Mary Cronk Farrell's Blog, page 24
January 31, 2011
What I Love/Hate About Writing
One of the things I love/hate about writing: my critique group fails to understand a scene which I have polished to perfection.
How frustrating to discover the words I have chosen do not convey the feeling and facts which I want to share! I reject the temptation to think my writing group is a bunch of blockheads. And the fun begins.
The difficulty in communicating precisely fascinates me. That has not always been the case, particularly in my early years of marriage. It was painful learning to say to my husband, "I'm sorry my words were not clear" instead of "I can't believe you didn't understand me!" (You blockhead.)
Communicating is difficult because of the amazing and mysterious complexity of being human. It seems like a miracle when people's unique experiences, personality and intellect meet in understanding. And yet the more personal a story, the more universal its apprehension.
On one level I enjoy finding the right words in the way a child enjoys playing a game. It's fun, in and of itself. On another level, I enjoy touching that profound universality of experience that makes us human.
That's what I love about writing.
How frustrating to discover the words I have chosen do not convey the feeling and facts which I want to share! I reject the temptation to think my writing group is a bunch of blockheads. And the fun begins.
The difficulty in communicating precisely fascinates me. That has not always been the case, particularly in my early years of marriage. It was painful learning to say to my husband, "I'm sorry my words were not clear" instead of "I can't believe you didn't understand me!" (You blockhead.)
Communicating is difficult because of the amazing and mysterious complexity of being human. It seems like a miracle when people's unique experiences, personality and intellect meet in understanding. And yet the more personal a story, the more universal its apprehension.
On one level I enjoy finding the right words in the way a child enjoys playing a game. It's fun, in and of itself. On another level, I enjoy touching that profound universality of experience that makes us human.
That's what I love about writing.
January 27, 2011
And Why Would Anyone Do That?
A recent study in Britain found that people had reduced chocolate cravings after taking a brisk fifteen minute walk.
I find it easier just to eat some chocolate.
Did you know cocoa has 550 flavor compounds after fermentation, drying, roasting and conching?
A carrot has 96 flavor compounds.
I think my position is perfectly clear.
I find it easier just to eat some chocolate.
Did you know cocoa has 550 flavor compounds after fermentation, drying, roasting and conching?
A carrot has 96 flavor compounds.
I think my position is perfectly clear.
January 24, 2011
Maybe You're Asking the Wrong Question
Is it good enough? If that's the question you find yourself asking about your writing, you may be sabotaging yourself. After all, who's the judge of good writing?
Sure, there are rules, and we all know them, but do they help you write the fresh, singular, yet universal story that only you can write?
A better question according to William Kenower, Editor-in-Chief of Author, would be, is it accurate? Have you tuned your focus so precisely as to communicate exactly the one thing you most want to say?
I chose this one nugget from the pages of notes I took at Bill's talk this past weekend in Spokane,Tuning Your Inner Ear: The Key to Literary and Artistic Life co-sponsored by the Inland Northwest SCBWI* and the Gonzaga University English Department.
For more of Bill's inspiring words check out his blog.
* Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators
Sure, there are rules, and we all know them, but do they help you write the fresh, singular, yet universal story that only you can write?
A better question according to William Kenower, Editor-in-Chief of Author, would be, is it accurate? Have you tuned your focus so precisely as to communicate exactly the one thing you most want to say?
I chose this one nugget from the pages of notes I took at Bill's talk this past weekend in Spokane,Tuning Your Inner Ear: The Key to Literary and Artistic Life co-sponsored by the Inland Northwest SCBWI* and the Gonzaga University English Department.
For more of Bill's inspiring words check out his blog.
* Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators
January 22, 2011
Reflection on Events in Arizona
Being Mary...
I like this quote.
"We saw a white, Catholic, Republican federal judge murdered on his way to greet a Democratic woman, member of Congress, who was his friend and was Jewish. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year-old Mexican-American college student, who saved her, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon…And then it was all eulogized and explained by our African-American president" — Mark Shields quotes historian Allen Ginsberg on PBS NewsHour.
Postscript:
And that heroic college student, Daniel Hernandez, is gay.
I like this quote.
"We saw a white, Catholic, Republican federal judge murdered on his way to greet a Democratic woman, member of Congress, who was his friend and was Jewish. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year-old Mexican-American college student, who saved her, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon…And then it was all eulogized and explained by our African-American president" — Mark Shields quotes historian Allen Ginsberg on PBS NewsHour.
