Terena Scott's Blog, page 16

Writing is action, and my body feels it.

After several months of crazy making stress and poor sleep (thank you cancer!), I finally had a few hours to concentrate on writing. I had outlined this new project, but had zero time to concentrate and write actual scenes. But yesterday, I wrote for two and a half glorious, painful, difficult, wonderful hours. My hands cramped, my vision blurred, and my stomach knotted from all that coffee, but in the end, I had 750 lovely words.

Yes, 750 words in 2 and a half hours. Not exactly what you’d call productivity, but still… I wrote!

I wrote actual words on my lap top and filled in the rough draft of chapter one of a brand new project. My brain strained with the effort, shaking off apathy and searching for writing skills I’d allowed to atrophy. With each word I typed, I felt more myself. A writer.

But after 2 and a half hours my hands ached and I was forced to stop. That night I had pain in my arms and the following day pain in my shoulders. I’m not used to sitting still, concentrating hard, for that length of time. You might think writing is only a cerebral activity, but writing includes arm muscles, hand muscles, straining eyes and a numb butt. Just like any activity, you have to work up to the marathon hours.

I’m eager to lock myself away somewhere for several days and write. First, I need to work my body up to that much typing and writing. Today, i am in training. I’m writing the rough draft of my new novel. Painful, awful… even the writing is strained. In a few months, I’ll be ready to put in hours each day on the first draft. That is my favorite time. Writing hour after hour until I enter the zone. That’s what I call bliss.

Nurses: stuck between patient’s needs and doctor’s demands.

i am sitting next to my husband’s hospital bed watching his nurse try to take care of him. He’s being treated for cancer with Brachytherapy and must in the hospital for two days. Since his arrival yesterday, his pain has been awful. The nurses desperately paged various doctors to authorize more medication, but they could only decrease the pain, not stop it. 

Today his day nurse has been doing the same thing. 

The Resident came and went. A Nurse Practitioner came and went. Promises were made. Meds were increased a little. The Pain Management Team was supposed to be here over an hour ago. The nurse keeps calling. And in between calls she takes care of him. I can see the frustration on her face. 

I don’t know who to yell at, so I keep asking the nurse when the doctor will come. “15 minutes,” she says. The doctor doesn’t come. She pages again. “15 minutes,” she tells me again. He doesn’t come. After an hour I stop asking. She’s as upset as I am.

Nursing must be one of the hardest jobs on the planet. They take care of frightened people in pain while dealing with frightened family members and disappearing doctors. They must answer questions they don’t have the answers to and handle angry outbursts when the doctor doesn’t show up. And if they make a mistake, they could create more suffering for their patients.

Nurses work in the mine field between the needs of their patients and the demands of the doctors.

Throw in hospital regulations and redundant paperwork and it’s a miracle your nurse doesn’t go crazy. Maybe she does, but it’s part of her training to hide it well.

Thank you nurses at UCSF Mission Bay. Thank you nurses everywhere.

If you think your memoir doesn’t need a plot, you’re making a big mistake.

Memoir is a story about someone’s life, right? Sure, if you want it to be boring.

A good memoir is not just a series of events shared chronologically. It is a tale with heroes, villains, conflict, subtext, and a great plot to keep the pages turning. Writing events down chronologically might be fine for a history book or genealogy, but if you want to engage your readers, you need to think about action. One event in a life has a direct impact on the next event. Everything you do effects the people around you and how your life develops.

A scene is action. Plot is a series of actions. When you outline your memoir, think about the actions that shaped your life and made you who you are.

Perhaps you were born in Cleveland, then you moved to LA when you were 10. Those are facts, and you might want to mention them briefly as backstory. Unless Cleveland essentially shaped who you are, or the move created a lot of conflict, none of that matters to your plot, and especially not to your reader. Mention it, and then get back to the story.

Or lets say you longed to get back to Cleveland and hated LA and your story is about moving back to where you feel you belong. Then be sure and add in every detail about Cleveland and why it meant so much to you.

Think about the person you know who comes to all the parties and becomes the center of attention because she tells the best stories. People listen attentively as this person weaves a story about something probably mundane, like a trip to the grocery store. It’s the way she tells how she went to the market for a quart of milk. What is she doing that makes her trips to get milk sound so much more interesting than your trips to the store?

Or what about the elderly uncle who knows everything about family history, but instead of just boring you with facts and names, he makes you feel like you know the people he remembers? What makes his stories about people who died before you were born so captivating?

It all goes back to knowing what your book is about. If you know that, you can create a strong plot that will make readers want to know more about you. Don’t make the mistake of sticking to a linear format. Writing a memoir is more than creating a calendar, it is writing about the meaning of life.

