tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65027935216334790452024-02-08T04:49:36.556-08:00Writer CrewsStart Your Writing J o u r n e y . . .
"The alphabet is fine, but it's what we do with it that matters most." Mr. RogersWriter Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-17184516331549542732018-08-07T16:10:00.000-07:002018-08-07T16:10:09.920-07:00<b>5 Tips for Attending Writer's Conferences</b><br />
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#1. Attend Writing Conferences<br />
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<i> This may seem obvious, but it is an important first step to take in your writing career. Show up. Even if you have an MFA, you can learn a lot at conferences. There are conferences on writing in general, like the Willamette Writer's Conference. There are also more specific genre-focused conferences, like those for Romance Writers, Children's Authors and Sci-Fi. Google and you will see there are hoards to choose from. </i><br />
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#2. Volunteer at Conferences<br />
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<i>Volunteering gets you behind the scenes, meeting and networking with people who have probably been in the industry long before you. If you listen in, you may just learn something. Besides, you can usually get a discount on registration costs. Show up with a smile, be flexible and try to be helpful. </i><br />
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#3. Take Notes<br />
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<i>Listen to others more than you speak. You are there to learn. I suggest handwritten notes over a laptop. Computers need to be plugged in and if it's a popular conference, those seats by the plug outlets are usually taken. Also, some of us are loud typists and it just may annoy the person next to you. Not everyone has to like you, but I think it's a good general rule to try and avoid being annoying.</i><i> Besides, scientific students have proven that writing notes by hand leads to better learning. As much as you want to take a break and grab an adult beverage at the bar, don't. Instead, go to every workshop you can. You can rest after the conference. </i><br />
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#4. Network<br />
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<i>You wanted to get an adult beverage, yes? After the conference, head to the bar, even if you order a sparkling water. Find a familiar face, or listen in and find a group talking about writing. Find someone, anyone, who also attended the conference. Then, flashback to seventh grade, take a deep breath and ask if you can join them. The worse they can do is turn away while saying, "I'm actually meeting a group here." Which actually happened to me. I lived through it and found a livelier group. Next, chat it up. Ask how the conference is going for them. Compliment their hat. If you meet an editor or agent, DO NOT PITCH. That's just annoying. You can ask about their cats, their tattoos or what they're working on, just be interested in them and you may find yourself learning something, or making a new writing friend. </i><br />
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<i> Make yourself a business card so you can exchange it with others. Ask anyone you speak to during the conference if they have a card you can have. People love handing these out. Go back to this pile of cards at the end of the night and follow each person you meet on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or whatever social media they can be found on. Message them letting them know how nice it was to meet them. You've made a writing friend, try to see they remember you. These industry professionals post helpful things and may even be a connection for you in the future. Learn from them. </i><br />
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#5. Share What You've Learned<br />
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<i>When all is done, go home and post about what you've learned. Hashtag the conference and your new writing friends. 'Connection' doesn't have to end on the last conference day. Writing can be a solitary journey, some of us prefer it that way, but keep your writing friends close. They are valuable beyond measure. </i><br />
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<i>Repeat.</i>Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-26972949431630089792018-04-29T10:34:00.004-07:002018-04-29T10:34:28.795-07:00When did you start writing?<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Forte; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When did you start writing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I was ten years old I was given a journal for Christmas, a pale blue and yellow plaid cover packed with lined papers perfumed with possibility. It immediately became my confidant, <b>secrets whispered from my pen</b> onto the loyal paper. When a boy liked me, or when my sister got me into trouble, it was there to take it all in. Spotted moments throughout the next seven years dot the pages. It had taken my entire childhood to fill it, still, at the last page, I gasped. The end came too soon. That last page felt important. I weighed and deliberated what I would write on that page, a summary? But I wasn’t done yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Elation came with a new journal. I was older now. I knew to not only write about the hard times, because looking back, I seemed to complain a lot. It taught me to be, reflective, thoughtful, self-aware, and <b>deliberate in life and in words</b>. I’ve filled eight journals since then. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <b>The pen was never far from my fingertips.</b> I’ve written poetry, short stories that were passed back and forth between friends, school essays, eventually, a master’s thesis. I found writing my feelings could make them clear, writing my indecisions could pave the way, writing my passions could drive me toward them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In 2007, when caring for a cousin going through a mental health crisis, the pages filled with appointments, medicines, thoughts, concerns, doctor names, and the episode became a journal in and of itself. That was my first novel, a memoir of those few weeks of distress. I shared it with my cousin, my family and then tried to rewrite it from a memoir into a work of fiction. There was so much there to work with. I tried third person, with a Grandma as the narrator, but that was way too difficult to pull off. Then I put a hot man in the mix and tried to mold the story into the frame of a romance, but that wasn’t what it was at its heart and it showed. I sent out <b>seven query letters</b>, maybe nine and each one was uniformly denied. I paid to have an author, Lidia Yuknavitch, read part of my manuscript. She liked it, thought I was a promising author, offered to refer me. I polished it up even more and sent it to the person she suggested. The writing wasn’t good enough. I needed to write more. I tucked that story away and decided to write pure fiction. But what would I write? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They say <i>write what you know</i>, but stories about teaching elementary school didn’t excite me. They say, <i>write what you read</i>, but I am an eclectic reader, I read in all genres. So I made a two column table with genre on one side, idea on the other. I listed all of the genres I enjoyed reading on the left… then let myself dream. If I was to write a women’s fiction novel, what would I love to write about? If I was to write a science fiction novel, what would I want it to be about? I had just finished the Twilight series and was a True Blood addict, but vampires seemed overdone. I liked the threat, the fantasy, and the gothic romance. So I focused on a paranormal romance. It was fun. I pantsed it… just wrote off of the top of my head from beginning to end. It came quickly and enjoyably. <b>I loved writing it. I hated reading it.</b> The plot was all over the place. I needed order. I needed to know what the hell I was doing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I began taking classes online, with local writing groups, joined local writing groups, attended conferences, took college courses online on editing, revising, romance writing, I bought dozens of books on writing and read them. I took notes, I wrote in the margins of my work and began to <b>learn more about the tools of the craft </b>I love. I have begun many different stories and then abandoned them, or just fiddled with them over time. Over the years, I rewrote that pantsed-paranormal novel. I backwards mapped. I wrote an outline out of my story onto index cards, they almost covered the floor of an entire small room. I worked with the plot, got rid of cards, combined cards, made a better plot and then rewrote it. I mostly rewrote the beginning, and middle, and end. Then I rewrote it again. Again, I sent out less than a dozen query letters and all were rejected. I was sensing a pattern. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I got stuck in a perpetual rut of editing and revising and not calling an end to my work. Then I would barely touch a toe in the publishing world before pulling back and starting on a new project. <b>Sensing a pattern is very different from changing a pattern</b>, so I continued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I went on vacation with my family to the San Juan Islands. The instant the ferry horn bleated through the misty harbor at our arrival, I felt the romance of the island. On a visit to the American Camp and British Camp, we learned about the Pig War and immediately, an idea struck. This historical setting was ripe for romance. I could see it all, almost the entire book in a vision of an American homesteader falling in love with his British neighbor. Star crossed lovers, my favorite. I began writing on vacation, and I still am. That rough draft began five years ago and I am now editing the rough draft for book two in the series while plotting out the other three. I still feel <b>passionate about the story</b>, even many years later, I am not letting it go. I’ve begun querying for that first historical romance novel, while continuing to polish it. I can’t seem to let that go either. <i>That sentence doesn’t pop. That description is awkward. That scene didn’t strike the chord I was going for.</i> It can always be better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The process of writing will always be my joy. It would be nice to have an agent and to publish, but I have to admit I’m not chasing that as hard as I possibly could. <b>Every denial is motivation to improve</b>. It says to me, okay, do better. So I just keep writing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Forte; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 107%;">~Fall down seven times, get up eight~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-40310093440023029852018-02-27T17:19:00.000-08:002018-02-27T17:19:01.166-08:003 Steps to Becoming a Writer<div class="MsoNormal">
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<b><u>3 Steps to Becoming a Writer:</u></b></div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
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1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Write. Every day. </div>
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2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Find your people. Make google your friend. Try searching for women’s writing groups, local workshops, classes, even festivals. There are tons of groups on Meet-up, one at my local library and several at the local bookstore. If you can’t find a writing group that suits you, create one. It is inspiring to be around other wordmongers. You will write more when you find people who you can relate to, people who “get” you, and people who won’t judge you because your mind is always on your story. They are out there, hiding in their pajamas behind their laptops or under their full spiral notebook. I began a local writing group by putting an ‘ad’ out on a phone app called Nextdoor. I called out to women writers in my neighborhood. They peeked out from the bushes, climbed down from the trees, dropped down from the sky—they came! We are a dozen strong with four of five hardcore participators. We still don’t have an official name, but we meet bimonthly, once during the day at a coffee shop and once at night when one of us get brave enough to host at our house. There is no format or goal, just a gathering of writers desperate to evade the solitude of our practice. </div>
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3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Always begin at #1. </div>
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Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-90409782456688136342017-11-08T10:48:00.000-08:002017-11-08T10:48:35.980-08:00Fall, My Teacher<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall is my teacher.</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Leaves scatter across the roadway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Learn to let go."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Winds shift direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Change is swift, exciting."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Leafless trees shake off the unnecessary and slow down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Pay attention."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Colors warm as temperatures drop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Beautiful inconsistency."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Rain, a daily companion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Wet hem on jeans, a jolt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Raindrops on the window...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Fresh views." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Hot tea, cinnamon, steaming soup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "Sunshine is inside."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">No razor, warm tights, blankets, knit caps, pretty scarves, boots, cushy socks, winter coats, fires... comfort, a creation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Fall, "A lesson in self-care."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Yellow, orange, brown, diverse, electric charge, Fall waltzes in, unreserved extrovert, and declares, "Be yourself with abandon!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fall, my favorite teacher.</span></div>
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Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-79146600371498824932017-11-06T22:35:00.001-08:002017-11-06T22:37:11.142-08:00When Winter Comes<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<u>When Winter Comes</u></h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When Winter comes</div>
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I will</div>
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open my arms and pull her into my embrace</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
blue lips</div>
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white hair</div>
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the twinkle in her eye</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We will</div>
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giggle together over warm tea</div>
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admire each other through the window</div>
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My frosted friend</div>
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has been away too long</div>
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We will</div>
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catch up on the sled down the hill</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
mingle before the fire</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When Winter comes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I will greet her</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
With Glee</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We are family ❆ Winter and me</div>
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-19886161882204044422017-10-26T16:29:00.005-07:002017-10-26T16:29:55.498-07:00Words I Love<div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Words I
love<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Popped into
my head<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You can pop
a cap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop a bubble
in a bath<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop a lid on
it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop one off<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop over to
see a friend<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop your
ears<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop music<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop goes the
weasel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop star
infusion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop a pill<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop an
illusion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pop in, pop
out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Popcorn, Hop
on Pop<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I like pop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I can even
drink it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-75744169474773796222015-11-02T16:57:00.001-08:002017-11-06T22:37:36.444-08:0010 Quotes by Children's Authors on Writing<h2>
<u><i>10 Brilliant Quotes by Children's Authors on Writing:</i></u></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">10. So the writer that breeds more words than he needs is
making a chore for the reader who reads. - Dr. Seuss<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">9. If writers wrote as carelessly as
some people talk, then adhasdh asdglaseuyt[bn[ pasdlgkhasdfasdf.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> - <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/36746.Lemony_Snicket"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Lemony Snicket</span></a><span style="background: white;">,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/77898"><span id="quote_book_link_80678"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Horseradish</span></span></a></i></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">8. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only
compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and
that, I am sure, is why he does it. - Roald
Dahl<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">7. …I’d write about places I knew something of and people
that spoke everyday English… - Gilbert Blythe (Anne: The Sequel)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">6. Don’t write about Man; write about a man. - E. B.
