Tag Archives: inspiration

What to Expect When Your Writing Class is Online

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Tempted by the forty free online writing classes available at my public library, I enrolled as an experiment. The full catalog of 350 courses competed with MOOCs (massive open online courses) and delivered a shorter continuing education opportunity in writing and other business topics. I joined with a hundred online learners from across the country and Canada for a brief six weeks of creative writing lessons. The interaction and other classmates were as interesting as the course content.

The exercises began innocently enough asking each student’s reason for taking the class. I’ll share several of my submissions. For instance, here’s my introduction:

The dog made me do it. He worries about neglecting important things like watching sunsets, skipping rocks at the lake and hiking nearby trails.

sitting writer2It was irreverent compared to the other classmates’ expressions of genuine excitement and unbridled nervousness. They used their first name, their full name or a nickname like Jelly Bean, Milwaukee Maiden, GalSal or Mother Bird. The anonymous classroom became a haven for over sharing. I discovered, most of the class was currently in crisis – death of a loved one, newly retired, birth of an infant, empty nests, schizophrenia, cancer, abuse, graduates from high school or college, English lit major wanna be’s, traumatized veterans, divorcees, joblessness, dead end jobs, stressful “on the verge of quitting” jobs, sexuality concerns, and caregivers to parents and spouses. The class offered an outlet to cope, a catharsis for the traumas of the past, present and future.

To that note, I was not so far removed from crisis myself. One of the assignments required writing about a candle. Pent up emotions spilled into this exercise. Yes, tears fell on the keyboard over an imaginary candle with a fictitious past.

The tin box sits next to an empty and worn book of matches from a Mexican restaurant near my mother’s old house and a cigarette lighter I confiscated when my teenager flirted with smoking. Graphic whirls of block printed roses decorate the lid. The image resembles both my college hand-carved block printing and my Connecticut rose garden including the wicked, hateful thorns of the floribundas deceptively named Cinderella. Yet, the tin hints of a different Cinderella – purses, crowns, wavy flourishes and little flower dots of pink – and a costume, plastic face mask on top of a printed rayon tunic visible through the cellophane window of a shallow cardboard box. I lift the candle’s lid, smell the sickly perfume of roses and remember my mother. I spark the lighter. The candle wick, a charred nub at the bottom of a melted ring in the wax, fails to light. I return the heart-shaped tin and matches to the drawer with other keepsakes and throw the lighter in the trash under the sink.

Two months after writing about that candle, I reread my passage and still feel the complex emotional mother child relationship, filled with roses, thorns and cigarette lighters. Fortunately, the next assignment was safe from my own memories and focused on a prompt, an ex-spouse arriving on a bus in a snowstorm. Each student chose a point of view and present or past tense. My classmates, more savvy to the woes and causes of divorce, wrote of anger, betrayal, infidelities, abuse and addiction. Instead, I wrote of a homesick young man uncertain of his future.

John jolted awake at the bus driver’s announcement of Grand Haven. The snow globe effect of pelting white flakes obscured the view of his hometown bus depot. He grabbed his backpack and rushed to the door to find whichever family member drew the short straw and had to pick him up in this miserable weather. His mom probably paced at home at the front door waiting for him, having planned a family get-together to hear his tales of living in New York, the small bit part in an off Broadway theater and his new friends in the city. Bounding down the steps, John slipped on the last wet step, tumbled out the door and landed spread eagle on top of a woman waiting with her bag. Expecting her to be angry or hurt, John jumped up only to discover Martha hysterically laughing and joking about his daring dive and poor timing to wait until their divorce was final for a grand effort.

The most joyful assignment embraced free writing – unfiltered and unedited. The instructor explained about Galumphing and Bricolage. Galumphing was to select an item from three different categories – a person, a place, and an object. I chose Bricolage which was to write whatever comes to mind about trivial objects, such as a candy wrapper.

