That’s what I wanted. Not to take up too much of your time. Since I am an ADD author and you’re beginning to wonder: What’s the point to today’s post, I’ll make it short …
as possible.
Here’s the deal:
I am working mom, who set many goals at the beginning of the year. I wanted to freshen up the blog, and before April hit, I thought I did a good job staying on my twice-a-week schedule.
While I have been lucky to meet my goal of publishing one story this year, I haven’t kept up with the schedule.
You say: Yeah, we noticed.
I say: Thank you.
Authors and writers love to set goals. We feel great when we meet them and wonder what goes wrong when we do not. Sometimes we want to block ourselves off from reality to write and meet those goals, but life comes in again like a goofy boss you want to hit. I’m thinking Office Space.
Yeah …
Life comes at you.
I a mom with a son who – as much as I love him – is the royal prince of my life. A job I love, which also takes away energy, and a wonderful husband. In addition everyday needs, my family and I dealt with a scare with mom’s health last month. We have been working together to set meal schedules and recipes, so she and Dad will eat healthier.
Time constrains all of us. We must make choices. As a writer close to completing several projects, I need time to edit and write.
I so wanted to tell you, the powerhouse readers, I am cutting my posts back to once a week on Sunday. I will continue to write about writing, books, pictures, family and cooking. I will still write and look forward to you reading!
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.
S
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.
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.
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.
Josh Harnett thinks about leaving Kirsten Dunst on the football field in The Virgin Suicides. Thanks to Jake-Weird, http://3.bp.blogspot.com/
One man switches off the lights in the football stadium.
No one is left that he sees, but sometimes someone or something stays hidden out of the spotlight. He, she or it is not ready to leave.
But, as soon as Josh Harnett got it in The Virgin Suicideshe left Kirsten Dunst alone on the football field.
As writers, artists, professionals, students or parents; everyone believes they are left on a cold, gray metal seat in a stadium lost to watching birds and bugs pick at leftover hamburger and hotdog buns.
The challenge we face only grows more difficult whether it is writing a query letter, making a character real or trying to figure out how you will mold your career, family and art together.
Yesterday, the lights turned off. The stadium, dark.
The hardest thing a person must do is to make a choice.
If you’ve read before, you know I am a mother, teacher, author/ writer and beginning my graduate work.
Last year, I was offered a job with which I fell in love, and my bosses have offered as many opportunities as they could. When I talk about the job, you would think I was talking about the love of my life. If you’ve been unemployed or someone in your family has been unemployed and worried about your child’s future, you discover a good job brings gratitude. Finding a job you love is a miracle.
I sat across from my graduate advisor for the first time yesterday. He said in my last semester I would have to quit my job to do the internship in the public school system.
I sank in the chair. I thought You’ve got to be kidding me. A long time ago I was a kid who highlighted her hair every other month, wore boat shoes and played sorority dress up until I discovered it meant nothing.
Those days of playing dress up are done.
I know outside of the current job I have now, my intended career requires certification and high standards in the world of teaching. During childhood, I played with two prominent items: my imagination to create stories and an art easel from which I taught my stuffed animals and cats.
Nothing has changed my dreams now.
The professor, in his wisdom, said my place of work may be willing to work with me and I should not have a problem receiving loans and scholarships to pay for school.
That’s not my first concern, believe it or not. I have to pay bills, too.
I sucked it up, went home and got my son. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I decided.
Perhaps I’m being to bold. Maybe too honest. But I know many other writers are struggling to work and find time for their writing. I know other artists have children and think about time set aside for their work. They want to know, even after two-years or more of sweating, painting and of rejections, that they’re not the only ones fumbling around to turn on the spotlight.
Rebecca T. Dickinson
Sorry Friday Night Writes is a little late.
Friday Night Writes is an every other week column or article in which I share views or writing samples.
Mom was a high school teacher, and Dad worked as an insurance claims adjuster. Most childhood meals were eaten at a restaurant or brought home.
I believed Mom could cook if she put her mind to it, but she never showed interest. Daughter of the feminist movement, she chose to shape her knowledge of the world.
Dad tried to cook. Through the years, he has improved from making starch-filled meals full of potatoes and rice to providing a variety.
My Grandmother Dickinson’s apple cake, which I made at Christmas.
Since I began cooking in college, I attempted to reconnect to the time spent with both of my grandmothers in their kitchens. One worked as a teacher and came home to cook. The other was a homemaker.
Although ambition drove me to chase a writing and teaching career, I also yearned for tradition. I found the kitchen was the place I went when I needed a break from writing and editing, and it also inspired me.
