Rejection Hurts!!!

It was a weekend filled with the sunshine of productivity. Monday came and the rejection clouds moved in.

It has been a tough year with many of my favorite markets changing their editors to someone who doesn't buy my work. Or they have reduced the number of submissions they buy or they've closed their doors. A tough, tough year. Maybe that means I should devote my time to fiction....

But still I had hopes that a personal essay I had submitted back in June and under consideration all summer, had made the cut. I sent a follow up email yesterday only to hear, "Sorry, but no...."

It was a personal and heartfelt "Sorry, but no." But it also meant that we continue to struggle without that $800 to pay off the computer we bought to replace the one zapped by lightning.

So what's the next step after rejection? Comfort food and wallowing. Wallowing in "I'm not a writer. Why did I ever think I was a writer." or "This is it, I'm done. No one wants my work...."

I look at the picture of my subversive stitchers and think about escaping to their landscape for awhile. So I jump in to the best thing one can do after a rejection -- work on a new or at least another project. And in the back of my mind I think about the NEXT market to send my little reject to. Somewhere there is a community full of friendly editors just waiting to welcome my little essay. If only I can find them....

Best rejection foods:

• Potato chips and bananas
• Balogna sandwich and potato chips
• Potato chips -- a whole BIG bag

Best Teaching Books -- The Ones You Throw Across the Room

I have a whole library of books that say "How to..." in the title.

"How to Write Dialogue," or "How to Finish that First Novel," or "How to Write Like a Master!"

But the best books I have ever learned from were those I literaly threw across the room. The ones that frustrated and dithered and preached and used poor grammar and mechanics and badly BADLY needed a good and dedicated editor. These books I learn "How NOT to Write."

This lesson is just as important as all of the others.

Cyclically on a writing group of which I've been a member forever, someone brings up the old argument about rules and breaking them and 'Who says you can't use passive voice?" Are and is, be and was and have been -- all of those less than enthusiastic words seem to be forbidden in today's writings.

I worked for a fantastic editor who forbid them in our book reviews. No way. We wrote with the most appropriate verbs and every is/was/were or has been was thrown out of the window. This helped me write tighter, be more aware of verbs and understand that the proper word in the proper place works!

What our editor finally realized when she read some stellar reviews by a master was -- sometimes passive works. And I learned the true answer to that question about rules: WHEN IT WORKS!

As readers we immediately know when whatever the author is doing -- works. Or doesn't. And automatically we begin to dissect what errors were made, what they should have or could have done and why. It is harder to catch in our own work.

For ourselves, nothing helps bring the mistakes, weaknesses, errors and faults to the service than a little fermenting. This is why we're encouraged to write and then set it aside for a day, week, month, until we can see it more objectively. I tell you -- that REALLY works.

Perhaps the most inspiring aspect of those horribly written books that get published is -- they got published. Which means, as bad as we think we are, there's still hope. Just look at that drivel -- it got published -- so can I. That's a bit of lowest rung thinking, but whatever works. These books also make us shout, "I could do better than that!" And often is the kick we need to get up producing our own writings.

So my advice today -- Go out and read a bad.... No, read a HORRIBLE book today. It will inspire you to write BETTER!

Exercise: Read an opening passage (those are usually the weakest) and evaluate it. Decide what you'd do differently. Then write it!

"Largest ever hoard of Anglo-Saxon gold found in Staffordshire
First pieces of gold were found in a farm field by an amateur metal detector who lives alone on disability benefit" -- Headline in Guardian newspaper Sept. 24, 2009 (Photo from Guardian)

If that doesn't give writers hope, then you're beyond hope. Just when I thought there was nothing new under the sun. Nothing more to be unearthed, discovered, revealed, this impoverished man living in public housing supported by government disability funds trips over not only the most lucrative treasure find in decades. But it is also another piece of history, from a dark era from which little has been salvaged.

Shades of King Arthur send me into paroxysms of fantasy and 'what if.' Just one find like this reminds me that there are still treasures hidden in our world. They have not all been found. Sadly it seems that treasure hunting and exploration and discovery doesn't get much attention. Headlines are reserved for some politician cheating on his wife and running off to Argentina or whether the government is legislating death squads. Or whether politicians are good dancers.... But legitimate archaeology, exploration or research never get past page 20. Unless, like this situation the least likely person makes the most extravagant find. Truly this is the fodder for fiction. And any fiction writer worth his salt has already begun at least one short story or novel or scene based upon this event.

Once in a decade a writer comes along who finds the mother lode in writing just as Terry Herbert found it in metal detecting. Of course J.K. Rowling comes to mind. These events prove that there is much out there yet to be mined. And, it doesn't take high tech or geniuses to make them happen. Everyday people. A teacher, a man down on his luck. Why not you? Why not me?

The one ingredient we need to add to our writing tools -- HOPE! Renew it each day. Focus on feeding it. For, when hope is gone creativity dries up.

How to grow hope?

1. I hate to channel Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, but he's right -- hope grows in a positive environment. THINK POSITIVELY -- it has power.

2. Write. Write for yourself. If your work isn't selling, so what. Just write. Write something that makes you happy and pushes you into a realm where you feel your creativity growing.

3. Challenge yourself to delve into strange and wacky combinations. Lewis Carroll gave a rabbit a pocket watch. A whole story was written around a princess who had a pea in her mattress. And another woman asked what if there was a wizarding school....

4. Read children's books. I keep repeating that Click, Clack, Moo by Doreen Cronin makes me laugh and jump starts my imagination. With a little juxtaposition, perhaps the pieces of your next great piece of writing will fall into place. And when my imagination is charged, hope grows exponentially.

5. Keep your mind and eyes open. Read and listen and learn whatever you can. Study things new to you. Grow your mind and your hope with it.

6. Look around you at the things you take for granted. There's a story there. Jane Austen recognized the value of everyday life.