The iridescent candy wrapper rested in my palm, a tidy two inch square of yellowish cellophane. In my kitchen, I sucked on the hard candy, mystified at the pleasant, yet unrecognizable, exotic flavor. And when I glanced again at the wrapper, it was twice the size. I scratched at my head, pondering where had I found this odd candy. Oh yes, it was in the console of my car after I had let my lost, and recently found, relative Larry take the car for the week to Burning Man. I wanted to ask him about the candy, but Larry, was still sleeping in my guest bedroom, a walk-in closet if you want to be precise, and by the sound of his snoring, probably out of contact for the next four to six days. Now, the candy wrapper was weighing heavy on my hands and increasing to the size of a poster board. I reached for the ruler in my kitchen drawer and found I was too short. The wrapper had not grow; I had shrunk. Naked, I slipped out of my very large clothes and tore a bit of the wrapper to use for petite clothing. I vaguely remembered seeing other candies in different colored wrappers. If the yellow wrapped candy made me small, what did the others do? Which color should I eat next?

For each of the assignments The instructor urged the class to follow the golden rule of feedback – give comments to receive comments. My fragile crisis-fraught classmates needed support, encouragement and praise for their brave undertakings. And every evening, I returned to the class website to see the comments left for me, such as the ones below on my Bricolage candy wrapper exercise.

Jenn on 5/28/2015 10:09:51 AM

What a great twist! I love it! Makes me think of Alice in Wonderland or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. So creative!

GalSal on 5/28/2015 12:46:57 PM

Wow–I was so fooled until you said you had shrunk.  Great imagination!

Chuck on 5/29/2015 8:17:01 AM

Great creativity, it kept me spellbound.  Are we having fun yet?

Joy on 5/29/2015 5:27:38 PM

I struggled with bricolage but you made it seem easy to be creative with something so simple

Dave on 5/30/2015 10:10:56 AM

A great start and you could take it in two interesting ways.  The obvious, fantasy way, is to go on a hunt for the other candy.  The other way, the candy having come from Burning Man, is that the character is tripping and she might have some explaining to do to people that wonder why she is running around naked with a piece of candy wrapper for clothing.

Lea on 5/30/2015 6:42:35 PM

It also makes me think of Alice in Wonderland! I like the normalcy at the beginning while it slowly starts to become magical. Great 🙂

Mama Crow on 6/1/2015 5:53:07 AM

What an adventurous piece! Great job keeping the imagination vividly strong!

Milwaukee Maiden/Linda on 6/3/2015 4:52:21 PM

Very good storyline with a twist. I enjoyed reading it. You will make a great writer.

The course made me appreciate the ability of technology to engage humanity across the country. The encouraging comments were fun and an unexpected treasure. Before the class ended and all the words deleted, I copied the comments to a file and saved them for a time when I might need generous and supportive comments. For now, another class begins.

 

One Part Genesis, One Part Darwin and One Part Machiavelli

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Although I might plan to relax or sleep, writing ideas germinate at the oddest times. I jot a note on Monday to write about one topic. Tuesday counters with a new subject or two. Wednesday offers three more choices. After the month passes, I have pages of new ideas for short stories, posts, and even novel worthy topics. The difficulty comes in choosing and debating the strength of each idea.

A genesis process begins before each project. An idea fragment initiates a chain reaction. In true Genesis fashion, here’s what happens to an idea for something as simple as a blog post.

The Paris Review tweets a 1980s interview with Raymond Carver which begat
rereading “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” which begat
watching Birdman and the use of Carver in the movie which begat
finding other films directed by Alejandro G. Inarritu which begat
studying Inarritu’s co-writers and the two years to write the script which begat
researching cinematography for a one-shot narrative which begat
discussing the similarities between Birdman and a play which begat
outlining theme connections between Carver’s story and the film which begat
finding examples of magical realism . . .

Now Darwin, the scientist whose name symbolizes survival of the fittest, comes into play. The possibilities for the Carver idea within what I call my “genesis stage” are numerous. I keep this idea, and who knows, it might be a post on this blog in the future. The subject interests me much more than one of my other ideas about the financial funding of literary magazines. Although valuation practices and financial topics are potential dinner conversation at my table, the rest of the world might be in REM sleep after appetizers. Unless a topic can evolve, the idea turns cold, extinct and not fit to survive in my black and white world of words.

As the deadline approaches, I enter the “Machiavellian stage” of decision making. In the example of this blog post, three ideas remain – the Carver Birdman Connection (CBC), Writing of Mom (MOM), and Genesis, Darwin and Machiavelli (GDM). Now, my brain wrestles with the competing ideas.