White, Charlotte’s Web<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">5. I don’t necessarily start with the beginning of the
book. I just start with the part of the story that’s most vivid in my
imagination and work forward and backward from there. - Beverly Cleary<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">4. I do my best to simplify and refine,
to be logical and harmonious. But I also try to keep an open mind, to listen to
my intuition and allow for the unexpected, the coincidental, even the quirky to
enter into my work.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> - Eric Carle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">3. The
best books come from inside. You don’t write because you want to, but because
you have to. - Judy Blume<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">2. You have to write the book that
wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then
you write it for children.</span> - Madeleine
L’Engle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">1. Reading is important because, if you
can read, you can learn anything about everything and everything about anything.</span>
- Tomie Depaola <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #f9eed9; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #f9eed9; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bonus: There’s always room for a story
that can transport people to another place.</span> - J.K. Rowling<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-84309614397837496422014-09-09T08:47:00.000-07:002014-09-09T08:47:35.057-07:00Say it, "Suicide."http://www.upworthy.com/2-famous-sisters-struggled-with-mental-illness-1-survived-heres-how<br />
<br />
In encourage you to watch the Upworthy video with Mariel Hemingway. One of my favorite quotes from the video:<br />
<br />
"As a community the more we talk about it the more we address it, the more we deal with it in our everyday lives the more healing we can offer everybody... it is about reaching out and that is the message I want to give everybody, keep talking about it."<br />
<br />
I've written a novel where one of my main characters deals with depression and suicide. It's a weighty issue that needs to be brought more into the light. There are ways to connect, ways to help bring this subject to the forefront. <br />
<br />
I met an author recently who really speaks to the heart of mental illness and is great at creating a community of similar people around this topic and more:<br />
Check out on twitter: <a class="ProfileCard-screennameLink u-linkComplex js-nav" href="https://twitter.com/JulieBipolar" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #66757f; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1; text-decoration: none !important; vertical-align: text-top;"><span style="color: #66757f; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 1; vertical-align: text-top;">@</span></span><span class="u-linkComplex-target" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #66757f; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1; text-decoration: none !important; vertical-align: text-top;">JulieBipolar</span></a><br />
or at JulieFast.com<br />
Her Blog: <span style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #8899a6; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 14px;"> </span><span class="ProfileHeaderCard-urlText u-dir" dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #8899a6; direction: ltr !important; display: inline-block; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 14px; unicode-bidi: embed; vertical-align: middle;"><a class="u-textUserColor" href="http://t.co/WduTvrvmOy" rel="me nofollow" style="background: transparent; color: #438b99; outline: 0px;" target="_blank" title="http://www.BipolarHappens.com/bhblog">BipolarHappens.com/bhblog</a></span><br />
<br />
Also, "Out of the Darkness" are community walks that help fund raise for suicide prevention. Not as popular as the "fun run" or the "color run" or the "beer run"... but a great cause. I plan on walking this year and hope that you all can find one near you to lend your support to. <br />
<br />
http://afsp.donordrive.com<br />
<br />
One last thing:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fbf7e9; color: #611959; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;">If you are in crisis, call </span><br style="background-color: #fbf7e9; box-sizing: border-box; color: #611959; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;" /><strong style="background-color: #fbf7e9; box-sizing: border-box; color: #611959; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;">1-800-273-TALK (8255)</strong><span style="background-color: #fbf7e9; color: #611959; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;"> </span><br style="background-color: #fbf7e9; box-sizing: border-box; color: #611959; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 25px;" /><em style="background-color: #fbf7e9; box-sizing: border-box; color: #611959; display: block; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 25px; margin-top: -4px;">National Suicide Prevention Lifeline</em>Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-68843010362240507482014-07-10T18:01:00.002-07:002014-07-10T18:04:21.542-07:00Go Time.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Go time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've written my entire life: journals (aka diary), essays (aka college assignments), poetry, novella's, Nano-Wrimo... I've edited, revised and polished... then done it again. I've taken college courses to the point where I've debated a second master's degree, I've attended hours of meetings with Willamette Writer's, PDX Writer's, Portland Women's Writers... I've saturated my life as much as I can to achieve those 10,000 hours. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've written stories upon stories upon stories... only two complete novels and I love them both and I'm ready to pitch. (That was a run-on and I know it- but it belonged together and I like breaking rules). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Willamette Writer's Conference is happening the first weekend in August. I'm ready. I'm pitching my Women's Contemporary Lit/Romance - beta readers opinion vary on where it lies - the title is "Twisted Disposition". </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s about
a teacher who creates chaos when she has to care for her psychotic best friend and
then finds herself falling in love with a successful man who has a history of
mental illness.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s like a mental
health happy hour.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Everyone’s having a
breakdown and everyone likes to talk about it.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Like my book club. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 15.333332061767578px;">It answers the age old questions of:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 15.333332061767578px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So you’re crazy, now what?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What to expect when you’re expecting a break down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can mental health or lack thereof, be funny? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What does it mean when you begin craving 5150?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What’s it like to witness someone lose their mind?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How would it feel to be totally responsible for that
person? What would you do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the all-encompassing question: What’s it like when the
person you know best in the world – the one you are most comfortable with –
