The Mother Centurion

Writerly Inspiration-Where Do You Get Yours?

I was toiling with a new post topic today and after I spent some time reading the writings of several of my Writer's Club friends, I wanted to take a moment to ask the question; Where do you get your inspiration? Not to necessarily come up with plots or story ideas but your inspiration to "Write".

Do you seek a comfortable spot in your bedroom, living room, office? Front yard under a shady tree? Does a particular song track inspire you, a favorite book, a moment in life?

I find reading and a particularly nice day like today, inspirational beyond words. I have begun my first real chapter of my memoir and I can actually say, "Yes, I am working on my book".. That seems so strange but REAL. Also a bit scary and over-my-head...

I can also say a big inspiration for me was the writer's conference. Workshopping with all those writerly minds and intuitive thinkers as well as "prose prone pronouncers", was extremely profound.. If I do say so myself. I absolutely felt a fire kindled inside as I sat surrounded by so many creative thoughts and authors.

I honestly believe, the true key to writing is reading. If you find yourself struggling with plot, prose, character development and setting, pick up an author you admire in the genre you habitat and READ. By reading others' work, you will find the method to kill cliches, build and develop your characters, fine tune your setting and build tension.

I would like to end this post with an invitation to those reading to leave behind for others your inspiration. I would also like to quote a favorite author, Frank Conroy from his book StopTime (1967). There are two paragraphs in his memoir where he is describing his parents as he views them just before they take a journey across country in the family car. First, his mother:

"In front, my mother, rather tall for a woman, with an abundance of blond hair and wide, cleanly cut features. She radiated the robust freshness of a farm girl-her forebears were, in fact, Danish country people-missing ideal Scandinavian beauty only because her face lacked suggestiveness. Studying it you noticed that things were a little too big. She was handsome rather than beautiful, but for all that men's heads never failed to turn."

And his stepfather:

"Next to her, in the driver's seat, was Jean, a man of almost impossible Gallic good looks. The ne'er-do-well son of a collapsed aristocratic New Orleans family, he had been around for years, seeing my mother while my father was away. He was six feet tall, slim, and sported a black mustache. The bones of his face and head were extraordinarily delicate and well proportioned, just slightly smaller than life size, accentuating their fineness. A perfect Greek head, but without the Greek effeminacy. His features were French and masculine. Dark, almost black eyes, a thin humourous mouth. He smoked cigarettes through an F.D. R. holder but affected the mannerisms of the proletariat. I rather liked him, which was lucky. From this trip on, for the next eight years, he was my stepfather".

Although in cases of character description, these may be lengthy in some scenarios but to Frank Conroy at this time in his life, these were the two most important people in his young life, who would forever shape his next few critical years. It was clearly important for him to give a personal account of their features, mannerisms and also how he may have "felt" about them.

Reading inspires me.

Spread the Joy of a Bloggy!

I have been awarded a Bloggy from my blogger friend Laura at http://literarylegs.blogspot.com/

Thank you Laura!! Now, from what I have read, the way this goes is once received, you pass on the sweetness to 5 others after first revealing 5 interesting facts about yourself!! Fun!

1. I am a Living Kidney Donor

I donated a kidney to our son three years ago and am now working on becoming a mentor for others who are in need of a kidney or wanting to learn more about living donation.

2. I take my boys "bug hunting"

No,this is not my hand or our bug... But he's COOL huh??!! We would totally dig finding this guy!!

3. I worked as an extra in the movie Fire Birds (1990) with Nicolas Cage.

I am the blonde bar tender in the "bar scene".. and they also used me in a basketball scene where I shot some hoops for Sean Young (in her place).. but it was not used. Apparently she can dribble too. I wore a wig and went to "make up".. pretty cool. Was paid $150.00 for two days of "work".

4. I was on a dance team for a local radio station when I was 25.

And no.. that is not me. I unfortunately have no photos of any of my dancing however we also filmed a late night "dance party" show (which was actually filmed on Saturdays at 10 am) and friends saw it. Came on later that night at 11:00

5. I am an only child.

Who not so secretly wishes she had at least 2 brothers and a couple of sisters. I also would have loved to have had at least 4 boys and even adopted some. I do have two half-brothers but unfortunately we are more like distant cousins.

My sweet blogger friends I wish to share with are:

1. Laura who creatively blogs at http://literarylegs.blogspot.com/
2. Dawn who dazzles at http://dawnbrazil.blogspot.com/
3. Meryl who captivates at http://departingthetext.blogspot.com/
4. Alex who wows at http://alexhagen1.blogspot.com/
5. Julie who inspires at http://julieflanders.blogspot.com/

Go visit these wonderful ladies and send a bloggy to someone who motivates/inspires you!!

World News and Part III Final of Conference

First let me say that I, like most of the world, have been tied to the news as we read of the tragic events in Japan. I feel one-minded and a bit "closed" writing about writing instead of really taking a moment to reflect on what is happening in the bigger world around us. This will land at least 3 pages in my journal and be something my boys will most likely not remember but I will. Protected in a clear bubble but just how fragile is that bubble?

I will just briefly mention my Part III of the conference. I took part on day three in a workshop designed to discuss emotions with Josh Rathcamp. He discussed how you can intergrate emotion into a piece without "saying a character is angry, happy, mad, dispondent, depressed, lost, unfocused..." We looked at a few pieces of short work and then were given an exercise. We unfortunately did not have time to share but what he had to offer was very valuable. Think of your character acting out during a time of tension and instead of saying they were in dispair, show us. Great lesson. The day concluded with a wonderful brunch and with quick, fluid discussion, emails and business cards were exchanged.

I have since gained another group of writers to work with and will find the time to fit it all in.

I have to tell all of you one thing. Maybe you can relate or maybe you're one of the few (and those I envy) who can push out 3 chapters in one sitting... but my hubby said after the conference, "well, lets go... get writing!" One of the more insightful closing remarks by one author on the final day, was "we are all going back to our lives, and eventually the question will come up, what's taking you so long? Why does this writing thing take so damn long??" Good question and the answer I gave my husband tonight as we watched the sun turn the sky a crimson shade of pretty, was it takes so damn long because it is soooo hard." I think more than that is: because it is so..... me..

