Almost two years ago I yelled at my Mom for taking my son, Charles, to get his haircut. No one told me. I was working, and everyone thought he needed a haircut.
Tonight, I told Mom something different.
“Take Charles to get a haircut,” I said. “Please don’t chop it all off.”
When my husband and I took Charles to the beach this past weekend, his hair looked like one of the fraternity boys who grow their hair out long and comb it over when the wind blew.
Medical coverage for Charles switched the name of primary caregiver to John, since he took him to his last two appointments.
Guilt rushed over me when I told Mom to take him to get his hair cut and when I saw the name change. In the past four months, I’ve worked more hours. No more than most people work.
Many spent this weekend celebrating their mothers. John surprised Charles and me with a trip to Myrtle Beach. I could not help feeling guilt when I was once a stay-at-home mom.
Add to it I schedule in writing time. I’ll admit it has been harder lately due to cooking dinners, busy spring weekends, Charles, and Mom’s health. (You’ve probably noticed I’ve fallen off my blog schedule a time or two.)
What makes a Mom?
No single recipe.
The truth is their all very different recipes and formulas.
A writing mom is among her child or kids like me scribbling notes while my son yells, “Monster truck rally.”
What better influence for a story than a boy whose hair has grown too long and loves his trucks?
I grew up in a suburb outside Charlotte curious about everyone and everything from a place located anywhere but there.
I wanted to know what people ate, what they believed and why they believed it. One constant in all of my travel, friendship and life experiences is the appreciation of landscape, cityscape and what people cultivate.
When I write, my favorite part of the story is deciding how my town will look or if the landscape is resonant of the narrow hills on which I grew. If the land flows alongside a river, or if is flat and full of golden corn.
True of many writers from the Carolinas, I’m attached the land and different cityscapes.
As a small city journalist, I studied the different structure of a town and how it influences the citizens.
As the wife of a Christmas tree farmer’s son, I learned what passion for land means:
It is something, in spite of all the words in the English language, I could not portray to you.
The passion of which I write is born and breathes with men and women like my husband.
A shot of my father-in-law’s farm where apple trees once produced fruit. The Christmas trees grew on another part of the land.
Flowers outside my father-in-law’s house.
My son, Charles, on a John Deere tractor in his grandfather’s barn.
Flowers Charles brought to John and me.
John does a project for his father where tomato plants will later grow.
On days I take my son to the park, John, my husband, reminds me he had worked on a farm. In his spare time, he and his siblings played in their imaginary world on the acres of their parents’ farm land. The garden provided food for their table.
As a reporter, I covered towns with an agricultural background. I understood terms such as grass fed beef and how a farmer’s soy bean crop was ruined by too much rain.
Now when I shop and cook, I go to a farmer’s market where my husband last summer restored the roof. Crops are grown by farmers from North and South Carolina. Anywhere else I shop I look for the same freshness.
Food, like landscape, inspires with its many colors, traditions throughout the world, smells and sounds.
Salad with fresh tomatoes and lemon as a garnish from the farmer’s market.
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Salmon plated over brown rice and fresh cooked spinach, feta and onions.
Food from the land or city takes us somewhere we long for, even when we cannot afford the plane ticket.
In case you did not catch Time’s 100 Most Influential People edition, one teenage girl was on the cover. Malala Yousafzai and two girls were shot by the Taliban. She defended her right to an education.
I get it.
No one wants to study for a test.
But, imagine if you’re right was stripped from you because you’re a woman, handicapped, ADHD, diagnosed with schizophrenia, Christian, Jewish or Muslim.
It is easy to forget the books that surround us are not just a chore.
They’re a blessing.
It is easy to forget the literacy rate in some countries around the world is low, and that the people who do read are thankful for the fact they read more than most people I know, including me.
I think Malala Yousafzai is not only a heroine for women, but for the cause of literacy and education.
Sure. There are the greats, but they sit on thrones above.
The ones who want a break from work. The ones who want a break from bills. The ones who want a break from screaming children. The ones who want a break from boyfriends and girlfriends or spouses.
Inspired by Pat Conroy’s The Reading Life, I created a new themed post, Days of Our Reading Lives.
Why is it important?
Reading for a writer is sensual. It is an endurance of an author’s passion over a long period of time much like a strong relationship. Books connect you to people, open new doors and relationships you never expected.
Had John, my husband, not introduced me to Robert Heinlein, I would lack an improved understanding of how a Science Fiction author explored love.
