Emilie Richards's Blog, page 136

Sunday Poetry: Ready With Notebook and a Chewed Up Pencil

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen.  If you'd like to tell us what the day's poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you've chosen to reflect on, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored. 

Last Sunday's poem was about a moment.  This one's about the day ahead.  The Only Day in Existence by Billy Collins shares much with This Moment, though.  It's all about paying attention, about watching and waiting, about the ordinary becoming extraordinary.

I heard Billy Collins speak and read some of his poetry at Chautauqua Institution (where I'll be when you read this) and that lecture sent me on a quest to find poetry and poets who speak to me.  He certainly stands at the head of that list.  Accessible and multi-layered, each Billy Collins poem is a joy to read and contemplate. 

What lessons does the day ahead have to teach you?  Remember you are always welcome to share your insights here.

And Don't Forget. . .

 I'm still traveling, but next week I'll begin sharing some of the wonderful contest entries I've received for the four pie gift boxes, as well as photos of some of the prizes.  Remember, I'll choose a winner each Friday in June and one grand prize winner in July.

If you haven't checked out the giveaway you can find information and rules here or here.  Remember to email your entry to me at my website.  Winners will be randomly selected from all correct entries.  Each gift box is different, but equally fun to receive.  We have pie cookbooks, aprons, charms, pie servers, and lots more.  The grand prize is the winner's choice of a Kindle from Amazon or a Breville electric pie maker from William Sonoma–subject to availability.

Thanks to all of you who've sent pie recipes or links you love, memories and stories.  Wanda would be so proud of you.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part Three

Not sure why you're here or what to do?  Visit this page for enlightenment and instructions.  And don't forget to visit quilter Pat Sloan's website to sew along on the Happiness Key quilt that goes along with the series.

Chapter Four debuts this week.  Do you prefer to read  in one big gulp instead of having the story doled out in parts?   Look for a complete chapter pdf on the last Tuesday of each month through July.  In the meantime, i f you're new and you've missed the first three chapters?  Here are links to those pdfs:  Chapter One.  Chapter Two.  Chapter Three.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part Three

Olivia thought it probably sucked to be a grown-up. There was so much grown-ups had to do, but their attention spans were so short. Right now everybody was busy reassuring her. She didn't have to be a genius to figure that out. But down the road, some new cause would pop up, and she would be on her own. She wasn't feeling sorry for herself, she was just looking at the facts and adjusting expectations. She had read an article online about avoiding disappointments in life, and that bit of advice had stuck with her.

It was sweet, though, the way both Wanda and Janya had taken her into their confidence about Lizzie. She didn't know a lot more than she'd already guessed, but at least now she knew for sure that Lizzie was all right, wherever she was. Whatever Dana had done in the past must have been huge, like blowing the whistle on somebody in government or the FBI. Olivia hoped someday she would be told the rest of that story.

In the meantime, she thought she would be better off lying low and letting life wash over her. The middle school minefield was looming just ahead. If she didn't expect to enjoy school, or make good friends like Lizzie, she would be that much further ahead. If middle school turned out to be okay after all, she would enjoy the surprise. But she wasn't going to take risks.

The bleachers were practically empty. There were half a dozen high school girls sitting on the front row. Maybe they were cheerleaders, they kind of looked like they should be, perky and athletic, but nobody was cheering. Even though the bleachers were in the shade right now, the air was steaming, the way it did when a storm was on its way. It might be hours before rain arrived, but in the meantime everybody was miserable.

There were just a few people scattered over the rest of the rows. She went up the side farthest from the cheerleaders and picked a seat away from anybody else. She'd done a quick scan and didn't recognize anyone sitting here, which was good since she didn't feel like talking.

She'd no more than congratulated herself when she saw somebody she knew crossing the grass. She scrunched down in her seat, but the girl spotted her and started up the steps in Olivia's direction.

Sunday Poetry: Apples Sweeten in the Darkness

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen.  If you'd like to tell us what the day's poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you've chosen to reflect on, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored. 

