There’s No “I” in “Team,” But a Team Does Have a Lot of Eyes

I’m wondering how many of you out there are writers. And of you, how many have some form of filter before you submit your work to an agent or traditional publisher, or before you self-publish. When I first started writing, I read the advice in books that said “join a critique group” or “get beta readers” or “hire an editor” but I resisted. I thought that was just a way for beginners to get their feet wet. I was trained in college. I had written professionally. I taught at the college level. Surely they weren’t talking to me.

Wrong.

I don’t care how much experience you have going into the first story or novel you’re writing. Or your fourth. Or your tenth. It’s not enough. You don’t know enough. There’s always more you could know, more out there you could learn. And even once you have the rules and techniques figured out, you’re still at a disadvantage when you read your own work—you’re too close to it. You know what happens and what the back stories are. There are no surprises and no cliffhangers. That makes for sloppy reading, which makes for sloppy editing. You’ll miss the plot holes, because you’ll fill them in from the unwritten back story. Repetitive words? You won’t notice them; you’ll skim right over them. Awkward sentence structure will escape your notice because you were the one who wrote the sentence to begin with.

You’d catch the mistakes if someone else made them. You just can’t see them on your own pages.

It’s no fault of your own; it’s just the nature of writing. Maybe some of it is ego. Just like no one thinks her child is ugly, no one wants to think her writing is awful. But most of the writers I know are too hard on themselves. The mistakes they make are ones they just can’t see.

Enter the critiquers.

Critique groups are hailed far and wide, in conferences and in how-to writing books, as a writer’s best friend. And I have to agree. There are both in-person and online versions of critique groups, as well as beta readers or editors who can be of assistance. There are merits to each.

In-person groups are great because they allow you to network with local writers and get immediate feedback. I happen to belong to two such groups. One of them has us bring no more than five double-spaced pages with us (plus copies for the group to mark up) and we read our work aloud. This group believes that the audible reading of the work allows the author to hear things that she otherwise wouldn’t hear. After she’s done reading, there is time for discussion before the marked up pages are returned to her. The other group I’m in has us submit work in advance, which allows for a much longer body of work. There is no recitation of the work when we meet, but there is still discussion, and written comments are still exchanged.

Online groups are another option because they allow you to find groups focusing on your specific genre or niche. This can be especially beneficial, for example, if you write romance and are looking for assistance with intimate scenes, or if you write murder mysteries and are looking for help with the forensics and procedures. Any genre will have conventions that vary slightly from the general fiction rules, and working with a group familiar with those specific norms can be helpful.

Another option is to find beta readers and critique partners. I have five people who I trust to read my WIPs at any time and give me constructive feedback. I’m lucky enough to have two family members who have a background in writing and are voracious readers, so I get fast turnaround from them. Two others I met at local writing activities, and we’ve since been working together to our mutual benefit. And one is a local woman who found me not long ago through my blog. These critique partners are invaluable because I can send them large chunks of text and get almost immediate information from them.

I can’t tell you that you have to have people review your work before you ship it, but it’s a definite plus. If there are local critique groups near you, check them out and see if they’re for you. If not, try an online group on for size, or find just one writing partner to try out as a beta reader. If none of these options appeal to you, consider hiring an editor. Consider hiring one anyway. Polishing your work before you send it out is always a good idea. And no matter what option you choose, remember: a second opinion can’t be a bad thing, right?

I took a vote. The “eyes” have it.

Why Small Gestures Mean So Much

Those of you who read my blog regularly might remember my Thanksgiving entry: “Why I’m Thankful for the White Tornado.” It was a post about my grandmother. Well, yesterday was her 95^th birthday, and instead of posting something about it here, I chose to post on Facebook. Not on my author page, but on my profile page where family and friends who also know her would see it. It got a lot of comments. Of course it did; it’s my gramma, and she’s awesome! But back to the point of the story. Because I live seventeen hours away, I jokingly said that, since I couldn’t be there, I’d like it if someone could give her a hug in my place.

I never expected anyone to actually do it.

Someone actually did.

Hope Shick and I have known each other for more years than I’m going to write here. We grew up in the same town, went to the same school, know the same people. She knows what my family means to me. Maybe she just gets the importance of family because she has a large one herself—she’s the mother to seven children. Also, like most people in my hometown, she knows my grandmother personally, so she knows what a special person she is. Stopping by to give her a hug probably wasn’t that big a hardship.

Except she had to rearrange her whole day to do it.

And she stayed to visit with her for about an hour.

See, that’s the thing about small towns that I miss the most. You can count on people to come through for you. It kills me that I wasn’t there to celebrate my grandmother’s 95^th birthday with her. I didn’t get to bake her a cake or see her face when she opened my gift. I didn’t get to kiss her cheek or sit and laugh with her. We didn’t share a cup of coffee, and even our phone call was short because she had company and couldn’t talk. But because of an old friend, I got to share a hug with her—by proxy. And after talking with her this morning, I know that simple gesture made her day yesterday. It was a simple gesture that touched my heart more than words can ever express.

