tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33485655163681960632024-02-08T06:09:44.892+00:00Roads Less Traveled...Reflections On a Writing LifeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-76515116287440738132013-07-28T17:10:00.000+01:002013-07-28T17:10:00.784+01:00I'm Moving!I recently decided to make the move to Wordpress with a fresh new blog. I hope you'll continue to read and comment as I start afresh! Please follow me at:<br />
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See you there! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-11609974613571634292013-03-24T17:53:00.001+00:002013-03-24T17:53:32.613+00:00Life After a Liberal Arts Degree<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">I recently saw the movie <i>Liberal Arts</i>. It didn’t get the best
reviews when it was released, so I wasn’t expecting much, but a mere ten
minutes in to the movie and I was hooked. Not only was the main character an
English major with a liberal arts degree (just like me) but the movie explored
the idea that liberal arts majors often struggle to find their place in the
world after graduation — something I could identify with. Did I mention the
movie is set in Ohio? (Really, can it get any better? Says the former Ohioan.) <span> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">The movie’s main character, played by Josh
Radnor, returns to his alma mater to speak at a professor’s retirement
ceremony. Striking up a friendship/romance with a girl on campus, he revisits
the places where he spent time as a student dreaming about his future. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><span></span><i>“I think one of the things I loved the most
about being here,”</i> he tells the girl, <i>“was
the feeling that anything was possible.”</i></span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Sheltered in an academic atmosphere,
liberal art builds a fierce confidence. It instills a “follow your dreams”
mentality where anything seems possible. A responsibility to your talents is fully
realized. You find your voice. Dreams are built.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Then four years down the line it happens.
You graduate.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Here’s where the difficulty lies. Getting a
degree has taught you to use your brain. A lot! All the cramming for exams and
late night writing aside, there were moments when (dare you admit it) you
really enjoyed being in an academic setting. You loved learning. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Surprisingly the real world is not as
enthusiastic. You begin to realize that most people in your day to day life
don’t care about analyzing books or discussing philosophy, nor do they want to hear
about that novel you’ve been working on or the newest song you’ve composed. In
fact, unless you join a book club, writing group, or the like, you’ll probably find
the world a pretty lonesome place where kindreds are few and far between.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">One of my favorite scenes in <i>Liberal Arts</i> is when the main character,
Jesse, visits his university cafeteria for lunch. He starts a conversation with
a student sitting across from him and the student asks, <i>“Why did you love it here so much?”</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Jesse pauses for a brief moment, smiles,
and replies, <i>“This is the only time you
get to do this, you know? You get to sit around and read books all day, have
really great conversations about ideas. People out in the world, they’re not
really doing that. Think about it, you could go up to everyone here and say I’m
a poet and no one will punch you in the face.”</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Emerging from a university world you can’t
help but see the difference in your life before and after. Dreams are
re-shaped, aspirations frustrated, talents often forsaken. It’s almost as if
you are training for the fight of your life, only to go down in the first round. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">I wish someone had written a book entitled
The Consequences of a Liberal Arts Degree (I’m sure Jesse would agree at least
a whole chapter could be devoted to poets). Maybe then we could have been
better prepared for this transition.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN-US">But it’s not all bad. Consequences can be
positive after all. Life after a liberal arts degree can be challenging,
frustrating, and even lonesome at times, but discovering what you are passionate
about makes it worth it in the end. Most importantly, we will always remember
that feeling, that anything is possible. Sometimes that is all it takes in the
darkest of hours to keep the spark alive.</span></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-3529302786932407962012-03-04T11:59:00.001+00:002012-03-04T11:59:47.025+00:00Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b> “<span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Memory is a
way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you
never want to lose.</span>” <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">Kevin Arnold </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I’ve been thinking a lot about family lately. About how we
communicate, how time escapes us, and how memories keep loved ones near. I’ve
especially been thinking about my grandparents. I had a dream about my grandpa
(Papa as we called him) the other night. It was one of those strangely real,
vivid dreams that stay with you, even after you wake up. True to life, in my
dream Papa had been gone for many years, but he’d left something for me.
Something he wanted someone to give me. I didn’t know what the something was,
but was excited about the gift, sure that it would hold some sort of special
meaning or message. Boy was I disappointed. A dried sprig of herbs wasn’t
exactly what I had in mind – dreams are strange creatures!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The dream left an impression on me though. It filled me with
a sort of desperation to be near Papa again, to hear his voice and his
life-filled laughter. And it made me think how nice it would be, if those who
are gone from our lives could go on speaking to us, even after they are gone. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I was reminded of a home video my parents took of my brother
and me when we were little. Papa is in the video, sitting on a bench at a park.
