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Santa and the Grinch and Well-loved Books

Santas on Cycles

They traversed the city in packs all day long on Saturday. I saw them first in the morning, and I figured, a Jingle Bell Bike Ride or a fundraiser of sorts. But after running errands for a good part of the day and then finally heading home, I caught glimpses of Santas still peddling about in clusters, nodding to passers-by. I tried following them, but just as I pulled up to a stoplight, they rounded the corner and disappeared down the block. A mile later, they showed up again, only to slip down a side street. Santa. Always elusive, but ever present. And tough to capture on film.

Fizzle, fumble, drop crack spill

Sounds of my Christmas season so far. The lights on the Christmas tree went out minutes before I hung the last ornament. The garland let loose two days after I tucked its ends nicely into a corner. It continues to taunt me, shifting and slipping and inching its way to unruly. Cleaning the bathroom last weekend, I broke a tiny snow globe with a miniature Santa inside, who waved to me as he went down the drain. That was not a good sign.

Then, when a simple sewing project turned into a thread-breaking, table-banging, curse word-slinging ordeal, I looked around for the Grinch. He’s out there, snickering, and now he’s messing with my sewing machine. I wonder, do you think he likes Sugar cookies? We have a few freshly decorated (during which the bottle of sprinkles suspiciously got knocked over), and there’s a hot little number of the Gingerbread kind who might capture his attention. At least for the next few days. She does have green hair, after all, and she’s smothered in chocolate sprinkles.

Felicity and Paolini

What brings me back to center, even after several Holiday blunders is reading. Our bedtime ritual with the kids consists of time together with a good book. That’s not necessarily different from any other parent. But as my kids both grow older (my son is turning ten soon!), sharing a book together becomes even more special.

Right now, my daughter is into Felicity, the independent and spirited American Girl who grows up just before the Revolutionary War. The name Felicity means happiness, and I am happy we are reading about someone other than Barbie.

My son and I are reading Eragon. This particular book came from the library and was a magical find. We had talked about the book, searched the online catalog for it, hunted the shelves to find it, and didn’t see it anywhere. Just after we settled on a substitute and were ready to leave the library, he saw it on a random shelf, the cover barely hanging on. We snagged it, and I said, “This book has been well-loved and well-read. Or, dropped in a puddle.” Either way, it carries an air of mystery. He’s loving the story, too, and recently said, “It’s too bad we can’t stay up all night and read the whole book at once.”

That’s good stuff.

What’s your story this week?

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Recovering, Published, and a Flash Fiction Flashback

I’m coming off of a weekend sequestered at home because of a marathon run-in with a stomach bug. That virus is still lingering in corners, threatening to zap the last standing victim. In fact, it may have just tagged my son. And, I’m still recovering.

‘Tis the season.

At times like this, I appreciate the work of those around me, like my husband who kept the house running and the kids moving all day, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus. And like fellow authors of the Dead Shoe Society who ramped up big time over the last few days and pulled together story submissions to create a cool, new anthology, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.

20111213-161346.jpgThe anthology is up and ready for your Kindle. You can read more about it and the stories within (including mine, “If It Wasn’t for Sylvia”) in this great post on Victoria Flynn’s blog, Penny Jars. Then, if the stories intrigue you, click on Amazon or on Smashwords to purchase your own copy. If you prefer books in hand rather than on screen, rumor is that paperback copies will be available in no time flat (those Dead Shoe Society folks work fast, like little elves).

The other thing I did during Stomach Bugapalooza was think back through my flash fiction archives for a piece apropos during this time of year, the giving season (if you don’t have the energy to write a post, you can always re-post a post). This piece, first published last year around this time, introduces you to a woman named Cecilia, who does what I wish I had been doing on Sunday…while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.

Hope you’re all staying healthy, finding great new books to read, and keeping up with your lists!

~

Celia Loves

Paper Flowers for the HolidaysCelia only had three things left on her list of Christmas gifts: a book on wolves for her nephew, Dylan, wild animal that he was; a cookbook for her sister, Mary, Paula Deen’s latest convert; and a gift card for her brother, Jim, who never latched on to anything, not even a wife.

