Sweet Surprise

Fridays have been hard writing days for me lately, but today I’ve had a reprieve because first of all, this is my 250th post. It’s not a round number, not 100 or 200 or 300, but still, it’s a milestone--like a half birthday, or Christmas in July. I’m allowing myself to celebrate some and you are welcome to join me. Trust me, on February 4, 2009, I had no idea all this writing was ahead. I may be broke, but I’ve proved my tenacity. So what do you think? Chocolate cake? A glass of bubbly? Maybe I’ll just sneak a reindeer sugar cookie that my daughter baked from scratch from the stash in the freezer. (Trust me, they are awesome and cute enough to photograph, but I can’t, because they may be Christmas gifts to a few of my readers--Shhh, don’t tell.)

Ok, I’ve brushed off the crumbs. In addition to that accomplishment, yesterday, my 40th follower signed on. Thank you, Mary Anne. All these posts later, I am still questioning my writing skill, aware of how much more there is to learn, taking baby steps to get there. The slow boat works best for me, and yet I do long to be closer to shore. So when someone with a blog I’m unfamiliar with throws me a life jacket, it takes away the seasick feeling and things become, shall we say, less squishy inside? At a minimum that’s worth a cup of hot cocoa, the Ghirardelli kind, made with milk. Or, if you want, you can try this recipe (it comes out a little chunky at the bottom but it is out-of-this-world rich.)

Hot Cocoa

2 Tbsp sugar
½ tsp cornstarch
2 Tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
Dash of salt
1 cup milk
¼ tsp vanilla extract

Mix sugar, cocoa, cornstarch and salt in a large mug. In a separate container, heat milk on high (100% power) 1-1/2-2 minutes in the microwave. Pour hot milk slowly into dry mixture, stirring thoroughly.

Yum. Sorry for the digression, but I feel a sugar high coming on because there is one more thing to celebrate. Yesterday, I scraped the bottom of the creative writing barrel, so I forced myself to slog through the swamp and fog of a forced time write that felt like crawling through glue. After the fact, the old attitude took a nose dive, which I am pleased to announce, changed direction when I received a “lovely” surprise. Diana, over at Writing Roller Coasters, gave me an award! Diana, your timing is impeccable. On to the bag of mini-chocolate chips--hey, we're celebrating, remember?



The rules upon acceptance of Diane's award are to link the person who awarded you, then find up to fifteen new blogs and link them in your own blog. I don’t have fifteen new writers that I’ve been reading and learning from, but I have a few. And, yes, I happen to be a rule follower, but that said, I hereby absolve everyone below from following the rules…unless of course, you want to.

Bridget at J.B. Chicoine-Aspiring Novelist. She may be self taught, but she’s also teaching me.

Rae, at Us in Tejas. Not only did Rae grow up reading ALL of my favorites, Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Nancy Drew, The Little Princess, but she also read Trixie Belden!!! I thought I was the only one in the world who loved Trixie and Honey and Mark and Brian and Diane. Oh and don't forget redheaded Jim! Rae, you are my soul sister! Do you think Trixie and Jim ever ended up together?

Kristi at R.A.W. Random Acts of Writing is new for me. She’s made me laugh this week. Kudos to Kristi.

The WM Freelance Connection earned my “follow” because I’m in the process of developing my own freelance business. However, much of the information there will help all writers. Give it a try. (Shameless plug here: please click on my website link above and forward it to your business acquaintances.)

Tricia over at Tailspinning, is a wonderful read, although she’s already well known to many of you. I am secretly envious of her WIP which takes place in the sea. Tricia believes in signs from the universe; right now hers are seashells and that’s enough for me.

Thank you again Diane for helping me finish the week on a high note—what a fun party.

Um, has anyone seen the Rolaids?

Timed Writing

Fingers lurch across the page. Green mechanical pencil stutters, stops, surges again, scribbles, x-es out, crosses off. Forbidden. The rules of timed writing exclude editing. Write, free flowing, whatever comes, get it down, pen your mind to the page, no pause--though, what if I am staring at an image and the words won’t come? Like, the Christmas tree in the bistro corner--how to describe the gold ribbon flowing through the artificial branches?

A word lurks somewhere in the darkness, behind a wall, a locked door, trapped in a spider web way down deep. A moment ago, it took seconds for “artificial” to arrive in my brain, to travel to my fingers--my mind an empty hole, even the word “fake” slumped down in the basement, rusting chains pulling at its legs until it muscled its way to the top of the stairs. Back to the ribbon--does it weave, river, lace, snake through the branches? Which one is right? Doesn’t matter. Don’t edit. No checking the thesaurus. Move on. Fix it later.