I’m scooting closer to him, and my brother is toddling just at his side. My
grandma comes into the picture and picks up my brother. Everyone is smiling. The
audio is fuzzy and the picture quality isn’t that great, but you can hear my
grandpa’s laugh – his big life laugh, as he takes me on his knee. We all look
so happy. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The first time I saw this video, it filled me with an
understanding I’d never had before. I’d always known how much my grandparents
meant to me, but I’d never considered how much I meant to them. Of course I
knew they loved me, but I’d never really thought about how much they loved
being grandparents. Their joy was captured perfectly in the video; you can see
it in their faces, hear it in their laughter. They loved my brother and me so
much! It made me feel incredibly proud to have known them and to have had a
part in their lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Remembering this video, I thought about how my life has been
so deeply shaped by those who loved me and are now gone from my life. There is
a comfort in knowing not only that you’ve loved, but been loved. Maybe this is
the gift after all, the message I was searching for. Memories often remind us
of what we are missing, but they should also remind us of the love that made
that person memorable. How that love remains and grows in us, through our
expressions, our passions, our beliefs, even sometimes our physical traits. How
the ones we miss continue to speak, because they are a part of us – something
that will always be. And we are a part of them, continuing their story, shaping
it into our own.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-45904326306561148012012-01-03T12:52:00.001+00:002012-01-03T12:58:58.139+00:00The Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSBF3WVY_Ob0XPFiUZl9olg7Bn9mzFA3zX_-RqwAr9Tx1onpOmMiZJuSNAVBRJWd4tdPZTrOarqqpmR9mgh1te4J985EOmZRDEugbYn7WhPAr65kooMd93XQG4Q7xiuEOcGKse4sZb_cM/s1600/31122011276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSBF3WVY_Ob0XPFiUZl9olg7Bn9mzFA3zX_-RqwAr9Tx1onpOmMiZJuSNAVBRJWd4tdPZTrOarqqpmR9mgh1te4J985EOmZRDEugbYn7WhPAr65kooMd93XQG4Q7xiuEOcGKse4sZb_cM/s320/31122011276.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“There's much more in any given moment than we usually
perceive, and that we ourselves are much more than we usually perceive. When
you know that, part of you can stand outside the drama of your life.” </b></span><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: small; text-decoration: none;"><b style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ram Dass</b></span></div>
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It’s a 30 minute train ride. On New Year’s Eve, the platform
is busier than usual, but when the train arrives I find a compartment that’s almost
completely empty. As the journey carries
me out of the city, past the busy airport, and into rolling Scottish
countryside, I lay my head back against the seat and let my mind clear. We
flash past towns. Sometimes we stop. The train rests as if it is merely
catching its breath before rushing on. At one stop I count to 30 before we are
moving again. Despite the pace, the ride feels relaxed and somehow sheltered
from the rest of the worlds speed, like a reprieve from everyday. The
compartments are quiet with only a few passengers and there is nothing to do
but sit back and take in the view. Outside grey clouds break. Dramatic tails of
sunshine dip down across the countryside in vibrant long stretches of light.
Distant slate grey clouds tease of rain.</div>
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<br />
When we come
to the Forth Bridge a few minutes later the view
opens up, stretching across the impressive length of the railway bridge
mirrored by the road bridge directly adjacent. Extending on both sides, the
wide Forth River flows past colorful houses perched
on the stony rivers edge where freighters and sail boats head for open sea. With
this expansive view my pulse quickens in recognition of a secret crush for this
land, a crush I’ve always had for this land, even before I knew it as I do now.
Sometimes it’s hard to admit to this affection (and that it might be more than
fleeting). Living in a foreign country does strange things to your emotions and
sense of belonging. It can become easy to hate a place simply because it’s
different than what you’re used to or it isn’t where you ultimately want to
be. But, after all these years, I’ve
come to accept the struggle and see ways that it has made me grow. Coming to
terms with these transitions has brought about this odd recognition—although I
don’t consider this place home, something of its essence has seeped into me.
