Cynthia Hamilton's Blog: Reading and Writing, page 7
December 29, 2016
Weirder Than Fiction
If I were to write a comical accounting of my mother’s many nuptials, I might call it “I do! I did! And I’ll do it again!” Having only one marriage and zero divorces to my credit, combing through my mom’s past was a bit surreal for me, especially when I was forced to acknowledge what I witnessed as a teenager and filed away without really putting it into context.
When we’re living through strange circumstances, we don’t always have the luxury of being able to put them into perspective. I’m sure at the time, I was reeling from all the ups and downs of Ruth’s rocky romances. I may have had grave concerns about the five men she accepted marriage proposals from in a twenty-four-month period. At this point, it’s all just a blur.
While writing the story of her life, I had to rely on the facts I had gleaned from various sources and mix in what my siblings and I could remember. When I laid all those facts and anecdotes out sequentially, the reality of what she’d be through left me flabbergasted. The question “how did she manage all this while working two jobs and raising three kids single-handedly???” kept repeating in my brain. If I were to create a fictional character who went through what Ruth did in the space of five years, the plot would surely be criticized for being too far-fetched.
While there are many genres that throw reality to the wind, the stories are still grounded in what we accept as the norm as far as human behavior is concerned. This leads me to believe that fact IS stranger than fiction. If a fiction writer doesn’t adhere to the “believability clause”, he or she risks losing their audience.
In writing, an interesting paradox exists: if you create a character that people absolutely love, take that character through hell—which we as writers are inclined to do—then you risk rebuke if you transform him or her in a way that doesn’t sit well with the reading public. This can happen when protagonists change over the course of a series. Typically, as readers, we want more of the same, only different.
*Can you recall being disappointed by a recurring character? Got any examples to share??
On the flip side, there’s also the danger of writing something that is faithful to what made the characters so likable which ends up being criticized for being rehashed, weak or stale. There have definitely been times when I got the strong sense that the author had become bored with his or her protagonist and the boredom was contagious.
*Has this ever happened to you? Any instances come to mind? Did this put you off the character or the author?
*Do you find yourself drawn to a series so you can follow along with a protagonist you really connect with?
I’d like to hear who some of your favorite fictional characters are. A few of mine are Jack Reacher (Lee Child), Joe Pike (Robert Crais), Vanessa Michael Munroe (Taylor Stevens), Miss Marple (Agatha Christie), and Kinsey Millhone (Sue Grafton). If you’ve got any author/character suggestions for me, please pass them along. I always welcome both!
Wishing you all much happiness—and happy reading—in the New Year!
Until next time…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
When we’re living through strange circumstances, we don’t always have the luxury of being able to put them into perspective. I’m sure at the time, I was reeling from all the ups and downs of Ruth’s rocky romances. I may have had grave concerns about the five men she accepted marriage proposals from in a twenty-four-month period. At this point, it’s all just a blur.
While writing the story of her life, I had to rely on the facts I had gleaned from various sources and mix in what my siblings and I could remember. When I laid all those facts and anecdotes out sequentially, the reality of what she’d be through left me flabbergasted. The question “how did she manage all this while working two jobs and raising three kids single-handedly???” kept repeating in my brain. If I were to create a fictional character who went through what Ruth did in the space of five years, the plot would surely be criticized for being too far-fetched.
While there are many genres that throw reality to the wind, the stories are still grounded in what we accept as the norm as far as human behavior is concerned. This leads me to believe that fact IS stranger than fiction. If a fiction writer doesn’t adhere to the “believability clause”, he or she risks losing their audience.
In writing, an interesting paradox exists: if you create a character that people absolutely love, take that character through hell—which we as writers are inclined to do—then you risk rebuke if you transform him or her in a way that doesn’t sit well with the reading public. This can happen when protagonists change over the course of a series. Typically, as readers, we want more of the same, only different.
*Can you recall being disappointed by a recurring character? Got any examples to share??
On the flip side, there’s also the danger of writing something that is faithful to what made the characters so likable which ends up being criticized for being rehashed, weak or stale. There have definitely been times when I got the strong sense that the author had become bored with his or her protagonist and the boredom was contagious.
*Has this ever happened to you? Any instances come to mind? Did this put you off the character or the author?
*Do you find yourself drawn to a series so you can follow along with a protagonist you really connect with?
I’d like to hear who some of your favorite fictional characters are. A few of mine are Jack Reacher (Lee Child), Joe Pike (Robert Crais), Vanessa Michael Munroe (Taylor Stevens), Miss Marple (Agatha Christie), and Kinsey Millhone (Sue Grafton). If you’ve got any author/character suggestions for me, please pass them along. I always welcome both!
Wishing you all much happiness—and happy reading—in the New Year!
Until next time…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
December 23, 2016
Finding Ruth: Book of the Day!
I'm thrilled to have my mom's story featured as the Book of the Day with Online Book Club! Already the feedback has been tremendous! There are so many people who can relate to the story. It's unfortunate, but the reality is Alzheimer's is widespread and its affects can be devastating for the suffers and family members alike.
http://forums.onlinebookclub.org/shel...
I feel very fortunate that I was given a chance to get a better understanding of what my mom's life was like from her point of view, though I had to do it without her assistance. My hope is that others will grab the opportunity before dementia erases those irreplaceable memories.
As a gift to all readers, Finding Ruth will be Free for downloading today through the 25th!
https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Ruth-C...
