writer Archives | Page 17 of 21

It is the Best of Times

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I know Dickens wasn’t writing about building an author’s platform when he began A Tale of Two Cities, but it feels like it. At no other time in history did we have such technological wonders at our fingertips, but at no other time were there such difficulties being an author. We can no longer merely write; we must blog, tweet, speak in public and generate buzz about our writing, doing the work of marketers and PR consultants in addition to the writing that we love.

We must write, we must platform. We must start with action, we must start by getting to know our characters. We must be character driven, we must be plot driven. We must avoid purple prose, we must use vibrant descriptors. We must use dialogue to advance the plot, we must use description to advance the story. In short, writing now is like writing used to be, but with so much advice from leading authorities that contemporary pieces have evolved into fast-paced tomes minus the literary prose of yesterday.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Endings are difficult. It is hard to end stories, hard to end novels, hard to end blog posts. The masters knew how to do it, far better than the cliché of riding off into the sunset or the prince kissing the princess back to life. In my genre, my endings are defined for me. The couple has to get together, happiness in their future. Getting to that ending creatively is a challenge. Once completed, I can put the work to bed and get some much needed rest myself.

Written for WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge “Stylish Imitation” http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/weekly-writing-challenge-stylish-imitation/

The Five Best Things to Do on Saturday

Over the weekend I attended Fayetteville Public Library’s 6^th Annual Ozark Writers Live Event. This event is a nice one because it highlights the talents of local authors while still helping teach budding artists the ins and outs of the craft and industry. In addition to the five speeches I attended, there was a local band who performed during lunch and a quilt display featuring the handiwork of local artisans.

The first workshop was a panel discussion entitled “Exploring the World of Children’s Publishing.” Rich Davis hosted the panel; he is a local illustrator and author. Also seated on the panel was Tammy Carter Bronson, an author/illustrator who pioneered self-publishing and advocates illustrating her own work and Dan Borengasser, a children’s book author. These creative talents spent time talking to us about their creative process and about the business side of the industry. Bronson actually began her own publishing company before self-publishing was a popular option for authors, and she discussed the pros and cons of traditional and self-publishing. Borengasser discussed alternative writing opportunities for authors looking for ways to supplement their incomes. In addition to leading the panel, Davis explained his own history and encouraged us to find our own paths to becoming successful writers.

The second workshop was called “Brighten Your Leaf on the Family Tree.” Led by Marilyn Collins, local memoir writing specialist, this session began with a brief introduction to the importance of writing memoirs and what exactly memoir writing entails, and ended with an interactive, hands-on writer participation section in which we began to write our own memoirs using Collins’s techniques. We filled out index cards and timeline sheets and shared some of our own memories with the group. Everyone left with the beginnings of a book about their own life.

After lunch, the workshop returned with an interesting take on breaking into publishing. Best selling author Richard A. Knaak was there to talk about his road to fame. He was like all other authors: he had ideas that he wanted to write about. And like so many authors, no one was listening. He actually hand delivered writing samples—IN PERSON—to a publishing call. No, he isn’t advocating that. It was unheard of then, and it’s still unheard of. But the man told him if he didn’t hear from him to call in a couple of weeks. And he didn’t hear from him, so he bit the bullet and called. The man wondered if he’d have the gumption to call. Because he did, he ended up with a contract. But not for what he submitted. He was to write in the parameters of another world that was already created for him. He wrote The Legend of Huma for the Dragonlance Chronicles. He wrote novels for the games The World of Warcraft and Diablo. Because he was willing to work in worlds that other people created, his work got noticed. And because his work got noticed, he was able to write and sell his own work, too. If you think you can write within existing parameters, this is a path he is advocating.

The fourth workshop was the most crowded. It was called “Power in the Pen – Exploring Literary Influences during the West Memphis Three Case” and was headed by an author who literally wrote the book on the West Memphis Three: Mara Leveritt. Leveritt took us through the entire process of the West Memphis Three case, from the moment of the murder, through the likely coerced confession and the interest of the media in the case, past all the “evidence” that was entered in the trial leading to the conviction, all the way to the media’s influence in getting the men out of jail and the new, reliable evidence found. She hosted a lively question and answer session and ended with an impassioned plea for everyone to get involved in petitioning government officials to get media in the courtrooms and interrogation rooms.

