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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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Poor Bill had to work all day today too, and poor me had to stay at home alone.  Hey, I wrote two stories today! From scratch. The first is an idea I got from a Than-Bauk of Alfred's about hidden treasure in the form of gold coins in his back yard. Then my Small Talk improv voices got going with a complaint from the mending basket. I really did intend to mend today, but I could hardly get them to shut up. Now that I've accomplished something other than playing here, that is to say i just ironed eight shirts, I better zip this up for now and go get supper started. He will be a starving man when he comes in, and will think that I've wasted my day on soap operas and bon-bons. Figuratively speaking. (Hmmm...how about this for a parody of a song? "You are my bon-bon, my only bon-bon. you make me happy when skies are gray....") Say goodnight, freshly ironed shirts. "Oh, button your lip." |
Poor Wren and Bernard, Margot and Fred, and Celia. I've left them there poised in mid-air since the end of summer. The fall chill was soon awaited, and they were having their last garden party or some such thing when I went off and forgot them. So there they are, standing around like the wax figures in Warwick Castle. For the cast of characters, see the marquee above. For the previous episode, see:
And, here they are now... He reached the door in three long strides, then stopped abruptly, peering out. He turned slightly toward Margot, then turned back, his finger pressing against his chin. His brow was furrowed slightly, then his eyes closed. “I think perhaps you’re right.” His voice was very quiet. The three of them stood there, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and Wren worried the skirt of her apron with her hands, pleating its hems nervously. “What’s this?” called Bernard. “The Three Stooges? The monkeys who could see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil?” Fred’s eyes blinked open. Margot’s hands, which had wandered up like blinders clutching her temples, flew to her sides like a guilty child’s. Everyone in the garden looked around, and nearly everyone smiled. Celia did not. She stared down at her lap. “Come out, come out, whoever you are,” Bernard called. He’d had a touch too much whiskey and was on the edge between overly cheerful and headed toward grouchy. Whatever else happens, thought Wren, I must get the dinner on the table soon! “Celia and Charles, I’d like you to meet Margot, our neighbor across the street. Oh that’s right, you already know her, Celia! And this is her friend Frederick.” The two men shook hands on cue, and then Fred turned to Celia. “I believe we’ve met before too, haven’t we?” At last she met his gaze. “Hello, Fred,” she said. “It’s…well, it’s….” She didn’t complete her sentence, just let it trail off. “Yes,” Fred said. “It is, isn’t it?” He nodded to her, then moved back to Margot’s side. "Did I remember to tell you how lovely you look tonight?" he whispered. For just an instant she remained frozen on the spot, then gave him a big smile. "Why, thank you sir!" she said. |
I should definitely be writing tonight. Bill is working late, and I have every opportunity. So what do I do? I read other people's stuff. Kyle M   is an 11th grader who resented filling out a bio block because of judgments people might make about him. I suppose that's very reasonable. I might not have looked him up if he had not read a flash piece of mine and left me with some very impressive observations. His poem "Merge" impressed me in return.So, why am I not working on a story? I can't figure out which one to work on next; that's one answer. I'm not very happy with what I've done to the wonderful beginning of "Lingering," but I don't want to be in the editing mode yet. Why not? I'm not in the writing mode either, so that makes no sense.  Years ago I thought I was best at writing middles. I wonder why I'm best at beginnings now, and if one way to use that skill might be to end with my starts. Interesting thought that might work occasionally. I surely do like emoticons. Especially since adverbs are frowned on. How else can writers put body language into their stories? Yesterday I started writing a "gray-scale" story, and had two good characters before I realized I'd already written double the alotted word count and hadn't even found my way to a plot. Once I thought, before trying to write anything fictional I should add, that an easy way to arrive at a plot would be to write plot elements on index cards and deal out a hand. I've heard of people who use Tarot cards that way. Any experience with that, any of you? The thing I'm finding disappointing so far about NoWriMo is that ideas are definitely not flowing. I'm plodding through mud wearing hip boots, hoping there's something at the other side of the plowed field that is worth the trip. At some time or another I've actually tried the free writing thing with results, but it isn't happening this month. Why, oh why, oh why oh...why did I ever leave Ohio? Or, in the words of Steve Martin, "Ramblin', ramblin', ramblin'...." P.S. Have you ever noticed that newbies with 1's after their names are prone to reviewing your piece with triple hot glowing praise, and then give you a 4? They must be saving up. |
It was a splendid day for a drive. Bill had the camera with him, so my eyes had to be my camera. One particular, unknown kind of tree that grows along the old river bed is more yellow this week than last. It is the limbs, the bark itself, that are bright yellow; no sign of leaves yet. There were a few a small clouds hanging low and close, like scenery or props in a play. The hills are quite high and steep, and the winter wheat is several inches long now, a vibrant green. They are banded horizontally by dozens of cow paths, each about six or eight feet above the other. (My mother used to joke that the cows in places like that had two legs shorter than the other two so that they wouldn't lean. I don't remember ever believing her, but I remember thinking about it at length.  A large hawk with a golden breast, maybe a golden eagle?-- sat in one of the many nests along the stream. There was a convenient place to pull off the road, and I watched as the hawk took off and soared. It flew above the edge of the hills, getting ridge lift, then circled high. I was listening to Chopin's E Minor Prelude from Opus 48-- what wonderful music for soaring! The stream was full to the top of the bank from snowmelt, and a rafter could have had a thrilling ride. The deeper I went into the canyon, the fewer plowed fields and more grazing land I found. On one steep hillside, the clumps of bunchgrass were scanty but regular, standing straight and lit brightly by the sun. It made them look like old tombstones, that frozen ground has heaved up and made them stand a little crooked, tilting slightly and irregularly. The highway I traveled home, to go through another town and see another patient, was the Lewis and Clark trail. Next week I'll be sure to take a camera and binoculars and a bird book. And maybe a gazeteer.  |