begins to have a twisted disposition?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm pitching to three agents - chosen after much deliberation on my part. First, I checked what they were looking for - what genre. Then, I looked at their agent pages and made sure they would be a good fit for my story. Okay, I also stalked their goodreads pages, facebook, twitter and any blogs that mentioned them. All that's left is meeting them at the conference and giving the best synopsis of my novel (which I'm hoping writing poetry helped me with - it's all about word essence - less is more). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why do I feel I need to take a Xanax? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">**** foot note:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> *best* hobby ever!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-87199611973640751882013-10-31T13:40:00.002-07:002013-10-31T13:40:10.842-07:00NaNoWriMoI've done it! I've signed up for the monthly writing race to 50k words. I have to admit... I've written way more than that, but I'm a re-worder, edit-crazed, self-doubting author. It will be a great challenge to begin a story and not stop till I'm 50k words in. Looking forward to the write-in's... hoping to meet some kindred spirits or at least a few people that are writing group worthy. Now to go choose a genre, and begin my outline. Let the journey begin!Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-35567341045602489972013-01-23T21:24:00.000-08:002013-01-23T21:24:36.502-08:00Summer Dreams<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br /></div>
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And if I can’t handle the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enlightenment</i> she will disperse</div>
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Wind tucked in a pocket to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">whip-up</b> energy</div>
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Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-75714643934506819092013-01-18T14:37:00.001-08:002013-01-18T14:37:29.538-08:00Writing to Evoke Emotion~ Writing to Evoke Emotion ~<br />
<br />
Hand hovers, hesitates, a shadow on the pale paper below<br />
<br />
Then dives, a reckless raven into hidden holes, hollows<br />
<br />
dipping<br />
<br />
ink congealing into creation<br />
<br />
Words turn into serrated black claws
ripping their way across the white page<br />
<br />
dark moments<br />
<br />
exhausting the pen<br />
<br />
black blood of emotion<br />
<br />
I should be afraid to write them
- but my will is to pull<br />
<br />
your heart out and show you
it beating, dripping, in my pale palm<br />
<br />
So you may see it<br />
<br />
feel it<br />
<br />
perceive the pain<br />
<br />
that I <i>write</i><br />
<br />
My only real fear is that you won't.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-17514715808827228792012-10-19T15:57:00.003-07:002012-10-19T15:57:51.651-07:00Spring CleaningSpring Cleaning
When the light returns
What seeds I’ll plant
And then nourish in the year ahead
A seed planted is hope born for growth and future treasures
The gifted grin bringing forth rows of smiles
The melody embedded, creating a day of mindless humming
A clean house reaches like ivy over the barbs of my worry, softening, serene
A completed project like vinegar on glass gleans accomplishment
Time for myself sprouts a happier woman, who in return blooms to enrich the lives of those who pass my garden
Fertilizing the soils of my life
Tucking in seeds that support my growth
Dewey petals capturing life’s succulent essence
I flower, I open
To nature’s bounty
A flower, reflective of all beauty
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-23395873337139703972011-12-28T21:04:00.001-08:002011-12-28T21:04:10.838-08:00FrostCold Change
The icicle cracked from the eave
Dropped direct
Pierced, cleaved
Life into two distinct halves
Before loss and after
Tick
There
Tock
Gone
A second to mark a lifetime
Lost loved one
Innocent sheen on life smothered under a shroud
Chill coated skin, Sorrow frosted soul
Reality is a heavy nipping cloud
A mist that will never rise
Wherever you go, whatever you do
It clings to you
Raw iceWriter Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-5529607626761325012011-10-09T20:18:00.000-07:002011-10-09T20:18:25.381-07:00Wordstock Moment #2Afternoon and the convention halls are quiet. I’ve chosen to occupy the opposite end of the center, away from all the writers who love to talk. I want to write today. A few whispering women pass by on their way to the restroom, also on my end of the hall. I’m sitting in the “Laptop Lounge”, a cool name for an area with little stools, a long shelf and plugs in the wall. My back is to the hall. I get to face a dark blue wall for inspiration. At least my back is turned, allowing me to avoid all eye contact and feel alone. I like to be alone when I write.
But I’m not alone. The bright recessed lighting overhead casts a hard shadow of my own hand writing on paper. My shadow is always there – but usually it contains itself better. I can’t seem to escape the smell of coffee. As much as I try to avoid grouping people and making blanket statements, I’m beginning to hypothesize that the one common thread among writers, beyond the love of words, is drinking coffee. I smell it now, I smelled it this morning, and no doubt its scent will linger through the early evening seminars. The tingling in my left leg also won’t leave me alone. These stools would be more comfortable for a tall person but I’m shrinking. At five foot three my legs dangle, my clogs sway like a heavy pendulum. There’s also an incessant hum coming from the hundreds of writers and dentists, here for completely different conventions. Can’t say the curious writer in me hasn’t considered crashing the Dental Convention, I mean, what can they all be talking about? Certainly floss techniques can’t take up that much time. The dentists have large bright blue badges granting them access to Exhibit Hall B. So for now, I’ll have to forgo learning the secret world behind Orthodontics.
I’m worried I’m wasting my time. It’s ticking. A full time teaching job looms on the horizon and I have to decide. Make the jump or miss the train. Do I follow my non-income producing writing career – or go back to what I know, what I am good at? How much to I commit, to either one?
I’ve had this same conundrum my entire life. In Junior High and High School I couldn’t decide on what extra-curricular activity to do, so I did them all, almost literally: drama, student council, volleyball, soccer, cheerleading, yearbook. I even tried softball, girls basketball, golf and to my dismay, track. My Dad told me it was my responsibility to quite being soccer captain because I’d missed many games due to being in drama performances. The volleyball coach said I could not do so much and had to choose. I quit volleyball that year, avoided that coach and took on a new position as student representative on the school board. I can never decide what I want to “do” – so I do it all and if you look at my track record, you’d see I don’t do it all so well.
As I look back I realize it’s the same now. So as long as no volleyball coach approaches me and forces me to remove something from my plate, I won’t. I’ll go on binging on what I love and do, do, do. Perhaps that explains my coffee addiction.
The ample air conditioning in the convention center delivers wafts of warm espresso directly to me in the Laptop Lounge. I need to get off this stool, shake out my fallen asleep numb leg and go before my next class begins. I turn around and see directly behind me is a “meditation room”. It’s for the dentists. I feel shunned and that there’s just something inappropriate about that. The meditation room should be for the writers. As I look down the hallway, back to the domain where I belong, I see two coffee carts. Crowds are pouring out of the double-doors to a stuffy convention center room, one class is getting out, and another will begin shortly, mine. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee on the way.
This writing convention has been lovely. I’ve learned some, listened plenty, and browsed the publishers booth’s, editors stations, small book promoters… but I still feel like a voyeur peeking into a world to which I don’t exactly belong, yet.
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-83841555135366397172011-10-08T21:14:00.000-07:002011-10-08T21:14:59.907-07:00Wordstock Writers Conference
Moment #1 10:00 a.m.
