Take that......Spring

As of this morning, my long sleeved tops are folded neatly into a big plastic storage bin where they will live until Thanksgiving. My husband says I’m rushing things, temperatures being what they are.  But the birds have arrived, the sun makes an appearance more often than not, yard work is back on the agenda, and the first day of spring was heralded nearly three weeks ago.  Someone needs to rush things, to pressure the fickle season that bounces back and forth between summer and winter just to hear me groan—like that’s going to make a difference.  Nevertheless, I cave to summer clothes demanding release, and winter clothes begging for retirement.  And within easy reach, hangs an assortment of sweaters and jackets.
Take that……spring.

Until

Critiquing my first short story, my writer's group made comments like "skilled transitions" and "flowing sentences".  They were smiling so I assumed it was a good thing because frankly, I had no idea what they were talking about. I just wrote.
Until it made sense.
Until it sounded good.

Pouring over three years of Writer's Magazines, I was overwhelmed by critiques on show don't tell, passive verbs, action verbs, extrapolation, character development, cause and effect, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Writing to the rules is like diagramming a sentence before speaking. (You know what I mean if you have ever learned a foreign language. There’s a mental exercise before we ever open our mouths. Is the noun feminine or masculine? Does the object agree? Does it go first or last?  How do I conjugate the verb, present, past, future? Or is it subjunctive)?

But I finally get it.  I scour my writing for redundancies, fluff, and passive action.  I might even loose a goodnights sleep worrying over my characters or mentally rewriting a chapter. But mostly, I just write.
Until it makes sense.
Until it sounds good.

Happy Anniversary To Us

No, he isn’t my BEST FRIEND, but he is one of my friends. And I am his only friend.  (LOL, as they say in texting vernacular).  

Six children, 13 grandchildren, and 39 years later, we are still lovers.  I received red roses.  He gets his favorite apple pie.  Dinner is our favorite Thai restaurant and then home for a decadent dessert from Olive Garden—triple layer strata.  With ice cream.  

And then…..well, I’ll just say his kiss is still magical.

You Should Be a Writer

You should be a writer." My mother's voice echoed in my head over the years. I wrote entertaining letters, back in the day when long distance communication required such archaic means.  And, I was skilled at producing THE CHRISTMAS LETTER, abhorrent as the Christmas fruit cake which is re-gifted, making its way around the world until finally one year it ends up at your house again.
Nevertheless, creative letters does not a author make.

Authors are English Literature Majors.  They don’t read for pleasure and entertainment.  They study the classics concluding what their professor claims was the author’s point, or impetus, or skill.  I imagine the authors of yesteryear looking down from their Heavenly perch—or up from their scorching post, as the case may be—with arched brow thinking. “So that’s what I meant.”

I nearly flunked my first and last lit class.  I was a college dropout.  And I was mother of six young children spanning a mere eleven years—each one an insurmountable barrier to writing, to my way of thinking.  A successful playwright assured me that neither a lit major nor college education was a prerequisite to good writing.  My young children became adults and moved out.  No more excuses.  I took a couple of writing classes, subscribed to writer’s magazines, wrote three novels, entered contests, joined a writer’s group, and signed my first publishing contract January 2012.
Finally an author.

What looks easy on paper took sixteen years and a myriad of rejections.
And my dream has become a nightmare; another email account, Facebook, Twitter, Blog, Web page, endorsements, speaking engagements, book signings, Trailers, etc., etc., etc.
I’m hyperventilating.