There are still new ideas. There are still stories left untold. There are still treasures -- whether in gold or in words -- to be discovered. Why not you? Why not me?

Exercise: Pick a family photo. Maybe of your mother and her siblings. Look at the way they stand. The distance between them. The body language. Arms folded? Arms around each other? Look at their clothes, their hair, their faces. They setting. Lesson One: What do you learn from this photo about the people in it. Tell us their story. Lesson Two: Practice your descripition technique. Describe this group and give them personalities and depth just from the description.

Don't put off til tomorrow, what you can do today

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon--instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.-- Dale Carnegie

A few years ago I took a tour of an Old Florida theme park -- Cypress Gardens. It has fallen on hard times, closed, since I was there. But I remember growing up and thinking it was paradise and the one place I wanted to visit. I might have been influenced by my cousin who was a world traveler compared to me. She'd been there. She'd watched the ski show. She could even water ski. Me. I could read.

It only took me 40 years to get to Cypress Gardens. And it was just as magnificent as I had thought it would be -- more so. The banyan tree bigger (well, it had 40 years more of growth!) and the topiary garden pictured here absolutely magnificent. And I realized that Cypress Gardens wasn't just my dream destination. It was also someone's dream become reality.

Cypress Gardens began as Dick Pope's dream and became a premiere promotion for water skiing. "Founded in 1936 by Dick and Julie Pope, Cypress Gardens was a showcase for Central Florida and paved the way for other parks such as Disney and Universal to follow. Under his guidance, the beautiful botanical gardens became the backdrop for beautiful belles and peaceful boat rides, as well as many movies and thousands of advertising campaigns over the years. Familiar Starlets who have walked our paths include: Betty Davis, Johnny Carson, Carol Burnett, Esther Williams and Elvis to name just a few. Proclaimed the Water Ski Capitol of the World, Cypress Gardens became the birthplace of performance water skiing in 1941. " By the time I knew what it was in the 1960s, it was an internationally famous destination.

My little pea brain wouldn't know where to begin to create such a place, how to pull it together and make it work, market it, keep it open and welcoming and all the other things that such a venture requires. But then, that isn't true is it. I could write a fiction world. My own fiction dream of Cypress Gardens or whatever destination I can dream.

Then again, in fiction the facts must be there. I should be able to grasp the rudiments of running such a place. So fiction writers must be magnificent researchers. And we must make readers believe the fiction right along with the facts.

My point, a bit obscure I suppose, is that big ventures begin small. J.K. Rowling began with paper and pencil and a curiosity for magic and 'what if'. Mr. Pope started with a vision of a garden fronting onto a lake where his kids liked to swim and ski. He and his 'garden' influenced a cartoonist who eventually created Disney World. Even Dale Carnegie, quoted above, began simply with his belief and experiences. He shared them with others and generations later he's still an icon.

We can begin the same way these people and others have begun. But as another mover and shaker and genuinely nice guy who died too early said: "Whatever you want to do, do it now.There are only so many tomorrows." --Michael Landon

Today's Tip: Timed Writings get the creative juices flowing. Take 10 minutes, no make it 20, and just type. Don't craft, don't censor, just write whatever flows into your head, then sit back and relish the nuggets you mined from your own mind.

Time to get serious or A journey begins with the first step, unless you turn around and don't take the second

(Photo by Marion Ettlinger)

I am a writer.

It took me several decades and more than 100 articles published before I could say that without feeling like a fool or even worst like a fraud. For years (decades) I wanted to add the title of novelist to my name. But I have difficulty getting past the feeling of wasted time whenever I venture into my characters' world. And when it doesn't flow for 100,000 words and form itself into a marketable (saleable) product, I stop and lament the wasted time. Yet the feeling never goes away that I MUST write a novel!

What I hear from writers such as Mary Higgins Clark and Joyce Carol Oates and other successful members of the publishing business boils down to: persevere.

These two women especially say how dreadful, how much they hate those first few weeks of a new project. They are angry and anxious and frustrated and totally convinced they cannot write. And then after several weeks. Joyce Carol Oates suggested six weeks. It begins to work and they find their footing and the fog clears from the landscape and they begin to get acquainted with their characters and the story begins to unfold with less fighting and wrestling and fewer tears.

Up to this point I have successfully written 1000 or 2000 words and sold them without difficulty to well respected markets. There are examples of my essays on the sideboard here. But when I begin something longer I get bogged down and give up in confused frustration.

Organization obviously is key in a longer work (how else do we keep characters and scenes straight?) and I'm deficient in that area -- one look at my 'crap room' will send you screaming out of the house. My first and only to date garage sale was a marvel. Buyers would come in and look around and exclaim, "My goodness, this covers three or four decades of fashion, of stuff."

I'm a keeper, and I believe, firmly believe, that I will use everything again one day. And then like Ralph's barn, the layers build up and up and I can't find it when I need it and then nothing gets done. I throw up my hands in frustration and quit.

Ralph's barn, by the way refers to a man who worked construction and would drag home truck loads of leftovers and castoffs from the worksite. He would store everything in his barn. It got so full that you literally walked across the barn on top of boxes of stuff. And whenever he needed something for home repairs or projects, he wouldn't go to the barn. He would mutter, "Its in there somewhere," and then head to the hardware store to purchase whatever he needed. I believe the barn eventually fell down. Although it might have fallen down years earlier if it hadn't had all of that stuff inside holding it up.

My brain is also like Ralph's barn. So many stories swirling around in it. So many characters. So many scenes. And yet I can't seem to find the parts to fit together into something complete and compelling.

But, since only about eight of us read this blog at any given time, I hope you won't mind that I change the direction for the next few months. There will still be synchronicity discussions since it seems to be these kinds of strange comings together that spark my writing. But, for the moment I want to use this venue to help me stay with one project at least through the slogging, frustrating, hair pulling "I'm gonna give up" stage and see if I can actually get to the ahhhh its working state of grace in a novel.