I’m sitting in a row of tightly packed convention chairs, cozy in my hat, sweater and jeans. The presenter tells us all to look around and be here now, so I have to stop deliberating over the necessity of another coffee or not and focus. The first place I look is up, cause whoever looks there? There could be a suspended monkey cage above me and I’d not notice, well, maybe if I’d had that other coffee I would. The ceiling is from the seventies, all squares and recessed lighting. It’s morning but the lighting glow is like that you’d find in a Vegas Casino where you can’t tell the time. The floor confirms my hypothesis of the seventies time frame, covered in bright blue, red and gold geometric shapes that made me dizzy when I walked in. To my right are two men who are totally different from one another. But what catches my attention first is that the man furthest to the fabric covered wall is drinking coffee and I’m envious. I love coffee – but I’m trying to cut back.
The grey haired man to my immediate right is nice. I place this judgment upon him because he complimented my hat. I like hats – not so much as coffee. Maybe that’s why I was dizzy walking in this morning, my coffee diet is backfiring.
On my left sit rows and rows of people, not two among them are similar. I’m finding this out about writers, we’re all so unique. A quick glance over them and what catches my eye is an older man with worn Cowboy boots, a ginger-haired woman with a matching orange toned dress, and a woman with purple hair – so much braver than me. I had a hot pink streak that faded over the summer before I turned back into a teacher in September.
There’s a sparkling turquoise scarf in front of me, around the neck of a brunette – but I’m liking the scarf. A black and white scarf graces the long neck of the salt and pepper haired lady in front of the brunette. A visitor to the area would think the room is full of scarf-lovers. But really, we’re just Portlanders – scarves are a natural response to our Northwestern weather. Behind me, a cough, a typewriter is being tapped upon and papers being shuffled. Not enough coffee in me to waste energy turning around to look.
But we’re supposed to look, even beyond our stuffy little room with a high ceiling. I’m in Portland Oregon, tucked behind a blanket of clouds in the Northwest corner of the U.S. of A. Martin Luther King Junior brought me here, the street, not the person, this isn’t fiction. I passed two Starbuck on the way here and three coffee stations inside the convention center. They sell food too, but I’m focusing on caffeine this morning.
The convention center sits across the Willamette River from downtown Portland with a backdrop of forested hills. If I was outside, it would be a beautiful view, especially since our psychotic weather has decided to clear. It’s probably changed its mind a few times and showered off and on since the last time I glimpsed outside was over an hour ago. I like the unpredictability of fall in Portland. Its wind and colors entertain me, like the woman with purple hair. I’d like to thank her for adding tannin to the bland palate life sometimes presents us with. But I try to retain, or control, or withhold – that overt friendliness that puts others in an uncomfortable position. When I don’t, I’ve learned that people don’t particularly like to be loved by a stranger. I can like their hat, their butterfly clips wreathing their hair or their scarf – but when I walk up and say to an older couple, “I love the way you two interact, I’ve been watching you,” they tend to back away, slowly, with a half-smile and a nervous giggle. Like that parent at school who wasn’t as enthusiastic as I that we shared a childhood town – he didn’t know me, he wasn’t a parent of one of my own students, he probably had no idea how I knew where he grew up. Again, strange looks happen when I can’t contain my joy. I want to touch on a personal subject, get straight to the pulp, to the meat of another soul. Life’s too short for small talk or to talk about the weather, especially in PDX where it’s probably changed in the past five minutes into five different seasons anyway. A friend warned me once that my personal attention could be mistaken as attraction. Of course, that was at a bar, and it’s my solemn vow to befriend every bartender, anywhere. But I am attracted. I see the unique good in all. I love people… still, not more than coffee… and words. I love words.
Maybe I’ll contain myself better now that I’m on decaf. Then again – the presenter doesn’t seem walled in by the majority of the population acting as if it’s taken a large dose of Xanax. Her slender figure seems packed with energy. She even hopped. Hopped – as in, up and down, so excited she was to divulge the secrets of writing. I like that energy. It brings vibrancy to her brown eyes, something her black framed glasses can’t hide. That spirit makes her outfit, not the wrap around black sweater, jeans and loose bun; the pep is what brings my attention to her. Also the fact that I’m a very good student and don’t want to miss anything. This is hard to do when I’m distracted by the man two seats over well not actually the man, but his coffee. The nutty smell reminds me of my craving. I want to taste it on my tongue, not the remnant of Crest toothpaste. It’s also distracting that my ass is falling asleep. These metal chairs are disguised with fabric; there is no padding that I can feel.
The presenter insists we call her Jennifer – but I’d grown up with old fashioned parents and I want to call her Mrs. Something or other. She’s talking now, low-toned, pulling our attention back to her, back to the seven secrets that will improve our writing. I look up and see she’s looking in my direction, not a demanding look. She wants us to finish and not to miss anything. Here, in this uninspiring room, in this conventional setting, among tired souls and dull lighting, I am overjoyed that someone else finds this as exciting as I. If I had more caffeine, I’d hop. For now, my joy swirls inside – maybe someday I can share it, like Jennifer is now. For now, I wiggle in my hard seat, shuffle the tote at my feet, inhale the scent of my neighbor’s coffee and listen. I have enough energy for that.
Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-17519454087062008532011-07-27T22:37:00.000-07:002011-07-27T22:37:15.214-07:00One Lingering MomentOne lingering moment is all we have. <br />
Most moments build the foundation of who you are, yet have no haven in minds memory. Some moments though, you remember. They aren’t all significant, the one’s you remember. Some just pop up. Some hang there. Some are etched. Some moments choose you and hang on. Some moments, you choose to hold onto. I don’t have the best memory, but there are moments when I remember to make the choice.<br />
<br />
There was this one moment, in college, sitting on the floor in my apartment. I can't recall if I’m alone, but in my memory I cannot see another face. I'm sitting on the floor of our shabby two-bedroom, and that was with five of us in that small space. I’m writing, doing crafts, delighting in doodling, feeling lighthearted and lackadaisical. The music is what I remember most vividly. It was loud. It was the Cranberries. The song was simple. Slow. At the moment, it was meaningful to me. Regardless, I closed my eyes and tried to imprint that moment into my memory, mind, and time. I wanted to remember that moment. No special reason. It was just a good moment where I felt myself completely. A moment of realizing that time and life would happen to me, building upon layer after layer of the core that was once my child. Me. <br />
<br />
Through Junior High and then Junior College and on every odd day, I can lose myself. You have those days, when you are just not 'yourself'. Some people have those lives. When I am at the center of who I am, I remember those moments and my love for my brother, sister, friend, cousin, camping, honesty and cheese. You feel so close when you are little, to these people. Then we learn religion, politics, life learns us, we get broken hearts, broken houses, new loves and new houses, different friends, evolved beliefs... slowly, more is muddled upon our surface. Life is so fleeting. No one leaves alive. All we have are each other, our memories, and our true hearts. Let us not forget to check all luggage at the door and touch each other’s hearts unclothed. Remember who loves you. Remember who we love. Remember ourselves... and those moments where we feel most ourselves. I think in order to choose to be real we have to realize the moments when we are not. <br />
<br />
Listen to music loudly. Sit and capture the moment... by yourself. Be true. Open yourself to the lingering moment. Doesn't it feel good? I am afraid to lose people not only to death, but to life. One lingering moment, and then it is gone. We are gone. All we are is one lingering moment.<br />
<br />
Capture it.<br />
<br />
*(I wrote this many years ago but felt like throwing it out there tonight.)Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-13207975208490215022011-05-26T21:53:00.000-07:002011-05-26T21:53:18.273-07:00A Sentence in the Hands of a ChildToday I had the extreme honor of listening to third graders read their fictional stories. And I loved every minute of FBI baby brothers, Giant BFF's, and talking teddy bears. During one such conference I took pause - to marvel at the power of one sentence in the hands of a child. The boy was still writing his story but would occasionally stop to read aloud to me. He stopped reading mid-sentence at one point and began writing frantically, only taking a moment to fill me in, "He doesn't get back to earth with this sentence, but he does escape from the alien monster." I just smiled back, because where did that alien come from? Last I'd read with him, a few minutes prior, there was only a rabbit riding on the back of an electronic magical horse. Wow, that's one sentence.<br />
<br />
A sentence in the hands of a child, holds the potential of all things created - and yet to be imagined.<br />
<br />
A sentence in the hands of a child, is putty for little Gods - building new worlds.<br />
<br />
A sentence in the hands of a child, carries infinite possibilities and boundless imagination.<br />
<br />
It crackles with sparkling optimism, sings with un-muted hope, shines with their smiles reflecting back, smells like recess, tastes like ice-cream and feels like life once lived... too short to see the fences.<br />
<br />
A sentence in the hands of a child...<br />
Imagine.<br />
But ah, only a child really can.<br />
<br />
Marvel at the power, of one sentence<br />
In the hands of a child.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-42601895171870919112011-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:002011-05-02T10:00:17.127-07:00Death is Only Part of LifeDeath is only part of life.<br />
I know this <br />
So how can it shock me<br />
<br />
We were all here just a minute ago<br />
Complete, the circle of my family<br />
<br />
Time was counting down our bliss<br />
Death is only a part of life<br />
We know this<br />
<br />
The black cloud on the horizon <br />
Didn’t come in the order presumed<br />
It struck around - a chaotic tornado, ripping away our young<br />
<br />
The old were ready, the adults resigned<br />
The children, they were our protected<br />
Death was to meet with us first - our song had been sung<br />
His song<br />
Was on the tip of his tongue<br />
<br />
Death is only a part of life.<br />
Why did I believe it would care of our strife<br />
When great waves wash away a great many more<br />
Then earthquakes, floods and war<br />
<br />
Still<br />
The children should be last<br />
A selfish plea to the universe<br />
Take us all as I know you must<br />
But leave our children behind usWriter Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-46267822904155708992011-03-01T21:11:00.000-08:002011-03-01T21:11:10.212-08:00Education's Dirty Little SecretOh I'm gonna ruffle some feathers now...<br />
<br />
Now that I've touted the value of higher standards, I should remark on their worth. They are valuable to every teacher. He/she will have a goal, a guide to aim for, a benchmark for evaluation and goal setting. Every student is different: some low, some mid-range, and some high and they arrive at your classroom door in September spanned in a broad degree of varying levels. It is a teacher's job to take each student from where they are when they enter your classroom and move them forward. For student A- that journey may have to begin with single-digit addition, for student B- it may be double-digit addition, for student C- it may be multiplication. The goal is to move them forward. <br />
<br />
The standards are a guide for that journey, not an end-all-be-all, or a list to maneuver students through without their true understanding or when they already know the material. Take them from where they are and teach them more. Standards are our map of where they've been, where they "should" be and where they are all going. <br />
<br />
Standards are different than standardized testing. And standardized testing may have its place, but as a teacher who's worked inside of distinctly different schools, I see that it's also created a huge misconception. Higher scoring schools are not better. <br />
<br />
Vouchers, charter schools, parents switching addresses to gain access into a school's boundaries, all of these movements are caused by the idea that schools with higher scores are going to better teach your child. Wrong. They won't. The problem with this notion is that parents are shopping for schools using these scores, politicians are using them to require a school's overhaul, funding or as a basis for teacher pay. I believe in competitive pay for teachers, parents having a choice of available schools and in overhauling the way education is funded. But everyone is now looking at the wrong measuring tool. A low "school score" indicates a socio-economic inequity more than a teaching inequity. <br />
It is not the teachers or the school that creates high or low "School Scores". A high score is more due to the socio-economic circumstances of the population and the educational background of parents than to teaching quality. <br />