I loved this poem the instant I first read it.  In This Moment, Eavan Boland captures just that, one evocative moment in time, things seen and unseen.  This week, if you have time, try to capture a moment in your life.  What's happening around you?  What have you been missing by rushing on to the next moment instead of savoring this one?  What do you wish you could hold on to?  For me at this moment as I type this?  Shocking pink roses from my hillside arbor sending their heady perfume to every neighbor's house.  Spoons clinking in the kitchen.  Nemo searching for crumbs on the floor.  A breeze ruffling spring's newest leaves. 

I particularly love the line "a woman leans down to catch a child who has run into her arms."  I am reminded of being a child myself, of playing outside until dusk, then running home to my mother.  Thank you, Eavan Boland, for reminding me to pay attention and remember past moments, too.  And thank you, Poetry 180.

Diary of Eight Novels: Brainstorming 2011

I'm in rainy Ohio, shivering with my brainstorming group.  Ohio in the late spring is newly green and outside the windows of my son's house, both a Japanese magnolia and a pink dogwood bloom.  I feel glad to be here no matter what the weather.  

Last year we were together in Florida, so our venue has changed, but our group has not. Publishers have come and gone, as have agents.  We've all made changes in what or how we're working now, but the brainstorming process is the same.  Each of us gets two one-and- a-half hour sessions during our five days together when the group focuses on whatever we ask them to.  I'll be working on the first book of my new series, which has a brand new set of challenges for me.  If we answer all my questions in the first session, I'll move on to next year's book in the second. I do not expect to move on to next year's book.

Sunday: We had dinner together last night, but we still feel as if we haven't really caught up with news.  So in our first session we spend an hour talking about what's happening in our lives.  We tell stories for a living, so this is one of the best parts of the day.  The news is for the most part good, which sets the tone.  We launch into plotting two books, one an international thriller, one a mystery, which is part of a well established series.  The books couldn't be more different; the brainstorming has a common theme.  Both times the minute we begin to "fix" what we perceive as a problem, the entire story unravels.  And keeping track? We resolve to buy visual aids, poster board and post-it notes.  We accomplish a lot but have a lot more to do.  Good thing there are two sessions per author.  Mideastern food for dinner.  Completely exhausted, I sleep very well.

Monday: More rain.  I'm glad we'll be snug and dry inside.  Just a few pages to read before we launch into one BSer's proposal for a Christian publisher.  We agree immediately that it's a great idea, with interesting twists.  I'm enchanted with the intelligence and simplicity of the premise, because while the plot will have plenty of action, the dynamics of the two main characters are well spelled out .  We spend the rest of the session fleshing out the characterization and motivation.  We are far less frustrated than we were yesterday.  By afternoon we're ready to launch into the second book.  This one's part of another established mystery series, and today we figure out how to tie up some loose ends.  I laugh so hard at one point that I have tears rolling down my cheeks.  The premise that won the day has so much comic potential, I can't wait to read it.  Dinner in a noisy restaurant, but we don't care.  At home I find myself looking forward to my first session tomorrow.

Tuesday: Start the day with breakfast and a catch-up session with the writer I've known the longest.  It's fun recapping our past together, mutual friends, shared history, all dissected over whole wheat pancakes.  At the hotel the group gathers for the day.  I've provided everybody with a long synopsis of my story and we launch right in.  While there's a disagreement about how much of the past to include in my novel, for the most part people are perplexed about what I perceive to be problems.  What am I so worried about?  I feel a tremendous rush of relief.  My breakfast buddy tells me a scene she visualizes.  It's a bit different from what I'd planned, but I like it immediately.  This is the beauty of brainstorming.  We spend lunch time telling publishing horror stories, our version of marshmallows around the campfire, then in the afternoon we brainstorm a book that's new to us.  The author's figured out most of it.  We tweak what doesn't work for us, but it's all small stuff.  Small stuff is the best kind of brainstorming.  A rich and satisfying dinner at a local Italian restaurant, then home to sleep off the calories.