CBC: There’s research into my idea. But how will it hold together?
MOM: Remember mother’s birthday is on the post date.
GDM: There’s not much time. The MOM topic is a bit too sentimental.
MOM: What about “writing secrets” kept from mom?
CBC: That could be rich.
GDM: MOM is too fluffy for June. That’s an August topic.
CBC: I suppose it is between GDM and me. I have a wealth of material.
GDM: Carver-Birdman is too heavy for a June post.
CBC: My topic is fascinating. It could be more than a blog post.
GDM: You’re right, it’s too big for a blog post. Discussion over. Now write.

With the argument settled, the post topic practically writes itself. Tomorrow begins a new round of genesis, Darwinism and Machiavellian debate over which story to finish or whether it’s time to return to the manuscripts.

Read Books, Review Books, Remember Books

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FullSizeRenderOn this blog, I’ve written about journal writing.  I’ve written about reading books.  There was a time when I did both: I read books and journaled about them. Go figure.

After last month’s journal expedition, I wandered through my bookshelf and discovered a journal wherein I reviewed books for myself as a reminder of what I read and what I thought.  I forgot I had done that.

My inspiration came from those funky “record your recollections” books found in your bookstore’s gift section.  The fun titles and decorative covers invite you to review wines, where you drank them and save the wine labels. You could write about the places you traveled and significant snippets of the journey. Journal titles encouraged memories of meals and restaurants, favorite songs, meaningful quotes, garden plantings, lists and more. Since my two main interests were books and movies, I decided I would chronicle my impressions of each.

Rather than pay for a fancy-schmancy, pretentious book with pages too small for a proper review,    I could make my own book better than any preprinted book. Besides, I found a pair of regal spiral bound notebooks, elegant in their 8″x10″ stature. The simple black hardcover was perfect for a funky, relevant, inspirational postcard. I clipped identical, important-looking blue gel pens in the rings.  I was set to write whether at home or on-the-go.

I recorded each book in the same look, manner, and design: “The Title” by Author; Month and year I finished reading, and my review.

It was the prehistoric equivalent of modern day Goodreads.

FullSizeRender2I tabbed four sections. The front main pages were reviews of the books I read. The second tabbed section I reserved for books recommended to me or that I wanted to read. The last section has some pencil scribblings on the first page; it looks like I planned a “books I borrowed or loaned.” I didn’t know enough people who read books. There is a third section tabbed off but with nothing written on those pages I have no clue what I intended.

I reviewed books from July 1999 through September 2002. My first reviewed book will remain nameless because it is so horrible. I wrote: “College life…here was my chance to see how someone else does it. I’ve learned how not to do it. I have no idea what any of the characters look like. Everyone swore, drank and got drunk. C’mon, a keg at your final? A torture to read but I had to finish it for story’s sake. I forgot that there had been a framing structure at the beginning. Events just end and everything is summed up neatly, compactly, and smoothly like the end of the stereotypical sitcom. Now writing about it, I can put it out of my mind.”

That book was my first exposure to self-published books, often called vanity press back then. This book had to be good. After all, it was a hardback book, with a colorful cover, I discovered at an independent book fair in New York City. That gave it validation. Ever since I read it, this is the book I refer to anytime I need an example of poor writing and the desperate need for an editor.

The General’s Daughter by Nelson DeMille. July 1999

“Print from this ‘old style’ trade paperback dirties my fingers. I like the movie better than the book. Narrator often sounded like the author, not the character.” The ending was given away too soon. Very few ‘he said’ in text and was often confused by who was speaking. Movie was more coherent, flowed better.”

The House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. November 5, 1999

“Never was I so glad to finish a book!”

I developed a fascination about writing the true story of a real person. I moved away from fiction and desperately sought solid nonfiction. I read a series of disappointing memoirs after that. One review included my insightful comment: “In the last two memoirs, the struggle is established at the beginning but then the readers never reap the benefits of success.”

Good advice to remember as I finish my memoir.

Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. November 25, 1999

“This book made me uncomfy [uncomfortable]. That was wonderful! I want to read it again.” In January 2000, I did just that. “The second reading as powerful as the first. Real writing, honest and true yet not sappy. There’s a reason this has been on the best seller list for over 100 weeks.”