Friday Night Writes

There’s a group on Twitter called Write Club (#writeclub), organized by Friday Night Writes (@FridayNightWrites). It’s helped me get a lot of writing done.��There’s something about sitting at your computer writing in a room all alone while knowing that across the “Twitterverse” others are doing the exact same thing. It feels good, like your writing group is a thousand people and instead of critiquing each other’s work, you’re working together and cheering each other on. Write! Keep going! Get your word count up! You can do it! The writing sprints are 30 minutes long with a 10 minute break during which we “put down our pens” and report our word count. Of course it’s the honor system, because there’s no way to know if the guy reporting 800 words is telling the truth. He could be. I once did a writing sprint that produced over 700 words in 30 minutes. Not sure how many were actually any good, though. If your lounging in your PJ’s some Friday night with nothing to do but watch reruns of “Friends”, hop over to Twitter and get some writing in. A cocktail while you write is highly recommended. In fact, I wonder if it would be fun to take my laptop to the bar with WiFi on a Friday night and write while drinking a martini? Who wants to join me?

Alice Barker sees herself dance and makes me cry.

Distractify posted a story about 102 year old Alice Barker, a dancer during the Harlem Renaissance of the 1930’s and 1940’s, who saw herself dancing for the first time. The films show a beautiful, strong, vibrant young black woman dancing with a big smile on her face. Alice today is a frail, tiny woman who lives in a nursing home and is shown in bed. But her smile is the same.

While watching the video of Alice watching herself dance, I thought of the years and the life that happened between then and now. There she is at 20, so thrilled to dance she seems to fly. And here is is today. Alice’s body can’t dance anymore, but Alice’s hands can.

I cried.

Here is the link to this beautiful story.

http://distractify.com/Deborah-Gross/dont-mean-a-thing-if-it-aint-got-that-swing/

How do I start writing a memoir?

Recently I was asked if I had any pointers for starting a memoir. As a matter of fact I do. 

First, you need to know what your book is about. I’m not being snarky. It is vitally important that you know from page one what your book’s purpose is. The book shouldn’t just be about you. Your story needs to resonate with total strangers. Your story is about something bigger than you; you are simply the catalyst for the story. 

Think of your favorite memoirs. Why are they a favorite? Could you understand the writer’s struggle? Identify with it? Did you care about the writer and cheer for her? 

That’s what you want to happen with your own memoir; your story needs to capture the imagination of people you don’t know. How do you do that?

Write what your book is about. It might be easier to write a description in the third person instead of writing about yourself. Use several pages to write down all your ideas, then work toward narrowing it down to only a paragraph. When you understand what your book is really about, then you can imagine who your reader is and why that person will care about your story. Describe her needs and hopes. 

As you write your memoir you will re-read this exercise to help you stay on track. Your memoir is you personal story, but that story will have greater meaning for your readers. If you write something that doesn’t reflect what the book is about, cut. But don’t make things up! Readers want honesty. Vulnerability. Blood. 

Fiction is so much easier to write. 

cancer

My husband was diagnosed with cancer two months ago. From the moment he told me “I have cancer,” nothing that had happened before mattered. Not a single argument, moment of pain, or disappointment, had any power. All that mattered was that he get well.

And he did.

Last week he had surgery to remove the tumor. I sat beside his bed and held his hand, feeling how small and frightened he had become. My strong, Viking sized man held on to me as if his life depended on it. And I knew I would never let go. 

Love brings ammunition. We join together, set up our walls, dig our trenches, and then hurl bombs at each other without understanding what we’re doing. Everything we’ve been taught since childhood gets thrown on the battlefield; you have to watch for trip wires. The battle will continue until you learn that the person you love can never make you whole. Healing is your job.

My husband slowly heals. The cancer is gone, but his body is scarred. We are both holding our breath to see what happens now. 

The only thing I know is that I love him with all my heart. I will do my best for him, even if I don’t know what to do.  

cancer��

My husband was diagnosed with cancer two months ago. From the moment he told me “I have cancer,” nothing that had happened before mattered. Not a single argument, moment of pain, or disappointment, had any power. All that mattered was that he get well.

And he did.

Last week he had surgery to remove the tumor. I sat beside his bed and held his hand, feeling how small and frightened he had become. My strong, Viking sized man held on to me as if his life depended on it. And I knew I would never let go. 

Love brings ammunition. We join together, set up our walls, dig our trenches, and then hurl bombs at each other without understanding what we’re doing. Everything we’ve been taught since childhood gets thrown on the battlefield; you have to watch for trip wires. The battle will continue until you learn that the person you love can never make you whole. Healing is your job.

My husband slowly heals. The cancer is gone, but his body is scarred. We are both holding our breath to see what happens now. 

The only thing I know is that I love him with all my heart. I will do my best for him, even if I don’t know what to do.  

I hate Chihuahuas. So I got one.

Chihuahuas are snippy, arrogant, loud, spastic, mean dogs. All they do is lounge on laps and bite people. But I fell in love with a little dog at the pound and was amazed when I discovered she was a Chihuahua.

We had mourned our Boxer dog for several months and felt ready for a new puppy. This time we decided to get a smaller dog so our daughter, who has special needs, could have a friend and help care for the puppy. My husband and I went to the pound and took a fluffy, funny, terrier type dog for a walk, but the dog wouldn’t stop barking. Deciding against a dog who never shut-up, we found two bouncy, playful, long legged dogs in a pen. One of them seemed sweeter than the other, so we took her out for a walk. The poor girl was so timid she didn’t know how to walk and insisted on being held the entire time we were outside. I wasn’t sure about this dog, but there was something about her that encouraged me to give her a try. The pound thought she was a terrier mix with “some Chihuahua.”