Ahhhh the love of writing.............. and remember to hug your family and be grateful.

Part II of the ASU Desert Nights Rising Stars Writers Conference

Welcome to Part II:

On Saturday afternoon we had the opportunity to hear from Victor LaValle. I will summarize this course, "Got Plot" with some great tips and notes. (My black journal is covered with 35 more pages of ink because of this conference....)

You can sway a reader if you state it with confidence.

We used the story excerpt from The Deadly Circle by Samuel Fuller and San Francisco by Amy Hempel. Two very different plots and one was much easier to decipher than the other. But once we were shown how the writer was guiding us, this reading opened up opportunities for us in our own writing.

He finished with another statement: The writer should be calm and assertive. I will take those words with me, for sure!!

Later that afternoon and before closing, I along with others attended two more discussions. The next was with Naeem Murr, Meeting the Stranger. He used a great analogy of dreams and how there are no uncesssary 'inputs' in dreams... everything is there for a reason in our dreams!! So do the same thing in your writing. If it really is not necessary, if you cannot explain the significance, and if your reader cannot understand it.. well then kill your little darling. Convince the reader. We discussed Flannery O'Conner, A Good Man is Hard to Find and I have actually been reading her stories before the conference. There was not much discussion but rather a lot of speaking by Naeem. He has a lot of great information.

I finished the day with Submitting to Literary Journals!!! I was pleasantly surprised to hear them say, they typically skip cover letters and in most cases, most journals don't even ask for a cover letter.. They get right to the work. I agree!! The "Hook" was a topic and of course when you are reading thousands of submissions and will only publish a handful, you need a hook. Make the writing stand up on its own and lesson learned; don't try to be cute, just write well!! Finally, do not put any work in its full form on a blog or website if you plan on submitting it for publication consideration. If you do so, well guess what? By putting it out there, you have published it. You would think this would be obvious but the editors explained they have had this happen.

Some great places suggested for Literary Journal submissions- Duotrope.com New Pages Luna Park Lit List Review and cwrwopps plus the Million Writers Award. I have yet to go to any of these, so I hope they are correct if you go looking. If not, please comment if you have the correct site!!

Thank you for reading and check back on Friday for the Final Part III

ASU Writers Conference Lessons Learned; Part I of a Part Three III Series

What else is there to say? I have had the wonderful opportunity to dive headfirst into the writing community and experience, for at least three days, a constant surge of living, breathing and writing about the craft. I absolutely loved it. I want to first give a big wonderful hug to the ladies who have supported, read, shared, friended, commented. Check these out;

literarylegs.blogspot.com
http://j.mp/gwCQZ7 to read Meg Waite Clayton's article just published on the Huffington Post!!! Her next novel out very soon; The Four Ms. Bradwells.
Shewrites.com and my page followers
dawnbrazil.blogspot.com
cathykozak.com
thedepartingtext.blogspot.com
demolishingtheblock.blogspot.com

Check them all out!! If I forgot anyone please send! I also met some wonderful people at the conference and along with my on-line friends, I look forward to connecting with others locally!

Today was back to the grind, literally. My creative flow came to a screeching halt as quickly as I turned on the computer at work and saw 167 emails waiting. I digress.

The Conference Lessons Learned Part I:
I arrived home on Sunday after a wonderful brunch and some "Words to Write By" at the conference. I actually had the house all to myself after my kids and husband had left Saturday morning for a hockey tournament in Prescott. Imagine that, 9 years it has been since I have been in the house alone. Believe, me I am not rushing that. I missed the comotion but I had the TV to myself! Yes, I should have been writing but my God, I had written all day and again, the Doritos and Three Stooges just sounded really good at about 6:30 Saturday night.

After K.L Cook's class ( I blogged about that previously and again, what a class! Entitled, "Let's Misbehave"), I elected to sit in with Renee Simms who would discuss "Flair in Fiction; What Poets and Stylists Teach Us". We discussed prose (which is anything not poetry) and how writers of prose can extract lessons from poetry to increase the readability and flow of the work. I completely agree with this. As mentioned earlier I have discovered a new dimension to my writing and reading by examining poetry.

We were given a black and white photo of a Brookly family from 1966 taken by Diane Arbus.

We were then asked to describe the photo in the manner of C.K. Williams. We were given two C.K. Williams poems, The Dance and Shame. It would be beneficial to google these two works to get a sense of the exercise. Very challenging task. She wanted us to use more complicated language, that did not rely too much on direct information but rather a more intuitive method to interpret our perception of the photo.

Although I read my interpretation I have included a variation of the first sentence here. I did not care much for the ending and we had a whole 5 minutes to do this:

Joleen and Tony are the nucleus that link Anna and Leo to life. A thin life hanging by a gossamer thread of bare cabinets, Lucky Strikes and brawling fights when mommy and daddy disagree about green money, yellow beer and fancy girls with red lips....

My voice on this began more as a 3rd person omniscient then trasitioned to the children. At least that was my attempt. Difficult!!!

Our next exercise in the same class was now to identify a "Group" that a person could belong to. Using the "we", we were directed to give an opening to a story. Our samples included, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves (Karen Russell,) Farewell to Arms (Hemingway) and Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Hurston). Here was my take, again I read aloud;

We sidled in tight formation through the alley. The moon hung full and heavy above and with our heads cantered to the side, we filtered the night noise. The third guy back stumbled and hit a trash can, temporarily halting our prosession against the wall. Gunshots slapped the curtain of night hard and forceful. I curled my finger around the trigger and all at once we ran forward and fast whooping our own variations of "gonna get those fuckers, show 'em they aint takin us down like that!"

We were Superman. Our chests like iron but skin bare and not quite man-like, arms sinuey and gangly as we ran wildy, a blur of feet and gravel. Every muscle engaged as the bullets found their mark, leaving each of us to stop short, life at fourteen.

Again, sometimes in workshop-my experiences as a cop play out on paper. This was a great exercise. I recommend the readings prior to show why I wrote it this way.

