Writers Can Use 'Breathings of the Heart'

 Another post highlighting writing from your heart. It is so worthwhile to do so.

The quote above by William Wordsworth, poet, says a great deal in a mere nine words. Poets don't have the luxury of the many words of the prose writer. They must say a lot in far fewer words. Wordsworth (don't you love that name for a writer?) lived from the late eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth. His writing was done with paper and pen, not the way we write today. 

I find something soothing about writing that way. The Morning Pages exercise can be done with paper and pen while having your first cup of coffee of the day. If you haven't tried this exercise, check it out and give it a whirl.

Today, however, let's talk about Wordsworth's advice. The writing that comes from our hearts is going to appeal to readers far more than the staid, factual writing that some writers produce. If the words come from your heart, they are going to have emotion that filters from writer to reader. There will be passion and truth. 

Writing that comes from your heart can also act as a step in healing for a writer. So many who have survived a tragedy of some kind write about it. They write to help others but also as part of the healing process. Some feel they should protect their own privacy and never write about traumas in their life. Look at the many, though, who have done so. Memoir after memoir of people who have lived through poverty, abuse, serious accidents and more line the bookshelves in our bookshops and libraries. These people have shared their stories and I think they are the ones who heal better and faster. The willingness to share their difficult stories is to be commended as they help others who might relate to same. 

Those breathings of your heart might produce sorrow or joy in readers. When you read a book that you love from first to last page, you've usually experienced emotions throughout. The characters have made you laugh, cry, be angry and more. The authors who can make your emotions surface are the ones who write with heart. 

Think about the books or short stories, memoir pieces or any other creative nonfiction you have written. Step back and look objectively. Did you write from your heart? Did the emotion come through? If not, can you revise it and put your heart into it this time. 

There is one hurdle to get over. Some writers have difficult time releasing all that is in their heart. It's too private for some to be able to share. Try doing it a little at a time. Open the gate and see what happens when you do. Consider how it affects your final product. Like all things, take it a step at a time. The more you can write from your heart, the easier it will become. 

Finally, I cannot finish today's post without telling you how much I love the phrase breathings of your heart. Wordsworth could have said what's in your heart but his poet's heart served him well in the choice of words he made. 

Listen To Your Heart

 

What came first the chicken or the egg? Old, old question which came to mind when I read in a reference book for writers that one should 'write with your heart and edit with your head.' Which is more important?

It makes perfect sense that we should use our hearts when we write. If we don't, there is no emotion, no passion. There is little to touch a reader's heart. When we write without heart, we are reporting a series of events. But when it comes from deep within, we bring the reader into the moment and allow them to feel what we felt. We give the reader something to remember.

Write from the heart. It sounds so easy, but it can be difficult if we can't open our hearts enough to write with passion, no matter the subject. To write this way means we must bare our soul. Some writers might want to bare a little but not all. Get a reader partway there and then cut them off, and you won't get accolades. Give them the whole thing, and they'll be yours forever.

Let's assume you have written an emotion-filled personal essay. You let it all out, allowed your deepest feelings to surface in the words you tapped out on your keyboard. This is where the head part enters the picture. After you allow the piece to simmer on its own a few days, you need to go back and do some editing. This time, you need to listen to your head, not your heart. You might have a phrase that is pure poetry but doesn't belong in the essay. It hurts to strike it out, but if your head tells you it doesn't fit with the rest, axe it.

Use your head and look at the essay or story with the eyes of a reader, not a writer. Ask yourself what the reader is going to think. Then revise, cut, add--whatever will make your work better.

Which one is more important? I think they get equal billing. Trust your heart when writing, but use your head when you edit.

Remembering My Dad

 

My Dad--1942

My dad was a complicated man. Loving and kind one minute and in a rage the next. He'd been spoiled as a child and still wanted things his way as an adult. 

There were things he did for me in my growing-up years that I only appreciated as an adult. His lectures for one thing. The following essay highlighting those lessons has been published a couple times. It seemed appropriate for this Father's Day weekend. 

