Emilie Richards's Blog, page 137

Something Old, Something New, and Not Just for Weddings

I am endlessly fascinated by feedsacks.  I don't mean the burlap variety farmers use for hauling hen house manure, or the ones the foolhardy leap into for Fourth of July sack races.  I'm talking about cotton feed or flour sacks adorned with cheerful prints that were designed to be emptied, washed and used for quilts or clothing.  The practice began in the early twentieth century and is said to continue today, although with a much smaller supply and audience.  Feedsacks experienced their heyday in the 1930s and 40s, and are definitely collectibles today.

I found my first feedsacks at a quilt show, wonderful blue and white prints that I snatched up and began, slowly to add to through the years.  I've stayed with the theme, although I've allowed red and a little yellow to sneak in from time to time.  I have a wire basket filled with whole feedsacks or portions and plans for a patriotic Ohio Star quilt someday, when I can finally bear to cut them into smaller pieces.

Years ago, when my collector fervor was at its strongest, I found three and a half inch four-patch squares on eBay, some of which were said to be stitched from feedsack fabric.  So I won the bid and waited impatiently.  When the four-patches arrived, I saw what a motley assortment they were.  Some hand-stitched, some machine-stitched, some four inches, some three, some stained and all in need of a good soak.  Humiliated I put them away and told myself someday when I could face my own foolishness, I'd drag them out and see what could be done.

Several weeks ago I saw the squares on a long list of my UFOs.  That's Unfinished Objects in quilterspeak, and most of us have a lot of them.  With a sense of duty I pulled out the squares, and finally they spoke to me.  I saw what I'd missed the first time around.  These were scraps from somebody's sewing basket, a bit of this shirt, a piece of that dress, and yes, some were likely feedsacks, although I'm not expert enough to be certain.  But it no longer mattered.  I had something precious in my hands, another woman's hopes and experiences.  I began to plot how to make best use of them.

The four-patches have now grown into sixteen-patches, carefully washed, trimmed and combined.  I'll set  them with brand new navy star points and muslin using this Scrappy Star pattern from Quilt In A Day, and when I'm finished I'll have a lap quilt or larger, both old and new, the memories of someone from another generation and my own stitched together.

I'm reminded of a novelist's mission as I piece together the old patches and wait for the new fabric to arrive.  My job as an author is to take bits and pieces of my characters' pasts and surround them with new events into one cohesive and pleasing whole.   I've never been more aware of that than with the book I'm writing now.  Each character has a rich history that can't overwhelm the quilt of my novel.  While the history is "central" to who they are, it's just a part of the story.  Only when a reader looks closer will the history, the past, add the color to the overall shape.

I'll love this quilt once it's finished.  When I wrap myself up on a cold evening, I'll think about the woman who pieced these tiny squares.  Together, old and new, we created something useful and hopefully, pleasing.  But I'll never snuggle under it without thinking of my book in progress, as well, and the story that grows in my mind from scraps of the past and slices of the present, as I stitch the four-patch squares into stars.

We Interrupt the Previously Scheduled Blog for Prizes and Fun. . .

Where is everybody? 

No, you didn't arrive at the wrong place, and this IS the day when Chapter Four, Part One of Treasure Beach should be here to entertain you  But this year May has five Tuesdays, and Chapter Four demanded (bossy ol' chapter) that I divide it into only four parts, so each would be rich and meaty.

With that in mind, instead of Chapter Four, Part One (which will debut next Tuesday) today I'm announcing an exciting new giveaway in honor of the upcoming publication of Sunset Bridge, Treasure Beach's big sister, as well as the final full length novel of the Happiness Key trilogy.  

Your mission:

Between now and June 30th 2011, your mission is to send me any one of the following:

An original or family pie recipe. 
A link to an online pie recipe you've enjoyed making or eating in the past and the reason you chose it 
Any other pie-related link, story, or feel-good moment, and the reason you've included it.  Tell us about your first try at making a pie, watching your grandmother roll out pie crust, a pie that just didn't work out or one that really did, etc.

Some Things To Consider:

I'll be posting some of the entries, so by entering, you are giving me permission to share your contribution with my readers, properly attributed to you, of course. 
Respect copyright, if applicable, by simply linking, if your entry isn't original, to the original story or recipe. 
Be sure you add an original sentence or two about why you chose your entry.  Emails with nothing except a link will not qualify for the giveaway. 