Postscript:
And that heroic college student, Daniel Hernandez, is gay.
January 15, 2011
Don't Say a Word
When I started to write fiction an already-published-writer gave me this piece of advice: Don't talk about your story. Talking about it will diminish your energy to write it.
Over the years I have experienced the truth of this, though I've found it to be less true with non-fiction. And not at all true in the late stages of a manuscript when speaking about the story with my critique group.
My most recent discovery--scientific evidence backs up this idea that talking about something you plan to do, actually lessens that chance you will do it.
Over the years I have experienced the truth of this, though I've found it to be less true with non-fiction. And not at all true in the late stages of a manuscript when speaking about the story with my critique group.
My most recent discovery--scientific evidence backs up this idea that talking about something you plan to do, actually lessens that chance you will do it.
December 8, 2010
American Nurses Under Attack By Japanese
Nine hours after the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese forces bombed the Philippines. Ninety-nine American military nurses served at hospitals there. These woman, unique to their time, had chosen the un-ladylike job of nursing and further sought a life of adventure in the Army and Navy. But they never expected what happened at lunchtime December 8, 1941.
Dozens of US fighters and bombers sat wingtip to wingtip on the tarmac at Clark Air Field when diving, screaming Japanese fighters attacked, destroying all but seven aircraft in less than an hour. The strafing flattened barracks, hangars, and machine shops. Fire engulfed the oil dump and blazed around the perimeter.
Off-duty nurses ran through the smoke and flying shrapnel to treat the wounded and dying. Pieces of crumpled, blazing aircraft scattered Fort Stotsenburg and Clark Air Field.
The eighty-seven army and twelve navy nurses had no military training. Nothing had prepared them for the sights, sounds and smells of war. They learned by fire—the medicine of trauma and triage.
As the Japanese marched on Manila, Lieutenant Frances Nash destroyed paperwork to keep it from enemy hands. As US troops retreated into the jungle of the Bataan Peninsula, Frances was ordered to prepare to be taken prisoner by the enemy. She and a handful of other nurses stayed in Manila to treat the wounded left behind. When Frances and her staff finally got orders to flee, she stuffed her pockets with medical supplies and took enough morphine for a lethal dose for each of her nurses. They hid it in their hair, a last resort against an enemy known to rape and murder prisoners.
Frances and her sister nurses would endure hardship almost beyond belief in the combat, surrender and imprisonment to come.
Bataan jungle hospital where US nurses served
Dozens of US fighters and bombers sat wingtip to wingtip on the tarmac at Clark Air Field when diving, screaming Japanese fighters attacked, destroying all but seven aircraft in less than an hour. The strafing flattened barracks, hangars, and machine shops. Fire engulfed the oil dump and blazed around the perimeter.
Off-duty nurses ran through the smoke and flying shrapnel to treat the wounded and dying. Pieces of crumpled, blazing aircraft scattered Fort Stotsenburg and Clark Air Field.
The eighty-seven army and twelve navy nurses had no military training. Nothing had prepared them for the sights, sounds and smells of war. They learned by fire—the medicine of trauma and triage.
As the Japanese marched on Manila, Lieutenant Frances Nash destroyed paperwork to keep it from enemy hands. As US troops retreated into the jungle of the Bataan Peninsula, Frances was ordered to prepare to be taken prisoner by the enemy. She and a handful of other nurses stayed in Manila to treat the wounded left behind. When Frances and her staff finally got orders to flee, she stuffed her pockets with medical supplies and took enough morphine for a lethal dose for each of her nurses. They hid it in their hair, a last resort against an enemy known to rape and murder prisoners.
Frances and her sister nurses would endure hardship almost beyond belief in the combat, surrender and imprisonment to come.
Bataan jungle hospital where US nurses served
December 4, 2010
Fear Is Like a Cat
Some people find it exciting to start a new writing project. Not me. I would much rather tackle revision.
In the beginning—anything can happen. Anything. Just the thought of sitting down and beginning causes a little flutter in my stomach, a breathlessness in my throat.
I know it's fear. Fear that has the power to stop me cold. Fear whispering in a thousand voices, all in my own mind.
Once upon a time I tried to reason with this fear. I tried to argue with it, to threaten it, wrestle it, ignore it, outlast it.
I tried with all my mind and heart to overcome it. I could not make fear go away.
Then I learned fear is a cat. When it purrs in my ear and rubs it's back against my leg, I smile.