And speaking of memories, here's wishing you a holiday season filled with many treasured moments!
All the best,
Cynthia
http://forums.onlinebookclub.org/shel...
I feel very fortunate that I was given a chance to get a better understanding of what my mom's life was like from her point of view, though I had to do it without her assistance. My hope is that others will grab the opportunity before dementia erases those irreplaceable memories.
As a gift to all readers, Finding Ruth will be Free for downloading today through the 25th!
https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Ruth-C...
And speaking of memories, here's wishing you a holiday season filled with many treasured moments!
All the best,
Cynthia
December 4, 2016
Forget-me-not
If you’re like me, memories are a bit of a puzzle. Why, for instance, do I remember completely inconsequential bits of trivia, yet sometimes have trouble remembering things of vital importance? Or why have some memories from my childhood survived while others have vanished without a trace, regardless of their face value?
When I gave in to the impulse to piece my mom’s life together and examine it as an unbiased investigator, it hit me how random my memories of the past were and how they differed from what my siblings could remember. Having their pieces of the puzzle helped me considerably in reconstructing her life.
Here’s another question I struggle with: what is it with the memories that are buried in our psyches, bound and gagged, unable to float to the surface of our minds? Why are they hidden? And what causes them to sometimes surface?
At the age of 11, I had one of those flashes from the past, and not a very good one. I can recall how out of left field it seemed to me at the time, for nothing my mom and I were discussing had anything to do with the memory itself. Even today I can remember her reaction when that episode reared its ugly head after being shoved away for six years: "Don’t ever tell your father—he would kill him."
This flashback tells me our brains can hide bad memories from us for our own protection. So, it makes me wonder—what else is buried in there? And do we really want to know?? What is that mechanism’s criteria for relegating some bits of info to the nether regions while allowing us to remember every word of the Gilligan’s Island theme song? Do only bad memories linger, or is there a treasure trove of long-ago delights glistening under the surface?
Quick—think of something utterly random from your childhood that you haven’t thought of in years…
What’s your reaction to it? How does it make you feel?
Of the memories I’m still able to access, some of the most vivid are of the wild rides in our mom’s barebones Rambler sedan. That milk-colored vehicle was the dictionary definition of “economy”. It had no seatbelts, no headrests and no A/C. It had crank windows and an unreliable radio that only picked up AM stations. The fan only worked when our mother wasn’t accelerating, which is to say not often, and it usually blasted us with hot air straight off the engine.
There were some pretty hairy moments in that ramshackle bucket of bolts. There were times when I knew it was taking corners on only two wheels. It was not uncommon for it to overheat. Of course, the way it was driven and the lack of funds to maintain it properly didn’t help. But what I remember most is sliding across the bench seats as we careened around corners, the worn blue-green vinyl as slippery as a block of ice on a hot day. And I remember standing up in the back, all three of us hanging onto the backrest of the front seat as if it were a life raft.
But I also remember the calmer moments, like when our mom impressed us with her ability to divide two sticks of gum between her three children while at a stop light. Or huddling together for the warmth we could generate, forgetting the impulse to fight like the heathen savages we undoubtedly were.
As I write this, I have the strong desire to look inside that old car again, to see how my memory of it matches up. I’m sure if it were possible, years of images would come flooding over me. They might be good, they might be bad, but they probably would bring back a piece of my past long forgotten.
Any favorite family vehicles you’d like to see again? Can you remember the smell of the interior or the sound they made? Or the way you felt sitting behind your parents as they transported you down the road?
As Alzheimer’s continues to distort my mom’s mind, we’ve gotten glimpses of the fragmented memories that are now rising to the surface. She talks of, and to, her parents, siblings, friends—people she hasn’t talked to in decades. In her brain, they are still alive, frozen in scenes that have become interactive again.
It is so interesting to me that all our experiences are at the mercy of our capricious memory. It seems to me there’s really only one way to truly safeguard them, and that is by writing them down—not just for curious family members, but for the days when what seemed concretely moored to our memory banks has seeped away.
Until next time…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
When I gave in to the impulse to piece my mom’s life together and examine it as an unbiased investigator, it hit me how random my memories of the past were and how they differed from what my siblings could remember. Having their pieces of the puzzle helped me considerably in reconstructing her life.
Here’s another question I struggle with: what is it with the memories that are buried in our psyches, bound and gagged, unable to float to the surface of our minds? Why are they hidden? And what causes them to sometimes surface?
At the age of 11, I had one of those flashes from the past, and not a very good one. I can recall how out of left field it seemed to me at the time, for nothing my mom and I were discussing had anything to do with the memory itself. Even today I can remember her reaction when that episode reared its ugly head after being shoved away for six years: "Don’t ever tell your father—he would kill him."
This flashback tells me our brains can hide bad memories from us for our own protection. So, it makes me wonder—what else is buried in there? And do we really want to know?? What is that mechanism’s criteria for relegating some bits of info to the nether regions while allowing us to remember every word of the Gilligan’s Island theme song? Do only bad memories linger, or is there a treasure trove of long-ago delights glistening under the surface?
Quick—think of something utterly random from your childhood that you haven’t thought of in years…
What’s your reaction to it? How does it make you feel?
Of the memories I’m still able to access, some of the most vivid are of the wild rides in our mom’s barebones Rambler sedan. That milk-colored vehicle was the dictionary definition of “economy”. It had no seatbelts, no headrests and no A/C. It had crank windows and an unreliable radio that only picked up AM stations. The fan only worked when our mother wasn’t accelerating, which is to say not often, and it usually blasted us with hot air straight off the engine.
