Webs and things
09 Apr 2012 Leave a Comment
in Writing Adventures Tags: accomplishments, dreams, Midlife, publishing, reality, Writing
“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
How many times have you heard that. I always thought it meant one should never lie – to other people. As I get older I think it means one should never lie period – not even to oneself. Sure I can lift that 100 pound block! the fifty year old man thinks to himself while staring at the beautiful twenty-something girl he just met who wants or needs it moved. Man up and admit your limitations dude! She’s not worth the hospital bills and certainly won’t remember you tomorrow.
As I approach my midlife I look back on everything I’ve accomplished and what dreams have yet to be realized. In some respects it is painful to have to accept that some things are never going to happen. I’ll never be that ballet star I dreamed of being when I was four years old. I never continued lessons after we moved. I’ll never be that 5’9″, pencil thin fashion model I wanted to be when I was twelve years old. I reached my full adult height at 16, a whopping five feet flat.
And that’s ok.
I have, however, become the teacher I always wanted to be, even when I held other aspirations: to be a veterinarian, to be a psychologist, to enlist in the armed services. Still none of those occupations could hold a candle to what I wanted to be, who I was meant to be, the occupation I worked long and hard to achieve.
I have had the unique privilege to be published, not once but twice in a newsletter about writers, for writers. That was such an incredible experience! No, I didn’t get paid, and that’s ok. It was never about the money anyway. I now know I can do it; I am publishable. I will be an author. It may not be on the level of JK Rowling, i may not be well remembered after my death like Dame Agatha Christy, and that’s ok.
While I may tell myself that life just doesn’t seem complete, that there is so much I haven’t done that I need to do in order to be complete, that is a lie and I mustn’t tell lies unless I want to be forced to start writing with Professor Umbridge’s special quill that requires no well of ink.
What An Honor
02 Apr 2012 4 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: artist, illustrations, newsletters, publishing, Writing
Once again the gracious editors at The Purple Pros, the official newsletter of the Southeastern Writer’s Association have bestowed upon me the honor of publishing my article in their April edition.
Though the euphoria didn’t last as long as last time, I found out on April 1st with the delivery of the newsletter to my email inbox, my heart still swelled with the pride in a job well done.
My mother was very pleased, but wanted to know why these people weren’t paying me for my work. “One step at a time,” I told her. I’m getting my name out there first. Even if the newsletter has only three other subscribers, that’s three other people reading my work that hadn’t heard of me previously. Each of those readers know other people and maybe, just maybe, they might show the newsletter to the people they know and one of those people may be some bigwig in some publishing company and that bigwig will see my article and want to publish me. Hey, a girl can dream, right?
Of course I had to show it to people I know. How could I not? Most were excited for me, again, but one had an idea I thought was very interesting. One of my friends suggested that instead of grabbing a clip art next time, let him do up an illustration. He’s a fantastic artist, by hobby, so I thought, “Sure, why not. Maybe he could get a name for himself in the literary world as an illustrator.” It could happen.
Two down, two more monthly newsletters to go before the annual SWA conference in Georgia. I live in hope that I will be able to get published in those editions as well and when I meet other writers there they will already know of my work.
Networking is good. I am a writer. I will be an author! 
The Long and Short of Things
22 Mar 2012 5 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: definition, novel, novelette, novella, page length, short story, word count
Anyone who knows me can tell you I certainly have a gob. I have a knack, a natural talent I call it, for spewing out so many more words than are ever necessary for any one single idea. So, too, am I endowed in my writing.
This week has been Spring Break in my school district and I have enjoyed several days of writing; just me, my iPad, and hours of time to devote to my novels. Alas, it is coming to an end far too quickly and next week I will once again take my place among the hard working class and step back into my classroom, leaving only bits and tiny specks of time to devote to my writing.
As I reflect on the monstrous number of pages and thousands of words I have compiled on my latest novel this week, I notice there are still so many more pages, so many more words to write before I can call my work complete. This gave me reason enough to pause and do some research. Could I call it complete now and still get the thing published? What more do I truly have to do to call it finished?
Short story, novella, novelette, novel. I’ve heard these terms often, but never knew how to tell which I am writing. What separates these classifications of narrative prose? How many pages are enough for a single published book?