In the bookstore, she wandered past the Bestsellers and paused at the New Fiction. She thumbed through calendars and flipped through books filled with quotes. She was drawn to the display of journals and pens, unable to resist the feel of fine paper between her fingers and the weight of a good pen.

She eyed a travel journal; but she had no where to go. She picked up a nondescript diary with a brown leather cover, smooth and tempting: a classic. She considered a package of fountain pens; the things she would write.

Carol of the Bells rang out from the store lobby and pulled her attention toward a group of young adults. Dressed in Christmas Story costumes, they had stationed themselves near the front doors and begun a chorus of holiday cheer. A young man singing tenor looked a lot like her nephew might in a few years.

Dylan. She turned back to her list.

From the shelves of the Young Adult section, she grabbed an old classic, Wolfling. In the cookbook section, she reached for Paula Deen’s It Ain’t All About the Cookin’. Celia agreed with that title, knowing that behind every recipe is a good story. Then, Celia went back and picked up a small book of quotes she’d been reading before. She paid for the books, a gift card, and a package of pens for herself. Then, she sat down in her car and wrote inside each book’s cover.

To Dylan. Dear Lover of wolves, You’ll find plenty of facts about habitats and behavior in other books, but the real learning is hidden in stories. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said it best: “The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books.”

To Mary. Miguel de Cervantes in Don Quixote said “All sorrows are less with bread” – or, if you’re Paula Deen, a red velvet cake. Let’s bake one together. I miss you.

To Jim. You’re a man of mystery, impossible to buy for, and you work too much. Annie Dillard offers wise advice: “Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.” I love you.

Celia put the cap on her new pen and slipped it inside her purse. She started her car and turned up the heat, though she was already warm.

*photo credit: PermaCultured on Flickr.com
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The Secret to Writing While Driving

Last month I struggled to write a short story. It was longer than any of the short stories I’d ever written and came with a set of parameters that (for some reason) kept throwing me off balance. Too, just when a picture of where I wanted the story to go would begin to come into focus, that image would flicker and fade.

Except when I was in the car.

There I would sit, buckled in tight and cruising along, when my muse would mention – in passing – a secret to pulling the story together and making it work. With both hands on the wheel, my eyes would slice to the right to gauge the proximity of my purse and weigh the hazards in rifling through it for a pen and paper. I’d break out into a cold sweat, knowing that the idea might dissolve or fall apart with one false move – and fast – and I’d spend the next few hours or days chasing down the memory of it, like I do the name of my mother’s favorite perfume when struck with the faint, but familiar scent. It’s there, in my mind, if I could only draw it out.

What to do, what to do? I thought.

At times, I’ve fished out what I needed, though scribbling with two hands while driving with your knee is as dangerous as texting. Other times, I’ve let the ideas fall into that writer’s abyss, thinking, Maybe. With any luck. If it’s meant to be. I’ll remember.

Then, on a particularly long drive to a retreat, when I knew I’d be alone and might be fertile for a visit from my muse, I considered my options: driving while writing, or writing while driving.

There’s a difference. And, it has to do with how you record your thoughts.

I discovered on my iPhone, by chance almost, a picture of a microphone. The voice recorder. The memo-taker. The not-just-for-grocery-lists detail-maker.

iPhone voice memo

Of course!

I plugged in my ear buds, so I could do a test run hands-free.

“So…this is just to see how this whole recorder business works…Test…Boo…I’m so cool.”

Then, I played it back: the words were there, the sound was good.

It was magic, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. All those drives to work and back, this long road trip to a retreat? I didn’t have to worry. I could still write; I’d just keep my thoughts in digital form.

Those early recordings weren’t anything close to pretty. Many of them started off with a stumble of words and ended with things like, “So, there” and “What d’ya think of that.” Sort of like sass-talking with my muse.

Still, it worked. I visited and re-visited several parts of that short story with my tiny digital excerpts, and I jump-started a few blog posts and articles as well. I’m not particularly fond of listening to myself talk, there’s a nasal quality that worries me. But, I’ve found a new route to writing, on those days when I can’t get pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard, when I don’t want an idea to fall away unexplored.

What about you? Do you write while in transit or record your thoughts in digital format? What’s your secret?

*Photo credit: James Cridland on Flickr.com