There were some pretty hairy moments in that ramshackle bucket of bolts. There were times when I knew it was taking corners on only two wheels. It was not uncommon for it to overheat. Of course, the way it was driven and the lack of funds to maintain it properly didn’t help. But what I remember most is sliding across the bench seats as we careened around corners, the worn blue-green vinyl as slippery as a block of ice on a hot day. And I remember standing up in the back, all three of us hanging onto the backrest of the front seat as if it were a life raft.
But I also remember the calmer moments, like when our mom impressed us with her ability to divide two sticks of gum between her three children while at a stop light. Or huddling together for the warmth we could generate, forgetting the impulse to fight like the heathen savages we undoubtedly were.
As I write this, I have the strong desire to look inside that old car again, to see how my memory of it matches up. I’m sure if it were possible, years of images would come flooding over me. They might be good, they might be bad, but they probably would bring back a piece of my past long forgotten.
Any favorite family vehicles you’d like to see again? Can you remember the smell of the interior or the sound they made? Or the way you felt sitting behind your parents as they transported you down the road?
As Alzheimer’s continues to distort my mom’s mind, we’ve gotten glimpses of the fragmented memories that are now rising to the surface. She talks of, and to, her parents, siblings, friends—people she hasn’t talked to in decades. In her brain, they are still alive, frozen in scenes that have become interactive again.
It is so interesting to me that all our experiences are at the mercy of our capricious memory. It seems to me there’s really only one way to truly safeguard them, and that is by writing them down—not just for curious family members, but for the days when what seemed concretely moored to our memory banks has seeped away.
Until next time…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
November 20, 2016
The Gift
While I was working on “Finding Ruth”, a fear lurked in the back of my mind that my mom would never get a chance to see it. Or if she did manage to hang on long enough, the Alzheimer’s might be too advanced for her to comprehend the fact that I had written a book about her. There was also the niggling thought that actually seeing the fruit of my labors might trigger a clarity of mind she hadn’t possessed in years, putting me straight in the dog house.
Fortunately, none of those scenarios came to pass. Once the book was ready for publishing, I sent three proof copies to my brother—one for him, one for my sister who was visiting, and one for my mom. As soon as they arrived, Mel and Brad presented her with a copy. I got a text from Mel: I sure wish we were all together—mom is getting a real kick out of her book! It is so amazing!!
Later, when my sister was back home, she told me about our mother’s reaction when she saw the cover.
“We know who this is,” Ruth said, perplexed but intrigued. “Who is it?” she wondered aloud, looking to her children for hints. Finally, Brad clued her in.
“Is that you, Mom?”
When the realization hit her, she gasped, “It is me!”
After a few minutes of marveling over the notion the book in her hand was about her, she flipped back to the front cover and regarded the photograph that had sparked my obsession.
“I’ve got to admit, that’s a pretty darn good picture,” she said laughing heartily at her own candor.
Though I wasn’t able to witness it firsthand, I can completely visualize the scene in my mind. I can hear her actually reading the first sentence on the back cover before her words became nonsensical. I can hear the lilt in her voice, the change in her intonation, just the way it was when she read to us at night. I can hear her laughter, that joyous, almost raucous sound she makes when she’s caught off guard by something that really tickles her.
The truth is I would’ve never considered writing my mom’s story if she hadn’t lost touch with reality. Even if it had occurred to me that doing so would’ve softened her opinion of me, there was no way I could’ve written something so candid. Let’s just say she might take issue with one or two scenes from her past. Not that I can blame her. But in order to tell the story in all its complexities, I had to look beyond her narrative and examine the situation in an unbiased fashion, like a detective at a crime scene.
But after it is all said and done, “Finding Ruth” is a loving tribute to one amazingly strong woman.
To see some of the photos I used to reconstruct my mom’s life, click on the link to my new website: http://cynthiahamiltonbooks.com
Here’s to all the strong women who have made us what we are!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Until next time...
Cynthia
Fortunately, none of those scenarios came to pass. Once the book was ready for publishing, I sent three proof copies to my brother—one for him, one for my sister who was visiting, and one for my mom. As soon as they arrived, Mel and Brad presented her with a copy. I got a text from Mel: I sure wish we were all together—mom is getting a real kick out of her book! It is so amazing!!
Later, when my sister was back home, she told me about our mother’s reaction when she saw the cover.
“We know who this is,” Ruth said, perplexed but intrigued. “Who is it?” she wondered aloud, looking to her children for hints. Finally, Brad clued her in.
“Is that you, Mom?”
When the realization hit her, she gasped, “It is me!”
After a few minutes of marveling over the notion the book in her hand was about her, she flipped back to the front cover and regarded the photograph that had sparked my obsession.
“I’ve got to admit, that’s a pretty darn good picture,” she said laughing heartily at her own candor.
Though I wasn’t able to witness it firsthand, I can completely visualize the scene in my mind. I can hear her actually reading the first sentence on the back cover before her words became nonsensical. I can hear the lilt in her voice, the change in her intonation, just the way it was when she read to us at night. I can hear her laughter, that joyous, almost raucous sound she makes when she’s caught off guard by something that really tickles her.
