Writing Spaces

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Armed with an iPad and wireless keyboard, I have the ability to write just about anywhere. On a late September day, I drove north in the hope of seeing the first sign of fall displayed in the color of the trees. With the tools of my trade in tow, I stopped to do a little creative work in the library of a small town, Bad Axe, located smack dab in the middle of the thumb of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. About two and a half hours and 125 miles from home, I stood in the foyer and read through local advertisements, tourist pamphlets, and notices of community events that were tucked along a wall. Intrigued by the pioneer log cabins just across the street, I picked up literature about them in the pamphlet, “Museums of Huron County, Michigan.” Appreciating the vast acres of farmland all around, I also grabbed information on the “Huron County Nature Center.” One unexpected but pleasant surprise (please don’t think I’m as geeky as I appear right now) was the last copy of the “Michigan Antiquarian Book Dealers & Book Binders Directory.” I anticipated that a friend’s name, Phil Rosette, would be somewhere within its pages, so I had to take it. As soon as I found his and his wife’s business listing, I realized the distance from home just didn’t seem all that far away.

I looked forward to the inspiration I might find in this new writing venue. A sign in the foyer requested that cell phone discussions only take place here, a space separated from the rest of the library by glass doors, so I silenced my phone as requested, before going into the computer area. Inside, there were eight computers, three of which were being used by patrons checking e-mail, playing games, and searching the Internet.

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Bad Axe Area District Library

I set up my equipment at a long, unoccupied table and began typing. I made progress on an article until one well-dressed, sport-coat clad gentleman came in. His smile made him look friendly, and I actually thought maybe he was the mayor just stopping by to say hello to friends and neighbors. He sat down at one of the computers and began typing. I didn’t find the clickity-clack of his keyboard to be distracting. Muffled conversations with his constituents were tolerable. But this man’s chomping gum…it was loud, endless, and just as aggravating as fingernails running down a chalkboard. Ugh! I frantically reached for my ear buds, crammed the plug into the jack of my cell phone, and turned up the volume on my music selection. The pop-country music group Rascal Flatts drowned out this professional-looking man’s annoying habit and calmed my nerves. However, I could no longer focus on my writing.

Evidently, I have lost my youthful ability to tune out the world around me in order to concentrate and get my work done. Having grown up in a 900 square-foot home with one sister, two brothers, my parents and a dog, I used to sit at our family’s kitchen table to do my school homework. The TV or radio served as my background noise. Neither kicked out neutral, white noise, but both helped me control the sounds of a busy household environment.

Now a mother to four nearly-independent children, I have the luxury to pursue a lifelong dream: writing my first book. In the past year, I’ve tried writing on airplanes, but I don’t like the thought of anyone peering from behind to read my work-in-progress before it’s been revised and polished. Local coffee shops are out of the question; I might run into someone I know and neglect my work. Libraries would seem to make perfect sense, but here I was failing to appreciate the ambiance.

Immediately, I missed the solitude of my home office, the comfort of my own chair, and a self-indulgent cup of cream-and-sugar-laden coffee. I wondered how other writers could get anything done in public places like airports, coffee shops, and not-so-quiet libraries. I realized that the spaces we choose to write in often reflect our personalities.

My favorite writing space certainly says a lot about me. The office itself is mostly mine. Shelves holding my reference guides, journals, and a voice recorder share space with my husband’s golf and sports memorabilia. Filing cabinets hide my projects, mementos, and ideas squeezed tightly between the kids’ school papers and activity schedules. But it’s the desk that gives away the most telling signs of who I am.

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In the center of the desk is a lamp I purchased because it reminded me of my former pastor, Janet Noble-Richardson. She annually took teenagers who were involved in our church’s youth group from our city of Livonia, Michigan to New Wilmington Mission Conference at Westminster College in Pennsylvania. One year when Janet couldn’t be there, another friend, Linda, and I substituted as chaperones to continue the tradition for the children a little while longer. I spotted the stone lamp during an excursion from the conference to The Silk Road Fair Trade Market.  I was drawn to the piece because it had been made in Pakistan, the place where Janet had spent the first eleven years of her life living with her missionary parents and siblings. I could offer you a hokey explanation that she was like a “light unto the world,” which in fact she was, but that connection never entered my mind until now. Simply, the lamp reminded me of her because it came from the earth where she grew up. I missed her. She died in a car accident in 2006, the year before this trip. Linda still grieved for Janet too. She bought a matching lamp.

