365 Opportunities for Writers

 

This past week, I've seen Facebook posts that tell us this next year gives us 365 opportunities, the same as the number of days in this new year about to descend upon us. A year seems a long time if you're waiting for something special like a graduation or a wedding or a house to be built. But if you look at that year as 365 opportunities, it might not seem quite so long. It could be that you'll be looking forward to 2022.

Think what those 365 opportunities mean to those in the writing world. Wow! You have 365 days to pursue your craft in the best way you know how. Each day of the year is a gift that we're given. It's up to us to decide what to do with each one. 

The days don't come wrapped in sparkly paper and topped with a big bow. Each morning, when you wake, the day is there for you. It's yours to do whatever is necessary and whatever calls out to you. If you're a writer, writing should be somewhere in your daily plan. Even if you do nothing more than a ten minue freewrite exercise or spend half an hour on research for your next project, it's alright. 

Some days will be filled with writing projects and anything related to them besides the actual new writing--research, editing, revising, submitting, and planning come to mind. 

What are you going to do with these 365 opportunities about to come your way? Maybe today is a good time to think about your goals for 2022. What do you want to accomplish this next year? Start a novel? Put poems into a book? Submit to bigger publications than you had in the past? Try a new genre? Be a better editor of your drafts? Finish projects that have been sitting in your files gathering dust? 

2022 brings us to the beginning of the third year of living and dealing with the pandemic. If I've learned nothing else during the past two years, it is that despite the dire circumstances we're living with, life goes on. Clothes need laundering. Groceries must be purchased. Meals prepared. And, for those of us in the writing world, words must be written.

For this next year, I wish you joy in your writing world, that you grow as a writer, and that you have many successes. Don't forget that you have 365 opportunities to accomplish all of them. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Four Bloggers

 

If you enjoy reading blogs, I have three suggestions for you. Most deal with the writing world in some way but would also be of interest to those who love to read. Give them a try. You might find someone you'd like to follow. Each has a place for you to subscribe.

Annette Gendler is an author, blogger, and teacher in the writing world. I met Annette at my online writing group. Her blog covers her books, her life, and her teaching in workshops and online. Annette is originally from Germany but has lived in America for many years. She also enjoys photography, and her readers are often treated to photos taken on her world travels. Look for Annette Gendler's blog at  https://annettegendler.com/?s=Annette+Gendler+blog

Jim Potter is fascinated by Kansas history, which is quite apparent in his blog at Sandhenge Publications. Jim turns his research into easily readable stories about people in Kansas, many in the law profession. He also treats his readers to an occasional book review. I met Jim through the Kansas Authors Club.

Jim is a retired deputy sheriff. His books include Cop in the Classroom  which has multiple stories about his police career, Taking Back the Bullet is a novel, and Under the Radar, Race at School is a play used by schools. Jim's blog will educate and entertain. Find it at https://jimpotterauthor.com/author-blog/

I recently met another blogger named Kenneth Goetz. In January, he is going to be publishing chapters of his novel, which might be of interest to you. Subscribe to his blog at https://writerken.com I have found his posts both informative and interesting. Ken tells a bit about himself on the blog. See below:

A native of South Dakota, Kenneth Goetz studied at the University of Wisconsin (BS and PhD) and the University of Kansas (MD). His subsequent research focused on integrative physiology. For his investigation of the cardiovascular system he was awarded a German Humboldt Prize. He capped off his career by serving as a visiting professor at the University of Kuopio, Finland; the University of Munich, and the Institute of Aerospace Medicine near Cologne. In retirement Ken writes about whatever piques his interest, efforts to keep his diminishing population of neurons from dozing during the day.

Marlene Cullen writes and lives in California. She is the editor of a series of anthologies that deal with writing topics. Each one uses the main title of The Write Spot and then a subtitle.The short essays in each book would be of special interest to writers but also the everyday reader. Marlene's blog offers writing prompts, short posts, and book reviews. Find her at https://thewritespot.us/marlenecullenblog/ 

(NOTE: Some of the links will need to be copied and pasted. Not sure why they did not cooperate here. )

Book Review: Posts of a Mid-Century Kid

 Ann Vigola Anderson has crafted a lovely memoir using lilting prose that appears to come from a poet's heart. Using her gift of a writer's eye, she brings past memories to life for the reader. The format and just-right number of photos makes for a most enjoyable read. Little things like the repeated slam of a screen door will trigger memories for readers and bring them back to childhood days of their own again and again. Posts of a Mid-Century Kid proved a delightful read that brought the author's childhood to life and left me smiling.

Ann Vigola Anderson asked me to write a blurb for the back of her memoir, published in October of 2021. The paragraph above is what I sent to her. I had read the book prior to  its publication as the author asked me to give her feedback on the manuscript. 

I like the title of this book, as it lets you know right away what era the book pinpoints. Ms. Anderson grew up in Topeka, Kansas in the 50s and 60s. Her childhood was not of any specific note, rather it mirrored that of many other kids who grew up in those decades. Her posts, many originally written on social media, showcase what life was like in the Midwest then. She writes of the good and the sad parts of her life. Her parent's divorce made a big impact on her daily life with only her mother and brother and loving grandparents who lived not far from Ann's family.

She and her brother had adventures together like many siblings do, and she writes about that part of her life with humor and showing a love for him. Her passion for Kansas also shines through the pages. The reader is treated to another side of her life which took place on her grandparents' farm, close enough to where her family lived to allow her spend a lot of time there. Life on the farm was a delight for a town kid.

Food is a part of this memoir, too. She writes about the comfort foods of the time and even includes a few recipes. I had the good fortune to taste her grandmother's Lemon Cake at a presentation Ms. Anderson did with her book. Doing so brought back memories of foods my own mother made for our family in that same era. 

Ms. Anderson descriptions, her outlook on life, her sense of humor, and her ability to write lovely prose all offer pleasure to the reader. You can read the book straight through or in bits and pieces. By the end, you'll be smiling and nodding your head while thinking of your own childhood memories. Find it at Amazon.

Writers, Decisions, and Trying

Our poster for today tells us that 'every accomplishment starts with the decision to try.' Sounds pretty simple, doesn't it? I think it depends on who you are. Are you the person who looks forward to new things, or are you the one who looks back at past problems? Which person you are makes a whale of a difference in what you're willing to try.

Writers think about new projects all the time. An idea pops up, they think about it for days or even weeks, and then the decision comes about starting the new writing project. If you are the forward looking person, you'll probably sit down with enthusiasm and write the opening lines. If you're the one who looks back and worries about former problems in your writing life, you will probably keep thinking about the new project but never begin. No opening sentences will be written except in your mind. 

Why do some writers have the hesitancy to try? Fear, self-doubt, no confidence--all of these can be factors. Having a negative attitude about your writing world will also stop you from trying new things. If it goes on for quite a long time, you might even talk yourself into quitting the writing world. To me, that would be a very sad occurrence. 

