My Philosophy Evolves

The more I study, observe, reflect, pray, live, the surer I am that there's this greater understanding of people.
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It transcends organized religion, judgment, morals, values, opinions, beliefs, lifestyles, choices, circumstance. It has more to do with broad spirituality, a certain awareness. A kind heart, and open mind.
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It's an understanding that will beget acceptance and love, regardless of our differences, yours and mine.
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I'm not saying I've attained this understanding. Or that I fully grasp it, even. It's bigger than you, bigger than me. But I feel like I've seen glimpses.
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When one I loved was dying, and his hereafter was imminent.
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When I met someone who was different from me, in most outward, conceivable ways, and I enjoyed being with him anyway. Because I saw that there was no right to wrong, no bad to good, no my way to his.
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When I accepted that another woman is no better than me, no worse than me, though we spend our time in such opposite worlds, with opposing morals and pastimes. I will love and celebrate her anyway.
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It comes down to more than I can take in with my own eyes. You know? Because not everything can be explained away in black and white, categorized as yes or no, placed in my treasure box or yours. Who am I to imagine otherwise? To think I'm privileged with belief, or that I have an advantage through my lifestyle?
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When I embrace it, this way of thinking and trust, I feel most right in my heart. With God. In the world.
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What do you think? What's your philosophy?
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picture by p.j. mcadie at flickr.com

Random Question #10

We all have something we keep hidden, downplay, try to overlook, whether it's physical or emotional. A method of life, a secret, a hurt.

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For me, it's a scarred ear.

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What do you hide?

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Photo by Dalla* at flickr.

Just Everyday Stuff

It was an odd spot, sitting smack on the floor between the couch and coffee table.
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The things before me were the stuff I've seen everyday. But from the new vantage point, I was forced to think on the items individually. It all has story, I realized.
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What catches your eye first?
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For me, it's the Dr Pepper crate. It's my favorite bubbly drink, for starters, and it just happened that this crate was in a pile of things a family member--Hi, Cousin Jean!--gave to me.
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The crate rests on a quilted doll blanket. It was my husband's grandmother's when she was a girl, growing up in the '30's. Very cool. And the end table it covers belonged to my parents. I adopted the table, painted it white, and it lived in my girls' room for a time, before I repainted it brown and it found this home between couch and loveseat.
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In the crate are books. Really, no surprise there. They're mostly coffee-table books; home decor and trivia, some were gifts, the rest I've picked up in hodge-podge places. I love the look of the many grouped together. That front book, The Trellis and the Seed, is a book for all ages, about faith and growth. It's written by one of my favorite authors, Jan Karon. (You'll find a link to her website in my sidebar.)
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The lamp base was my uncle's. (If you were around a year ago, you may have read my post about him.) The shade--it took me months to find one big enough--came from a church rummage sale, a quarter.
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Can you see the globe in the back? It was another thing I waited months to find. Globes are aplenty in antiques and thrift stores, but they're also expensive. This one is from FAO Schwartz, had a high original price, but I found it at the DAV thrift for $8.98. I love that patience is my friend with these sorts of things.
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And there's that stick at the left. It might be the most important piece. It was my dad's walking stick, and I love that it's in my living room.
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Have you ever just looked, and considered the things that occupy your everyday world? What stories do they tell?

Friday Fiction

Today I've a guest post and flash* piece at Linda Hoye's blog, My Own Velvet Room.

If you don't mind the hop over, I'd like to know what you think! And say hello to Linda while you're there. She's a wonderful gal, with some great insights into life, and memoir writing.

*Flash fiction is a short piece of fiction, 1000 words or less.

An Explorer's View of Life... and Death

Did you know Barry?

He was a blogger, a connection, friend to many. He shared his life journey, stories about his beloved dog Lindsay, and, more recently, his experiences with cancer. He was honest, warm, realistic, hopeful.

I'm heartbroken by that word, was. I've learned that Barry died yesterday.

He was my dad's age. The same sweet kind of man, with a parallel story of cancer.

