Blog Break

 I need to take a break due to some health problems. Not sure how long it will be. Meanwhile, keep writing.  

Remembering My Mother Through A Story

 This weekend, we celebrate our mothers. Maybe you'll send flowers. Perhaps you'll call her and have a long chat across the miles that separate you. If you're fortunate to live close enough to visit her, it's the best gift you can give. 

Last year, very few of us could visit our mothers because of the pandemic. Was it hard? Absolutely. Both on the mother and son/daughter. Give your mom an extra hug this year to make up for the year we lost. 

My mother passed away sixteen years ago. Like many who have lost their mom, I rely on memories tucked carefully away. They pop out when something triggers a special one. 

My mom was a unique person. She grew up in a small coal mining town, moved to Chicago with her mother at age 11, having no idea that it would be only the two of them from then on, as her father was not coming with them. Confused, hurt, and angry as only a child can be when adults fail to explain what is happening.

Her two older brothers were also in the Chicago area working, and being close to them soothed her somewhat. She started high school in the middle of the Depression years. After one year, she quit school and helped her mother in the small neighborhood bakery my grandmother had started. It wasn't unusual for kids to quit high school in those years. 

Mom at 19

Mom dated many young men, and she married my dad at age 20, had me at 21. She knew nothing about babies, and she sometimes told the story about bringing me home from the hospital, laying me on their bed, then asking her next door neighbor to come and see the new baby. Mom and her friend looked at one another, and Mom said, "Well, now what do we do?" Neither one knew much about babies. Maybe instinct took over, because she managed to raise me and three boys who came later.

Mom in June 1939 one month after my birth--age 21

My mother, though not highly educated, was a very intelligent woman. She read a newspaper every day, and she read many novels over the years. She had a natural flair for making friends and was able to understand people very well. She would have made a good psychologist, I think. 

I have written many stories about my mother, several of which were published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. The one below is about her 'recipe' for life.' It was published in a Chicken Soup book in 2007.

Mom’s Recipe For Life

I have a lot of Mom’s recipes in a blue tin box where all my special ones reside--the pumpkin pie she made during my growing up years, the light and yeasty dinner rolls that were family faves, and the tender date muffins that her own mother made. Every time I see one of the cards with Mom’s handwriting on it, I am carried back to the aromas in our small kitchen where she reigned. Even so, the recipe I treasure most is not on any index card. Nor did she send it to me in a letter. On the contrary, she lived this recipe all of her life, but I was too blind to see and appreciate it until her final years. 

My mother grew up in a small coal mining town in southeast Iowa. My grandfather once told me that she knew no stranger; she considered everyone in that community her friend. That attitude continued wherever she lived for the rest of her life. 

As a tween and teen, I cringed every time my mother addressed strangers in the grocery store or on the city bus. She talked to everyone and offered a smile. In my naiveté, I was embarrassed.

Mom had a cheerful greeting for everyone she encountered and a question of some sort that triggered an answer and more conversation. She spoke to the mailman, the grocery store clerks, and the girls who worked in the neighborhood bakery. 

“Hi Lorraine,” she’d say to the woman who owned the bakery. “What did you think of Jackie Gleason’s show last night?” Lorraine chatted about the show as she sliced the usual loaf of bread for Mom, then asked what else she wanted. “Half a dozen of those wonderful crullers,” Mom might say. Then she’d lean closer to the counter and say something like, “Isn’t life wonderful?” I’d roll my eyes and accept the free cookie Lorraine gave me even into my teen years, then hurry out hoping no one would see me with the woman who talked to everyone.

Decades later, after my father passed on, I drove the hour and a half to my mother’s house every couple of weeks to spend a day with her and help with errands. She grieved for Dad for a long time inwardly, but her smile never wavered. “No sense being a Grumpy Gertie,” she’d tell me.

I watched as she spoke to the Walmart greeter before he even had a chance to open his mouth.  “Hi. How are you doing today? Isn’t it great to see the sun?” She flashed him a million dollar smile as he helped her get a shopping cart while he chuckled.

I noticed that she smiled at everyone she passed in the store’s many aisles. Almost all of them responded with a bright beam of their own.  Some spoke, others nodded their heads at this elderly woman who brought a little light into their day.

What really sold me on Mom’s approach to life was her experience on the senior bus, a story I’ve repeated to others many times. The weeks I could not be there, she used this low-cost transportation to the grocery store. After her first trip, I asked her how it went.