You should try every new writing project that comes to mind. Many will work out; a few may not. That's quite alright. No one scores 100% in our craft. We win some, we lose some. Think about the successes you've had in writing. What if you had never tried to write that story, or never submitted it to a publication? Think what you might have missed! 

Writers only experience success if they actually write. Make the decision to try. What is the worst that can happen? You might fail. So have a good many other writers. You also could come up with a winning piece, one that leaves you feeling satisfied, or even proud. One that an editor likes and wants to publish. You'll never know if you don't try. So, make that decision and start writing with the hope of accomplishing something grand.

 

Writers, Assessment, and Courage

Our long anticipated Christmas has come and gone. We enjoyed being with family to celebrate more than any gift we received. So different from the quiet, and yes,  somewhat lonely, Christmas of 2020. 

This final week before 2022 comes rolling in is one to do some reflecting on what we have accomplished in our writing world this past year. I am one of those people who do not enjoy the newspapers and tv announcers rehashing all that occurred this past year. I prefer to look ahead, not back at what has come and gone. 

One exception is that I do think it is worthwhile for writers to take a look at what they did, or did not do, in 2020. Here is a list of questions you might ask yourself:

A.  Did I set any writing goals last January?

B.  If so, how many of those goals did I accomplish?

C.  Did I have the courage to venture into unknown territory with my writing?

D.  Did I have the courage to submit more of my work in 2020?

E.  Did I have the courage to revise and submit rejected material again?

F.  Did I make a certain amount of time for writing and stay with my schedule?

G.  Did I have more success with being published than in the prior year?

H.  Did I feel enthusiastic about my writing in 2020?

I.  Do I have unfinished projects?

J.  Am I looking forward to writing more and writing better in 2022?

K. Do I have the courage to work more and with greater intensity this next year?

L. How satisfied am I with my writing accomplishments this past year? 

You may have noticed that the word 'courage' was used in several of the questions in my list. Courage is one trait that all writers should have. Writers must learn to stand up for what they believe. This shows in their writing. Being timid and coming up with wishy-washy writing is not going to advance you on your writing journey. Most of all, writers need to have the courage to believe in themselves as writers. If you do, it shows in your writing, and if you don't, that becomes obvious in your writing, as well. 

Spend some time this week in assessing this last year of writing. We should do this before we start setting our goals for the next year. 

 

A Memory: Christmas Spirit--Lost and Found

This is my final Christmas memory for 2021. It's not funny or joyful. Instead, it is about a very sad Christmas my husband and I experienced 55 years ago. I'm not sharing this story looking for sympathy. I have learned to live with this sadness long ago. I share it to remind you that many people have sad Christmases because of loss, illness, or some other circumstance. The story was published in The War Cry magazine, a Salvation Army publication. I wish all who celebrate a very Merry Christmas. Next post will be Monday, December 27th.

Christmas Spirit—Lost and Found

     The first Christmas commercial flicked across the TV screen in early December. My eyes were closed, head resting on the back of my chair, a cup of tea balanced on my lap, but I heard the tinkling of sleigh bells, the sound of carolers and laughter. I stayed still, wishing the joyful sounds away. I didn’t want to feel Christmas this year. 

    I didn’t spend my days Christmas shopping or decorating the house or baking cookies. Instead, I read books about babies born with spina bifida, asked questions of doctors about hydrocephalus, and made phone calls to a hospital an hour away from our home to ask about the condition of our only child, born in November.

      It was 1966, and we didn’t have the option of staying with Julie at the large children’s hospital over an hour away from our home. When she was a few days old, we drove on icy roads to admit her after our pediatrician had made the arrangements. A paperwork snafu gave us four precious hours with her in the crowded waiting room before the clerk told us to go to fourth floor west where a nurse waited for us. 

     Ken and I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down a long corridor breathing in the hospital antiseptic odor. A white-uniformed woman walked toward us. She put her arms out to take our baby girl. As I placed Julie in this stranger’s arms, I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to crumple in a heap. Instead, I looked into the nurse’s eyes, and we smiled at one another, woman to woman. 

   She held Julie in the crook of one arm and smoothed the pink blanket with her free hand. “We’ll take good care of her.” She turned and proceeded down the long, empty hallway before I could make any farewell gesture to our sweet baby girl, before I could hold her close and inhale that special baby smell.

     Ken and I walked down the hall, hand in hand, too choked up to say a word.

     We returned a few days later to find that we could only view our daughter through a nursery window. She lay on her tummy so there’d be no pressure on the bulging tumor in the open area of her spine. She would soon have surgery to close the opening. Later, a shunt would be placed at the base of her brain to drain fluid. Farther down the road would be more surgery to straighten her legs in hopes that she might one day learn to walk on crutches, not a certainty, only a hope. 

      I asked a nurse about the big wooden rocking chair that I noticed sitting in the nursery.

      “Oh, that’s for our hospital volunteers who come in to rock the babies. It’s nice to have a personal touch.”

     Why couldn’t it be me who rocked her? Why not a mother’s touch? But hospital rules in those days were stringent, and parents were discouraged from asking favors. The rocking chair appeared to be the one thing that didn’t scream institution. Bare walls, bare hallways, no color except in the waiting rooms. But that would soon change.

   I still didn’t care about Christmas, but the hospital volunteers must have signed on as Santa’s helpers. The next time we visited, the halls glowed with Christmas banners and ribbons and small, decorated trees sat on tables in the waiting areas. The babies had dolls or toys tied to their cribs, a gift from the hospital auxiliary. The nurses wore Christmas pins on their uniforms, the green and red colors standing out on the snowy fabric. I chose to ignore these obvious signs of holiday spirit. When Christmas drew too close, I pushed it away. 

     As we waited with other parents to talk to our child’s doctor, I wondered if these mothers were skipping Christmas this year, too. I’d probably go out soon and buy the necessary gifts for our parents and siblings, but it would be an obligation, not a joy as in past years. 

     On Christmas Day, we stopped by the hospital before going to my parents’ home. By this time, Julie had been there for nearly four weeks and come through two surgeries. When the elevator doors opened onto fourth floor that Christmas morning, holiday music played softly over unseen speakers. The melodic carols fairly floated down the long corridor. The banners and ribbons on the walls seemed brighter than they had on our other visits. A nurse passed by us with a “Merry Christmas” greeting, which I didn’t return. 

     Julie was awake when we arrived at the nursery window. Still lying on her tummy, she raised her head and looked right at us with her big blue eyes.  I had a sudden vision of Mary and Baby Jesus looking at one another just like Julie and I were doing. The message was there for me. I needed Mary’s faith, needed to stop the sorrow and self-pity, needed to dwell on the positive strides Julie was making. 

    Ken put his arm around me while we watched our little girl on her first Christmas morning. The music surrounded us, and I felt the ice around my heart crack and break into tiny bits as I let the spirit of Christmas warm me. I’d pushed it away with every bit of force I could muster, but today thoughts of Mary and her precious son took over. After all, wasn’t this what Christmas was all about? The birth of a child the world had waited for? Wouldn’t we want to teach the treasured story to our child one day, too?