When I sit down at the keyboard and work on building my story worlds, these are the traits I draw on. The love, the camaraderie, the selfless gestures I find in the people in the small Western Pennsylvania town I grew up in. I hope you see these things in my work, and I hope you can draw on your histories to find inspiration for your art. What things motivate you?

How Everyday Life Becomes Fodder for Writing

Today’s blog post almost didn’t happen. I just ran out of time. I always reserve my weekends for spending time with my family. But Sundays always play out pretty much the same way: get up, go to Mass, (if it’s football season, watch the Steelers), prepare my blog, make sure laundry is done, make sure homework is done, and just generally hang out with each other until we’re tired and go to bed (or in my case, until I go to bed, because it seems I’m always tired).

Yesterday’s schedule was completely busted from the very beginning. I should have known the night before that it was going to be an issue and just written the blog then.

My daughter has a career-prep class this term, so she has to job-shadow someone who works in a profession that interests her. She chose her tennis coach, because she thinks (this week) she might want to do that for a living. She had to spend the whole day on the court with him, so we had to go to an earlier Mass than we usually do. Fine. I rushed the whole household through their morning routines, and we made it out the door (late) and didn’t quite manage to feed the dogs. No problem, I thought. We were earlier than usual, so they could eat when we got home and they’d just be a little behind schedule.

We attended a different church than we usually do (because we needed a different Mass time) and got a long-winded priest. That also put us behind schedule. I didn’t mind that much, because his homily was actually quite good, but he ended Mass with a plea for us to return for an additional Mass that day to witness the Confirmation class receive their Sacrament. I love the Confirmation Mass, but, really? We snuck out during the recessional hymn. We had to get our daughter fed and to the court.

We figured a dash into Steak ‘n Shake would get us a quick breakfast and then we’d be on the road. Our Steak ‘n Shake is never crowded and always fast. We entered a time warp. The food just never came. My husband finally left and took my daughter—foodless—to the tennis court, while my son and I stayed at the restaurant and waited.

While my son and I were waiting, a girl he knew from school came in. They exchanged a few words and she and her family were seated by us. In fact, she and my son were back to back. They could have kept talking, but except to say how miserable they were, what would have been the point? She was probably eavesdropping on our conversation anyway. It had devolved into a ridiculous one about the merits of haircuts with the Flowbee®. We were laughing pretty hard when we started doing our own version of the infomercial. (We do things like that far too often when we’re bored.)

Our food finally came and my husband finally came back. All told, we were there for about ninety minutes. At a Steak n’ Shake! And we didn’t even get shakes. There’s something not right with that.

When we got home, we finally fed the poor dogs and I started laundry. We’re perpetually low on towels, especially now that we’ve opened the pool. Once I had that going, we went outside and began working on repairing our hot tub. I don’t know if the man in your house is successful at home repairs, but mine usually is. Of course, there could be parts left over afterward. And it usually takes twice as long as it should. But the end result is usually success, so I can’t complain. We spent most of the afternoon out there. It probably could have gone faster, but we had to keep dragging the dogs out of the pool and there was a chunk of time where we had to chase a frog so the dogs didn’t eat it. However, the end result is that the hot tub now works. Of course, I forgot to finish the laundry and the towels are wrinkled in the dryer. Which beats them being mildewed in the washer, I guess.

Around this time, I came in to get dinner ready and my husband went to get my daughter. After we all were gathered around the table and shared stories about tennis and the hot tub, there was the usual battle of kitchen chores and then the evening rush to gather items for Monday’s classes. My daughter will be starting high school tennis practices, so that required extra preparation on her part for some reason. I don’t miss being a teenager.

I went to bed exhausted. So did my husband.

I had completely forgotten about preparing my blog.

I opened my eyes this morning, not slowly with bleary dread but immediately with disbelief and panic. How could I have missed my blogging day?

So after my usual rush to get the kids to school and my husband off to work, I sat down to write this apology to you, and to turn it into something useful. The topic I had planned on writing could wait. This is more important.

Yesterday was one of those days that got away from me. We all have them. More than we’d like, I’m sure. So let’s mine them for the gold that they are and turn them into writing treasure.

There was a comedy of errors that made us late for Mass. There’s a story in what happened in my house before we even walked out the door.
A Mass (or any religious service) is a good topic for a story, if you can put a twist on it that hasn’t been done before.
Restaurants make excellent backdrops for stories (especially if you’re trapped in one because your ride left and you don’t have your wallet with you).
Home improvement stories can be humorous (they made a sitcom out of them, duh) or angst-ridden or convey any emotion you want.
Animals and swimming pools? Need I say more?
Family dinners? Need I say more?

