The Orchid House

My book club, the Pulpwood Queens of Southwest Louisiana, just finished reading The Orchid House by the British author, Lucinda Riley. A few too many "darlings" in the dialogue for me, but everyone else who came to our monthly meeting raved. So, it wasn't my style, but that's the great thing about book clubs, you read stuff you might not pick up normally. A plot set around the British class system and the changes brought by WWII, it's steeped in romance and history. Well written, the story moves from war-torn England to exotic post-war Thiland and back.

The "Queens" Skyped the author on our meeting day. where we caught up with Lucinda at her home in Southern France. A querky, well traveled, outspoken woman with four school-age children and a passion for writing, I can't wait to read her newest release in the States, The Girl on the Cliff. Coming out in the U.S. in October, this book is set on the Irish coast where the author was born, and promises to reveal much of herself in its character.

Raising Baby

Our son, daughter-in-law, and baby grandson are visiting us for a few days. It's been awhile since last I bounced a child on my knee, and its pulled some muscles in my memory.
It wasn't chic to have four kids when Gloria Steinem and Sandra Day O'Connor made news. I can recall going from one store to another looking for maternity clothes and having to order from a catalog because selection was nil to nothing. I know other women were pregnant; the schools were full.
Today raising kids is the media and industry favorite. Popular TV and magazine talk about who, why, and how couples  procreate. Women stretch spandex shirts across swollen bellies where my generation hid behind tented dresses. Crying bundles from Storkville were seen as an uneducated "choice" of the love generation. I'm glad today having a child is cause for celebration. It seems okay to choose to have a large family even envied, while talking about the struggles is accepted and encouraged..
As I watch my daughter-in-law pack clothes and food for today's excursion, I'm amazed. (I used to do that!) Besides the massive diaper bag, now the video monitor is a must in this techno-phobe world where constant contact is a must of safety and convenience. I remember my mother's gift of a Commodore 64, "It's the future."
Each generation  seems to evolve. I can see my grandson at three years, looking around the room, checking for surveillance, before he acts out. Go for it, Honey.

How to Write a Great Novel

As a writer I'm always dissecting a good book, trying to figure what makes it compelling. Discussing a book with a friend recently, she told me to STOP--I was ruining it. Probably, but it's what I do.

Just finished Stieg Larsson's last two books in the Dragon Tattoo series, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who  Kicked the Hornets Nest. Too detailed, over-written in places, and in desperate need of editing, I couldn't put the darn things down.

Normally my critical misgivings would have quashed my reading, but in this case, I kept on devouring everything Larsson penned. His characters, of course, are one of the most significant reasons to keep reading. The female protagonist, Salendar, is the ultimate underdog, abused as a child with no legal rights as an adult, she is a survivor to the extreme. Dark and cunning, she is the defining 'woman hear me roar,' in control of her environment against all odds. And Blomkvist is the apex male character, loved (literally) by all women, the average man-next-door, who fights for truth and justice, and he's not conceited. Female readers are intrigued by him and male readers want to be this mythical man adored and sought by women and successful in business and private with no strings attached.

Larson's twists and political plots drag the reader through some of the writer's over attention to detail to cliffhanger endings that make an undeniably good read. This is proof that a persuasive, intriguing story with great characters is impossible to keep unpublished.

I better get back to it.

Scratching the Bones – Writing and Revision

Being brought up with a strong work ethic, my roots sometimes ache when I say I have chosen to be a writer as a vocation. A dull pain nags—I’m not producing an income, therefore I’m not productive. But creative writing is a gift. Art in any form is a product of creating. Cultivating words on the blank page is my expression of love for the gift of my creation, allowing me to share in the excitement of forming something from nothing. Of course nothing includes past knowledge from reading, teaching, training, or the personal baggage a writer is willing to address. The white page transforms into something other than what it was before we colored it with our life experiences.

