Writer. Editor. Mom. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Dog owner. Award-winning author and recipe creator. Conservative Catholic with an avid interest in the supernatural. Think all that doesn't go together? Then you have to get to know me better.

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

What Inspires You?

I had planned on spending today’s post talking about contract terms. I recently signed a contract and thought it might be nice to go over some of the terminology that writers might find confusing. But earlier this week my parents-in-law were visiting, so I couldn’t write ahead of schedule, and the day I set actually set aside for blog-writing was spent visiting my niece. She stopped here on her way across the country. She just graduated from specialized training in the US Navy and has a three week leave before her next assignment begins, so she’s going home for a visit, and we were a pit stop along the way. I’m sorry, but visiting my niece/godchild takes precedent over defining contract terms, particularly when I haven’t seen her in a year and a half.

These visits got me thinking about the importance of family and its impact in my writing. The novels that I’m working on right now—the one under contract and the series I’m pitching to an agent—both have characters with strong family ties.

The contracted piece deals with two twins who have lost their parents and only have each other. Forget about the “twin bond,” these two have forged a relationship that’s thick and tight. If the adage is true that blood is thicker than water, remember—they’re the only blood each other has left.

For the series I’m working on, I relied more on my heritage. It deals with four
Italian-American sisters for whom family is everything even before tragedy strikes their lives. And when it all hits the fan, those bonds are there, not to be tested, but to bear each other up.

So it’s pretty clear to me that my own life relationships pretty clearly shape my fiction. That isn’t to say that if my sister makes me angry she’s going to end up being a shrew in my next book, or if my dad buys me a car he’s going to be written in as a handsome billionaire (hint, hint; wink, wink; nudge, nudge). But it does mean that things in my life that touch me are reflected in the things that I write.

What about the things that are important to you? What things touch you, and do they make it into your writing in some manner? Tell us about your writing in the comments.

I Was Invited Out… Come Visit Me!

An online friend, Laura Hedgecock, kindly invited me to write a guest post on her blog. She writes primarily about sharing memories, so I shared—what else?—a memory about my Italian heritage.

Please join me over at her blog to read about Easter bread and Easter pizza, and what that means to me: http://treasurechestofmemories.com/2013/03/20/recipe-for-posterity/

An Italian’s Take on St. Patrick’s Day

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. I tend to relate most strongly with my Italian roots, so I don’t mention my father’s heritage often, but it seems only fair to acknowledge it on the one day a year his nationality gets top billing.

My dad is a wonderful man whose heritage is a volatile mix of Irish, Scottish, German, and Swedish. So, yes, in addition to the passionate Italian in me, I’ve got some whiskey-downing, Scotch-swilling, beer-chugging, Viking-loving blood coursing through these veins. There’s some partying blood in there, and there’s some warrior blood in there, too. So, it’s no surprise I’m not a shy person. I embrace life to its fullest, which means I love big, I cry big, and I get mad… big. Why do anything half-hearted?

I also celebrate big, which means yesterday’s holiday was a festive one, especially because my in-laws are in town to celebrate with us. (Yes, I’ll use anything as an excuse to celebrate, but come on, a holiday and family visiting? Who wouldn’t celebrate?) Beer, Irish stew, cabbage, potatoes, soda bread… even Irish coffees for dessert.

After all that, I swear I saw a leprechaun with his shillelagh in my yard, holding a four leaf clover sitting on his pot of gold. But before I got outside to greet him, he disappeared over the rainbow, and it was just me in the yard trying to keep my dogs out of the pool, which, I have to tell you, is not easy under the best of circumstances.

Now it’s time to settle back into Lenten restrictions until Easter. So, I’ll leave you with this Irish blessing as I countdown the remaining weeks:

May you always have walls for the winds,
A roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
Laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
And all your heart might desire.

Six Speakers, I Mean, Reasons Why Saturday Was So Great

This weekend marked the return of one of my favorite annual events… and of course I don’t mean the loss of an hour of sleep. One look at the bags under my eyes and you would know that’s not something I yearn for. Nope, Saturday was Northwest Arkansas Writers’ Annual Writers Workshop. I anticipate this event for a number of reasons:

It’s yet another chance to hang out with my friends.
I get to network with writers and other professionals in the industry.
Information is always presented in a fun and low key way.
It’s the only conference I know of that’s completely free to attend.

This year was no exception. I sat with my two partners in crime (one of whom was actually mistaken for my sister, which is hilarious because she’s a blonde with blue eyes and I’m brunette and brown) and we met some really nice people. We also heard some great information, the highlights of which I’m going to pass along to you here.

There’s a group of five women in the NWA Writers Group who call themselves The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen. Unfortunately one of them, Claire Croxton, was sick and couldn’t attend (however we’ve been promised a blog post from her regarding getting book reviews). The other four put on an excellent presentation.

Pamela Foster began the day discussing sense of place. Frequent readers of my blog might recognize Pam’s ability to set a mood—she’s guest posted for me before. Her ability to construct a scene is second to none. She defines a sense of place as nothing more—and nothing less—than the world you create for your characters and all the methods through which they experience it. It is not and cannot be separate from point of view and internalization, because it is through point of view and internalization that the character shows the reader the world.

