A Pity Pot for Procrastinators

Okay, I admit it.  I've been procrastinating.  I have a plot outline for Book II of the Legacy Trilogy, a character map, and a notebook full of interesting descriptions for the setting.  I've even drafted out a couple of chapters. I have a research trip to Chicago scheduled this fall to make sure my setting is accurately depicted. But I just can't get motivated to write.

I can think of a myriad of excuses that you've all heard before - not feeling well, too busy, blah...blah...blah...But the bottom line is that I'm just not motivated. I wouldn't even say it's due to writer's block (whatever that is).  I wake up at 4:00 with my head full of ideas and conversations for my characters.  I just can't make myself get to the computer to begin writing. Maybe I need to take a break.  After all, I've cranked out two novels in three years. That's pretty good isn't it?  The truth is, it's just downright laziness.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the small things and find that it's easier to procrastinate than get to work on the details that are holding me back.  I need to update my blog page and reach out to other bloggers, update my marketing plan and email list, explore the idea of a video trailer, and on and on. When I retired from education in 2012, I swore that I would no longer be tied to someone else's deadlines.  That's why I elected to self-publish. I wanted to be my own boss. 

In the beginning I was excited to finally be able to pursue my own interests and do what I really loved, but I admit that the new has worn off.  While I still love to write and believe that I have stories to tell that others would like to read, it's beginning to feel like work again. And so I procrastinate.

I tell myself that I deserve some free time, but then I don't know what to do with it. I wonder through the house looking for distractions that will keep me away from the computer. It sits on my desk amid all my notes and stares back at me with it large accusing eye. I feel guilty.

I tell myself, it doesn't really matter. Oprah and Ellen will probably never call me for an interview. Hollywood is not knocking down my door to make a blockbuster movie out of one of my novels. But the truth is, it matters to me. I have always wanted to write. I knew it took time and sacrifice...anything worthwhile does. More than anything, I wanted my writing to be my legacy to my children and grandchildren. I can't leave them a fortune in real estate or stocks and bonds, but I can leave them the gift of experience and the wisdom I have gained over a lifetime. This is really what I hope to convey to those who read my work...a glimpse into the patterns of behavior that shape who we are as human beings. 

Soooo...when I think of it that way, it's almost selfish of me to sit here on my pity pot and avoid the work I feel I was called to do.  

It's time to get busy.

Writers as Observers

I had a great time this past week talking to middle school students about the writing process.  They asked some great questions about where I got my inspiration and how I developed the characters.  They were particularly interested in the descriptive process.

I explained that good writers are first of all good observers.  They pay attention to the smallest details that help to evoke a feeling or memory.  It is important for writers to connect to readers on an emotional level and the best way to do that is through a shared experience or memory. Vivid images that take the reader to a place they may never have been, but can imagine in their minds, helps them to connect to the story.

In Windborne, I wanted the reader to understand the importance of the wind in the story.  In Kansas, the wind is a constant, but it sounds and feels different at different times of the year. It can also illicit different feelings and moods. A gentle spring breeze blowing through the tall grasses makes a swishing noise that is calming and even uplifting.  It cools and caresses as it touches you and smells like newly turned earth. A summer wind rustling the leaves high in the trees is lazy and unpredictable.  It comes in gusts and teases you with its coolness.  A winter wind pierces you with its icy fingers and threatens to take your breath away, but an autumn wind is crisp and crackly, bringing the scent of wood and harvest.

All these observations are important to give the reader a sense of time and place. Since I write historical fiction, it is also important to place the reader in the appropriate time frame by using historically accurate descriptions.  In The Stone House Legacy, it was important for the reader to feel the tension of the times even though the characters were geographically removed from much of the action.

This was accomplished by having the characters react to situations and describing those reactions in great detail. For example, the assassination of President Kennedy was an event that affected the entire nation regardless of political, ethnic, or religious beliefs. Taping into those feelings that everyone experienced in some way, helps the reader to connect and identify with the characters.

Novice writers often focus so much attention on the action of the plot that they forget to engage their readers.  This, I believe, is the dividing line between a good read and a great read. It is what makes the story continue in the reader's thoughts long after the last page is turned.

Thank you to the students at Americus Middle School for reminding me of this important lesson.

Coming Attractions

I am so excited about the re-release of Windborne with a new cover by Alexander von Ness. Reedited, reformatted and better than ever!  The title refers to dreams being borne or carried away on the wind and I think he captured it perfectly. 