<br />
In fact, and I know this is a stretch, but when looked at from one persepective, teachers in the affluent schools don't need to teach as hard, as creatively or as thoroughly as teachers in poor schools. This in general, inherently makes the teaching done in struggling schools better than that occurring at an affluent school. Think about it; in most affluent classes, the children score high because their parents are teaching them at home, because they have the support and encouragement available to a child with an affluent background with computers and stay-at-home parents. Yet at the lower income schools, the classroom carpets are duck-taped together, there's mold on the wall, a limit to how many copies you can make, teachers have to buy their own paper, there aren't enough books to go around and homework is mostly left undone. Here, teaching has to be at its highest level. Those teachers cannot rely on family support; they don't count on a textbook, a fieldtrip or assume someone else is responsible, the teachers all know it is all up to them, only them and the student. It's amazing what depravation does for creativity and innovation. Teaching there, has to reach outside the box, into a creative well dug into by those searching how to explain a mathematical concept to a student who hadn't had breakfast, who is grade-levels behind and doesn't speak your language. <br />
<br />
I've worked at both types of schools. The low-scoring school was where I'd seen some of the best teaching in my life, because it was a need. There are challenges for those upper-crust schools as well. They need to move the students forward, onto TAG, challenge them beyond the curriculum, and deal with zealous parents. However, if that doesn't get done, if something slips and a student doesn't "get" a lesson, it is still very likely that the school will still achieve an overall good standardized score, that is almost a given.<br />
<br />
Just because "scores" are higher doesn't mean schools are better. Those scores are deceiving. They depict a population, not a teacher's commitment, not a schools success. Knowing this phenomenon, which school would you like - the school ranked best in the state or one that is more challenged, because the teachers there are working harder, teaching better, to ensure their students get it, while the others take it for granted that the students will, or already have? I want my child's teacher not to assume I'll be there at home helping with homework. I want them to explain it all, knowing mom won't get it at home, or mom won't be there at home. Don't get me wrong, high teaching standards should be upheld at every type of school. It's just the scores are not a reflection of that, necessarily. <br />
<br />
Statistics can be misleading. This, standardized testing for school scores, is the biggest one yet. There are many factors that make a school good for students. "Scores" are just one small facet and may be an indicator of something altogether different. We need a more holistic view of school performance. Safety, diversity, class-size, teacher ability- these need to weigh as much, if not more, than a schools ranking.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-69775202269056278112011-02-26T14:18:00.000-08:002011-02-26T14:18:02.877-08:00Education - CA vs.OR Math StandardsEducation - Standards Skew<br />
<br />
If you're like me and you've had the opportunity to teach in two different states, you too may have compared curriculums across borders. I happen to teach math now in Oregon and feel it's sparse. <br />
<br />
Take a look for yourself on both the California Math Standards for 2nd Grade at: <br />
http://www.cde.ca.gov/be/st/ss/documents/mathstandard.pdf<br />
And then compare to the Oregon Math Standards for 2nd Grade at:<br />
http://www.corestandards.org/the-standards/mathematics/grade-2/geometry/<br />
<br />
Then you too will see the glaring truth. State standards differ dramatically. I know California is not leading the nation with its educational ranking, however, perhaps their standards are. <br />
<br />
I was at a neighborhood dinner recently, one consisting of parents of school-aged children who had moved to Portland from diverse places such as Israel, Texas and Utah. We debated education in Portland quite a bit, but all agreed on one thing in general, why do states not adopt the same set of standards? There rationally has to be a 'better' set. Why do we reinvent the wheel? If one state has better standards, why don't we adopt them as well? Yes, every state has a different population to cater too, but our children across the world are all learning the same basics. There is no silver bullet, no one winning concept, but for those in the states that are so obviously in deficit, why not look to another state that's obviously put a lot more resources into devising their standards. <br />
<br />
I wonder if those on the Oregon State Board of Education have compared their standards to other states and have also seen the glaring deficit. I'd love to hear from them. I was more than happy to see that of the seven elected officials on the Oregon State Board of Education that Samuel Henry was my congressional district leader, as he is the one and only current teacher on that list. I've sent him an email with my concerns and hope to hear back from him. I wonder if I'll get a blanket letter back. I will probably have to do some more digging to see how this whole system works in order to whittle my way in, to bring about the change I want to see and think all of our children deserve. <br />
<br />
As for now, as a parent and teacher in Oregon, all I can do is supplement at home and hope my children can compete with those from California, Texas, Utah and Israel in the future. <br />
No problem, after I write my novel, go back to teaching, raise two children, feed the dog, make dinner... ug. Why can't I just send my kids to school and forget about it? As one of my friends said during a night of drinking when he was the designated driver, "Someone has to be responsible, may as well be me." <br />
<br />
And yes, I've just tied in 'Comparison of State Standards in Mathematics' to drinking, you owe me a shot.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-8386056998899475442010-12-18T12:51:00.000-08:002010-12-18T12:51:24.167-08:00God and Daughters."Mom, are you going to die in December?" my six year old daughter asked.<br />
<br />
"No." I continued picking up dirty clothes from her bedroom floor.<br />
<br />
"Am I going to die in December?" cuddled onto her side, she looked over at me from her twin bed, little pink hands tucked under full rosy cheeks.<br />
<br />
"No," I paused in my clean up to look into her big brown eyes, "And why December?" <br />
<br />
"Because that's when the calendar ends."<br />
<br />
"No honey, it's a cycle. I already bought the January 2011 calendar, it just loops around." <br />
<br />
Death has been a topic of interest lately for my six year old daughter. <br />
<br />
"Mom, what happens when we die?" <br />
<br />
My first answer was honest, "I don't know what happens. I know we are connected and we will always be connected in our hearts. You will always be in my heart and I will always be in yours." Okay, kind of a lame answer, but it was under pressure and never rehearsed. Damn, why don't kids ever give us a head's up? But she let it be, and I felt good. <br />
<br />
About a week or so later, I'm was lying in her bed for a few minutes before she drifted off to sleep when she suddenly clutched me with quite tears flooding her eyes, her face, smashed to the side of my face. I could feel her tears run down my cheeks, leaving a wet trail down to my neck. Her vulnerability struck me. <br />
<br />
I freaked, "What's wrong?!" <br />
<br />
"I don't want to die." Her voice was a whisper, a conspiratorial desire to plot against the inevitable. <br />