So, there you go. I didn’t get my blog done yesterday, but I ended up with six writing prompts, probably more if I really massaged things a bit. For example, the girl my son bumped into at the restaurant could become a teen love story.

We’re surrounded everyday with writing prompts. We just need to take the time to look at them. What did you do yesterday that might make a good story? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

First Friday Fiction Feature — Real Estate Realities

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another fiction installment.

A link to this story, and all prior stories, can always be found under the “My Work—Freebies” tab.

Real Estate Realities

“It says ‘A cozy one bedroom vintage bungalow. Mature landscaping. Rustic charm.’ This has to be it. Carol should be here soon, and we’ll check out the inside.”

He had stopped the car in front of a ramshackle old diner. White paint peeled off the clapboard siding. Faded black stripes with white letters advertised:

CALIFORNIA LUNCH ROOM

SNACKS

CANDY

TOBACCO

GLOVES

CAPS

It was a generic laundry list of days gone by, when pathetic patrons could stop in for a number of items ranging from greasy food to cancer sticks to outerwear. She couldn’t dream who would frequent such a place, but she had no trouble imagining why it closed. The overgrown pine in the corner only helped hide its embarrassment to the world. The dead potted plant at the doorway cemented her resolve.

“I’m not going in there, Justin.”

“How else are we going to know if we like it?”

“I already know. I hate it.”

“Come on, Sara. Look at the hidden potential. The front is almost entirely all windows. Think of the natural light.”

“So we can see the filth?”

He ignored her. “And it was a restaurant, so it should have a large kitchen.”

“And an inch thick layer of grease.”

“Here’s Carol. Let’s go check it out.”

Their real estate agent offered Justin a handful of papers. “I have the comps. Now that you aren’t looking at the coastal area of San Diego, I think you’ll find the properties more affordable.” She led them inside.

“This area was the patron space of the café. It can easily be converted to your main living space by removing the booths and tables. I’d replace the windows and doors, of course, and wall this area off to make the master bedroom.” She gestured to a recessed area of the interior.

“You mean there isn’t a separate bedroom?” Sara asked.

“None of the reno is done yet. That’s why this place is a steal.” Turning toward the bar, Carol continued. “This would have to go, but you could put your own eating bar in, and open this area up to your kitchen. It, like the bathroom, is fully functional, but would need to be redone.”

“Let’s check them out,” Justin said.

They walked through the kitchen and bathroom and walked back out again, trying not to touch anything.

“What about a bathtub?” Sara asked.

“When you redo the bathroom, the plumber can install one for you.”

“This is so not what I want,” Sara said.

Justin pulled her aside. “This is really all we can afford. We can renovate, install hardwood, granite countertops, stainless steel appliances. We’ll make it work.”

Carol approached. “I can show you something in the barrio, perhaps?”

Justin looked at Sara and raised his eyebrows.

Sara said, “I guess we’ll take this one.” She looked out the door through rusted security bars at the dead potted plant and wondered how long it would be before she too withered and faded.

Where Are You on the Scale?

Today’s post is a little long, but well worth it. I was challenged by Joe Bunting at StoryCartel.com to talk to three writers at various stages of their careers about writing. It got me thinking about what three questions I could ask each of them. I couldn’t ask the first time published writer about how it feels to have several books published; I couldn’t ask the beginner how that first contract feels. It would be pointless to ask the established author about her career expectations when she knows what to expect at this point. No, I needed three questions that apply to all writers regardless their stage in their journey. I decided to ask them:

What they found easiest about writing.
What they found most difficult about writing.
What one career-oriented wish they would want to have granted.

I talked to three wonderful writers, and found some interesting things in their answers.

Joy Keeney, Novice

My novice writer is Joy Keeney. Joy Keeney enjoys the sound of words swirling from her pencil to the blank pages below. She has a passion for creating stories and that can touch the heart or send chills down the spine of readers. Joy has also contributed several feature articles for a local online magazine. She enjoys spending her free time relaxing with a good book and spending time with family and friends.

Q1: What do you find easiest about writing?

Joy: Easy? There’s something easy about being a writer? As a beginner everything seems just the opposite, for me anyway. Okay, that’s actually not entirely true. Once I decided I wanted to be a writer and not just someone that jots down thoughts in a notebook and tucks it under the mattress. I mean a ‘write, edit, repeat…and edit again…then hope to one day sell a million copies’ kind of writer. I find that coming up with story ideas is a piece of cake. In fact, I have several ideas battling it out inside my head right now, fighting to reach the light of day and end up on the blank pages below.