Wednesday: Oh, good, a brand new series in the making.  We rub our hands in anticipation and dive right in.  As the morning ends, we've suggested characters, occupations, titles, plot fragments.  A lot of ideas for the author to contemplate as she makes it her own.  In the afternoon I present my second idea by reading an autobiography I wrote from the point of view of the main character.  Since this is next year's book, there's not much more to go on.  Luckily, that doesn't stop us.  Sometimes the most fun is fleshing out a skeleton.  By the session's end mine is walking and talking.  An Irish pub tonight chosen because, of all things, it's quiet and close–and yes, it's still raining. 

Thursday: Back to our original two books, both of which needed second sessions.  We get further this time, and are less confused.  By the session's end, the authors are feeling positive about how far their stories have come.  We sit with a bottle of good Merlot and talk about how much we enjoy each other and the process.  Believe it or not, the sun finally comes out.  Who knows if we'll be able to meet again next year.  Careers and needs change, and lives get sidetracked.  But here's hoping.  Writing is often a lonely profession, and for five days, we've been able to move beyond that. 

Eight very different books in progress, now.  I like to think that every one of them will be on bookshelves in the next few years and that our five days of exhausting, exhilarating work will bring the same pleasure to our readers as they have to us.  Meantime, tonight, we will all sleep well.  We'll need it.  After all, the work has just begun.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part Two

Not sure why you're here or what to do?  Visit this page for enlightenment and instructions.  And don't forget to visit quilter Pat Sloan's website to sew along on the Happiness Key quilt that goes along with the series.

Chapter Four debuts this week.  Do you prefer to read  in one big gulp instead of having the story doled out in parts?   Look for a complete chapter pdf on the last Tuesday of each month through July.  In the meantime, i f you're new and you've missed the first three chapters?  Here are links to those pdfs:  Chapter One.  Chapter Two.  Chapter Three.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part Two

Tracy imagined this conversation had a lot more to do with Lizzie than with somebody named Barbie, but she knew better than to bring that up.

"Well, that does happen, but as you get older, your friends tend to stick around longer. My college roommate and I talk on the phone every single week, and probably always will." Tracy added what she knew Olivia really needed to hear. "So I plan to be here for you as long as you want me to be."

"Yeah, my mom planned that, too."

Tracy's throat went suddenly dry and she coughed.

"Are you okay? Are you getting sick? Like Nana?"

With effort Tracy cleared her throat. "I'm just fine. Listen, I can't promise I won't die, because we both know that would be a lie, but short of a date with the Grim Reaper, I'm going to stick around for you."

"I think you and Marsh are going to get married."

"Hey, nobody's talking marriage, least of all Marsh."

Olivia ignored her. "I think you'll move away from Happiness Key and in with him, then you'll get tired of managing all the houses, so you'll sell the whole place. Wanda will go back to Miami and start another pie shop. Janya and Rishi will move into town and have a bunch of kids. And you and Marsh will be so busy, you'll forget about me, until you get an invitation to my graduation."

Olivia hadn't said any of this with rancor. Tracy heard only acceptance, as if she had added up what she knew of the world and these people she was close to, and drawn what seemed like the most logical conclusion.

"So not true," Tracy said, deciding that she would sound logical, too. "Listen, I know you've lost way too many people in your short life. I get that. I wish it weren't true, but that's what you've got to work with. I've lost a lot of people, too. My parents are duds, my husband was even worse, and a lot of people who were supposed to care about me didn't the moment my life went south. But I came here and I found all of you. I don't take that lightly, sweetie. I know I can count on any of you when I need you, and I'm telling you, you can do the same."

"Don't worry about me. I'm getting stuff figured out."

Tracy was pretty sure whatever Olivia was figuring out wasn't going to make her life any happier.

They talked about other things until they were inside the center. Olivia had agreed to help Tracy do an inventory on the athletic equipment they'd used at youth camp. Tracy had to begin formulating her budget for next year's program, and she wanted to know just what she would have to repair or replace.

