Waiting

Billowing clouds and boisterous winds greeted us as me made our way to our prearranged meeting spot.  And while the temperature was warm, the wind was not, playing at our jackets with nasty catcalls.  The battle lines drawn, we stood our ground, at times more solidly than others.

Wavering from violent gusts made us check our watches.  The time was approaching, but would it come soon enough?  Could we withstand our foe a little longer, or would deliverance be forever too late?  Determined, we watched and waited, waited and watched.  At long last in the distance we could see it coming, nearer and nearer.  Finally, relief as my son was swallowed by the warmth of the school bus.

Yo-yoing

I look out my typical library window this morning to be greeted by a white landscape.  Colors are muted and few.  Random orange-brown leaves cling to occasional trees, and a yellow hydrant can be seen in the distance.  Even the cars passing on the nearby street  lack color beyond the gray of dirty snow or the white of excessive salt.  The sky is overcast.  I cannot distinguish individual clouds, it just seems one large white expanse overhead.  It was snowing this morning, but then turned to rain, and now no moisture falls.  It is cold and foreboding.

Only a short two weeks ago, it felt like spring - a false spring, no doubt, in the middle of January, but spring-like all the same.  It was warm and inviting.  Even when the rain fell, it fell from clouds riding in deep blue skies.  Being outside made me smile, not grimace.  I feel so hopeful in spring, so ready for the change in weather and circumstance.  I was sorry to see it end, even though I knew it would, knew that it was merely a hint at things to come not the actual time itself.

As I see the forecast for the coming week, we are in for more of the same - not snow, but winter to spring and back again.  I will relish the respite, however short lived.

My writing has mimicked the weather in this on again off again way - not the writing itself but how and what I write.  When I finished writing my first book, I had to ask myself, "What's next?"  After  created and then rejecting several novel ideas, I came upon one I liked, one that I wanted to own, one I wanted to read.  So, I began to write it.  But at times the idea seemed bigger than my abilities.  I wanted to do it justice and was fearful that I would not.

A different day, flipping through my notebook, I rediscovered an idea from a year ago. It caught my imagination.  Maybe I could write this story.  Where the other is emotionally driven, this one is adventure driven.  I felt confident about writing it, and letting the adventure take root and bloom in my mind.

And yet . . .   I have been writing this story, but the other day as I geared up to write on it further, I felt more of the emotional literature about me, and I desired to write freely from the heart.  So, I switched back to the first story, to once again write with great feeling.

Unorthodox is what comes to mind!  How can you write and be wedded to two stories at one time. I can't even read two books at the same time!  But somehow, this is working for me.  I choose which book to work on depending on my mood, my feel for the day.  I know this will take longer to produce a book, but in reality, when I'm done, I'll have two books.  I suspect at some point, one story will win out and monopolize my soul, but until then . . . it's neck and neck.

Too Much Information?

We live in a time of lightning fast information.  If a happening seems newsworthy or interesting or inflammatory it will be posted on the internet in seconds.  Other information is also available with a click or your mouse such as homes for sale all over the world, local basketball scores, or simply the weather for any zip code anywhere.

I have an app on my computer that shows me the current weather for my city.  It's a cold morning here, so when I logged on it told me the temperature in my city was 10 degrees.  Yep, that's about right.  It also had the word "blizzard" with an accompanying graphic of snowflakes.  Nope, that one's not about right, not even close.  There is snow on the ground, but not a single flake falling from the sky.  It's clear as clear can be, in fact has been all morning.  To be fair, ten to twenty miles north of us is experiencing snow, but not here.

So, how trustworthy is all of this information available at our fingertips?  Hard to say.  It's not often that we can verify truth.  In Latin truth is veritas, from which we get verify.  I suppose truth with a capital T is only what we can verify.  I remember a decade ago when my uncle died.  He was a local politician, so his death made the news.  However, the news station got the details of his death wrong.  I would never have known it was wrong if he hadn't been my uncle.  How many stories are like that? How much do we trust what we don't or cannot verify?

Now, I must apologize, because I've led you down the primrose path.  I've been pointing out the flaws of our information age, as if I was going to make some rallying cry for finding real truth or not being too accepting of available "information."  In reality, I'm thinking about how I can exploit this in a novel or two.  I'm pretty certain I can, if I want to.  But don't worry, in the end I'll tell you the truth. ;)

What's in a word?

I live in a small town, I imagine similar to other small towns around the country.   We are ordinary in many ways.  We are, on average, not poor, but also not wealthy.  We are a community focused on our kids and their education.   We don't put on airs, and I think most people like it here.  At least I didn't think we put on airs.

Martin Luther King's birthday is coming up, and as it's a holiday, certain city services will be disrupted.  One of these is garbage pick up.  So, in the neighborhoods which usually have Monday service, a sign has been posted at all of the street exits.  It says, "Monday's rubbish will be collected on Tuesday."

Rubbish?  Really?  I would expect the word "garbage" or "trash," but not "rubbish!"  Do you ever use that word in conversation?  "John, will you be a dear, and take out the rubbish?"  Maybe I should watch Downton Abbey to see if they use the word.  Maybe I'm just not up on my local dialect.  Or maybe the city services department is a little full of themselves.

I'm not sure what the real reason is behind using "rubbish," but is does make one wonder about the words we use.  If I used "rubbish" in actual conversation, I'm sure I would get several strange looks or comments.  I might be seen as snooty even.