So today I vow that I will begin to act like a professional writer complete with crying fits and self flogging. But I won't give up.

I will attempt to write each day. If it is only to explore characters or do research or figure out the rock structure under the city where my characters reside. I will continue until I have something that resembles a novel. A readable, marketable novel.

Are you with me?

I have listened again and again to Diana Gabaldon's talks about how she began writing Outlander (by the way another book is due out any day!) and she laid down two rules for herself. I've paraphrased them below:

1. Write the best I can.

1A. WRITE!

2. Finish it.

She doesn't write in a linear fashion. She writes whatever scene comes to her. I believe that is a style that will work for me and I want to give it a try. So if I post anything here please know that it may not be in order of how it would appear in the book. And I will be working on more than one project because I keep running into stone walls and can't seem to find my way around them, but in an effort to keep writing, I'll start or continue on another project.

Here's a piece of what was fresh in my brain a week or so ago before I hit a wall. I eked out almost 3000 words and then nothing.

Working Title: Chalk Lady

Simultaneously, with as much force as she could muster, she brought the side of her fist down on the toes peeking out of the strappy white sandals while turning her head to spit on the exposed ankles above the Birkenstocks. The two women screamed and jumped back. Their attacker resumed her work without any lingering malice, repairing the damage the gawkers had done.

Slowly, thoughtfully she replaced a cylinder of chalk onto the battered metal tray. Her hand hovered above the dusty yet colorful array before choosing a subdued sage green and applying the color to what gawkers like the sandal wearers realized was a face – a haggard, careworn, devastating visage that made their hearts hurt just to see the pain in the eyes. It was a female figure. Beyond the gnarled fingers, straggling hair, fierce eyebrows and burning eyes, one could see a hint of a gentle curve and female nature. A reminder of breasts that might have once been voluptuous rather than sagging, lips that might once have smiled invitingly. (c) Dawn Goldsmith 2009

For some reason I awoke one morning with the vision of this street artist in my mind and I rushed to the computer to try to capture her in words. She's an elusive figure, this woman, yet I think I know what she's about. Can I accurately represent her and her life and the story she wants me to tell?

And for years I have been friends with a group of characters who inspired the name of my other blog: Subversive Stitchers: Women Armed with Needles. Here is a snippet of what I've written about them. But the story keeps beginning again and again and I can't quite decide which group is the one I want to write about or which setting or which conflict....I think there's a series here.

Working Title: Subversive Stitchers

Knowing something is not nearly as satisfying as sharing it. That was Alma Wright’s motto.

She peered through the twisted metal Art Nouveau grillwork. It separated her workspace from the tiny post office lobby. She looked out onto the government green walls and scarred black and green linoleum floor. She could also keep an eye on the bank of copper antique doors that secured each mailbox for citizens of Clarion, Ohio. Being postmistress not only gave her keys to the back room of the post office, but also opened up access to everyone’s business. She was the first to read their picture post cards, the first to know when a bill was overdue and the first to see who was corresponding with whom. Email had curtailed much of the personal letter information, but in a small town there was always gossip and she was well connected on the grapevine. Her whole world had shrunk to the size of the tiny post office. (c)Dawn Goldsmith 2008

I welcome comments and encouragement, prayers and lit candles. And I WELCOME ways to get my writing organized so I can easily find what I need and finish this project and begin a whole new chapter in my life. And if you wish to discuss the fiction I'm writing, even better!

Writer's Darlings

I recently discussed 'killing your darlings' with another writer. Seems that us writers have favorites and cling to them even when they are all wrong. A phrase that seems particularly expressive or alliteration that sings or a detour in the middle of an essay that leads nowhere, but sounds good. They jump out at us and we embrace them because they make us as a writer feel good. "Look at that, I wrote that, isn't that literate? Isn't that creative? Isn't that just exceptional?"

Often these darlings are just that 'exceptional pieces of writing' -- but they just don't fit the voice or the form or the topic. The wrong word in the wrong place no matter how beautiful the word is still the wrong word.

But essay writers know that often an essay starts with a 'darling' of a different sort. A favorite anecdote perhaps. A scene -- like the one of my husband walking across the parking lot with me as we enter a quilt show admonishing me to "don't even try to talk about those 'blankets' to me." And him standing with his arm around the guest speaker at the quilt show, grinning like an idiot while I snap their photo and listen to him tell her, "Quilts? Oh yeah, I like quilts, yep I like quilts a lot." It begs to be turned into an essay.

Recently I experienced an 'essay moment' while thumbing through my most recent issue of Mid-American Review. It is published by Bowling Green University and they actually published one of my book reviews there. Bowling Green was my Dad's home town and it is the college I would have loved to graduate from, if I could have had that opportunity. So I have a soft spot for the university and the publication. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't subscribe because I'm always intimidated to try reading it.

This whole intimidation factor came into play when I read a poem that appeared in the magazine. Now, poetry is even scarier to me than literary short stories. I started reading with the expectation of not understanding a word, but it spoke to me and I truly felt my world shift and my creativity soar and well, I turned it into an essay.

Of course my first choice to submit it was Christian Science Monitor. They always get first dibs on my kinder-gentler essays. This one though had a four letter word in it and well, it wasn't the usual fare I send their way.

To my surprise the editor liked it. And even more surprising, she did very little editing. And well, my little ode to poetry and all its angst is up on their website today in celebration of Poetry day or week or month, whatever it is.

It is one of my darlings. One that made me feel a bit vulnerable admitting my unsophisticated reading limits and the fear factor when addressing poetry. I don't know how readers will respond to the piece. For me it is a milestone. I feel it is one of my better efforts. I hope this darling proves to be worth keeping.