The truth is I would’ve never considered writing my mom’s story if she hadn’t lost touch with reality. Even if it had occurred to me that doing so would’ve softened her opinion of me, there was no way I could’ve written something so candid. Let’s just say she might take issue with one or two scenes from her past. Not that I can blame her. But in order to tell the story in all its complexities, I had to look beyond her narrative and examine the situation in an unbiased fashion, like a detective at a crime scene.
But after it is all said and done, “Finding Ruth” is a loving tribute to one amazingly strong woman.
To see some of the photos I used to reconstruct my mom’s life, click on the link to my new website: http://cynthiahamiltonbooks.com
Here’s to all the strong women who have made us what we are!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Until next time...
Cynthia
October 26, 2016
"Finding Ruth" goes live!
Just a quick post to announce the official kickoff of my latest book, Finding Ruth. To celebrate, it will be available for free downloading this Friday and Saturday, October 28th and 29th.
My new website will go live soon. It will feature some of the photos from the three “incident boards” I used to recreate a timeline of my mom’s past. Love to hear your feedback!
https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Ruth-C...
Until next time,
Very warmest regards,
Cynthia
My new website will go live soon. It will feature some of the photos from the three “incident boards” I used to recreate a timeline of my mom’s past. Love to hear your feedback!
https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Ruth-C...
Until next time,
Very warmest regards,
Cynthia
August 1, 2016
Finding Mom
If you’ve known a person your entire life, you may believe you really know them. But with parents it can be different; what we as children see is often the side of them we’re meant to see—the side carefully constructed to enforce discipline, stretch our view of the world, impose manners and otherwise prepare us for leaving the family home and making our own way in life. What we don’t see holds most of the clues to who they really are, as individual human beings in their own right.
If you’d asked me a year ago how well I knew my mother, I would’ve emphatically answered “too well!” Our relationship had moments when we managed to put aside our roles as mother and daughter and related as two people with a shared past. There was a period of several years where we got along very well. The other fifty, though, were a mixed bag.
But a year ago I received a huge dose of enlightenment, thanks to a crisis that nearly took my mother’s life. What I discovered as I endeavored to dispose of a lifetime’s worth of worldly possessions made me realize what I knew about my mother wouldn’t color in a small fraction of who she really is, or what her life had been like—from her point of view. Suddenly, the thin, moth-eaten filament I had regarded as my mom’s persona fell away, exposing a rich, rounded and complex past with more moving parts than I could ever piece together at this stage, with so few clues to go on.
What challenged my perception of my mother was finding a photograph of her that defied not only my view of Ruth Evelyn Schimming-Patterson-Wathen-Padgett-Baney, but her own narrative as well. Maybe from a distance of so many years she could no longer remember the woman she’d been prior to the man invasion, the young, vibrant, hopeful, joyous and conscientious girl with a surely promising future before her. The saddest part of this lack of awareness on my part is that had I known more about her life prior to my arrival, it would’ve gone a long way to strengthening our mother-daughter dynamic.
I was awoken to my vast ignorance of who exactly my mother is/was by a previously unseen photo of her taken at the age of 19 by her first husband. There couldn’t have been a more perfect indictment of my unawareness than the sight of this gorgeous, confident creature hamming it up for her eager audience. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted to the side, her smile as big and bold as it could possibly be. Nothing I had ever known about my mom had prepared me for this unknown version of her. It shook me and my misconceptions of her right down to my feet.
But what could’ve been an invaluable icebreaker, engendering a stronger bond over a generational divide, came too late. Had I known anything of this chapter in my mom’s life, I’m certain it would’ve allowed me a greater understanding of all she had endured in her 80+ years, just as it would’ve given her a chance to reflect on a time that held so much promise. It may have allowed her to enjoy the memory of the stunning creature she had been during that magical time as a young single woman with so much potential. Maybe if she’d shared that with me it would’ve helped her get passed the deep regret she must’ve carried inside as she struggled to right her world and reclaim the brilliant future that continued to elude her.
But I will never know now. My mother survived the fall and the fourteen hours she languished on the living room floor before I found her, but her mind was already at the mercy of Alzheimer’s. What stories she could’ve shared from her past now twinkle like stars in several hundred photographs spanning 86 years of living, despite all the obstacles in her way.
Finding my mother on death’s door was the beginning of an odyssey to find out who she was, as a complete person, not just in her role as mother. What I have discovered has changed my view of her and given me such a deep appreciation for all she has gone through and all she did to pull her three kids to safety. I am so awed by her strength and her ability to persevere, despite incredible hardships. Those difficult years before she lost her grasp on reality are so much easier to understand now. She had struggled so hard, yet in the end, she didn’t have a lot to show for it. Or at least, not the way she saw it.
My gift from her was a photographic trail that has allowed me to piece together, in large part, eight very full decades. Through that, I’ve been able to appreciate her for all her strengths. I am in awe of her fortitude. I am so grateful that she is my mother.
My gift to my mom is a retelling of her life’s story, a story she no longer has access to.
Finding Ruth.
More details to follow…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
If you’d asked me a year ago how well I knew my mother, I would’ve emphatically answered “too well!” Our relationship had moments when we managed to put aside our roles as mother and daughter and related as two people with a shared past. There was a period of several years where we got along very well. The other fifty, though, were a mixed bag.