"I've got some other things I have to do first," Tracy told her, once they were downstairs in Tracy's office, fondly known as the rec room for its expansive size and the ratty old sofas that had lived there since the Stone Age. "Want to grab a quick swim first?"

"Maybe I'll watch the Panthers practice."

The Panthers were the high school varsity baseball team who were using the rec center's field this summer while the one at the school was being revamped, new fence, new backstop and bull pens. Tracy didn't smile, but she just bet eleven-year-old Olivia was more interested in the players than in their prowess on the field, particularly the Panthers' star pitcher. During camp the young man, with his infectious grin and lithe body, had attracted quite a bit of attention from the middle-school set.

"Meet me back here when you get tired of watching Brandon," Tracy said.

Olivia just smiled.

Sunday Poetry: In the Silly White Suit with the Gold Buttons

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of these Sunday posts here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen.  If you'd like to tell us what the day's poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you've chosen to reflect on, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored. 

Today's poem is "How to Become a Stepmother" by Beverly Rollwagen.  Last week we honored mothers, and this week it seems fitting to honor stepmothers.  This poem is so acutely visual.  Can't you see these scenes unfold, feel the emotions, feel that final zing of pleasure as you begin to believe things might just turn out after all?  How many of you had stepmothers?  How many of you are stepmothers?  Can you relate?

Has anyone ever watched you "from all five corners of the room"?

Since this link will lead you to website of The Writer's Almanac, if you choose you may also have the pleasure of hearing this read out loud by Garrison Keillor by clicking "listen" at the top.

Extra, Extra, Read All About It–Lessons From Your Daily Newspaper

I'll confess, I rarely find time to read the newspaper.  This shames me to admit it, so I'll quickly add that I do read stories online every day.  On my iGoogle homepage, I get the highlights from the New York Times, the Washington Post,  The Huffington Post Blog Feed, BBC, and Time Magazine.  However when I take the time to actually read the Washington Post section by section, I'm always amazed at what I find on those pages that scanning online headlines didn't give me.

I knew how horrifying the recent swath of tornadoes were for people in Alabama and beyond, but reading this story put a human face on that disaster for me.  Two families, connected by the excesses of Mother Nature, one in Alabama, one in Tennessee.  The Tennessee family finds a pay stub brought to their home by the winds, the Alabama family, to whom it belonged, is contacted.  The Tennessee family, which has so little in the way of resources, finds it cannot let go of what's happened to these strangers so far away.  The story's about the best within us, and the way we sometimes reach out in the most personal of ways.  I was mesmerized and happy to be human.  Read it.  You will be, as well. 

Then there's the atheist who's planning to capitalize on the Rapture (coming to a town near you on May 21st) by signing contracts with those religious folk  who believe they will be among the  "raptured" and are worried about the pets they'll leave behind.  Said atheist, Bart Centre, promises that for a fee paid up front (because hard cash will likely be scarce in the Great Beyond) his caregivers, who must be atheists themselves–lest they be raptured too–will  find homes for the pets when the owners disappear in a flash. 

And no, I am not making this up.

And here's a little snippet from an article about sunscreen protection.  "She (refers to Olga Naidenko, a senior scientist at Environmental Working Group) adds that since the Food and Drug Administration has yet to finalize sunscreen regulations (a process underway since 1978), manufacturers are not required to show that their products work or to substantiate claims about them."  1978?  Somebody's joking, right?  In 33 years they can't finalize sunscreen regulations?  Who knew even the government could be that inefficient?

I spoke about my writing career yesterday and as always, I was asked where my ideas come from.   One morning with my favorite newspaper is all it takes, folks.  And I haven't even mentioned the obituaries. . .  Stay tuned.

I'll be away from home for the next two weeks, but I'll continue to blog.  Next Friday I'll tell you what a week of brainstorming with fellow writers, this time in Cleveland, OH, has taught me about the book in progress and writing in general.  At least, that's the plan.