We adopted her and two days later I brought her to the vet for a check up. “What kind of dog is she?” I asked.

“She’s a Deer Chihuahua,” the veterinarian said.

“A what?” Did she actually say my new dog was a Chihuahua?

Deer Chihuahua. Image from the Central California SPCA

A Deer Chihuahua is a larger type of Chihuahua with long, deer like legs, long face and large ear. They are considered closer to the original size of the breed, even though they’re not as popular as the tiny, Tea Cup or Apple Headed Chihuahuas. In fact, Deer Legged are not allowed in dog shows or wanted by breeders. The Deer Chihuahua is the sweeter of the breed, with friendly, playful dispositions and boundless energy.

My friends think it’s hysterical I own a Chihuahua. I can’t help but laugh too. Me, lover of Boxers and other large breeds, scoffer of tiny dogs in purses and anything else Paris Hilton does, owns a Chihuahua. My daughter is delighted, and even my husband who dreams of owning a Great Dane is enraptured with our cuddly, goofy puppy. We named her Novella.

Novella is about 1 years old, but already has had a litter. She was a stray the pound picked up and from the looks of her, she probably escaped a “puppy mill.” Animal Shelters are full of Chihuahuas because people think they’re adorable little dolls, but when those dolls pee in the house or nip someone’s fingers they get dumped. Because Novella is the long legged Chihuahua and not the tiny type of her breed, she was probably not wanted by whoever bred her.

Happily, she’s settled in and no longer thinks she’s a lap dog. She’s a typical puppy, who right now is trying to eat the swing. Gotta go. There’s a torn up seat cushion flying across my yard.

The Politics of Mardi Gras Beads

Not only was my trip to New Orleans during Mardi Gras fun and fascinating, it was also educational. I learned about hierarchy and power through the glorification of strands of beautiful, plastic, beads.

photo by Ronald Losure via Panaramio

Mardi Gras beads come with rules. The beads with the name of the Krew throwing them are more desirable than just plain beads, even if the plain beads are a more beautiful color. And the ones with medallions are even more valuable. People will brawl over a strand of gold beads with a Bacchus medallion. I kid you not. A woman gouged my hand with her long, lethal finger nails to snatch a strand of beads from me. But there is also a wild camaraderie in the crowds begging for beads and people will often congratulate you for ��catching a good one. Someone draped with 20 pounds of beads is viewed with cheerful respect (25 pounds is not an exaggeration. Real Mardi Gras beads are heavy!). The��Krews earn respect by the amount and variety of beads they throw.

The cost of those beads determines who gets to throw them. The wealthy can afford a seat on a float in a Krew while the poor either march in one of the marching bands or stand on the road begging for beads. Young, blond women get the most beads because most of the riders on the floats are wealthy, white men. Not all, and the Krews are becoming more egalitarian as times change in New Orleans. Sadly, I witnessed two young black girls, probably about 10, become heartbroken when they weren’t thrown beads like all the other, whiter children. I talked with their grandfather who explained how black people get fewer beads. He grew up in New Orleans and was now in his late 60’s; his entire family has dealt with the reality and now his granddaughters were feeling it first hand.

The power of the beads extends throughout the French Quarter. Bourbon Street is notorious for young women showing their breasts for strands of beads. This year, the police were writing tickets to anyone who bared her breasts, but women still did it. On one night, I stood on a balcony far above the chaos and watched the people beside me toss beads at partiers below. One young man had a huge strand of large beads and he waived it above the crowd like a fisherman waiving bait at a trout. A young girl stood below him and danced for the beads. He demanded she show her “tits”. She didn’t want to, but the young men she was with on the street coaxed and teased until she hesitantly lifted her shirt. Everyone cheered. The man on the balcony smiled and then tossed her a strand of thin, cheap beads, not the ones she had shown her boobs for. He laughed at her disappointed face. I turned to him and said, “Wow. You’re an asshole.” He called me a bitch. I walked away before I hit him with his giant strand of plastic beads.

The fight for beads was more intense this year because of the dockworker’s strike in Los Angeles. The city of New Orleans had ordered an extra shipment of beads from China, but the container holding millions of strands of beads was stuck in the LA harbor while the dockworkers and the port fought over a labor contract. That meant many of the people in the crowds were from other Krew’s hoping to fill up their bead stock before their parade the following day. No Krew wants to be known as stingy with beads. A group of women in matching yellow t-shirts held a large basket hoop with a box attachment to encourage bead throwers to aim for them. I was told they were from a rival Krew.

After four parades and numerous tours around “the Quarter” I had about 40 pounds of beads to haul home. I tried giving some away but was told by my husband (a native of New Orleans) “No!”��Our beads were our booty, something to brag about and hang proudly in the window of our living room. The more you have, the better.

I wonder what will happen to the shipping container of beads now that Mardi Gras is over?