The fifth and final session was hosted by Tracy Lenore Jackson. Called “Trial and Triumph – Addressing Sensitive Subjects in your Writing,” this workshop’s whole focus was a bittersweet testimony to Jackson’s life. Jackson has a novel coming out in October, but she told us she couldn’t write that novel until she got other things out of the way first. She ended up writing two memoirs before her novel took shape, all focusing on the domestic violence she witnessed her mother endure when she was a child and what she suffered through in her first marriage. She explains how it seems to be a cyclic thing, running in families, how it affected her brothers and how she was embroiled in it before she knew better. She’s now in a happy, healthy marriage and speaks at women’s shelters across the country. She read excerpts from her memoirs and her novel, encouraging us to deal with the issues we face in our lives, to get them on the page so we can express ourselves fully and move on with our lives.

The OWL Workshop, put on by the Fayetteville Public Library, was a successful event that I’m grateful to have attended. I met new people, I learned new perspectives, and I have new techniques to try. Most importantly, several authors had a chance to showcase their talents to people who might otherwise not have known about them. I can’t wait until next year’s event.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

I awaken to a shrill alarm. Smoke is filling the room. My eyes sting, my lungs sear. Frantic, I reach for my husband, but he is already rolling out of bed and pulling me with him. We crouch low, trying to get under the burning strata billowing above us. I hear him say the one thought that’s racing through my mind: “The kids!”

They’re already in the hallway when we burst out of our room. We hear the fire crackling below us and our beloved dogs howling. I try to cover my kids’ faces as we sprint to the door. My husband races to release the dogs. I send a prayer up to God that the three of them will join us in the driveway. When we all unite—me, my children, my husband and my dogs—I am relieved for only a moment. Then I turn and survey all I am losing. I can’t even hear the sirens yet; we stand to lose everything. The fire isn’t that bad yet. Do I have time to go back in for anything? One thing? What one thing would I grab?

***

I’m blessed to never have had a fire at my house. I know people who have. People who have lost everything. They all say they are grateful to have gotten out safely, so they don’t care about the possessions. I get that. If my house was burning down, I would first and foremost make certain my husband, children and dogs were safe. As long as they are healthy and happy, I’m happy. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t miss some material things if I lost them. I’d think about all my wedding things: my gown, my champagne glasses, my photos and video. But that stuff is all spread out and not really worth anything to anyone but me. My next thought would be for my family photos and videos, and although my kids would love to have them, there would be no way to grab all of those in time. More likely than not I’d be wearing my engagement ring and family ring (and I’ve never taken my wedding band off), so I don’t have to worry about grabbing any jewelry that matters to me. So what one item would I take with me on my way out the door? What would I foolishly consider running back in for?

My family Bible.

I’m not going for the obvious answer here, although I wouldn’t want to live without God’s Word. For several years I read the Bible every day. There are religious books and artwork throughout my home, and my religion is a strong presence in my life. No, it’s not just any Bible that I would grab (I have several in my home). It’s one particular one. The family Bible is the object I treasure most.

See, when I was growing up, my grandfather was my hero. He immigrated from Italy when he was a young boy and had to drop out of school at fourteen when his father died to support his mother and siblings. Despite his lack of education, he was the smartest man I knew and in spite of all his hardships, he made more out of his life than most people do. Everyone loved him. I lost him when I was far too young, and I didn’t have much to remember him by.

Years later, my grandmother gave me a family Bible. Not only is it more exquisitely illustrated than any Bible I can find on the market today, it has sections in it that you can’t find in other Bibles, like indices and maps. It’s beautiful. It’s leather bound with gold-edged pages. The words inside are a treasure to the world. The craftsmanship is a treasure to anyone who appreciates fine art. Then Gramma told me it was my grandfather’s Bible. It was the kind he sold when he first started working to support his family, and it was the first one he owned. He owned it when he was the head of his father’s family, then he brought it to his own home when he was the head of his family. She had kept it all those years, and she was gifting it to me.

If I had to name one treasured item that I own, I’m naming that Bible. The words in it soothe me when I need comforting, the artwork is breathtaking, and it’s one of the only things I have to remind me of my grandfather and his sacrifices for his family. No, I wouldn’t risk sacrificing my life running into a burning building to retrieve this book, but I hope I never have to part with it. Losing it would be losing the one of the last tangible memories of my grandfather that I have left.

written for WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge

How to Build a Sturdy Writer’s Platform Across Wide, Unrelated Genres, I Mean, Branches

All writers have a constant and un-ending supply of ideas at their fingertips, just waiting to burst forth onto the page, right? Wrong. Sometimes we come up with complete blanks (you’ve heard of writer’s block, right?) and then we have to push on through, or rely on a friend to bail us out. This week, I’m still recovering from Labor Day picnicking with my family. But I am lucky enough to have friends to bail me out.