The ideas talk to me all the time! At times they remind me of those greasy carnies you see at the local fair, you know the ones. They come out of nowhere and try to lure you over to try to win an amazing prize. “Step right up and write about ME.” Or “Pssst…hey, tell my story.” Or “This right here is a special one of a kind, genuine, guaranteed to be a bestseller story. You don’t want to miss out.” I never know what will trigger an idea to join the madness inside my head. An idea will just pop in and start fighting for my attention. I’ve gotten ideas from things that I’ve experienced, schemed up with a friend, pictures I come across and writing challenges. Wherever they come from I hope they never stop.

Q2: What do you find hardest about writing?

Joy: From my experience, it’s ALL hard. Am I exaggerating? Yes I am. Why? Because, I’m a writer and that’s what writers do. The truth is, writing isn’t as easy as I imagined it would be. I thought I’d write my story. Everyone would read it. Everyone would love it. I’d be famous in no time, or something similar. No one told me I had to edit, rewrite it, followed by more editing. Hey, I’m the writer. I’m just supposed to write it. Right? WRONG.

I have to take my story idea, write it, edit it, rewrite it… then comes the hardest part for me (insert dramatic music here), let someone else read it. Yes, the hardest thing about being a writer for me is letting someone read it. What if they hate it? Or worse…what if the like it and want more? I have learned this is an important step in being a writer. And no, sharing my writing with family and close friends doesn’t count…they would love my grocery list if I asked them what they thought.

Over the past year with the help of some great friends it has gotten easier for me to let others read my writing, but it’s still top of the list for being the hardest thing about being a writer. I keep reminding myself it’s still my story and if I don’t share it, it will never sell a million copies…let alone one.

Q3: If you could have one career-related wish come true, what would it be?

Joy: It used to be to publish a short story. However I accomplished that late last year when my short story, “Legend of Dark Mountain” was published by High Hill Press in their Bigfoot Confidential: Finally the Truth Revealed anthology. So, my next wish is to publish a novella or novel. I have a couple different stories that I’m currently working on that I would be thrilled to see in print in the near future.

Paffi S. Flood, Intermediate

My intermediate writer and first-time published author is Paffi S. Flood. Ever since Paffi wrote for the school newspaper in seventh grade, she had a passion for writing. Although she didn’t pursue it as a career path in college, writing always interested her, even when writing technical documents as a software engineer. A decade ago, she began attending classes and workshops and was encouraged to chase her dream. She’s now thrilled to have published her first novel and is working on her next.

Q1: What do you find easiest about writing?

Paffi: The easiest thing has to be the editing process after the first draft is written and the plot is cemented. I work in layers, usually around three at the most but in my current manuscript, I’m at five. The initial draft strictly adheres to the plot and its essentials; whereas layers two and three allow me to go back and tighten sentences. In the unfolding, I discover more about my characters, their surroundings, their relationships and, hopefully at the end, I have a full-bodied manuscript.

Q2: What do you find hardest about writing?

Paffi: The hardest thing is to create a captivating story worth telling. I’ve collected more unused plots than a shopaholic with still-tagged designer dresses. This is when I find I sweep floors, wipe down kitchen counters, or heck, iron laundry. But, none of it’s wasted time, because somewhere in the Zen of doing a mindless chore, out pops an idea, a life, or if I’m lucky, an entire novel.

Q3: If you could have one career-related wish come true, what would it be?

Paffi: My career-related wish would be to have my current young adult manuscript published. As a child in India, I was fascinated by these people whom we weren’t allowed to acknowledge as we climbed the temple steps to pray. Who were they? My question was answered years later when I read a National Geographic article on Untouchables or Dalits. I wanted to write a novel that weaved their lives with lives of well-off Indians and brought to light the suffering they endure.

Velda Brotherton, Experienced

My experienced writer is Velda Brotherton. Velda writes of romance in the old west with an authenticity that makes her many historical characters ring true. A knowledge of the rich history of our country comes through in both her fiction and nonfiction books, as well as in her writing workshops and speaking engagements. She just as easily steps out of the past into contemporary settings to create novels about women with the ability to conquer life’s difficult challenges. Tough heroines, strong and gentle heroes, and villains to die for, all live in the pages of her novels and books.

Q1: What do you find easiest about writing?

Velda: The first draft, because I’m lost in the creative process, living within the pages of the story with characters I’m learning to love or hate. Once the book is drafted, then comes the more difficult, but still enjoyable work. Getting everything just right.

Q2: What do you find hardest about writing?

Velda: In today’s world, the most difficult part of writing has nothing much to do with writing at all, for it’s promoting the book in all the many hundreds of ways possible. If writers make a ton of money, they can afford to hire someone to do this, because it’s so foreign to our brains as to be nearly impossible.

Q3: If you could have one career-related wish come true, what would it be?

