Vivian’s Water Shoes

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amwriting, Andre the Giant, beach, Beergaritas, Corolla Beach, creative, creative writing, fiction, north carolina, ocean, shrimp, water shoes, wild horses, writer, writer's life

It’s been a while since I shared my creative writing, so here is a very short piece to remember a bit of summer as we move into fall.  I hope you enjoy. 

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The wild horses at Corolla Beach trampled Vivian at two on a Wednesday, knocking her right out of her neon pink water shoes.

Locals and onlookers reported the horses came in a grouping of eight nearly noiselessly over a hill, perhaps spooked by a Copperhead snake slithering through the dune grasses. The source of their stampede was only speculation. Vivian never saw them coming.

photo from Writer’s Digest

After the emergency services ambulance drove away down the beach without its siren or lights pulsing, Poe found Vivian’s shoes off beyond where the crowd had gathered. He placed them on the fence in memorial.

Vivian was not a fan of the wild animals. She was the only local to insist someone round them up and fence them in. It annoyed her to find them chewing at her window screens or leaving huge piles of horse apples on her sand driveway. It seemed they liked her yard best. It was possible the horses knew her dislike for them.

After the accident, the footwear stayed on top of the wooden slats for two weeks. Then one morning they disappeared. Some uninformed and entitled mainlander probably assumed the water shoes were carelessly left behind after a day at the ocean and snatched them up. I watched the tourists’ feet for an opportunity to reveal the truth and witness the shoe stealer squirm at the realization of wearing a dead woman’s shoes. More correctly, the shoes Vivian wore while she died. Poe and I, over considerable speculation and copious amounts of canned Beergarita’s on the deck, never did determine the exact moment Vivian drew her last breath. It might have been when the horses made contact or when she tumbled to the sand.

Either way, I was not prepared to find the pink slip-ons on Uncle Greg’s feet a few days later when we arrived at his home for the weekly shrimp boil dinner.

Uncle Greg was a large behemoth of a man. Strangers shrank back when he entered a room and it was easy to confuse him with Andre the Giant. His girth was nearly equal to his height, with the skin of his abundant belly stretched to rock-like hardness. The outcropping of salt and pepper hair on top of his cranium added another three inches.

That day, along with his faded and torn Corolla Beach t-shirt and fraying cargo shorts, he brazenly wore the water shoes as if either it didn’t matter to him they were neon pink or that they came straight off the feet of his dead friend. Watching him trot around the beach house in the pink footwear was disturbing.

“How big were Vivian’s feet?” I whispered, leaning toward Poe as we sat on Adirondack chairs with our soggy paper plates precariously perched on our knees. Beers sweated on the porch floor next to us.

Poe shrugged, nibbled at a corncob and eyed the footwear. “Bigger than average it appears.”

In her later years, Vivian’s skin puffed like delectable sourdough bread tinged with a slight pink sunburn, but she was never large. Living at the beach, she refused to accept her Irish heritage would not allow her skin to brown like those of us who came from Mediterranean roots. She stayed in the sun all day in her flowery one-piece and wide-brimmed straw hat. The water shoes kept her feet from burning on the sand during her midday walk.

With a loud grunt, Uncle Greg flopped down into the chair on the other side of Poe and set one ankle on the other knee. He tapped his foot to a silent beat as he gnawed on a buttery cob of corn.

Poe and I stared at the pink shoe waving at us in its neon glory.

Uncle Greg eyed us, looked at where we were focused and frowned. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “She had the biggest feet I ever saw on a woman.”

Poe and I waited.

“She walked here every day. Had our afternoon delight.”

I choked on my shrimp while Poe simultaneously spit out the beer he just sipped.

“It wasn’t love, but she was a good friend. Sometimes at my age, that’s all one needs.” Uncle Greg popped a shrimp into his mouth and after carefully working it, spit the tail onto his plate.

We stared.

Uncle Greg shrugged as he extended his legs and eyeballed the neon pink water shoes. “I just wish Vivian’s favorite color had been blue.”