Hmmm . . . I wonder what words my characters will use to telegraph who they are or who they wish to be.

Where do ideas come from?

As I've mentioned, I'm starting work on a new novel (a novel novel).  It's fun, but nerve racking as well.  Have I got a complex enough plot?  Can I convey the emotional turmoil the way I envision it?  Is the idea a good one?

I've also been reading books about writing novels during this thought process.  So, I've been thinking a lot about where ideas come from.  The idea for my book came from thinking about what I would want to read in a novel.  How would I want it to make me feel?  Then based on that, I created a story filled with those emotions.

But, yesterday, in a notebook I came across a story idea I recently jotted down.  It was quite complex and rather intriguing.  I was glad I had written it down, since I had all but forgotten about it.  I was still finishing my other book at the time, and just wrote notes for future use.  There are a couple of glaring holes in the story idea that would need to be overcome, but since they are more logistical than anything else I'm confident they can be dealt with.  So, where did this idea come from?  A vivid dream I had one night.  I don't usually remember many details in my dreams, but this one I remembered quite clearly and wrote it down while it was fresh.  Since it was a dream, it's easy to understand the leaps in logic, but they are small matters.  Who knew?

My only questions now is which book to write first.

The Power of Writing

I recently completed writing an article for a local magazine.  It was about a hometown restaurant's history and their food as well.  The interview came first which was a enjoyable experience.  The restaurant manager/owner was a delightful woman with wonderful stories to tell.  As a busy woman, I was pleased that she gave me an hour of her time at my convenience.

The day after the interview I returned to sample the food.  The article was intended as an informative piece, not a critical review.  No one wants a local, pump-up-your-community magazine to rag on a locally owned establishment.  So, knowing that, I informed the manager of my intent to sample her food and write about it.  (I didn't tell her I was writing only a positive article, but I think she got the gist of that.)  I asked if it was possible to have a sample plate of some of their most popular items.  And I took a friend along for a second opinion.

Wow!  Tell someone you are writing about their business and see what comes your way.  I was prepared to pay for lunch, if needed, knowing too that my editor would reimburse me.  But my friend and I were treated to a fantastic spread, on the house.  We were brought full servings of each item that we split between us.  It started with a cup of rich clam chowder each, followed by a double cheeseburger with sweet potato fries.  Then came their signature friend bologna sandwich with homemade potato chips.  This was followed by flatbread pizza, with all the toppings, of course.  And lastly came BBQ ribs with french fries and coleslaw.  Somewhere near this end point, the manager told us they were going to bring us some dessert as well!  Dessert was a turtle brownie sundae - to die for! (literally, by this point)

I would never even conceive of eating that much at one sitting, and to have it paraded in front of me, and for free!  who knew!  And, by the way, I had no trouble writing a positive article - the food was delicious!  I guess there are some perks to this writing thing, after all.

What's in a name?

I have a confession to make.  I have taken more care and done more research with the names for the characters in my new book than I did with the naming of my own children.  (So sorry kids!)  With my own children only two things mattered: 1 - Did my husband and I agree; 2 - Did it sound good with our last name.

Naming characters for my new book was an entirely different experience.  I spent hours looking up names and their meanings, sometimes starting with a name and sometimes starting with a meaning.  I perused a long list of Latin words with their definitions, and used those roots to create a couple of names.

I have the advantage with a character's name over a newborn: I know who they will become.  Not that you don't want to give your child a name that has a meaning you would wish for them, but I get to know for sure with my book.  Also, with babies I assume you want names with positive meanings, not all my characters deserve such.

So, why does this really matter?  After all, except for one somewhat minor character, I won't actually spell out in my book what their names mean.  So why go to all the bother?  Because it matters to me.  I can't write about them if I don't know them.  And I better know more about them than actually makes it into print.  How else will I know how to authentically portray them?  I have to know them well enough to know how they will act and react in every circumstance.  Their names will be a constant reminder to me of the core of who they are.

For my own children, I suppose I don't really apologize.  I would never want to script their lives the way I will my characters.  My children are and will writie their own stories.

Footsteps Up A Wall

In the center of town a large building looms, its massive side visible to the main street.  As I drove past this morning the snow on its side stood out to me.  Now, snow is not unusual where I live, but it's what was in the snow that caught my eye: footprints, human footprints, in the snow, going up the side of the building!

There are a myriad of possibilities here.  First, some prank.  But if this is the case, much planning would have been involved, because the footprints are not near the ground, rather they are about 20 feet up.  Possible, definitely; likely that someone would go to that much trouble, doubtful.

What about some elaborate plot at robbery?  The building is a store, after all.  Hmm, but for reasons known to me, not even remotely likely.

Spiderman?  Even less likely.

Now, if I were writing a sci-fi book, anything I think of would be possible.  Limits in this genre are only created by the lacks of my imagination.

So, let me set your mind at rest.  I'm pretty sure I know the solution to this mystery.  For starters, the building is a grocery store under construction.  (Hence the robbery of a shell of a store highly unlikely.)  Any thoughts yet?  Also, the walls were recently erected.  Got it now?

I believe that the wall segments were laying on the ground.  Snow fell; workers walked on the wall pieces.  Then later, those pieces were placed into their vertical positions, complete with snow and footprints.

Maybe the reality is not as exciting as the imagined, but isn't that why we have fiction books in the first place?