And there are moments, like crossing the railway bridge, where I can’t help but
acknowledge the connection. </div>
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<br />
There is
something akin to home on these train rides, although I can’t quite decide what
it is that makes these journeys feel comfortably familiar. Maybe it’s the
families with their attentive parents and young children who exclaim over views
of the sea, an excitement I share quietly with a smile. Or maybe it’s the young
couples, heads resting on each others shoulders, their quiet conversations and
hands entwined reminding me of my husband who will be waiting for me at home. </div>
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<br />
Today, a
young Spanish couple sits in front of me. They move from one side of the train
to the next with a vibrant energy that is infectious. The young man keeps
taking pictures of the young woman, the sea as a backdrop. It’s obvious they’ve
never made this journey before. They look quickly forward, then back, but never
focus on what is coming or what is left behind for too long because they are
too caught up in what is directly outside their window. I feel their enthusiasm, as if I too am
seeing it all for the first time. It’s the water that impresses them most and I
agree. The power of the sudden opening view to sea is like a constant revealing
secret, surprising and unexpected.</div>
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<br />
As the
tracks leave the seaside and turn inland back to rolling countryside of stone
stacked fences and sheep, I can’t help but see this journey as a kind of contradiction
to resolutions. It’s New Years Eve after all—a time when we are suppose to be
making promises while looking back and planning forward. But what about the
here and now? The excited young couple reminds me that it isn’t always about
where we have been or where we are going. Sometimes it’s the journeys that are
in process. It’s the immediate emotions and experiences and moments of
realization that tell us we are alive that are important. Sometimes it is where
we are that is the most extraordinary journey of all. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-74870160067943800072011-04-18T19:36:00.025+01:002011-04-18T20:12:24.001+01:00The Stories that Make Us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYJnLa2dxbiykejK9XPWLSMQ0aD3EnBkkGrykpcRa3Ov22fxvOxlQgf4VQNkTNNImQwEskX4mYDN8-2WR2dOpjnW742mJfSkv3bxWf-F50FZb-K4JaPpKtAHQpGShv_O_lNjCeoE7SCz8/s1600/26022011126.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYJnLa2dxbiykejK9XPWLSMQ0aD3EnBkkGrykpcRa3Ov22fxvOxlQgf4VQNkTNNImQwEskX4mYDN8-2WR2dOpjnW742mJfSkv3bxWf-F50FZb-K4JaPpKtAHQpGShv_O_lNjCeoE7SCz8/s320/26022011126.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597002863531945170" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >“We li</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >sten to the truth, the memories, the bits made up. We gaze at each other. We eat warm buttered toast. We know that the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >sun will fall, that the children and the birds will be silent. We know that we will return to</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > separate lives and separate deaths. We listen to the stories that for an impos</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >sible afternoon hold back the coming dark.” </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br />David Almond, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Counting Stars</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Stories are extraordinary things. They rally our emotions, entertain and transport us, even teach </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >us. But more significantly, stories offer an understanding of ourselves and others in a way that nothing else can.<br /><br />Some of the best stories are not confined to paper. When I was a kid I remember listening to stories my parents and grandparents told about their experiences growing up. Their worlds, each unique in their own way, captivated me. Stories of inner city segregation, of blinding blizzards on the farm, of coal mining, poverty, and one room school houses—they weren’t my stories, but I recognized they were a part of me in some way. As I got older I came to value these stories, not just as an understanding of the past and where I came from, but as a deciphering of myself, what I value, and what I want my life to be.<br /><br />We all have a need to share our world as we experience it. We all have a story to tell. You don’t have to look hard to realize stories are everywhere. From the simple retelling of the days events to a friend, to the latest movie or newspaper headline. Even in the silence of a person’s body language, a piece of sea glass washed on shore, or a graffiti stained wall there is a hidden story.<br /><br />So what is this need for stories? Why are we so driven as human beings to share a part of ourselves? For writers I think the answer is simple. Stories are a craft</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >—</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >something we study, work at, and admire. In our own work we watch as our words, as inadequate as they might seem, grow and mature. We desire to understand and be understood. And we recognize this beautiful struggle in the stories of others. We identify, whether the story is real or imagined, the coming together of plot and character, the attempt to capture life’s likeness on the page. And if successful, we are held in magical wonder at the power of words.<br /><br />Stories are living things, an ever present reminder of the extraordinary creation process. Whether they are based on truth or made up bits, they know no boundaries. Perhaps in their timelessness we recognize a part of our own brevity, and in those “impossible afternoons” when we listen, we discover not only a break from the “coming dark”, but also our own story, continuing on, being shaped, being told.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-68120248774441264412009-09-07T17:18:00.021+01:002009-09-07T18:03:30.941+01:00Discovering the Poetry of Truth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDFIiXQJL_aZ665xwn44Pix9unJ5SKUgLyP6AGvCLUTxU6-kvDprTee7v6Cn8vWEbRyWTPMnDYGJ-2X3EkV7sy6XjFS7NUbxP00CGdw-kytfcQrJ4gWGX8Yit_7JwUih9V699YMx3vXCk/s1600-h/stone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDFIiXQJL_aZ665xwn44Pix9unJ5SKUgLyP6AGvCLUTxU6-kvDprTee7v6Cn8vWEbRyWTPMnDYGJ-2X3EkV7sy6XjFS7NUbxP00CGdw-kytfcQrJ4gWGX8Yit_7JwUih9V699YMx3vXCk/s320/stone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378761539195407362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-weight: bold;"><br />"The greatest mystery<br />is unsheathed reality itself."