Dissimulation

This week the members of the practice list on the Internet Writing Workshop have been submitting their versions of fiction, mostly fiction, based upon the assignment to focus on dissimulation. It sounded simple enough: "In 400 words or less, create a scene in which a character, in the course of conversation, says one thing while thinking another." It is another way of saying 'hypocrisy.'

Francis Bacon wrote, back in the 15-1600s:

There be three degrees of this hiding and veiling of a man’s self. The first, closeness, reservation, and secrecy; when a man leaveth himself without observation, or without hold to be taken, what he is. The second, dissimulation, in the negative; when a man lets fall signs and arguments, that he is not that he is. And the third, simulation in the affirmative; when a man industriously and expressly feigns and pretends to be that he is not.

Some IWW list members wrote of business deals -- "I've got a bridge to sell you..." That kind of interactions or as we say in Florida, "I have some prime 'lakefront' real estate to sell you..." Others turned to thoughts of love, relationships, blind dates and all of the mixed messages those can engender.

My thoughts flew to the church and the dissimulation between word and deed often seen in the members of the flock -- after all, they are humans striving for perfection. Too many, I fear, fake it till they make it....

And then there is what I call 'mama speak.' Mothers and their children. Children of any age, but particularly teens and young adults and not so young adults. Mothers who never raise their voice, always smile, gently chide, yet the child feels the crack of that whip, the guilt, the zing of mother's disapproval behind those 'encouraging' words.

Especially in advertising we should be aware of the term dissimulation. I wonder, looking back, who was the first to tell people that we must drink bottled water, that it is purer, safer, more sophisticated, more fun? Perhaps it was the same advertising firm that told us we were sexier, more worldly, more mature, stronger, if we smoked cigarettes.

Now in this season, this long season, of presidential politics, we should be looking for the dissimulation -- the chasm that gapes wide between the words spoken and the thoughts, actions, truth behind them.

Bacon also had encountered such politicians. Evidently in his day there was an alternative, I'm not sure there is today. They all seem quite talented at dissimulation. Here's what Bacon said:

Dissimulation is but a faint kind of policy, or wisdom; for it asketh a strong wit, and a strong heart, to know when to tell truth, and to do it. Therefore it is the weaker sort of politics, that are the great dissemblers.

How sad.

Messages hidden in printed pages

Where was I in 2002, when Andy Andrews wrote his New York Times best seller: The Traveler's Gift? Good Morning America endorsed it, telling all of their watchers to "READ THIS!"

I was watching Katie Couric, I suppose. Now that was a waste of time. But as I learn from Andy's book, "It was my choice, my fault, and my thinking." And it is up to me to take control of my life and make the decisions, correct those that are faulty and find the life, the success I want.

Interesting how this book came to be in my hands. I shelve books at the local library twenty hours a week. A lot of books pass through my hands, some fall down onto my head, others jump off the shelf, but rarely do I bring them home with me. Today, when I shelved another book near Andrew's book in the 813 section, I was caught by the title. No not the 'Seven Decisions that determine personal success' that is printed above the title, but rather the 'Traveler's Gift' portion.

It may be a Gabaldon thing and the whole obsession I've had lately with a young English woman traveling from the 1940s to the 1750s that the term 'traveler' brought to mind. Of course this was in the nonfiction not the fiction section of the library, and that may have been what motivated me to read the flyleaf blurb:

"Forty-six-year-old David Ponder feels like a total failure. Once a high-flying executive in a Fortune 500 company, he now works a part-time, minimum wage job...."

OK, that sounded like a downer, so yesterday. Old news.

I skimmed to the part: "But an extraordinary experience awaits David Ponder. He finds himself traveling back in time, meeting leaders and heroes at crucial moments in their lives...."

That's probably what grabbed me. I remember wondering, "Just who would I turn to for advice if I could ask anyone throughout history?"

Sadly my mind went blank at that point. Who would I want to advise me?

Eleanor Roosevelt comes to mind, yet I'm not sure she wasn't as much a pawn as anyone and she couldn't stand up to her own mother-in-law and her husband cheated on her with his secretary and for heaven sakes he was crippled from polio.

I'll admit that I'm only on the first of the seven decisions that determine personal success. But I am nodding in agreement with the author's choice of advisers: Harry Truman. Nothing truer was ever written or spoken than: The Buck Stops Here.

Yep, a real tough love kind of statement for all of us who want to protest and say, "I'm a victim here -- it wasn't me who invested in junk bonds, sold the company to someone who gutted it, caused the jobs to disappear...."

Our choices or failure to choose still speak for the way we live our lives. Accept that "The Buck Stops Here" and then make your choices.

I particularly like the statement in the book that says:

"From this moment forward, I will accept responsibility for my past. I understand that the beginning of wisdom is to accept the responsibility for my own problems and that by accepting responsibility for my past, I free myself to move into a bigger, brighter future of my own choosing."

OK, it sounds a bit Polyanna-ish. But there's merit and reason and most of all, there is hope in this statement. Hope can be in short supply when you live like a victim. Of course it is also a good way to live if you don't like to take responsibility for your own actions.

Funny how books seem to appear all at the same time and their diverse messages converge into just what I need to hear.

Today's books are as diverse as any could be. The next is a book of poems for children. "Water Music" by Jane Yolen. She captured my attention with her first poem:

"Reflections". Only eight lines beginning with "Water is a magic mirror...." and ending with "What is up is down, What is far is near; A truth so fragile Only Eyes can hear."

Poetry makes me think in new ways, look at things differently, consider eyes that hear. How is this connected to "The Traveler's Gift"? Darn if I know.

Sometimes the bits of information fit perfectly and I can see exactly what I am meant to learn. Other times, it takes a bit of pondering -- like David Ponder must do as he travels toward truth. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say that I need to look at my life, things, events, people in a new way and see how they reflect upon me and how I reflect upon them.