Well, it turns out that to put a number of required pages or a specific word count in the definition is hotly debated. “So, I only have to write three sentences then?” I hear one of students asking me when I assign the task of writing an introduction paragraph for their persuasive writing piece. The need for set, obtainable, concrete parameters in our productions, even writing, is innate as evidenced by my second grader’s question.
There are more opinions on length considered to be right for a short story, novella, or novelette than there seemingly are stars in the night sky. In the mid nineteenth century, for example, it was thought that a short story should be no longer than one could read in a single sitting. This is a fair enough assessment. However, times have changed so much since then. Though one could read the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in one sitting when it was newly published, today’s reader’s attention span, not to mention available free time, is so much shorter.
This article, for instance, to be considered by any money making publication would most likely be restricted to approximately 500 words. Any less and it wouldn’t be worth the ink to print it, any longer and the average reader would not bother reading it all the way to the end. At one point the reader would either lose interest, run out of time, or just simply employ the skill born out of necessity in the fast paced life of twenty first century living: skim. Skimming, the worse thing that can happen to a writer. It’s like looking at the Mona Lisa and only noting that it’s a painting of some common woman.
So what is a writer to do, especially a writer like myself who thinks if it’s worth saying, it’s worth saying with twice the number of words needed? Write. That’s it; just write. When you start your story, know the fundamentals: characters, problem, solution, time frame. Then ask yourself a few simple questions: Does your story happen in a brief span of time: a week, a day, an hour? Can the problem be quickly ascertained and just as quickly solved? Are there but one or two or at most a small handful of characters? If you can answer yes to all of these questions, you have a short story on your hands, a story that can satisfy a reader in just a few thousand words.
If not, keep writing. You may well have a novella, novelette, or even a full fledged novel for your readers to sink their teeth into. Something they can look forward to reading the next time they have a moment to spare, right up to the very satisfying end. I know now that my current work can be nothing less than a novel, with more than one problem and slightly more than a handful of characters there is still so much more to explore and experience before the whole story can be told.
Chase Me
21 Mar 2012 1 Comment
in Writing Adventures Tags: character development, laundry, playful, Pugs, puppy, Writing
Bonnie was full of joy and loved to play with her family. Her favorite game was called ‘chase me’. She sat up straight on the back of the couch watching Mom walk past her with an armful of laundry. Bonnie scampered across the tile floor of the kitchen until she caught up to Mom in the laundry room.
Mom had just deposited the clothes into the laundry basket when Bonnie reached her. Bonnie sat still, looking up at Mom, trying to get her attention. Look at me Mom! Aren’t I cute? Let’s play! Mom did not notice Bonnie as she turned the dial to start the washing machine. When Mom turned around to get the clothes she needed to wash, Bonnie pulled a sock from the laundry basket and dropped it at Mom’s feet. “Let me have that little girl,” Mom said reaching down to get the sock so she could put it in the washing machine with the rest if the dirty laundry.
Bonnie clutched the dirty sock in her small mouth and fled the laundry room toward the living room. When she got to there, Bonnie sat behind the couch and laid the sock onto the floor in front of her. Come and get it Mom; come get the sock!
“Now Bonnie, I need to wash that sock too. Let me have it,” Mom said bending over to try to pick it up. Bonnie’s corkscrew curled tail began to wag and her tiny, velvety black, floppy ears perked up when Mom spoke. Her mouth opened wide in what seemed to be a smile, showing her tiny, white teeth when she heard her name.
Before Mom was able to get her hands on the sock in front of Bonnie, the little, tan, pug puppy had it in her black trimmed mouth and was off running again. Her ears were flopping up and down on her head as her tiny paws scampered through the living room, under tables and around chairs. Her favorite game of ‘chase me’ had begun.
Spring Break
20 Mar 2012 2 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: Mom, Spring, Spring Break, weather, work
Tuesday, eight-thirty in the morning: a time I would normally be in the classroom collecting homework. But not today. It is the second day of Spring Break.
The dew drips off the branches of the trees when the very light, almost nonexistent breeze nudges by them in this state of only two seasons: hot and hotter. The grass is still damp with its blanket of dew at this early hour. The temperature is a mere seventy degrees as I venture into the backyard.
Sitting on the gazebo this morning I can hear birds waking and greeting the day with their songs as the sun makes it trek upwards toward its noon time height.
In the distance I can hear the sounds of rushing commuters and delivery trucks speed along the highway in the never ending weekday rut of getting to work. I smile, happy to not be among them today; it is Spring Break!