<br />Eudora Welty</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">For a number of reasons, people tend to avoid cemeteries. Often burial grounds are either associated with a feeling of loss and sadness or, for those with overactive imaginations, a general creepiness fueled by too many campfire stories and low budget Hollywood horror films. Cemeteries are not exactly a walk in the park, yet it’s undeniable they maintain an important role in our society by enriching our lives with an awareness of ones brevity and connecting us to those who have gone before. <br /><br />Call me strange, but I love cemeteries. They remind me of a short story anthology you would find at a garage sale—a little weather beaten, a bit out of date, but full of quickly read tales waiting to be discovered. Only, these tales aren’t fiction, they really happened. These tales are full of people just like you and I, who experienced a gamut of life’s events, who knew what it was to laugh, to cry, to love, to dream... Perhaps that is what makes them even more powerful. Who doesn’t love a true story!<br /><br />Just up the road from where my grandparents lived, there is an old cemetery and church that dates back to the 1840’s. My great grandparents are buried there, as well as a great aunt and uncle. When I was younger, I remember roaming the cemetery after Sunday service, fascinated by the old stones and inscriptions. Sometimes I’d pick wildflowers that grew on the fringes and secretly (so that my parent’s wouldn’t think me crazy) leave them on graves of strangers. I’d wonder who the people were and if they were among the many that once filled the small church. And looking for some sort of connection to these people who lived a century before, I’d always think about the seat I’d sat in that particular Sunday (since the seats were relics themselves) and wonder if this person or that person might have sat in the same seat during their lifetime. <br /> <br />Not too long ago, I had the chance to return to the Captina Cemetery and do a little exploring. I visited the graves of my relatives, then made my way down the hill to faintly remembered graves. There’s a large stone with the names of three children and their parents, all who died on the same day. Larger granite stones mark graves from the 50’s and 60’s and fractured stones that are no longer decipherable lie stacked on the edge where the woods reclaim the land. Halfway down the hill, I came across two stones dated 1834. I didn’t remember the stones from my childhood and was surprised by the well preserved inscriptions. The first stone said “In memory of Nancy, consort of Harrison Massie, who departed this life March 23rd 1834, Aged 23yrs, 2 months 19 days.” A similar stone sat beside Nancy’s stone. “In memory of Roxanne, daughter of Harrison and Nancy Massie, who departed this life Aug 23rd, 1834, Aged 5 months, 15 days.” It took me a second to do the math before I realized the mother had died after giving birth to Roxanne and the newborn, for whatever reason, died 5 months after her mother. Curious, I searched the area for the husband and father, Harrison Massie, but his stone wasn’t there. <br /><br />It was starting to get dark and I reluctantly walked back up the hill to leave the cemetery. On the way home, I thought about the two stones and the one that was missing, finding it strange that sometimes all we will know about a person’s lifetime is the date of their birth and death. I was reminded of why, when I was younger, the old cemetery held such a drawing power for me. The simple stones of people like Nancy and Roxanne Massie were puzzling in that there was so much more I would like to know about them, but will never know. Likewise these strangers, with their eternal secrets, bring us closer to something beyond ourselves—a time and place we can only imagine.<br /> <br />As a writer, I value these experiences, the kind that draw me to people and places I know nothing of. I love the guesswork and the challenge it provides. There is something significant about stretching the mind and imagination to discover things that are known and unknown. Perhaps that is why I am passionate about travel and experiencing new cultures. As a Spanish proverb says, “Experience is not always the kindest of teachers, but it is surely the best.”<br /><br />For a writer, it’s not only about keeping the mind active, it’s about telling the story. But we do strange things when we find an experience or idea we want to set to paper. We boil it down until we are sure there is nothing but the richest of contents left, but at the end of the process feel that there is still some ingredient missing. We add a little of this and a little of that. Still, it isn’t quite right. After time has cooled the strangely colored brew, we remember why we began writing the story in the first place. At this point you have to ask —do I venture into the unknown or do I stick with the facts? Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing foolish about putting your imagination to work, but sometimes truth is the missing link, the element that is most inspiring. <br /><br />Next time you happen across a cemetery, or a newspaper article, or an event in your day to day life that captivates you, discover the poetry in what is true. If you find you are stuck after too much imaginative additives, return to the place where you began—the truth behind the inscription. Perhaps in these mysteries, in the recognition that real life is often stranger than fiction, the greatest story lives.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-46149786800378216012009-06-14T00:22:00.008+01:002009-06-14T00:30:09.431+01:00Going Beyond the Ordinary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBaQAeTRi5ZEn3IPtRLPvA5Gim9C5I6Stcea_RrTj_LkoZwCDIOZd2Jc03IUV7NaCdmXakBjM862o0q2k9D7JVXJZiXcs9iiZmT8B4CE1RRNuqAiexOHM7n-OEiYSadeATqu5fDcENOrNK/s1600-h/P1010005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBaQAeTRi5ZEn3IPtRLPvA5Gim9C5I6Stcea_RrTj_LkoZwCDIOZd2Jc03IUV7NaCdmXakBjM862o0q2k9D7JVXJZiXcs9iiZmT8B4CE1RRNuqAiexOHM7n-OEiYSadeATqu5fDcENOrNK/s320/P1010005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346956781686328642" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">George Eliot, Middlemarch</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">One of the greatest gifts a writer can have is the ability to transform the ordinary into extraordinary. Have you ever read a story where the simplest action or object is described with such insight you become mesmerized by something you would normally overlook? This experience can change our perspective on life and the world around us, proving if we dig beneath the surface, there is often more than meets the eye. But as a writer, how do we chip away the ordinary to get at the diamond core?