As fellow blogger, Pete Denton, wrote in his recent post “Research,” reading in your genre will help you polish your craft as a writer.
A few weeks ago, I went to the library and researched books set in the nineteen twenties and thirties about teen boys. I was interested in stories about characters outside of Chicago and New York, because I’d read many of those books. Since Chicago in the Roaring Twenties is an entirely different subject, I wanted to focus on rural themes and a good read.
When I selected This Rock, I did not realize it was part of series. I was able to read it without having to read its predecessors. Introduced to author Robert Morgan – a native of North Carolina – you could tell his natural poetic voice carried into the prose about the Cain and Able struggles of brothers Muir and Moody living with their mother, Ginny.
Pick Your Narrator
I experienced the flow of literary fiction mixed with descriptions of nature and two rich main characters. Surprisingly the duel P.O.V. was not what I expected. The author switched back and forth between the mother and son, Muir. I thought this was odd, since the description focused a lot on the bootlegging brother, Moody.
Some characters authors do not wish to examine too closely. Moody was one of those characters, and as a reader, I yearned to know more about him.
Duel P.O.V. is a tough thing to pull off in a book along with deciding the direction in which you will go with your narrator.
I’ve read contemporary authors who write from the P.O.V. of many characters, such as Joanna Trollope. I believe it is a way to stay connected to the ability of a story to be examined in multiple aspects.
Morgan writes in first person. As the novel continues, he tells the story more from Muir’s P.O.V.
The original editor who worked with me told me not to write my book in first person or from one point of view. I chose third person dual P.O.V., and it has taken time to clean it up. I learned how to become the pit crew for my book by reading books like This Rock.
Your brain begins moving with the story: Wow, this is awesome, or What was the author thinking here?
My husband says you’re supposed to read books for enjoyment. Yes, you are, but I think writers naturally analyze them. How P.O.V. is done in books like This Rock will work the narration part of your brain.
I believe Morgan should have written chapters from Moody’s point of view because I think – as a reader – he was more of a counterbalance to Muir than was Ginny. That said, I know why Morgan decided not to write from his point of view.
In Sons of the Edisto, I write from the P.O.V. of JD and Owen. They are opposites in their view of the world. One boy, JD, believes shoes and name brand bikes say a lot about a boy. Owen looks down the train tracks wondering how long it would take him to get to Michigan to meet Henry Ford.
Bootlegging, Science and God
The other lesson I examined in This Rock was how Morgan wrote about bootlegging. The one time in the book when the mother Ginny entered bootlegger Peg Early’s place, I was entranced. I wanted to know more. Unfortunately, Peg Early appeared in one scene.
Morgan focused on Christianity much more than I do in my own writing. Again, I believe it goes with what the author fits into his or her narration. His main character, Muir, wants to become a preacher.
As a Southern writer, I understand the importance religion can play in stories whether good or bad. My main character, Owen, wants to enter the field of science and looks at the future. What I learned from Muir is how he became disillusioned with his dream when he messed up.
That is essential to all young characters. They mess up at some point.
The sea turtle, box turtles and large land turtles take their time getting somewhere, but they choose different paths, have a hard shell and get where they’re going.
The fox watches, waits and listens. Those are essential to editing. When you think you’re ready to send a piece out, step back into the grass and hear your story read out loud again.
Turtles are born with hard shells.
Most writers are not.
With time you build one. If not, you quit. Sure, there are still critiques that hurt to hear, but we need them said.
I need them said.
Turtles also move slow to get where they’re going.
Every writer, journalist and author sets out on a different path. Many writers have deadlines. I lived by deadlines at one time, and now I set them for creative work.
That does not mean you look for the short cuts.
Today, I smiled when I completed writing my longest story to date, 22 pages, When Tomorrow Comes. I began writing the story sometime between July and October 2011.
You say: Come on, Rebecca, it’s 2013 and that’s only twenty-two pages.
I say: Yeah, but it took a long time to figure out where the story was heading.
I knew I had a story about a mother who lost her husband and job as a financial advisor in the city. She lost her house, and her popular teenage daughter lost her prominent place at a private school. She attended a public school with a two-star rating online.
Those ideas took time to develop and unfold. Only in the last five months has the story really molded into what I wanted, and I’ve enjoyed writing it.