I came outside to escape the noise of teenage boys waking up and getting their breakfast. But, they have found me. I knew it wouldn’t last long, it couldn’t. Much like this very pleasant weather must also come to an end: in a few hours time it will be unbearably hot and humid. Still the solitude was nice while it lasted.
I must go back inside now and begin my job as mom, one that never affords vacation time. Still, this being my only job for the week puts a smile on my face as I start a load of laundry, dodging barking dogs and joyously screaming boys.
Write, write, write some more
10 Mar 2012 2 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: blogs, novels, publishing, scheduling, Writing
Teacher: “Class what do we do when we are finished writing and still have more writing time?”
All: “We write, write, write some more!”
Our District Learning Schedule states that students should write everyday during Writers Workshop. That does not mean that they must produce a completed piece everyday, merely that they must be engaged in the act of writing everyday.
I, too, make certain to write everyday. Oh yes I do! Even if I only have fifteen minutes of quiet at any given point of the day (not on the job naturally) I make sure I am writing or reading over something I wrote earlier to either add, edit, or just confirm the story still flows.
I once read that in today’s technological age if you want to be an accomplished writer, a published author you absolutely have to have a blog. “Get your thoughts out there, develop a readership that will be eager to buy your published novel.” So that makes sense. How can you expect people to lay down $15 for a (hard bond) book unless they know it is going to be a good read? How will people know a book you wrote is going to be a good read unless they see your work before they purchase your book? Makes perfect sense to establish a blog, so I did.
Now the conundrum I find myself in. When I have those few minutes should I write for the blog, write on my novels (I have several in works at the moment. I did tell you I have ADD, right?), or write for submission?
I feel that if I do not write for my blog everyday then I will lose readers. I feel that if I don’t give time to my novels they will never get finished and eventually published. I feel that if I don’t do more submissions (for pay or not) I’ll never know if I can quit my day job.
The past two days my blog was quiet, but I did indeed write! I wrote on my novels. I wrote notes that I could use later to expand into a story advancing scene.
I think the answer is that I just need a couple of clones of myself. One can be the housewife and mother, the other can be the full time teacher, and that will leave me to be the full time writer who has time to write for the blog, the novels, and for submission.
Eating Elephants and Other ADD/ADHD Conundrums
07 Mar 2012 3 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: ADD, ADHD, education, novel, support, Writing
“How do you eat an elephant?” my husband asked seeing the look of frustration on my face. It is his way of reminding me that I am trying to do too much at once.
When I was in grade school, there was no such thing as ADD or ADHD or LD or even differentiated instruction. If you had an attention deficit, it certainly wasn’t a disorder, you just needed more discipline to learn how to pay attention. If you were hyper on top of not being able to pay attention, you needed to spend more time in the principal’s office. Heaven forbid you should have any other type of learning difficulties: these were entirely your fault and you were simply put in the back of the class with the safety scissors and glitter. The real teaching was for those that were smart enough to learn.
I struggled a little in second grade to keepU up with a particularly daunting written task until my mother taught me an invaluable skill that I use even to this day. Thanks to that very clever woman, I can still look at a page and copy it without looking at my hand or the paper I’m writing on. Now, it’s not always the neatest handwriting, and at times it does wander from the established straight line, still it is a skill I am very proud to possess.
Thanks to my mother’s ingenuity, and constant guidance and support, I was able to do much better in third grade with mundane written tasks. When I brought home my report card, my dad was impressed, and believe me it wasn’t easy to impress him. Every mark was an ‘A’. “I’ll pay you five dollars for every ‘A’ on this report card at the end of the year,” he said to me when he saw it.
What I remember most about third grade was that my teacher, Mrs. Wilder, had a writing center. I do not recall writing being a majorly taught subject as it is now, but I remember the writing center. It was a desk set apart from the rest of the class, sitting up against a wall. It had a wooden cubicle surrounding it on three sides, much like public library cubicle desks. On the top shelf sat a tray for blank notebook paper, a cup of pencils, and a small open wooden box of crayons (for illustrating our work, naturally). On the writing surface there was a small recipe box full of index cards containing writing ideas.
I know this particular desk so well because with my new skill I found myself finished much earlier than my other peers. With the extra time I was allowed to go to the writing center. I think she had other centers as well for all that finished early, I just never paid attention to any of them. In that secluded writing cubicle I was in another world, my world. And I created a lot of my own little worlds over the course of that school year.
