writing Archives - Page 21 of 151

January 25, 2017January 24, 2017

On the Spaces We Inhabit: Meet #Writer Mary Lewis

Yesterday’s social media explosion on the Badlands National Park twitter account gone rogue reminds us about the value of the spaces we inhabit and the places we take for granted. Our sense of place, and the attention we give it, defines who we were and gives insight into who we are. Whether you think of the world on a large or small scale, place–and our relationship to it–is paramount.

For the past few months, I have been compiling and editing a fourth anthology of work by the writers at Harwood Place on exactly this theme. Entitled Inside | Outside, this year’s collection of stories and poems honors the idea of place both inside and outside, from the shelves of a room called “the den” to temporary living quarters in the barn, from a camping excursion as seen through tiny eyes to the fauna and flora dressings on a patio. While the anthology isn’t available to purchase in bookstores, we share it among friends, family, and fellow Harwood Place residents at a special Reading. The contributors for Inside | Outside will showcase their work from the podium this Saturday, January 28th, at 2pm.

To give you a taste of what you will hear if you attend, I welcome Mary Lewis to the blog. Mary has been a regular in the writing group for several years now, and her work always delights me. A former children’s librarian, she knows the power of words, and her pieces often hint at the playful side of a good story. Here, she writes about the intricacies of a treasured room.

My Favorite “Then” and “Now” Room

By Mary Lewis

Currently my favorite room is a diminished version of my favorite room in the home where we lived for fifty-six years. We called that space “the den,” a curious word, as defined by Webster: “the lair of a wild animal, a comfortable, usually secluded room, a subdivision of a cub scout pack.” Harwood’s floor plan calls it the second bedroom. I declare it a Den, happily opening its hide-a-bed to welcome guests when they arrive.

Expanded by a mirrored wall, which is opposite the windows, this small room on the sixth floor is always filled with sky wonders–storms and colors and mist and darkness and changing moon shapes. I can add music to the environment or just keep it absolutely quiet. It’s the right place for a pen and a clipboard to journal or to follow a writing group prompt. There’s a globe to spin and speculate and a modest TV screen tucked on its own shelf on the bookshelves along the wall. Books which were boxed for the Harwood move are survivors, culled for another read. More recent titles pop up in other rooms.

Ledges and corners in the den call out “these are a few of my favorite things!” Many of them are carved pieces. A parade of guinea hens marches across a shelved collection of books from Zimbabwe and Namibia. Two small human figures make eye contact in conversation. She was carved in Quebec, and he in Central America. I like the profile of their faces. Another carver had shaped a large tagua nut until it became a parrot in simulated ivory. There’s a gourd from Peru with a carved border of llamas, and a plump Baboushka doll hiding her children until a squeaky twist will set them free for their line-up. The paintings on the walls were brushed by artist friends, and the wide window valence was cut from the Batik fabric of a tablecloth.

The Den–it still says heart and warmth, comfort and contemplation. Creativity. And I like it because it’s small and takes you by surprise, down the hall and to the left.

Come hear Mary and the other Harwood Place Writers read on Saturday, January 28th, at 2pm: 8220 Harwood Avenue, Wauwatosa, WI. You’ll leave feeling lifted and inspired.

January 18, 2017January 17, 2017

#Writing Tools of the Trade

(And you thought it was a pen.)

*photo credit from Pixabay.com (via Pexels)

January 11, 2017January 10, 2017

Writing Fiction with Help from Picasso

Today’s guest post is written by Patricia Skalka (@PatriciaSkalka). She is the author of the Dave Cubiak Door County Mysteries, with the third book of the series, Death in Cold Water, now on shelves. In her post, Skalka reveals how stepping away from her pen and into the world of art changed her perspective on the way she approached her writing.

I’d been a professional nonfiction writer for more than twenty years when I decided to make the jump to fiction. Specifically, I wanted to write mysteries – stories based on both character and plot. Those were the types of books I most enjoyed reading and felt most drawn to writing. I had plenty of ideas and the confidence that comes from two decades of making my living with words.