Driving With Dad

During my growing-up years, my dad drove a 1936 Plymouth, moved on to a 40’s model Buick and then a 50’s era Chrysler that was his pride and joy. Every one of those vehicles was a used car, but Dad burst with pride over each one. He kept them washed and waxed, made sure the engine hummed, and brushed and vacuumed the upholstered seats regularly.

     

I learned many life lessons during conversations in those cars, usually when Dad and I drove somewhere without my mother and brothers. Both of us sitting in the front seat of the car, we bumped along the brick street in front of our apartment building, our words quaking as we passed over each new brick the tires hit. Finally, we’d come to a paved street, and our voices resounded normally again. An innocent remark from me as we rode along brought forth long orations from Dad on more than one occasion. 

My dad was a short, skinny guy, but his inner strength and street smarts created a powerful person. He steered with one hand and gestured to me with the other, citing one example after another to prove a point.

     

In my childhood years, I considered his words as nothing but lectures. Never content to say a little about a subject, he’d begin with the important part of the lesson and continue on and on until I effectively tuned him out. My own silent rebellion. I must have had a mental file folder in which I saved those little lectures, for bits and pieces float through my mind even now, many decades later. They’ve helped to make me the strong person I am today.

     

Born in 1916, Dad grew up in the Fabulous Twenties and the Depression years. He lost his father at the age of fourteen in 1930 and dropped out of high school to search for work. He supported his mother and himself with one scrounged-up job after another, finally settling in permanently at International Harvester Co. when he turned eighteen. They hired him as a truck driver, and Dad moved on through the ranks of the parts department in a distribution center and finally to the General Office in downtown Chicago where he worked with men who, unlike himself, held college degrees. He supervised a department of men and women until his retirement, and never was a man more loyal to an employer than he.

As an adult, my dad’s words revisited me when I attended college, taught school, married, and became a mother. One of the things we often talked about in those old cars was loyalty. “Loyalty,” Dad told me, “will reap benefits beyond your wildest dreams.”  He repeatedly instructed me and my brothers to be loyal to our family, to our employer, and to our friends. Mixed within the admonition to show loyalty was respect and integrity as well as fidelity, subheadings for his favorite topic.

     

As a child and especially in my teen years, I resented Dad’s lectures and did my best to ignore them. In my young adult years, Dad often grasped an opportunity to repeat those lectures. The same stories, the same words, the same lesson, and I’d think ‘oh no, not again.’ How many times could I listen to what International Harvester Co. did for him? That his loyalty to them was returned a thousand-fold over the years. And didn’t I already know that his loyalty to his best friend resulted in a lifelong friendship?

     

Dad died over twenty-five years ago, but the lessons he taught through words and example live on. The words I naively thought I had tuned out so long ago come back to me at the strangest moments. When I see examples of others’ loyalty, Dad’s words drift through my mind, and I wish I might thank him now for what he taught me all those years. I tried to be loyal to my employer, my family, and my friends exactly as he’d said while we drove all around Chicago in his treasured cars. And he was so right. I’ve reaped the benefits in the form of good working relationships, a wonderful family life, and the joy of many warm friendships.

     

He didn’t have a college degree, but he knew the values to instill in his children and he worked hard to ensure we learned the meaning of loyalty. The little lectures in the car and sometimes at the dining room table were re-enforced by the way he led his own life. I listened and observed, quite often subconsciously, and applied what I learned throughout my own life. Thanks a million, Dad. 

YOU Can Write for Chicken Soup for the Soul

 

Yes, YOU can write for an anthology. Chicken Soup for the Soul is one of the longest-running and most popular of all of them. There have been others, but they seem to run for a while, then quit. New ones pop up now and then; some make it and others don't. 

However, Chicken Soup for the Soul anthology has had approximately 275 books published, each with a different theme. They have sold 110 million books in the USA and Canada. Even more amazing is the fact that they have published in 43 languages, and in 100 countries. The grand total of books they have sold worldwide is around 500 million. Phenomenal? Yes!