The third portion of my truth trilogy was found in Donna Tartt's novel "The Secret History."

After a beautifully written page and a half, the narrator comments:

"I was consumed by a more general sense of dread, of imprisonment within the dreary round of school and home: circumstances which, to me at least, presented sound empirical argument for gloom.... I felt things would doubtless continue in this depressing vein as far as I could foresee. In short: I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way."

I realize how this fits with the first book, that sense of helplessness, victimization, being caught in a web that holds me stickily in place and won't allow me to escape.

Perhaps the most fun of this exercise is discovering that random books brought together can present you with a new perspective, surprise you with unexpected revelations or at the least, introduce you to new authors. It isn't necessary to work in a library to do this exercise. Peruse your own book shelves and choose a few books and passages. Maybe try it at one of the book stores or when you're visiting the library -- let your hand stray and follow its lead.

This journey doesn't stop here for me -- I plan to finish reading "The Traveler's Gift" and buy a few copies to give as gifts. And I am totally committed to reading as much of Donna Tartt's writing as I can -- she has such an exquisite voice. And I will be reading and rereading and sharing the poems, even if they are for kids.

Bridge to nowhere

Crisis are becoming almost commonplace. A few years ago, a bridge collapse or steam explosion, would have kept me glued to the television while sending emails to everyone I know in the area, making sure they all were safe.

Somehow the steam vented before I became totally aware of the problem. And the bridge collapse just didn't compute. Maybe I'm overloaded with my own pressures and problems or maybe I'm getting immune to all of this because it is happening so often.

Today a co-worker and I had a chance to talk and she said, "You know, my brother-in-law lives in Minneapolis...."

Evidently they don't keep in touch regularly with him, but she added. "He was really shook up. He travels that bridge to and from work."

And then she paused. Swallowed. And said, "He had crossed that bridge at six, the collapse happened at 6:05."

We stared at each other. I thought about my decision this morning to use five more minutes to write to my son, putting me on the road to work five minutes later than usual. If that had been her brother-in-law, he would quite possibly be dead.

My friend's philosophy is to shrug and say, "It wasn't his time."

When these events happen, I find it difficult to believe that people die because it is their time. Disasters seem like an intrusion, a foreign, unexpected element that sweeps people out of their lives, rather than 'their time.'

The defects in that bridge. Someone choosing perhaps to cut costs, eliminate a step in the process, take the lowest bid on construction and materials. Those might have been the culprits that determined whether it was 'someone's time' to die or not.

Somehow being raised by independent, hard working blue-collar parents, I came to realize that my life is in my hands and for the most part, I like being responsible for it. But more and more we must trust and depend on others to make decisions that literally mean life or death for us.

People building bridges, cars, or even growing vegetables for mass consumption seem to forget at times their responsibility to the common good, to their fellow man, to god as good stewards. Instead they focus on profit or achieving some arbitrary goal like finishing by a certain date.

Civic duty doesn't just happen at soup kitchens and Habit for Humanity. It happens everyday, with every decision, big or small, that affects more than yourself. What we do and don't do actually makes a difference.

My brother-in-law, an engineer, sent photos of the bridge collapse. Somehow I hadn't seen many of these snapshots of disaster. The one included above strikes me as someone whose time should not have come. Somehow a Good Samaritan arrived to ensure that she lived to return to her family.

Sometimes Good Samaritans are the only ones standing between us and all of the elements of the world. Perhaps we're seeing an angel in a yellow shirt.

It may be a bit late to finally realize the immensity of the latest disasters, but its sinking in. I wonder if our leaders are getting it?

Aging can be beautiful

I can't remember if I've introduced you to my mother. I know she slips into just about everything I write. She's the number one influence in my life -- even more than editors, teachers, and preachers. As my mother goes, so go I.

She taught me the important lessons from ironing hankies and pillow slips, to canning tomato juice. She also taught me the truly important lessons of courtesy, thoughtfulness, service, caring and love. She's much better at all of these than I am. Probably the biggest failure in my education (my fault, not hers) were pie baking and keeping my mouth shut.

I know it isn't courteous to tell a woman's age, but Mom won't mind. She turned 95 in March. Born a month before the Titanic sank, she's seen alot of history and survived it all. Now she lives not far from the community in which she spent the first 90 years of her life surrounded by people who are offsprings of her peers and neighbors.

I never thought I would say good things about nursing homes -- the last place any of us want to be confined. Yet, the love and care and effort made to keep Mom well and help her have a delightful day, each and every day, earns my respect and affection. Those of you at Richland Manor -- you are the greatest. Thanks Pam, Terry, Frances, Ericka, and all of the others who spend their working hours making Mom's life happy and comfortable. And my brother and his wife have dedicated themselves to overseeing Mom's care. They are awesome.

Don't get the wrong idea. Mom isn't ready to be propped up in the corner yet. She just went on a cruise last week and is busy contributing to the common good -- through word and deed, with a witty rapport and with her greatest gift, perhaps, her loving heart which is connected directly to her smile.

Although I live hundreds of miles away, Mom is by my side, even closer than that. I look at my hands and see hers. I'm even turning gray and getting wrinkles -- just like hers. If I have to age, I hope it is as gracefully and beautifully as Mom....

Cat ESP

NATURE Can Animals Predict Disaster? Predicting Earthquakes - Celebrity bloopers here

Cats rule. It is true. They do not deal well with authority, not even another cat. They are in charge. And well they should be. With their natural ability for seeing and knowing more than us mere humans can ever expect to experience, they should be telling us what to do and when to do it.

In most homes cats instruct humans about feeding time, litter box changes, when they may touch the family feline and when they may not. The cat chooses which pieces of furniture they will shred, which lap to sit on -- or not -- and who may be singled out for some purr therapy.