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">George Eliot’s quote, though focused on sound, has a lot to offer about the process. “If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life,” she says, we would hear the world around us in a way quite different from what we hear now. As writers, we are taught to observe and transcribe, but what if observation involved more? What if our senses were infused with “keen vision and feeling” that went beyond the ordinary?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">We don’t posses super human abilities, but that shouldn’t hold us back. True, we can’t hear grass grow or a squirrel’s heartbeat, but we know things, lots of things. We know the word love is a weak explanation for what we really feel about someone close. We know the familiar, unique smell that tells us we are home. We know the feeling of a knot working in our throats when we are upset. And we have an imagination. Even if we have never been in love or been white water rafting or baked an apple pie, we can imagine what it would be like. No, we are not super human, but we are human. It’s not about the abilities we are lacking; it’s about how we choose to use the abilities we have.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Sometimes, this means thinking outside the box. If we were to write only what is true, we would all be liars (and we wouldn’t have hugely popular series such as The Chronicles of Narnia or Twilight). Every writer knows it is nearly impossible to replicate in words an experience or object exactly the way it exists in real life. Some writers find they are more comfortable writing about things that are anything but real. This only proves our imaginations are a powerful tool. We will always want to embellish the truth, make it poetic, and iron out the wrinkles of reality. So how do we use this tool to our advantage?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Consider Eliot’s quote once more. Before reading it, had you thought about the sound grass makes when it grows or what a squirrel’s heartbeat would sound like? I hadn’t. In fact, I’d never thought about grass making a sound because I’d never considered it being capable of such a thing. Aha! Now we are going beyond the ordinary!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Here’s another example. Let’s imagine an old barn sitting in a field. Instead of thinking about the ordinary aspects of the barn, lets pretend we have the keen sense of vision and feeling Eliot describes. Get your mining gear out. Go beneath the surface. Stop thinking about the barn in terms of color, dimension, and the materials holding it together. Consider instead the barn’s history, the events it has witnessed, and the stories it might tell. What does the barn see and hear? What would its voice sound like if it could speak? What does it feel? Think about what events might have influenced the overall mood of the place. Perhaps a tragic event took place in the barn. Say someone committed suicide. Or maybe something wonderful happened there, perhaps an engagement or a special birth (think about the Christmas story and how that changed our view of a manger).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By viewing ordinary objects in this way, it’s possible to get at the heart of what makes even the ordinary, extraordinary. Ultimately the descriptions we find often get at what we really think or feel about the things we are describing. Oddly enough, sometimes imagination can produce a truer picture than our five senses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">So next time you are struggling with description, don’t take the boring route. Use your imagination to dig beneath the surface. Think outside the box, ask questions, and go beyond the ordinary!</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-5056395052648762942009-04-10T16:27:00.009+01:002009-04-11T19:08:03.753+01:00Creating Characters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSG0cNhu44K3xCd8HYxqHCcyQtumTz7VNBT2gUw93_fqbCRHnDfsHydHHPlxVMjJI7Mng4nbEY7fAJeLBT11OmN_ibCGC9ijUZ9EcKAEUoNai4WZPJGDGlSfllJdommYwteWJxgA-9njv/s1600-h/woman_at_water_by_shoreview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSG0cNhu44K3xCd8HYxqHCcyQtumTz7VNBT2gUw93_fqbCRHnDfsHydHHPlxVMjJI7Mng4nbEY7fAJeLBT11OmN_ibCGC9ijUZ9EcKAEUoNai4WZPJGDGlSfllJdommYwteWJxgA-9njv/s320/woman_at_water_by_shoreview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323085607745057474" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Nicole/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:black;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --></style><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">“A writer begins by breathing life into his characters. But if you are very lucky, they breathe life into you.” Caryl Phillips</span><o:p></o:p></span>
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<br /><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Nicole/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoBodyText, li.MsoBodyText, div.MsoBodyText {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:black;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I passed her every evening on my way home from work.<span style=""> </span>No matter the weather, she wore the same oversized khaki coat and blue winter hat, her hair pulled back into a careless bun, no makeup.<span style=""> </span>If I had to guess I’d say she was probably in her mid 60’s.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">We’d cross paths in the same place, same time, every evening.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know where she came from or where she was going.<span style=""> </span>I knew nothing about her.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps that is why she fascinated me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">When I changed jobs, I took a different route to work and didn’t see the woman anymore. A couple months passed and I forgot about her.<span style=""> </span>Then, just the other day, I was on my way to town when I saw the khaki coat and winter hat.<span style=""> </span>An odd sense of familiarity rose up in me as we passed.<span style=""> </span>How strange, I thought to myself.<span style=""> </span>I don’t even know this woman yet, dare I admit it, I miss passing her on my walks home. She was an unusual person, captivating, full of mystery.<span style=""> </span>Since I knew nothing about her, I’d imagined the possibilities—she was an environmentalist and cat lover from Romania…a primary school teacher who loved to cook…a homeless widow who’d lost her job at a factory.<span style=""> </span>A wealth of characters and plots had sprung up, all because of this stranger.