Part II will be Wednesday and I will share my notes on "Got Plot" with Victor LaValle and "Meeting the Stranger" with Naeem Murr. Great day!!

Thanks for Reading!! Keep Writing!!

Day One of the Writer's Conference and Workshops!

Today is Saturday, March 5:
Friday, March 4, was the first real day of the conference and I will get right down to it. I was exhausted after a full day of tapping the creative core!! I will tell you one thing; you need cerebral stamina to keep up. By 5:30 pm, I was cashed out. I literally wanted to grab a bag of Doritos and watch re-runs of the Three Stooges.. But oh, what glorious, creative fun!

After the opening remarks which although the writing was well done, the topic of Invisible Borders, was too politically sided for my preference. I listened through the 50 minute reading by a very well known writer and was able to at least extract his rythym, use of language and prose and leave behind that I disagreed with most if not all of what he said. But again, to be a writer.

Now, just imagine a very large meeting hall in a very old building, 1839 first Tempe Normal School, wall to wall with history and great sound for readings and most attendees coming in by 9:00 for the opening remarks for the day, a little coffee and off to your selected class. I again, although invited to observe the Master's Class in Non-Fiction, it was limited seating and strictly adhered to, so I went to a class by Shannon Cain who was discussing How to Kill a Cliche. We had the most perfect venue, outdoors, golden sunshine and minus the bit of construction noise nearby, we had a great time. She was an enthusiastic instructor and guided us through how cliches work their way into our writing. We were given an exercise; Your mission is to write in one-word syllables, two sentences max, a snipit revealing to the reader a man is crying. Wow...

"With the grip of her hand, she lent to him the chance to fall to her. A tear came and his breath, cold in the air, freed him for the first time."

That was my take on it and I did read it aloud. A few others read. Another lesson about Workshop, it is work, you should go in with both feet, anxious to participate, hear your own voice, find your own voice. I am learning more about the Art and Craft of Writing than I ever thought I would.

Next Workshop I chose: Reading Like a Writer by K.L. Cook call me Ken..
Loved it!! I would take all classes from this man. I loved his reading aloud, his breath accentuated the light feather of "th", "v" and "f". His passion, knowledge of text, historical work he pulls from and his ability to show the lay person like myself, what we need to see, was masterful. I wished I had another hour with him in this session. He showed for us the work of Steinbeck and how we can learn from his penning, Cannery Row. I have never read Steinbeck I am sad to say, however it does not mean I cannot. Just find time!!

The exercise involved reading and understanding 1st, 2nd 3rd person and 3rd person omniscient which I can say I did know all of those terms via other workshopping I have done. I was not completely in the dark. Thank God. I am also finding myself in the company of some very intelligent writers who themselves are participants.. their readings are beautifully done and they are "getting it". Some are published, some working on pieces.. The notes in my journal for this class are a scratchy mess and in bold letters I finally relented; "I am lost!!! Going too fast!" I did not give up but by the time 4 minutes (yes, 4 minutes to get a piece together..) I had nothing to read..

After lunch I attended a panel discussion with Gretel Erlich and Cynthia Hogue, two distinctly different writers but yet very eloquent in their work. One a memoirist and one a poet. I have also learned I have a new affection for poetry. It is not just the sing songy, rhyming poetry you would assume. It transcends narrative into a song and reads like a very intuitive short story in some cases. Not at all choppy or predictable. I earned a new respect for the poet and what fiction or non-fiction has to learn from poetry. This exchange was dynamic and fluid, engaging and yes, I spoke up again. I was feeling more and more at home.

I chose Writers in Conversation with Victor LaValle, Naeem Murr and Antonya Nelson. This was held inside the Virginia Piper's House, you know the old wood floors, narrow doorways that cocoon you and the over sized furniture just begging for you to put your feet up, read-write.

The opening by the very young MFA student with grown up features including a beard, glasses and worn, brown dress shoes, left us all a bit off when he introduced each writer and then turned it immediately to us for questions. We sat silent. We needed to hear from them first in order to ask them to share with us their methods on the craft. So Antonya saved the day by asking her fellow writers a question on guilty pleasures. What do you read as a writer. That saved the day and the hour discussion flowed much more smoothly.

Time and Place with Gretel Erlich, Andrea Barrett and Jem Poster was next and this was held in the larger meeting room. This was the panels' take on setting place and time in your story and the value from doing it well. Some questions were taken from the audience and this last class concluded my day. Whew!! I need a glass of wine.. yes, I did... two..

I am now midway through Saturday as I write this and I had the wonderful opportunity to workshop with K.L. Cook again and actually completed a work, although there was not enough time to read. I finished it up with a couple of extra minutes and like it enough to at least put it here to conclude this post. First, the exercise today was to write an "apology that was not really an apology". (Read: Tony Hoagland, Lucky and This Is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams).
The class was titled "Let's Misbehave". It is designed to open for the writer an opportunity to lend in some cases, much needed "meaness" to our characters. If our characters are lying flat for us, throw another rock at them and then some more as Hoagland says. Then rescue them from the tree. We had 4 minutes. Again, I ran out of time initially but finished it about 1 minute later. I did not read this one aloud today:

I pinched the sliver cuffs tight around her wrists and knew the cramped backseat would lend little room for relief. The heat in the car was stifling but I turned the dial to high, an attempt to force some relief past the plexiglass shield dividing the front and rear seats.
I am sorry for the lack of comfort. I apologize for your suffering, back there in the heat,
in August,
in Arizona
4:26 p.m. on this Tuesday
and you ask again, "Am I really going to jail? That's fucked up."

But Graciella, your daughter died today. She died so you could climb back into bed. Tired after your night's foray-the stink of men and pot thick in your clothes and hair.
Exhausted from taking your own mother to work just before dawn this morning.
Graciella died while she cried locked tight in her car seat.
Right where you left her.

Yes, I am taking a direct experience in my work as a cop and using them quite often in this workshop. I did two more times today..Parental indifference..