Sometimes I like to slow down and read over the last couple of paragraphs before I write again. Scientists do not want to mess up formulas and most that I’ve observed – on television – pour their solutions slowly into another container.
If the words invite you dance, then let them lead. Take slow steps. Watch the words pour on the page.
When I completed my story today, I felt happy. I have written many stories I am not happy with or were for the pure purpose of self-help during tough times. I never planned to use them for anything.
As I wrote back and forth between Catherine, the mom, and Tara, the daughter, I could not stop.
I must admit the story is not a first draft. It’s more like a sixth because I’ve edited it many times before I began writing the next section. Yes, I edit stories before I complete them, but every author is different. I do the same with my Elliot McSweanstories.
In my approach to editing, I look like a fox.
Watch
Read through one paragraph or page at a time. Soak it in. Take in the scene.
Poke your ears up.
Listen. Read your work out loud. Then listen to someone else or a computer voice read it back to you. I use both of these techniques, which have helped me improve my self-editing.
Slow Approach
Have you watched an Arctic fox sneak up on a rabbit? A good hunter approaches its prey that never hears it coming.
Be that way in your editing.
As proud as I am of the fact I completed writing my story today, I know I will go back and slash out words and dialogue that just does not work.
If you’re good, those unnecessary words and accidental punctuation won’t hear your backspace or return button go click-click-gone.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Thank you again to all of my readers who have stuck with me even though I haven’t stuck to my schedule. My mom is doing better and she is out of the hospital.
Will you walk with me for a few minutes in the garden?
Photos taken on my father-in-law’s farm late last summer where many beautiful plants and trees grow.
I think of you walking with me in the garden. Instead of shopping for dresses, we will look at ripples in the river. Don’t you see them dancing there? The goose took off, and his wings tapped the water.
You walk with me, though you don’t know it. When I find my peace beneath the trees next to the Catawba or when I am lost in the Blue Ridge Mountains, you go with me.
I wish we’d traveled together when I drove above the mountains in mid-winter. You could not tell wood from mountain side in mist so white.
You have asked me to go shopping so many times or for a bite to eat.
I did not go.
Now guilt burns.
You see, Mom, I live with you. I could not take money from you. My loving mother, you would not see it that way for you love and give in the way you can.
For now you cannot walk with me to see the trees blooming. Yes, Mom, I wish you could see the dogwoods blossom near the Greenway. Soon the bees will be shopping for honey.
You wished I would go to lunch when I put on my apron. The flour was poured into the mixing bowl.
“When will I spend time with you?”
“Here I am. We could cook,” I said.
A few days later you lie in your hospital bed. You and I, different women we are. Let us find a new way to live as mother and daughter. Until then, remember I think of you always when I wander between the trees and beyond the river.
I ended the When Write Letter Series a few weeks ago, but after my mother went to the hospital Saturday morning I changed my mind. One more was needed. You will notice this post and Thursday’s Thurspiration are connected. Thank you, readers, for your constant support!
Spring has taken it’s time this year. It waits beneath the fallen leaves and frost at the end of March.
As April begins, we try to remember the last time we experienced a spring starting late in the Carolinas.
Maybe the seasons want us to wait and remember.
See death was not done collecting lives and scaring souls. It still had a say on Black Friday and Easter. For those left behind in the Purgatory between winter and spring, the grandmother tried to hide her pain, and the mother was asked to speak at her best friend’s funeral.
The mother dug beneath the black soil of her spirit. From it, strength blossomed so she could speak about her longtime friend. After all she died during a time Christian families celebrated as the renewal of life: the resurrection.
The grandmother taught me, the granddaughter, that our Christian faith speaks with a soft voice. We worship behind closed doors. We do not shout speeches, but we practice faith through action.
Let faith speak quietly, and let your hands make work.
I watched her fall – not once— but twice.
In my grandmother’s first fall, she faced a tough decision. As cheerful as she sounded on the phone, I knew beneath her stubborn determination to show strength it grieved her to have her loyal cocker spaniel of almost ten years put to sleep.
If you’ve ever owned or loved an animal, you know the mixed pain of anxiety, frustration, guilt and sadness that enters your heart and mind.
Summer plays with her Christmas toys.
She was ready to give away most of the dog’s things after her death, but she kept Summer’s bed.
You hear a scratch at the door. A nose pushes open the door. She licks up the leftovers underneath a toddler’s chair.
It takes strength to remember No More.
Mom lost her best friend. She was asked to give a speech in front of an audience.