<span style=""> </span>One day I hope she makes it into one of my stories.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">What I love most about creating characters is that despite their fictional existence, they hold a nearness to the living, breathing folk we fashion them after.<span style=""> </span>Think of all the societies and clubs that have sprung up in honor of beloved book characters— people who do not exist.<span style=""> </span>We identify with them, often seeing ourselves or others in their likeness.<span style=""> </span>It seems that good writing, though it may be categorized as fiction, is in fact a sharing of truth—what we know to be real about life and living. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Perhaps in this way, we write not only to share our knowledge of life, but to know we are part of something bigger.<span style=""> </span>One of my undergrad professors always encouraged her students to view writing as an ongoing dialog of the world.<span style=""> </span>When we wrote, she challenged us to ask ourselves, “How am I contributing to what has already been said?”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Characters are a vital contribution to a successful story, as well as a pulpit from which the author can share a unique tête-à-tête with their reader.<span style=""> </span>Characters inform, influence, and can even make a reader laugh or cry.<span style=""> </span>And they do so because of their realness.<span style=""> </span>Characters are the <i>thing</i> a reader connects with, and often what they remember long after the story is finished.<span style=""> </span>Ultimately, it is not a characters function in the plot (what they do) that makes them truly memorable; it is who they are.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Creating characters is kind of like being a mad scientist.<span style=""> </span>We gather bits and pieces of humanity and fashion them into this creature we hope will spring to life on the page.<span style=""> </span>More often than not the experiment fails.<span style=""> </span>But with a bit of ingenuity, we as writers are able to breath life into a character.<span style=""> </span>And if we are lucky, in a remarkable exchange, our characters return the favor, creating a connected awareness not only of the story’s heartbeat, but also of our own.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-69812739912919617192009-02-21T21:51:00.012+00:002009-03-27T19:31:32.702+00:00A Kind of Magic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW8We8zmt49LsE2BDH2JfKaQd-yNeTe_I9z3uEifNpTg0ni8dfdlchdmKTDGqxoLUGYy0DyllXd6zwZUtaOlqdKeGlN8vHiuCMWiCuES6wlVKjeiliS0VW9rX8F-A3eEOYe_iT-YsozzW/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW8We8zmt49LsE2BDH2JfKaQd-yNeTe_I9z3uEifNpTg0ni8dfdlchdmKTDGqxoLUGYy0DyllXd6zwZUtaOlqdKeGlN8vHiuCMWiCuES6wlVKjeiliS0VW9rX8F-A3eEOYe_iT-YsozzW/s320/tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305371788487029938" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Writing can be difficult, but sometimes it feels like a kind of magic.” David Almond</span><br /><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >I didn’t study writing until my senior year of college. For the first time in my life I was writing creatively not for the pure love of it, but for class requirements. Sharing my writing to be critiqued and graded was a new and strange experience. It was like arranging my imagination on a plate and going before the likes of Gordon Ramsay, fearing I had overdone a character, underdeveloped a scene, made the ending too sweet.<br /><br />Writing is often categorized as a skill that, much like any other undertaking, can be improved with study and practice. While there’s nothing wrong with studying writing (heck, I got my MA in it!) I think writing courses should come with a warning label—proceed at the risk of your own creativity. What’s the danger in studying something you love? Your work becomes just that—work. While you’re busy worrying about deadlines and studying things like focalization, structure, and register it’s easy to forget why you fell in love with words in the first place.<br /><br />Maybe writing has always felt “like a kind of magic” to you. If that’s the case, you’re incredibly lucky (and you can stop reading at any time)! If you’re anything like me though, inspiration can at times be as elusive as the willpower to face a blank page. I’ve wrestled with doubt more times than I can count, but ultimately I’ve come to realize the problem isn’t due to a lack of ability or talent. The problem lies in losing sight of what drew me to writing in the first place—that magical quality of writing that Almond describes; the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >thing</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" > that literally produces goose bumps and butterflies in the stomach.<br /><br />Think about the first time you sat down to write a story or a poem. I guarantee you weren’t thinking about focalization. Not even close. You probably weren’t worried about what people would think of the writing either (because you had no intention of sharing it). Remember what it felt like—writing for the pure joy of it? Writing for yourself? If not, you my friend need to plan a second honeymoon. Here are some ideas to get you started:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Dig out some really old writing. Once you’ve blown away the cobwebs and gotten past the initial horror of re-reading something you never wanted to see again, try to remember what prompted you to write the piece. How did you feel when you were writing it? How does it differ from your writing now? Appreciate each piece’s strength and effort. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Be a child again—play in the rain/snow, pack a picnic and go exploring, ride your bike farther than you’ve ever gone before, swing on a swing set, catch butterflies, fly a kite, finger paint, build a fort (outside or inside!)…anything that frees your mind and lets your imagination soar.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Read a picture book.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Draw/color/paint illustrations to go along with a piece of your own writing or your favorite book.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Read a beginners guide to writing—not only will it prove how much you’ve learned over the years, it will remind you what it felt like when you first started out on the writing path. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Buy a writing prompt book (I recommend </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 153);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" >Room to Write</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"> by Bonni Goldberg). Set aside time each day or week to focus on one prompt. Forget about the rules—write whatever comes to mind!