Falling Leaves by Adeline Yen Mah. Saturday, March 4, 2000

“A tragic memoir wonderfully told. Her words: simple, and I got so caught up in her storytelling I didn’t notice.”

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. June 2000

“Good example of a story told through many smaller, seemingly unrelated stories. I’d like to see how the movie translated this fine book.”

As of this writing, I have not yet seen the movie.

The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank. August 13, 2000

“What a quick read! Recommended by Jane, I echo her thoughts: I wish I’d written this book.”

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden. March 2001

“It has been so long since a book snagged me so completely. I was up nights swallowing every word until way past my practical bedtime.”

I wrote about the Harry Potter series from December 1999 to 2002. Interesting how my opinion has changed since those initial readings.

My last entry is Diary of a Mad Bride by Laura Wolf. September 2002

“B-day gift from Dawn, I read it in about one week. Funny, and a lot more truth in there than any bride would care to admit. Written in short journal entries, it’s easy to read. I must read this closer to my wedding 🙂 again!”

I never did read that book again, but maybe I will now, especially since I am married.  One part of my New Year’s Non-Resolutions is to revisit and reread an old favorite book.  I’m faced with a dilemma: which one do I choose?

Do you have any recommendations of good books to read, or ones to avoid?

How do you choose a writing journal?

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Just like magic wands, a journal must choose you.

As a child, I expressed my deepest thoughts, heartbreak and angst in various hardcover journals, college-ruled notebooks and at least one Dear Diary with a metal lock. Did you pour your heart out in a journal? I still journal, but not as much as I used to. I wish I could say that’s because I have no adult angst, but I can’t lie. To make sure I carve the time out to reflect on myself, “journaling more often” is one of my New Year’s Non-Resolutions I committed to with my writers group.

My old journal ended today after five months of use. In my younger days, I could’ve blown through that purse-size, 4”x6” journal in less than two months. And in my younger days, I would never have used such a small book. Regardless, I need a new journal.

I have a collection of journals ready for words waiting for me on my bookshelf upstairs. Too many, one might say, but I hold an emotional attachment. Besides, can you ever have enough journals, whatever the style?

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

Dancing space sheep swirl around me, complete with glitter and memories.

As I slide my hand down the row, examining each spine and shape, I think about reducing my stack. Here’s an opportunity to donate old journals I no longer enjoy writing in, either by size or style, and toss out ones with bad karma. I’m thinking of a specific one given to me by an ex-boyfriend’s mother, but I may have used it already. I don’t recall what it looks like when a bright purple spine pops out at me. Friendly bubble letters beckon me with one word: Journal. I pull it off the shelf and cradle it in my hand, staring at the cover. At least 30 seconds pass before I figure out that the abstract glittery shapes are sheep floating in space. It’s rather trippy.

Each white, lined page of the 5×7″ book is bordered with a quilt-like pattern of muted mauve hearts and stars. Sometimes I prefer pages with lines to keep my sentences straight and even, and other times, wide-open blank pages inspire me. Sometimes I like to write on bright white to show a pen’s true color, while other times my eyes want a muted tan or yellow page. This portable, lined, white-page journal in my hands seems fine to me. The psychedelic cover makes me weirdly happy. Now to flip to the inside cover and see if I made any notes about the journal’s date or where it came from.

Karma’s a bitch.

This journal was a birthday gift 15 years ago from a friend I no longer talk to, mailed to me at a previous job that was absolutely vile.

This is the kind of karma I was talking about, so I set it aside, not even putting it back on the shelf. There are plenty of other journals here. A leather dragon-covered book is too heavy. One large notebook has a handmade cover with buttons on it, a good memory of the person who made it for me, but a bit awkward for my needs right now. I don’t want this other one with a wooden cover. That blue Moleskine is too small. The ring binding on another is too big. Nothing fits my mood except the funky sheep journal.

This empty journal is scrawled with memories. I taped the original mailing label inside the front cover, which is why I know from where it was mailed. Just seeing the company name brings back stomach-churning memories of the underpaid job with the stuffy upstairs office where I worked. I remember the two sloppy mistakes I made that make me feel uncomfortable and stupid to this day, and the disrespectful ex-boyfriend I worked with who constantly yelled insults at me.

