An Actual Writing Tip

Hi D.G.,

I've really enjoyed writing my autobiography with The Remembering Site! I had wanted to write it for a long time, but the site finally gave me the tools I needed to organize everything into a coherent story. I found it extremely helpful to have the questions as a guide. They made writing a whole lot easier!

I've written other things, too, including magazine articles, poetry, and non-fiction books, but I can't seem to write short stories or novels. I'd love to, and it seriously nothers me that I haven't gotten the hang of either. Whatever I come up with is so dead--not full of life like my autobiography, with shallow plots and characters, etc. So, I'm wondering if you've written or perhaps know of a short story or novel-writing method that uses questions to guide the story. It worked well for my story, and I think it would work for other writing.

Thanks very much for any information you may have!

Sincerely,

Crystal LuAnn Howe-Kennedy


Hi, Crystal,
Thank you so much for writing me!

I have heard from fiction writers who use the questions to build their characters. Interesting characters are what keep the reader ( and the writer! ) involved. Go through the questions and answer them as if you were your character. Each character. Your ideas and connections will grow when your people and places and idiosyncracies form the character in your mind. And then they'll take it from there!

Good luck, Crystal. I hope this helps.

D.G.



Hi D.G.

Thanks very much for your help. That sounds like a good and logical way to develop characters. After all, If the writer doesn't know them well, the reader won't either. And there can't be a story if you don't know the character well enough to make their actions seem realistic.

Crystal Kennedy

Yesterday's Blog

So in today's paper? There's a story about a man who was sitting in his recliner when a dump truck ran into his house.

And I quote, from the Columbus Dispatch.
"When medics got to the scene, Mr. LeVan was still sitting in his recliner, which had been pushed all the way across the room," said Sgt. Andre Swinerton, of the Marysville post of the State Highway Patrol. "He was talking to them and everything."

Your chair; a powerful and protective place.

The Yellow Chair

Everyone ends up in a chair. Life leads you to that place to spend the day and evening; a cockpit with armreach access to phone, remote and reading materials, to clock, to address book, medications and water, to a place to throw the newspaper and the table where you like to take your meals. Your spot, where you can be found, comfortable in your chair.

There's a house across the catty-corner street from me, that has felt little life since I've been here, a year and a half. The shades are drawn all day -- they are in most houses on the street, I find -- but these closed drapes felt different than the others.

One day, in the winter, I saw an old lady bring her garbage can to the curb on waste management night. She turned around and went straight back indoors, and I never saw her since. Her drapes never moved, either. One day they did. That day a younger woman , a daughter she seemed, was taking in some air in the the frontyard. It looked like she ws there for the weekend. I saw some vans at the house a few days ago. And by trash day, I could tell what had happened. The old woman's belongings were at the curb, waiting for pick-up. There were lots and lots of garbage bags, boxes, and a yellow chair -- a faded and worn yellow chair, sitting, waiting at the curb.

This chair. This logical progression both broke my heart and gave me an image of a lifespan. A worn chair, sitting there. Although its empty, its not empty at all.

I read the news today, oh boy

So I'm reading along in the paper this morning, when I come to the vile headline : Bin Laden calls for long fight with West.
This was more like a throw down than a headline. I try to skirt the negative as much as I can, but I had to see what more Osama had to say. I read along.
And then I came to this description about ObL.

" The 49-year-old Saudi had beeen silent more than a year. " Forty-nine? Osama bin Ladin is 49? Doesn't he look older to you?

I may be the only person in the world who didn't know this, but it fulfilled my news nose for the day.

Osama was in Kindergarten when I was in Junior High. Little baby.

Slave to Spring

It is Sunday morning. It is spring. After a Midwest winter, spring is a miracle every time. My community is at its peak -- white trees and pink trees and green grass and blue skies -- all better after my cataract operation, I must say. My cataract operation was my birthday gift last year from my mother. She signed the card "Your Private Eye." When I turn 60 I'm hoping for a knee replacement. But right now, I want to get out of the house.

My dog and I are going to cross the border -- we're going to the big house neighborhood and walk the most beautiful streets . We'll enjoy some Sunday Stendhal syndrome, and won't be home sitting and writing. This has been my slave to spring defense on the matter of excuses for not writing.