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When To Stop Editing & Revising

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Carolinas, carrots, creative writing, editor, edits, fiction, Kendra Levin, middle grade, novels, potatoes, project, publishing, put a fork in it, revisions, rewrites, SCBWI, structure, Viking Children's Books, writing, young adult literature

When writing a news release or a shorter document, it’s easy for me to tell when it’s time to stop editing. It usually comes at that point when I begin to change things for change’s sake, but I’m not making the document stronger. (Like rewriting the same sentence three different ways, and it still ends up the same way.)

However, when working on a novel and dealing with 80,000+ words rather than 250, the revision process is a whole lot more encompassing. There are re-writes, revisions, re-constructed scenes, and edits upon edits. One challenge can be how to keep the story fresh when I’ve read it (what feels like) a 1,000 times, and I want to chuck the work into the trash can.

Know When to Stop

This past weekend I attended a writing intensive workshop sponsored by SCBWI-Carolinas. There, a group of writers assembled to work on novels and glean inspiration from industry professionals. One of our key speakers was Kendra Levin, senior editor with Viking Children’s Books. After putting us through a couple writing exercises, she shared publishing stories with us. As everyone in the room is awaiting publication of their first book, it was an excellent opportunity to hear likes, dislikes, and anecdotes of the person who may hold your publishing fate in her hands.

Kendra shared a story of a fellow editor who was finalizing the work of one of her authors. Down to the final round of technical edits before going to publication, the editor sent what should have been minor edits. The author, however, returned a manuscript with those changes and also a whole lot more that turns out were not needed. After something like the 10^th round of intense edits, the author had become trained to make many changes. When she saw the limited number of notes from her editor, she thought it wasn’t enough so she made unnecessary edits that unfortunately set the process back.

“When you change carrots to potatoes, then you know it’s time to put a lid on it.” Kendra Levin, Senior Editor Viking Children’s Books.

So if you’re getting to the point of merely fiddling around with your work because you really can’t find anything else to change and you’re not making the work better, Stop. While it is often true that revisions and editing can go on forever, sometimes you just have to put a fork in it. You are done.

Enjoy the moment, because the next project is about to begin.

 

Barkeep, I’ll Have Another

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2014, 2015, ascot, blood, business, champagne, chocolate, consulting, creative writing, critiques, distillery, Fred Minnick, hated it, ladies, loved it, Milwaukee, New Year, NPR, renaissance, rewriting, sweat, teaching, tears, whiskey, wit, women, writing

My 2014 turned out to be pretty great despite a rocky start clouded with uncertainty. Guided by determination while putting a clamp on procrastination, I turned my focus to writing, teaching and consulting. Because of hard work and practice, my choices appear to be paying off. I wake up happy each day and look forward to the work spread across my desk and the people and students I help. Since it all went so well last year, I believe I’ll try it again in 2015.

Anyone who has ever committed to a writing career – or as a passionate hobby – knows it is hard. Although we wish it, it’s not easy even when you’re good at it. There’s writing, rewriting, editing, critiques, blood, sweat, and tears. People tell you it’s the worst thing they’ve read; people tell you it’s the best thing they’ve read. You develop a thick skin, take another shot at the rewrite and send the work out into the world, hoping those who like it will outnumber those who do not. And while it’s out there you think of two more edits you could have done. It’s all part of the process.

At Fred Minnick’s book signing and whiskey tasting in Milwaukee, June 2014

When a good writer succeeds, I’m thrilled to share the story. I have a personal connection to this NPR feature, as writer Fred Minnick is a former associate of mine whom I like to call a friend. This gentleman possesses a sharp mind and wit. While he cuts his path in the world with his storytelling, he’s also having a bit of fun at the distilleries and whiskey tastings. It’s making me rethink my choice of fiction writing to focus on chocolates and champagne… Anyway, please click on this link, which will lead you to a wonderful NPR segment discussing women leading a whiskey renaissance.

Be prepared: it’s probably been a long time since you’ve heard someone in an ascot sound this good.

 

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2014/12/29/371652827/ladies-lead-whiskey-renaissance-as-distillers-and-new-tipplers

A Little White Strip of Paper

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childhood, computer, Coronomatic, correction tape, creative writing, dream, entertain, feeder roll, life, life calling, musing, passion, platen, Smith Corona, toy, typewriter, work, writer, writing

What is Yoyr Your Life’s Calling?

