed to have short hair or wear make-up. They didn’t want me to be common and I often got in trouble for always having my nose in a book. Go figure.

Much to their dismay, I did not turn out to be a ballerina, an award-winning Irish dancer or a gold league soccer star.

 

But…there were the weekends. Magic. An enticing British series would come on and we’d cozy up by the roaring fire, consuming several pieces of delectable, whiskey-infused chocolate.

We’d hike the forested five miles to the tantalizing tangerine filling station and I was granted two Icy Cups from the big jar on the counter as a reward.

We’d ride our bikes down to the local pool and swim for free in the misty summer rain.

I’d play Queen, The Police, Pat Benatar, The Beatles, Yazoo, Air Supply and anything else I could get my music-greedy little hands on, using my parent’s state of the art stereo system.

Company would land in and I’d be allowed to watch TV as late as I wanted in my room on my tiny, orange plastic, black and white portable, a bowl of chips, licorice and a Root Beer float at my side.

Now that I have kids of my own, I know my parents weren’t all that strict. They were simply trying to survive while keeping me alive and unscathed by the not so savory things life has to offer.

I never wanted for anything and it turns out that what I thought was the bee’s knees then, still is and, I am in fact, unscathed.

Icy Cups 1

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Mercy

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on June 12, 2013| 17 Comments »

At fifteen, I was a witness.

An enormous steel door cranked open in the distance and launched his cries into the stale, cold air. His heavy steps clamored on the slate pavers and I heard hesitation in the back and forth shuffle he seemed unable to control. As he moved slowly up the ramp towards me, his breath clouded and fused with the death that engulfed us. He didn’t look up.

A noose was placed around his neck; eyes saucers of spilled black tea, dark and brimming. His lashes were long and caught in the tiny pieces of cool, blue light filtering through cracked slats of wood. He was massive and mesmerizing, stunning. It was impossible to look away.

My heart galloped as the straight end of the noose was pulled taut. He bucked frantically, but was dragged off his feet, head ramming into the stone wall beside him. Dazed, he’d slumped to ground, groaning and moaning, tears wetting his panic-stricken face. The bolt went straight through his skull, centered just above his eyes and a long, straight metal prod was inserted, meant to scramble his brain. He fought and flailed and I’d felt his desperation clawing its way into my own rattled organs.

He finally looked up and our eyes locked, both begging.

“Kill him,” I’d choked. “Oh please dear God, have mercy and kill him.”

They used the noose to rope his legs and in an instant, he was on his back, all fours up in the air, slit open straight down the middle. His body shuddered and his sweat christened the ground below him before the blood could reach it. His insides oozed and steamed as his valued parts were scooped for market.

It was the most brutal thing I’d ever seen and like the beast, I was gutted. Running off, fighting through tall grass and bursting out into the misty morning air, I was sure I’d never kill a living thing as long I lived.

––

The door protests loudly at my intrusion, but she doesn’t look up.

The room is shadowy and the rain pelts hard on the double-glazing. Cool blue light steals in through a crack in the curtains.

She’s lying on the bed; what’s left of her anyway. Trying to raise her wasted hand is exhausting. She surrenders after only a moment. There’s hesitation in the back and forth breaths she seems unable to control. She groans and moans, as tears wet the cheeks of her panic-stricken face. Dazed and scared, frenzied, as fear and death vie for her attention.

My hand rests over her heart and it’s clear we’re not beating in time. Hers is slow and labored; mine races to keep up with the trampling thoughts littered over my aching soul.

She finally looks my way and her gaze locks on mine, eyes big and blue, brimming; an ocean’s waves spilling onto the beach. And it’s obvious we’re both begging, only for two very different things; I’d give anything if life would sustain her. More than anything, she finds torture in each extra minute.

Every raindrop punctuates her silent plea.

“End it. Oh please, please help me. Have mercy and end it.”

And, I do.

At forty-five, I’m a participant.

Cracked light

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The Beginning

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on June 7, 2013| 12 Comments »

You’ve stuck around. Cheered me on. Supported me. I’m torn between thanking you and asking what the heck are you thinking?

My pastime as of late has been to pick through previous posts, searching for the biggest and the best. Oh my! My jaw is tight and my cheeks are sore from the Oooh, that’s embarrassing face.

So yeah, I’ve been contemplating the question; “How have you managed to stick it out?” But, I’ve thought better of it. That question could insult you. It might make you look back on my work and think; “You know, she’s right!” You may change your mind. Heaven forbid, you might leave me.

Well, a tight jaw and sore cheeks trump red eyes and a runny nose every time, so I’m going with praise instead. Big props to you for reading, liking, commenting, following and most of all, for giving me a reason to believe there’s a teeny chance I just might be able to pull this off. It means the world to me.

And I thank you.

Be a beginner

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Learning

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on May 25, 2013| 24 Comments »

Hey kids! How do you feel about contests?