As I look at the other items on my desk, I know most of them hold special interest for me. Black and white pictures of my children, dressed in fancy clothes for my brother’s wedding, lie on either side of the lamp. Mr. Bill—yes, the one from Saturday Night Live of long ago—is a gift from my son. An “Angel of Friendship” figurine is from a best friend. My favorite Christmas photo sits out all year long and reminds me of my family’s playful side: that time we were wrapped in ribbons and bows. A bud vase holds pretty, girly, crystal-adorned pencils and pens that contrast with the most recent desktop accessory: one old, ugly, tattered Stieff puppet that I bought at an estate sale. What could have easily ended up in someone else’s trash became a treasure to me when it helped me get to know a friend’s shy five-year-old son. The boy at first thought the monkey was creepy (it is), but after a fun guessing game of I Spy, he affectionately named it “Chocolate.” It now sits over a plastic water bottle and remains one of the best memories I’ve ever bought, and it cost me merely 50 cents.

Besides the personal items, there are almost always piles of papers, the most ominous of which is the stack of “to-dos.” When I get overwhelmed, or take a picture for a blog post, I hide these piles from view and enjoy the multi-faceted illusion of having nothing to do and looking more organized than I am. At ease and surrounded by feelings of love, I leave the TV and radio off, sit down at my computer, and crack open the blinds of my window to the natural beauty outside. Noise can’t compete with my inner thoughts. Aah. This is my favorite writing space.

I’d love to know where your favorite writing space and/or your dream place is.

(One day, I hope to be writing in a beachfront condo overlooking the cool, white, crushed quartz sand that lines the shore in a certain place along the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe it won’t be completely quiet, but it will be peaceful.)

A Picture is worth a Thousand Words

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When you read the title, A Picture is worth a Thousand Words, I bet most of you think of an award-winning photo. Maybe you think of the famous photo in Times Square with the sailor kissing the girl on V – J Day. Or, maybe it’s the little girl running naked and burned after the bombing of Hiroshima. Maybe it’s a more romantic image, say of Marilyn Monroe getting her skirt blown up from the air vent. The question I’d like to ask you is, what do all of these images have in common?

They each tell a story.

For this blog, I decided to do a writing exercise with you. I went to my Pinterest account where I have a board called Scene Inspiration and another one called Possible Character Images. I picked the images below and combined them together to tell a story. When I’m brainstorming or have writers block, I find it helpful to pull inspiring images that help me flush out a character, setting, etc. that I’m interested in adding to my many manuscript ideas. It especially helps when I’m just starting a project. In this case, it was because I was having trouble deciding where I wanted to go next in an existing manuscript. Stumped on one thing, it’s helpful to free-write when your creative mojo decides to take a hike, so that’s what I did. I encourage you to do the same thing if you’re having trouble.

As I was writing, something interesting happened. I’ll discuss what it was after the free-write below.

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GQ Magazine UK, 15 February 2010, Sienna Miller: Out in the Open, Photo by Simon Emmett

 tree tunnel

Imgur.com, 2012, Gallery, 1000 Year Old Yew Trees in West Wales

 

I call it the Central Park incident. The only thing I remember of my life before then is my name, Anna Maria Bonite, and a majestic white speckled horse that felt like he was a part of who I am, and trees so gnarly, black, bloodied, and twisted, they give me nightmares. My driver’s license, which the police found in my pocket, said I was twenty-four at the time, and that I lived in New York City.

           It isn’t that I don’t try to remember my life before then, it’s that I can’t. Every time I try to open up that part of my memory, it’s as if I’m drowning in a sea of emotional pain so thick, it gives me the cold sweats and shakes bad enough that the symptoms hold me immobilized in bed for days.