Some Things You Must Know: 

There's a limit of one entry per person, although you are welcome to share more often. 
Because of the rising cost of postage, you must have a North American mailing address to receive a prize. 
You must also be willing to have your first name and hometown published here if you are a winner.

Prizes (the Fun Part):

Each Friday in June, random.org will pick one winner to win an assorted box of prizes, for a total of four. 

What kind of goodies?  Costume jewelry watches, Happiness Key T-shirts, aprons from Wanda's Wonderful Pies, autographed novels, special soaps, pie charms, a vintage china pie plate, two unique pie servers, pie cookbooks and more. 

Then to top off the fun, on July 1st, to celebrate the arrival of Sunset Bridge at your favorite bookstore,  I'll choose the winner of a grand prize, a choice of a Breville Pie Maker from Williams Sonoma, or a Kindle from Amazon.  The choice will be yours, unless one or the other of the prizes is no longer available.

Please email your entry through my website. 

Winners will be announced here each weekend of June and on July 1st, so check back often.

Let the fun begin.  And please return next week, when Treasure Beach resumes. 

Meanwhile, if you're making the Happiness Key mystery wallhanging designed by quilt designer extraordinaire Pat Sloan, visit her website for the next, beyond-cute installment.

Sunday Poetry: Spring

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  We began this page in March, and if you didn't join us then, don't worry.  This is a drop-in, drop-out adventure.  You can read about the purpose and inspiration behind Sunday Poetry 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.  But there are no demands or imperatives.   If I have something to add, I will.   If you have something to add, please do.

Today's poem is by William Blake, a lusty hosanna to spring.  Since this poem is in public domain, I'll quote here.  With spring and May Day  in mind I searched for a poem that captured the utter simplicity of the season, with no guile, no laments.  I found this on www.portablepoetry.com, and I thank them for publishing it for us to enjoy.

Spring

by William Blake (1757-1827)

Sound the flute!
Now it's mute.
Birds delight
Day and night.
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in the sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little boy
Full of joy,
Little girl
Sweet and small.
Cock does crow,
So do you.
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little lamb
Here I am
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face,
Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.

Unexpected Gifts

Nemo, our rescue beagle, loves everybody, but some people are particularly special to him.  The son and daughter-in-law who found him in the woods as a puppy and nursed him back to health and into our home.  Other family members.  My cleaning lady and my assistant, both of whom have provided pet care in the past.  

To show his love and appreciation, Nemo unfailingly greets them with gifts.  These are not necessarily things they would think of asking for.  A chewed up blanket.  A dirty sock straight from the laundry basket.  His leash.   Rarely Nemo's own toys, I'll admit, but still, you can't fault the dog for his generosity and his desire to let visitors know they are treasured members of his pack.

Spring is not an unexpected gift, of course, although every year as winter drags on and on, we wonder if this is the year that spring forgot.  Then, a snowdrop pushes through ice-crusted soil, followed by crocus, daffodil, hyacinth and on a larger scale, forsythia. 

Here in Northern Virginia, we're sure spring has arrived when cherry blossoms begin to appear.  And as they and the Japanese magnolias begin to fade and carpet the ground with pink, the dogwood, redbud appear, and finally, our glorious, breathtaking azaleas. Expected yes, but still, somehow, a surprise.

Nemo and I take a walk together every morning, another gift a beagle gives.  This time of year we take the same walk every day.  Up the road about half a mile from our house, is an embankment of azaleas on the edge of public land.  A genius planted them.  There are masses of every color, an azalea rainbow, and they open slowly, so that every day we have a different view to admire.  The show goes on for weeks, and we try not to miss a moment of it. 

This year the spring parade of color has lasted longer because of cool, wet weather.  That means we've been outside less often to enjoy it, but when we are able to get out, the sight and smell of spring is so heady, we can't make ourselves go back inside. 

The best gifts are unexpected.  A gloomy spring whose glimpses of sunlight and bursts of color are appreciated that much more.  A silly beagle dropping an old sofa pillow at my feet out of love and gratitude.  And for me, this spring, those bursts of insights a novelist receives, those moments when, in the midst of kneading bread or sewing a quilt square, a plot point drops into place, or two characters have a conversation and I can only listen and nod. 