Gotta get back to the readings and an afternoon filled with more workshopping!! Recommendations; Read, read, read. Read as much as you can. Read really good writing, read poetry, somewhere quiet. Not a commercial fiction but something, anything classic. I have to do more of that. Participate, force yourself to read something aloud. Let your heart beat right out of your chest in the process, your words trip and stammer just before you finish and your lips tremble a little. A natural high.

More later.

ASU Desert Nights Rising Stars Writer's Conference Experience!

I am well into the conference now and just found the perfect wi-fi spot as an ASU guest user. I am on lunch break. I have one hour to eat and attempt to blog about a wonderful evening at the welcome reception at the DNRS Writer's Conference at ASU in Tempe, Arizona!! What an experience and a class act.

First let me start out by saying I predicted something earlier in my blog as I anxiously turned the days of the week leading up to the conference over in my head; would I make it? Would I actually be able to go, freely and without distraction to a 3-day conference where I may at times not be home until after 9 or 10 at night?? Really?
Well my friends, at 4:07 am on the morning of the first day, our youngest son woke with fever. My husband took his place as the sacraficial parent to stay home while I trudged off to a full day of work and an evening among writers and readers. Much to my dismay, as I sat in a contract bid pre-conference, trapped by heat and 40 people firing questions to me about what I expected from the bidders, I began receiving texts my husband was on the way to the hospital with our son.
Our youngest has ARPKD/CHF and was transplanted 3 years ago today to be exact. So on the day before his 3 year anniversary of his transplant, he is carted off to the ER with high fever. This was only after struggling to break the fever into the late morning. I left the contract meeting asap and headed to the hospital. Thankfully and as predicted, this was a routine measure due to his transplant and we were aware of that. He has croup (learned today after recognizing "the bark") but when you have a new kidney, you must protect it, at every cost including convenience.. the ER visit is not new to us, we were just praying he would not be admitted.

Whew.. finally later in the day as I left work, boarded the train headed for the ASU campus, I relaxed. The frustration was now in my dear husband's lap as he waited, and waited and yes, waited for tests, reports, IV fluids and antibiotics just a precaution. I started to loosen the guilty pull on my internal "mommy hard wiring". The parent child bond is as tight and as predominate in my core as breathing is natural to most people. I had to fight this drive to flee and return to my babie's side that was really just being overplayed in my head. Guilt is an incredible mediator... What allowed me to let stay on that train headed for ASU were the reinforcing words from my hubby, "Hey, he's fine.. we should be home soon. Go to the conference.."

I made it..

I walked the campus in the direction I knew Old Main sat and passed the glorious Virginia Piper Writer's Studio on the way. Its solid bungalow style porch, invites you in to have a seat in the overly stuffed chairs, take a stroll through the rooms with their narrow doorways and enjoy the creaking of floorboards that have welcomed many a writer before.

I came upon the impressive stair leading to the second floor of Old Main and novelled at the two or three conference participants snapping quick pictures of a mocking bird calling out from a scrawl of dead tree branches. Half a dozen other attendees seated around the massive fountain just outside, hunched eagerly over their conference materials. The night could not have been better for an opening reception. The sun was just setting and the song of the fountain and soft chatter of passerby lended an inspirational mood and after checking in, I broke out the journal.

Once inside, we were met by friendly staff and faculty who greeted each attendee with a choice to either sit at any of the marked eight-top tables or, "if you would like, you may sit at one particular table with an author of your choice." How grand! "Who would you like to sit with?" she asked, clipboard in hand with names and numbers listed in neat rows. "Well, I am working on non-fiction memoir" "Well then, you may elect to sit with Gretel Erlich, she is here at table 12" How convenient. Among the 22 or so tables, table 12 was to my left.

This was like a first date. I even carefully chose my garb.. Dark jeans, low at the waist, my favorite comfortable hiking boots, a t-shirt with a tasteful, pink long sleeve polo, untucked. A little shabby chick or just mid forties comfortable.. Whatever.. it was better than wearing my police uniform work pants, a black t-shirt and my army style black work boots..

The table and room filled quickly and we soon went around the table with greetings including, "wherefroms and whatareyouworkingons" and besides all working on non-fiction, we were from varying areas. One all the way from Virginia!! Wonderful, I was born there. We all chatted, attempting to hear ourselves and each other over the mix of similar conversation in the room. So far the first date was going well and I felt remarkably comfortable, open and as usual, very talkative.

The welcome remarks came from Peter Turchi and set the stage for the atmosphere I anxiously awaited. Imagine, a room filled to the brim; about 185 in all, women outnumbering men 3/1 and varying age ranges from maybe 25 to 65, all here in various transitions in their craft of writing. A defying struggle to do what many and most cannot: take a person somewhere they have never been through the magic of words.

Dinner was served and the wine, yes Wine, flowed. Gretel, a gritty, down to earth, welcoming soul, put it perfectly when our young server inquired,
"More wine?"
"More wine? I am writer, of course, more wine!"
We had a great laugh after that as we chatted the dinner time away with sharing of stories, travels and challenges to get the written word to transcend into reality. It was wonderful.

Readings followed dinner. Lovely. Each author was introduced by MFA students and represented the school and MFA program well. And to think I say all this as a University of Arizona graduate!!! Yes, I am a Wildcat, on Sparky territory.............. shhhhhh

The evening ended with handshakes, nods of heads, wine in the blood and motivation in the bones. Gretel was gracious enough to open her Master's Class to me however I had not pre-registered. We promised to meet and chat more later.

I met wonderful people, survived an almost missed opportunity and battled the guilt for wanting to take a moment to go my selfish way. I took the train home and recalled what I learned and joyfully wrapped my arms around my family, happy to say;

"You know what, for a first date, this was WONDERFUL!!"
More tomorrow!

Disclaimer:
Please be kind on my typos, glaring errors or any obvious mistakes in this post.. It is now 12:05 pm. I am late, have my sandwich next to me, untouched and I am in a hurry!! Don't want to miss too much!!!

Counting Down to the Desert Nights Rising Stars Writer's Conference!