| Yellow must be the official color for spring. Daffodils and forsythia are in bloom all around town, and I've seen the first-of-the-year gold finch that has changed into his bright yellow suit. Spring is also the time for regrets. I regret I didn't plant more bulbs last fall, or do a better job of thinning the very tall red tulips I bought in Amsterdam. They're quite clumped on one end of my long window box, and scanty at the other end. Never mind, I'll still enjoy them. When I was married the first time, my husband didn't like me to cut flowers and bring them inside. He thought they looked best outside, I guess. At the last house we owned together, the previous owner must have bought one of those 100 bulb specials, because I had daffodils of all colors (relatively.) There were plenty to leave outside and plenty to bring in, and I felt very rich. I counted my wealth in daffodils. At this house, there was a bunch of bulbs that sprouted, to my surprise, in the middle of the garden plot. The previous owner told me she had "heeled them in" there. Well, too bad. I didn't know exactly what that meant or what to do with them. They have not come back. But there is a big bunch in an out-of-the way place where I could pick without their absence being noticed. Of course I don't need to do that now. Bill doesn't mind. In fact, he'll probably buy some from Safeway, not noticing that I have some already.  |
| Ever have a phrase or idea come up a couple of times in short order? Isn't it just begging for your attention somehow? It is mine. At work we've been talking about boundaries, which ones we need to watch in our relationship with clients, families and each other; how to mind our own boundaries to prevent burnout. In dealing with patients, or anybody, the ones I have the most trouble communicating with are people who think everything in the world is black and white. It is to them. One of our new CNA's described a patient as "messing with those stupid word puzzles all the time." And today she said she couldn't be expected to play Skip-Bo with a patient. She simply doesn't play games. My-o-my-o-my how different we all are! I read a poem this afternoon about boundaries. The Google ads on the page were for Roller Shades!
Here's one I liked even better that began with grey.
After winning the weekly Flash Fiction contest, with
I checked out the prompt for next week. You might consider entering! PROMPT: Write me a story, please, that takes place in a black and white (grayscale --white, light grays, dark grays, and black) world! (Of course, the reader must be able to tell that it is a grayscale world.
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| A newsletter ran an old story of mine recently, and I was embarrassed to see how poorly it was written. In fact, a number of things I wrote last year are painful to read. Not all, but some, and some of the ones I really liked at the time. On the other hand, I read other people's pieces and have such mixed feelings. Ratings completely aside, some are excellent and some...well...aren't. When I read my own, current things, I hope they're better. I hope that in the past ten months my writing has really improved. As I write, sometimes I think WOW! this is really good! Other times I'm thinking it stinks. I started looking for contests for fiction that don't involve prompts, so I can get some feedback on the ones I think are good. There used to be a couple of them at least, but I can only find one now. When I read some of the entries, I didn't even want to enter. They were so good! I don't know what I'll start on next, in my NoWriMo endeavor. Probably won't till I have time to work on it tomorrow. In the meantime, spring has come. The daffodils are all in bloom, and all my winter clothes are toooooo hot. Especially on Sunday morning with a clerical collar on. Those things are plastic--did you know that? Sweaty. And of course we get an extra set of clothes on top of our clothes, and stand in the higher (therefore warmer) places in the church. I'm glad I'm not a priest: they wear even more layers of duds! We've watched two movies this weekend, just finished Adam Sandler's Click. I guess I was in the mood for comedies, and I laughed and cried during it and last night's Fun with Dick and Jane as well. Not everybody's fare, I'm sure, but we enjoyed them. |
| We were going to fly to see my son and his family today, and the weather was beautiful. But Bill has had a bad back all week, and lugging that plane in and out of the hangar didn't sound very good for it. We did go out for corned beef and cabbage. Got some extra words written yesterday, and only did a 300 word flash piece today, but I'm ahead. We're watching "Fun with Dick and Jane" at the moment. |
This story is much shorter than my others, and is funny. Enjoy!
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| I posted the rest of the story, which still hasn't been edited. If you run across odd numbers, they're tallies I was making to post my words for NoWriMo. I kind of lost count. Now I've been trying to clean up the details, like changing the spelling of the narrator's name in the middle of the story, and the age of the guy who died in ICU. I'm waiting for Bill to come home for his technical expertise, at least his point of view. His son is a deputy sheriff, and he'll know what sounds wrong. At the moment he had to work late because of a big fire, and his back is hurting as he drives home. He just called to tell me he was on his way, and that his "Check Engine" light had just lit up. Great! He has to be in Yakima early tomorrow, and I have six patients to see. Hey, have you heard that Barack Obama was adopted by the Irish? They spell his name, O'Bama! |
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