Maybe half of being alive is paying attention, and the other half is saying thank you.  Nemo has this figured out, but we humans can be slower.  Luckily, we have spring and azaleas to remind us.  For this, I'm grateful.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Three, Part Four

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 begins next week.  Do you prefer to read  in one big gulp instead of having the story doled out in parts?  Here's the pdf of Chapter Three .  Look for a complete chapter pdf on the last Tuesday of each month through July.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Three, Part Four

"Your grandmother does seem better," Janya said, once they were on their way. "She will be well soon, so I would not worry too much now. If you want to spend time with your friends, I can watch out for her. I have no murals to paint until next week."

"I don't really want to go anywhere."

"You are still worried?"

"No. I just . . . I don't know. Did Wanda or Tracy tell you about the note I found? In the bottle?"

"They did. It seems exciting."

"They don't think it's real. Officer Ken doesn't think it's real, either."

"Well, it is certainly real. But perhaps it is also a joke. Perhaps someone had nothing better to do."

"Lizzie would understand why I'm worried. I wish she weren't, you know. . . Gone."

From the beginning Janya had been unhappy that the women hadn't been able to tell Olivia why Lizzie and Dana had left so suddenly. She wondered if perhaps telling her something now, just a tiny piece of it, might relieve the girl's mind and stop her from imagining the worse. Perhaps then she would be able to close the door of that friendship and open another. Perhaps then she would not worry about secret messages.

"If I tell you a secret, will you promise never to tell anyone else?" Janya asked. "This is something I have not even told Rishi."

"About Lizzie?"

"And Dana, yes. You will promise? To tell no one, not even Lizzie if you see her or speak to her again?"

"I promise."

"I know you can be trusted. Dana and Lizzie had to go away because of something in their past."

Olivia shook her head, as if to say that wasn't enough. "Lizzie already knew that. She told me they were running from something, but she didn't know what."

Janya thought there was an English saying that fit the situation. Something about being in for a penny or a pound, although she didn't think that was quite right.

She tried to find the words. "Sometimes people must find a new life when an old life becomes . . ." She turned into the parking lot of Randall's and turned off the engine, facing Olivia.

"Becomes what?" Olivia asked.

"Difficult. Even impossible. When you get older, you will find that knowing the right thing to do is not always easy. And sometimes we make a decision that is right, but that does not look right to others. Sometimes it looks very wrong. Dana had to make one of those decisions, so now she must be careful always that the truth does not catch up with her. Because not everyone will understand what she did. Perhaps not even Lizzie until she is much older."

"Is this kind of like the witness protection program?"

Janya managed not to smile. "Only a little. But she and Lizzie will be fine. They are with Pete, and Pete will help them stay safe always." She touched Olivia's arm. "The other women would not be happy I told you this. So you will not tell them either?"

"Oh, I won't tell them," Olivia said, nodding decisively. "I promise it will be our secret."

Sunday Poetry: For Most This Amazing Day

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  We began this page in March, and if you didn't join us then, don't worry.  This is a drop-in, drop-out adventure.  You can read about the purpose and inspiration behind Sunday Poetry here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read–or today, 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.  But there are no demands or imperatives.   If I have something to add, I will.   If you have something to add, please do.

Unless a poem is clearly no longer under copyright protection and I can safely quote it here, I will provide links to websites who were careful to secure the necessary permissions.  Much poetry on the web has been put up without the poet or publisher's permission, and I couldn't find a legally posted copy of today's poem.  However I still I found two intriguing versions on You Tube for you to enjoy.

Today's offering by ee cummings, "i thank you God for most this amazing day,"  is one of my favorites.  The message seems wonderfully appropriate for Easter morning.  So, as a special treat, if you click here, you can hear the author himself read the words.  If you click here, you'll see and hear these beautiful words sung by VU-Kamerkoor, recorded in the old city of Amsterdam in 2007.  The musical setting is by Eric Whitacre and a joy to listen to.

Whether you celebrate Easter, Passover, or simply the coming of spring, this poem is for you.

The Write Way: Writer's Paralysis? How to Get Moving Again

I can count on two questions from any Q & A session.  The first?  Where do I get my ideas?  The second is whether I've ever suffered from writer's block.

I'll confess I used to snicker whenever I answered this one.  "Not me, thanks.  If I'm stuck I just keep working until I'm not stuck anymore." 