Well, only a couple of days to go and as you can see, I have been "playing" with my blog. I have literally been learning as I go and I do hope I have not frustrated anyone else as much as I have frustrated myself.

I have been stealing some moments away to search my "writer within" and have been so overwhelmed with school, work, home and my blog template, my creative side has been supressed. I will be taking a moment or two to just relax, open a good book (just got another yesterday....Flannery O'Connor) and breathe...

I have this fear something may happen and mommy duties will call me away from my time at the conference. Keep your fingers crossed!!!

Under Construction! Spring Cleaning for the Writer's Conference

I am still learning and am working on updating my look here. Please be patient! Getting ready for the Writer's Conference!!

Getting Ready for the Tempe Desert Nights Rising Stars Writer's Conference

In just a few days I will be attending the Desert Nights Rising Stars Writer's Conference in Tempe, Arizona. I am both excited and apprehensive. It will be quite an adventure and one I have anticipated since my early registration back in October. I have never attended a writers conference and am taking advantage of this local opportunity since I will not be in New York any time soon (the mecca for all things "writerly"). I am a novice in the writing world and will be searching out others in my position as well as those already published for guidance. Intimidating!!! Wow, but inspired and willing to learn!!

So, I am hopeful, intrigued, open and encouraged (and yes, just a little intimidated...). I will be blogging about my experience and anyone with their own personal experience at their first conference, feel free to share!

Thursday, March 3, is the registration and welcome banquet. We lead in to full days on Friday and Saturday, then a half day on Sunday.

What Writing is to Me.

What writing is to me:

Writing is = standing at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, a cool wind with a hint of warm undertones catching my face and just enough slack in my body to propel me over until I can only embrace the fall, hoping I will land with head and limbs intact. In my hunger for tapping in to what it is that makes us write; what it is that makes us struggle with this internal voice that pushes us to a fever pitch of go… go.. go… I look to other writers for clues. Although not answers, the book, The Eleventh Draft, edited by Frank Conroy, gives me a moment to converse about the art of writing with others experiencing the same conflict and passion and what it means to each of us.

I have an unlimited amount of material at my disposal including my observations of society at its bare nakedness as a police officer and a mother of a chronically ill child. I feel my way through these daily episodes and experiences with a pencil, a pen, the blank page and a keyboard. The mere act of writing, just jotting down what I ate today is cathartic. It goes without saying that by doing this in public, it lends more to the goal of being called a “writer”, it is publicly announcing to all passing by that, “this lady crouched over her journal is WRITING!” But is it being a writer?

I only recently re-discovered my love for writing. I have journaled since I was very young and keep those snipits of my life, evidence of my territorial existence, close to me. The entries from the 1970’s to present indicate a place in time that once was my entire world and now show how far I have come. We will never be in the place we are today and it is so important to use those experiences in our work. Writing is an art. Any artist, in an effort to improve and potentially have others appreciate their efforts or more importantly, relate to it, must practice. I have learned the blank page can be deafeningly silent. It can scream. It can heal and visit you in your sleep. I only desire to continue to tap into the art of writing, learn from those who have gone ahead and maybe one day, just maybe propel off that cliff into the free fall that produces a work that makes a connection with persons I have yet to meet.

That is what writing is to me. A dream worth following. Please take a moment to read George Orwell’s essay Why I Write. I would love to know what writing is to you.

This Writer's Struggle; Can I Even Call Myself a Writer

When I began exploring writing a memoir, typically in troubling fits and short lived starts, I reflected directly on authors who have inspired me and the “why” I want to write. I wanted to approach my writing in a genuine, honest and exploratory manner and at the same time I am at a loss on how to do it.

I read a lot. Much to the dismay of my friends in my writing group, I am typically reading an already published work I have stumbled across through reading of another and so on. I am left to provide the lame excuse that I have just not had the time to peruse the hundred or so pages of their hard work and that is shameful.

How does this time reading work into getting more of my non-fiction work of life as a mother and cop on paper? How do I parlay all of my street wise motherly teachings into my real world experience of having two boys, one with a chronic kidney disease? How will I work all of the parental indifference I have experienced on the streets of Phoenix and how they contradict absolutely everything I do for my children into a readable 220 pages of memoir?

That is my question. So, I hide. I escape. I read. I live through the submissions of others. I embrace their accomplishments of completed works, of getting thoughts – rambling through their heads at 140 mph - down on paper in some sensible sequence. I applaud you, Frank Conroy, Tom Grimes, Lucy Grealy, and Harry Crews. You are who I listen to; seek inspiration from as I crawl along at the off ramp on my way to work. My books, all on my shelf sitting in neatly packed rows; times new roman and paragraph, character and quote, call to me and flaunt what is possible when one finally taps into the magic of stringing words together. To make a scene a song, a sentence a memory and reach across gender, race and culture to pull the ties that bind even tighter. I continue to search for my path. Traversing the writer landscape to discover the one meant for me, to reach deep within and bring the words to the surface; much the way my children squeeze all of the good back into me at the end of a very grown up day.

So I continue to read, published works and yes, I most certainly will continue to dedicate reading time to my friends, we all deserve that. I still will find kinship and potential in holding that weathered book in my hand, a bookmark from my son holding my place in conversation and feather my fingers lightly across the yellow pages, just for support.

The Weight of a Life (final excerpt)

Thank you again to everyone who has read this short story. It is a living document and is constantly in revision. I do not believe any piece of writing is ever really finished until it is finally released from your white knuckle grasp and carted away only to be returned to you over and over in your sleep. It can always be better and as long as I am my own worst critic, I guess that is not so bad.

****************

In 2008, I made the easiest decision of my life, a contradictory decision to Margaret’s to see her children as a product of recklessness; I donated a kidney to my son. He was four years old. Although not a cure, it would lend to him valuable quality of life. I am not angry with Margaret or anyone in her position but I pity them for missing out on the soul enhancing love of being a mother. I am disappointed they allow their cycle to continue, and for not accepting help when it presents itself but instead seeking escapes. A mother like Margaret and the children she creates will never know the word “mommy”.