She then introduced another “sister,” Ruth Burkett Weeks. Ruth discussed document formatting. It’s a standard assumption in the industry that if a writer is sloppy with formatting, she’ll be sloppy with writing, so she spent a few minutes covering industry standards. Then she pulled out the big guns—Ruth is all about the bling. There’s no point in writing if you’re going to be boring. She likes words that sizzle and pop. She gave us a long list of lazy words to avoid and examples of ways to avoid their usage and strengthen those passages. She ended her presentation with a word of advice about the glitz—a little will make your work shimmer; a lot will make it bruise. Avoid purple prose.

That brought Jan Morrill to the podium. You might recognize Jan from a recent guest post she did here utilizing a strategy she actually discussed at length at the conference. Jan discussed ways to get to know your characters and make them memorable. She covered interviewing them, having them describe artwork in their voice, writing a scene over from a different character’s point of view, and writing a letter from one character to another. Jan gave us examples of the strategies she used from her published book and her work in progress and then gave us time to work on our own character interview. Many people learned new things about their characters.

Jan introduced Linda Apple, who is referred to as the Mama of the group. Linda covered reasons why writers don’t write and offered solutions to their problems. She really nailed them all, too—editing as you go, having no ideas, feeling drained, spending time on other writing activities, sabotaging yourself, managing your time ineffectively… And like a true mama, she had excellent advice for conquering all of the issues. She left us with a poignant thought: There’s only one guarantee in writing… if you don’t write anything, you’ll never be published.

If you get a chance to hear the Sisters speak, I highly recommend it. I just took a six week course they taught at the Fayetteville Public Library, and they did a phenomenal job. You won’t be disappointed.

After lunch, one of the founding members of NWA Writers took her turn offering some advice. Velda Brotherton talked to us about promotion efforts. Contrary to what many writers think/wish/hope, promotion doesn’t start after the contract is signed or the book is published. In fact, you may not get the contract if you haven’t started connecting with readers long before your book is even written. The first thing an agent or editor will do is Google you, and if your name doesn’t pop up, your novel won’t get picked up. Velda strongly recommended having a presence on Facebook, Google+, and Pinterest, in addition to a webpage and a blog. Her research shows that Google+ may overtake Facebook in the not too distant future, because Google+ allows you to choose who views your content where Facebook decides for you. Above all else, she stressed that a social media presence is about connecting with readers, not about hawking your books. We’re here to make friends and help people, not scare them away by being nuisances.

The afternoon ended with the other co-founder, Dusty Richards, giving us a writing tutorial. It was twice as nice because he used many examples from his own books. He covered everything from the importance of writing short stories as well as novels to how sequels must stand on their own as well as in their place in their series. Dusty is an expert storyteller, and he engaged the audience from the first piece of advice to bidding us farewell. He already has the room reserved for next year’s conference (March 8, 2014) and I know I’ll be attending. I hope I’ll see some of you there. Like I said, it’s a great day to hang out with your friends, network with people in the industry, and learn valuable information. Mark your calendars now so you don’t forget!

Just A Few Steps Can Make All The Difference

Anyone who visits my blog with any frequency (or anyone who has taken the time to read the tagline in the top right corner) knows that my ancestry is Italian, and I’m quite proud of it. I occasionally blog about it because I want people to get to know me and my heritage, I want them to love and embrace it for the wonderful and rich culture it is, and I want them to know what it’s like because that’s the world many of my characters come from in my fiction. I figure if my readers know and love my world, they’ll know and love my characters’ worlds, too.

Just last week I was contacted by someone who has now become an online friend. He shares my heritage, but he pointed out part of our culture that isn’t so wonderful, and it’s something that, while it does touch Italian-Americans more frequently than others, it can touch us all. I invited him to guest post here today to share his knowledge with you. Without further ado, I give you Craig Butler.

On May 5, the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is holding Care Walk 2013, a series of walks designed to show support for all those living with the blood disorder thalassemia (often called Cooley’s anemia) and to raise funds for the Foundation’s programs on behalf of people with thalassemia. Thalssemia is disproportionately found in people of specific heritages, including those of Italian descent.

You’re probably asking “What is thalassemia?” It’s a genetic blood disorder, so it’s something a person is born with, not something they catch. A person who has a severe form, such as thalassemia major, has blood that doesn’t carry oxygen around to the body the way it’s supposed to. If left untreated, this causes a severe anemia and eventually brings about death.

Gabriella, the beautiful little girl whose picture you see, has thalassemia major. Fortunately, she gets treatment: she goes to the hospital every couple of weeks and spends the day getting a blood transfusion. She’ll need to do this her whole life—unless a cure is found.

The blood transfusions save Gabriella’s life, but there’s also a big downside to them. They overload her body with iron, way more than the body knows what to do with. So she has to take a daily drug treatment to help get rid of that extra iron. If she doesn’t, it can destroy her heart, liver or other organs, or cause other problems like diabetes and osteoporosis.