Enter Pamela Foster. I’ve known Pam for about two years, and not only is she a great go-to resource for me in all things writing, she’s a talented author who happens to have a handle on platform-building as well. So without further ado, I give you Pamela Foster’s take on platforming.

I’m told all writers need platforms these days, a way to get noticed in a world-wide crowd of individuals selling, more or less, the same thing we’re hawking–entertainment and escape. My good friend, Linda Apple, uses the image of a field of sunflowers, one especially long-stemmed flower growing up into the blue sky, waving its sunny face above the other beautiful yellow blooms. A platform lifts us up so we are noticed. Now if our writing isn’t spectacular, folks are going to quickly look for another sunny face, but without the platform, no matter how good our writing, we’ll not be read, never get the chance to show how good we are.

The word platform conjures a different image in my redneck head. I see a couple guys in camouflage gear hunkered down on a rickety mess in a gnarled tree, sipping booze and staring at a saltlick.

Nonetheless, I understand the need to be noticed in the crowd.

The trick to building any solid base is to build it with similar planks. My first book, Redneck Goddess, is set in rural Georgia and my second, Bigfoot Blues, takes place in northern California. Redneck Goddess is about a southern gal who falls in love with a Latin aristocrat and brings him home to her little bitty town. The novel uses humor to poke and prod at the subject of racism and intolerance and don’t think all that intolerance came from her side of the family either. So, while the book takes a hard look at a serious matter, it does so with a lot of fun and acceptance and understanding of both cultures. Southern redneck and Latin aristocrat.

My second novel, Bigfoot Blues, is due out in October. There’s humor in the quirky world of Samantha Jean, the daughter of a Bigfoot hunter, but the book is more layered, more complex than Redneck Goddess. And it’s set in the Pacific Northwest, not the American south.

So, my dilemma is to find a way to build a platform with two such different novels. I need to identify the common denominator in Redneck Goddess and Bigfoot Blues. Wonderful prose and fine plotting are, evidently, NOT strong enough planks for the job. Picture a metaphorical tree-blind constructed of the mismatched elements of quirky humor, love of wilderness, and joy in life’s small moments. Imagine that platform nailed together with the binding love of a dysfunctional family. Can you see that cockeyed ledge in the trees? The wide gaps between the planks? The way a pencil rolls from one end to the other like a stray thought? Do you have this image in your mind?

Now, picture Bigfoot hunkered up there, a wide and benevolent smile on his shaggy face.

It’s no waving sunflower, but it’s the best I can do.

You can find Pam online at: http://pamelafosterspeakerwriter.wordpress.com

The Best Sound I Ever Heard

Soothing sounds are all around us. Nature is full of them. One obvious example is the beach. They make recordings of ocean waves to soothe people. Of course the beach will be on the list. Crickets chirping, birds singing, bees buzzing… There’s a symphony outside if you’re listening for it.

I personally love symphonies, both natural and orchestrated. I love most music. But it’s hardly fair to compare rap, country and rock, because those are a matter of personal taste. Better to look at several renditions of the same song. Take “The Star Spangled Banner,” and orchestral, rock and a cappella versions of it.

When I hear my high school band play the national anthem, I remember the elation I felt upon being chosen color guard captain and the stabbing, searing pain when I blew out my knee. I remember hours of grueling practices on hot asphalt and ten minutes under the bright lights before winning the Best Auxiliary and Best Band trophies in competition. I remember running onto the field for the fight song and watching my husband, then my boyfriend and the captain of the football team, crunching opponents in smashmouth football. There is pride in self, pride in school, pride in country.

When I hear the Jimi Hendrix version, I think of mud-soaked fields and flower children. I see peace signs, smiley faces, flowers and rainbows. I see hemp leaves and bell bottoms, tinted glasses and afros. This song is anti-establishment. These people may love their country, but they aren’t willing to die for it.

When I hear the Roseanne Barr version, I am nothing but revolted. I feel no national pride, no country honor from her, although it strengthens my own feelings toward my country. I feel anger and embarrassment for the incident.