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Change your writing atmosphere/location. Take your computer (or pen and paper if you want to be more conspicuous) to your favorite restaurant or café to write. Or if the weather is nice, why not a trip to the park! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Share a piece of writing you’ve kept to yourself. This is a great way to get fresh perspective as well as advise.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Choose your favorite fairytale/nursery rhyme and adapt the characters to people you know in real life. Retell the story.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Go to the library and explore the local history section. Have a look at the archived newspapers on microfilm if your library has them. Some libraries also keep pictures on file. Find a story or picture that holds your fascination. Write about it. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Attend a book signing or authors lecture. It’s usually free and a great way to learn about what keeps other writers inspired. It’s also fun to watch authors at events and realize you could be at your own book signing one day!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Join a writing group. It’s obvious for anyone in search of creative support, but it really does make a huge difference! You’ll be amazed at the inspiration you gain by being in the company of fellow writers.</span><br /><br /><br />How do you keep the “magic” in your writing experience? I’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-10413335744130812142008-12-31T18:30:00.014+00:002009-03-27T19:27:27.004+00:00Think Small<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7rR0RI1FnyO-IecMP82KDXWk82oypvAx3RBDSfYRcIjIdPn5tZjjnBVi6yErWJ6Fus7O6qolksjxhSRMGxt18S1LqIwa649gMVCoz5WOVFKhqKS8SUqqZKyF3mZUESDT74L8nFFsEHhS/s1600-h/New+Year%27s+Eve.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7rR0RI1FnyO-IecMP82KDXWk82oypvAx3RBDSfYRcIjIdPn5tZjjnBVi6yErWJ6Fus7O6qolksjxhSRMGxt18S1LqIwa649gMVCoz5WOVFKhqKS8SUqqZKyF3mZUESDT74L8nFFsEHhS/s400/New+Year%27s+Eve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286024775265274882" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link style="font-family: georgia;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Nicole/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">January is a fitting time to test New Year’s resolutions.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In Edinburgh, the month is perhaps one of the least inspiring with overcast skies and scarce few hours of daylight. Once the holiday season ends and life gets back to the day-to-day, enthusiasm for resolutions seems to end too.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A study conducted by psychologists at the University of Hertfordshire estimated that out of 3,000 people who made New Year’s resolutions, only 12% achieved their goal.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Similar studies showed an even lower success rate.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">So why do we make resolutions we know we won’t keep?
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<br />Transformation.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We all long for change in some form or another. Never completely satisfied with our lives, we want to eat less, exercise more, stop a bad habit, start giving to charity, spend more time with our families and spend less money. With a fresh calendar on the wall, we are even more mindful of a chance to begin again.
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<br />Appropriately, the word January has a strong connection with beginnings, dating back to mythology and the Roman god Janus, from which the word January is derived. Acting as the god of doors and gateways, Janus was often depicted as having two heads, one looking forward, the other backward. He was most often associated with beginnings and ends, as it was believed he could see both into the past and future.
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<br />Though I don’t know what the future holds, I feel like Janus this time of year, looking back over past events and forward, wondering what’s to come.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In doing this it’s easy to get caught up in the major events of life.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Society teaches us to do so. When will we find a better job, buy a house, be happy with our bodies, make more money, follow our dreams…the list goes on and on.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We are measured by accomplishments, yet so many of us fall short of the mark. We are left feeling inadequate, discontent, and not quite good enough.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We focus on the big things that are missing and forget sometimes it takes “baby steps” as Bob said in <i>What About Bob</i>,<i> </i>rather than leaps, to reach goals and live a more fulfilling life.
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<br />Think small.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Instead of resolving to get fit in 2009, why not resolve to walk the dog around the block two evenings a week or play an outdoor sport with your children every Saturday. Find ways to make your resolution manageable.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Once you have reached that goal, enhance it (walk the dog four days a week).
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<br />Don’t resolve to read more books in the coming year, resolve to read <b>one</b> book. Take a book to work and read on your lunch break or go to bed half an hour early every night to spend time reading. Find ways to finish one book.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">When you’ve reached that goal, find ways to read another.
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<br />The same can be said for writing. I often fear that my dream—having a career in the writing industry, will never happen.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sometimes I have to remind myself that instead of taking a step back to see the big picture of what I want, I need to take a step forward to see the things that make up the big picture.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Chances are I won’t land a book contract or an editing job overnight.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I have to commit to small goals, like taking a few hours a week to write or submitting a story to a competition.