“How about I take you to Disney World instead,” my dad asked scratching his head holding my report card in his order hand on the last day of school. “I think it would be cheaper!”
The entire report card was filled with ‘A’s! As a result of my stellar academic performance I was recommended for the gifted class the following year. In North Carolina, in our school district at least, the gifted class was an all day, every day, for a whole school year advanced level of study for students. Our teacher, Mrs. Wall taught us everything from music, to P.E. and all of the other core subjects, all at a slightly higher cognitive level than the other fourth grade classes in the school.
Mrs. Wall ran the class like clockwork. Everything was timed down to the minute and most activities were student self directed, within the confines of her preset time limits naturally. This is where I got lost. There were a couple of parent conferences early on in the year because I was a dreamer, that’s what they called kids with ADD, those who couldn’t pay attention but weren’t necessarily a behavior problem. being a dreamer was fine in Mrs. Wilder’s class, where I could put my imagination to good use, in stories on paper. In Mrs. Wilder’s class the work always seemed so easy, I didn’t mind doing it to get to my favorite corner so I didn’t waste time dreaming during class. However, in Mrs. Wall’s class I could not be a dreamer and succeed. There was far too much work to do.
In the end it all worked out, though. Once again my brilliant mother came up with a strategy to help me keep up with my studies and make it through the year still earning ‘A’s and ‘B’s. Anything lower simply was not acceptable according to my parents. My mother’s idea of writing my assignments in a small memo pad as soon as I got to each academic center helped me to make sure I could complete the assignment later if I didn’t finish in the allotted class time.
Writing a novel can be a taunting task when you have ADD. You want it done, all of it, right now, and when the prose doesn’t flow as smoothly or as freely as you’d like, and the words don’t magically appear on the page you can get frustrated and then want to give up. Short stories, blog entries and poems can be easier. Don’t take the easy road, don’t give up on your dream of being a best selling author! Get out yourself a little memo pad and jot down your notes, then plug away as often as you can building that novel, piece by piece, page by page, word by word until it is done.
So how do you eat an elephant? One small bite at a time.
Appearances Can Be Deceiving
06 Mar 2012 2 Comments
in Writing Adventures Tags: horror, short story, suspense, teaching, Writing
Large cotton ball like clouds glide in steady progression across a bright blue sky. Most are white and pillowy. Some are large and gray, threatening to drop their moisture, but maintain their silent resolve to march on, not interrupting the joyous sounds of children playing.
The bright warm sun peaks through the spaces between the fluffy soldiers. The crisp breeze is steadily pushing the clouds along their silent march. Pine treetops sway in the steady breeze as if waving to the participants in the parade.
It is by all accounts a beautiful day. A kind of day when you think nothing can go wrong. A kind of day that makes you vulnerable to sudden disappointment.
Their teacher is sulking in the corner of the playground. This is not the career he truly wanted, enjoyed, but this school was supposed to be better than his old school. It is a truly magnificent school, but Mr. Branfield is too bitter and jaded by life experiences of late to be able to fully appreciate the heaven this school was compared to his first place of employment.
David Branfield had only been at Westview Elementary School, the most prestigious private school in town, for three years. He had a very successful career as a salesman for a paper goods manufacturer and turned to teaching ten years ago when his wife of fifteen years left him and their two children. Sally and George were both school age at the time and David needed a new job that would be more family friendly than the traveling salesman career he had so nicely carved for himself. A neighbor friend suggested teaching.
Mr. Branfield was an average teacher at best. He taught the lessons stoically to his fifth graders everyday. No one dared to make a sound in his classroom. He never joked with his students, never even smiled in their presence. Being one of only two fifth grade teachers, students coming up had a fifty-fifty chance of being in “The Dungeon” as his classroom had come to be called by most.
The gorgeous scene of children playing happily in such beautiful weather is being taken in by Ms. Peller, the Westview Elementary principal. It is the allotted time in their academically busy schedule for all fourth and fifth grade students to have recess. All of the fourth and fifth grade teachers are standing around in various locations around the playground dutifully keeping watch over the children as they play and pleasantly engaging with the students that randomly run up to them. All, that is, except one: Mr. Branfield.