But a year ago I received a huge dose of enlightenment, thanks to a crisis that nearly took my mother’s life. What I discovered as I endeavored to dispose of a lifetime’s worth of worldly possessions made me realize what I knew about my mother wouldn’t color in a small fraction of who she really is, or what her life had been like—from her point of view. Suddenly, the thin, moth-eaten filament I had regarded as my mom’s persona fell away, exposing a rich, rounded and complex past with more moving parts than I could ever piece together at this stage, with so few clues to go on.
What challenged my perception of my mother was finding a photograph of her that defied not only my view of Ruth Evelyn Schimming-Patterson-Wathen-Padgett-Baney, but her own narrative as well. Maybe from a distance of so many years she could no longer remember the woman she’d been prior to the man invasion, the young, vibrant, hopeful, joyous and conscientious girl with a surely promising future before her. The saddest part of this lack of awareness on my part is that had I known more about her life prior to my arrival, it would’ve gone a long way to strengthening our mother-daughter dynamic.
I was awoken to my vast ignorance of who exactly my mother is/was by a previously unseen photo of her taken at the age of 19 by her first husband. There couldn’t have been a more perfect indictment of my unawareness than the sight of this gorgeous, confident creature hamming it up for her eager audience. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted to the side, her smile as big and bold as it could possibly be. Nothing I had ever known about my mom had prepared me for this unknown version of her. It shook me and my misconceptions of her right down to my feet.
But what could’ve been an invaluable icebreaker, engendering a stronger bond over a generational divide, came too late. Had I known anything of this chapter in my mom’s life, I’m certain it would’ve allowed me a greater understanding of all she had endured in her 80+ years, just as it would’ve given her a chance to reflect on a time that held so much promise. It may have allowed her to enjoy the memory of the stunning creature she had been during that magical time as a young single woman with so much potential. Maybe if she’d shared that with me it would’ve helped her get passed the deep regret she must’ve carried inside as she struggled to right her world and reclaim the brilliant future that continued to elude her.
But I will never know now. My mother survived the fall and the fourteen hours she languished on the living room floor before I found her, but her mind was already at the mercy of Alzheimer’s. What stories she could’ve shared from her past now twinkle like stars in several hundred photographs spanning 86 years of living, despite all the obstacles in her way.
Finding my mother on death’s door was the beginning of an odyssey to find out who she was, as a complete person, not just in her role as mother. What I have discovered has changed my view of her and given me such a deep appreciation for all she has gone through and all she did to pull her three kids to safety. I am so awed by her strength and her ability to persevere, despite incredible hardships. Those difficult years before she lost her grasp on reality are so much easier to understand now. She had struggled so hard, yet in the end, she didn’t have a lot to show for it. Or at least, not the way she saw it.
My gift from her was a photographic trail that has allowed me to piece together, in large part, eight very full decades. Through that, I’ve been able to appreciate her for all her strengths. I am in awe of her fortitude. I am so grateful that she is my mother.
My gift to my mom is a retelling of her life’s story, a story she no longer has access to.
Finding Ruth.
More details to follow…
Very truly yours,
Cynthia
December 31, 2015
Writing, Interrupted
2015… Where to begin? I could say the year just flew by, but unlike productive years in the past, this year—when considered from head to tail—seems entirely too long for the twelve months it encompassed. It will stick out in my mind for many reasons, but most significantly as the year writing was very nearly snuffed out of my life.
This post today is another defiant attempt to reclaim the one activity that truly defines who I am. If I can get this written, and if I can post it without my computer crashing, and assuming Goodreads doesn’t inexplicably go off the air, then, perhaps, this will herald the end of a particularly vexing year and the reentry into my life as a writer. I’ve got everything crossed.
There have been times since my last blogpost in October 2014 that I’ve wondered if I were being sent some kind of signal, like “Hey, lady—enough writing, already! Time to move on, deal with other stuff, don’t be so obsessed, be more flexible with your time, get out there and enjoy life more,” etc. I will say that after the various upheavals this year has served up, I’ve wondered as I staggered from one grand hiccup to the next if I would ever find my way back to the habit that has sustained me through so much.
My hiatus from writing and publishing was not due to lack of desire; I’ve got two manuscripts—one three-quarters finished and the other in its promising infancy—that clamored and pulled at my heartstrings until I couldn’t take the sense of failure and longing anymore and forced them out of my mind—temporarily. In the fifteen years I’ve been plugging away in this fashion, I’ve never had two books in process at the same time. I told myself when I began the second I would jump back into the first when things settled down, but that was a very transparent lie. With every day that passes I get pangs of regret for having tossed the third Madeline book aside mid-stride.
The truth is, when I thought it was safe to venture across the keyboard again and reconnect with the very involved plot with the accidental sleuth, I got boxed in the ears by fate again. After that I couldn’t face the possibility it would happen again. The only thing that made sense at the time was to go with the new idea that had been hounding me since I had to go through my mother’s belongings to prepare for her move into a skilled nursing facility. It hit me then that though I’ve known my mother all my life, I don’t really know who she is, or more importantly, who she was prior to four failed marriages and countless other disappointments.
This avenue of pondering led me to the realization that I know even less about my father, who has been out of my life since I was twelve. Encountering old photographs of times long past sparked the same kind of curiosity writing about fictional characters has always done. Before I knew it, I had a full-blown obsession on my hands. For the first time in my life, I wanted to know who my parents were outside of their roles as mother and father. At this point, the only way for me to do that is to put together collective memories with whatever other clues I can find and spin a fine web of imagination to bridge the gaps. It’s a different kind of a mystery, one that gives me the added satisfaction of learning about the people who made my life possible. Underneath it all, it will be a love story, or at least a story about a love that once was, how it came to be and the many things that ultimately broke it apart.
