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Archive for March, 2014

I occasionally fear I can make things happen by writing about them. At one of the novel critique meetings, Mary shared a similar thought. She’d written a story about someone needing to move and they unpacked the boxes before the people helping with the move could return to take away the next batch of boxes. It was eerie for her when a relative of hers did that in real life.

Recently, I thought it would be okay to write about a main character losing her mother since mine was already gone. I now think I’ll only write about attractive, wealthy, and attentive men who love me and want to console me about my grandmother and swear that my writing had nothing to do with it.

I’m not saying my grandmother was like a mother to me; she was more like a great friend who believed in me, wanted me to be my best, and always had my back. When I was little, she had me walk with dictionaries balanced on my head so I’d have poise and good posture. I brushed my teeth because she said they were important and you didn’t want to lose them. The biggest thing I learned was that life goes on and she taught that by example.

She didn’t know how to drive. When my grandfather died, she took driver ed and she got her license when she was 54–don’t hold me to that, she might have been a bit younger–but not by much. That amazes me, her being that old and deciding that was what needed to be done, then doing it. After that, she went out and got jobs, first at a cookie factory, then at Champion. She worked there for years and retired not because it was her choice, but because it was a company policy.

If she was ever in pain, I don’t think I ever saw it–except for the very end, and I wonder if that in part was just letting out all the hurt that must have been inside. I was not a perfect grandchild. She never said anything, but I know I disappointed her, and I am sorry about that. Constant friends, her brother, her parents, her youngest daughter, my dog that she adored all passed away while she remained–strong, standing, putting another load of laundry on the line, making another grocery list, calling Wes to fix the water pipe that burst and was spraying on the electric panel. I remember seeing her the day after that happened. Something that would have had me cowering in fear of floods and fire for weeks, she shrugged off and didn’t think was worth mentioning. The crisis was over; she’d moved on.

I don’t think of her as gone, someone that resilient has the power to remain in those she touched. I may not be able to call her and tell her I just got published in a magazine or show her that some check was for some words that I wrote. I may not be able to hear her when an episode of I Love Lucy comes on and some silliness makes her laugh. I may not knock on the backroom door and open it to the smell of her rolls, or cookies or roast beef ever again. There won’t be any more hugs or kisses from her, but I’m all right with that. I’m blessed to have had as many as I did when she was alive.

GNB

I brought her flowers when I visited because even though she said I didn’t have to do that, I’d get a note or phone call saying that they were so pretty and a thank you. So, let me say thank you for reading this, whenever you happen across it, whether you knew my grandmother or not. I hope you have an amazing person like her in your life, and if you don’t maybe that’s because you’re the amazing one and you just aren’t aware of how other people perceive you. The world is a strange and wonderful place; spring is here; fantastic, good things happen every day and now that I’ve written that, maybe it will be true. I’ll let you know how I make out with my new rich, handsome boyfriends.

(These are just my creekside reflections. Your experiences may vary.)

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Last night, there was a meeting of the novel critique group at Mary Aker’s house. I am loving this process. The people, the camaraderie, and the feedback are all impeccable. I also love seeing how their storylines and characters develop. Their plot twists and turns are fun to read and discuss. Plus, having people to commiserate with about the process isn’t too shabby, either. I feel so honored and privileged to be included, so yeah, I’m in a good mood. Mostly….

I’d come across a short story collection competition two hours before I left, and while my first attempt is intact, I’ve done revisions on several of the stories, so I reassembled the 24 pieces. I had ¾ of it compiled by the time I left the house. I got home around 10:20, finished adding the other stories and got it submitted well before the midnight deadline. With the steep entry fee, I let circumstance dictate if I entered at all.

Checking Facebook, I found Jeff Rose wanted to talk again, but I wasn’t there. The night before, I was quite animated and juggling several conversations. It was weirdly nice, to find I was wanted/missed on Facebook, even though it was in front of God and everybody.

I tried reading over the notes from Gina and Mary, but I was so whipped! Then, the second I put head to pillow, my story came to life. I heard so many conversations, saw so many scenes. My poor MC! I thought I just put her through hell. That’s NOTHING compared to what she’ll soon be going through. Poor thing. And while it was fantastic, to find out so many details about my story, at that time of night? Thank you muse. While jotting down a few key words, I saw it was 3:05 a.m. Hence the relative lateness of this post. You can thank the muse for that. I already thanked her.

Why yes, I do love the problems I have. Problems such as these:

cro

I want this.

3.6.2014This is what I’ve got.

I’m grateful the snow is melting off the roof of the garden shed, but I still can’t get inside.

Oh, I did want to apologize for last time–using mostly pictures–but it was my first official reading! I wish I’d saved them for this week’s blog entry, but choices and consequences, eh? Right, so Gina said her husband tapped his maples over the weekend and that has got to mean spring. It just DOES at this point because it’s been so freaking cold and snowy for so long. I need me some robins and crocuses, and another acceptance or two wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either. Did I forget to mention this? I had TWO poems accepted for the inaugural issue of Wicked Banshee. I am so freaking thrilled to be included in what looks to be a fantastic venue. Thank you SaraEve!

And thank you for checking in!

(Remember, these are just my Creekside Reflections. Your experiences may vary.)

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