Writer's Block and other things that blow our way

By Betsy Love

Have you ever made the conscientious choice to go for a power walk when a wind advisory has been issued? Now, mind you, I love the snow, I love the sunshine, I love the rain, but let me tell you when it comes to wind, I hate it! Let me repeat that, in case you didn’t get it the first time, I hate the wind! Since I’ve issued that statement let me explain my insanity.

I’ve sat here at my computer day after lonely, pitiful day, feeling ever so sorry for myself. (Can’t you just hear the violins playing softly in the background and then swelling to a piteous, mournful melody?) When I went to the valley to see the family last weekend I stepped on the scales and jumped off immediately. The stupid thing had to be off. I couldn’t have possibly gained that much weight in only a few months living by myself. I checked it again, making sure that the dial wasn’t off. I had no idea dark chocolate could do that to me. I vowed then and there that I was not going to buy new clothes to fit my expanding frame. My resolution is to lose weight, get in shape and fit back into my darling swimsuit by the time I move back to the valley. Which brings me to walking in gale forces.

Before I even began my walk the front door blew in on me and I had trouble getting it latched. This walk will go much faster, I thought to myself, if I listen to an audio book. When I managed to wrestle the car door open and retrieve the CD, there were no batteries. I didn’t let that stop me. I began my brisk jaunt with my head high and a smile on my face. That is, until I turned the corner and hit the wind full force in my face.

Who needs wrist and ankle weights when just walking into the wind puts enough resistance to make you feel like you’ve got Thor, the pain inflicting personal trainer at your side. Only half an hour, I told myself. Yet every time I checked my cell phone I’d only progressed five minutes at the most. My internal whining set off and I began telling myself things like, “I never liked that swimsuit in the first place,” and “tents make great dresses.” It wasn’t until I rounded another corner and passed the cemetery that I realized that I wasn’t ready to pick out a grave site, which was where I was headed if I didn’t take better care of myself. I passed the trailer my friend had recently moved out of. (It should have been condemned years ago.) The front door stood wide open and I’m sure the wind whistled through every crack in the floor, doors cupboards and falling ceiling tile. Shuddering I was glad that my friend had found a much more suitable home. I guess I needed small reminders that my situation could be a lot worse.

I willed myself not to look at my cell phone to check the time until I made it to the end of the road. By now fifteen whole minutes had passed and once again I was walking against the wind. My legs now ached. Those cute, Hanes sneakers look adorable with a jumper, but they are murder on the balls of your feet when going the distance. I stopped stretched my legs, looked at my feet and thought how good a nice soaking would feel.

When I rounded the second to last corner I finally stopped complaining and heard something. It took me nearly three-fourths my walk for me to get a clue that what was happening around me was a gift. Each tree had its own tune, no whispering here. Some of the trees whose spindly barren branches, reaching endlessly heavenward, cried out like the roar of a jet. At first I looked to see what huge plane was flying overhead. It was the wail of the wind playing its deep base roar through the branches. Everyone knows what happens when the wind whispers in the pines. Imagine what that sound is like when it blows so hard you think trees might go hoarse. Imagine that pitch even higher as it whips through the telephone lines and you wonder if one is going to snap and come hurling down at you.

Then I felt the wind as it yanked at my hair and flung it stinging across my cheeks. Pieces of dust and tiny pebbles flipped against my exposed skin and I had to squint and watch only the ground in front of me. Though it was only fifty degrees my fingertips felt pinched from the coldness of the air. My nose began to feel numb. My pant legs pushed against my skin and I thought of how cold the fabric felt.

I tried to smell the wind. I laugh at myself now, because wind that strong could blow off the spray of a skunk as soon as the creature released it, had I been unfortunate enough to find one. What about tasting the wind? Could I stick my tongue out and get a sample? I have to tell you that wind tastes like sand and debris and leaves and grit. I’m still chomping on the remnants between my teeth.

Today I was given a gift, the opportunity to use my writer’s talents to think about writing and how I need to use more of my senses. Tonight I’m using my money to get me a decent pair of running shoes, because come heck, high water or tornados, I’m going for a walk every night to see what I can discover about my writing.

"Short and very Sweet"

by Rene Allen

Today for my blog, I would like to share a favorite poem by Galway Kinnell (Selected Poems, Houghton miffin, 1982), which describes with delectable imagery some of my feelings about writing. For me, there is an added bonus because this poem pulls me directly back through time to my grandmother's house, to blackberry brambles and purple stained fingers, and dumplings at the end of the day. I hope you enjoy it.

Blackberry Eating
I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry-eating in late September.

Cecily Markland Shares News and New Lessons!