Through the years cats have demonstrated an uncanny ability to forsee things. According to a delightful website "Superstitions and Old Wives Tales" --

Cats are looked upon as an infallible weather forecaster: if one sneezes then
rain is on the way; a cat sitting with its back to the fire indicates a storm;
while one sharpening its claws on a table leg is a sign of a change in the
weather, usually for the better.

Who knew the reason our furniture is being shredded was because of weather changes?

According to an article supposedly printed in National Scientist, cats can also read human's minds with 100 percent accuracy.

Kitty showed several flash cards to the laboratory cat "Fluffy," shuffling them
while concentrating on one symbol (in this case, the cross). Fluffy's job was to
pick the card Kitty was thinking about. Kitty tried to mislead Fluffy by waving
another card around.

There is even a test on the Internet to see if your cat has special powers. Be sure to have the sound turned on and not too loud on your computer or it might give you heart failure.

And, if that weren't enough reason to trust cats and animals and include them in your life, it is believed they can also predict disasters, and even death. Oscar the cat looks like a few strays who lived and loved in my childhood home. But, perhaps because we were all so healthy, they didn't have a chance to demonstrate their death detectors.

I have heard of cats sensing or detecting disease in humans, here's a link about dogs' abilities to do the same.

Mostly my cats just give me TLC and remind me who is the boss -- and it isn't me.

Imprinting Quilt Shows

When I head to quilt shows, it is with such anticipation of what I'll see and learn there. I have yet to get to the American Quilt Show in Paducah, KY, but it is a goal of mine. I'd love to take classes with some of these creative women who generously (for a price) share their expertise. The whole atmosphere of a quilt show just feeds my spirit. The quilting community is warm and generous and comforting -- much like the work they create.

So my best assignments for writing involve writing about quilts and quilters. Recently I had the opportunity to work with Valerie C. White. Up until the past few years she's been known as the Louisville Police Chief's wife -- but now he is the husband of Valerie White, quilt artist.

Her quilts have such energy and delight and joy. You can see them move and undulate to the jazzy rhythms that influenced their maker. Add her African American heritage and you get a good idea of what these quilts involve. But there is a whimsy as well as layers of meaning to these quilts that draw you in and reveal themselves as you watch.

Her Changes quilt -- the last of a series -- is me after I've spent the day at a quilt show. :) The artist meant for them to reflect the changes that people undergo after a visit to Africa. Even Richard Pryor came back with a changed attitude....but for me her Changes will always be the imprint of all of those quilts on my face as I leave, filled with the urge to create something of my own.

Thanks Valerie for a most delightful conversation and for your beautiful quilts. I wish you all of the best.

Making a house a home

Almost three years ago, we moved into the house where we now live. During that time we have lived with almost everything as the previous owners had left it. The only redecorating we did was to replace the washer and dryer. While the appliances were gone, we painted.

I chose a 'sunshine yellow' to brighten up that windowless room. The paint was actually named 'Van Gogh' yellow and that should have been my clue that it would be bright, bright, bright. At first I winced, but now I can't imagine it any other color.

We make changes slowly, very slowly, since neither of us want to redo something, especially because it was a bad choice. Maybe that was the motivation to embrace Van Gogh's yellow.

When I recently used a favorite piece of cloth to recover a valance in our bedroom, I pulled a green from that print and painted the window wall. Just that wall. The remainder of the bedroom desperately needs painted, but I can't decide if I want a whole green room. Please understand that the remainder of the house is green. The previous owners really liked that color.

Since I can't imagine the walls inside our house as any other color. We decided to work on the outside.

We hired Billy Price and love his work ethic and devotion to perfection. It took a few tries to come up with the colors we wanted him to paint our house.

At first I embraced a golden yellow -- it is that Van Gogh influence. But when we drove down the street and saw several houses being painted that color, we decided to try something else. So now we have a chocolate brown house with tan trim -- love it. LOVE IT!

Most houses reflect the inhabitant's personality by the door color. Seems that alot of people in our neighborhood like white, green or red doors. Our neighbor painted theirs black. Not sure what that says about them....

I wanted something different and chose blue. I thought 'Sapphire' blue, but sadly the color I chose was much more turquoise than that.

Now, like with the Van Gogh yellow, I'm wincing and not sure I can handle this bright, bright blue door. It looks Hispanic. But maybe if I get a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign to hang on the door or near it on a wall, maybe the door will look more at home and also reflect my heritage. Right now it looks out of place. I swear, it glows.

Yet, Heidi, our mail delivery person, shouted out while delivering the mail this morning, "I love it! It looks great!"

The painter just shook his head and said, "I don't discuss color choices. I just paint what you tell me."

The neighbor man diplomatically said, "Well, it certainly is blue."

My husband's coworker added, "Blue's good -- maybe navy blue...."

But I'm pinning my hopes on Heidi. Maybe she saw what I was hoping to create. A cheerful, welcoming entrance that would make you smile -- not because it was so ugly, but because it is a happy color.

OK, I'm probably going to repaint the door. But I'm sticking with blue. Just not this one.

The exciting part of this whole painting project is now when I drive up to this chocolate colored house -- it feels like it belongs to me. Who knew paint could make a house into a home.

Now we just need to pick out the new lighting fixtures, house numbers, and paint to decorate the green bench on our front porch....it never ends. But that's OK, at least now we feel like we are in our own home. And I could paint the foyer to match the door -- just not this door.

Knowing the family history is good for your health

Cousin MJ is the genealogist in the family. She maintains the family archives, photographs, family tree charts, and takes the time to track down birth, death and military records. Thanks to her I know that our grandfather, Christian, came from Germany by way of Canada and Fort Wayne, Indiana. She even dug up his father's and mother's names, which I can't recall at the moment. But if I sent a quick email to MJ, she could tell me. She keeps her records organized and can find just about any tidbit you'd want.

