365 Blank Pages for Writers

We're almost at the end of the year 2024. My last post asked you to answer some questions about what you have done in your writing world this year. Today, lets' look forward and consider what you hope to accomplish in 2025 as a writer. 

I like to turn the page on my calendar to a new month. It feels like a fresh beginning, and opening a brand-new calendar is even better. There are twelve months, 365 days waiting for me to accomplish something as a writer, as well as appointments and social engagements that I mark on each month's calendar page.

What I hope to do this year: 

A.  Continue to write my blog posts two to three times a week. 

B.  I'll seek out new places to submit my unpublished work. 

C.  Revise my middle grade novel one more time.

D.  Propose a possible book about writing to a publisher I know

E.  Spend some time writing every day

F.  Act on ideas that swirl in my head, instead of merely thinking about them

G.  Write more poetry

H.  Continue subbing and critting at my online writing group

That's quite a list, isn't it? Try making up a similar list for yourself. Consider what you didn't get done in 2024 and make that part of your goals for this new year. 

My list consisted of eight things I hope to do in this new year. Maybe it's too long, or perhaps too short. I'll be a happy writer if I accomplish all of my goals. Writing goals is the easy part, achieving them can be a bumpy road. It all depends on how serious you are about working toward each one. As always, it's up to you to work on your goals. No one else is going to do it for you.

Writing is a solitary game most of the time. There are also moments when we interact with other writers, attend workshops and conferences, and even ask another writer to critique our work. Maybe this is the year you join your state writers association, or a local one. 

When you open your new calendar, think about the 365 blank pages that are all yours. It's up to you as a writer to fill them in the best way you can. 
 

Writers and Change

The last Christmas story has been left up longer than I expected due to unforeseen circumstances. Nevertheless, it has received a huge number of readers, and for that, I am grateful. 

Christmas is behind us, and the New Year is creeping up. People make resolutions that they break in mere weeks. Writers set goals that end up forgotten, just like those resolutions. It's the human in us that makes it happen all too often.

For writers, I think the end of the year is a good time to make an assessment of your writing world. Ask yourself questions like these:

A. How often did I submit my work for publication?

B.  Did I set aside writing time on a regular basis?

C.  Did I act on the story ideas that swirled in my mind?

D.  Did I have any of my work published in 2024?

E.  Did I attend any writing workshops this year?

F.  How many books on writing did I read this year?

G.  How many first drafts are still in my files?

H.  Am I still passionate about writing?

I.  Am I discouraged about my writing world?

J.  Did I make any money from my writing this year? If so, how much?

In other words, take a good look at your writing life over this past year of 2024. Do this before you make some goals for 2025. Consider the things you did right, and also those that you might improve on this next year. Be honest in your assessment. Nobody knows the answers but you, so tell it like it is.

If there are some things that you can change, make it a point to work towards doing so. As the poster tells us, it can be the small things you decide on or change that can have great bearing on your writing world. 

 

Christmas Spirit--Lost and Found

 

Hospital Hallway

There are humorous Christmas memories, happy ones, and some that are sad. Today's story is a sad one, so be forewarned. It's about the first child we had back in 1966, and how I lost my Christmas spirit but then found it. We only had our baby girl for 7 weeks, but she did have a Christmas. And, so did I. When you write Christmas memories, write about the sad times as well as the great ones. It's a part of who you are.

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.

(c) Placed in a contest and was published in The War Cry, a Salvation Army magazine.

A Funny Christmas Memory

 

Here is another Christmas Memory. This one has been told many times in my family.

A Spoonful of Fudge

Spiral back in time with me to a mid-December day in 1947 and relive one of my treasured memories. With our teacher’s guidance, my third grade class planned the Christmas party, which would be held on our final day before the holiday break. Our classroom already looked festive thanks to a live Christmas tree decorated with our art work. Cut-out paper snowflakes adorned the tall windows, and in free time we’d made construction paper chains which we used to decorate every available space in the room. 

But now the most important part of getting ready was upon us. Miss Marshak asked for volunteers to bring Christmas napkins, cookies, and punch.

 “Now what else would be good to have at the party?” she asked. 

A boy in the last row hollered, “Fudge!” 

At his one-word answer, I sat up straight and waved my hand in the air. When Miss Marshak did not call on me immediately, I bounced up and down in my chair and gestured furiously.

 “Yes, Nancy,” she finally said. 

“I’ll bring the fudge. My mother makes the best fudge in the world.” My mouth watered at the thought of the creamy, rich chocolate candy my entire family loved.

I could hardly wait to get home and tell my mother that I’d volunteered to bring fudge for the party. She’d be so excited to share her special fudge with all my classmates. I barely felt the cold December air as I hurried along the six blocks from school to our apartment building. My feet scarcely touched the stairs as I sailed up the three flights to our door. 

Mother stopped peeling potatoes when I burst into the kitchen. I announced the great news, but I didn’t get the reaction I’d expected. Her face paled. “Fudge? Isn’t there something else you can bring?” 

