Writing
Writing Outside (Your Comfort Zone)
So I love to write outside. 
It’s one of my favorite things to do. 
But outside my comfort zone? Not so much.
However, in the last year or two, I’ve been having stories come to me that don’t fit into a poem or picture book.
They insist on being (gasp) novels. Now, I love novels, but I have never believed I was equipped to write one.
I mean, I’m a short form gal. Yet those stories keep showing up at my doorstep, and I don’t have the heart to turn them away. 
So, for now, I’m going to the Little Red Writing Desk, and putting what I know into a notebook. Actually two notebooks. Because the ideas are growing. Somehow, it seems safer to scribble in a notebook than to sit down at the computer and type CHAPTER ONE. Now that’s terrifying for us short form folks. But messing about in a notebook…it’s as easy as journaling. No expectations at all at this stage except to get the ideas down and see what happens.
Maybe you have an idea outside your comfort zone too. Feel free to share! Remember we’re in this together.
HINT OF THE DAY: If you have a project that takes you outside of your comfort zone, approach it in a different way than you normally would. If you usually write at a computer, try a notebook.
If you most often write on lined paper, try the wide open blank page. If you never draw what you are thinking, sketch out your rough ideas this time.
Speak up:
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#Fiction, creativity, Writing, writing lifeEquinox Blues
After days of sun and seventy degrees and the first blossoms of spring pushing up through muddy ground, this day is cold and gloomy with a mix of snow/sleet/rain, just when the seasons are supposed to shift for good. This cloud-heavy, wet morning matches my mood. I’ve been sick and the effects linger, but it’s more than that. Today the past is also in the room, the house is filled with memories and the weight of years. For some time, I’ve felt the need for change–of location, of focus, of light. I’m not getting any younger and I’m tired of patching things together, constantly stitching old cloth. 
Last weekend, I spent some time with three dear writer friends in a cabin surrounded by woods. It was wet then too, but warmer, and we were cheered by each other’s company and excited by the words we shared. Too soon it was time to go our separate ways. We stay in touch by email and on social media, but it’s not the same as gathering on the porch, in front of the fireplace, or sharing homemade chicken tortilla soup at the kitchen table.
Gathering with others who share our passions can be a lifeline, especially for writers, who by necessity spend a great deal of time alone. But we also have to learn how to care for ourselves and to craft our lives as we craft our stories, poems, and memoirs by cutting what doesn’t work, streamlining what does, and making it the best it can possibly be. I think I’ve gotten pretty good at doing that on the page, but I need to do better in my daily life.
I live in an old house on an old farm which I love and hate in equal measure. I have had some of the absolute best times of my life here, and some of the worst. But as the only one still living here, my rooms and thoughts are burdened by other’s leftovers and too much stuff I no longer want to care for. Today, as I said, those memories, those years, those belongings, without benefit of sunshine and cheer, fill the corners of each room, the outbuildings, the bookshelves, slink out from under the couch and bed, hover in shadow just out of sight behind me like a felt ghost or menacing intruder. 
And I think, just as in my writing, I may be ready for some edits, possibly a fresh page.
My mother was a quilter, a saver, a never-throw-anything-away-er, having grown up during the Depression. But I’m living through a Depression of my own right now and I want a clean slate. I want to focus my time and energy on my passions, on the people who raise me up instead of those who bring me down, and I want a new view, preferably of water, one where I can make new memories. I want that kitchen table where my beloved friends and family can share a meal, laughter, and good conversation. I need that porch with just enough room for four or five writers to spread out and scribble away at their new stories, comforted by each other’s presence, but with enough space to dream big. And I desire that stone fireplace with the warm cheer of dancing flames. I’m in search of a new source of light, of warmth, of possibility. 
Maybe, just maybe, you feel this way too.
I don’t have answers today. Just lots of questions and what ifs. But just as I would when beginning a new writing project, I’m starting a file, grabbing a fresh notebook, clipping and bookmarking items of inspiration. And perhaps, most importantly, I’m opening myself up to what comes next. Universe? Are you listening?
Speak up:
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Change, Depression, Spring Equinox, Writing, writing groups, writing life, Writing RetreatsSnow Day Picture-Booking
Because it is doing this today, school is closed, and I am busy at the Little Red Writing Desk. 
I’m dressed for adventure in my Agent Carter t-shirt, 
and patched from an earlier mishap in a Scooby Doo bandage. (Why I still have Scooby Doo bandages in the house, is a mystery…)
I’m picture-booking, studying Last Stop on Market Street, written by Matt De La Pena and illustrated by Christian Robinson. It just won the Newbery (yes, a picture book!) and a boatload of other awards, so it might be worth my time to figure out why it is so special. And it is. Then, with any luck and a lot of hard work, I can apply what I learn to my own projects.
Hint of the day: Use an old desk calendar page to see a whole picture book at once. Fold the page until you have 32 boxes in which to write the text and mark where illustrations go. 
What are you working on today?
Speak up:
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Christian Robinson, Last Stop on Market Street, Matt De La Pena, picture books, snow day, Writing, writing lifeHello, hello…Goodbye
Saturday, I said goodbye to a cherished writing mentor, Julia Marie “Judy” Klare, age 93. Though to be honest, those of us who counted on her poetic brilliance, her ability to define a line, her complete dismissal of ellipses, lost her several years ago as the mind we revered gradually spun in ever dwindling circles. Yesterday’s celebration of her life was full of poetry, that found in verses of the Bible, songs sung, and moments of her own poetic observations of the world read in others’ voices.
I first met Judy by name only in the list of winners and honorable mentions of a Writer’s Digest yearly poetry competition. We were both in welcome positions closer to 1 than 100. New to southeast Ohio, and the mother of three young children, I was in desperate need of a writing group to sustain my practice and stretch me in new directions, and quite honestly, starved for deep, grownup conversations. In a moment of bravery, I wrote to the judge of the contest who I knew taught at a nearby university, and asked if he could connect me with any local writers. Graciously, he responded, putting me in touch with Judy who also miraculously lived in the same university town. (Read more…)
Speak up:
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loss, mentors, Writing, writing groups, writing lifeSelf-editing or Editing the Self?
I just returned from a trip out east visiting old friends and mentors at my MFA program. I also toured the Mark Twain House in Hartford, Connecticut. I’ve struggled this summer with my writing, or rather, my inability to sit at the desk and make anything worthwhile happen. After near misses and big rejections, though there have been some acceptances and publications too, I’ve lost confidence and am having trouble finding that spark to light the way forward.