Susan Peller was a little reluctant to hire David when he came for the interview. He had the best test scores of all the fifth grade teachers at Oakdale Elementary, one of the top five public schools in the county. Mr. Sanders, his previous principal highly recommended him, so she thought she was getting an exceptional teacher. He didn’t smile very much during the interview, but David was very polite and courteous.
After two school years Susan realized David was just not working out. He did not hurt any of the students, his lessons and files were impeccably kept, and he was punctual everyday. The trouble was that the parents didn’t take to him. Being a private school, they depended on student enrollment to remain open. Over the past two years enrollment in the upper grades started dropping off as parents realized their child’s potential for being in Mr. Branfield’s class.
It was a very tough decision to make, but one that had to be made for the good of the school. She knew David was struggling with keeping his children in college, but what choice did she have. If enrollment dropped any further she’d have to let more than one teacher go.
Susan sighs as she watches David pull out his cell phone and reply to a text message, still sitting on the bench on the far corner of the playground. She turns on her heel and goes back inside.
David looks up from his phone and sees Susan sauntering back into the school, back to her comfy cozy job behind a desk making more than he will ever make as a teacher. He gets up suddenly, resolute in his decision and marches into the school.
He must first stop at his classroom to retrieve it out of his closet. With his wing of the school outside no one would know what happened until it was too late. In his fastest pace he marches with tunnel vision to Ms. Peller’s office, securely holding his prized possession behind his back.
It must be done. There’s no other way. But she will join me! David is nodding his agreement as he marches past the secretary to the small office in the back of the schools main office.
Without knocking, David barges in on Susan catching her totally by surprise from behind her desk as he swings the sawed off shot gun from behind his back.
There wasn’t even enough time for her to ask him why his aim was so true and his trigger finger so quick. There wasn’t enough time for the office staff to register and respond to the first gun shot when they heard the second.
The secretary gasps in horror at the site before her. Her boss fell back and slumped in her chair as the projectile pierced her forehead. Eyes still wide open in shock. The only male teacher at their school laid on the floor in front of her desk, the shot gun still in his mouth while his blood trailed in a thick pool behind his head.
Arriving on the scene thirty minutes later, the head investigator noticed the killer had his cell phone still in his hand, still open to his email. The message was short and read, “Yes, the insurance would certainly cover them through graduation.”
Wood Turning Is Not a Winter Sport
05 Mar 2012 3 Comments
in Wood turning Tags: chisels, creativity, weather, wood bowls, Wood turning
Tonight’s post is specifically for my non wood turning readers. It’s mostly a show and tell piece.
The cars were moved in their weekly game of car chess. The garage was open and the wood turning machines had escaped from their cramped weekday storage as the sun belied warm weather beyond the concrete opening. It was time once again to turn, turn a plain, unassuming block of wood
into a beautifully shaped bowl.
Roughing gouge, fingernail bowl gouge, parting tool, carbide tip scraper, parting tool, and spindle gouge.
Such strange new words to learn, and this was just the select few for this particular piece. Some needing sharpening and honing a couple of times before the end. Ambrosia maple can be so unforgiving on chisels!
The block was first roughed until it became round. This was accomplished not by brute force alone, the excess wood had to be sliced away skillfully so as to prevent a major tear out, removing more wood in one pass than intended. This was so time consuming, but once round the creative process could truly begin.
“How thick do you want the walls, how tall do you want the sides, what kind of foot do you want?” my husband always asks these kind of questions once the block is round.
“Let’s see what happens,” I tell him and smile. I don’t know what I want, I just want to move with the wood and let it tell me what shape it needs to take. I am inexperienced, but eager to create.
He frowns. He has done this for years. He knows that once the wood comes off it’s too late to change your mind. He doesn’t want me to become disappointed by making a wrong choice that would lead to ruining this bowl, or worse, to losing the desire to continue to turn.
Through much discussion, debate, and pantomime of shapes we finally knew how we wanted the bowl to turn out and were ready to begin.
Six hours and a mound of saw dust and shavings later
I had a complementary piece to the ambrosia maple bowl I turned a few weeks earlier out of a thicker block of wood.
The temperature never reached more than sixty-two degrees. Wearing a long sleeve shirt with my jeans and donning a thick long sleeve turning jacket to protect me against the flying shavings and clinging dust, you would think I was comfortable, if not too warm. Nope! It took nearly three hours in a heated house to thaw out my limbs!
Wood turning, wood bowl turning specifically, is not an instantly gratifying task, to be sure, but it is always worth the time you put into it.