She inherited family recipes and put them together with the history of the cook into a book, or maybe it was a CD, as gifts for her three daughters. What a treasure!

Nothing makes MJ do a happy dance quite like finding another relative for the tree. Her idea of a fun time involves cemeteries or dusty library genealogy files. And, although that sounds like light entertainment, it is serious business, especially when it comes to family medical history.

What do we pass on to our kids? Freckles? Brown eyes? Curly hair? Dominant right-hand? Diabetes? ALS? Heart disease? Lazy eye? Arthritis? Glaucoma?

Doctors don't seem to want to know family history beyond the parents, more often than not they only ask about my own medical history. They don't care that my mother has turned into the bionic woman with just about every joint replaced.

But then of course, doctors rarely know a patient from birth to death -- unless the patient doesn't live very long. So it is up to us to know. We expect doctors to figure out what's wrong, but they barely know us, and haven't even figured out what's right, so it is up to us to keep our medical history and make it relevant to our own lives.

Maybe MJ could add another column to her records that list all of the ailments of past generations. Consumption? Old Man's Disease? They could be relevant to me, to my children, to my grandchildren.

But knowing MJ, I bet she already is way ahead of me. Did you know, Grandpa was blind? I bet MJ knows why.

June 27th's History

This looks like a good year for Cancerians. At least that's what I gathered from Cafe Astrology's 2007 Horoscope for those born under the sign of Cancer: June 22 - July 22.

It's the year to amass financial gains, put daily affairs in order, and meet new friends. "You have a twinkle in your eye this year," says Cafe Astrology. Are you reading this Nick? (He's my favorite Cancerian.)

This date in history offers a diverse list of good and horrible events. The site Important Dates in History begins their information with the first women's magazine, The Ladies Mercury, published in London: 1693.

This is also the date when:

1922: The Newberry Medal was first presented. Hendrik van Loon,
recipient for his children's book The Story of Mankind. "Hendrik Willem van Loon's ability to convey history as a fascinating tale of adventure has endeared this book to countless readers and has attained it a unique place in publishing history." -- book description on Amazon.

1929: The first color television demonstration. Herbert E. Ives demonstrated a mechanical color TV system of 50-lines from AT&T in NY to Washington DC.
1934: Federal Savings and Loan Association created.
1950: President Truman ordered the Air Force and Navy into the Korean Conflict.
That same year the U.S. sends 35 military advisers to Vietnam.

About.com: Humor lists celebrities born on this date, including 1927, Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan); actor Tobey McGuire (1975) and Julia Duffy (1951). Ernest Borgnine married Ethel Merman on this date in 1964 -- the marriage lasted 38 days.

James Smithson died on this day in 1829, leaving behind a curious bequest based upon the death of his only heir. When his heir did die, the U.S. received his whole estate which went to establishing The Smithsonian Institute, just as Mr. Smithson requested.

And on this day in 1939, one of the most important scenes in American film history was shot: "Frankly Scarlett, I don't give a damn." According to historians "Director Victor Fleming also shot the scene from Gone With the Wind using the alternate line, 'Frankly, my dear, I just don't care,' in case the film censors objected to the word 'damn.' The censors approved the movie but fined producer David O. Selznick $5,000 for including the curse."

Hopefully like Victor Fleming or Mr. Smithson or Hendrik van Loon, we'll create a little history, positive history, today. Something to better mankind and ourselves -- or at least something entertaining.

It Isn't Easy Being Green

Green seems to be the color of choice this week.

Green stands for growing and green for environmentally responsible residents of Earth. Like Kermit T. Frog, the feeling of wannabe greenies is, "It isn't easy being green." But perhaps with discussion and exchange of ideas, a bit of determination and imagination, green may grow on us -- and I don't mean moss.

Some areas where I encountered green seemed to all meet at the Internet Writing Workshop.

The Creative Nonfiction Discussion Group are discussing the essay by Deborah Halter: The Joys of Walking vs. the Need for Speed that appeared in the June 22nd issue of National Catholic Reporter. Sadly the essay availability only extends to subscribers of NCR, but the gist of it involves her efforts to walk more and drive less. Like many of us, the author enjoys the driving, the quick results of driving to a destination as opposed to time-eating walks. And like many of us, a walk can not just be a walk, it must involve a destination, be useful, be work, or utilitarian.

I particularly liked this statement:

The first thing I learned was that when we drive, we miss many of the sights, sounds, smells and sensations of being human in the world -- a rabbit under a bush, 5-year-olds playing hopscotch on the driveway, the pungency of wet pavement, the poking of grass and gravel underfoot.

When we roll up the windows and turn on the air, we're twice removed. When we play the radio or a CD, we're thrice removed.When we listen to the radio or a CD and talk on a cell phone, we're removed a notch further. And when we're doing all that plus eating a burger or yelling at the kids in the back seat, our alienation from the environment becomes exponential.

I read Halter's words and can hear my husband's voice. His biggest pet peeve on his long drives to and from work involved people (women) in big SUVs as they multi-tasked (cell phones, mascara/make up application, coffee drinking, hair combing, and even reading while driving erratically and often coming within a hare's breath of running him off of the road.

Another touch with being green also originated at IWW with an article by a member, Wendee Holtcamp. Her article Thirty Days of Consumer Celibacy appears on OnEarth's website and not only follows her experiment into recycling and not buying new items for thirty days. It also imparts information about the biggest polluters and the project San Francisco Compact, started in 2006 by several concerned women.

Holtcamp wrote,

The average American generates about 4.5 pounds of trash a day -- a figure that,
according to the Environmental Protection Agency, includes paper, food, yard
trimmings, furniture, and everything else you toss out at home and on the job.

The leaders in pollution can be listed in a relatively short list: "cars and trucks; meat and poultry farming; crop production; home heating, hot water, and air conditioning; household appliances; home construction; and household water use and sewage treatment."