“Ha!’ she said, “I got on that bus and what did I see? Thirteen little old ladies and one old man and not one word was spoken.” 

I wondered how long it would be until the somberness on that bus would change. On my next visit, Mom mentioned the girls on the bus and something one of them had told her. 

“Oh, are you talking with them now?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “One day I climbed up the steps of the bus and before I looked for a seat, I gave them a big smile and I said, ‘Isn’t it a wonderful day? I noticed a few shy smiles.”

Mom didn’t give up. She greeted them all each time she got on the bus and before long, the whole group was laughing and talking to one another. The bus became more than just transportation.

When we went to the various stores, I observed as she smiled and chatted with perfect strangers. Some of them looked like the sourest person you’d ever met but once Mom beamed at them and started a conversation, most responded favorably. She had a man with deep frown lines laughing over a little joke she told him as she leaned on her cane. My mother didn’t embarrass me any longer. I found myself admiring her.

She’s been gone for many years, but I’ve carried on her recipe for life. I smile at people as I walk by and often begin a conversation in the checkout line. Silent, solemn people respond with smiles of their own and a bit of chatter. All it takes is for one person to initiate the smile or a greeting.

Recently, I noticed a woman ahead of me in the checkout line. Her red raincoat looked cheerful on a wet day, and I told her so. She had looked quite serious only a moment before, but she smiled and thanked me. “You know what?” she said, “I really like the color of your raincoat, too.”  

It’s such second nature with me now that only the other day I noticed that everyone I passed in the grocery store smiled at me. Must be a lot of happy people here, I thought. Then, I stopped walking and bowed my head in a grateful prayer of thanks for the mother I had been given. It was me who had done the smiling first and all those people had responded. My mother didn’t lecture but taught me by example. She’d given me a recipe for life.

(C) 2007

Writers-- Wishy-Washy or Passionate?

 

This is one of my most popular posts from a few years ago. I felt it was worth repeating. Some of you may have read it while others have not seen it before. 

Wishy-washy or passionate? Which one describes your writing life? I've heard more than one person expound on wanting to be a writer. They talk about it and take a half-hearted stab at it, then give up when they don't see immediate results.

A star athlete became a star because passion for his sport burned within. The basketball player who doesn't have that intensity is the guy who spends the game on the bench. The writer who doesn't harbor those intense feelings is one who will not have a long list of publications behind his/her name.

How do you get that passion? Can't buy it. Can't steal it from anyone else. Can't wish it into fruition. You have to love something a great deal to spark that depth of feeling. You have to want more than the glory of being a successful writer. You need to write for the love of writing. Those who love beautiful prose when they read are ones who will try to equal it in their own writing.

I held my desire to write in check for many years. I waited until my children were independent adults, and as I've said many times here, that probably was not the smart thing to do. I wish I had followed my desire earlier, but there is no way to rectify that now. Still, the embers glowed within me all those years and when I finally got started writing the stories and essays I'd often thought about, it burst into a flame that still burns within me nearly twenty years later.

Does having a passion for writing ensure you'll be a successful writer? No, it doesn't. What it does promise is that you'll continue writing and most likely will continue to be a better writer. If the passion is alive and well, the writer will take all the other steps to grow in his/her chosen field.

If you don't have that passion now, does it mean you should quit? I don't think so. Maybe if you keep working at it, the spark will ignite when you least expect it. Give it some more time.

May 6, 2021 

Change and Growth For Writers

 

No matter how many years you have lived, you've encountered myriad numbers of events, experiences, and happenings in your life. They stack up like pancakes on a plate with the stack getting higher and higher. There is no end in sight since we have new experiences each and every day. 

Depending on how we look at these happenings, they are all a possibility for change and growth in our lives. As writers, we welcome both change and growth. The last thing we want to do is get stuck in a pleasant little rut and stay there. Our aim is always to become a better writer. 

What we must do is to view the happenings in our lives with an observant eye. We need to learn to grasp hold of the events that allow room for us to grow. 

A writer friend who writes articles and profiles of people has decided to put several from a series together to create a book. That's a change from single articles and also growth. 

Look at what you're writing. Are you completely satisfied, or do you want more than what you see? Take some time to analyze your writing world. What can you do to make some changes so that you will grow as a writer? 

If you're a poet, perhaps combining a number of your poems into a book will be the answer. If you are a travel writer focusing on places in your own country, consider branching out to other countries. Expand your horizons. 

While it's true that everything that happens to us can bring us change and growth, we must be able to realize it. We need to want to grow as a writer in order to do so. Expand your horizons fits here, too.