Velda: Strange as it might sound, I’d love to see a book made into a movie. Yet I’ve heard writers who have managed this say that it’s disappointing because most times the story on the screen isn’t much like what they wrote. Still, I think it would be so much fun if I could choose the actors who would live out my story.

Analysis

So there you have it. Three different questions. Three different perspectives. What conclusions might we draw from these answers?

In the beginning, the easiest thing is getting an idea. For the intermediate writer, the polishing work is the simplest thing to do. For the experienced writer, the first draft flows easily onto the page.
Sharing is hard for the beginner. Generating that next idea is hard for that first-time author. But self-promotion is what the experienced writer struggles with.
The dreams of the writers change over time. The new writer wants to be published. The first time author wants to publish a specific work. The experienced author wants to branch out into other media.

These answers aren’t necessarily true for all authors in these same stages of publication. But it’s interesting to see if you can draw parallels to where you are in your publication journey and where these women are in theirs.

One thing that definitely holds true—the scale is open-ended. It doesn’t matter if you’re just starting out or if you’re a NYTBSA. Even household names like Steven King, Nora Roberts, and J.K. Rowling have goals they still want to attain. There is no limit to what you can achieve.

To learn more about Joy Keeney, visit:

Blog: http://joykeeney.wordpress.com/

Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/joykeeneyauthor

Twitter page: https://twitter.com/JoyKeeney

Pinterest page: http://pinterest.com/joykeeney/

To learn more about Paffi S. Flood, visit:

Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/PaffiSFlood.

Amazon novel listing: Mystery Ink: A Killing Strikes Home.

To learn more about Velda Brotherton, visit:

Website: http://www.veldabrotherton.com/

Amazon book list: http://www.tinyurl.com/7dr9mbn

Can One Red Kimono Bridge an Ethnic Divide?

In February, my friend and fellow author Jan Morrill was kind enough to write a guest post for me right before the release of her new novel, The Red Kimono. Since then, the book has come out and I read it in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down. I found myself bonding with each of her characters so fully that I had to know what happened. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Saturday evening, a local bookstore hosted Jan, having a “coming out” party for her novel, during which she read excerpts from the book and gave those of us in attendance more of the history behind the novel. There was a sizeable turnout, good food, and great entertainment—namely Jan, her family stories, and her research.

The striking thing about The Red Kimono is that its message transcends culture. I don’t have to be a Japanese American to relate to the characters in her book. My ancestors hail from Europe, and yet the themes in the novel are as pertinent to me as they are to Jan as they will be to you. Her work deals with racism, culture, compassion, and most importantly, family.

My writing always seems to come back to the core family dynamic, and this book looks at familial relationships from the point of view of three very different characters. It’s difficult not to place yourself in not only their shoes, but even some of the secondary characters, and wonder how you would behave in their position, ponder how things would be different if their family lives were different. I challenge you to read this book and not consider your own family unit from a different light.

Yes, this Saturday was indeed a joy. I had the rare opportunity to get a sneak peek behind the veil and learn what prompted the first of what I hope will be a series of novels by a talented and engaging author. I hope this post encourages you to do three things:

Spend some time with your family. We always think there will be time to develop or strengthen familial bonds, but you never know when it will be too late.
Attend a book release of an author you enjoy. You’ll learn so many things about the book and the author that you otherwise wouldn’t have the chance to.
Buy Jan’s book, The Red Kimono. It’s an engaging read, and you won’t regret it.

First Friday Fiction Feature (on Thursday) — Raising Mason

Hi Folks!

I spent the morning rearranging the toolbar on my site (took far longer than it should have 🙁 is it me, or is it WordPress?) to make navigation easier, the toolbar cleaner, and to make room for a new feature here: fiction.

Now, on occasion, I’ll be posting short stories for you to read at your leisure. Some will be flash fiction, some will be longer pieces, but none of the pieces I post will be published anywhere but here.

A link to this story, and all future stories, can always be found under the “My Work—Freebies” tab.

I hope you enjoy this feature, and visit often.

Raising Mason

Cara glared at her son. He hadn’t packed a single bag, hadn’t unloaded one item from the car, hadn’t gathered a twig. He had done nothing since they arrived except laugh while she was engulfed by the pop-up tent they were to share. Once she had it sturdily anchored, he lay on a sleeping bag—the good one she had brought—and put his headphones in while she gathered wood for the fire and struggled to get the flames started. She almost allowed a feeling of accomplishment to creep in, almost, when that first drop fell. The hiss of the raindrops on the hot rocks was as welcome as the rain would be on the fire it took her twenty minutes to build. Cara glowered at the ominous thunderclouds roiling over each other in their haste to cover her anemic campsite. She poked at the kindling with a long branch. It reminded her of the saying, Don’t poke the bear. It felt like she was poking at disaster. Another drop fell and she heard the sizzle amid the crackle of the flames.

