Quick Hits No. 9

In previous posts about writing, I've focused on the how, not the why. This post by Norma Jean Lutz I found on the Be A Novelist web site hit home for me. Among many other terrific things, she relays what Albert Einstein had to say about stories:

“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”

What came immediately to me was Aesop's Fables, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Peter Rabbit: stories that capture the imagination and along the way, leave gems of truth and awareness that sit in one's subconscious, to emerge at (hopefully) times that amplified their worth. When I discovered I could learn about the world by reading stories written from far off lands, in things called newspapers and magazines, that notion already had a home to go to, thanks to stories already in my mind.

It's only natural to want to attempt to recreate what one has seen and appreciated all one's life. Draw a picture, build a sand castle, tell a story: all of these potentially wild flights of the imagination are what gives life a certain je ne sais quoi  I know I could not live without.

Lutz asks the question 'Does a story have any practical use?' Good question, in these technological times. But we as a people have always been tellers of stories. So it's only natural that some of us satisfy that itch that can only be scratched by not just telling a story, but writing it down and sharing it.

Now, about that getting up in the morning thing ...

http://beanovelist.wordpress.com/2012/06/21/of-what-good-is-story/

See ya next week!

Emily's Secret

Chapter Two

       

        With Emily laid out in the funeral home’s basement and Earl in the kitchen of Ross’ apartment, reluctant to enter his empty home as the end of that awful day drew near, Ross still dreaded making that phone call. It was to Earl’s sister, Ann. He loved his niece and in some ways was a mentor to her, but as Ann grew older, they grew apart, for no reason other than the different lives people have, with little common ground besides blood.

Still, Ann was the closest relative not just to Earl, but also to Emily, whose immediate family was all dead and whose in-laws never bothered to make the attempt to keep in touch. During Ann’s rare visits to Connor she spent most of her time with Emily, with Earl so busy with the funeral home.

As his aged crooked finger gently ran down a list of numbers in small black book, Ross peered at Ann’s name, still Taylor, and the exotic address, some Rue or another, in some place in Paris, France. Ross began dialing a number. The ringing began, and continued for some time before he heard a faint ‘hello?’     

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Earl spent the night on the bedding he placed on the floor, unable to sleep in the bed he shared with Emily. He spent most of the night unaware of being awake or asleep, except for when he dressed and went downstairs to the living room to acknowledge his neighbors’ sympathy. It was possible the entire town of Connor turned out to pay its respect to Emily Taylor. Visitation was two nights for four hours each, and both nights the funeral home on State and Elm overflowed with folks wanting to offer some word of kindness to Earl and Ann and Ross.

The Episcopal church was packed for her funeral service. The procession to the cemetery was 35 cars long and the crowd at the graveside service numbered over 500, according to Dave Weisbrodt, who was there with his brothers and a cousin, all policemen and close friends of the Taylor family.

Emily Taylor wasn’t particularly religious but she did attend Episcopalian services somewhat regularly, sang with deep reverence, and knew the music by heart. The rector said she would be remembered as someone who always gave of her time to any cause no matter how small. Many mourners from all over Connor were there because of a kindness she showed during some time of need, and most of the time it had nothing do with the funeral home or the church, or the women’s aid committees and other charitable groups. Everyone who knew her knew she took a personal interest in nearly everyone in Connor. No one ever had anything bad to say about Emily Taylor.

Earl’s shock and grief were still too deep within him to rightly acknowledge the outpouring of love and kindness folks showed for Emily. He spent most of those hours nodding his head, tilting it to one side, rubbing a handkerchief under his nose, and throwing pleading looks at Ross  whenever he felt truly overwhelmed. Despite soldiering on at the funeral home and maintaining his poise during the services, he was numb, and his soul had a perpetual raw, nagging ache.

Writing groups and and tidbits from others

My writing group has met three times and already I believe it was one of the single most important decisions I made to further my journey on the road to getting published. The people I meet with are fine young writers who have a lot of talent and they too are searching for direction as they create worlds I know others will want to read.
I gathered this tidbit from one of the other writing groups I belong to, this one a community on the Writers Digest website where members can post things for feedback and such.
Diane Carlisle posted 'the six Cs' she learned at the Tallahassee Writers Association conference and shares them here:

http://matrix-hole.blogspot.com/2012/05/i-learned-6-cs-from-steve-berry.html

I am so glad I have these groups to learn from, to offer feedback and constructive criticism too, and to propel me further into the mysterious world of writing and publishing.

Boat building

Lately, I've been posting the first few chapters of my detective novel on sites for critique. As well, I've offered it to my writing group for the same purpose. Once in a while, when someone asks what I've been doing lately, I tell them about the story, and if they express an interest, I send them a chapter or two.

I've come to the conclusion that writing a novel and talking about it with friends is like building a boat.

At first, the builder is so excited about his project he tells everyone, and kind listeners tolerate his prating on until the builder eventually begins to realize that perhaps only other boat builders are the ones interested in his misadventures.

Over time, the boat builder realizes that saying nothing is the best course, until the time comes when perhaps someone who expresses an interest in his project stops by for a look.

The boat builder eventually reaches the point where all his efforts must be focused on the boat, and that sharing it with others is time lost, with the exception of sharing some of his trials and tribulations with other boat builders, who offer excellent suggestions.

The boat builder knows that someday soon the boat will be ready for deep water and if all goes well, a christening will be a welcome. It is that moment the boat builder has firmly fixed in his mind. Everything else is the journey getting there.