    Shame for the way I’d tried to shut Christmas out of my life brought a single tear trickling down my cheek. I should have embraced this special holiday from the day I’d heard that first TV commercial. I needed the spirit of Christmas more this year than any other. 

     We blew a kiss to our little girl and walked hand in hand to the elevator. I’d finally opened my heart to what Christmas had to offer when I found the spirit in the face of our baby girl. The carols sounded sweeter, the nurses cheerier, and the decorations more elegant. It would be a Christmas etched on my heart forever, the one when God and his holy angels spoke softly to me.

 

Facing Discouragement When You Write

Writers get discouraged at times. There's no denying it, even to ourselves. It's a part of this writing game we have chosen. Why does that happen? Mostly because we're human and we face ups and downs in our writing life on a regular basis. 

Things go along smoothly for a while, and then you might have a series of rejections that feel like a herd of wild horses galloping across the plains, seeming never to stop. We know that, eventually, the rejections will come to a stop when an acceptance arrives instead. That one acceptance can wipe out all the feelings of discouragement, anger, and worthlessness you probably had. 

We get discouraged when a story that sounded so great in our head doesn't seem to work when we write the words. Last night, I read about an author who wrote her story over and over again until it felt right. The last and final draft became the one that was published. Even then, an editor helped her rework parts of her 500+ page novel. Surely she felt discouraged during the years she worked on the book, but she had the two qualities of a writer that I have suggested here many times. She practiced patience and perseverance until she found the key that opened the lock just as today's poster tells us. 

Sadly, many writers will give up before they find that final key that opens the lock and allows their work to be read by others. They chastise themselves verbally and internally. Dejection becomes a companion, but only if they allow it to happen.

Writers need to give internal pep talks, or maybe even look in the mirror and say the words aloud. However, you can give yourself all the shoring up in the world, but it won't help you until you begin believing in what you're telling yourself. 

If a story doesn't work out, set it aside and begin a new writing project. Starting fresh gives us a real boost. We can forget the earlier story and its problems and concentrate on something new. The important thing is to keep writing and practice patience. Chase those discouragement blues away. 

 

Becoming a Fine Storyteller

 I mentioned Charles Dickens in yesterday's post. Later, I got to thinking about him. He was a true storyteller. I looked him up and was astonished at the number of novels he'd written--20. His books reflected his concern with the society he lived in, its many flaws and uncertainties, especially for the poor ion Great Britain in the mid-1830s. He began his writing career by publishing his novels in serial form in magazines of the day. He became very popular as people looked forward to each new installment. What books brought him the most fame? That is hard to say as there were so many that are still considered classics today--A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, and many more. His opinions on politics and the social defects he saw are reflected in his stories. If you would like to read a biographical sketch of Charles Dickens, go here. I found it of great interest. 

While Dickens was the ultimate storyteller, he used his books to vent his own opinions, and many of his stories were based on difficult experiences he had in his growing-up years. 

Fiction writers, and those who write personal essays, are storytellers. Do we, like Dickens, write from the base of our life experiences? Very often, we do. But we also dream up stories that have nothing to do with what we ourselves have done. We use our imagination and become creative in our storytelling. 

Those who write for children have the great joy of creating magnificent characters and situations that entertain children. Writers who write for adults can do the same but have narrower parameters in most cases.

Writers who are good storytellers have other qualities, as well. They have a mastery of words and can write prose that readers are drawn to. When I read A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles, I was drawn in as much by his prose as the story itself. If you have not read this novel, put it on your Want to Read list. 

These writers also know the mechanics of their craft well. No matter how good the 'story,' is, if the writer has not learned the basics of writing, he/she will have a hard time getting published. A letter from an editor could start with "We like your story, but..." 

One of a writer's goals might be to become a fine storyteller. It can be done with a lot of work.

Writing Opening Paragraphs

Our poster quote is from Plato. Pretty smart man since we still look at his quotes these many, many years later. I doubt he was speaking primarily to writers when he uttered these words, but he could have been since it's important advice for anyone who writes. Plato told us:  The beginning is the most important part of the work. 

When you write a story, an essay, or an article--even a poem, the opening lines or paragraphs gives you the opportunity to grab your reader's attention. If you don't, their attention will drift away, and they won't finish reading what you wrote, no matter how good the middle and ending is. 

That person who is reading your piece could be the editor or publisher who was the first person to read your submission. If the beginning is lame, he/she will probably not even finish reading. Then, it's boohoo time for you.

Many years ago in one of the first face to face writing groups I joined, the moderator had a gathering at his home and invited a few other writers to join our group for that day. Several brought something to read to the group. One woman stood up and proceeded to read her short story. She read a page, then another, and by this time people were fidgeting, looking out the window, or refilling their coffee cup. Two pages into her story, nothing had happened to grab the reader (or listener in this case). She spent two full paragraphs describing the protagonist making a sandwich. In detail!!! No one is going to care that Billy got up, went to the fridge, pulled out the makings of a sandwich. Nor will they be interested in how he made that sandwich, step by step. As the story went on, it became painful to listen.

The meat of the story was alright, not great, but ok. She made two mistakes. First, her opening was boring, and second, she spent many sentences describing the man making the sandwich. One would have done it. 'Billy made a sandwich.' She shouldn't even have added that if it didn't have a bearing on the story itself. If the sandwich is what poisoned and killed Billy, it might have been important, but for anything else, not so much.

Some writers like to use the opening paragraphs to set the scene. Sometimes, that works, but only if the writing of those paragraphs is good enough to draw the reader in. Write a group of sentences that have subject and verb and not much else, and you'll lose the reader fast.

Even an essay or nonfiction article needs to have an opening that draws the reader into the whole essay or article. I have read books that use an opening chapter that is boring, ones that don't get to the action or the meat of the story for pages. The writer knows what is coming next, but the reader doesn't. He/she might stay with it until the 'real' story begins, or they might not. 

When writing those first few lines or paragraphs, do whatever it takes to catch your reader's attention. Start with a question. Ask something that intrigues them enough to want to continue. Or perhaps it is something that is a bit shocking. That opening line is asking the reader to come in and sit a spell. 

Charles Dickens opened A Tale of Two Cities by what has become one of the most intriguing openings in a novel. He set the theme for the novel in that first paragraph. If you're not familiar with it, google the opening lines of the novel. 

Opening with a narrator gives the opportunity to divulge some interesting information about the one telling the story. 

A conversation between two people can grab the attention of the reader if that bit of dialogue is intriguing. 

Mysteries might open with the discovery of a body by an innocent bystander. There is some shock value, and the reader would probably want to know more about the victim, the circumstances involving the death and more. 

Go through your files and read the opening paragraph or two of stories, essays, or articles that you have written. Do you think they are of the kind that will draw a reader in? Or not? 

Grab your reader right away, and they're likely to stay with you to your scintillating conclusion.

