Category Archives: Life

I So Had to Tell You First

Got your attention.

Good.

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 for 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!

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

The Mommy Scribbles: The Thing about Time

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?

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

No Matter Where

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.

We yearn for it.

It influences us.

Therefore, we imagine a place of which we write.

Where is your place?

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thurspiration: Bullet for a Book

English: A child studying

English: A child studying (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Raise your hand if you’ve taken a bullet for your books.

Raise your hand if you’ve taken a bullet for your education.

Raise your hand if someone has threatened you because you deserve that right.


Courtesy of http://www.vitalvoices.org/node/3341.

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.

Go get your book.

Then spell out the words: Thank you.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Friday Night Lights: The Thing about Why

Shots echo.

Not many.

Just enough.

Congress votes down

new gun law.

 

 

Children dead –

six year olds 

remebered from Sandy Hook.

Once smiling faces

not enough to move

men and women

in big boy

and big girl suits.

 

Yesterday, an armed man

threatens the school

where I used to

substitute.

The police got him

before he ever arrived.

 

 

Blue strobes of light

flash around a house

and a boat with a man.

No answers as to why.

 

Explosion,

Texas,

Clover.

Why?

 

A lot happened this week. More than words can express. In fact, I could not find words to express how I felt about what happened in Boston, the Senate, Texas and at a school where I used to substitute teach. The moment I found out I thought of Sandy Hook and September 11, 2001.

Journalists are busy right now. They will answer the who, what, when and where.

The why is harder.

Why would someone set off bombs?

Why would someone limit certain people access to guns?

Why are innocent people killed?

Why are children killed?

There is no certain answer.

Only this:

We, the writers, compose to explore the why.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thoughts, prayers and love for Texas, Boston and Clover High

When We Write Letters, Part VIII: Letter to Mom

10-6-12 Canon Download 513

Dear Mom,

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!

Words and Photos by Rebecca T. Dickinson

Thurspiration: Strength to Stand

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 pretend doggy

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.

There is a time for strength.

There is a time to write.

Then there’s the time to listen.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

Painted Blue: Beyond the Walmart Aisles

Painting by Brendan O’Connell. Courtesy of http://www.cbs.com.

I spent the night in a horse barn.

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:

Friday Night Writes: When the Stadium Lights Go Out

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 Suicides he 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.

In the Coming Weeks

I am back.

You: Back from what? I didn’t know you were gone.

Me: What do you mean you didn’t know I was gone?

You: You’re not the center of the blogosphere.

Me: Yes, you’re right, but I am back.

My husband, John, and I spent the weekend in Gatlinburg, Tenn. We took a break, planned and looked into the mountains.

Gatlinburg is a twin sister to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina except it is in the Great Smoky Mountains. From our window, we looked at peaks disappearing into blue-gray clouds. It made me think of a quote from Forrest Gump.

You couldn’t tell where heaven ended and the earth began.”

John said, “A lot of people want to look out their window and see water brushing the sand. How could the beach compare to this view?”

Raised in S.C., Mom and Dad took my brother and me to Myrtle Beach.

When I lived one hour from the Blue Ridge Mountains, I fell in love. Maybe it was something new and different. Maybe I needed a close look at how the red ravines carved out gray trees kissed by a light blue to realize just how nature inspires.

That said, last week When We Write Letters series ended. No worries. Writing also changes. Here is the schedule in the upcoming weeks.

Sunday: Living the Reading Life or Meet the Writer

Every other Thursday: The Thurspiration will feature either The Write to Cook or InspireMe photos.

Every other Friday: Friday Night Writes will continue this coming Friday.

I hope you will come back and share your own word or more.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson

about 300 words about

leadership : : : : motivation : : : : creativity : : : : productivity : : : : content : : : : media

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