Simple, and as far as it goes, true.  But that answer also discounts the severity of the problem that some of my most talented colleagues have experienced. Writer's block (I prefer calling it writer's paralysis) is very real.  Were it not, Margaret Mitchell and Harper Lee, not to mention a host of other geniuses, would have turned out small libraries of novels instead of one single blockbuster.

I suspect the causes of writer's paralysis are many.  Too much success, too little success, too knowledgeable of pitfalls, too little confidence manifested by listening to the "editor" and not the "creator" inside us, or listening to people who shouldn't give advice.  For most writers the ideas are still there, but we become so frightened, we send them packing well before we've given them a chance.  The idea has to be bigger, better, more original, more saleable.  We toss the proverbial baby out with the bath water and not surprisingly, there's nobody left to bathe.

If you've been following along here, you know I'm hard at work on a novel that introduces a series.  Recently I told you about creating the world's longest bio for my major character, and finally forcing myself to stop so I could begin outlining.

That's when the paralysis set in.

I always outline–you can read an earlier post about that here.  Using my long synopsis, it should have been simple.  But every time I tried to "make it work," I felt clammy and unable to move–which is why "paralysis" seems to sum up the condition. Finally, after days of staring at a blank screen and notepad, I realized I needed to forget the outline and begin the first chapter.

More clammy, unable-to-move-my-fingers moments.

I'm writing now, I'm pleased to say.  But not before some highly anxious weeks.  So let me share what I've learned.  Will these points solve every problem?  Ha!  Are my fingers flying as fast as a hummingbird's wings?  Don't I wish.  But here are the tips that got me moving again. 

Accept the paralysis as real, but temporary.  Remind yourself that you've written before and you'll write again.  Believe it.
Find another creative outlet to get the juices flowing.  I'm spending part of each day quilting, and it's helped the writing and the attitude immeasurably, not to mention the progress on my Happiness Key wallhanging.
Approach the manuscript from a completely different angle.  If you normally outline, try writing without one, or vice versa.  If you usually start at the beginning and write straight through to the last page, try starting with a scene that's already vivid in your mind, even if it will appear midway through the manuscript.  Remember cut and paste were invented to use often and well.
Feel free to experiment.  Try telling the story from the point of view of a cocker spaniel or a robin.  Try setting the story in outer space.  Try writing it as a sonnet.  Anything to get moving, to have fun, to get the words flowing again.  Will you use it?  Who cares?
Think about everything that's happened in the lives of your characters and the situation they find themselves at the beginning of the novel.  Try changing the background or the situation to make it more dramatic, compelling, exciting.   You say you can't change it because that's the heart of the story?  Well, isn't it possible that this heart isn't beating and never will, which is why the story's dead and you're paralyzed?
Consider the characters who are telling the story and why you've chosen them.  Then try writing through the point of view of other characters instead.
Don't show your work to anyone until you're happy with what you've done.  By then you'll be able to tell if their comments are helpful or just downright silly, and nothing they've said will keep you from finishing.

If you're shaking your head right now and saying, none of this applies to your story or you, then perhaps you need to assess what part  "not writing" plays in your life.  Is it possible that "not writing" is exactly what you should be doing now, and you really don't want to find ways back into your story?  That's okay, too.  Just be honest with yourself, then forge a new, more welcome path.  It might angle back to your story, and it might not.  But maybe you'll be happier.

For more writing tips, check out all The Write Way posts under categories to your right.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Three, Part Three

Not sure why you're here or what to do?  Visit this page for enlightenment and instructions.  It's not too late to read along.  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.

Treasure Beach: Chapter Three, Part Three

That morning Janya had been sad to discover once again that she was not pregnant, but she didn't tell her husband, Rishi. Janya tried not to dwell on the possibility she might never become a mother. Instead she had filled her day with things to do.

Now, back from Wanda's Wonderful Pies and finished with the dinner dishes, she decided to act like a mother anyway. She went through her cupboard, ground fresh spices, cardamon, pepper, ginger and cinnamon, mixed them with sugar and packaged them in a plastic bag tied with a red silk ribbon. She told Rishi, who was watching a cricket match on television, that she was leaving for a little while. Rishi was a software designer with his own business, and he worked much too hard. She knew the moment she left he would fall asleep.

Outside the air was as hot and steamy as a Mumbai evening. While she might sometimes be homesick, she could certainly never blame that on the weather in southwest Florida. She got into the little sedan Rishi had bought for her once she got her driver's license and started the engine.