 

A Christmas Memory: Finding The Right Christmas Tree

Did your family have a traditional way to obtain the Christmas tree that you would decorate and stare at in awe? Today's Christmas memory is about the way my family found the Christmas tree each year during the 1940s and 1950s. It's still fun to reminisce about family holiday traditions of long ago. Write your own story about the Christmas trees you had in your growing-up years. Add it to your Family Stories Book.

Finding The Right Christmas Tree

In the 1940’s, we city folk didn’t cut down a tree in the fields but kept our own tradition. On a cold December evening, Dad announced that it was time to find a Christmas tree. My two younger brothers and I grabbed heavy coats, hats, gloves and snow boots, and flew down three flights of stairs to our 1939 Plymouth. Our excitement bubbled over in giggles and hoots.

The corner lot Dad drove to, normally empty, now held dozens of evergreen trees. The pines and firs seemed to have appeared magically, lined up like the toy soldiers my brothers played with.  A wire had been strung around the lot and bare light bulbs attached. There was plenty of light to allow buyers see the assortment of trees that would decorate the homes in our neighborhood.

.

The proprietors, who were also hunters, had erected a wooden teepee-like frame in a prominent corner to display two dead deer and a black bear. They were hung from hooks and occasionally swayed when the wind gusted. 

 

My brothers and I marched round and round the frozen animals. 

“Go ahead, touch it,” Howard dared.

    

My hand reached within inches of the thick, matted fur of the bear, but I quickly drew it back. “You first,” I challenged, but Howard only circled the animals, hands behind him.

Meanwhile, Dad walked the rows of trees, pulling a few upright, shaking the snow off.

He called to us and we crunched across the snow-packed ground.

 Dad held a tree upright. “No,” we chorused. “It’s not big enough.” 

We followed Dad and thumbed our noses at several other trees. “Not big enough,” we repeated, stamping cold feet to warm them.

The owner ambled over, so bundled up he looked kin to the dead bear. He kept a cigar clamped in his teeth and wore gloves with the fingers cut off, so he could peel off dollar bills from the stack he carried to make change.

Dad shook the man’s hand and said, “OK, let’s see the good trees now.” 

The burly man moved the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his eyes and finally gestured for us to follow him.

 

We scooted across the pine-scented lot to a brick building. The man opened a door, and we tromped single-file down a long flight of concrete steps.

 

Even more trees leaned against the walls. Dad pulled out one after the other until he found a tree that we three children deemed “big enough.” 

Silence now, as the serious part of this adventure commenced. Dad and the cigar chomping man dickered about the price. Finally, money changed hands, and Dad hoisted the tree. We jostled one another up the steps to be closer to the green treasure.

Dad fastened the tree to the top of the car with the rope he’d brought. The boys and I knelt on the back seat, watching to make sure the tree didn’t slide off the roof of the car during the short drive.

 

Once home, Dad hauled the tree up three flights of stairs to our apartment and put it on our small outdoor balcony. We’d wait until close to Christmas to bring it in and decorate the branches. Several times a day, I peered through the glass door to check that no one had stolen it. Why I thought someone would climb to the third-floor balcony to steal our tree is a wonder.

 

Days later, Dad carried the tree inside and tried to put it in the stand, but it was no use. The tree was too tall. It should have been no surprise, as it happened every year. He always caved to our chorus of “not big enough.” Dad found his favorite saw and cut several inches off the tree trunk. When he put it in the stand, the tree rose like a flagpole, straight and tall, nearly touching the ceiling. There was a collective “Ahhh” from the entire family.

Dad hummed a Christmas tune as he strung the many-colored lights, then Mother helped us hang sparkly ornaments, and we finished with strand upon strand of silver tinsel, being warned to place it strand by strand. “No throwing it at the tree,” Mom said. Near the finish line, we did throw that tinsel when Mom went to the kitchen. It was great fun to toss it and see how high we could throw. 

Finally, Dad climbed a step-stool and placed the last piece on the top. What joy to see our special angel with the pink satin dress and golden wings. The tree was so tall that her blonde hair skimmed the ceiling. I visited her every day while the tree was up. There were days when it seemed she smiled at me. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her.

That sweet angel got lost somewhere over the years. Most likely, she’d become tattered and torn, and Mother discarded her long after we children had grown and left home.

Finding the right tree and decorating it each year was one more link in the chain of family bonding. My brothers and I were gifted with the treasure of the memories of that holiday tradition.

Now, my husband brings our tree upstairs from a basement storage closet. Artificial, always the same height, never needs to be made shorter. It’s easier, but I miss those cold, snowy excursions to the tree lot with my brothers. I still put an angel on top of the tree. She’s nice but not quite the same as the one with the pink dress and golden wings. Not once has she smiled at me.

 

Weather-related Writing Exercise

Yesterday, we experienced record-breaking warm temperatures (77) and a huge windstorm in Kansas, whirling across our entire state. In our town, winds gusted to 89 mph, and in a few other places, even higher. We had tornado warnings, a horrendous rainstorm, and power outages in parts of town. Farther west of us, there were many wildfires and dust storms. The giant winds carried the smoky smell many miles to places that had no fires. People smelled the smoke and feared a blaze roared nearby.  The interstate closed from mid-central Kansas to the Colorado border and most likely into Colorado, as well. The rain beat on our windows and rolled down in sheets of water. We were blessed in that we had no tornado here, only the warning and sirens blaring. It was a scary day and night. 

Now, there will be a major clean-up of the debris left by the storm. When I opened our front door to retrieve the newspaper this morning, the area in front of the door looked like someone had emptied a bushel basket filled with leaves. A shovel may be needed to remove them today. Some trees were uprooted and fences knocked down in other parts of town. There will surely be more to learn as the day goes on. 

As a writing exercise today, choose one or more from the list of weather-related words below. Write a descriptive paragraph. Write it from a personal view, not as a report.

A.  rain

B.  snow

C.  blizzard

D.  hurricane

E.  dust storm

F.  tornado

G.  hailstorm

H.  ice storm

 

A Memory: The Christmas of the Big Snow

Today's Christmas memory is one from 2009 when a blizzard in our area changed Christmas plans for many people, including our family. 

The Christmas Of The Big Snow

We finalized the 2009 Christmas plans at Thanksgiving when both our children’s families gathered around the dining room table. We would celebrate a week early in Texas with Kirk’s family, then go to Karen’s in-law’s on Christmas Day and on to her house the next day. All set to celebrate with both our children—or so we thought.

On Friday, Christmas was only four days away, and I still had some gift wrapping to do and a few things to bake. The radio and TV announcers kept repeating that we might have snow for Christmas—lots of it! But I didn’t worry about it as storms here in central Kansas so often ended up veering either north or south of us. We usually don’t put much stock in the reports until we see the first flakes of snow.

By Wednesday afternoon, the weather people repeated words like blizzard and drifting and icy roads. I looked out the window off and on but all we had was rain and foggy conditions. It looked dismal but not threatening. Still, something told me I’d better run to the grocery store and pick up some “just in case” steaks to have on hand. 