It's up to each writer to recognize the things that happen that allow for change and growth. If you stop looking, you'll not see the places that offer both change and growth. 

Writing Your Opening Paragraph

 

Today's poster is a bit tongue in cheek. We know that we, the writers, are the ones who must finish whatever writing project we started. That muse we like to blame isn't going to do it. Your neighbor will not run over and show you how to write better than ever. It comes down to you once again.

What do you do when you cannot find a good beginning sentence, or parapgraph? Do you obsess over it? Do you rewrite over and over, then walk away in frustration and anger? It's not the solution to a problem many writers have.

Instead, leave that opening paragraph and move on to the rest of the story, or whatever you're working on. Get through the whole piece. Often, something you have written in the body of your story will trigger an idea for the opening. As said many times, let that draft simmer a day or two or three before you read through it. It's then that you are ready to revise and edit. 

That opening paragraph may, or may not, work with the rest of the piece. By reading it a few days after the draft was written, you'll know it's a go or if you need to cme up with something better. Writers know that the opening is important; it's where you hook your reader. 

Why, then, do some writers open with poetic prose that offers pretty words but no substance? The writer has given no hint of what the rest of the story will be about. Has offered no question that the reader hopes to have answered. It becomes words that have no relation to the rest of the story.

I've been working on a travel piece that didn't have the right opening. I sent it to my online writing group for critique. More than one person suggested putting part of my ending paragraph in the beginning. Surprised me, but when I looked at it, I could see the merit of doing so. Once again, other eyes on your writing can be very helpful. 

In your opening paragraph, you can pose a question, tell an anecdote, use an interesting fact, or use an emotional appeal. In addition, you should use sensory details to enhance what you've written. Make your verbs active. Use all the 'good writing' details in that very first paragraph. Make it shine! 

Yes, the opening paragraph is important, but don't let it derail you from the rest of the story. 

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Writers and Teacher Appreciation Week

 

This is National Teacher Appreciation Week .Let's focus on the teachers that we writers look back on as ones who inspired us to become a writer and those who taught myriad things about the writing world. 

I taught third and fourth grade and emotionally disturbed children for a period of five years after I graduated from college. In numbers, that's not very many years. I had the good fortune to be able to be a stay-at-home mom after our children were born. Even so, I didn't walk out of that last classroom with the thought of ditching my teaching abilities. I've used them over the years in leading various organizations. I've called on my teaching experience when I do public speaking about writing and writing family stories. I've used those abilities when I lead a workshop at a writing conference. 

One of the reasons I started this blog for writers centered on helping other writers thorugh the knowledge I'd gained over the years and being able to use those long-ago teaching skills once again. I love teaching through the written word. 

Let's get back to those teachers you had in your school years that inspired you to become a writer. Did you get notes from a teacher across an assignment complimenting your writing ability? That would certainly encourage you, wouldn't it? Did a teacher take you aside and talk to you about the possibility of pursuing a writing career? 

Did a high school English teacher make books and stories come alive for you? Make you want to do the same for others? Did an English teacher show so much enthusiasm for the writing world that she/he made you want to be a writer? 

Take a moment and look back at the teachers you had in your grade and high school years, maybe even college. Can you single out a few who inspired you to enter the writing world?

What about later in life when you took writing as a serious venture? Was there a person who helped you learn your way through the writing world? It doesn't have to be a professional teacher. It could very well have been another writer. I've learned a great deal from other writers, especially those in writing groups. Their aim is not necessarily to teach, yet they do so in many ways.

One of the early online writing groups I belonged to had a moderator who was tough on those in the group. She didn't use soft and pretty words to make us work harder and do better. Nope. She seemed harsh at times, critical, and almost unfeeling. Even so, I learned a great deal from her and remember her with great fondness. There were members who could not take her method of teaching, and they quit. They considered her words personal criticism rather than lessons to be learned. Those of us who stayed reaped the benefits.

Some of the strictest, toughest teachers we all had over the years were the ones who actually taught us something, the ones whom we remember, and the ones who ignited a spark within us. They were able to dig deep and bring our best work forth. 

During this National Tacher Appreciation Week, be thankful for the teachers you had who helped inspire you to write and those who helped you learn to be a better writer. 

As for appreciating all teachers this week, we should. There is far more to teaching than standing in front of a classroom and talking. Only teachers know all the things they do that no one ever sees. Teachers have a tremendous responsibility, and most take it seriously. Let's be serious in our appreciation, as well. 

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