In the old days, some women bonded in the kitchen. I ended up with two and a half men in mine.
Many families affected by the economy live in a multigenerational household. My family is one of them. We share a small kitchen in which we wash dishes by hand.
My husband and I cooked breakfast together.
This space – a place that was once my sacred room when I was a partial stay-at-home mother – is shared by my father, husband, son and sometimes my brother.
Dad, John and I work as much as we can, and we know work awaits us at home. We prepare meals for a family of six and our kitchen space shrinks.
“Don’t you want to let people flavor that to their taste?” my husband asked before one breakfast.
“That’s the way my grandmother made them,” I replied.
“Things can change, can’t they?”
“Sure.”
“You know how your dad likes to put random spices on things?”
“Yes, and he doesn’t look at what goes in like I do.”
One, two, three and then four of us will end up in the kitchen on any given night. The little one, our son, wants to bring his little bike in the kitchen. All of us chase the little chef out.
For the most part, the boys’ club lets me decide what we’re doing. But they are also strong-minded men with their own opinions about the kitchen.
“Mother and Thomas are tired of chicken,” Dad says at least two weeks out of the month.
“I would make a vegetarian meal, but I’m the only one who would eat it,” I say. “I go with what we have in the freezer or in the fridge. If one of them wants to go to the market, great.”
I admit I have a little bit of an attitude sometimes. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and the desire to keep everything organized does not always work in my family or the kitchen.
Dad wants to work like an octopus, and my husband sits down at the table after my parents and brother have already finished their meals.
As exasperated as I become with no dishwasher, three working burners, someone taking up my counter space or one of the beloved men in my life directing me in the kitchen; I realized we have created a new tradition.
We also laugh in the kitchen.
John throws ice down my shirt.
Dad plays, sings and imitates family members. He is one of the few people who shares my sarcasm.
Then there’s the little boy who stops in and asks if one of us will put on his helmet so he can ride his bike through the kitchen.
Last night, as I made Shepherd’s Pie, I discovered a red toy car in a drawer with the blender. I smiled and called for my little chef.
“Love, I get so lost sometimes. Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart.
When I want to run away, I drive off in my car.
But whichever way I go
I come back to the place you are.
… In your eyes, I see the doorway to a thousand churches.
In your eyes, the resolution of all the fruitless searches
In your eyes, I see the light and the heat.” – Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes
When I first listened to Gabriel’s song years ago, I was not sure what kind of love he was writing about. Just as a reader looks deep into a good book, I do the same with lyrics.
The song came on the radio today. I realized the song could be about a relationship that has lasted beyond the first flames of a relationship. It is one that has grown up a little; one in which you have to walk away from stress. But, you come back and realize how much you do love that person.
John, my husband, has shared me with writing. It tests his patience. Sometimes he does not understand why I need to jot or edit a scene at a certain time. This song reminds me how important writers’ significant others are in life.
Some days John needs to drive off and he returns. We laugh, smile and I put down the pen.
Dedicated to Writers’ boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives
The post man delivered them to my parents’ mailbox.
Letters came all the time.
Now they never come.
I miss her letters. Only three or four remain. Paper slightly aged, and cursive letters written into the page. I feel where my grandmother’s pen pressed down.
I called my grandmother “Dick Dick,” a name which received unfortunate taunting as I grew up. Since our last name is Dickinson, we shortened it. She signed every letter “Grandmother Dick Dick.”
She wrote about what my grandfather was doing, asked about what I was learning in school and added information to her letters beginning with the phrase, Did you know …
Dick Dick sent newspaper clippings about reading, but it was my father who helped me how to read her handwriting.
She wrote small cursive letters that ran into each other like little tug boats in the water. Sometimes I could not tell an f from an s. While at camp, her letters were left open for my interpretation.
At Governor’s School the Arts – Creative Writing freshman summer program in 2000, Dick Dick sent me a letter almost every day. She wanted to know what I wrote about. In her youth, she and my grandfather read Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning’s poems they composed in letters to each other.
Sometimes she scribbled a quote from their poetry.
When she died in 2003 one month before I graduated high school, I thought it marked the end of my childhood. I was depressed when my grandfather died, and I tried to bury feelings when Dick Dick died.
I wanted to keep them alive.
At age twenty, I began to interpret Papa’s legacy with Sons of the Edisto.
She was also one of the people who influenced my name at birth, Rebecca Tinsley Dickinson, and the reason I am published as a journalist and author under the name, Rebecca T. Dickinson.