I finished wrapping the gifts for Karen’s family and one for Steve’s parents that evening. Thursday morning, I made the last batch of cookies and cinnamon rolls to take with us on Christmas Day. The family traditional rolls left a lingering spicy scent in the warm kitchen. Not a flake of snow in sight. I scoffed at the weatherman on our local radio station when he predicted a record snow. 

I work as a volunteer at our hospital gift shop on Thursday afternoons. As Ken and I ate lunch on that Christmas Eve afternoon, the first flakes drifted from the sky. I must have looked worried because Ken said, “I’ll take you to the hospital and pick you up in time to get to church by five.” 

I helped customers, most of whom were hospital employees, select last-minute gifts all that afternoon. Christmas music flowed through the shop. I kept watch out the shop’s big picture windows as the continuing snow turned the world white. The wind picked up and I saw the snow swirling as it fell, trees bowing down just like the Three Kings who visited Baby Jesus. 

People who came in from outside stamped their feet, shaking snow from their jackets. We heard things like “It’s piling up fast out there!” and “The roads are pretty slick.”  “Wind’s getting a lot worse.” The manager decided to close at 4, so I called Ken and asked him to pick me up sooner than planned. As I buttoned my coat and pulled on gloves, I told myself it was sure to stop soon. 

The moment I got outside, I had trouble staying on my feet in the whipping wind. The bitter cold seeped through my coat in only seconds. Once I got inside the car, we started creeping home on roads that were getting worse by the minute. The usually short drive seemed like an eternity.

 “Maybe we shouldn’t try to go to church,” I said.

Ken agreed, but I felt a real pang of regret. It would be the first Christmas Eve service we’d ever missed in the 45 years of our marriage. Later, we heard that nearly all the churches canceled services.

Our house felt warm and welcoming, and we were soon in our comfy chairs in the living room. The wind howled outside, as we sipped wine and nibbled on cheese and crackers while we watched the weather report. They kept repeating that word blizzard and then added record amounts of snow, then high winds to cause major drifting. Karen and Steve were already at his parents’ house, so I didn’t worry about them. They were safe and enjoying Christmas Eve with family. And Kirk and Amy were in Mississippi where there was no snow. We had heat and lights and plenty of food in the house. But I had definite misgivings about our plans for Christmas Day. The roaring wind taunted me like a playground bully.

We’ve been married long enough that Ken answered my question before I even got the words out. “The roads will be cleared by late tomorrow morning when we leave.” And I believed him! But it snowed all night and was still snowing and blowing Christmas morning. The gifts were ready, the food I was taking waited in the fridge and pantry.

We opened the gifts we had for each other, then ate a hot breakfast with some of the cinnamon rolls as a Christmas treat. And still the snow came. Ken tried to clear the driveway, but it was slow going with the drifts along one side. 

Reports on radio and TV warned people to stay off the highways as they were snow-packed and icy and would remain so all day. We looked at each other and made a silent decision to stay home. Finally, Ken said, “You’d better call Karen and tell her.” 

We had the ‘just in case’ steaks for dinner and a choice of many kinds of Christmas cookies for dessert. The phone rang off and on all day, and we made some calls to family in other states, but the day seemed to creep by. We knew we weren’t the only ones whose plans had changed. We had power, unlike some, so I tried to be grateful, but I kept thinking about our grandchildren. 

We were disappointed but not devastated. Once the roads were cleared and traffic could move safely, we’d make the trip to Karen’s house on the 26th and have Christmas. Her small children wouldn’t mind repeating the gift opening one more day. But the roads weren’t much better the next day and reports of accidents and drifting along the interstate made us use more caution than usual. Those 120 miles could turn into an all-day, very tense drive. We stayed home.

Karen and Steve had to go back to work on Monday, and on Wednesday, Ken fell and ended up in the hospital with a mild concussion, so we had a further delay. Would we ever have Christmas with this part of our family? 

On the ninth of January, we packed the car with the unopened gifts and the food taken from the freezer. We made our way to Kansas City on clear, dry roads. The big snow was a memory, the disappointing Christmas Day pushed aside. It didn’t matter what day we celebrated with our children and grandchildren, whether early or late, it was Christmas in our hearts and we relished being together. That holiday, however, will always be “the Christmas of the big snow.” 

(C)

The Daily Blessings of a Writer

Our poster tells us to look for the blessings every day. Try it for a month regarding your writing life. Instead of worrying about what went wrong with your writing efforts each day, toss them aside. At th end of the month, you could feel more positive about your writing life.

Count the blessings that you received each day as you pursued your craft. Granted, there can be days when you're hard put to find the good things. If you go back over your day and look for the pluses, you'll probably be able to find a few. 

For me, one of the blessings in my writing life is that I am able to come up with a new topic for my blog five days a week. Another one is the number of fellow writers I encounter on Facebook on a daily basis.One more is the joy I find in completing a writing project. The acceptances I receive now and then constitute one more blessing. 

At the end of your day, jot down the blessings you found in your writing life that day. Some days, you might only have one, while other days will find your list getting long. No two days are alike, so your list is going to vary day by day.

Note that the poster tells us we must 'look' for those blessings. We need to give thought to them, to uncover them in the least likely places. 

If you write Morning Pages or in a journal, reserve a spot at the top to write the blessings in your writing life that you received that day, or the previous one if you're writing Morning Pages. Thinking about them is not the same as thinking and then writing them somewhere. You might be surprised at how many true blessings there are for you, the writer. 

Why should you keep a record of your blessings? What better pep talk could there be? What better way to inspire you to keep writing? What better way to assess your writing life? What better way to help you look forward to the next day's writing time? 

Will there be days when your blessings count is a big, fat zero? Probably. That is not a problem because the next day you might find half a dozen. Each day in a writer's life is different. If you have a zero day now and then, it's nothing to be concerned about. 

I consider the readers of this blog to be one of my blessings. And definitely the ones who make comments. 

 

Writers--Meet Each New Day With Gusto

A few simple words on today's poster--Every day is a fresh start--but so very important as we want to keep our writing world satisfying.

When things go wrong with a writing project, we tend to grunt and growl, even pout a bit. We would much prefer that each piece we write comes out perfect right from the beginning. That's a dream, not reality. 

The craft of writing is fraught with problems to be solved. Are you a problem solver, or are you a stay-in-a-rut kind of writer? If today was a bad day in your writing world, do you get up the next morning with the same dejected feeling?

No matter how difficult your writing world is on Monday, Tuesday brings a fresh start. And Wednesday offers even another beginning. When we meet each new day, we should try to put the problems of the days before away. Start over with a new outlook. 

That's one of the reasons I urge writers to put a first draft on hold for a day or two or more. That story or poem will look altogether different later.

Next time a problem come up in whatever you're writing, put it away. Then meet it again on the next day. It gives you a fresh start, and your writer's eyes may see the piece in a whole new light. 

One important part of greeting each day as a new opportunity is your attitude. Work on making that positive, and the rest will be easier.

Every morning, when you get out of bed, you are given a new day, a new beginning, a fresh start. Meet it with gusto!