How can three renditions of the same song evoke such different responses in self and in country? I could write a dissertation on it.

Clearly music isn’t the way to go with what sound is the best I ever heard. So what is? What sound tugs at my heart and squeezes my soul so I laugh and cry at the same time?

It’s so obvious. And too fleeting.

My babies.

The sound of their cries as they first entered the world.

The sound of their first coos as they tried expressing themselves.

The sound of their first laugh, which surprised them as much as us.

The sound of their first words, which they said repeatedly, delighting themselves as much as us.

My children are teenagers now, and their voices have changed. They speak when they want. Sometimes they speak when I wish they wouldn’t. Sometimes they don’t answer when I call. I can never get back those precious first sounds. We’ll always have nature unless we royally screw things up. We’ll always have music, and we each have our own tastes there, with different styles evoking different responses and different songs bringing forth different memories. But we only have a limited window in which to experience those first precious sounds with our babies. Video recordings just can’t capture the magic of live sounds. Maybe part of the joy and wonder of baby sounds is the experience of having babies itself.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Blogging

Heroes

This past week, the world lost two heroes. One hero lost his standing in society and one hero lost his life. If you believe in a higher power, and I do, you can understand why I believe the former is the greater tragedy.

Lance Armstrong is an American citizen, but he was renowned the world over as a seven-time winner of the Tour de France. Does that make him a hero? Not to me. Sports figures are celebrities, not heroes. His accomplishments were legendary, but not heroic. What made him a hero was his triumph over cancer, combined with his ability to take the adversity he faced, the fame he’d acquired, his innate talent, and his drive and ambition and create an organization that raises money to help cancer patients every day. I don’t know if he’s guilty of the accusations levied against him, nor do I care. What I care about is whether those accusations will ultimately cost his foundation, and therefore, the cancer patients who benefit from it. The loss of the titles isn’t the tragedy; the detriments to the organization is.

Neil Armstrong was also an American citizen, but he didn’t even belong to this planet. He left footprints on the moon. He risked his life for his country when we were engaged in the space race, and he left this earth to help the Unites States win that race. However, when he set foot on our moon and said, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he wasn’t just talking about our country; he was talking about the world. Decades later, our country collaborates with several other countries in space, working on the International Space Station, an endeavor that probably wouldn’t have been possible without Armstrong’s efforts. His passing is a sad thing for those loved ones he leaves behind, but his legacy is a proud one.

As writers, we will likely never have titles that can be stripped from us. We will probably never have one line that the world stops and listens to us speak. But our words do live on for eternity, so we should choose them carefully. We shouldn’t steal them from others. We shouldn’t carelessly and quickly publish them and move on to the next project without concern for quality or integrity. We may never be heroes, but we do touch people’s lives, and we have a responsibility to do so to the best of our abilities.

What One Online Tool You Might Be Using Incorrectly to Get to Know People

I recently read a post called “eBooks and the Personal Library” (http://scholarlykitchen.sspnet.org/2012/08/20/e-books-and-the-personal-library/ ) by Joseph Esposito in which he posits that the day of the personal library is falling by the wayside. He came to that conclusion during a move in which he parted with many books rather than paying for the shipping cost. I, too, have been there. I’ve moved from Pennsylvania to Ohio, to Michigan, back to Ohio, and to Arkansas, and every time my physical library has taken a hit. I’ve built it up in each new residence only to have it reduced in the subsequent move. It is currently the smallest it has ever been, and it’s being replaced by eBooks. It’s a trend that I’m not completely in love with— there’s something about the feel and smell of paper that will always comfort me— but it is convenient and it’s here to stay.

Something Esposito said stuck with me, though. He said that we can’t tell what kind of person someone is by seeing what book is on their table because books aren’t there anymore. We need to see what is in their GoodReads or LibraryThing accounts. That statement really gave me pause.