The Flint Hills of Kansas promised bountiful wildlife and fertile valleys, but for Virginia, Helen and Leah it was an empty promise.  Dreams here often withered and died from starvation or the harshness and unpredictability of the climate.

Set against a historical backdrop of major economic and cultural changes of the past century, Windborne is an elegantly timeless tale about the nature of love, loss and awakening.

The Stone House Legacy is the first book in the Legacy Trilogy which follows the family of Simon and Tessa Kingsley through three decades.  The series focuses on the legacies they leave behind as footprints to guide their children through life.

For nearly a century the old stone house has kept its secrets hidden deep in the limestone hills of Indiana.  But when an idealistic young minister decides to develop the site as a religious retreat for ecumenical thought, the secrets of its past cast a dark shadow over his plans.

Set in the Birthplace of the John Birch Society during the turbulent years of the early 1960s, The Stone House Legacy reveals mankind's stubborn inclination to repeat the mistakes of past generations.

Both books are available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.com.  I will be signing books and speaking to middle grade students from 1:30-3:00 on May 12 at the Americus Library in Americus, Kansas.  Stop by and say hello!

Dancing with Dad

In continuing my look at the legacies we leave behind, I have been looking at back at some of the things that are now a part of who I am, thanks to the gifts of others.  Sometimes we don't realize the gifts we are given until much later in life. Oftentimes, it only takes a small memory to remind us of that gift.

My dad was a dancer.  He was light on his feet and seemed to glide across the dance floor. He made every move look easy.  As a girl, I used to stand on his feet while he waltzed me around the room.  I learned the box step, the fox trot, and the two-step this way. When I got older, he used to put some old Glen Miller tunes on the phonograph and teach me to follow his lead through the jitterbug and something called the shag-a-lag.

But as I became a teenager, I thought his dances were funny and old-fashioned.  This was the rock-and-roll era. I was learning to do the Twist and the Boogaloo.  The idea of dancing without touching your partner was totally foreign to Dad. Dancing was a form of intimacy and communication with a partner. The kids on American Bandstand seemed lost in their own world, jumping up and down in random, and not communicating with each other at all. Even the slow dances were nothing more than a public embrace in his eyes. I scoffed at his old-fashioned views. "You just don't understand!" I wailed, but there was no mistaking the hurt when I no longer wanted to dance with him.  

As I grew older, I came to appreciate the practiced steps and fluid movement of the steps he had taught me. (I'm sure that is why I'm such a fan of "Dancing With The Stars.") Unfortunately, there were no more partners to share them with.  Dad passed away shortly before my 17th birthday. Men my age also grew up with rock-and-roll and no longer had the energy for those dances.  The music I had loved as a teenager was now too loud and many of the lyrics I had sung to on the radio, now sounded silly and strange.  Instead, I found myself singing along to the old standards Dad had taught me to dance to.

I don't think I can still remember all the moves, but whenever I listen to the swing music of the big band era I can close my eyes and dance with my dad just like we used to.  We move in harmony as people do who have danced together for a long time. I'm sure the judges would give us a perfect 10.

A Mother's Legacy

Mom passed away last week, but she didn't go quietly.  Always one to challenge tradition, she left behind a legacy as an independent and feisty woman that will be remembered fondly by her family and friends for many years. 

At the age of 50, she took up motorcycle riding...not just a recreational scooter, but a full on road bike that she rode cross country every summer until she was in her 70's. The bike was so big that if she dropped it, it took several people to help her get it upright. She especially loved being the "cool" teacher roaring up to her middle school classroom when the weather was good, while her students lined up at the window to watch her arrival.

Her students loved her. She was tough on them, but she loved them and they responded with respect and adoration. Her lessons went far beyond the subject matter she taught.  She taught them about the importance of living an independent and productive life. Many of her students continued to stay in contact with her long after they had grown and had children of their own.

Her snow white hair struck a strong contrast to the ever present red she preferred in her clothing and accessories.  Red was definitely her color.  Her house was filled with it. Even her motorcycle and helmet were red! It reflected her love of life and her need to be in the center of the action.

Even as she aged and required the help of a full-time caretaker, she clung tightly to her independence. When she had to sell her beloved motorcycle, she took up 4-wheeling in the Arkansas mountains. She required little in the way of comforts, preferring instead, to live a simple life away from the fast-paced life of the city. Nothing pleased her more than spending a weekend with my sister and her friends "off the grid" at a cabin in the Ozarks.