It will be interesting to see what enthusiasm tempered by adversity will yield. I don’t know if I’m gun-shy or if I’ve just been able to put writing in its proper perspective. At the same time, I wonder if it’s possible to write well without being consumed by the desire and the process. As I look toward the coming year, I imagine that if all goes well and life decides to indulge me, I will settle back into the comfortable old mode of living for the precious time spent pounding away at the computer, head fastened to imaginary—or at least speculative—people, places and events. I must admit, I do like the sound of that…
Until next time, if there’s a next time…
Yours very truly,
Cynthia
This post today is another defiant attempt to reclaim the one activity that truly defines who I am. If I can get this written, and if I can post it without my computer crashing, and assuming Goodreads doesn’t inexplicably go off the air, then, perhaps, this will herald the end of a particularly vexing year and the reentry into my life as a writer. I’ve got everything crossed.
There have been times since my last blogpost in October 2014 that I’ve wondered if I were being sent some kind of signal, like “Hey, lady—enough writing, already! Time to move on, deal with other stuff, don’t be so obsessed, be more flexible with your time, get out there and enjoy life more,” etc. I will say that after the various upheavals this year has served up, I’ve wondered as I staggered from one grand hiccup to the next if I would ever find my way back to the habit that has sustained me through so much.
My hiatus from writing and publishing was not due to lack of desire; I’ve got two manuscripts—one three-quarters finished and the other in its promising infancy—that clamored and pulled at my heartstrings until I couldn’t take the sense of failure and longing anymore and forced them out of my mind—temporarily. In the fifteen years I’ve been plugging away in this fashion, I’ve never had two books in process at the same time. I told myself when I began the second I would jump back into the first when things settled down, but that was a very transparent lie. With every day that passes I get pangs of regret for having tossed the third Madeline book aside mid-stride.
The truth is, when I thought it was safe to venture across the keyboard again and reconnect with the very involved plot with the accidental sleuth, I got boxed in the ears by fate again. After that I couldn’t face the possibility it would happen again. The only thing that made sense at the time was to go with the new idea that had been hounding me since I had to go through my mother’s belongings to prepare for her move into a skilled nursing facility. It hit me then that though I’ve known my mother all my life, I don’t really know who she is, or more importantly, who she was prior to four failed marriages and countless other disappointments.
This avenue of pondering led me to the realization that I know even less about my father, who has been out of my life since I was twelve. Encountering old photographs of times long past sparked the same kind of curiosity writing about fictional characters has always done. Before I knew it, I had a full-blown obsession on my hands. For the first time in my life, I wanted to know who my parents were outside of their roles as mother and father. At this point, the only way for me to do that is to put together collective memories with whatever other clues I can find and spin a fine web of imagination to bridge the gaps. It’s a different kind of a mystery, one that gives me the added satisfaction of learning about the people who made my life possible. Underneath it all, it will be a love story, or at least a story about a love that once was, how it came to be and the many things that ultimately broke it apart.
It will be interesting to see what enthusiasm tempered by adversity will yield. I don’t know if I’m gun-shy or if I’ve just been able to put writing in its proper perspective. At the same time, I wonder if it’s possible to write well without being consumed by the desire and the process. As I look toward the coming year, I imagine that if all goes well and life decides to indulge me, I will settle back into the comfortable old mode of living for the precious time spent pounding away at the computer, head fastened to imaginary—or at least speculative—people, places and events. I must admit, I do like the sound of that…
Until next time, if there’s a next time…
Yours very truly,
Cynthia
October 18, 2014
Taking Advantage of Inspiration
As a writer, I have learned that inspiration, the thing that spurs creativity, is not something you can lay your hands on at will. Rather, inspiration sneaks up on you like a pickpocket. But instead of pinching your wallet, it offers an idea to spark your creative juices.
What does this observation say about the writing process? To me it says that when my mind is less fettered by the task of creating, it’s more open to the flow of ideas. I realize this sounds a little clinical and over-analyzed, especially for a process that’s spontaneous, and to be honest, I’ve never tried to dissect it before. Inspiration happens, plain and simple.
Does that mean we have no control over it? Happily, I’ve found this is not the case when corralling a book in progress. But purposefully setting out to trap the premise for a new story is a trick I’ve never attempted. This is where I rely completely on recognizing a compelling theme when I come across it, which is another way of saying I wait for a bolt of inspiration to set my course. The scenario for the third Madeline Dawkins novel is a case in point.
About the same time I was finishing “A High Price to Pay,” an odd coincidence prompted a friend to share her painful story of being courted out of her retirement funds by a very skillful grifter. What fascinated the writer side of me was how this man managed to continue duping people out of large sums of money in a town the size of Santa Barbara. Surely word would spread and warn other unsuspecting folks of this con’s modus operendi…? I was surprised to learn he's still at it, soliciting previous victims along with the new. Though his scheme has changed appearance from one roundup to the next, the basic principle is the same: he befriends, supports and gains total confidence before closing in on his prey.
Repugnant as this man is, I couldn’t help but see the potential for a fictional character based on his misdeeds. Every good story needs conflict. The fact that the local D.A. had informed my friend his office could not pursue the case was what sparked the outline a story. The more I examined this smooth operator and his brazen scam, the more I recognized a prospective case for Madeline Dawkins, P.I.