“No. Other people signed up for the rest.” My excitement deflated like a pricked balloon.

What could be wrong? 

Mother shrugged, picked up the potato peeler and said, “It’s all right. I’ll make the fudge.”

The December days slid by, one by one. I helped Mother put up our Christmas decorations. Dad took my brothers and me to pick out a tree, and Mother spent her days wrapping packages and baking special cookies and Christmas cakes. At school, we practiced for our part in the all-school musical program, read Christmas stories in reading time and created our own in Language Arts period. Giggles got louder as Christmas surrounded us.

Finally, the day before the party arrived. Our teacher went over a checklist to make sure everyone remembered what they were to bring the next day. How could I forget? I’d thought about the chocolaty, wonderful fudge Mother would make every day. I could almost taste its smoothness and the lingering sweetness it left.

When I got home that afternoon, my baby brother was crying, and Mother looked about to cry along with him. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My worry centered not on the baby or my mother but on the fudge. 

Mother sank into a kitchen chair. “I’ve made three batches of fudge today, and none of them worked. They’re all too soft. I can’t send it to school.” 

I had no idea why she was so disturbed. Fudge was always soft and gooey. We spooned it up every time we had it. “Why?” was all I could think to say.

“Nancy,” my mother said, “fudge is not meant to be eaten with a spoon. It should be firm enough to pick it up in a piece and pop into your mouth. I beat and beat it, but it’s like it always is when I make it. Too soft. And I made it three times today!” 

Tears welled in her eyes, and my baby brother reached up and patted her cheek. Maybe even he knew how bad she felt. How could I bring the fudge to school? I loved my mother’s fudge, but maybe nobody else would. Maybe they’d laugh when they saw it. I worked up my courage and asked, “What are we going to do?”

The next morning, I carried a big pan of fudge and 21 spoons to school.

 The soft candy was the hit of the party. After we had our punch and cookies, everyone gathered around the cake pan of fudge, spoon in hand, and dug in. My fears were never realized. One of the boys licked his spoon and said, “You were right. Your mom does make the best fudge in the world.” Echoes of agreement sounded around the circle. We dipped our spoons for more.

Some years later, Mother began to make a new fudge recipe that contained marshmallow crème. The ads promised it was foolproof--firm fudge every time. They were right, but the spoonsful of soft fudge we’d eaten all those years before remained my favorite, and I never forgot how my mother found a solution to what might have been my biggest third grade disaster. It wasn't only fudge she'd given me that December day.

 

(c)

A Christmas Memory

With only a few days until Christmas, I am going to share a few of the Christmas stories I have written over the years. Today, it is a memory of finding the right tree back in my 1940s childhood. 

Finding The Right Christmas Tree

By Nancy Julien Kopp

 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.

 

Have You Found Your Writer's Voice?

 

(A former post that still has good information for the writer)

When I was a newbie writer, I asked a writer friend to look at a couple children's stories I had written to see if she could give me some tips or point out major errors. After she'd read the stories, we got together one afternoon, and over a cup of tea, the first thing she said about my writing was, "You have found your voice." 

I looked at her and wasn't sure what to say. Voice? What the heck was that? Being so new to this world, I hesitated to ask her for an explanation. She went on to point out things in the stories. I did learn more later on about what a writer's voice is. 

The important thing is to find your own voice. You don't want to mimic another writer's voice. 

A simple explanation of voice is that your voice as a writer is your style. It's the way you put words together in sentences, or in paragraphs. Elements of voice are word selection, writing structure, and pace. Every person is unique, as is every writer. The way I put words together should not be the same as you. 

Other parts of your voice are the way you allow emotions and feelings to come through. Also, your tone and rhythm, perhaps even patterns in the way you arrange words. 

Our writing voice lets our personality come through to the reader. 

Think about a handful of authors whose books you enjoy. Don't they each have a different writing style? Some are slow paced, while others race through the story, and you're right there with them. Some put long descriptions in their stories while others make do with a few adjectives here and there to give you a sense of place or let you 'see' the scene better. If you have a list of favorite authors, give some thought as to why their work appeals to you. What is it about their style of writing that makes you want more? The story itself is of prime importance, but so is the writer's voice. 

I've mentioned an author by the name of Charles Todd before. He (actually a mother/son writing team) has a series about a young detective at Scotland Yard, set in the early years after WWI in England. The stories move at a slow pace, but new bits and pieces keep me reading. The writer's voice comes through clearly, and stays consistent in each ensuing novel. I find that most interesting since the author is two people writing as one. 

Don't try to be John Grisham or Nora Roberts. Find your own voice. Write as only you can write. Be yourself. If you want to read about your writing voice in more detail, use a search engine and read several articles. 

Keep Your Passion for Writing Alive

 

A friend once had the poster above on her Facebook page. Definitely advice that is short and sweet but, oh so good. I'd like to have it blown up to poster size and tack it to the wall above my computer. Maybe I should get two and put one on the fridge as a reminder to get myself to the office to write. Or how about another in the laundry room? 