Toward the end, she became cantankerous and hard to get along with, and yet, we forgave her.  No matter how harsh she sometimes acted toward adults, she always had a kind word and plenty of patience for the children. She was, after all, grandma to the entire community.  Many people did not know her by any other name. 

When Grandma Dorothy left us, she left a vacant spot in all our hearts. But memories have a way of softening over time.  Because of her legacy, we will fill the empty spot with fond memories every time we think of her. But most of all, when we feel defeated and ready to give up, we will remember her love of life and how hard she fought to hang on to it.

Putting On A Face

With the release of The Stone House Legacy, I have begun to think more about the legacies left for me by those who passed through this life before me. The other day, I told my husband I would be ready to leave the house as soon as I "put on a face." He looked at me with an odd expression and I paused mid-step as a vision of my grandmother flashed through my memory.

NanNan, as she preferred to be called, never left the house without her make-up, hat and gloves. She was hopelessly stuck in a bygone era when ladies never left the house unless they were properly attired. I used to lie on her bed with my chin in my hands watching her morning ritual whenever I had the privilege of spending the night.  It took her hours to get ready to go out while she "put on her face" to greet the public.  Dressing for the day was handled with great care.Her dresser was covered in lace doilies and she had all manner of lotions and powders that were magical and mysterious to me. Her "delicates" were always hand-washed with special soaps and smelled of lavender. She was extremely proud of her small narrow feet and spoke with pride of having to special order her shoes in a size AAA narrow. 

Back on the farm, where we lived, make-up was a luxury we could never afford. I had an old mirror in the room I shared with my sister, but it was cracked and much of the silver had worn off. There was a single light bulb to illuminate the room and a myriad of extension cords running from the single outlet on the wall. We shared the room with all manner of spiders, and wasps lived in their muddy nests high in the window sills. Years ago someone had tried to paste wallpaper over the cement walls, but it had long-ago peeled and hung sadly from the walls and ceilings. When we tried to tear it down, showers of cement dust rained down upon us, so we left it be.

Sleep-overs at Grandma's house were a glimpse into another world. The house was small, but always fastidiously kept.  There were lace curtains on the window and a pink bedspread with quilted dolls on it that made me feel like a princess. Going shopping with Grandma was an adventure back into the times of the great department stores with several floors dedicated to each type of merchandise. I was enthralled by the elevator cages with  the operator dressed in a spiffy uniform who announced each floor. I imagined myself  to be a grand lady tagging along beside her and dutifully stuck out my pinkie finger when we lunched in the tea room on the upper floor.

I am indebted to my grandmother for this glimpse into a world I might never have known otherwise. She helped me to see that we are not limited by our environment. Who we become in life is our choice. We can blame the world for the misfortunes we suffer in life, or we can rise above them. Even today, I feel I must "put on my face" just to go to the grocery store or my Pilates class. It's my way for letting the world know I am ready to face whatever the day has in store for me. This was my grandmother's legacy to me.

My Mother's Songs

Not too long ago, my 90 year-old mother was introduced to her new great grandson.  Mom was in failing health and not expected to survive. When the child was placed in her arms, she immediately broke into a huge smile and began to sing. I looked at my son who was beaming with pride and we exchanged a smile.  These were the same songs she had sung to me as a child and the same ones I had sung to him. They were silly tunes and I think most of the words were made up as she went along, but the baby smiled and cooed and enjoyed them as much as we had.

As I reflect on the legacy that each of us leave behind on our journey through life, I am struck by the realization that it's often the simplest things we do that make the biggest impression.  My own children are now grown with children of their own and I am constantly surprised by their memories.  As a parent, I worked hard to create what I thought would be lasting memories, but these are not the things they remember.  More often it's things like sharing strawberry milkshakes and singing silly songs that they remember fondly.

If there's a lesson there someplace, it's that we are creating memories every day...not just when we plan an event or make a special attempt at it.  The most lasting memories are those we make unconsciously as we go about the business of living our lives. These are the things that imprint themselves over time and remind us of who we are and where we came from.

My mother survived her near-death experience and continues to sing to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  My birthday would not be complete without a call from her and a croaky version of "Happy Birthday."  We have all continued this tradition with our own children.  Her songs have become her legacy for all of us.