During that time, I had my friend, that lovely woman who knew me well enough to know I’d enjoy a fun-looking journal, perhaps a dollar store find, and mail it to me at work to brighten my day. Even today, I recognize her thick, curvy handwriting from the numerous letters we mailed each other. We met during one of my most unique summer jobs. And for reasons I don’t recall now, we immediately became friends. I took my first trip to Walt Disney World with her and a friend. She and I took a road trip to Salem, Massachusetts one Halloween weekend. The last good memory I have with her is bouncing on her friend’s outdoor trampoline on the afternoon my boyfriend-now-husband called to tell me he bought a new car, the car we still drive today.

She and I lived about seven hours away. I only saw her when I drove home to see my parents, and even then, I didn’t always have the time for the extra 2-hour drive. This one weekend, however, I was home for a long weekend and my Sunday was completely open. We could meet halfway and catch up in person, so I called her.

“I can’t,” she said. “I watch football with my boyfriend on Sundays.”

I never knew her to be a sports fan, but I was a far-away friend in town for the day. “What’s it going to hurt, taking one afternoon off?” I asked.

“I can’t. We watch football on Sundays.”

I understood that sports aspect with guys; my boyfriend-now-husband watched college football on Saturdays. He liked it when I watched the games with him, but if I wasn’t there one weekend–like this weekend I was currently away for–his life didn’t end and we didn’t break up. I’ll be there to watch games with him weekend, but I will not be within driving distance of my friend next weekend.

“Not just this one Sunday?” I asked her, hearing my voice rise in a pleading tone.

“We watch the game together,” she replied.

I never met her boyfriend, but I got the sense he was a demanding man.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but my friend was always independent. If she hadn’t been dating him, I was sure she’d make the time to see me. I told her how hurt I was, how I thought he might be controlling and I was saying that because I was looking out for her, as a friend should, but in the end, I lost the argument. We spoke once or twice on the phone after that, but she stopped returning my calls. I lost my friend.

I was surprised to receive a sympathy card from her when my dad died. She must have been on the overall distribution list when I emailed the news out. That was a nice gesture, really touching, but I didn’t know what to say, where to begin again. I don’t recall mailing a reply to her.

Now this journal calls me. I don’t know why. Does the journal want me to fill it with good memories, turning something positive out of a bad memory? Is its purpose to just fill the pages and “git ‘er done” and out of my life? Does my journal want some closure for me? Some reminder of better times, or is it a nudge to do something more?

All I know is that the two floating cosmic sheep make me smile, and I have to choose this as my next journal. Maybe with a wave of a metaphysical wand, I’ll figure this out by the end of the journal. Or maybe the last page will be just a last page.

Insta-success with Instagram

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Twitter is stupid, and Instagram is for people who can’t read.”–Max, 2 Broke Girls

I always think of that quote when I mention Instagram to others.  Instagram is a social site for sharing snapshots.  If you don’t like imagetaking pictures, this post won’t be for you, but you should read to the end just to make sure.

As a writer, or any business owner, you need to find social media platforms that work for you and your desired end goals.  The sites need to be ones that you will maintain and that are fun for you.  I think Facebook is a big time-suck with algorithms that don’t let me see the feeds of everyone I want to in the order that I want to.  Still, I have a Facebook Author Page that I modestly keep up with.  I have discovered informative people through Twitter and it seems to be popular for writers.  It’s hard to keep up with the news feed some days, but there’s some good interaction with my tweets.

What about Instagram?  I’m a scrapbooker and, by default, take hundreds of photos every month.  I’m surprised it took me so long to find the value in Instagram.  My first two photos posted the week of June 10-16, 2012 (138 weeks ago) when I was just playing around with some filters on my first smartphone.  They were pictures of teddy bears.  I didn’t know what else to do with it, so I trailed off and lost interest.  I picked it up again the week of February 2-7, 2014 (53 weeks ago, or just over a year) as an outlet to showcase my writing, initially my haiku poetry.  Now I use Instagram for my writing and…well, stop on over and check out my photos at @dwhirsch.

I use Instagram as a marketing tool as much as a social experience.  I don’t pretend to know everything about Instagram.  I read information from bloggers who have done the research, such as @jenns_trends, who is a goddess on Insta-information.  What I’m offering is my personal experiences and successes adapting those tools.