Barry had been a voice of comfort as I dealt with my dad's struggle; even as he struggled on his own, Barry offered me support and hope.

News of his loss has me snuffling and crying and heaving. Because Barry's gone, so sad on its own, and it reminds me so sharply that my dad is gone. That hurts.

My thoughts and prayers are with Barry's family. He will be missed.

I hope Barry and my dad are in the same wing of the same place, that they might cross paths. They'd be friends, I know, and that would just be really cool.

To see a bit of Barry's legacy, visit his blog.

Rose & Thorn Literary Journal

Rose & Thorn seeks to bring the voices of emerging and established writers to a discerning audience. We strive to reflect a diversity of style, content, and perspective in the short-fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry showcased each quarter in Rose & Thorn Journal.

from the R&T website

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Sound like a fit for your writing? Rose & Thorn is now taking submissions for the Fall issue. Visit their website to get a feel for the publication, and to find out more.

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While you're there, see my post at the R&T Blog.

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Last month I accepted a staff writing position! I'm so excited about this new endeavor, and hope you'll like my first article, It's Like a Game, about characterization.

One Story, Many Authors

Here's our story, written as it grew snippet by snippet, through comments on this blog. (See contributors here and here.) You might see a shift in voice, a shift in style... but that's the fun of a progressive tale...

She opened the door with anticipation more than strength; she'd been looking forward to this all week. Placing her hand over her middle in a futile attempt to still her anxious stomach, she muttered, "Butterflies, eh, feel more like raging ants."

Claire stood at the end of the dull hallway, with two long braids stretching down to her waist and a small, pale hand clutching his. Their eyes met over her little head, his cold and calculating, hers, wide and a little scared. Claire's musical little voice broke the contact.

"Are you sure we're ready for this, Jason?"

Jason's head slowly turned away from her. Claire saw his shoulders raise as he took a deep breath. She knew what that meant, she had seen it before.

So unlike [their] Dad, Jason was going to let her take the lead again.

The door swung away from Claire's hand, as though grabbed from the other side. The fragrance of lavender and old age filled their heads and quickened their pulses. It was the last time they'd see home. At least home as they'd ever remember it to be.

Gram sat on the davenport, elegant as ever, but moved her hand slowly as she pointed to the keepsake box high the top of the buffet. "It's time you knew the truth before it's too late," she rasped.

Her small hand formed a trembling fist. "Rap on the top of the box three times, quickly now."

Inside the box was a small butterfly broach that laid on top of several small torn pages and a few pictures turned upside down. Her hand still trembling as she went to turn them over.

Who were these people in the pictures? They looked familiar somehow.

"Gram, I don't understand. What am I looking at here?" she asked, voice shaking.



The old woman looked at Jason, her face hawk-like, her eyes full of accusation. "Ask him. He knows."

or

"Your destiny," Gram said. One lone tear followed the crease the smile line on her face.

continuing…

Gram was being vague again, yet truth rang in her words. Frowning, Claire tugged on a braid and studied Jason. What did he know of destiny? Of dust-lined pictures hidden in a box?

He didn't meet her pointed look, choosing instead to pluck the pictures from Gram's box and hold them up to the light.

Shock wrapped around his mind as he stared at this haunting image. "How is this possible?" he whispered to himself.

"Look," his voice barely a whisper. "Claire, it's us."

He held out the picture, and she snatched at it.

"When we were... oh, but it can't be." Claire turned to Gram.

...And that's it. I've added nothing. (My only contribution was the very first line.) I just want to leave it hang here, because I like the way we can form our own conclusions.

What scenario comes to your mind?

Well done, everyone! Thanks for adding your own bits. I think it's a great experience, and I appreciate your participation.

Have a wonderful weekend.

The Journey

As you begin to tell your story, the first thing you'll find is that story telling is not about giving away information but about withholding it; the information itself is never as important as the path you take in disseminating it.

Noah Lukeman, literary agent and author

The Plot Thickens

chapter 4, pages 81-82

Random Question #9

Do you remember your school's alma mater?

Really think, now. If so, post it in comments.