It's far too easy to allow life to get in the way of our writing, especially at holiday time. We have the best of intentions to spend X amount of time writing each day, but our world sometimes has other plans. Children need us, husbands require help in finding something. (What is it about men who have lived in the same place for years and years but still can't find numerous items?) The phone rings, or the doorbell. We're needed at a meeting or must run to the store to pick up milk and bread. The list could go on and on. 

We have responsibilities that must be met, and that's just fine. As long as we keep writing a primary task, we'll be alright. Just don't let it slip farther and farther down the to-do list. Once it hits near the bottom of the list, your writing world is going to become dimmer and dimmer. You run the risk of stopping altogether. I've seen people in my critique group quit. They say things like "I'm just not writing anymore." or "Right now, other things in my life are of more importance." Probably true but it makes me sad. I wonder if they will ever resume writing.

Most writers pursue their craft because they're passionate about writing. Make no mistake, it takes some doing to keep that passion lit. Like anything else, we sometimes have to truly work at it. We need some encouragement as well. And maybe we need some occasional success to keep the spark alive. 

For now, I'm going to let the poster of those four hunks keep me going. How about you? What will you do to keep your passion for writing alive?

What's So Special About Christmas Stories?

 

Have you ever thought about the favorite Christmas stories, ones that people read over and over again? What is so appealing that they have lasted for years and years? Same thing with those Christmas movies that were either adapted from books or written solely as a screenplay. And, also, the poems. Here are just a few that come to mind. You can probably add others to this list.

1. A Christmas Carol

2. Miracle on 34th Street

3. It's A wonderful Life

4. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

5. A Cup of Christmas Tea (Narrative Poem)

6. The Bells of Christmas (Poem)

7. Twas The Night Before Christmas (Poem)

8. White Christmas

9. Polar Express

10. The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

11. The Littlest Angel

12. Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer

For one thing, Christmas is a holiday that touches the heart, the original Christmas story in the bible is filled with emotion as are the books, poem, and films with a Christmas theme. Some are happy, some are sad, but all bring out emotion in some way.

Christmas memories are often very special and these books and more trigger those memories we hold dear. Only yesterday, a friend whose early childhood years were in an occupied European country told me about the Christmases when she had no gift and how hard it was to go to school and not be able to tell her friends what she got for Christmas. Some were like here, others had families that managed to find gifts somehow. But even though it was a sad memory, her face lit up with that memory and maybe others that went along with it. Perhaps she remembered the little things her mother did at home to make it look like Christmas. It doesn't matter whether our Christmas memories sparkle with joyous moments to be savored over and over or are of hard times when perhaps the gifts became less important than the meaning of Christmas and the family being together.

Most Christmas stories have happy endings, even those who tell of difficult times but brought a treasured lesson. And don't we all love a happy ending? They also let us reach deeper into the meaning of Christmas and the many aspects of the holiday--beyond the gift giving and receiving.

I've written several Christmas memory stories but never a fiction piece. I think it is better to write the story during the holiday season as you are so tuned in, but marketing a Christmas story must be done in the spring or early summer. Try to write a Christmas story when it is high summer and you may not be able to achieve the same emotions as you might when you write it in December.

Have you ever written a Christmas story? Whether fiction or memoir, poem or lyrics for a song, it is probably special to you in your list of works. If you don't celebrate Christmas, but some other winter holiday instead, have you written a story that fits the theme? Holiday stories are fun to write, wonderful to read, and make memories if they are good enough.

By Nancy Julien Kopp - December 20, 2013 No comments:  

A Writer's Christmas List

December has arrived, and we begin to think about Christmas lists. Lists of things to be done, lists of gifts we must find and purchase, lists of holiday goodies for the teas, lunches, dinners, and parties we might have. But how about adding a wish list of your own? A List of Things A Writer Would Like to Receive.

That list might not be one where your family can run to the nearest Costco or Macy's to find the gift. No. Some of things on that list are mere wishes or possibilities. Let's look at what you might put on a list like this.

A.  A published piece once a month in 2025

B.  The ability to get an idea in your head to be totally coherent in print

C.  Extra time to write

D.  A great critique group that will help you polish your work

E.  A List of Markets that your kind of writing publishes

F.  A few new reference books on the craft of writing, maybe even one

G.  Patience while waiting to hear the status of a submission

H.  A muse who will be positive and give help when needed

I.  To be able to show, not tell, a story

J.  To use sensory details automatically as you write

K.  To use as many active verbs as possible

What else would you add to this list? Think about your writing life and what it has been, what it is, and what you would like it to be. 

If I could put each of the items on the list in a silver box and tie it with a big red ribbon, and send it to you, I would. Your family probably would do so, as well, if possible. Many things on that list are ones only you can find and use. 

It's Christmas, so why not reward yourself?