To use Instagram effectively, you have to decide what you plan to share.  This can change over time, but start with some initial rules.  My guidelines are the same ones I have for my personal blog.  I never post pictures of friends or family without first getting their consent.  I don’t post photos of my house because I have “location services” turned on my phone.  I don’t want people to know where not to find me when I’m out of town.  There’s nothing valuable, explicit, religious, political, controversial or anything my dad–were he still alive–would be disappointed to read about me.

image

Instagram is Insta-easy to use, and the site’s features are relatively uncomplicated and obsessively playful.  It’s free to set up, and I recommend you snag your profile information now: create your Name (generally your real name or business) and Username (what you’ll be known @as). Photos are posted in a square, and most smartphones have a “square” option in the camera settings. If not, or if a square cuts off some important part of your photo, there are many free apps that will shrink your photo and place a border around it. To post, just upload a photo or 15-second video that you take live or have stored in your smartphone library. You can alter your media with black-and-white, sepia or color filters, with additional tools to adjust the image’s brightness, contrast or saturation level.  Finish it off with a frame or vignette, add a caption and press Share.

Now that you’re live, how do people find you?  Your 153-character bio, along with your photo’s caption, and hashtags need to be creative, potent and relevant.  Going back to Max’s quote comparing Twitter and Instagram, the latter is not restricted to 140 characters.  Your photo or video should tell a complete story, but you can use about 440 words to explain that image. This comment section is vital because you can tell your story and highlight your image using crucial hashtags.

Instagram is hashtag heaven. People with similar interests will find you based on how you tag your images.  Common hashtags reflect those you find on Twitter, but you don’t have to be familiar with Twitter to use Instagram.  Think about what your picture is about and tag your image with common terms.  As a snapshot in the moment, you can showcase a twisted #tree branch, a royal #sunset, a #selfie in your awesome new #shirt, an art exhibit or the #bananabread you’re baking.  You’ll get a feel for tags once you start using them.  Tags have no spaces and use just alphabet characters with no suggestions, so type in exactly what you’re looking for.  Much like Twitter lists, you can also create hashtags to group your own images in a somewhat folder design.  Some of mine include #iamapoetess, #SnuffletFinse and #Champsp. Be sure to check out this group’s posts, which are under the same hashtag as on Twitter: #dwriters.

The Explore tab complements tags by suggesting people to follow based on tags you use, images you’ve ‘Liked’ and people or companies that your followers follow.

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Oh, yes, companies use this.  Instagram is a successful marketing tool, a highly-used space to display products from #clothing to #cosmetics. Check out companies like @Bathandbodyworks, @Ford and @Applebees.

I sometimes stage my work because I want my followers to see the best of me.  I give my followers a peek into my writing, #Zentangle art and my overall creative process while infusing my quirky personality and personal interests.  Think about it: if I follow a particular author, I feel more connected to the “person” rather than to the “celebrity.”  Therefore, I’ve taken my book cover image and overlaid a part of a review on top of it.  I type up actual text from my latest #shortstory or #poetry.  Photo editing can be fun.

Given my goals, I show images of blue-inked-up work as I edit my current draft.  I show the #coffee shops where I #amwriting. I show the stages of my Zentangle #wip so people can see my creation from start to finish. I have too much fun with it on the go not to let it be organic.

Remember, social media is social. I share my work and myself because like Max on #twobrokegirls, the experience on Instagram is more social. I comment more than I Like because the image doesn’t always grab me but the story in the caption section does.
image When someone takes the time to comment on my work, I respond to every–and I mean every!–comment made to me even if that person replied with a smiley face emoji.  I appreciate the time that person spent appreciating me, similarly the gratitude when I receive a #bookreview on #Amazon or #Goodreads.  If nothing else, I reply “Thank you.”  People like you when you like them.

What are the benefits?  The most important is meeting people with similar interests.  I’m reading a #memoir recommended by a follower who is #writing her own memoir. I’m inspired by new #art and #painting techniques.  I’ve been challenged to take pictures in #blackandwhite.  I could meet any number of them for #coffee if I was in their area.  I have a connection to these people. You can do the same with your peers and have fun doing it.