“Take your headphones off, please.”

Mason still had the headphones on, so she reached over and pulled one out.

“I asked you to take the headphones out.”

“You didn’t ask, you told. And they aren’t headphones.”

She sighed and gripped the branch tighter. “Fine. What are they?”

“They’re Beats.”

Ah yes. Dr. Dre’s Tour ControlTalk Beats. She scrimped and saved to buy the damn things, she should have known what they were called. “My apologies. Would you please take the Beats out?”

“Why should I? You’re listening to your shit.”

“Mason, don’t use that language.”

“You do.”

The “shit” currently playing was a CD of metal hair bands from the 80s. She had brought an old boom box and a selection of CDs to play while they roasted hotdogs and made mountain pies and S’mores. Her music collection hadn’t been updated since he’d been born… so what? Music was better when she was young, anyway.

Cara sighed and turned off “Still Loving You” by the Scorpions. Nature made its own music. She was there to bond with her son. She could listen to hair bands on her own time.

“Now I’m not listening to my music and you don’t have to listen to yours. We can just talk.”

He wrapped his Beats around his iPod and shoved them in his front pocket. He lay with his arms behind his head while Cara poked at the fire. The crackling continued to be interrupted by the occasional hiss of raindrop spatter.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Mason said.

“I’d love to.”

“So say something.”

But she was at a loss. She no longer knew her own son. Gone was the little boy who used to give her sweaty hugs and sticky kisses, the boy who she’d read stories to or played catch with in the yard. Cara used to know just what things would make his face light up, and one of those things used to be her. Now she didn’t know what any of those things were. She only knew that she wasn’t one of them.

“I know you come here a lot with your dad. I thought maybe you’d enjoy camping with me, too.”

“I enjoy camping with Dad because we fish, or hunt, or hike. We don’t just sit and listen to some crappy music on an old relic.”

Cara was silent for a while before she answered. “I just thought we could use a little alone time.”

“I have alone time with you constantly. I live with you.”

“You just always seem so excited about your camping trips. I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

“It’s Dad. Dad makes them fun.”

Does Dad? Dad’s so fun. Dad’s so special. Where was Dad when you had a fever of one hundred four degrees? Where was Dad when you had to be at school at five in the morning for a field trip? Where’s Dad for all the dinners and the laundry and the homework help and the rides you need everywhere?

The branch she was poking the fire with splintered in her hand. Cara started picking slivers of bark out of her palm.

“Mom, it’s raining harder now.”

Cara had been so preoccupied with her mental tirade against her ex-husband that she didn’t notice the increase in the rainfall. “Let’s get in the tent.”

“Let’s get in the car.”

She merely stood and stared while he doused the fire by kicking dirt over the twigs and stones. It had been such a pathetic fire that it died out without much fight.

As though the gods themselves were against her, the clouds chose that moment to empty in a tirade. “Damn it, Mom. Aren’t you going to do anything? We’ll be soaked in a minute.” He had the tent folded up before she willed herself to move.

Cara did about as much packing as Mason did unpacking. She grabbed her boom box and CD collection while he grabbed the rest, and they threw everything in the car. As Mason predicted, they were pretty well drenched by the time the car was loaded and the campsite was clear. “Thanks for the help,” he said.

“I helped.”

“You didn’t do anything!”

“I got my music. The rain would have ruined it.”

“It could only be an improvement,” he muttered. Before she could defend it, he continued, “Didn’t you want to leave?”

“I thought the tent would be enough protection from the storm.”

“It wasn’t even put up the right way. The first strong gust of wind would have taken it down, and drenched us with it.”

“If you knew it was assembled wrong, why didn’t you help me put it up?”

“I just wanted to see what you did when it fell, I guess.”

Cara sighed. “Mason, if you had just helped to begin with, we would be dry right now.”

“Whatever.”

“You wasted time putting out the fire when the rain would have done that.” She could hear the bitchiness in her voice, but couldn’t stop it.

“You can never be too sure about forest fires.”

“Whatever, Mason.”

“Let’s just go.”

There was no point in being angry on top of the frustration she already felt. She tried to swallow it all and dug her keys out of her pocket. Putting them in the ignition, she turned and… nothing. She tried again. Nothing.

“It’s your battery.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because when I was loading the car the interior lights never came on. I wondered why the car was dark, but I was rushing too much to give it a second thought. And while you were turning the key, the car didn’t sputter or try to turn over. It’s the battery.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“Dad.”

Of course. St. Michael taught him about cars even though he didn’t have his license yet. Wonder what else Super Dad taught him before he was ready?

“You better call AAA.”

“I don’t have AAA.”

“Dad says all drivers should have AAA.”

“I really don’t give a flying… fig what your father says about AAA. I had a membership, but I let it lapse.”