I knew somewhere a cop would come across a child like Margaret’s. A child with an absent mother and ask similar questions about their life since cops are routinely a bit curious about others. Like Margaret, her own mother’s parental neutrality, a result of the call to the bottle, an abusive husband or just plain too much responsibility, won her mother over and Margaret came in second in that race, maybe even third. She took to the streets to teach her everything about life, a belief that the world was contained within the four blocks surrounding her house. I knew somewhere another cop would make an effort on a slow night like tonight to learn about another child like Margaret’s, her belly swollen with an unknown future, a cycle that continues from parent to child. Somewhere in his questioning, he would ask, “Where’s your mother?” and I can, with certainty predict the answer; “Who knows”.

On the Mend... Weight of a Life (cont) and ARPKD

Went to work today only briefly. Believing I had meetings and that today was Thursday, I learned by 10:00 a.m. that I was in a fog. It must be the fact that I have not had much sleep and came down with a bit of a cold. I came home, crawled into some sweat pants and proceded to lay supine watching reruns of SNL. Never really dozed off but eventually pulled myself together, picked up the kids and got them to music class. Now catching up on homework and thought I would at least produce something today besides a lot of mucus. Thank you for reading! Here is the second to last post of Weight of a Life.... and as always, your friendship and comments are welcome. Like most bloggers, I anticipate each visit with the hopes of finding another follower.. (smile... shrug...)

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In 2001, I became a mother for the first time. We welcomed a son and I felt from the moment I reached for him I had known him all my life. I was born to have him. I envisioned the shape of his eyes, the puff of his hair, saw him in reflections and merely bided my time to take in his scent, his physical presence. I celebrated in his buttery softness, coveted the defenseless nature of him and was in awe of how his cry settled at the tone and pitch of my voice. I knew having him was testimony I had done good things.

A brief two years and four months later, we welcomed his younger brother. The size of my heart, the space of my soul grew effortlessly. We would go to any extreme to guide our lives to give them the best possible future. I knew what the opposite looked like. I knew ugliness and absence and what that does to a child, how it guides their future to unknown dead ends, misguided paths and dangerous drops leaving them to fill painful voids as an adult and in some cases, only to repeat the cycle. Much like Margaret, they are left struggling with life, searching to find beauty or hope with little promise for the future, a fact society as a whole bears little witness or connectivity to as some of the world’s inconveniences.

A life changing reality came for our youngest at the age of one month when he was diagnosed with a chronic recessive gene trait, Autosomal Recessive Polycystic Kidney Disease/Chronic Hepatic Fibrosis (ARPKD/CHF). Translation; his kidneys and liver would deny him a normal, healthy life. This angered both me and my husband in the early phases. On the day in question, I followed the pediatrician from corridor to office, carpet to tile struggling with his words, desperately hopeful he was not talking of my son. We landed down the hall, my feet suspended off the floor as I floated out of my body. Behind a closed door he explained his theory of why my son’s tummy was distended, why his belly button was not just an “outie” but the cause of some unknown growth or strange business going on within.

“I am going to send you to a specialist; a Nephrologist.”

Emergency ultrasounds would disclose massive cyst filled kidneys pushing up under his stomach and other organs. His liver was enlarged and his tiny ribcage struggled to hold it all inside.

The day we were told to go to the emergency room for dangerous low levels of sodium discovered during a prioritized blood draw, we grasped the reality square in the jaw. We announced to no particular entity but to ourselves as we paced the bathroom floor that the news was admittedly upsetting and removed us from the normalcy of parenting two boys. The predictability of skinned knees, flu like symptoms or even broken limbs, was replaced with words like portal hypertension, alkaline phosphates and organ failure. I had the sudden realization it was us who had been chosen to have these boys. I was looking at the face of parenting through ghosts of past blunders by others and I had the appreciation of our situation. I could think of no part of me that was not forever changed.

The Weight of a Life (cont) Non-Fiction 2 excerpts to go

Thank you for reading, joining and checking in. I have kept the excerpts fairly short but posting a new one every couple of days. I have 2 to go for this story and plan on posting new material very soon. Thank you for your interest!!

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After just a few moments in the lot listening to Margaret turn the pages of her life, it became clear that barring a warrant for homicide, or a threat to the president, the officers had no intention on booking her for any reason. I understood that and agreed. The time spent at County hospital to clear her for jail with the sores, scabs and cough could take hours. We all decided to let Margaret educate us on her chosen life.

In our line of work we usually witness the lack of clear forethought for the proposed possible outcomes in some of those decisions. Not yet a mother myself in 1996 but a worthy and capable street guardian of children, I was eager to hear what she knew of her own. With the education presented to me this night by Margaret and tallied with other breeders I contacted on the street, I would add to my arsenal a self education in parenting and a positive path for children I came across faced with a parent like Margaret. I would also subconsciously store away the reality that through experienced indifference and sometimes chemical demons, the ability to “mother” for some never materializes.

When I asked Margaret if she knew where her children were or if they were even in the state, she shrugged her shoulders. She bent down, adjusted the syringes at her ankle while our hands naturally maneuvered their way to our gun sides and spoke to the ground, “Who knows?”

We remained there listening to Margaret, letting her know she was free to go. Her honesty and openness remained simply just a matter of fact to the invasion into her life by our job status as municipal babysitters and her choice of profession. You make choices like Margaret; you have babies you have no business having, you let others raise them, you become a backdrop, you become something to be avoided and discarded. I was uncertain if she held any remorse to her indifference she so easily displayed as a parent. After all, she will forever be someone’s mother, just not a good one. She did not speak of her children with a longing or as if part of her was missing. It was just a fact and that element of apathy, that lack of joy or love, I just could not comprehend yet I saw how it could be. Margaret had nothing of herself left. It was quite possible there never was much of Margaret from the beginning. Whatever was left of her was picked apart each night about ten minutes at a time. The weight of her life was too much to bear. How could she direct the path of another?

The Weight of a Life (cont) Non-Fiction

First, thank you for reading and this is another excerpt from Weight of a Life. Please see previous posts for full story.