See the man beside the tree, in front of the window? The sun glares on his full face. Squinting, he shifts his chair; my shoulders thrust forward as it scrapes across a squeaking chalkboard. Grey hair, unkempt beard--oh gosh how long it took me to plug in the word "unkempt." Should it be unruly? Curling? Something better? Move on.

Gold wedding ring on his left hand, purple fine gauge sweater layered over a bulging waistline, frayed blue jeans brushing the white cotton socks tucked into scuffed leather Topsiders. He gestures to the man across from him whose face is puffed and pink--too much Thanksgiving food, or whiskey last night, given the bloodshot eyes. Whiskey drinker slouches in the chair--extended legs reach across the aisle like the low side of a see-saw outfitted in bone colored kakis. In an accent, faintly English, he discusses joint-venture capitalists while the fine white hair flops on his forehead like, like, what? I don't know--move on.

A stringy haired woman sits with her back to me, face encased in black-armed sunglasses she wears inside. Why? Prescription? Forgot her glasses? Eye surgery? Her red wool coat crumples to the floor. She reaches down to tuck it on the back of the wrought iron chair, still holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand—nope—paper—no--cardboard. Move on.

Turning, she catches me staring. Her pale face is wrinkled white leather; she leans on her palm, blue veins pulse from her bony hand. I look away; cast my eyes down, just a coincidence she’ll think, I’m not writing about her. She leans her face back into the hand and I see swollen knuckles, evidence of age that doesn’t appear on the thin frame I view from behind.

Glance at the watch. Ten minutes is up. Hand cramps. Brain hurts more. Words stumble and lurch and stagger across the blue lined page. Pat my pocket for the keys. Shrug into a jacket. Close the notebook. Gather the folders. Toss my cup.

Take a breath.

Move on.

Painting Dreams

This morning I woke from a dream, that in typical fashion, depicted a combination of things I know, in places I don’t. Standing behind our house, which looked normal except for the addition of a porch, I wondered about the next door neighbor’s home. In this fantasy, it was for sale. His dwelling too, looked the way it is in real life, white with green gingerbread shingles, perched on ledge, surrounded by wilting hemlocks. As I slept though, both of our properties changed considerably, however, in the distance a garden from real life appeared. The combination of actual and imaginary conjured up a stunning image, so I thought I’d try to describe it. You’ll find the authentic garden in a photo at the bottom.

A white columned porch gazes across the green styled lawn to bulging rhododendrons weighted in purple, open-mouth blossoms--pillowing like wads of colored cotton. At the edge, the land humps down a reckless slope, rocks and roots and furrows tripping to a lake, resting long and black and still below.

At the far shore, a terraced garden climbs giant steps, cypress and ewes shaped with master sheers--formal shrubs carved like shaved poodle legs, bottle brush greenery bristling under a painted pagoda. Overhead, uncombed pines circle tight as they lean on jutted hips, fold their arms and stand guard.




 

Taking Stock

Twenty years ago next month, my husband and I were on a coast-to-coast flight when an almost catastrophic equipment failure occurred that landed us in Iowa. We were flying cross-country on the first leg of a frequent flier sponsored trip to Australia, to visit my sister who lives there, when one of the engines failed. As the plane dropped altitude and greasy smoke poured into the cabin, the laconic voice of the captain announced: What you think just happened, did. We just lost one of our engines.” Tears spurted out of my eyes; I gripped my husband’s hands and prayed. After what seemed like an interminable time we bumped down safely onto the runway of the Des Moines airport where we all hollered and cheered, in spite of the fire engines racing toward us. Needless to say, we were a day late getting to our final destination, but the point is, we arrived.

When that memory percolated up though the time and distance of the last two decades, it inspired a kind of “It’s a Wonderful Life” to flicker through my brain. That is to say, I pondered what the impact might have been, (pun intended—you’re allowed to groan) had we not landed safely.

Granted, our daughter’s life, on which we’ve had obvious and far reaching influence is duly, and joyfully, noted--but that aside, I wonder what might now be different, had we not been gifted those twenty years that now roll off our hips and over our expanding waistlines.

To be sure, there were circumstances that occurred before we left on that trip when I know our actions had consequence. With no ulterior motive, Tim and I introduced our roommates, who ended up marrying each other. At their wedding, two of their friends met and later also tied the knot. Both couples have raised a several children. Perhaps one of them will become a rocket scientist, or discover the cure for cancer. Or maybe they’ll just grow up to be happy, contributing adults.