It has taken me a long time to control the blank pockets of time locking that part of my consciousness away even though I desperately want to know what happened before stepping into the park. What made all those memories disappear? The one and only time I entered Central Park, there was a flash of memory that brought the insidious image of the trees to life. The memory was evidently so painful my brain decided to fritz out, protecting my psyche. It felt like my head split wide-open as sharp daggers sank into my skin, then only darkness. When I woke up, it was in a bed, a week later, at Mount Sinai Hospital. The doctors told me they could find nothing wrong with me physically, but whoever I was before that day was a dark, blank canvas. I was a functional, healthy person, able to do normal things. I was perfectly educated, but with no personal identity, no memories of going to school, of friends, of where I grew up; nothing.

Lately, things have been slipping pass my hard built walls, the walls in my psyche made of layers of steel and barbed wire. I can no longer keep my fear at bay while working and I have to fight the mounting panic. If it wasn’t for the blaring horns, the racing taxis that zig and zag through traffic, pedestrians at all hours, the sounds of people jabbering on phones, friends talking at the sidewalk cafes, the construction machines moving steel and concrete through the air as I walk the paved streets of my city, I would have gone mad years ago. It’s when I’m near a living landscape surrounded by trees that my memories deliver the sharp pain.

Six years have gone by since the Central Park incident, since all the smaller attacks in between.

Because of my “condition”, I’m not able to hold down a job for very long. Employers don’t take too kindly to me being absent more than a couple days a month. Well, okay, more than a couple days a month. Looking back on that morning getting fired never got any easier.

***

“I’m sorry, Anna Maria. I’m gonna have to let you go,” my latest boss mumbled while looking at his scuffed shoes. He felt bad, she knew. They always did.

I heard his words and I felt the weight of them on my shoulders. Was I surprised? No. That’s why that morning I decided for a change of scenery. The words still hurt though.

That morning, when the sun leaked into my tiny Manhattan apartment, I crawled out from under my favorite white satin sheets and down comforter–my only luxury– and made my first cup of coffee. Wandering over to the map, tacked to the wall, the fifty states stood out in a pastel array of colors. Lifting my mug, I blew out a breath, watched the steam float away, and took a sip, hoping my first delicious swallow of Columbian goodness would help me decipher my troubled thoughts.

“Where should I go?”

***

I didn’t want to leave New York, but I was feeling a pull in my gut toward something, I just didn’t know what. My eyes kept drifting toward the west coast but eventually they moved over the map’s mitten state. I felt it in my stomach, a small flutter getting wilder and wilder every time my eyes landed on Michigan.

A shiver raced up spine and out my fingertips. There were too many trees in Michigan. Why was my brain telling me to go there?

Maybe if I moved to a larger metropolis, I would be okay.

Moving closer to the map, scanning the bigger cities, my eyes landed on Detroit. It was no Manhattan, but I could make it work. I just had to forgo all the great parks that the state touted.

Another sip of coffee and I made my decision. I was moving to Michigan.

Would the change in location give me answers? I didn’t know. Whatever the pull was, I had never felt it before, so my gut was my compass and I was following it.

It wasn’t quite a thousand words but it was a worthwhile exercise. Because my thoughts are on the series I’m working on, the characters are always present in my mind, be it consciously or unconsciously. While writing, the Anna Maria Bonite character popped into my head and it created a new direction for her character. Right now in my story, the reader will presume she is dead. Therefore, even though I am stuck on the manuscript I’m working on now, something good happened trying to get myself unstuck.

Write Something

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“You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.” Jodi Picoult

Creative writing is not the same as making a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup. Once you put an ingredient in the pot, you can’t remove that item. The flavor changes with each addition of a vegetable, meat, or spice. Soup-making mistakes aren’t easily corrected.

Writing is different. You can put on paper descriptive words that don’t quite capture your thoughts. Continue writing. You can change words that you have written, but you can’t change what you don’t write.