 

A Christmas Memory: The Best Christmas Gift Ever

To finish the week, I have another Christmas memory story for you. This one was published in a Christmas anthology called The Big Book of Christmas Joy published in 2008. This memory is about a beloved teacher, a special gift, and a lesson learned in the fifth grade. Please share with others if you would like to do so. And please write about your own Christmas memories.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

In 1949 the twenty-one children in my fifth grade class learned one of life’s greatest lessons. Ten year olds usually care more about the importance of receiving gifts than the considering the joy in giving them. But that year, we found out that giving truly is better than receiving, and it was all because of a special teacher.

Lyle Biddinger served on a navy destroyer during World War II, went to college on the GI Bill and landed in a Chicago suburban grade school teaching fifth grade. We were his first class, and he was the first male teacher in our Kindergarten through eighth grade school. Young, handsome, and an outstanding teacher—he was all any ten year old could ask for.

 During family dinners, I talked endlessly about what Mr. Bid had told us that day, what he’d shown us, the games he’d taught us. He may as well have been sitting at our table every night, for his presence was evident Monday through Friday. I hurried through breakfast so I could get to school early, and I offered to stay after class and do whatever little jobs needed to be done. I wasn’t the only one who acted this way about Mr. Biddinger. Oh no--all of us adored him.

 We were so proud to be in his class. We preened our feathers like peacocks around the kids in the other fifth grade. He was all ours, and like kids of that age, we let everyone know it. Our teacher made learning fun, and in the 1940’s this was a new approach. At one point, some of the parents went to the principal and complained that Mr. Biddinger spent too much time playing games during class time. School should not be fun; it was to be hard work. Somehow Mr. Biddinger and the principal placated the disgruntled parents, and life went on as before in the fifth grade.

December arrived, and the Room Mother contacted the other parents. Each family was asked to give a modest amount of money to be used for a Christmas gift for the teacher. It was not an unusual request in our school. Next, she called Mr. Biddinger’s wife to find out what might be the perfect gift for him.

 It was to be a secret, of course, but we all knew about it, and whispers and notes flew back and forth. Our class Christmas party would be held the last day before the holiday break. We would have a grab bag gift exchange, punch and cookies and candy. We’d play some games, get out of schoolwork and give Mr. Bid his gift. The days trickled by slower than ever before, and our excitement grew steadily. We looked forward to our school Christmas much more than the one we’d each have at home. 

 Finally, the big day dawned. Our Room Mother arrived bearing the punch and brightly decorated Christmas cookies and hard candies. But where was the big boxwith Mr. Bid’s present? We didn’t see it. We wriggled in our desks and fretted. Whispers sailed around the room until Mr. Bid scolded us. “Settle down,” he said, “or the party’s over as of now.” Quiet reigned. The treats and grab bag gifts were passed out. We munched on our sugar cookies and slurped the red punch. The classroom door opened, and a strange woman walked in. Mr. Biddinger’s looked surprised at first; then a big smile crossed his face. We were soon introduced to his wife. The Room Mother disappeared into the hall but was back in seconds holding a good-sized box wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a wide red ribbon. The chatter in the room ceased immediately, and all eyes were riveted on that box.

The Room Mother cleared her throat, walked to our teacher and said, “Mr. Biddinger, this gift is from your students. They wanted to show their love and appreciation by giving you something special.” As she handed him the box, the room tingled with an air of excitement. 

Mr. Bid seemed excited, and that alone thrilled us. He untied the bow and handed the ribbon to his wife. Next came the wrapping, and we all leaned forward. He opened the box and lifted a hunting jacket from the folds of tissue paper. This had been his fondest wish for Christmas, Mrs. Biddinger had told the Room Mother. He loved to hunt on the week-ends whenever possible, but the special hunting gear was beyond a teacher’s salary at that time.

 For the first time, the man who taught us so much became mute, totally speechless. He turned the jacket over and over, looked at the special pockets on the inside and outside. He tried again to say something but couldn’t. But the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face said all we needed to know. He finally found his voice and told us over and over how much he loved his new jacket. “It’s probably the finest gift I’ve ever received,” he said. He didn’t say why, but we knew. We had no doubt that the reason was that it came from his first class, the twenty-one ten year olds who adored him.

 I don’t remember the gifts I received at home that Christmas, but I’ll never forget the gift we gave Mr. Biddinger. It was the best Christmas present ever.

(C) 2008

Repetition When You Write

 

When proofreading, search for repetition of words and also of ideas. When I'm writing, I don't always catch those repetitive areas, but when I'm reading someone else's work while doing a critique, they stand out like a lighthouse beam in the fog. 

It's a common problem, especially for newer writers, but even the old pros commit this error. Especially in a first draft. That's why proofreading is so important in that initial effort. You have time to fix those small errors. Did you notice that I used the word 'first' in this paragraph, and I could easily have used it again in the next sentence. Instead, I chose to use 'initial' which means the same thing. 

Never underestimate your readers. They notice muffs like repetition of words or repeating the same idea one paragraph later. When you duplicate an idea close to the first time you wrote it, you're probably doing one of two things:  not giving your readers credit for 'getting it' the first time OR not knowing what to say next, so you repeat the gist of what you have already said, not word for word but it's the same thought. (Note: I do some of that in my posts to make a point quite clear, but in a fiction piece, or an essay, you should watch carefully for this problem.)

What you can do to remedy the problem:

A. Vary sentence structure. Using the same way to begin a sentence over and over becomes boring for your reader. If you say 'She was going to the store.' then follow with 'She was looking for ingredients for a new recipe.' and next say 'She was moving quickly to the produce section.' Every one of those sentences in the same paragraph begins with 'She was...' How blah is that?

B.  Use a thesaurus to help you find synonyms so that you don't change the meaning, but you also do not replicate the same word two or three times in one paragraph. 

C.  Vary a name with a pronoun. If my character's name is Henrietta, and I use her name in every sentence in one paragraph, it becomes slightly overwhelming. Instead, use the pronoun 'she' or 'her' in some sentences to give the reader a break.

D.  Don't use a lot of words when one or a few will convey the same message. Those 'unnecessary' words can end up being repetitious, too. If you say, "Jordy really liked his English teacher, but he really wasn't into reading Shakespeare, and he really struggled writing the essay assigned." You can remove every one of those 'really' words and not lose the meaning of the sentence, plus not annoy your reader. 

E.  Make your point once and move on. If you proofread and discover that you've repeated an idea, rewrite the paragraph or more if you have said the same thing more than once. Put that thought into one or two sentences and then move on. 

The benefits of ridding your first draft, or the final one, of repetition, is that you will have a stronger piece of writing and will also please your readers. You can't eliminate 100% of repeating words, but you can definitely remedy a lot. 

Writng Character Sketches of Family Members

Yesterday, I thought of something more that you can add to your Family Stories book. You might try some character sketches. We know that a 'sketch' is a rough, or unfinished drawing with details to be added later. A character sketch is much the same, but it is in written form, not drawn. 