Maybe I’m just a cynic. Maybe it’s the overprotective mom coming out in me. Maybe I need to stop watching the evening news. But I have a difficult time believing in the sincerity of online profiles, even ones as innocuous as “what I like to read” accounts. I think the only way to really get to know a person is to get to know them personally. If you meet them face-to-face and see for a fact that they are reading A Tale of Two Cities, then it’s highly likely that they are reading it. If they just say they’re reading it on their online profiles, it’s hard to take them at their word. They may be reading it now, but they may have read it years earlier and are secretly reading something they’re too embarrassed to admit to, or even nothing at all. How many authors out there are willing to write to the world that they are reading books that are getting bashed by the media or books whose content would get them looked down upon by friends or associates? Yes, there are people who will be honest about what they read and who they are, but there will also be people who won’t; people who list literary novels in their libraries and spend evenings snuggled up with beach reads (or worse). Furthermore, often authors are asked to review books outside their areas of interest for fellow authors. You could see five star reviews of sci-fi books on author pages who really only read and definitely only write historical westerns. That’s akin to false advertising. The booklist profiles really can’t be trusted as viable sources of information about the readers.

I know in this day of advanced technology we all are just a keystroke away from corresponding with almost anyone around the globe. It’s an exciting and fascinating time. But I just don’t think I can safely say I can make judgment calls on strangers based on booklists, or any online profiles. I guess I just miss the days when I could shake someone’s hand and look them in the eye. Barring that ability, I’m not going to use booklists as a screening tool. I’ll turn to social media avenues (see that word social in there?) to try and determine what kind of people they are. Blog comments, Twitter posts, Facebook presence, WANAtribe… these are the tools I use to interact with people online (huh, interact, another keyword there).

I feel the pain of Mr. Esposito’s loss. I miss my books, too, and I miss the days of libraries and big bookstores and snuggling up with an actual words-on-paper book. He has a fantastic blog (http://scholarlykitchen.sspnet.org/) that I urge you all to visit. But I wish him, and everyone, success at screening booklists when getting to know people online. I’ll stick to actual communications instead.

Back to School Blues

So today is the first day of school for the kids— again. Where did the summer go? We had so many plans: picnics, vacations, honey-do list items… So little of it happened. Twelve weeks came and went as quickly as a visit home (which by the way, we also didn’t manage to squeeze in this summer).

This morning, I was up at 4:30, probably because I was dreading the alarm ringing at 6:00. When I woke the kids (who still can’t manage to get up on their own), they both asked for more time. I’m their own personal snooze button. They finally got moving, and I took the obligatory first day photos before we piled in the car and headed off for school. I can’t believe my son is starting high school and my daughter is in her last year of junior high. I remember when I took them to their first day of preschool. They marched in their respective classrooms without so much as a backward glance at me. I sat in the parking lot and cried my eyes out. They might have needed me. I had to be right there, not a phone call and a drive away. Finally the administrator came out to my car and gently but firmly suggested I leave. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. Still today my kids go to school without looking back. Probably because they’re half asleep, but also because they’re ready to start the next phase of their lives. And I know I need to get on with mine.

Writing is very much like that. There is some truth to what people say about written works being like authors’ babies. We grow very attached to our stories and have a hard time letting them go. But there comes a time when we need to realize they are ready to send out into the world, and we need to move on to other ventures.

On the first day every year I send my kids off and have that momentary twinge of panic then I grieve because I miss them like crazy, but I know they’re where they need to be. I also know I’m where I need to be— writing my next story.

It’s Up To You New York, New York

Ah, Old Blue Eyes. I fell in love with Frank Sinatra when I was a young girl and saw Guys and Dolls on television. That’s when I also fell in love with Marlon Brando, but that’s a subject for another post. This post is about New York. Specifically the Big Six publishers. When Sinatra sang “I want to be a part of it, New York, New York” I’m sure he wasn’t singing from a writer’s perspective talking about getting a publishing contract. But I hear that song and it’s like it’s coming from my heart and soul.

I don’t know what route my published works are going to take. I have one finished novel currently with a small publisher, and I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day. I have a finished first draft that I’m currently revising, and I don’t know if I’m going to go the self-publish, small-publish, or New York route with it when I’m done. I see merits to all three.

Self-publishing is great because you have complete control and reap the most rewards. However, all the work and responsibility is yours. Sure, the writing and revising is a given. But cover design, marketing, extra editing, conversion to e-format… all on you. No help. And, while it’s getting better, there has been a stigma in the past with self-publishing because anyone can self-publish (hence the name), so there is no quality control. There are some really bad books out there. Some people assume if you self-publish it’s because you weren’t good enough for a publisher to take a chance on you. Writers know that isn’t the case, but not all readers are on board with that premise yet. It’s getting better. Cream does rise to the top. I’m just not sure yet when the readers will find the cream. I want them to know I’m the cream and I want them to know where to find me.