She made her way past Wanda and Tracy's houses before she turned up Alice's driveway. At the doorstep she stopped and knocked, and in a moment Olivia opened the door.

"Janya." The girl gave her a big smile, then a hug.

"I heard the television. I thought it might be all right to interrupt? Your grandmother is up?"

"She's feeling better. Come in."

Inside Janya was glad to find that the air-conditioner was not set too low. She was certain too much air-conditioning caused illness, and she did not understand why grocery stores in Florida kept their temperatures so low. She wondered if indeed they hoped their customers would fall ill and need the many rows of medications they offered.

Alice was on the sofa, and she greeted Janya with a smile. She looked better than she had when Janya had seen her two days ago. She was dressed in a pretty cotton housedress instead of a bathrobe, and her hair was freshly combed. Best of all her cough sounded much shallower.

"You are feeling better?" Janya asked.

"Yes, I am. It's . . .nice of you. To worry."

Janya was used to waiting for Alice to finish a sentence. A stroke had affected her speech, although it had improved in the time that Janya had known her.

"I brought you something my mother always gave to us when we were children," Janya told her, bending over to hand her the bag. "You will not be used to it, though, so I would advise you to take only the tiniest pinch in a little honey or warm water after you eat. Twice a day. You will not mind the taste, I promise. It will help your cough and your digestion."

"You are so sweet . . . to think of me."

"We are all very glad you are on the recovery road." She straightened. "I thought perhaps Olivia and I could drive up to Randall's and shop for any groceries you might need. Juice? Tea? Fresh fruit? Soup?"

"We need cereal," Olivia said before her grandmother could answer. "And milk and maybe eggs. I'll check. Oh, and ice cream."

"My. . ." Alice winked at Janya. "Especially ice cream."

"Then we will shop together," Janya said. "I need a few things, too." She didn't, not really, but she knew saying so would help. She wanted to get Olivia out of the house, at least for a little while.

Alice made a list and gave Olivia money, and with her blessing, Janya and Olivia headed for Randall's.

Sunday Poetry: Shards of Stained Glass

Welcome to Sunday Poetry.  We began last month, and if you didn't join us then, don't worry.  This is a drop-in, drop-out adventure.  You can read about the purpose and inspiration behind Sunday Poetry here.    

What's your part?  Just slow down a little and come along for the read.  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.  But there are no demands or imperatives.   The photo on today's blog will appear each Sunday along with a poem's link.  Out of respect for copyright, I won't be posting the poem of the day on the blog, but it will be just one easy click away.  If I have something to add, I will.   If you have something to add, please do.

Today's poem is The Hymn of a Fat Woman by Joyce Huff.  It called out to me since I decided to start charting calories at Spark People on my battle to losing an unwanted ten pounds.  Then it called out to me because it reminded me so strongly of my mother, gone now, but whose birthday would have been this week.  Mom, who was more given to puns than poetry, would have understood this one.  She would have smiled. You'll find it and many other wonderful poems at the Poetry 180 website.

You Still Have Time to Hug Your Local Librarian

It's National Library Week.  Did you know?  I'll confess I'm not a fan of "Blank-Blank Weeks" in general, but this one's too important to ignore.  I've relayed my own memories here of the Gulfport, Florida library where my addiction to reading got its start.  At the time many of you commented about your own good experiences.

But while we were waxing nostalgic, did any of us realize that:

68% of Americans have library cards and use them.
92%  who were polled believe libraries will remain important in our future, even with the internet.
Only 22% of library users are over 55.  35% are between the ages of 18 and 34.
1 in 10 card holders visit the library more than 25 times in a year.
For people without internet access at home, public libraries are the number one point of access.
There are more public libraries than there are McDonalds restaurants! Without a French fry in sight.
About 80% of library funding comes from local sources that YOU can influence.

I just discovered that my own county board is returning 3 hours of library time during the week to each of our branches after cutting hours several years ago to help balance our local budget.  Let's all encourage our city mothers and fathers to remember libraries and their importance to our communities when they make their tough decisions.  And while we're at it, let's tell our librarians how much we appreciate all they do.  I plan to when I pick up the two books I've reserved this week.

And aren't I lucky I still have a library where I can do that? 

By the way, the photo above?  The Celsus Library in Ephesus, Turkey was built somewhere between 115-25 AD, and the facade is still standing.  May our libraries continue to stand, as well.