Pick a person in your family. In your character sketch, you'll want to show his/her personality traits, behavior, physical traits, nature, and perhaps his/her background. You might show things the person does or says that portray his/her personality. 

In this character sketch, you are not telling a family story. Instead, you are giving a picture of an individual . In another exercise, you can use this person in a family story. Set aside a section of your Family Stories Book for character sketches of the people in your family--siblings, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, even pets you have had. Give each one a separate page. 

Another section of your book might be reserved for your Memories which yesterday's post highlighted. This is why I suggest using a large 3-ring binder as it is so easy to continue adding to it. I have recently purchased a third book as the first two were getting quite full. My after New Year's job is going to be to reorganize each one and to add hard copies of my writing that is on file on my laptop but has not been printed and put in the book.  

Let's get back to the character sketches. You'll want to describe the physical traits of the person--stature, hair and eye color, and complexion. Next describe some personality traits and their nature. If they had phrases or words they often used, add that to your sketch. I had a great-aunt that added 'don'tcha know' to the end of almost every sentence. Finally, write about their background. It can be very short or more defined, your choice. You might add that they were mother of, or father of, and name their children. Or that they were the son or daughter of and name those people. 

What you put in and how much is your choice. The more you tell about the person, the clearer the picture of them will be. Again, don't write an actual family story. For this exercise, you want to show the person in several ways. 

Details will enhance your character sketch. Things like 'Uncle Pete had hands the size of dinner plates.' Will give a clear picture, and it's more descriptive than saying he had big hands. Or 'my cousin, Sammy, never blew his nose, just sniffed over and over.' These small details can add so much. 

Make a list of people in your family; then create a character sketch of each one. Do one a day rather than several. You'll find these character sketches most helpful to you when you do write those family stories. 

Write About Holiday Memories

Family Stories and Memories. Both treasured, but are they the same? Sometimes they are because a Family Story is something you remembered, or someone in your family did and passed it on to you. But some memories are yours and yours alone. 

Writing about your memories needn't be involved. It can be as simple or complex as you want to make it. Since December began, I have shared two Christmas memories of mine. Writing about something you remembered for a long time doesn't need to be a full story with a beginning, middle, and ending, and it doesn't need a plot like a full fiction story does. You can add a lesson learned or leave it as a simple memory. Your choice.

Holiday memories seem to be the ones people treasure most. Perhaps it is because whatever happened at Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanza left a lasting impression on you. I think many of the holiday children's books are stories based on a memory the author had and kept close for a long time.

Can you write about your memories and put them in your Family Stories book? Of course you can. The Family Stories are more likely to have the structure of a story, whereas the memory can be a short paragraph or two. Or it can be 1000 words, depends on how much you want to elaborate.

I have written many Christmas memory stories--about our family finding a Christmas tree when I was a child, about the magical Christmas windows of Marshall Field's Department Store, about the year my husband was only halfway with our family because of a duty he felt to his customer, about a Christmas blizzard (see this one next week!), about a special doll Santa brought to me when I was quite small, about the saddest Christmas I experienced, and more. 

What Christmas memories do you have that you might write about and include in your Family Stories book? The list below might trigger a few memories for you:

A.  Getting the family Christmas tree

B.  Church pageants

C.  Writing to Santa

D.  Reading the Christmas story in the bible

E.  Christmas shopping for your mom and dad

F.  Saving money to buy Christmas gifts

G. Attending special Christmas plays or ballets

H. Sitting on Santa's lap

I.  Special foods your family had at Christmas

J.  Baking with your mother or grandmother

K. Your favorite Christmas gift

Our poster today tells us that one of the best presents a person can give is a memory. You might write about a special memory and tuck it in inside a gift you are giving to someone in your family or a close friend. It's a gift that may trigger memories for them, as well. 

When something brings back a holiday memory for you, don't let it flit through your mind and disappear. Write about it and it's yours forever, to be revisited whenever you like. 

 

A Memory: Half A Daddy For Christmas

Today's post is a Christmas memory from a time when our children were young and my husband was working. It was an unusual Christmas for our family and one I have never forgotten. 

Half A Daddy For Christmas

Christmas Eve finally arrived. I’d finished baking, the gifts were under the tree, and we’d carried out our family tradition of driving around to look at homes ablaze with holiday lights on the way home from church. Our two children were out of the car as soon as Ken pulled into the garage. We followed close behind, reaching the kitchen just as the phone rang.

    

 Ken answered, and after a short conversation he said, “Thank you for letting me know.” He turned to me. “That was the nursing home. One of my customers passed away tonight, and I’ve got to let the family know.”

    

 Ken headed a trust department in a bank. He needed to inform family of the death of a customer as soon as possible. But it was Christmas Eve! The lady who died had only one relative that he knew of—a sister who lived far away from our state of Kansas. He needed to talk with her and find out if there were other living relatives.

The kids were in the family room shaking packages under the tree, but I didn’t bother to tell them to keep their hands off the gifts as I usually did. I waited, anxious to hear what he was going to do.

     

“I haven’t got the heart to call with news like this on Christmas Eve. I’ll wait til tomorrow. I’ve got the sister’s number in the file at the bank.” 

    

Kirk and Karen abandoned the gaily wrapped presents when I offered them Christmas cookies for a bedtime snack. Their dad didn’t join in. In fact, he turned on the TV and said very little to anyone, unlike him on a festive evening like this one.

     

Ken spent a restless night and beat everyone out of bed. When the kids and I got downstairs, he had a fire blazing and Christmas music playing softly. Our children checked out what Santa had brought them and what he’d left in their stockings while I put the coffee on. Next, we opened gifts but it felt like there was only half a daddy in the room. His mind dwelt on an elderly lady in Seattle.

     

After I served a big breakfast, Ken left for the bank to make the phone call to Seattle. I hoped the light of Christmas Day made it easier for the woman to hear the news than the darkness of Christmas Eve. 

     

The kids played with new toys while I made some preparations for our mid-day holiday dinner. We’d call our families back in Illinois later in the day. An hour went by and well into the second hour, I started to worry. The bank was locked, but Ken had his own key. He was there all alone, and what if the police saw a shadowy figure inside? What if they shot first and asked questions later? Just as panic grabbed a tight hold on me, he walked in the door. Even though I noted the concern on his face, relief washed over me.

 “I called the sister,’ he said, “but I couldn’t get her to understand. I think she has dementia. I have to call again.” 

    

 Kirk wanted his dad to play a new game with him, but his request was met with, “Not now.” An unusual response from a caring dad.

     

I listened to Ken talking to the woman in Seattle while I peeled potatoes. His kindness and his patience seemed to never end as he tried to make sure the lady actually understood his message. After many repetitions, he finally gave up and ended the call. He paced the kitchen and passed right by a dish of fudge on the counter, something he’d never do under normal circumstances. 

     

“All I can do is see if the Seattle police can get a social worker to go out and talk with this woman.”  He needed information about any other family before funeral arrangements could be made, and he also felt a moral obligation.