For many thalassemia patients, that daily drug treatment involves sticking a needle into the body and pumping iron in for 8-12 hours a day. For their entire lives.

So having thalassemia is a big burden. That’s why the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is around:

To help these people, to help find better treatments and to help find a cure.

The annual Care Walk is one of the Foundation’s most important fund raisers. The better it does, the more the Foundation is able to do to help Gabriella and all those suffering from thalassemia.

Care Walk is designed for maximum convenience: We ask people to set up a Walk at a time and place that works for them. It can be as simple as walking around your neighborhood with a couple of friends or as involved as organizing a larger walk in a park or other area.

Our goal is to have at least one person walking for every person with thalassemia in the U.S.!

Because of the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation, Gabriella’s mother has great hope for her child. “I want to let everyone know that, even though the illness is not curable, it is treatable. I want to encourage parents that it’s not the end of the world if you have a child with thalassemia. Your child will still have a wonderful life and future if they get the proper care—and the future is getting brighter by the day.”

And the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is here to make that brighter day get here as soon as possible. You can register for Care Walk or support someone who is walking by going to http://tinyurl.com/CareWalk2013 or you can email n.perozo@cooleysanemia.org for more information. And learn more about thalassemia and the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation at www.thalassemia.org. Thank you.

So a big thank you goes out to Craig Butler for writing this guest post and informing us about thalassemia. Maybe the steps we take on May 5 will be steps toward a brighter future for thalassemia patients.

Traditions Gone by the Wayside

This is the time of year when I get cravings for weird things. It might be because it’s Lent and I give up a lot of indulgent foods, or it might be because of the time of year it is. For example, St. Patrick’s Day is coming up, and that means Shamrock Shakes. Usually those coincided with Lent, so unless they were released before Lent started (like this year), we’d need to not have given up sweets for Lent or freeze them until after Easter. When I moved to Arkansas, I was horrified to learn that they had never heard of Shamrock Shakes. Last year, McDonald’s had a new release here… Shamrock Shakes! However, they were “test marketing” them in limited quantities, so they were virtually impossible to come by. Finally, this year, the stars aligned. McDonald’s released Shamrock Shakes in mass quantities before Lent in Arkansas. One craving averted.

There are some cravings, though, that I’ll never get to satisfy again. Right after Christmas when I was young, my whole family would gather in my grandparents’ basement to make sausage and sopresatta. It was hard work—it took the whole day—and took a lot of preparation before that, but boy was it worth it. (Squeamish readers may want to skip ahead.)

Sheep intestine had to be soaked in ice water and citrus for days to be cleaned and deodorized. Pork shoulder had to be ground, and we didn’t have a motorized crank; it was all done by hand. Pounds and pounds were fed through the feed tube, and once coarsely ground, became the basis for the sausage and sopresatta mixtures. Seasonings were stirred into the meat by hand, requiring the men to dig into big bowls up to their elbows. Peppers were added to the sopresatta mix. Finally the mixtures were pushed back into the extruder and into the intestine casing.

The sausage was hung in my grandparents’ fruit cellar—the coldest place in the house, or cooked right away for us to eat with homemade bread and, if we were lucky, a sip of wine. The sopresatta had to be pressed until it cured completely. It took six to eight weeks to dry out. This is the time of year we’d be eating the homemade salami, and at this time every year, I get a craving for it. The stuff you buy in the stores just isn’t the same, and frankly, living in Arkansas, any kind of Italian food is hard to come by, let alone the stuff prepared the way we’re used to.

The hardest part for me, though, is saying goodbye to the memories. I was too young to actually be a part of the sausage-making process, but I remember sitting on the stool in the basement, watching my grandparents, my parents, my aunt, uncle and cousins work. I remember playing with my young cousins while the adults toiled. My grandmother only had a two-bedroom home, so the house was tiny, and filling it with that many people trying to accomplish a difficult task with a bunch of kids underfoot should have brought conflict and strife, but it didn’t. There was laughter and love and fun. Sometimes there was music, but more often than not when the music ended, people were so busy goofing around that they forgot to turn it back on. At the end of the day, the sausage and sopresatta was made for the year, but the memories were made for a lifetime.

My grandfather is gone now. My parents and aunt and uncle no longer make the sausage—it’s too much work for them. My siblings and my cousins didn’t carry the tradition on. We’ve all drifted apart—me farthest of all, nearly one thousand miles—and simply didn’t manage to keep the tradition alive. Even if we managed to start it up again, it just wouldn’t be the same without my grandfather managing the process. My husband and I tried to make some sausage a few years ago, but it just wasn’t right. Times change and traditions fall by the wayside.

So this year, I finally got my Shamrock Shake, but I won’t be having any sopresatta. At least, not any of my grandfather’s homemade sopresatta. Some traditions just can’t be replicated. We should try to enjoy what time we have with our families while we have them. You never know when those times will be nothing but treasured memories.