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I walked past one patrol car, readjusting the light to the ground and turned off the other so as to not backlight us too much.

“Whatchagot?” I asked as I approached Brian, one of my newer officers. As one of the probationers, Brian maintained his lean academy profile. His uniform was crisp and cut a trim silhouette in the dark. I glanced at Margaret, shoeless with sagging purple socks, the left strap of her tank top hanging off one shoulder and frayed cutoffs to mid thigh. Her exterior hinted of a woman in her late 40’s but with the influence of the streets and her visible chemical enhancement, she easily could be in her late 20’s it was just hard to tell.

“Check out her socks boss, can you believe, guys are still pickin’ her up?” Brian whispered, emphasizing “still” out of the corner of his mouth as he pointed his chin to the woman’s legs and ankles. In her socks just out of my view were three syringes. Two contained a dark liquid with the plungers pulled up, the other looked empty ready to load.

Margaret proceeded to disclose details of her life including her occupation on the streets, method of approach to the ‘johns’ and which ones she knew with her keen street certainty were safe. She recounted the last several years of her life in a spastic, fluid yet remarkably coherent manner. Her telegraphing hand gestures broadcast the problems encountered and categorized near misses. Her hands flew past her face in a feeble attempt to cloak her need to expend the stored up energy from whatever she was on. Her details were vivid, the talk rapid and only briefly interrupted by a “really?” or a “what?” by one of us. In answer to one of the “whats”, she explained her drugs of choice were primarily meth and heroin, one to get her up, one to bring her down. Clearly, she was way up and had stored a stash in her sock for the forth coming down.

She preferred to work in the cars versus the hotel room she maintained with her meager wages. The money supported her $150 a day habit and the few dollars left over went to food and hotel. She detailed her expenditures in detail, giving highlight to her method of securing partially spoiled food from behind the grocery. Segways for the account of her daily events consisted of the removal of the binding from her hair, finger combing it back, pulling the sweaty mess back up and securing it again. I was exhausted just watching her.

Of course my pattern of questioning to any woman lacking any sense to relate her risky lifestyle to a higher than average risk of pregnancy lead to:

“How many kids do you have?” She had at least four. Two others who died inside her before they were born. A work – addiction hazard as she put it. She made no effort to shadow her addiction in assumptions but instead discussed it openly, showing us the syringes, turning her instep out toward us. She described the places she had burnt out shooting up such as her arms, legs and even disclosed she tried her neck but couldn’t get the hang of it. She pointed to each marred, visible space on her skin, even revealing her stomach as either an area used or explored. As for her neck, which made us all lean forward as if witnessing a dissection she explained,

“I needed a mirror with me all the time and after trying to carry one in my back pocket, I just kept breakin’ the damn thing.”

The scars on her calves were skin grafts designed to replace the tissue lost during gangrene from a killer infection. As a result she had now taken to shooting in the area between her toes. She had Hepatitis, a raging cough, which came as a brief audible distraction to her constant gyrations and she could not rule out HIV. She did not care for shoes much since her toes had started to swell. Her purple socks bled into varying shades of light and dark as she stood on the wet asphalt.

Weight of a Life -

Weight of a Life (excerpt) please see previous posts for more.

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I tucked my patrol car, ass end first against the block wall of the grocery store at 43^rd and Thomas. I repositioned myself in the seat, shifting slightly to adjust the rise of my vest as it reared up under my neck. Hot air escaped from the layers just under my chin giving a break from the trapped heat under my uniform. My computer sprang to life, the glow filling the interior. A message from two of my guys said plainly; “Sarge, you gotta come see this”.

I headed south on 27^th and by the directions given, my officers should have been about a block south in a parking lot behind a private business that sold payday loans. I was classified as one of the “baby sergeants, the new girl” both to supervision and relatively new to police work. I had no sense of gender differences in police work per se but knew plenty of women on the department who subconsciously had the need to prove something from the start with what amounted to perceived “bitchiness”.

Working the west side of Phoenix, calls ran the gamut from gang shootings, to prostitution, neighbor disputes to drop houses. I earned opportunities in this line of work to witness even every day scenes twist dramatically into a facade of normal life. One night's work could reveal the best and the worst in society and not all would make the nightly news or a daily headline.

I parked my car behind the two patrol cars, both flanked nose to nose with spotlights illuminating the dark lot, a business that in the morning would reveal little evidence of our presence. Our work here like most nights in the dark behind buildings, went undetected with little to show the following day to those now sleeping. Settings on most nights lent little in the way of commentary from passerby and backdrops consisted of sturdy buildings, white lined parking lots and chaotic neighborhoods. The cool rain did not drop the temperature as much as it lent a heavy blanket of humidity and I tugged uncomfortably at a layer of undershirt, vest and uniform. Moistness collected hot against my waist where my belt sat as sweat tracked a path down my chest.

The patches of dark and light along the concrete and parking lot evaporated almost as you looked at it, giving off a percolating simmer. Margaret stood in the glare of the light shielding her eyes, engaged in conversation with the officers. Her hips cantered to one side, then the other. A hand went to her waist, a shift here to there. She ran her hands halphaserdly through tangled straw brown bangs. Drugs had her dance card and took her to the floor as we challenged her activities.

The Weight of a Life (cont)

Here is a second excerpt from "The Weight of a Life". Please see the post before this to catch up.

Feel free to comment or leave feedback. Please follow me! Leave your blog as well!

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Weeks later, as I reluctantly returned to work, I understood just how much my view of this role contradicted the many scenarios I witnessed each day. In my line of work, it is not difficult to find destructive cycles in parenting. I became a cop in 1991 and in the years before I would have my own children, I met people. I came into their lives unannounced, uninvited at times and through authoritative persuasion or probable cause, learned of their choices, saw the results and got to know mothers like “Margaret” and the children she would fail. This gave me rare insight into the very complicated cause and effect of mothering.

**********************

Margaret put out her cigarette and stuffed the twenty dollar bill in her bra, slack and gray beneath her red tank top. Her hand rested on a stiff vinyl tear in the passenger seat and for the first time she took in the scattered mess of the inside of the car, cans, mail, various store bags and soiled work clothes. Searching for a distraction she began picking chipped polish from her nail. The layers of the red paint fell away like the flesh on her bones each hour she spent in this life. Her sun baked skin creased and well worn, was testament to her life choices.