*Thanks to everyone who participated in our progressive story. I'll be posting the finished piece on Wednesday or Friday. Be sure to come back!

*Soon my first article will be available online at Rose & Thorn Literary Journal, with whom I accepted a staff position last month. Exciting! I'll share a link when it's up.

*I'll also have a guest post at Linda Hoye's place, My Own Velvet Room. Stay tuned!

About Doubt

I doubt myself. As a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a believer. But mostly, as a writer.

Sometimes the words fail me. Their chemistry, their composition, their themes, they elude me. And I think, how am I supposed to be a writer this way? How am I to write a novel? How do I make it deep and shimmering and worthy and good, with all the quality fiction is supposed to have?

It's a tough place to be, because here I have this dream, and this story to tell (a book to write), and an effort I wish into existence.

Yesterday I was reading Donald Maass' Writing the Breakout Novel. I don't know if I can articulate what I read--it was a breakdown of one author's plot, for just one of her titles, in how she made it work. And what I needed to be doing--no, what I was doing wrong--just sort of lighted on me. I knew what I wasn't doing, but more, what I needed to be doing.

And then I took a close look at my work-in-progress. At where it sits now, starting at the very beginning. Because you know, you can't see what you have unless you start at the very beginning. Then I took it from there, and started to implement this new what-I-should-be-doing thing.

It sounds so simple. It's not, not in the long run, but for that moment, it was as simple as simple could be.

I saw my WIP as it could be, that maybe it will work.

And it made me think, I can do this. I can be a writer. I am a writer. Look at me go.

It feels like anything--even publication--is possible.


**I'll leave our progressive story "live" through the weekend. I'll reassess next week, and we'll wrap it up then. See two previous posts for more details.

Wanted: More Story

It's a progressive story; one we're writing together. Thus far...

She opened the door with anticipation more than strength; she'd been looking forward to this all week. Placing her hand over her middle in a futile attempt to still her anxious stomach, she muttered, "Butterflies, eh, feel more like raging ants."

Claire stood at the end of the dull hallway, with two long braids stretching down to her waist and a small, pale hand clutching his. Their eyes met over her little head, his cold and calculating, hers, wide and a little scared. Claire's musical little voice broke the contact.

"Are you sure we're ready for this, Jason?"

Jason's head slowly turned away from her. Claire saw his shoulders raise as he took a deep breath. She knew what that meant, she had seen it before.

So unlike her Dad, Jason was going to let her take the lead again.

The door swung away from Claire's hand, as though grabbed from the other side. The fragrance of lavender and old age filled their heads and quickened their pulses. It was the last time they'd see home. At least home as they'd ever remember it to be.

Gram sat on the davenport, elegant as ever, but moved her hand slowly as she pointed to the keepsake box high the the top of the buffet. "It's time you knew the truth before it's too late," she rasped.

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Thanks to our contributors! (To get the details, and see who's responsible for what part, see this post and its comments.)

And so what happens? Add another line or a few, here in comments. Tell us what's next...

I pledge allegiance
to the flag
of the United States of America,
and to the republic
for which it stands,
one nation
under God,
indivisible,
with liberty
and justice
for all.

The Pledge of Allegiance

Together Again, It's Storytime

Remember when several of us worked together to write A Rose By Any Other Name?

I got to thinking we should do it again. Might be fun? What with the summer slump I know many are in thick, now's as good a time as not. Right?

So you remember how it works. My start to our progressive story is below. Take turns, in comments, filling in the next excerpt. Come back as often as you like, but do allow others between your segments, and add just a few sentences at a time.

Be sure to read what's already been written, and let it flow from there. You don't have to be a writer by trade or passion; all are welcome to participate. Spread the word, too!

We'll let this run at least a week (unless the story gets incredibly long, and I see a good spot to cap it off and jump in to write the conclusion). I'll announce more about time frames and the final piece later.

In the meantime, have a blessed and awesome Fourth!

Our story begins a little something like this...

She opened the door with anticipation more than strength; she'd been looking forward to this all week.