Are you staring at a blank sheet of paper or blank screen? That’s writer’s block. Try quick writing which is timed, continuous writing without self-editing. Pick a subject; don’t agonize about it. Open a dictionary, novel, or newspaper. Pick any word. That becomes your topic for freewriting. This seems silly at first. However, your mind isn’t hampered by spelling errors, punctuation concerns, or difficult plot points. Write for fifteen minutes without stopping to change anything.

My first experience with quick writing came when a creative writing instructor told the class to write the word “chair” at the top of a sheet of paper. We were given ten minutes to write about a chair. At first I struggled. When I began to imagine who might sit in that chair, my writing took off.

Don’t want to try quick writing? Write about something you’ve seen or heard today. After reading a newspaper article, give your opinion of the information or on the writer’s interpretation of the event. Read a book and change one significant detail to give your spin to the tale.

Another way to stop the dreaded writer’s block is to take an idea from a book you’ve read or movie you’ve seen recently. Pick a scenario you would have created differently. Write this scene your way without stopping to correct spelling, change names, or edit in any way.

Try this: Close your eyes and picture a moonlit beach in the Caribbean. If you’re into murder mysteries, picture a couple walking down the beach when suddenly the woman pulls out a gun and shoots the man. If you’re into romance, picture that same couple suddenly dropping to the sand to make out. If you’re into science fiction, picture the couple discovering unidentifiable footprints in the sand. If you’re into memoirs, try to remember the last time you walked a sandy beach.

Do you self-edit as you write? Stop it! Editing while you’re working on your manuscript stops the creative flow. If you think of an alternate word, type it in red, underline it, or put it in the margin without deleting what you’ve already written. Check your thesaurus later to select the best word. You can always edit later by adding thoughts, deleting dialogue, or changing plots. YOU CAN’T CHANGE WHAT YOU DON’T WRITE

Readers World: A Spartan inside Athens

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Each independent bookstore has a personality. It’s what draws patrons back, and leaves memorable experiences that you come to expect with each visit. The box chain stores struggle to create such a personality. It’s not the fault, usually, of the employees as the major chains maintain a brand where one who visits any of their stores would feel like they are in the same store. That is to say, that most items are located in the same place regardless of building. Of course there is some variance. So it was an interesting experience to enter the store that headlines this blog. It reminded me of a chain that is long since disappeared. That’s not intended as a criticism. I was a regular visitor of Waldenbooks. Now I found a place that I would not expect to be located in an area that exuded such a different personality–hence the subtitle.

Readers World: A Spartan inside Athens by John McCarthy, Twitter + Pinterest: @jmccarthyeds

Holland, Michigan is beautiful town that offers much for tourists who are looking for a quiet place near beaches and restaurants. The downtown area is a must visit place to browse the many specialty stores, ice cream + candy shops, and restaurants. Parking is plentiful and allows time for long walks and relaxing meals. An added bonus is checking out the local bookstore, Readers World.

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The store is located on a corner, with parking in the back. Entering, I’m reminded of the Waldenbooks stores that populated the malls. The appearance is spartan. The bookshelves are solid and functional. There is no thematic designs like The Java Script. The lighting is spare, unlike the museum elegance of Book, Inc. It’s not what I expected located in the trendy downtown area. But it’s straightforward style does not disappoint as the selection is easily navigated for any reader’s taste.

Books line every wall. The assortment crosses many genres so that there is a sampling of everything. The magazine section captures your attention as it’s huge, and covers many topics.

2014-08-18 16.52.41Readers World is a nice stop to browse books, check out possible purchases while sitting on a bench, and take a break from the heat or cold depending on the season.

On leaving Readers World visit one of the ice cream stores for a treat.

194 S River Ave, Holland, MI 49423

If you know an interesting bookstore, share. I might be in your neighborhood during my travels. I’ll be sure to visit. Maybe it’ll show up in this blog 🙂

My Little Girl

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What follows is a well constructed memoir piece that looks at the interactions of two people…

 

After several years of marriage, Tim still did not have any children, even though he wished for them.

One day at the Hacienda, a Mexican restaurant, Tim and I had a quick lunch. He had a chimichanga and mine was a chicken dorito with cherry flavored Mexican tea. We tried to solve the world’s problems over lunch: dope issues of the world famous cyclist, Lance Armstrong, stock market crashes, General Motors’ troubles and Chrysler’s bankruptcy.