Small publishers are becoming a popular choice for writers. It’s the route I chose for my first manuscript (knock on wood). They seem to be a nice middle ground between self-publishing and getting that elusive New York contract. Some accept electronic submissions, which is a big plus. Also, they will handle the cover design, the copy editing, the e-format conversion, and even some marketing for you (check your contracts!) but that doesn’t let you off the hook. Distribution will be severely limited to regional stores, if they print books at all, and you’ll still be expected to do a lot of marketing on your own. Plus, you’ll have to share more of the profits than if you self-publish. At this level, an agent is a good idea, as a contract is involved. At the very least, get a lawyer to review the paperwork.

Agents are a definite if you choose to go the New York route. You aren’t going to get your manuscript on an editor’s desk unless an agent puts it there, and it will definitely be a bulky paper copy. Another bonus is the big publishing houses will do all of the heavy lifting for you — above and beyond the efforts of the small publishing houses — but be aware. You have the least control when you go through the Big Six and you share a bigger percentage of the profits than in self-publishing or with small publishers. They’re also the slowest to pay the royalties out, although you do often get an advance. (New authors will get much smaller advances than established authors. Of course, new authors have trouble getting in with the Big Six to begin with.) What is the biggest benefit you get from going the New York route? The backing of one of the Big Six. If you can say that New York is willing to take a chance on you, then cautious readers are more likely to take a chance on you.

So with the trend going to eBooks and the Big Six hesitant to sell eBooks to libraries and having a tenuous relationship with Amazon… it’s hard to know which way to go. Small publishers look like a bargain, but they look like a lot of work, too, when you consider that for just a little more work you get complete autonomy. Still, I hear Sinatra crooning, “If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere, New York, New York.”

At the end of the day, I probably should finish my revisions before I make any decisions. What have you decided, and how is it working for you?

A Legacy is More than Boxes of Photos

My grandfather was a photography nut. I won’t go so far as to say he was a photography buff or an amateur photographer, but he was into taking pictures. Of his family, mostly, and friends. I never saw a picture of interesting buildings or pretty foliage. My grandfather took pictures of people. Often twice, because he’d forget to take the lens cap off.

He was so excited when my sister went to the prom that she and her date had to repose for all the pictures. Because he left the lens cap on. (I secretly think he was just stunned she got a date — just kidding, sis!) I’m not sure how you and your family pose for prom pictures, but in our family, it’s just short of a wedding shoot. Pictures of the girl alone, pictures of the guy alone, pictures of them together. Pictures of her getting the flowers, pictures of him getting the flowers. Pictures with the parents, pictures with the siblings, pictures with the whole family. Pictures with the grandparents… you get the idea. Is it an Italian thing, or was it just my grandfather setting a tradition in my family?

It wasn’t just the proms, though. In the summers, he’d have me and my cousin stand in the flower beds to take photos of us by whatever was blooming. They usually planted geraniums and impatiens. When my grandma wasn’t looking, my cousin and I would bend down and pop the impatiens’ seed pods, and my grandfather would laugh. If Grandma would see, she’d yell and we’d run away, and he’d just laugh louder. And then usually he’d realize he had the lens cap on and we’d have to come back and do it again. Afterward, we’d get Gram’s lemonade and cookies, so who could complain?

There were always photos at holiday mealtimes. We have some wonderful snapshots of tables laden with food and everyone is gathered around them, forks or glasses raised in salute of a toast having been made. But someone is always missing from the photo, because someone was behind the camera. Usually it was my grandfather. I have one nice picture where my grandfather is actually at the head of the table… my uncle took the shot; he’s absent from the photo. When I grew up and started hosting meals, I took a photo at my home. I wasn’t in the shot. It was kind of depressing, because it reminded me that my grandfather wasn’t, either. He’d been gone from us for many years at that point. I never took another photo at the dinner table. Really, at some point one of us should have learned to use the timer function on the camera.

My grandfather’s gone, and all we have now are boxes of his photos. Half of them are black, thanks to the lens cap. He’s in so few of the photos, because he was always behind the camera. But still, he gave us so many memories to remember him by. Not the big trips or the gorgeous monuments. It was the little things.

The grandkids in the flower beds.

His daughters in the kitchen with their mom.

His sons-in-law in the alley washing a car.

The family at the table.

We don’t have to worry about lens caps anymore when we’re taking the photos. But we should all learn to use the timer.