"Hello, Kitty," I say, and reach down and pet the cat.
"I see you. I know who you are and where you come from."
The cat lays back its ears. I give its head a little scratch.
"Don't mind me," I say. "I'm starting a new story."
The cat curls at my feet and goes to sleep.
In the beginning—anything can happen. Anything. Just the thought of sitting down and beginning causes a little flutter in my stomach, a breathlessness in my throat.
I know it's fear. Fear that has the power to stop me cold. Fear whispering in a thousand voices, all in my own mind.
Once upon a time I tried to reason with this fear. I tried to argue with it, to threaten it, wrestle it, ignore it, outlast it.
I tried with all my mind and heart to overcome it. I could not make fear go away.
Then I learned fear is a cat. When it purrs in my ear and rubs it's back against my leg, I smile.
"Hello, Kitty," I say, and reach down and pet the cat.
"I see you. I know who you are and where you come from."
The cat lays back its ears. I give its head a little scratch.
"Don't mind me," I say. "I'm starting a new story."
The cat curls at my feet and goes to sleep.
November 26, 2010
The Snow is Mine.
Everything outside my window wears a pure, white cloak. I love looking out at the fresh fallen snow, the way it balances on bare branches, dresses up dirty winter streets and softens everything. I remember the afternoon of my fifth birthday when the first snowflakes of the winter started to fall. I believed, in that sure way only a small child can, that the snow was falling just for me. I wore my favorite dress with pink polka-dots. It was the Mad Men era when little girls wore dresses, even on days it snowed.
Nature didn't guarantee snow would stick where I lived. Usually it was a sloppy mess, soon turning to rain. Only once every few years, did enough pile up that we could go sledding on the hill behind our house. Nothing but the coming of Christmas caused more joy.
Now I live where it snows every winter and we measure it in feet, not inches. Oh, it can be a pain, the cold, the shoveling, the dangerous driving. But I have a five-year-old in me that still gazes in wonder. Because it's beautiful and I know it's just for me.
November 22, 2010
Writers Should Get Hazard Pay
I try to remember to get up from my computer every hour and stretch. Even so, my back hurts. I hold stress in my neck and shoulders causing stiffness and pain and sciatica zingers shoot down my legs.
My physical therapist and I are so close she came over for Thanksgiving dinner last year. Now I'm two-timing her with a massage therapist, and cheating on both with a yoga practitioner.
I meditate to calm down so as to keep all my medical appointments straight.
This morning in meditation, it came to me that I felt anger and bitterness toward my aching back. I distinctly heard my back talk back.
"I've been supporting you for decades."
I opened my eyes, but my husband was no where in sight.
"I've been with you through every up and down of your life, constantly supporting you,"said my back. "And I don't feel very appreciated."
Wow. Attacking my body with negative thoughts is not helpful. Not healthful.
This Thanksgiving I'm going to be especially aware of the gift of my strong back and be grateful for it.
My physical therapist and I are so close she came over for Thanksgiving dinner last year. Now I'm two-timing her with a massage therapist, and cheating on both with a yoga practitioner.
I meditate to calm down so as to keep all my medical appointments straight.
This morning in meditation, it came to me that I felt anger and bitterness toward my aching back. I distinctly heard my back talk back.
"I've been supporting you for decades."
I opened my eyes, but my husband was no where in sight.
"I've been with you through every up and down of your life, constantly supporting you,"said my back. "And I don't feel very appreciated."
Wow. Attacking my body with negative thoughts is not helpful. Not healthful.
This Thanksgiving I'm going to be especially aware of the gift of my strong back and be grateful for it.
November 18, 2010
Experimental Potatoes
Dug my potatoes just in time to beat the first snowfall. Now to dig out my grand-mother's recipe for new potatoes and peas in a cream sauce. As a kid I always loved that dish.
Earlier this week I celebrated the cold weather, making chicken and dumplings for the first time. I planned to take a picture, but they were gone too fast.
The potatoes are an experiment in small space gardening.I planted them in half a whiskey barrel, and piled soil and straw around the plants as they grew. Wire mesh wrapped around the top of the barrel held the soil in place.
The whole thing was supposed to have filled with potatoes. The only ones I found were at the roots of the plants, just as if I had planted them in the ground.
Not sure why this didn't work. Anybody?
I did get them in a little late and found lots of tiny potatoes. If I try again next year, I'll start earlier.
My begonias survived the snow. Still beautiful.