I’ve been looking for ways to move forward. I want to sink my teeth into this writing world…sport a bite worse than my bark. I want to make sure I’m a part of ‘it’ and genuinely working towards achieving more than writing a blog post here and there. (Which I absolutely love doing, by the way)

So…I entered a contest; the criteria – flash fiction, open prompt, a minimum of 250 words and a max of 750. A dreamy drool formed at the corners of my mouth as I pondered the possibilities. It was the first time I’d ever entered a writing contest and it was, although nerve-wracking, exhilarating.

I took a previously written (by yours truly) story called “That’s The Spirit”, tweaked it, paid a ten-dollar entry fee and chose to shell out an extra ten for the optional critique. After several minutes of water-gauging, I shouted heave ho, pressed firmly on the send button and…waited.

Apparently it takes a couple of months to read through, critique and judge several hundred stories. Who knew?

I submitted in January and went about my life sipping a cocktail of denial and disregard with a splash of dementia, and of course, the assumption that my story had been fed to the fishies. Until, one fine day, April 18th to be precise, the sails flapped in the wind, we changed course and before I could yell; “Jibe!”  This popped into my box:

“Congratulations!

You’ve successfully made it through First Round Judging in the WOW! Winter 2013 Flash Fiction Contest. Your entry has officially been given the thumbs-up, and you’re well on your way!”

Whoa. Say what? I was taken completely by surprise. I thought I’d capsized long ago. But, I won’t keep you in suspense. I didn’t win. On May 21st, I received notice that I’d placed as an honorable mention. I’m thrilled with this. I entered to gain experience and something else that’s crucial – feedback. The ten bucks I spent on that critique was invaluable. Through it, I found out that I would’ve placed higher if it weren’t for a handful of technical errors. I scored 5’s on everything, but a 4 in the technical department. These are things that I would’ve thought could be overlooked if my story were good enough. I was wrong.

You don’t win with 4’s. You don’t win with meh. You don’t win with good enough. You require 5’s. You want wow. You need great.

I enjoyed the journey this voyage took me on and I will set sail again, regardless of a calm or cragged sea. After all…

A smooth sea

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Calling All Writers/Readers

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on May 21, 2013| 12 Comments »

A plea, if you will, for critiques and feedback. I rewrote one of my ‘stories’ and I’d like your take on which you like better and most importantly, why. Feel free to leave comments. (Please, please will you leave comments?!) I’m batting my lashes…

Which is better

Good Enough (A)

The powder slowly fell out of the paper envelope into the bowl, reminding me of a dump truck off-loading a pile of sand; only the dust rising from this pour was so sweet, my mouth watered at the scent.

I carefully tore open a second packet, fearful of losing even one of the tiny, tasty granules. Spinning a spoon, I methodically mixed the two flavors together making sure all was evenly dispersed.

The kettle was taking forever. I braided my hair and drew hearts on the windowpane where condensation had formed. I did a few pirouettes and slid back and forth across the sleek kitchen floor, but the kettle still hadn’t boiled.

Unable to wait any longer, I added the slightly more than lukewarm water and stirred away. Growing even more impatient, I added the cold and happily popped the mixture into the fridge.

I did some homework, brushed the dog and painted my fingernails, each one a different color, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I checked and checked again, finally deciding it was good enough.

Quivering almost as much as it was, I brought the heaping bowl up to my room. I’d waited for what felt like an eternity and I was finally about to reap the reward.

But to my surprise, it wasn’t ‘good enough’. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of good at all. It was runny and watery, not firm and wiggly. It was sour and sad, rather than joyful and jolly.

As I sat on my bed slopping the red garble around in the bowl, it didn’t take me long to figure out that greatness never comes from ‘good enough’.

Good Enough (B)

The fine powder drifts out of the paper packet into the massive glass bowl, like dump trucks off-loading piles of sand; only the dust rising from this pour is so sweet, my mouth waters at the exhilarating scent tickling my nose.

I cautiously snip open a second packet, fearful of losing even one of the tiny, tasty granules. Spinning a spoon, I ever so slowly mix the two flavors together; taking great pains to ensure all is evenly dispersed.

But the kettle takes too long.

I braid my hair and draw hearts on the windowpanes where condensation has formed. I do a few pirouettes and slide back and forth across the sleek kitchen floor in my sock-covered feet, but the water still hasn’t come to a boil.

Unable to wait any longer, I add the slightly warmer than lukewarm water to my mix and stir away. Growing even more impatient, I dole out the cold and happily pop the concoction into the fridge.

I doddle over homework, brush the dog and carefully paint my fingernails, each one a different color, but the mixture is never far from my thoughts. I check and check again, impatiently deciding it’s good enough.

Quivering almost as much as it is, I bring the heaping bowl up to my room. I have worked and waited for what, to me, feels like an eternity and at long last, am on the verge of reaping the fragrant reward.

But to my surprise, it isn’t good enough. In fact, it isn’t any kind of good at all. It is runny and watery, not firm and wiggly. It’s sour and sad, anything but jubilant or jolly.

And as I sit on my bed peering at the tangerine-tinged garble in the massive glass bowl, it doesn’t take me long to see that nothing great ever comes from good enough.

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