“What did you do something stupid like that for?”

Because a certain sixteen year old who only wears brand name clothes needed braces and joined Ski Club and insisted on getting his own pads for football because the school-supplied ones were sub-par. Wonder who that could have been?

“You make choices in life, Mason. That was a choice I made.”

He took his phone out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“Well, I’m not sitting here in this storm.”

“I’ve got jumper cables in my trunk.”

“That’s great. Do you have a battery to connect them to?”

Damn it. She stayed quiet, unwilling to answer him.

“Do you have anyone else to call?”

The rain splashed on the windshield, each drop a splotching disapproval of her predicament. “Do you?” she whispered, ashamed to ask but even more fearful of his not bailing her out.

He shook his head and dialed. “Dad, I need your help.”

The wait was interminable. Part of her wanted Michael never to show up, part of her wanted him to just get there and get it over with. All of her wanted the ground to open and swallow her whole. She hated that she was in this predicament. Why did it have to rain? Why did her battery have to die? Why did it have to be Michael to the rescue?

She and Mason had said nothing since he called his father. She watched dusk fall in silence. A solitary swath of purple streaked across the horizon, the reds and oranges oppressed from view by the indigo storm clouds billowing across the heavens. True blackness of storm and night descended without a single word passing between her and her son. The only sounds to break the monotony were the rumbling of thunder and the pounding of rain on the car. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated their surroundings, and Cara could see the stubborn set of Mason’s jaw in his profile. He was staring out the windshield and hadn’t moved.

About an hour into the storm, Cara made out two points of light in the distance. The moment she dreaded had arrived. Michael was approaching.

“Finally,” Mason muttered.

“You know he does things on his own schedule,” she said.

“Give it a rest, Mom. He didn’t have to come at all.”

No, he didn’t. But then he couldn’t win Parent of the Year if he left his son in the woods during a storm.

When Michael got to them, they both got out of the car, but Mason was faster. He clambered into the backseat, leaving Cara to take the front. She dreaded being so close to Michael again, but she dreaded delaying him with her dawdling even more. She squared her shoulders and opened the passenger door.

“Could you take any longer, Cara? You’re going to get my seats all wet.”

She swallowed a sigh and shut the door with just a little more force than was necessary. “I’m sorry, Michael. Thanks for coming to get us.”

He pulled out before she was even strapped in. “Well, I couldn’t just leave Mason out here.”

Not both of us. Mason. “No, I suppose not.”

“Why did you cancel AAA?”

Here we go. “There were many factors to consider. It was the right decision for me.”

“Well, not for me, obviously.”

Obviously.

“Otherwise I wouldn’t be out in the middle of a storm hauling you all over God’s green earth. You better get that renewed.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Did you even check the weather? What were you doing out there tonight?”

“I did check. It said slight chance of rain. And it was my night off.”

“My report didn’t say slight chance. It said ninety percent. You should listen to Channel Two. Or get the app I use for my phone. I’ll check which one it is and send you the link. It’s not too expensive.”

Cara didn’t have an iPhone, so she didn’t really care what app he had. She had no use for it, and if she did have an iPhone she couldn’t afford to buy an app anyway. She willed herself to keep her mouth shut and just stared out the window. She still had bark in her hand and she picked at it blindly to pass the time.

They sat in silence for a while, Cara peering into the darkness. The road home wove through dense forestland and over a river. The moon and stars were blanketed by strata of storm clouds, leaving only Michael’s two halogen headlamps and the occasional flash of lightning to illuminate the way. Occasionally he tried the high beams, and when he did all Cara saw were spears of rain pelting the car. She preferred it when he used the low beams and just raised the speed of the wipers. She looked up. Tree branches interlaced above her, forming a giant leafy blanket. As the wind blew, the boughs moved as one undulating mass, shaking leaves and buds onto the windshield. The wipers cleared the mess away. The sights unnerved her, so she focused on the sounds: the grind of the tires on the road, the pounding of the rain on the car, the thrum thrum of the wipers on the glass. The sounds outside the car were almost soothing. The silence in the car was nerve-wracking. But it was worse when Michael spoke. And of course he spoke again.

“Who goes on a trip with a bad battery, anyway? Either you haven’t been maintaining your car properly, or you didn’t check the car before the trip.”

“It was my fault, Dad.”

“Your fault?” Cara and Michael said together.

“I was excited when we got there and I left the hatch open after we unloaded the car. The interior lights being on that long probably ran the battery down. Mom didn’t neglect the car’s maintenance. I was just careless.”

“Oh. Well. You should know better. I’ve taught you about cars and responsibility. You’ll have to wait a month before I take you to get your learner’s permit.”

“Michael, that’s not—”

“Don’t argue with me about this, Cara. He needs to be accountable for his actions.”