So, I started. And failed. The first draft of my first mystery was a dud. The second was not much better. I kept reading, revising, and chipping away. I was determined to do this but each faltering step drained away some of my self-assurance.

The problem lay with my perception of the novelist. As a nonfiction writer, I worked for national magazines like the Reader’s Digest and Ladies Home Journal, and was intimately familiar with the work involved in crafting a piece for publication. First came the idea, followed by the gathering of material through research and interview, then organizing the material and writing a first draft and, finally, the revising. Intellectually, I understood that the same basic process applied to fiction. But on an emotional level I had a very different concept, and therein lay my problem.

Deep in my psyche, I embraced the notion that fiction writers were born to the story. In this fantasy, I envisioned the novelist as one who woke with the idea in full blossom and who proceeded to write a captivating novel with almost effortless ease. The fact that I had to work – and work hard – at the process sent an unconscious message that I wasn’t and never could be a novelist and that, despite my attempts, I was just fooling myself.

I was at one of my lowest points, when I traveled to Europe to visit my daughter during her study-aboard semester in Spain. On a sun-drenched autumn afternoon in Barcelona, I walked down the famous La Rambla to the Museu Picasso in the Old Town area. I went to see his art, never realizing that the hours I would spend there would save my fiction-writing career.

photo of Chicago Picasso sculpture — The Chicago Picasso. *Photo credit: tacvbo via Visualhunt / CC BY-SA*

Among the more than 4,000 works on display were the table-top models and rough sketches that Picasso had made of the iconic untitled sculpture that would eventually be installed in downtown Chicago. I lived in the city and was familiar with the massive, 50-foot tall steel structure. But in Barcelona, I came face-to-face with the many versions that Picasso had to work through before he arrived at the final design.

There were so many, and as I took them in, the truth dawned. I was looking at an example of a world famous artist going through a struggle and process similar to mine. Picasso didn’t wake up one morning with a vision of the finished sculpture in mind. He started with an idea and then for some two years he nurtured it through a long string of evolutionary and developmental steps until he reached his goal.

If Picasso had to work at creating his art, then why shouldn’t I have to work at writing my novels?

The point seems obvious, but to me it was a revelation. I walked out of the museum almost giddy. My attitude and approach were transformed. I could do this.

pencil and pencil shavings Back home, I embraced my work with new enthusiasm and understanding. Failure was not a defeat but a learning process. Ideas were seeds waiting to be cultivated, nourished, and tended. Change was good. Revision was an elemental part of the process. If a plot line didn’t pan out, it wasn’t a disaster but an opportunity to figure out how to make it better.

Eventually, I learned two more important lessons. The first was discovering that I couldn’t write blind. I couldn’t take an idea and write by the seat of my pants. I needed to understand the entire story first. This meant plotting it out step by step before I began to write.

The second was learning to be comfortable writing at my own pace, and learning that the pace would vary. On some days it meant a thousand words and on some it meant five hundred. I congratulate those who are able to do more but no longer let myself be intimidated by their output or feel that I have to match their pace.

Writing is a very intense and personal experience. The only way to make it genuine is to believe in yourself, to go through the trial and error process of finding what works for you, and then to be true to yourself.

I made the trip to Barcelona ten years ago. Since then, I’ve published the first three books in the Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery series and am well into the fourth. All I can say is, Thank you, Picasso!

photo of Patricia Skalka — *Photo by B.E. Pinkham*

Patricia Skalka is the author of Death Stalks Door County, Death at Gills Rock, and Death in Cold Water, the first three books in the popular Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery series. Skalka, a Chicago writer, turned to fiction following a successful career in nonfiction. Her many credits include: Staff Writer for Reader’s Digest, freelancer, ghost writer, writing instructor and book reviewer.