My quiet, helpful husband has his own stories I know. As for me, back in my lifeguard days, an Asian exchange student who couldn’t read English walked off the deep end without knowing how to swim. After I yanked him to safety, I’m not sure which of us shook more. He disappeared from the beach that day and that was that. Where is he today?

In my first post-college job, I answered phones for an employment agency. One day, an applicant met with one of the career consultants, and departed with a job interview scheduled in the next hour. Walking out the door, she realized she had no money, so I loaned her a few bucks for the subway so she'd be on time for her meeting. Later that afternoon, she returned with my cash and a flower, after which I never saw her again. Did she get the job? If she did, what did it mean to her? These are the kinds of things I wonder about from before that fateful flight. But after that plane ride, I can’t point to anything specific. Though as a rule, I try to practice random acts of kindness, nothing comes to mind. If only I had a wingless angel like Clarence, to show me what I’ve done that matters.

Perhaps it’s the time of year, but I find myself contemplating whether I’ve ever altered the course of a life—unknowingly performed an action that would have been missed if way back when, that second engine had given out too. In some, “play it forward” kind of way, we all touch others, I know. But while I’m confident my family and friends would miss me, I’m pretty sure that unlike George Bailey, my absence would not spell the demise of Bedford Falls.

I’m waxing philosophical here, but it's a good thing. Because if anything, this long buried memory has tapped me on the shoulder like Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, to Ebenezer Scrooge, reminding me to be mindful to make the next twenty years (knock wood), count.

How have you impacted others? What do you hope to accomplish in the next 20 years?

Can't Get out of My Own Way Today...

So you get this instead of a half written blog post that I hope will reach completion tomorrow. And, I own up. This picture isn't from today--it's from last December.

 

Friday Afternoon Errands

It may have been above the Walmart parking lot, but there aren't too many things as dramatic as a late fall sky, a few minutes prior to sunset.

 

The Full Circle Cliché

I am rubbing my hands together, in an, “Ok, let’s get down to business" manner.

The resume I produced earlier this week for a finance executive was accepted with pleasure. This morning, I received a call requesting a last minute review of an almost-complete marketing brochure. Over a two hour period I bashed out minor revisions (there may not be time for large scale changes) and a major overhaul if they have the flexibility. A check of email a minute ago delivered positive feedback to both, and the potential for further business. Perhaps purists will call me a hack for this kind of writing, but tough. I need to get paid for something. How lucky that I may be successful at work that gives me such joy?

In truth, I thought I’d be bored with resume writing, but shrugged my shoulders. No one gets to do what they want all the time, right? However, after a phone interview with the finance man, which with 20 plus years of experience, I can do in my sleep, writing the resume provided an entertaining challenge. I drew on my past experiences hiring numbers-types and pulled a professional piece together over a matter of hours.

My reward for that job well done was the surprise marketing assignment this morning. How fun to climb into the head of the advertiser, into the heart of the consumer, to build a compelling piece that will sell to both. While I’m writing, I’m quizzing myself: How do I differentiate? What are the benefits of hiring [my client] verses another vendor? What’s the best way to build that into language that pops, and results in action by the customer? It involves a thinking, creating, thesaurus-ing, total immersion, the same way every other type of writing captivates me. Whether it’s a resume, a brochure, a blog post, an essay, or a shaky attempt at a short story, time leaks away. When I look up, an hour has passed and I’ve missed the whole thing.

About 12 years ago, there was an opening at my old company for a copywriter. I was the HR associate responsible for interviewing viable candidates. The copy chief was a favorite of mine; it was a bonus that I loved his area of expertise too. For this particular recruit, he required final candidates to offer a writing sample, which involved developing an ad campaign for Valentine’s Day.

Without telling anyone, I took the test home and crafted a jingle--which I brought back to work and laid in my front desk drawer. My work was good, but corporate politics were stronger. I yearned to send my test to the copy chief, to be considered for the job, but that meant telling my current management about my wish, and our senior executive was unforgiving about perceived breaches in loyalty. Had I expressed interest and not been hired, I would have put a drop-dead halt to my career.

Mentally chastising myself for cowardice, I went on with life. The Valentine ad sat in my desk for years, long after the copy chief passed away from cancer, through three promotions and three office moves, until the summer of 2008, when, during what ended up being my final office relocation, I purged it.

I can’t, nor would I want to, change the past. The confidence I have to take this writing leap now is a direct result of all my experience in former roles. Sitting here today though, I am at a hub of a wheel and everything I need and want is traveling down the spokes to meet me. Finally I’m working with words.

If only my old friend the copy chief was here to read them.