Similar to my Smith Corona

Three decades ago, I received my first electric typewriter. It was a beautiful, used blue Smith Corona Coronomatic typewriter, permanently secured in a sturdy, hard-sided brown carrying case with a thick black handle. My parents purchased it for my birthday present. They knew I wanted to become a writer and helped set me on my path.

That Smith Corona was stationed on my desk for years, the rock in the middle of a sea of books, stacks of paper and countless writing utensils. The thick, white power cord extended to the nearest outlet. Each night as I closed the cover to help keep out the dust, I was careful not to crimp the cord in the lid of the case.

There has never been another gift I loved or used as much. As I created and constructed stories, characters and new worlds, I spent more time with that machine than any other toy I owned. There was nothing like turning on the baby-blue Smith Corona and hearing the comforting whirr of the motor as it patiently hummed. Or the click of the feed roller as it accepted a blank sheet of paper onto the platen. It was always ready whenever I wanted to bring someone to life.

As I was organizing my desk in my office this week, I came across a small strip of white paper. When I picked it up, fine white dust appeared on the surface of my desk and fingertips. My breath caught for a moment. Somehow, this fragile, little simple correction strip, which I had used to correct typos and other errors so many years ago, had survived multiple moves, cities and states. One lone piece of correction paper.

In an instant, I was transported back to my childhood, seated at my desk under the sloping eave in my bedroom. For hours at a time, it was the safest place on earth where I created new worlds and people. I remember always being happy when I wrote. It was my words and my stories. All I wanted to do was entertain people.

I can’t remember exactly when I disposed of the typewriter and its case, but it was probably around the time I purchased my first computer and printer. Some people are good about holding on to mementos but, as technology advanced, I let the old go to make room for the new. This little strip of white correction paper that suddenly appeared though, will stay put in my desk, a reminder of the passion I feel for my craft.

I would like to know: what do you have that reminds you of your life’s calling?

The Art of Happiness

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Alverno College, am writing, children, conference, creative writing, feelings, happiness, happy, Intangible, musings, own, parents, Robin Williams, sad, self, writing, yin and yang

What Makes You Happy – Alverno College

In the past few days, there has been significant news coverage about an actor who committed suicide. Robin Williams could not find his own happiness while making millions laugh.

In Fall 2013, Alverno College hosted a Community Conference with the theme, “The Art of Happiness.” I keep thinking back to that conference. It came along in a time in my life when I was not exactly happy or feeling my best, and it turned out to be a case of perfect timing. The conference was filled with various workshops and seminars, with leaders and moderators coming from so many segments – higher education, business and community organizations.

One of the key speakers spoke about happiness and each person’s ability/inability to define what happiness is for him/her in his/her life. Parents will say, “When my child grows up, I just want him/her to be happy” but they do not define happiness. (It is a vague term.) What would make that child happy? What the parent defines as happiness does may not be the same for the child, either. Happiness is different for everyone and only your self is able to define what it is for you. Is it rip-roaring laughter once a day or simply to smile every day of the week?

Discussion at the conference focused on the fact many people expect others to make them “happy” or a job should make them “happy” or a house/car/boat/etc., should make them “happy.” I do not think anyone or anything can do that for us. It also puts a lot of pressure on someone else to make us happy, and material things come and go. Happiness is an internal quest. We each need to determine and seek our own happiness – whatever that definition may be. Maybe it is just being content at a point in the day. Maybe it is a sustained period of bliss.

On the other hand, one might not feel happy at all for periods of time, and that is okay because we need the yin to the yang to appreciate those times of happiness. You may step off the happiness path, but do not stray too long and forget to come back to whatever it is that defines your happiness. When you hit rock bottom, there really is nowhere else to go but up.

To me, happiness is intangible. It changes from year to year, sometimes month to month, depending on the paths I follow. Happiness is our own responsibility. I cannot tell you exactly what it is that makes me happy, but when I have it, I know it. Today I am writing. I am happy.