Thanks to someone else’s misfortune, I have the express opportunity to blog today. You see, today was actually Marsha Ward’s turn, but when she announced that a scratch on her cornea would keep her from being at the computer much this week, I jumped at the opportunity to fill in for her. And, because I did, I have a chance to share wonderful news!
My ninth grandchild was born yesterday just after noon. A beautiful baby girl, she has already found her way into my heart and established her place in our family. (Isn’t it funny how it only takes seconds to have that happen, leaving you shaking your head in wonder that you seem to “know” them so quickly?)
Yet, even as I rave and brag, I’m reminded that this opening and my chance to spread the word came my way because of Marsha’s mishap. So, while I am blessed to share, Marsha is missing out today.
While it’s not an extremely powerful example (and while Marsha will definitely return to blog another day!), I couldn’t help but be reminded of similar…and, also, of much grander…times when I may have won, may have triumphed, may have taken the spotlight, only because someone else stepped down, lent a hand, or otherwise helped me get there through some sacrifice or offering on their part.
Isn’t it true that, most often, our blessings come at someone else’s willingness to forfeit their time or their money or otherwise sacrifice in service to us? Isn’t it true that we are best taught, most wonderfully motivated and most impactfully loved by those who truly expect nothing in return?
In recent year, the business world has given rise to a buzz phrase, as companies are encouraged to seek for “win-win situations.”
If you were to extrapolate that out, think what would happen if, for example, you were never given a gift if the giver wasn’t first guaranteed that he or she would be “paid back” in kind. Consider what the world would be like if no one ever extended a helping hand or donated their resources without keeping a ledger of what was owed back to them. Unfortunately, that popular business practice seems to have permeated society and has even infiltrated our homes and taken root in too many hearts. Too often, like others, I am focused on what I am going to “get” rather than what I can “give.”
Now, I’m not saying that one who gives and shares “loses.” Far from it. Yet, too often, before I do the giving, before I invest the time and effort, I want a guarantee that I will win, that my book will sell, or that I will get an immediate reward for my efforts.
I want a “win-win” life. At least until I really think about it. After all, I wouldn’t trade the lessons I’ve learned in those times when I didn’t emerge a winner. I wouldn’t exchange the inexplicable joy that comes from serving anonymously. Nor would I give up the amazing change of heart that comes from loving unconditionally.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anywhere near perfect at any of those things yet. Perhaps that’s why I’m extra grateful for small sacrifices and service in my behalf, for the many ways others around me demonstrate what I hope to become…and, especially today, for new grandbabies to give me lots of practice in giving and loving.

Learning to Play the Pen . . . Or . . . Eating an Elephant (or Writing a Novel) one 15-minute bite at a time!

by Heather Horrocks

I wrote this several years ago for anyone who has a dream to write. I've gone back through and tweaked it and I hope you enjoy.

If you’re reading this, chances are high you want to write. Why? To become famous? To bank the big bucks? To be recognized for excellence in writing? To have your dream validated (I am a writer)? Behind these myriad reasons to write hide the stories within us that will no longer be contained, but insist on being written and shared. Writing these stories is what I call learning to play the instrument of writing. That instrument is, of course, The Pen.

If you’ve played a musical instrument before, you know you have to learn the basics, and then practice, practice, practice. The Pen is no different. We cannot pick up The Pen and be great the first time we try to make music. Why do we think we can? Because we’ve been listening to others play for years? Why do we think we can bypass years of practice? No one at Carnegie Hall is going to invite us to play the Pen after two weeks of practice. Really.

As a child, I was forced to practice the piano by my cruel and unfeeling parents. I did so every day (well, almost). Grudgingly. Haltingly. Pathetically. Until the day when I made the amazing discovery that I could play songs. In the instant I began to make music, practice turned from drudgery to joy. Now I’m glad my parents insisted I learn and I am asked to play for all sorts of occasions.

So here you sit. You pick up the Pen and say, “Hmm, interesting instrument. I think I’ll learn to play.” You learn the basics, things like show-don’t-tell, strong active-not-passive verbs, definite scenes and sequels, and how to invite your characters to introduce themselves to you. These are the scales on the Pen. Are you familiar with them? Have you learned the scales? Practiced them, day after day, page after page, year after year? (And the years spent thinking about playing but not actually practicing don’t count.)

If you need to, learn the basics from a Pen-Master. Find other Pen-Players and associate with them, for Pen-Playing is a lonely, demoralizing task. You might need help keeping up your spirits when your soul aches to play Mozart, but your Penmanship still struggles with Chop Sticks.

Yet if you are a writer, you must keep going. Why? Because you love the sound of the Pen. You love the emotion a well-played Pen can evoke, the hearts it can touch, the insights it can provide, the lives it can change. Truly the Pen is mightier than the sword, but only a well-played Pen in the hands of a true Pen-Master.

If you love the Pen, don’t be afraid--pick it up! Reach for your dreams! Do it! Lift your Pen and learn to play. Thundering chords. Crescendos. Soft haunting melodies. Light-hearted sounds of laughter. Become a Master of the Pen and your writer’s soul will rejoice.

Forget your excuses for why you can’t “find” the time to play the Pen. “It would be so selfish.” “I have a family.” “I have a job.” “I need my sleep.” Blah, blah, yadda, yadda. Pen-masters are creative, so create time to play. Create it from nothing if you have to. No one else will do it for you. In fact, others might try to keep you from it. Make whatever compromises you need to make--and keep practicing the Pen. All you need is a spare fifteen minutes a day!

And then, one magical day, you will lift your Pen to practice your scales yet again and, instead, find yourself playing the song in your heart--Mozart in place of Chop Sticks. Soaring runs, intricate fingerings, delicate pauses. You find you can play anything you desire. Others will gasp in amazement as you touch their hearts and souls and clap wildly after your performance. All of those moments of practice will be forgotten as you play with beauty and grace, power and precision, heart and soul. This is the day for which you spent all those hours preparing. So you could make lyrical, haunting, beautiful music that will never be forgotten.

One of my favorites quotes is this: “Destiny is a matter of choice, not of chance.” Choose wisely. If you spend just 15 minutes a day writing, five days a week, you will create musical miracles. Practice, Pen-Apprentices, practice. And, when you’re ready, I’ll come to Carnegie Hall to hear you play your Pen and marvel at the virtuosity of the Pen-Master you have become.

© 1998 Heather Horrocks You have permission to reproduce and forward this piece of writing as long as this copyright notice is attached, the text is not changed, and it is used for personal use only. Heather writes three types of novels ... Laugh yourself to death with the cozy mysteries of Heather Cassidy ... Fall in love with the romantic comedies of Heather Pyper ... Enlighten your life with the inspirational books by Heather Horrocks. Visit http://www.heatherhorrocks.com/ to see more.