The Baby Next Door

The coming of spring gives our playgrounds back. The doors and windows are open. We hear birds. We can walk outdoors.
We can see neighbors again, not just hear their cars. Yesterday, I ran into my neighbor and her lovely, round-faced baby that she gave birth to right before fall turned into winter, when we went indoors to stay.

What a treat to see a baby face. I see my grandbabe over the computer -- he makes this one look like a freshman.

Want to hold him? my neighbor said. She handed him over, and instantly, the sweet heft of baby ran through me like a plumb line, connecting me heart, soul, and person to the earth and to the heavens and to the infinite and the innate.

The seasons each offer experiences we feel deeply. Writing invites us to pay attention.

My man, Stan

Stanley Steemer the Carpet Cleaner just paid me a visit. We have white carpet ,not my pick, but here when we moved in. It has been winter, two winters, in fact , since that August day. This would be our first carpet cleaning. Bad housewife. Obvious "traffic patterns" were a problem, and of course, my companion's pee stains on the floor. My companion is a dog. Settle down.

I was not looking forward to the prospect, envisioning crinkly brown paper trails and clouds of noxious fumes and wet socks and everything on top of everything, and it was not like that at all. They were here, they were done, they couldn't quite get that "traffic pattern" going into the kitchen, and then the main guy Ryan asked me if I was an artist, and where I went to school. My posture got better. He is a fine arts major where I went to night school -- a painter -- taking some time off to gather some money and Stanley Steem. To be called an artist has always been knighthood to me, so the total Stanley experience turned into a great big plus on my Monday.

Hope it was a hoppin' holiday, and here, we are back.

P.S. My Driver's License picture looks like Keith Richards, who always was my favorite Beatle.......

Easter and the Neurotic Child

When I was four or five, I believed that the song HERE COMES PETER COTTONTAIL ( Hoppin' Down The Bunny trail) was MY song. Not as in my favorite song. It was more of an ownership thing. Maybe my brothers could listen to it on our 78 with the purple label , but only I could sing it. Me and Fran Allison, of course, who sang it on the record. The B side was something about a stairway.

I would sing it and I would sing it; I see myself at the back of our driveway singing it, and then hearing a agonizing echo coming from the backyard. My brother was ambling around to the back door singing -- maybe even humming -- my possession, Bunny Trail. I burst into tears. Became inconsolable. Wanted my Mom and my Dad to punish him. Over the years, I didn't get better. I accused my former husband of thinking he owned the Beatles.

Today I make amends to the Universe and ask that you might raise your voices with me:

On the count of three now...

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity, hoppity,
Easter's on its way.

Bringin' every girl and boy Baskets full of Easter joy,
Things to make your Easter bright and gay.
He's got jelly beans for Tommy,
Colored eggs for sister Sue,
There's an orchid for your Mommy
And an Easter bonnet, too.

Oh! here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Look at him stop,
and listen to him say:
"Try to do the things you should."
Maybe if you're extra good,
He'll roll lots of Easter eggs your way.

You'll wake up on Easter morning
And you'll know that he was there
When you find those choc'late bunnies
That he's hiding ev'rywhere.

Oh! here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hoppin' down the bunny trail,
Hippity hoppity,
Happy Easter day.

I.D. G.

Some time in the next few weeks I have to renew my Driver's License, and I am in a slight state of trepidation. Once I had a good Driver's License photo -- I made business cards out of it, in those lazy, hazy days before identity theft and homeland security. That was the only good photo, though. The rest have been like something out of the frog family. My other Driver's License challenge comes in the form of the little larcenist within when asked to report my weight. My fear is that they'll put a scale in the BMV, and out our extra pounds, like miles over the speed limit.. I have had troubles in the past when it comes to the hair color question; mine changes with the wind. For awhile I had three at once. I am now fairly uniformly dark, with some bright red involved. Do you think I could say "Red Winged Blackbird" when they ask me that one? The big thing is I know that should anything untoward happen to me, this Driver's License photo would be what you see on the local news report about my unfortunate parting. I should put www.therememberingsite.org as my address. That way, my I.D. would tell who I am, instead of trying to explain in an ill-lighted photo of a frog-like being, not as weightless as she'd like to be.

www.marciasmilack.com

This is from my best friend's blog. I play a starring role as "Debby." I have often told Marcia that she should write my bio on The Remembering Site, because she remembers more about me than I do. Have a long phone call with some of your friends. They have your memories, too.