“I’ll see you tomorrow maybe? I’m over here most nights but only after about 10… Got too many others trying to get in on my area.” Margaret hesitated trying to seal the deal for what could be a potential repeat customer. Her words, a weak attempt to present herself as model pretty came out desperate and cheap.

“You know I’ll give you the best deal, a nice time.” She opened the passenger door. The man sat in the driver’s seat, filling up the space with his oversized body, smelling of gasoline and sweat. His large hands with thick stained fingers, worked to stuff the too small work shirt back down his pants. He sucked in, hooked his belt quickly and maneuvered the steering wheel back to position with a loud click. He glanced quickly in Margaret’s direction outside the passenger door, his eyes downcast to the floorboard then returned back to the windshield. He rumbled to life along with the engine and spoke to her for only the second time in the short few minutes during their encounter, “Yea, later,” he said, leaving Margaret to retreat her grasp from the handle just before the car lurched forward. The patchy gray Lincoln squealed a retreat, made a U-turn and headed toward the drive. The front headlights clicked on just as the back tires whipped around and headed south on the access road. Margaret clutched the left side of her chest verifying her night’s wages remained intact. The bill lay stuck against her skin, suspended as if held by magic. She gave a slight chuckle in spite of herself, peeled the bill away and pushed it further into the void against her breast.

"Weight of a Life"- A visit with ARPKD/CHF

Please take a moment to read the following post. It is a snapshot of my short story, "Weight of a Life". I have yet to really dive into my family's internal struggle with our son's disease, ARPKD/CHF. Some of you may have visited recently hoping to find more information and hopefully you have returned. It takes time of course to write of things that touch a dense, sensitive spot inside. Our son's illness; a chronic kidney disease that also effects his liver, has taken us on a journey we never imagined we would take. I wish I had only overflowing dishwashers, dead car batteries or even stitches to worry about. I worry about very 'heavy' things every day, most just don't see it. I keep my resources close by and our family is very resilient.
The pain more than anything, is the realization there are children who have no one to fight life's battles with them. The first in line for the assignment should always be the parent, so you would think. I have seen too often children treated as inconveniences and distractions in my line of work.

Be a purposeful mother.

Please leave a comment or critique. I will be posting a couple of paragraphs at a time and look forward to your input.

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It was all I could do not to break into pieces. I held my three-month-old son over the kitchen sink, his body tucked into the crook of my elbow, while his morning feed exploded from his mouth. My urge to crawl into myself, search for some divine intervention was overwhelming and I processed all number of actions only to return full circle to this little boy who needed me. Repeat offerings of his bottle only resulted in frantic suckling and a deposit back into the sink. Confirmed he was dehydrated, I relented and reached for the phone knowing we would need to go to the emergency room again.

I pinched the phone between my left ear and shoulder, waiting for the hospital answering service; the calm voice of reassurance that would direct me to the on call nephrologist. My three-year-old sat on the kitchen floor, running cars along imaginary intersections, oblivious to the scene around him. A fuse ran past him to my powder keg of emotions set off several times a day since his little brother and his broken kidneys entered the family.

My boys’ eyes told me they were born to their champion; a strong, resilient fighter, a mother not willing to give up hope because things get too difficult. My struggle was to believe it. With my return to work looming after several months off with the birth of our youngest, I dreaded the pending separation I knew so well. The moments of early years were destined to be turned over to someone else. I could barely accept how anyone would be able to care for my children much less one born to panic a person with his vomiting, fevers and swollen belly. Little did I know a story was revealing itself. Over time in my role as a police officer, I would gain a life lesson in the awesome multi-faceted role of earning the title of ‘mother’. It did not lie only in shared chromosomes, or providing the basic needs even if those needs are a work of extraordinary complication. It was a pull, an internal desire to nurture at any level and the heartbreaking fact as experienced in my work as a cop is some in life never have their champion.

"S" Words

My #1 son said after school one day:

"Mom. You would not believe what one of the kids in my class said today!" Son #1 said to me as he swung his checkered back pack over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in two lower case 'n' shapes.

"What?"

"The 'S' word..."

"Which one?"

Please note.. the 'S' words in our house are not the standard version. They include S*utup and S*upid. These are our 'S' words.

My son diliberated on how best to describe and dictate this particular 'S' word without actually saying it and his wheels began to turn in rapid succession. Thinking, imagining, gesturing..

He stated the word, "Shut" then pointed directly with one finger toward the sky.

"Ohhh." I say. "That word. Wow, who'd the kid say that to and what happened?"

He began to tell me with much detail the when and why this word was announced by his 9 year old classmate and in what context. This subject may not register as jaw dropping conversation for most parents but I can guarantee you one thing, on some of the city streets I have worked as a cop, these two words render significant impact.
Troubling as it may seem, the average person would be shocked how much this dialouge from parent to parent or parent to child alter a child's perception of the world and how they fit in it. A child who hears these two words in my line of work are usually hearing them in a descriptive fashion to supply much needed emphasis to something they are or are doing. This type of descriptive slap in the face is very hard to witness when standing in the middle of someone's living room, unannounced in most cases and carrying the confinement possibilities of criminal code in your pocket.

I do not have a problem now nor ever speaking up during public exchanges while on duty and these words are spoken quite often in my line of work. I figure the least I can do is to object in the presence of others that while I am overseeing these activities on this call, those words will not be used to describe anyone.

Even in my most frustrating moments as a police officer, including one where a person in the back of my car screamed the 'C' word in my right ear about 1,239 times while I filled out paperwork, the most heard from me was "Would you BE QUIET!!!" (very loudly, I must add). After about 2 of those attempts which were actually futile, I just laughed.

I will never call nor state the 'S' words to my children. The lack of respect, degrading connotation and disregard for a person associated with those words are just.... well... they're just....... stu.... DUMB!

Now, I will be quiet........