Prose, for me, must have a purpose, a theme, not necessarily didactic, but it must satisfy my ‘productive’ requisite that causes the reader to think about an issue. Poetry, however, is like the wind that pops my creative sail. Starting not with a theme, but feelings, poetry is more personal, more spiritual. Poems are moments caught like a snapshot in words—each person sees something different in the picture. Ideally a poem should touch the reader, but the feelings generated depend on the reader’s experience, not the emotions conjured by circumstances the writer provides, as in details of a story. For the reader to connect, the poet must become the critic, changing her personal abstract passions into pictures of feelings. In this process the critic/poet releases her work, allowing the reader freedom to absorb it into their experience.

Creative writing, although inspired, is also a process. Just as the reader perceives something fresh from a different vantage point, the writer too must be open to change, new insights in her work. The process of revision after the inspiration demonstrates the craft of a writer. It is in the revision process that the work becomes shareable, the personal inspiration becomes universal. True revision can only come with time. When the ink is dry, and the page is a little foreign the writer can read her work from a different place in life. After the labor pains are forgotten and the baby can sit-up and look at the writer she can see with fresh eyes to be objective and analyze the work without the sentimentality of the moment.

It is impossible to critique one’s own work without good help. We can write and take time to be objective, but only an outside source can fill the subjective blanks. The poet/critic must be strong in her original inspiration to accept criticism and try variations. The original is never lost, but if a work is to be universal the writer must realize how it is perceived by others. Some works of creation will always be mine, poor and needy, a crying, angry child—not meted out for public viewing.

I like to think of my writing like the great Methodist preacher, John Wesley said about faith; it is a process of “becoming.” The revision process is the work part of writing, but it is in this becoming process of revision that my work goes from raw feelings to a universal space to be shared.

I Say, Son.

VBS went great last week. I was stellar on the tech team. At one point during each opening presentation a foghorn was required. The first day we skipped over it. The second day a sixteen year old showed me how to retrieve the sound effect from the Internet, and the kids fell out laughing. Wednesday, I found a sound effect site and made the necessary arrangements. My finger poised for the one job the team felt I was capable of preforming - the cue came, I hit the button, and "I say. I say, son, it's Foghorn Leghorn here."

I blew it. But I say, son, it was a learning experience!

(No child was injured in the performance and process of this event.)

No Moss Growin On This Sissy

Last week a recluse, this week a volunteer. My yearly dose of Vacation Bible School taken every morning until GONE.

VBS isn't for sissies.
I agreed to work the sound board this year. This is high tech fun with three interactive DVD's. Now those of you who've read this blog know my aptitude for all things technical, and you might be thinking this wasn't a very kind and charitable thing to do to the young woman coordinating the program. You might even whisper, "She doesn't want them to ask her next year," but I figured, how much do little kids notice screw ups anyway? I'll let you know.
Here's a poem from my files...

A Rolling Stone

Unh, unh,

patches of mildew,
gray shadows on the north side,
moving like clouds up my leg.

Unh, unh,

bright green fuzzies
grow roots in wrinkle lines
along hands frozen by time.

Unh, unh,

sandbag levees,
acrid shrines to middle age,
brace against creative failure.

Unh, unh,

rolling stones once,
now inertia
at the bottom of an hour glass.

Recluse

Hermit Crab

I balance my shell, this borrowed security so easily plucked. Why do they poke and prod – curious enemies? Scurry. Tide’s out, time to clean house. Push out the sand, unload the baggage, move on – hurry to the next hole.

Safety shell I carry, a cool space with curved edges, lit with grace. This pen – my sanity – my self place, a broom to sweep away the sand and dirt. Mercy massages my tired thoughts, sooths my aches.

This shell, sometimes heavy, other times turned up – a buoy, I ride the waves. Uncertainties splash, and I retreat inside. My umbilical ink to the Spirit provides nutrients of inspiration.

The sand it irritates me, now. Cramped – my shell, it doesn’t seem to fit. I’ve grown and didn’t notice.  I must move on to something bigger. It’s scary to leave, but Faith insists. She lives in here with me. She cleans the corners of doubt. Mercy, too, crowds in. I must find a larger shell – my guests insist we move.

I grab my pen, closets full of stuff, we leave to find a larger view.