<br />
My daughter cried to me, which she should. This is my role. I'm mother. Life-giver. Instantly, my role was too large for me to hold. I attempted to assure her. <br />
"Everyone dies. It's okay. It's part of the cycle of life." <br />
I'm so lame, I quoted Disney! Or Elton John, which isn't so very lame as Disney.<br />
But raised Episcopalian, with brushes in both Catholic and Mormon churches, I'm a tried and true AGNOSTIC. I don't believe in one thing. I wish. I hope. But I have this niggling feeling that it's dust to dust and nature is the only truth.<br />
<br />
"I never want to grow up. I want to stay at like ten or twenty." Her hug turned into a vice around my neck and shoulders. <br />
<br />
The unknown was eating away at all the confidence six years on earth had the opportunity to build. Who am I to answer? <br />
"Why ten or twenty?" I kissed her forehead and hugged her back.<br />
<br />
"Because I don’t want to grow old and die."<br />
<br />
I had to answer. Her young mind needed to grip onto some certainty. Yet there is no certainty. I paused. I looked over the top of her brown curls, felt her wet tears on my cheeks. I'd already told her we all die. How can I make that a manageable fact, one that doesn't frighten her to the core? She hugged me so hard, I could physcially feel her fear. Momma bear woke. I knew I had to make her feel better, had to take the edge off of her fear. So I converted to Catholicism, in a blink. <br />
<br />
My husband was traveling in Germany at the time but I called him later, he who is an Atheist, and told him we'd converted and that he HAS to go along with it. If he can lie about Santa, he can lie about this, at least until she's older.<br />
<br />
"It's okay honey, we'll always be together. When we die, we turn into angels and hang out in heaven forever together." Yep, that's about how I said it. And I went on, talking of this magic. I told her about angels and heaven and offered to take her to the neighbors Catholic Church on Sunday, to learn more. I talked until I felt her calm, her grip relax, her flow of tears stop. And I figured, if millions in the Bible Belt can use this crutch to cope with their expiration date, why not my six year old? I'd never been so grateful for the existence of religion. When she gets older, she can figure it out on her own. <br />
<br />
All I wanted to do was crawl into the embrace of my own mother and ask her for reassurance. She, who is a mother, a life-giver. She, who once soothed my fears telling me that God is love, and love is in all of our hearts. There is something divine about going to our women for answers, to shape our grasp on this swirling life. And though I question God's existence, I know in my heart, if she's there, it's a woman.<br />
<br />
The problem with GOD and heaven and angles is... I really don't believe it myself. A 'higher power' is about as far as I can take my psyche without flinching in awkward acknowledgement that I'm still believing in Santa. I want her spirituality not to be centered on an old gray bearded man, but on nature, something I truly to believe in. I can touch it, breathe it. I know it.<br />
But... how do I do that? I wasn't raised that way. I certainly have no practices that encourage it. But I feel its truth.<br />
<br />
Baby steps, via Amazon.com. I bought a circular equinox/solstice calendar and want to try to convert our Christian beliefs, the only ones I know, into a natural celebration - but my first attempt came out like this:<br />
<br />
"Mom, are angels real?" that inquisitive six year old threw at me while I was driving home from the gym. <br />
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"Yes." I have to go for consistency and I'd just told her we'd be angels last week. <br />
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"Are they apart of Christmas?"<br />
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How the hell do I know? I obviously don't know much about it. Being raised a Christian, but not attending church since teen-hood, is like taking Spanish in High School, you forget most of it. But I'm mom. I have to have an answer, right? Hindsight, I should have thought about my answer a bit more thoroughly first. <br />
"Well, angels came down to celebrate Jesus' birth and the winter solstice - the time when all the trees and plants are dead, and it's the coldest time, and that's part of the cycle of life."<br />
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YES. Pause to take in the full lack of logic in that last sentence and the answer is undeniable- I AM FUCKING UP MY KIDS. How do I mesh these two cultures, sanely? <br />
<br />
Is there a kid's book out there somewhere or an adult book on how to celebrate a more pagan (or whatever nature based beliefs are called) lifestyle or on how to incorporate split beliefs? I just need it to exist. <br />
<br />
What did you tell your child, or what will you tell your child when she asks, "What happens when I die?" Give me what would be your first, off the cuff response, in comment to this post- because, I really want to know. <br />
<br />
And - have a happy frickin' holiday - however it's celebrated.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-31758894855397979612010-12-13T21:09:00.000-08:002010-12-13T21:09:27.940-08:00Nested in the NorthwestNested in the Northwest <br />
Every raindrop a kiss, a blessing from the sky herself <br />
The lower the cloud, the tighter the embrace<br />
The fog protecting, holding<br />
The earth here <br />
wants to blanket me in moss<br />
Cover my body in her abundance<br />
And take me back <br />
Into her arms <br />
Down into the fertile soil<br />
Encompassing me whole<br />
Leaving only a free soul<br />
Able to drift up <br />
Lightened of living load<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
___________________________<br />
*<i>I wrote the poem thinking of abundance and acceptance, of nature itself. Only after I read it back to myself, did I see some resemblance to death. But it's really about life. Even so, aren't they just sides of the same coin? </i>Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-19829564389659898712010-11-01T14:38:00.000-07:002010-11-01T14:38:52.068-07:00Fall DivaSpring is a shy Southern Belle<br />
She sneaks up<br />
Like a slow simmer <br />
A spot of color catches the eye and behold <br />
She's been in the room all along <br />
No warning <br />
No loud announcement<br />
She tiptoes in with her vibrant agenda<br />
Twisting the kaleidoscope <br />
Shifting shades<br />
From pale winter to warm blush<br />
Upon lush cheeks. <br />
<br />
But Fall,<br />
Fall is my season<br />
When mother-nature rolls down the window<br />
Letting the wind whip up my hair<br />
Raining down leaves to knock about my head<br />
Whistling through my bones <br />
for attention<br />
When the moment comes <br />
for her spell to cast<br />
Watch <br />
Trees bow at her entrance<br />
Leaves drop in open admiration<br />
Winds blow untamed kisses<br />
She is <br />
the DIVA of seasons.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6502793521633479045.post-48358394395723325512010-10-06T20:12:00.000-07:002010-10-06T20:12:03.173-07:00Squirrel at my WindowI sat at the kitchen table sipping my morning ritual- coffee- when a scratch at the window to my side caught my attention. Thinking nothing, also a morning ritual, I glanced over and startled at the squirrel nodding his furry head at me. I looked around the kitchen for witnesses but no one was around. This time, the little nut brown knocked and I looked back at him in disbelief.<br />
I pointed to my chest and raised my eyebrows.<br />
He nodded, "Yes, you." His voice was muted behind the window pane.<br />
I cracked the window, but only an inch... who knew what kind of temperament talking squirrels had.Writer Crewshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211295294152315573noreply@blogger.com0