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<br />Whether you believe in New Year’s resolutions or not, search for inspiration.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Look for small ways to enhance your life, rather than struggle to maintain unmanageable goals.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Instead of approaching a new <b>year</b> consider the 365 new <b>days</b> that make up a year and when you find yourself consumed with the big picture or battered with thoughts of failure, consider what Anne said in Anne of Green Gables. “Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet.”</span></p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3348565516368196063.post-58824553857274489042008-12-15T20:42:00.014+00:002009-03-27T19:04:52.309+00:00all the difference<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Road Not Taken</span><br /><br />Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,<br />And sorry I could not travel both<br />And be one traveler, long I stood<br />And looked down one as far as I could<br />To where it bent in the undergrowth;<br /><br />Then took the other, as just as fair,<br />And having perhaps the better claim,<br />Because it was grassy and wanted wear;<br />Though as for that the passing there<br />Had worn them really about the same,<br /><br />And both that morning equally lay<br />In leaves no step had trodden black.<br />Oh, I kept the first for another day!<br />Yet knowing how way leads on to way,<br />I doubted if I should ever come back.<br /><br />I shall be telling this with a sigh<br />Somewhere ages and ages hence:<br />Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—<br />I took the one less traveled by,<br />And that has made all the difference.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuimLwLC-7LOIPn2OVLZGkxou0s4RIbWpgq9AVHTt0K8BOnTdtfRe5TTMNAWdx9AiR64MpGFN2B0fMXi1unD6S_musdwjS9op833jgtfvSOU99jMm0A2Dl3xW4Et6CccdJjemZBKnCZ4Vz/s1600-h/n106800222_30129838_4156.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuimLwLC-7LOIPn2OVLZGkxou0s4RIbWpgq9AVHTt0K8BOnTdtfRe5TTMNAWdx9AiR64MpGFN2B0fMXi1unD6S_musdwjS9op833jgtfvSOU99jMm0A2Dl3xW4Et6CccdJjemZBKnCZ4Vz/s200/n106800222_30129838_4156.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281880304929361698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Robert Frost said </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Road Not Taken</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> was a “tricky” poem.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Decades later, debate over the poem’s meaning continues, yet whether or not the four stanzas are literal or ironic, the idea of a road “less traveled by” holds my fascination.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My photo albums are scattered with pictures of roads, some less traveled, others well worn.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Trees border most of the roads, with undergrowth threatening to claim the path.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Some are in open spaces, following fence lines, cutting across meadows, weaving through cemeteries and trailing through gardens.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Others, the gems of the bunch, are roads that bend, leaving mystery and guesswork to what might be around the corner, just out of view. I seek out roads, often finding them in unexpected places.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sometimes I’d like to think roads find me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">What I love about Frost’s poem is that whether it’s about individualism or regret, the road “less traveled by” manages to capture a bittersweet quality of life to which we can all relate—how choices can potentially change our lives forever and how, as citizens of this world, we can’t help but reflect on choices and how they have guided our life journeys.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Frost boils it down to a simple, yet poetic “slice of life” moment.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A man pauses at two roads in a yellow wood.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When it comes to writing, there never was a “pause” moment for me, just simply a decision to begin.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was twelve years old.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Oddly enough I can remember the exact moment when, sitting in one of my grandparents aged recliners reading a book by L.M. Montgomery, I had the idea that maybe I could create my own characters and stories.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I started out with poems and books that never made it past the first chapter or two, though it was fun to continue calling them books.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I tried a few short stories, but didn’t feel any connection with them. Along the way my love for writing deepened, carrying me down roads I would never have imagined, including moving to Britain to pursue a masters degree in creative writing and discovering an affinity for short stories.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Like the two-fold interpretation of Frost’s poem, my fascination with roads goes beyond the literal.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I love what roads represent.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">With their twists and turns, beginning and ends, roads are a fitting metaphor for life.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They make us consider choices, where they lead us, and how we come to be where we are.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Lately I have been doing a lot of reflecting on the roads I have taken. You can’t help but question past choices when student loans come due.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I’ve wondered, like Frost’s protagonist, how things would have turned out had I taken a different path.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">What if I had decided to be a veterinarian or a park ranger or a psychologist? I certainly would be making more money and I wouldn’t get the awkward “oh” response I get now when I tell people I have a degree in creative writing.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Let’s be honest, creative writing isn’t the most marketable degree when it comes to finding a job in the real world. “What do you plan to do?” I often get asked by the "oh" crowd.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I laugh. “That’s a good question,” I say.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> I'm still trying to figure that one out.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But writers are used to these stumbling blocks, just as they are familiar with the many roads of life—something in the analogy sits comfortable with us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">When we are not busy creating characters and roads for them to travel, we are traveling our own roads of discovery as writers.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Being keen on reflection, we are also natural observers of life, trying to figure out how and where we fit, and our writing fits, in the bigger scheme of things.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Like some of the pictures in my photo album, the writing path is not always straight and easy.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps that is why I write.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps that is where the drawing power lies—in the challenge of facing the unexpected and what might be just around the bend, waiting to be discovered.<span style=""> </span>When I think about my choice to be a writer, I am Frost’s protagonist, standing at two roads diverging in a yellow wood and when all is said and done, I know the road I chose, for better or worse, “has made all the difference.”</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04456739079415681837noreply@blogger.com1