I’m now in the process of getting inside this shyster’s head while developing his downfall. At least in fiction we can make the bad guys pay for their misdeeds. All it takes is some well-placed inspiration.
Until next time,
Cynthia
What does this observation say about the writing process? To me it says that when my mind is less fettered by the task of creating, it’s more open to the flow of ideas. I realize this sounds a little clinical and over-analyzed, especially for a process that’s spontaneous, and to be honest, I’ve never tried to dissect it before. Inspiration happens, plain and simple.
Does that mean we have no control over it? Happily, I’ve found this is not the case when corralling a book in progress. But purposefully setting out to trap the premise for a new story is a trick I’ve never attempted. This is where I rely completely on recognizing a compelling theme when I come across it, which is another way of saying I wait for a bolt of inspiration to set my course. The scenario for the third Madeline Dawkins novel is a case in point.
About the same time I was finishing “A High Price to Pay,” an odd coincidence prompted a friend to share her painful story of being courted out of her retirement funds by a very skillful grifter. What fascinated the writer side of me was how this man managed to continue duping people out of large sums of money in a town the size of Santa Barbara. Surely word would spread and warn other unsuspecting folks of this con’s modus operendi…? I was surprised to learn he's still at it, soliciting previous victims along with the new. Though his scheme has changed appearance from one roundup to the next, the basic principle is the same: he befriends, supports and gains total confidence before closing in on his prey.
Repugnant as this man is, I couldn’t help but see the potential for a fictional character based on his misdeeds. Every good story needs conflict. The fact that the local D.A. had informed my friend his office could not pursue the case was what sparked the outline a story. The more I examined this smooth operator and his brazen scam, the more I recognized a prospective case for Madeline Dawkins, P.I.
I’m now in the process of getting inside this shyster’s head while developing his downfall. At least in fiction we can make the bad guys pay for their misdeeds. All it takes is some well-placed inspiration.
Until next time,
Cynthia
October 6, 2014
The art of doing less in order to do more…
As I turn over the odometer once again, I find myself more introspective than in the past. One reason for this is a belated recognition that the fifties are galloping by. This begs the question: am I doing what I want to with my life? Sub question: what are my priorities for the remaining years?
To be honest, I’m not one for personal reflection. Addressing these questions isn’t something I find a pleasant way to pass the time. No, I’m all about action, which is probably why these intrusive internal alerts have me rather bewildered. It doesn’t help matters to realize addressing my priorities at this juncture is pretty crucial for getting the most satisfaction out of life. Yes on more satisfaction. Not too sure about how to make it happen.
It always comes down to time. Where can we buy more time? I think it’s the only thing not for sale on the Internet. While making do with the amount of “useable” time allotted in the average day, I am at least making a show of assessing the “must dos” and weeding out the “not necessaries.” So far, the must dos include writing (finishing the 3rd Madeline adventure, posting my blog), taking care of my elderly mother, taking care of my husband, home and cat, exercising (karate, walks, and working out), being there for the rest of my family and my friends.
It almost works out on paper, but what I haven’t included are all the niggling little things that crop up on a daily basis and have a way of taking precedence. These are the deal breakers.
As I have come to realize, good intentions stand little chance against Life itself. In other words, in order for me to spend my life doing what I want—and writing was at the top of my list for a reason—I must change the essence of myself. This is a daunting prospect. I’m multi-tasking over-achiever for a reason: I can’t stand the thought of not taking care of every little thing that passes itself off as critical or somehow beneficial.
In an attempt to thread the needle in the haystack, I’m trying to steer myself solely toward tasks that fall under “family, writing, home, friends, and fitness.” So far, in the few short hours of this brave new year, I have only been sidetracked five times: assisting with travel plans (which technically falls under “family”), cleaning cat barf off the new carpet (home), sorting out dinner plans (friends), taking a birthday walk on the beach (fitness), making appointments for my mother (family).
Happily, if this passes as a blog post, I’ve accomplished one thing in the writing column. Once it is posted—will I jinx it by mentioning it?—it’s on to the book!
But have I really put any fundamental changes in place? No. I’ve merely slashed my way through another day. Is there any hope writing will share equal ground with all the necessities that make life more enjoyable?
I know I’m hardly alone in this quandary. There is not enough time in our busy days, in our busy lives. When I take an honest, hard look at my priorities, I find it difficult to elevate my desire to write with the required regularity to the “must do” category. Though I’m not enough of a saleswoman to convince myself the world needs another book by me, I know the craving I have to create characters and plop them down in a world of my making is something essential to my being.
New year, new me? Doubtful. But maybe I can find a way to reduce the needless timewasters and eke out more writing time. No wonder people tend to get grumpy as they get older—they’re running out of time to fulfill their desires and they know it! Fulfilling my selfish longing is all up to me. Can I do it? Wish me luck!
Until next time,
Cynthia
To be honest, I’m not one for personal reflection. Addressing these questions isn’t something I find a pleasant way to pass the time. No, I’m all about action, which is probably why these intrusive internal alerts have me rather bewildered. It doesn’t help matters to realize addressing my priorities at this juncture is pretty crucial for getting the most satisfaction out of life. Yes on more satisfaction. Not too sure about how to make it happen.