“It’s fine, Mom. I’m okay with it. Really.”

Cara turned to look at Mason. He nodded his head toward his dad then shook his head. She fought back tears, not wanting to betray her son’s lie. Then she turned and watched the rain again. She tried to ignore Michael and focus on what soothed her until she got home: the grind of the tires, the pounding of the rain, the thrum thrum of the wipers.

Finally they stopped in front of Cara’s townhouse.

“Thanks for the ride, Dad.” Mason didn’t wait for an answer. He just ran to the door.

Cara saw Michael roll his eyes and shake his head almost imperceptibly.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just expected him to wait for me to say goodbye. I would think you’d be teaching him better manners than that.”

She bit the inside of her cheek before answering. “Thanks for the lift, Michael.”

“The storm’s supposed to let up tomorrow afternoon. Will you need a ride back then?”

“We’ll let you know.” There was no way in hell she was calling him again.

“I’d like some notice. I can’t sit around all day waiting for your call.”

“I’ll let you know. With advance notice.”

Michael was gone before she reached the porch. She leaned in to kiss Mason’s cheek, and he let her. That was her sweet little boy. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

“Sounds great. I’ll make a fire.”

She smiled at him and was heartened when he returned it. Cara unlocked the door, and he headed toward the fireplace. She’d make them a snack while Mason built a fire, and they’d spend the night talking and listening to the rain.

Why You Should Write About Your Memories

I write fiction. Occasionally I take a stab at a memoir piece for my family, but I don’t feel qualified to give advice on that topic because that isn’t my strength… that’s really more a hobby or labor of love for me. So I’m really excited to have a guest here today who can talk about memoir-writing from a more experienced vantage point. Please welcome Laura Hedgecock from Treasure Chest of Memories.

Whenever I want to convince people of the value of writing about their memories, I pull out the story of my grandmother. She wrote in secret throughout her life, and shortly before her death, presented us with an astonishing gift: a spiral notebook filled with a lifetime of memories and stories, which she called her “Treasure Chest of Memories.”

Although most of us can see why it would be worthwhile to collect our stories, we hold back, listening to that nagging voice of self-consciousness. We’re afraid our writing or our storytelling isn’t good enough.

Even those who write as a vocation or avocation tend to be more comfortable sharing with the comparable anonymity of “readers” than with family members. The rejection or disinterest of “readers” is easier to handle.

The truth is, however, writing for loved ones isn’t like writing for the red-pen-wielding English teacher. It’s more like reading the Bible aloud in church.

Since I’m not allowed to write about my actual kids, I’ll use a hypothetical kid as an example. (Disclaimer in case my actual kids read this: I’m in no way implying that the subject of this story did anything less than an exemplary job of reading the Bible in church.)

Hypothetical Aaron, age 16, agreed to read the Bible aloud at a meeting of a hundred plus pastors and elders. Nervous and much more accustomed to rap music than leading worship, Aaron read at breakneck speed. Luckily, he was given a well-known passage. By catching four to five keywords, most were able to identify the familiar parable. The four-minute reading was finished in under a minute.

Were he reading for a discriminating audience, say a teacher or classmates, this would have been a catastrophe. As it was, he got excellent reviews. He was thanked for reading. He was told he has a nice voice for reading. A particularly kind woman stopped him and asked him if I was his (hypothetical) mother. When he articulated, “Uhh, yeah,” she gave me a look and said, “Then I know who is a proud mother!”

They weren’t lying. They did enjoy the fact that he read. His reading wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. Likewise, the people who love you will enjoy your stories, particularly those in which they have a starring role. Plus, there are some other compelling reasons to start collecting the stories of your life.

Why you should write about your memories

Preserving history and stories

You don’t want to simply leave names and dates; make your family tree more accessible!

Connections

Grandma' memories — We’re not just connected by blood; we’re connected by Grandma’s memories

Out comes my grandmother’s story. ..

Through her “Treasure Chest,” I connect with my grandmother, again and again. I have her memories of watching my mom grow up. I have read the words of raw, overwhelming grief that she wrote on the day my grandpa died. Her writings have resulted in a very deep bond.

Spring boarding conversations

This sharing of stories can spark conversations that would perhaps otherwise never surface. Your memories will be augmented by others’ memories and perspectives.

Family Ties

Such connections with our extended family and our shared heritages strengthen family bonds. Additionally, writing about the past can be therapeutic for the writer as well.

My Challenge

Simple. Write down those memories!

Laura Hedgecock blogs resources and content of her upcoming book Treasure Chest of Memories at her website TreasureChestOfMemories.com. She writes about her own memories at Memoriesinthewind.wordpress.com. She welcomes any and all visitors to either site and you can connect with her at

https://twitter.com/LauraLHedgecock

https://www.facebook.com/laura.hedgecock.writer