     

He called the Seattle police department and spoke with an officer there who told him there were no social workers. “It’s Christmas Day!” The man’s voice was so loud I heard him across the room and that’s when my husband ran out of kindness and patience. 

     

In a raised voice, he informed the officer that both of them were working even though it was Christmas Day and it’s a sure thing that there’s a social worker on call. Both our children listened with wide eyes. This was not the daddy they knew. The call ended with the policeman’s assurance that the task would be taken care of before day’s end. 

Christmas Day went on with a special roast duck dinner eaten from the good china, phone calls to and from family and quieter than usual children. They were well aware they had only half a daddy this Christmas.  His mind seemed to center on what was happening in Seattle in the apartment of an elderly woman who’d lost her sister.

     

The next day at work, he received a call from the social worker who’d made the visit. She assured him that the sister had finally understood the sad news she’d brought. 

     

That Christmas, my husband’s kind, patient way with a stranger felt like another gift, one that did not come wrapped in shiny paper with a big bow, but one that I loved and treasured then, and still do. Our children may have only had half a daddy that Christmas, but over the years he’s made up for it. Besides that, our children learned how much he cared about doing the right thing.

(C) Nancy Julien Kopp

 

Reading About Writing--Yes or No?

(NOTE:  NEXT POST WILL BE ON MONDAY, DECEMBER 6)

Like others in the writing world, I often recommend reading all you can about this craft. Most reference books about writing are authored by published writers who have been in the business for some time. Therefore, they must know what they are talking about. Right? And you should follow everything they tell you. Right? Well, not necessarily.

I think writers should read all they can about the mechanics of writing, about the experiences of other writers, and more. But you don't have to take every word as gospel truth. Some writers share what has worked for them, but maybe it won't work for you. That's alright. We don't need to be rigid in adhering to what other writers tell us.

Instead, we absorb what they have to say and then sift and sort. One writer might advocate writing a book from an outline. He/she might tell you that is the only way to write a book. Maybe it's the only way for them and a number of others, but there are writers who have a general idea, start writing, and let the story lead them. 'Pantsters' in the name we give them, since they apparently write 'from the seat of their pants.' Silly, I know, but right on, too. 

When you read multiple how-to books about writing, and you see the same things repeated, you should pay attention. If many writers are in agreement about theme, plot, point of view and more, there must be something worthwhile in what they have to say. 

Try the things you learn as you read about our craft. If they work for you, that's great. If they don't, it's not a problem. There are thousands of people who write, and no two write exactly alike. Use what works for you and figure out a different way, if you would prefer. 

One bit of caution--if you go way overboard in shunning the known methods and then submit to a publisher or editor, you may get some negative feedback. Be ready to defend yourself and explain the how and why of they way you wrote a story. 

I will still advise writers to read all they can about writing. It is certainly helpful in so many respects. When I started writing, my goal was to write for children in the 8-12 age group. I read every book I could find about writing for children. I learned many bits and pieces I had not been aware of. Had I gone off the high board in the deep waters of writing for kids without reading first, I would probably have never had a story published. Once I had read a number of books about this kind of writing, I felt more confident and ready to submit my work for possible publication. 

So, yes, read about writing; read about reading so you know the group you're aiming at, read about submitting, read about revising and editing. Examine the information and be your own writer. As today's poster says:  Nothing is written in stone.

 

A Christmas Memory--Magical Windows

Here it is--the first day of the last month of the year, and the gateway to all things festive and bright if you celebrate one of the December holidays. Whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanza, there will be some joy, some great food, some busyness, some pressure and some laughs. 

It's also a time to write holiday stories while the inspiration is here. Write them now and submit next summer for December magazine or ezine issues. When the lights and music and decor are all around you is when you are likely to write the best story. 

In keeping with the Christmas spirit this month, I plan to post some of the Christmas stories I have written over the years, maybe once a week. A lot of my Christmas stories are memories of Christmas past--a slice of life perhaps. Today, my memory is of the wonderful Christmas windows at the famed Marshall Field's store on State Street in Chicago. You are welcome to share the stories. Some of the ones I will post have been published, some have not. Maybe someday...

Magical Windows of Christmas

By Nancy Julien Kopp

At least once during the Christmas seasons of my 1940’s childhood, my mother and I rode the elevated train from suburban Oak Park to downtown Chicago, exiting at the Marshall Field’s station. Pigeons strutted on the wooden platform and railings, flapping soft gray wings now and then, drawing my attention, but Mother pulled me toward a long flight of steps to the street, leaving the pigeons far above us.

We headed to a special, magical place, the big department store’s Christmas windows. Often, the wind and cold air stung our cheeks. Sometimes snowflakes floated lazily over us, but it didn’t matter. A crowd formed close to the windows of Marshall Field’s, and Mother and I wiggled into the center, moving closer and closer to the front until we stood before Christmas Window #1.

 

There, before us was a wonderland that brought oohs and ahs from the crowd. “Look, Mommy!” could be heard off and on as well when excited children pointed out the obvious to their mothers.

 

Marshall Fields initiated the Christmas window display in 1897. During November, the windows were covered with brown paper and not unveiled until the day after Thanksgiving. For weeks, designers and their staff worked long hours to create a story told in eleven successive windows, using a fairy tale or child’s book theme. Animation came in later years, and the designs grew more and more lifelike.  Piles of snow and frost-covered trees looked real enough to touch. A tray of gingerbread men near an oven so perfect, I could almost smell the spicy aroma. A scroll or some other unique prop told part of the story, and the rest came with our imagination.

 

The earlier windows were toy displays, a marketing scheme that drew thousands of shoppers. Later, in the mid-40’s, the story windows began, and Uncle Mistletoe and Aunt Holly were introduced.

We moved from window to window enjoying the continuing tale. Stories like Snow White and Pinocchio came to life behind the giant windows. They were probably more exciting in the days prior to television, for we had nothing like this anywhere but the movie theaters. By the time we’d walked the entire route, our feet were tingling with the cold, and we headed into the store to warm up.

 

What better place to thaw out than in the line that ended with a short sit on Santa’s lap. By the time, we reached Santa, we’d shed gloves and hats and unbuttoned our heavy coats. I told Santa my dearest wishes, never doubting that he’d remember and bring at least one of the items I’d requested. 

When the 1950’s rolled around, I made the trip downtown to Marshall Field’s with my girlfriends. Even then, my excitement stayed at a high pitch. I noticed more details, and my friends and I giggled and chatted, and pointed things out to one another. With rosy cheeks and numbing toes by the time we’d gotten to the end, we headed into the store. Not to see Santa but to savor a cup of hot chocolate and then spend some time wandering through the massive place looking for Christmas gifts for our family members. We might finish the day with a Frango Mint, the candy made famous by Marshall Field’s.

 

Today, Field’s is no more. The sign in front now says Macy’s. It was a sad day for me when that happened. A piece of my childhood crumbled, never to be the same. But the memory of the Christmas windows and my visits to Santa remain even many decades later.