I've submitted many stories to Chicken Soup, and 24 of them have been published. Many others were not. Submitting to this publisher is no different than when sending your work to others in hopes of being published. 

You do not have to be a professional writer, one who works at this craft for a living. I'm a Hobbyist writer, but many of the stories in these books are written by people who have no background in being published. So, yes, YOU can write for Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies. 

FIRST:  Go to www.chickensoup.com and look at the home page on their website. Then, scroll to the bottom of the page and click on Submit a Story. You'll be taken to a page that has three parts to it. The first page gives you information on books the company is working on and needs stories submitted. Under each title is some information as to what they are looking for, a deadline date, and a list of prompts that might trigger a story in your mind. 

SECOND:  Go to the upper left of this page and click on Guidelines. You'll find a treasure trove of information there. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to study the guidelines. Read them several times. The editors are very particular about the stories fitting within the guidelines given. If you are submitting a story, check it with these guidelines to see if it fits before you submit.

THIRD: Choose a book title and write a story that will fit. Write it, edit, revise, and proofread your first draft. The same with the second draft, or more if necessary. You'll want to send your best effort. 

FOURTH: On this same initial page, you'll find a third choice. Submit a Story. Click on it and fill out the form. Then upload your story from your Documents file. Be sure to fill out all the information asked for. 

MORE HINTS: The editors like a little dialogue, some humor (if fitting), something that will touch your heart, maybe even make you shed a tear or two. They indicate this in the guidelines. It also needs to be a 'story' with a beginning, middle, and ending. Not a tribute to someone, not an essay, not a sermon. A story!

THEN: The long wait begins. Chicken Soup does not send rejection letters or emails. Personally, I would like to have one if my story didn't make it. Then, I know for sure and can move on. Usually, if you have not received a notice of being on the short list by two months after the deadline date, your story probably didn't make it. Ah yes, the short list. If you receive notice that you are on this, the chances are very good that your story made it. But even so, a small number will get cut before the final list is made. They usually publish 101 stories per book. Choosing from the thousands of submissions cannot be an easy job. 

The stories are about everyday people in everyday lives. So, yes YOU can write for Chicken Soup for the Soul. 

Remembering D-Day

 Today is the 80th anniversary of D-Day, commemorating the Allied invasion of France on June 6th, 1944. It was the breakthrough needed, the beginning of the ending of WWII. The following was written in 2013, published in 2014. I repost it as a reminder of the horrific price we pay for wars. My visit to Normandy left a deep impression on me. I hope young people today still learn of this part of history in their classes. 

Remembering D-Day on the Normandy Beaches

By Nancy Julien Kopp

As we approach the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, our visit there in the spring of 2013 keeps coming to mind.

My husband and I were nearing the end of a river cruise in France which brought us from Paris to Normandy, famed for its Norman cows and fine dairy products as well as being the place where the Allied Invasion began during WWII. Our river ship docked at the final port--Honfleur, a picture postcard kind of town. Now, we were close to the highlight of the two-week cruise that had begun in Paris. We’d spend a full day at the D-Day beaches of Normandy, something Ken and I had looked forward to since booking months earlier.

At breakfast in the ship’s dining room that next morning, we sensed an air of anticipation that had not been evident in our other sightseeing tours on this trip. We were not the only ones looking forward to this day when we would view the beaches where the landing took place on June 6, 1944. The ensuing battle resulted in the Allied Forces turning the tide of the long-fought war that threatened so many, not only in France but other countries as well.

Being mostly senior citizens, the people in our tour group knew the history of the battle well. One man had even been there with the British navy shortly after the initial invasion. Only 16, he lied about his age to join the navy and was among the first who arrived after the beaches were taken. This now-elderly gentleman had spoken about his experience one evening on the river ship. That morning, as the bus took us from ship to the beaches, I watched this man who sat silently while we rode through the Normandy countryside. What thoughts were going through his mind, what memories were returning one by one? I wanted to ask but out of respect for what must have been an emotional time for him, I kept my silence.   