Musing on My Memory

April 04, 2006


When I was growing up, my nickname was “The Memory Bank” because I remember not only everything that has happened in my own life but also everything that has happened in the lives of my friends -- even if I was not present but only heard about it. Debby, my best friend from childhood, will call to ask me for a specific detail of an event from her life that happened 40 years ago. She knows that if she told me about it at the time, I will be able to repeat it to her exactly as she said it then. Why can I do this and what does it mean? It’s hard to explain how normal this feels to me. I have never thought of this ability as a sign of intelligence since no effort goes into remembering whatsoever. It is just there, as if my brain is a tar pit that preserves whatever falls into it. Once I know it, I cannot not know it: if I own the memory once, I own it for all time. I sometimes think the birth of the self begins with the first memory since it is the first possession.

Encouragement : The Necessary Ingredient

Arturo,

Thank you so much for your message. You really gave me something, something all writers need: encouragement. I, too, want to write wonderful things . One of my biggest problems is sitting down to do it. Your kind words add to my get-go.
Remember you can always go back into your story to add things or change things.
Big secret: Your story is never "done."

In appreciation,

D.G.

Grandma Ethel

My Mom and I are going to visit Grandma Ethel today. It would have been her birthday, so we'll go to the cemetery and visit her vault, or what we like to call, safety deposit boxes. You're not allowed to take real flowers , who knows why. I had wanted to take her a daffodil -- they are up and blooming under blue -- hooray -- still too chilly skies. I'll wear a piece of her jewelry instead. Maybe the coral beads. Grandma Ethel was my Dad's mother, so we are doing this for him, too. We'll take another outing day to visit him in his grave on the other side of town, when the weather is nicer.

We'll be there soon enough, I tell my Mom.
Literally or physically?, she says. Ha ha.

I sometimes see Grandma Ethel in the mirror.
Grandma, on your birthday,no offense and I love you, but this scares me badly.

Songs in the head

I woke up kind of disgruntled this morning, and felt like maybe this was just going to be a disgruntled day. Then, while standing in the kitchen, taking my midlife fist full of vitamins, plus a swig of apple cider vinegar ( Viactiv is my dessert at night), I inexplicitly found myself singing -- from some recess in my mind -- "Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham" -- and I sang it operatically and gospel-like and even did a little shuffle dance in my Uggs. And then, about 10 minutes later, "Feelin' Groovy" lyrics started, ending in "Life I love you, all is groooooovy." I thought about that unburdened optimism, and thanked my storehouse of memories (and the Universe) for the message. Am I the grooviest blogger you know, or what? Peace out.

Shannon begins

Hi D.G

i have written to you before about writing by grandpa's biography due to his dementia.

i am slowly getting through his diaries and i'm planning to start writing soon but how to i begin?

do i write in 3rd person?

how should i write it - personal (from my point of view), like i don't really know him all that well or like a fictional story... i'm not really sure, and inspiration or tips that you could give my that could make this even the little bit more easy, i would be very greatful.

Thanks Shannon


Hi Shannon-- so good to hear from you. I'm excited that you are about to begin. I have a few suggestions on how to write about your Grandpa:

Think of him as someone you have never met before. As you write about the things you learned from the diaries, his character will become clear to you, and you'll be able to see the whole person, not just the Grandpa you know.

It's always a good idea to go through your notes and pick out the chunks of his life that you'd like to write about. You can start with a list and stick to it or not. You will think of more stories and memories that don't exactly follow your outline. This is perfect because it adds more to the picture you are painting of your Grandpa.

For a fun, quick exercise, you might pretend you are your Grandpa writing his own story down. Use "I" instead of "he." You'll gain a whole new perspective.

Do write about yourself, writing your Grandpa's stories, Shannon, Introduce yourself and talk about why you are doing this wonderful, giving project.

I hope I have been of help and can help you in the future. I am proud to be your partner as you write along.

D.G.