On a separate note?  Don't forget to send a pie recipe, story, reminiscence, etc. to enter the Great Pie Giveaway.  More details on my contest page or here.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part One

Not sure why you're here or what to do?  Visit this page for enlightenment and instructions.  And don't forget to visit quilter Pat Sloan's website to sew along on the Happiness Key quilt that goes along with the series.

Chapter Four debuts this week.  Do you prefer to read  in one big gulp instead of having the story doled out in parts?   Look for a complete chapter pdf on the last Tuesday of each month through July.  In the meantime, i f you're new and you've missed the first three chapters?  Here are links to those pdfs:  Chapter One.  Chapter Two.  Chapter Three.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Four, Part One.

"You look amazing in that skirt." Tracy spared a glance at Olivia who, on Wednesday, was perched beside her in the Bimmer, on the way to the rec center. The skirt was four tiers of white and skimmed her knees. Olivia wore it with a blue top and looked like she belonged in a series on TeenNick.

"I thought it would be perfect when you showed it to me," she continued. "That Janya can find anything at garage sales, can't she?"

"She found a whole set of beautiful new dishes, white with green and blue flowers, for just five dollars. The lady who was selling them said they didn't go with her dining room anymore. She said she had three other sets that went better."

"You won't believe this, but once upon a time I had something like eight sets of good china. I can't even remember what some of them looked like."

"Do you miss being rich?"

Tracy considered. "I miss how easy it is. You know, not to have to worry about stretching a pay check, or paying property taxes, or where to find the money to repair air-conditioners or leaky sinks. Wanda's sink is leaking again. For some reason, it's always Wanda's house that has problems."

"Then I guess being rich is better."

"In that way, sure. But when I was rich, I never even thought about any of those things. I kind of didn't think about anything, to be honest. And I don't miss that not-thinking part. Or the part where I had to impress people I didn't like. Keeping up an image isn't much fun."

"Then I guess being poor is better."

Tracy poked Olivia with her elbow. "Let's strive for something in between, shall we? A life where we can afford the things we really need and still be ourselves. Remember that when you go off to college."

"Maybe you'd better give me some advice right now on what classes I should take."

Tracy turned on to the bridge leading to the mainland. She noted the sign announcing that a new bridge was on its way and wondered how the noise would affect their end of the key.

"When you go off to college," she said, once they were across, "I'll still be around. Who knows what you'll be interested in by then? We'll make a date right now to have a long talk in your senior year of high school."

"How do you know you'll be around?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I like it here."

"Maybe you won't by then."

"I have friends. I have a job I love. I have Happiness Key. Why would I move away?"

"You and Marsh spend a lot of time together."

"Uh huh. I'll add him, then. I have Marsh. And Bay. And if you're on a fishing expedition, I'll say it out loud. I have you. That would be a lot to leave, wouldn't it?"

"People disappear. They die, or they get new jobs somewhere else, or they just get tired of their old friends and find new ones. I was best friends with a girl named Barbie in first grade. We were going to be friends forever, but now I don't even know where she lives."

"She and Ken probably set up housekeeping in their Dream House."

"You know what I mean."

Sunday Poetry: So Complete Has Your Forgiveness Been

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or sometimes, for the listen.  If you'd like to tell us what the day's poem means in your life, or what word or phrase you've chosen to reflect on, or where those reflections have taken you, we would be honored. 

Today is Mother's Day, and the broad array of poetry about mothers isn't surprising.  What other relationship has more impact on our lives?  Whether we revered or mistrusted the women who gave us life or raised us, they still reside deep within us .  We struggle to be like them or we struggle to be as different as possible.  We greet Mother's Day with tears or laughter, but always with memories.

To My Mother, by Wendell Berry, expresses so beautifully the acceptance the best mothers give their children.  I was particularly drawn to the ending, and the poet's vision of Heaven.  I hope you, too, will find comfort and pleasure in reading this one. 

Remember that since this link comes from The Writer's Almanac, you can choose to hear Garrison Keillor read the poem by clicking on "Listen."

Thank you for reading with us today, and if you choose to comment, thank you for that, as well.