My grandmother lost her dog. She still had to make food for Easter dinner and welcome Easter guests.
In the hoped-for quiet days to come, she planned to make a cake for the veterinarians who had cared for Summer.
The test was not over for I would be reminded of what I’d lost and what I still needed to gain.
On the way out of my aunt’s house Saturday night, my grandmother, son and I tried to see the path down the stairs. Missing a step, “Mimi” fell. She did not break any bones or suffer any bruises.
I could not stand the thoughts lurking in the gray pools of my soul. A sad memory emerged.
I never interviewed my Grandfather and Grandmother Dickinson about their early lives. Their heroic stories I learned mostly from my father and second cousin for Sons of the Edisto.
Mom, who had not seen or heard much from her best friend in last few years, would have loved to tell their stories together.
Mimi, who has decades left ahead of her, still has stories, and I have a recorder.
How often have you traveled there or visited this place in your imagination?
Do you miss it when you go?
A downtown view of Gatlinburg, Tenn.
The truth is that the place does not belong to you. The place you write houses your characters.
Who are they?
Do they fall in love?
Do they face prejudice because they are from different ethnic or religious backgrounds?
Does one character enjoy science fiction and the other art?
You write their ending, but they do not belong to you.
Whenever I have thought of place, I look at art. There is a lot a writer can learn from photographers and painters. Since being a writer is about perfecting your craft, I think the education extends outside the boundaries of literature. As you might have noticed, I am a visual learner.
Just as I enjoy authors who write visually; for example, Joshilyn Jackson and Pat Conroy, I also look for artwork that moves and teaches me about place and character.
Years ago, I dated a guy who worked with horses. He built an apartment within a barn of six stallions.
“Most of the girls where you come from would never spend the night out here,” he told me.
Most of the girls I knew – and I – grew up privileged. Going to Walmart was something to do on a late night when we were not ready to return home.
But, as artist Brendan O’Connell said on CBS’ Sunday Morning, the large shopping center is a place where you cross paths with people of all ethnicities and backgrounds.
According to Sunday Morning, O’Connell said he was attracted to the different colors you see when you walk through the aisles. He called it abstract expressionism or contemporary art.
The reporter asked why he was interested in painting the “mundane?”
The answer to the question is simple: the mundane, or everyday life, is not simple at all. Often, stories in people’s lives are – pardon the cliché — stranger than fiction.
O’Connell’s paintings do more than show vivid colors. It shows real people on an artscape.
“Everyday Vegas” painted by Brendan O’Connell.
On the nights I spent in my ex-boyfriend’s apartment within the horse barn, I did not look down on him. Instead I admired the work he did.
In my history, I was often disgusted by rich boys and admired the blue-collar boys who rolled up their sleeves, went to work and showed that off-color smile. Beyond personal experience, I saw people doing work a way in which I’d never experienced.
When I sat down to write a story entitled Mismatch in Apple Valley, it became my first look in contemporary writing about blue-collar people.
“You’re not blue-collar,” my mother argues. “You have a college degree, and by definition, you are white-collar.”
“You’re not quite blue-collar yet,” my husband adds.
Whether or not I am blue-collar does not matter. I am inspired by those ravaged by the economy, those people who pull up their sleeves and work in the rain and those who are still shoveling snow off the roads in the Midwest U.S.
I wanted, like O’Connell, to pick up a camera and zoom in on the everyday stories. There is plenty of drama and action for the pages:
Jo was laid off and thought about going to Tech. When they accepted his application, he found out he could not receive scholarships.
Why?
You create the reason.
Mary worked in the school district for sixteen years. The district closed three schools to meet its budget, and because those three schools did not meet testing standards.
Why?
Susie and Robert had a baby when they were seventeen. Six years later, she almost completes a two-year degree for administrative assistant work, and he begs her to drop out.
Why?
At first, the above situations sound mundane.
What does it all mean?
Dig beneath the surface and find out what the teaching job meant to Mary. What if she could not find a job anywhere else? What if the bank foreclosed on her house?
Who will come to put her furniture and pictures in the yard as if they never mattered at all?
O’Connell began taking pictures in a Walmart eight years ago when a member on staff “asked him to leave.”
Now he is a successful American artist from a town in Georgia.
Some writers and artists want to escape into another world while others want to take a closer look at a world painted blue.
Words by Rebecca T. Dickinson
For more information about Brendan O’Connell, visit:
