…AND OTHER ROADBLOCKS IN WRITING!

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MEMORIES and MEMOIRS I’ve been scanning photos old and new into the mighty maw of my Apple computer in Pictures, Desktop, Photos, thumb-drive, and occasionally, Documents. It’s not that I don’t trust my computer…it’s just that I don’t trust technology in general. So far, these photos have brought back smiles as well as LOL and tears. I don’t want to lose them, though there are a few I might not scan.

I’ve decided not to scan the proverbial bearskin rug photo—not that I didn’t look pretty good at eighteen (months, that is), it’s just that I don’t want that photo turning up on a bottle of the Russian baby bath or shampoo. Unless royalties are involved. (Vladimir Vladimirovich – give me a call if you’ll consider royalties. Incentive: I’ll throw in a picture of me at eighteen.) Money makes the world go round…money…money…

Where was I? Oh, on a bearskin rug. With no money. So, scanning all these memories got me thinking how great they are as story starters for memoirs, fiction or creative fiction.

There’s the photo of me at six months. My mother said there was no way I could remember seeing the photographer bouncing a fake birdie on a stick to make me smile. Really? There’s a story!virginia-ruth-todd-age-6-months

ruth-todd-holding-virginia-ruth-todd-age-8-months

Then there’s my beautiful mom holding eight-month-old-me in a flowery field. Story starter!

 

 

 

 

Moving on a few years, we see two swans; Ruth, my mom, is on the left. On the right is my Aunt Marcelle who came from France at the end of World War II as my Uncle Ben Todd’s bride. Stuck in the middle is a very unhappy Ugly Duckling – ME! Oh, did you ever see a better growing-pains story starter? Pompoms on the knit cap? Really, Mom? Oh, and snowsuit? You two babes are in silk stockings and heels! What? And I won’t even mention remembering how my glasses steamed up from the cold. Oops. I never said that. Sorry, didn’t mean to sound like a politician. Really. Trust me. I never said it.

ruth-todd-virginia-ruth-todd-marcelle-esquerre-todd

So, dear reader, go mining your old family photos for poetry and prose ideas. Just be prepared for the explosion of feelings and sensory images all that effort provokes. Happy digging. Let me know what…turns up!

By the way, today (18th) would have been Mom’s 96th birthday. Happy Birthday, Mom! Love you! And give Daddy a hug for me.

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…which won’t mean much unless you read the previous post. See? You never know when I’m going to spring a pop quiz. Once a teacher, always a teacher.

If you sneaked back just now to catch up, you’re probably wondering (or not, that’s OK) what I did while I was recuperating. How’s eleven poems toward my next collection grab you? It’s easy when you’ve wrapped them around a great character. She keeps yakking in my ear, chattering about her life experiences and what life lessons she’s learned.

But, I also went back and finished up a short story I started a long time ago, lost focus, and filed it. It’s a fairly light piece called OFF DAY OFF, and it seemed appropriate to share it with you, considering how my summer vacation went. So, here y’go:

OFF DAY OFF    by Virginia Nygard

Friday. My day off. In a manner of speaking.

The wheels began spinning. Groceries. Cleaners. Bank—check on second mortgage. Ask Miss Debbie at Toe-To-Toe if she could use some clerical help toward Dinah’s tap and ballet lessons. Ask Mrs. Grundlee if she’ll trade piano lessons for Chaz for my computer skills. I hate to cut back even more on the kids’ activities while Tom’s job hunting. Speaking of which, check Employment Opportunities ads for computer savvy help wanted. Then battle the college kids for what’s available. Remember to hunt for Dinah’s missing pink dinosaur T-shirt. Don’t forget to make Tom’s favorite meatloaf with hot peppers. Remind mothers to provide goodies for the third grade party on Monday…

Wait a minute, Twyla. You’re a hamster spinning on the wheel of infinity. I didn’t see one word in that list about something for you on your day off!

Me? I don’t remember me being on my list of priorities.

Bingo. My point exactly. Have you ever considered taking a day for yourself?

A Me-Day? Did I ever have one before Tom whisked me away from Off-Broadway to suburbia?

No, but suburban life is just as grueling. Will the world come to an end if you take a day off from endless days that are devoted to everyone else?

Gee, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to start the day down at Delray Dolly’s Donuts & More for a change. Breakfast somebody else makes, serves, and then cleans up? Read the newspaper front to back? I’ll do it!

Then what?

Don’t rush me. I’ll think of something.

 

Fresh donuts. Coffee. Bacon. They all waved a welcome under my nose as I pushed open the door to Dolly’s place. I sat at a table by the window where a few scraggly hibiscus plants failed to obscure the parking lot or the traffic inching along Federal Highway. Still, the view beat that of my laundry room—cubicle, actually—and dirty laundry growing up from the root. At the counter, Dolly did a wide-eyed double take, grabbed a menu and sauntered in my direction.

“Are you lost, lady?” she asked with a rumbling laugh that shook her like a mild earthquake. “The counter’s over there,” she said with a sweep of her arm.

I grinned. “No, Dolly. Hard to believe I’m not grabbing and running off with something as usual?”

“Got that right!”

“Well, I decided there are days for everything under the sun except a ME Day. I proclaim today to be the first official ME Day. Furthermore, every woman on the planet may proclaim the ME Day of her choice.”

She glared at me over her chartreuse-colored glasses, knitting her eyebrows into a single black rope. “Twyla, the only ME day I’m gonna get is when I retire, sell this place, or die—whichever comes first. And between you and me, it’ll probably the last one.” She gestured to my menu. “What can I get ya’?”

“How about the two-egg special and coffee?”

“Scrambled?”

“Eggs, yes, Coffee, no. I like it neat.”

She shook her head. “If this is what taking a day off does to ya’, do me a favor and take it somewhere else. Your toast?”

“You’re toast,” I growled like a mobster. “Was my joke that bad?”

With a pregnant pause and a drop-dead glare over the glasses she said, “Go ahead, make my day.”

I grinned. “English muffin, forked open, not sliced. I want all the nooks and crannies. Make it lightly toasted, dripping with butter and cinnamon sugar.”

She gave me one of her faux grimaces. “I ain’t saying nothin’ more to you,” she said, dipping her head conspiratorially and grumbling, “except arsenic and cinnamon looks a lot like cinnamon sugar, ya’ know.”

Dismissing Dolly with a wave, I plugged in my earphones, tuned my iPod to easy listening music, and shook open my newspaper. Skipped over the obits. My name wasn’t there. Skipped sports, too. Motherhood, Wifehood, and Househood was enough of a workout. I also skipped the theater section. My name would never be there. I whisked away a wisp of regret with a feather duster of gratitude for everything I was blessed with. I plucked out the comics and smiled. They always started my day with a chuckle.

In moments, despite the earphones, searing screams at the counter drew my attention from the window beside me as it exploded, sending shards of glass flying. My left arm snapped beneath half the table as it splintered from its base. Darkness descended like a curtain at the end of Act One.

(End Scene One)

Now that’s what is known in the writing business as a hook. It’s the way you want to end a chapter so readers keep reading…whether they want to or not. As someone who read my first novel, Déjà Vu Dream, said, “You stinker! I couldn’t get to sleep until I finished the book!” Nicest compliment I’ve ever had.

Another tip: Never throw away a story you can’t finish. File it. Come back later. Months or years later. Life experiences may help you refocus.

See you in September? Twyla awaits your sympathetic ear!

 

 


I wish I could remember which journalist years ago explained his major pet peeve. I’d probably punch him in the nose. Why? His explanation has stuck to me like superglue and my eardrums rub raw every time I hear the phrase. And I hear it dozens of times a day.

His major pet peeve irked whenever he heard a guest reply, “Thanks for having me,” for appearing on the host’s program. The journalist said hearing those words conjured up all sorts of vivid, illicit images of the manner in which the host “had” the guest! And, I wonder, when? Before the show? Where? In the Green Room…or a quickie in the broom closet? I might add, “Thanks for having me on your show” is even worse. I’m tempted to switch channels on hearing that one. Is that a wink-wink way of hinting at live sex? Don’t think I’d care to watch. I’d hate to see anyone’s…shortcomings exposed.

My inquisitive mind wanders to wondering if the guest might be the son or daughter of the interviewer. Who was the interviewer’s mate? Was it a long labor? C-section? Natural delivery? By the time I finish my speculations, the interview has passed and I’ve lost all but the lasting impression that I infer from… “Thanks for having me.”

Dear Guest,

I suggest any of the following replies to your host:

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Nice to be here.”

“Thank you.”

Or just a gracious “You’re welcome.”

(And you needn’t thank me.)

That being said, That being said… ranks in the top ten on my list of pet peeves. I yell at the offender, “Of course, you idiot, we heard you say it!” Find another segue! Excluding politicians, you’re on radio or TV because you are fairly educated, reasonably intelligent, and somewhat adept at promoting your point of view, yes? Vary your routine. “However,” is nice. “But, we must remember,” is pretty good. “Also, let’s consider,” is a possibility. Don’t go near “On the other hand.” That’s another of my pet peeves. It’s excusable if you have only one other point to make, as you have only one other hand. I hope.

“Look.” I cringe at that one. It implies that having been asked a question, the interviewer is too stupid or inept to follow the answer. It’s insulting. Look, make me happy. Just drop it, and make your point.

“Listen.” That, too, insults your conversation partner. It assumes that having made a point, your host is about to reach up and switch off his hearing aid before you can reply. Listen, take a deep breath and just go into your rebuttal.

Okay, my curmudgeonly comments are complete is for now, but, yes, I’ll be back! In closing, let me say thanks for having…an open mind. (Whew! That was a close one.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

D on D Blog JULY 2016       AS OF YET…

 

 

…I have no explanation for as of yet. I see no yet on my watch, or any clock. Does it serve well as a time reference? Can we say: “The cake will be done as of yet.” “The train will arrive as of yet on Friday.” “We are open as of yet to five o’clock.” Nor do I see yet on my calendar. Sunday through Saturday, yes. As of yet? No. January through December, yes. As of yet? No. Can’t somebody outlaw this one? (As of yet, no!) Maybe we’d have better luck outlawing the journalists who utter it.

 

Then there’s the idiom about the clock. You know, that dirty clock that belongs to John. “He’s going to clean John’s clock.” Am I that young, or are these journalists that old? Clean a clock? Don’t we just throw them out and buy another from China, so we can throw that one out and keep the Chinese economy perking? What I mean guys, is be creative. Bring it up to date. How about, “He’ll erase John’s hard drive,” or “He’ll wipe out John’s accounts.” Even “He’s going to wash John’s chalkboard” would be less lame than clean his clock. If he wants to clean something, I’ve got a garage I want him to see.

 

While we’re on the subject, think about “They’ll take him to the cleaner’s.” I’m always tempted to help him by interrupting with, “What if he wants to go to Walgreen’s or Walmart? Be generous. Take him out for the whole day!”

 

At times, reworking hackneyed idioms and clichés such as you missed the boat requires engaging brain before opening mouth. In my literal-minded third-grade class, during a question-answer session at the end of the day, Miguel badly missed the mark with an obvious guess at an answer to my question. The kind of guess that leaves the class snickering. I smiled and attempted to make light of his gaff.

 

“Gosh, Miguel,” I said, “you really missed the bus on that one.” Hands flew up eager to share the right answer, and my attention was drawn away from Miguel, who rose and headed for the door. “I gotta go,” he said. This was not unusual. As long as the lavatory privilege was not abused, and not more than one child was out of the room at a time, such announcements were common. What was uncommon was to have the guidance counselor return Miguel to class minutes later.

“Did you tell Miguel it was time to go home?”

“No. Why?”

“But you said I missed the bus,” Miguel protested.

 

I sagged under the weight of a long day, tired feet, and a blossoming headache brought on by realizing what might happen when an idiot skews an idiom!

 

So, choose even your semi-original phrases carefully. Particularly in multicultural situations where American idioms don’t translate well into foreign understanding.

 

As of yet, I am out of pet peeves, but this an election year, and there’s a lot to dislike out there! Stay tuned for the possible Return of the Curmudgeon!

 


There are times when you break still another rule, or you find yourself slowly sliding down the cindery slope to complete burnout. You know the target rule: WRITE SOMETHING EVERY DAY!

That bit of advice usually comes from the big guys—or gals—who have made names for themselves by cranking out predictable genre tomes and have the time to tell us, “Write every day! Write 500 words, surely you can do that! If not, write about that ugly bug that just crawled out of your coffee cup. Go jump off a bridge. Write about how you survived, or how nice your funeral was.”

If you’re a full-time writer, bye-bye, see you in the bookstore. If you’re a student, a waitress, a nurse, a cop, a dentist, a retiree who’s taken notes or kept a journal and you’d like to turn your work into a book, keep reading.

First, form an idea of where you want to concentrate your efforts. What’s your goal? A memoir for your family? Or memoir that might sell to the general public—like growing up in a circus? Poetry? Short stories? Novels? Nonfiction?

Then: 1) take writing courses 2) join a writers’ group 3) join a writers’ organization that offers seminars and conferences to help you move toward your goal 4) subscribe to a magazine for writers 5) be aware that you’ll need proficiency in-and money for-social media, marketing and managing your new venture.

I’ve had writers tell me how strung out they are from pitching at libraries, book fairs, festivals, and bookstore promotions; or sitting at a computer trying to keep up with querying, blogging, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and all the rest of the knockoff communications gimmicks.

Anyway, where I was going with this was that you can become overwhelmed and unproductive by both writing and the non-writing business and communications demands on your time. That’s the time to rein in the fiendish, fiery hounds of hell dragging you down that cindery slope! WHOA! NO!

Several weeks spent celebrating and reconnecting with various family members is coming to a close for me. About the only things I wrote during this time were grocery lists, notes on places to visit, and urgent email replies. It was a much-needed sabbatical that has me eyeing my desktop projects with renewed energy and ideas. So if you’re feeling a little singed around the edges, WHOA! Take a break and DO NOT WRITE SOMETHING EVERY DAY! Heresy? Maybe. Does it work for me? Yes.

 

 


 

You better watch out

You better not cry

If your editor rejects you

And I’m telling you why… sooner or later down this message.

Right now, I’m saying rule-breaking does NOT work with Santa, okay? You put your playthings back where they belong, do your chores, eat your meals without complaint, put your clothes away, and MAYBE Santa will bring you that Super Hi-Def sixty-five inch TV you keep hounding Mommy for! (Note: that was an upper-case MAYBE!)

In a short story contest recently, in addition to eliminating unnecessary attributions, I used a tag other than said twice in the piece. The story came away shy of first prize and ended up second. With the other scores so positive, I wondered if it missed because, in the words of the deciding judge, “…the author seems determined to avoid said.

When somebody says, “Oh, man,” in a story, I sometimes want to know if (s)he grumbled, shouted, screamed or whispered it. For example:

“I can tell you didn’t study for this test.” Miss Smith dropped the paper with the red D on Harry’s desk.

“Oh, man,” Harry mumbled. He feared another beating from his father.

The tone of the attribution mumbled foreshadows Harry’s fear and moves the story forward. I don’t need to see Harry run his hands through his hair, shrink down in his chair, grow eyes as big as saucers…to know this kid’s in trouble. Just let the poor kid mumble. We get it.

As for my story, did I know it would end up in front of this particular judge’s spectacles? No. Had I known, would I have written the story to suit that judge? No. So, go ahead, break a rule when it seems right, but know why you did it, and above all, keep true to your character.

Don’t use unnecessary descriptive actions to get an emotion across if a simple mumbled will get the idea across and move the plot along. I don’t want to read through 300 pages of the wringing of hands, clutching of sleeves, raising and knitting of eyebrows, slouching of shoulders, heaving of sighs….yada…,yada…yada.

In closing, I must say my eyes twinkled and my lips curled in a smug smile of satisfaction to discover the judge used a word intended to impress me. It did. (S)he used it incorrectly.

 

 


Rules. Sometimes y’gotta break ‘em. Like eggs. You’ve heard the old saw about not being able to make an omelet without breaking eggs, right? Well, sometimes you can’t write a great story without breaking a few rules.

So (never begin a sentence with so) here’s what got me thinking about breaking rules. Rules are like a bad box of chocolates. All caramel. All fudge. All maple. All strawberry. How on earth could Forrest Gump ever have made a hit by saying “Life is like a bad box of chocolates. All the same. Every day alike. Nothing ever happens. Boring.” No! A good box of chocolates is a mixed box of chocolates. Because (never begin with because) it does teach you about life—and writing! Chew it. Swallow it. Get over it.

Anyway… I’ve read recently where quite a few writers are coming around to “Hey, yeah, that works. You can get away with it.” Call it Writers’ license. Which is NOT an excuse for sloppy writing. You need basic rules. You need to master the alphabet and be able to whip them into a delicious mousse tasty enough to tickle the mind and hook the eater—uh—reader. Something new comes out of any daring attempt to do a thing in a different or previously taboo way.

Take Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, a meandering set of tales whose protagonist, a married nurse named Claire, goes back in time from the 1940s to the Scottish highlands in the 1740s where she meets Jamie and… cue the violins, fade to the bedroom door, so to speak. The epic work not only overlaps genres, it ties them in knots. The series should have its own shelf in stores and libraries: Science Fiction-Fantasy-Historical Fiction-Romance-Adventure. And I thought I ran into trouble by describing my two novels Déjà Vu Dream and Beyond Déjà Vu as Romantic Suspense novels!

 

It stuck with me that someone described the Outlander series as Game of Thrones meets Downton Abbey. And if anyone is sour-grape-ing on the success of Gabaldon’s mammoth undertaking, let me throw in another old saw—she’s laughing all the way to the bank! So are the movie-maker moguls. And (never begin with and) how did she skyrocket next door to J.K. Rowling’s castle in the air? Chutzpah! Rule-breaking! Gabaldon will tell you she decided to write a novel just for practice, to learn by doing, to see if that was the craft she wanted to focus on (oops-preposition!) Note: with a BS in Zoology, MS in Marine Biology, PhD in Behavioral Science, and as founding editor of Science Software Quarterly, she did have an edge in literary mousse-making. However, as all writers know, the shift from nonfiction to fiction is not easy for many. It appears Ms. Gabaldon has done it successfully!

I think the advent of self-publishing loosed the chains traditional publishers clamped on writers’ works. While self publishing gets a bad rap for all the slush out there, it allows some unsung good writers a chance to be heard—or read—or both. And have a shot at a movie deal. So! Write On!

And stay tuned for RWMTBB … Part 2


Last time we covered the sensory prompts that could stimulate ideas for writing. So what else is there? Well, a lot of ideas come by using those senses in creative ways.

Here are a few:
1) Close your eyes. Flip through the dictionary, or any printed material. (It would help to have the printed matter first. On the other hand, feeling your way to some source of printed matter might give you a better idea for a story!) Next, let your finger land on a word. No matter how implausible it may seem, use that word to create a sentence. Bioluminescence? No problem: “Eureka!” the mad scientist exclaimed, “bioluminescence demands such amounts of energy that creating it in humans has just solved the problem of obesity!” Great. Write a sci-fi story! (Not this one, though. This one is mine.)

2) Choose one cartoon from the scads your friends forward in emails. Use the situation to write either a hilarious story or the reverse—a tale with a chilling twist. Someone sent me this one today: Wife is looking in the mirror reciting her flaws. She says to husband, “Say something to cheer me up.” He says, “Your eyesight is perfect.” Oo-o-oh, have I got an ending for that one!

3) Whether on America’s Funniest Videos, nature shows, or You Tube, you’ll see animals doing funny, freaky, or adorable things. Pick one and write a story from the animal’s point of view.

4) I just discovered a new reason to go to the refrigerator. Reason? Well, more like an excuse when my husband asks what I’m doing there. “Oh. I just had a great idea for a story. What if someone opened a refrigerator to find nothing but a scrumptious hunk of leftover cake like this one, and it was labeled, ‘The right person may eat me, but the wrong person will…die.’” (Works for whatever in the fridge tickles your taste buds or tingles your brain cells!)

5) If you had a 3-D printer that could copy anything—animate or inanimate—what would you copy? What would you do with it? What would be the consequences?

6) Do you keep a journal? In Beyond Déjà Vu, my sequel to Déjà Vu Dream, Jennifer journals her frightening dreams as C.J. weaves through the plot; and she records her conflicting emotions as her relationship with Chad changes. Pick something from your journal that might be viewed from a different perspective with the passage of time. Give it to a character to rewrite!

7) This idea has been done, redone, and done again, but like a good, fiery-hot ethnic meal… it bears repeating! (Burp. Yum. Sorry.) Google master plots. You’ll find sources for summations of plots and master plot exercises. You may even have read a book and thought, “If I had written this book, I would have…” Well? Do it! Use the idea and reverse it.

That’s enough for now. I’m thinking about that refrigerator tip because my stomach is grumbling like ventriloquist Jeff Dunham’s puppet named Walter, a grumpy old man. (Listen, Walter, there is no cake in the refrigerator. That was purely a writing suggestion. Okay, okay. I’ll go check again. No need to call me a dumb a**)