We filed quietly off the bus on that cold, wet March morning. There was none of the usual chatter and good-natured teasing on this day. We were a solemn, respectful group as we were introduced to our local tour guide. Her scarf whipped wildly in the strong wind, and like us, she wore hat, gloves and a warm coat. The skies were gray which somehow seemed fitting for this place where the remnants of battle and death remained even these 69 years after the fact.

The pillboxes where the German artillery faced the beaches remain today. I slipped and slid down a muddy incline to see inside one where parts of the big guns remained. Looking out to the beaches, I was immediately struck by the incongruity of those in the pillboxes versus the men on the open beaches on that summer morning so long ago. An old cliché seemed most fitting. They were “sitting ducks.” I shivered with both the thought and the sharp wind that found its way through my warm jacket.

The Allied Forces came to liberate France from German occupation, to push the German forces back to their own country. The Canadians landed at Juno Beach, the British at Sword and Gold Beach. Our American troops came ashore at both Omaha and Utah Beach. Paratroopers landed first followed by amphibious landing craft manned by Navy and Coast Guard personnel. Thousands of men with one goal—take the beaches and move on.

Gnawing fear must have been in the belly of each man but they surged forward with many falling on the beach. More than a thousand died on Omaha Beach alone. Others continued to dodge the constant gunfire and scaled precarious cliffs to reach the German strongholds. 

As the tour guide talked, I thought of the men I knew who had fought in this war of so long ago—my uncle who had been an Air Force pilot, my best friend’s uncle who had endured the hardships of a prison camp, and my dad’s cousin whose plane blew to pieces before he could escape. I thought of my father-in-law who served in Paris after the liberation and came home safely thanks to the courage of the men who fought on D-Day, those who carried General Eisenhower’s order with them. “Full victory. Nothing else.” 

Our tour guide told us of a U.S. Army veteran who had been on another of her tours. On the morning of the invasion, he was in a landing craft that held 32 men. 31 of them were violently seasick. By the time they landed, they were covered in vomit with no choice but to rush the beach and dodge the artillery fire. That was only one of nearly 7,000 boats that hit the five beaches early that morning. I shivered yet again but didn’t know if it was because of the cold misty rain or the stories she related.

Our next stop was the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, located not far from the beaches. In gratitude, the government of France granted use of the land, in perpetuity, as a permanent burial ground. We walked through the immaculate grounds, viewing the choppy waters of the English Channel just beyond. Nearly 10,000 American soldiers are buried here, a Latin cross or a Star of David marking each grave.

We gathered in the light rain at the Memorial area which features a 22-foot statue called “The Spirit of American Youth Rising From the Waves.” A representative from the cemetery addressed our group before leading a short ceremony to honor those who had sacrificed so much in this place. Everyone faced the wildly waving American flag, hand on hearts. Cold raindrops mixed with the warm tears that fell as I listened to a recording of our national anthem followed by a volley of gunshots and finally the playing of “Taps.” The lump in my throat would allow me no words, nor were any needed. 

As the group dispersed, Ken and I walked to the edge of the cemetery close to the sea. The rain had finally ceased. We gazed at the gray sky and the gray water, empty now save for the ghosts of 69 years earlier. We have heard about the Normandy Beaches and D-Day for most of our lives. We’ve seen pictures, watched movies depicting that day. But being there and hearing the personal stories brought reality like nothing else. What struck me as we walked silently back through the cemetery was that we humans didn’t learn from the horrors of WWII. We’ve continued to send our young men and women to fight in multiple wars since. 

At home, we fly our American flag with pride every June 6th to honor those who fought and those who didn’t come home. After visiting Normandy, that day will take on even greater significance. Veterans of the D-Day battle dwindle year by year. Before long, there will be none left, so it will be up to the next generation and the next to keep the memory alive. It is my great hope that this year’s 70th Anniversary will spark some interest among all ages for this commemorated day.

©2014

Opening Lines are Important

 

This is a repeat post from a few years ago. Still pertinent for today's writers. 

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. "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." Don't you want to ask 'Why?' 

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.