“I got a little baby girl,” Tim mentioned, changing the subject from gloomy world issues to family affairs.

It was hard for me to understand what he meant. He never mentioned that his wife was pregnant. When he showed affection for children and wanted to have his own kids I asked him if there was a possibility of a pregnancy soon. “My wife can no longer have a baby.” Now, clearly I was told he has a baby girl. What should I say?

“Umm, umm, congratulations,” murmuring and hesitating, I sipped my cold tea to wash down my throat and thinking what “little girl” means. I was digesting the words, “my little girl”.

His wife cannot get pregnant and so they adopted the girl? I changed the subject from “my little girl” to the stock market and told him I bought Ford stock at $1.80 per share about a year ago at the bottom price. Now it is $6. I always brag about the $1.80 per share of Ford stock, even though I bought very few shares, and also do not say that I bought it at a much higher price on other occasions. I am like the gambler who told us all the time about his winnings and never told us about his losses.

“Great! You made lots of money. A rich person like you gets richer and richer, just like the song says, ‘The rich get richer and the poor get children.’”

Tim’s serious facial expression indicated he wondered why I did not ask more questions about the girl. On my side, in order to continue our conversation, I had to buy time to think about what to ask. Avoiding his curious look, I continued, “Not really. The break even point is about $13, long way to go.” I stopped for a few minutes to talk. After washing down my food I continued, “Did you adopt her, where is she from and how old is she?”

He was quite still and yet I continued, “Adoption is not easy and takes time and money. I have heard there is lots of aggravation and you need a great deal of patience. Years ago many Korean babies came to the US through adoption.”

Tim’s face was frozen like an iceberg and I wondered if I said something terribly wrong. In order to thaw an awkward moment I wanted to change the subject to the lubricant industry trends that are our mutual interest: restricted raw materials from the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and environmentally friendly products.

Abruptly he spat out the word “Hedgehog”. In a moment he continued. “The little girl is a hedgehog.”

“Hedgehog.” I repeated exactly what he told me and repeated again, “Hedgehog?”

“We bought a hedgehog at a pet store. It’s a girl and it’s our baby.” Tim concluded his formal announcement.

I had never heard of “hedgehogs” and never saw one. Tim caught my lack of knowledge about hedgehogs and quickly took out the picture of his baby, “hedgehog”.

Ha, ha. Oh my gosh, I told myself, but I was afraid he might hear my voice.

I was totally lost. A hedgehog is a pet. Unbelievable. It cannot be a pet. We left the restaurant and he was so happy about having a pet hedgehog. In contrast, my mind was full of questions about her. What is a hedgehog?

The next day I asked Patti, my secretary, to pull information from Google about “hedgehogs”. Patti printed pictures, some stand up with rabbit’s eyes, black mouth and pink clothes and ribbons in their hair and others just sit absentmindedly.

It is amazing that she wears pink clothes.

My head was spinning with unbelievable issues. I was incapable of thinking and I had very little energy left to talk to myself. It is just my ignorance.   As a pet, people own alligators, snakes, cubs and others. This is not new. It is only new to me.

“Tim, the hedgehog, what is she eating, like table food or pet food?” I asked Tim the following week over coffee. I had been holding my curiosity for a whole week.

“Oh no. She likes hamburgers and fries from White Castle.”

“Umm,” I sighed. I simply did not know what to say for a moment. I was totally lost for words, however, I was glad that at least the hamburgers and fries were not from McDonalds, which is my favorite place to get senior’s coffee, $0.65 per small cup.

“She sleeps between my wife and me, just like our little baby,” Tim continued in an exceptionally good mood.

Again I was quiet and busy looking for words to continue our conversation. Finally before our chat ended, I told him my story. “I did not have any pets in my life. Oh, I take that back. When I was in Korea our family had a watchdog for the family, not a special breed. He ate leftover food from the table and slept in the yard. We never allowed him to sleep inside the house, even during the coldest winter.” I continued, “Since I came to the USA I have four children and it was enough for me to take care of them. Actually five, including the big boy (my husband).”