It always comes down to time. Where can we buy more time? I think it’s the only thing not for sale on the Internet. While making do with the amount of “useable” time allotted in the average day, I am at least making a show of assessing the “must dos” and weeding out the “not necessaries.” So far, the must dos include writing (finishing the 3rd Madeline adventure, posting my blog), taking care of my elderly mother, taking care of my husband, home and cat, exercising (karate, walks, and working out), being there for the rest of my family and my friends.
It almost works out on paper, but what I haven’t included are all the niggling little things that crop up on a daily basis and have a way of taking precedence. These are the deal breakers.
As I have come to realize, good intentions stand little chance against Life itself. In other words, in order for me to spend my life doing what I want—and writing was at the top of my list for a reason—I must change the essence of myself. This is a daunting prospect. I’m multi-tasking over-achiever for a reason: I can’t stand the thought of not taking care of every little thing that passes itself off as critical or somehow beneficial.
In an attempt to thread the needle in the haystack, I’m trying to steer myself solely toward tasks that fall under “family, writing, home, friends, and fitness.” So far, in the few short hours of this brave new year, I have only been sidetracked five times: assisting with travel plans (which technically falls under “family”), cleaning cat barf off the new carpet (home), sorting out dinner plans (friends), taking a birthday walk on the beach (fitness), making appointments for my mother (family).
Happily, if this passes as a blog post, I’ve accomplished one thing in the writing column. Once it is posted—will I jinx it by mentioning it?—it’s on to the book!
But have I really put any fundamental changes in place? No. I’ve merely slashed my way through another day. Is there any hope writing will share equal ground with all the necessities that make life more enjoyable?
I know I’m hardly alone in this quandary. There is not enough time in our busy days, in our busy lives. When I take an honest, hard look at my priorities, I find it difficult to elevate my desire to write with the required regularity to the “must do” category. Though I’m not enough of a saleswoman to convince myself the world needs another book by me, I know the craving I have to create characters and plop them down in a world of my making is something essential to my being.
New year, new me? Doubtful. But maybe I can find a way to reduce the needless timewasters and eke out more writing time. No wonder people tend to get grumpy as they get older—they’re running out of time to fulfill their desires and they know it! Fulfilling my selfish longing is all up to me. Can I do it? Wish me luck!
Until next time,
Cynthia
September 27, 2014
A Second Chance...
How important is a book cover? This question can be debated to some extent, but the truth is the cover is critical to a book’s success. The reason for bringing up this subject has to do with finally taking the time to address an overlooked problem with one of my own books, one that had two bad bumps on the way to the delivery room. The book in question is “Alligators in the Trees” and the “bumps” consisted of a mishap in the formatting of the book, which resulted in only half the book being downloaded by a large number of readers, and a cover that was rushed into production during a Kindle publishing frenzy on my part.
First impressions are very important; only in rare instances can those awkward moments of introduction be brushed aside after opinions have been formed.
The irony is “Alligators” was one of those books that was very easy to write. After molding the characters to the purpose they needed to serve, they did all the work. Well, most of the work… What I inadvertently walked myself into was having to write song lyrics from two very different, very distinctive points of view.
Fortunately, I had the sense to let the characters take the reins and pen their own songs. By stepping out of their creative process, I was able to let imagination and instinct bring about a story of three totally different individuals whose paths cross and entwine, bringing together personalities that would normally only intersect in passing. The result is a story of unreciprocated attraction, reappraisal, and the meeting of minds and hearts over the urban beehive of the Manhattan landscape.
After two-plus years of wearing the wrong face to the party, “Alligators” has been officially rechristened. The cover that finally emerged shows Priscilla sitting on a bench in Central Park, cup of coffee in hand, eyes trained on the treetops overhead as if she were actually looking at a stray gator, her legs poised to bolt any second. The title of the book, taken from a line in one of Priscilla’s songs, alludes to the fears that reside in all three protagonists—that forces beyond their control will keep them from realizing their true desires.
To celebrate the transformation, “Alligators in the Trees” in its new incarnation is available for free downloading September 27th through the 29th. If you haven’t already, please check it out on the link below:
http://www.amazon.com/Alligators-in-t...
Until next time,
Cynthia
First impressions are very important; only in rare instances can those awkward moments of introduction be brushed aside after opinions have been formed.
The irony is “Alligators” was one of those books that was very easy to write. After molding the characters to the purpose they needed to serve, they did all the work. Well, most of the work… What I inadvertently walked myself into was having to write song lyrics from two very different, very distinctive points of view.
Fortunately, I had the sense to let the characters take the reins and pen their own songs. By stepping out of their creative process, I was able to let imagination and instinct bring about a story of three totally different individuals whose paths cross and entwine, bringing together personalities that would normally only intersect in passing. The result is a story of unreciprocated attraction, reappraisal, and the meeting of minds and hearts over the urban beehive of the Manhattan landscape.
After two-plus years of wearing the wrong face to the party, “Alligators” has been officially rechristened. The cover that finally emerged shows Priscilla sitting on a bench in Central Park, cup of coffee in hand, eyes trained on the treetops overhead as if she were actually looking at a stray gator, her legs poised to bolt any second. The title of the book, taken from a line in one of Priscilla’s songs, alludes to the fears that reside in all three protagonists—that forces beyond their control will keep them from realizing their true desires.
To celebrate the transformation, “Alligators in the Trees” in its new incarnation is available for free downloading September 27th through the 29th. If you haven’t already, please check it out on the link below:
http://www.amazon.com/Alligators-in-t...
Until next time,
Cynthia