Moving on with the green synchronicity that came together this week, let me introduce a former IWW member Sandra Friend. She inspires me with her immersion into environment and Florida and her writings. She has written several books and articles about hiking, especially about hiking in Florida.

When I'm concerned that its time for the pest control guy to spray for bugs, she's slogging through some swamp locating mystery orchids and leading tours. She and Wendee leave me in the dust when it comes to environmentally responsible.

But with everyone coming together in a Greenpeace kind of week, maybe I'll finally step up and do my part -- after the bug guy gets done spraying for roaches and spiders and....

Hamilton Writers Guild Fiction Contest

Summer may be a great season for reading, but writers of short fiction should take note. It is an excellent time to fine-tune that short story and enter it in the second annual Hamilton Writers Guild Fiction Contest. With a 2,000 word limit, entries must be tightly written. And guidelines must be followed to the letter. Definitely double check to make sure your manuscript meets all of the guidelines or judges will quickly disqualify even the most exquisite prose.

Prizes may not put you in a new tax bracket, but are better than what most literary magazines will pay you for the same submission. First prize: $125; Second prize: $75; and Third prize: $50.

Entry fee is $10.

Here are the guidelines in a nutshell or visit the group's website.
**Category: General Fiction
**Limit 2000 words
**Deadline: Postmarked no later than October 26, 2007
**Manuscript must be typed, double-spaced on one side of 8.5 x10 white paper
**Staple all entries
**Include name, address, phone number, e-mail address, word count and where you heard about the contest on cover page only
**Do not put name, or any other form of identification, on the manuscript
**Entries will not be returned
**Unlimited number of entries allowed; entry fee must accompany each entry
**No e-mail entries
**Entries exceeding word count or not following the guidelines will be disqualified.

Winners will be announced on November 23, 2007 on the website

Individual winners will be notified by mail. Include a SASE for complete list of winners.

Just a bit of full disclosure. Last year's first place winner: me. My first ever contest win! I love this contest! And if I can win, that should give you a real hope that you can, too! Give it a try.

Send entries to:

Hamilton Writers Contest
PO Box 1205
Hamilton, Ohio 45012

I Feel the Need to Knit

A few days ago knitting fanatic Peggy Vincent emailed me about the above pictured cupcakes. On this delightful website, instructions are given to 'knit' marzipan -- excellent instructions, I might add. I'm not sure marzipan knitting will reap as wide an appeal as knitting now has, but it is worth checking out what creative people are doing.

Having spent several years as CEO of my own little cottage cake baking industry, I know a bit about novelty decorations and probably feel more sure of my leaf tip than I do of my number seven knitting needles. Inevitably I begin each knitting project in fear of a dropped stitch. But the need to knit is strong.

My theory: knitting and crisis go together. It brought women together during World War I and II. Whether of Allies or Axis countries, women knitted woolen squares to sew together into blankets for the soldiers. My mother, born in 1912, remembered making these squares as a child. With her mother and other women of the little Ohio community, they gathered in the church fellowship hall armed with needles and yarn. The Red Cross distributed the finished blankets to the wounded. When the recipient touched the hand-knit squares, he would recall loving hands of his own mothers, sisters and wives.

Eleanor Roosevelt could host a tea party and talk politics with her husband and his cronies. She manipulated four double-pointed needles and turned out sock after sock for soldiers fighting World War II. Her knitting spoke as loudly as her words.

I recall one pre-teen summer, waiting my turn to model my 4-H sewing project at the annual style show. I looked out from the stage to see someone’s mother placidly knitting a pink sweater. Knit and purl, knit and purl. Her eyes were watching the stage as her hands did something completely different. She appeared to be an island of control and peace in the lively audience. I wanted to leap from the stage and sit by her side and ask, "Will you teach me such confidence, please?"

A recent move from the Midwest to the South, sapped more than my confidence. With my brain already full of details for the sale of one house, purchase of another and the move from one to the other, the need to knit overwhelmed me. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to follow a pattern. I simply needed to knit.

With some wonderfully forgiving yarn that makes anything look special, I cast on stitches. Forty, fifty, it didn’t matter. Enough stitches to keep me happy. And I sat, knitting the stitches from one needle to the next while my brain whirled with thoughts of this new life ahead of me. No purl, no counting, no thought of what I was making. Just knit, knit, knit. When the end of the skein appeared, I cast off the stitches and gazed at the thing I had created.

My blue collar work ethic requires that everything be useful. So, one more look at the rectangle, admiration for the even stitches and then I knew. "It’s a cat’s blanket."

And, with that declaration, I reached for another skein of yarn. Four cats needed traveling blankets and my soul needed lots of knitting as I unraveled our home and knitted it together in a strange land.

Today, young women have discovered the edginess of knitting as well as the soothing feel of stitches sliding from one needle to the next. Speakers and lecturers, preachers and teachers tell of spotting people of all ages listening and knitting in time to the words’ rhythm. My son, a heavy metal musician, described girls at the concerts, heads bobbing and bodies gyrating while knitting, knitting, knitting to the bash and groan beat. Their knitting needles, as fat as nunchuks, wobble and click, turning yarn, thread and ribbon into something as edgy as the music.

Women of all ages and backgrounds -- and yes, men, too, pick up the needles and gather in knitting groups and classes. Peggy, who introduced me to the cupcakes, helped a master knitter teach a group of young women the basics of the craft. This group began with only five or six members but has grown to more than twenty. They share knitting and one other thing in common: cancer. While their hands create projects of yarn, they fight off cancer and visualize knitting their bodies back to good health. With each knit or purl they zap one more cancer cell, one more malignancy.

Knitting begins with needles and yarn, but with each stitch, something else seems to grow – determination, confidence, good health, solace, even a community. Maybe we can knit and purl a peaceful world.

I feel the need to knit.