“We might need a watchdog to prevent intruders when we move to the house on 20 acres of land that is isolated from the city,” I finished.

“Um. No, no. A dog cannot protect you from a thief. An alarm system is much better protection than a dog against a robbery” was Tim’s suggestion.

A couple of weeks later we sat over coffee again and the usual business items were discussed. Because of my lack of knowledge about hedgehogs, I was holding off the conversation about his little baby girl. But Tim could not keep quiet and was eager to update me about her activities.

“I thought the hedgehog felt lonely and in order to give her company we bought five small goldfish for her, but unfortunately, a couple of days later they all died. My wife’s sadness almost made her pass away,” he continued. “Kook-Wha, as you know, usually a frog lives longer than a fish, so I bought four African frogs from a pet store at $1.99 each after the fish died.”

I thought, Tim is taking care of the hedgehog’s loneliness by buying fish or frogs? I could not understand this, even if I died one hundred times and lived again one hundred times.

Tim’s enthusiasm would not let up, “A couple of days later, somehow two frogs did not have energy and stayed at the bottom of the aquarium while two were swimming around the five gallon tank.” I was just listening, listening and listening. My confusion about hedgehogs, fish and frogs was so great that I wondered whether I was living on earth or in outer space. “You know, Kook-Wha,” “Um um” was my expression. “I was terribly afraid that they would all die in the tank and so I picked them up and put them into a jar and threw the jar into the garbage dumpster in our apartment complex.”

I thought that really made sense and I told myself, Excellent job, Tim. “Tim, the hedgehog cried?” Finally there was room in my brain and I asked him with a big smile on my face.

“Kook-Wha, that is not the end. I thought of everything to take care of it. It was last night when I threw the jar with the frogs into the dumpster. I was happy that I would not have any more headaches about frogs.”

“Then?” I interrupted.

“I got a phone call at my office this morning from the veterinarian and my wife.”

“The hedgehog is sick?” I questioned him with surprise and anxiety.

“No, not the hedgehog. She is doing well.”

“Then what?” I could see his frustration and he had a couple more sips of his coffee that was getting cold and he was trying to organize his thoughts.

“I thought my wife did not know I threw the frogs away in the dumpster. The next morning she found the jar in the dumpster and warmed it with a blanket around the jar, because the frogs were from Africa, and then she went to the vet.”

I was frustrated more than Tim by controlling a burst of laughter or a mixture of strange feelings about unbelievable animal lovers’ behavior.

“The vet will charge me $2,500 for each $1.99 frog.”

“Tim, maybe just $25.00. It cannot be $2,500.00,” I comforted him.

Tim’s anger was at the breaking point, and I thought he might break the table, but he kept himself well under control. Tim did not mention the vet’s diagnosis or what the doctor told his wife. The vet running around the clinic table working on the frogs was beyond my imagination.

Tim has a very nice Harley Davidson motorcycle and whenever he has time, he rides his bike to Alaska or Tennessee from Indiana. That is one of his hobbies. When he and his wife go on summer vacation riding on the bike with the hedgehog, naturally they will put her in a small basket and have a wonderful ride.

“Kook-Wha, we will take the hedgehog when we go on vacation.”

“Sure.” No doubt, I agreed.

“My wife put her in a chest by wrapping her in a blanket.” My mouth dropped open waiting for his next sentence.

One week after the fish and African frogs were gone without becoming friends with the hedgehog, Tim bought two lobsters, blue and red, in order to eliminate the hedgehog’s loneliness. Tim thought one lobster was not enough, that two would be better. I admired Tim’s tenacity in finding company for his little baby girl.

Last night an e-mail came from Tim. Before I read it, my first instinct was, Oh, no. The lobsters died too? But, actually he made a website of his baby, “hedgehog”. His baby was wearing a pink dress. With perfect round blue eyes, she was looking at me without any fear or curiosity and with extreme happiness. I am looking at her with the exact same feelings, without fear or curiosity.