For this author, creative endeavors have been sorely tested by motherhood. But also transformed, and in ways she wouldn’t have imagined – couldn’t have, without her life “rewritten” as it has been, by her children. So linger here, to read all things weaverly, writerly and motherly.

like

Tweet button

Follow me on Twitter!

Saturday, June 30, 2012

New writing workshop is up!

Latest workshop is up with new prompt. But remember ,you can link up what you like,cas long as it's fiction!

A writer weaves a tale

( please follow me at my new site once you get there....)

Monday, June 25, 2012

Tale Tues: Sultry Siri

Read all about her over at my new Wordpress site,

a writerweavesatale.com. And follow me there!

Friday, June 15, 2012

Sandra's Writing Workshop Hop!

My Workshop prompt is up so follow this link to my 
new Wordpress site!

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Migrating!

Well, I'm migrating to Wordpress. I'm not good with change, like the same old blankets on my bed, but change also keeps me young:)

Though I'm already feeling a little nostalgic for this old place, especially my GFC friends, so you guys have to find me over at my new "house."  Find a way to follow me there and stop in for cyber coffee. 
You know how I like it, strong, but with lots of milk. 
I do love you all! I'm never too far away, and do check back here to dust a bit....


Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Featured!

I'm a featured This week on Studio30plus.

Great interactive site for writers!

P.S. I'm migrating over to wordpress so start following me, please, over there!

http://www.awriterweavesatale.com/

Monday, June 11, 2012

Tale Tuesday: I Wait Too Long

"I was thinking about you the other day."

I was touched, even if it was just my hairstylist. She'd been "thinking" I was overdue for a touch up.

Angelina combed her hands through my nest. I watched her in the mirror and was reminded of our gerbils, the way they groom each other, though be it with their nubby little teeth.

She pressed down my hair so I could see the two inches of gray bordering my part. "You really shouldn't wait this long."

I do. I wait too long. Until the gray is this, a bar down the middle of my scalp. Trying to maintain a deceptively youthful appearance costs bucks, and I don't care for sitting too long in front of a too-brightly lit mirror.

I do like that I'm often the youngest lady at the salon – a mere 49-year-old child! At least in comparison to the snow-white grandmothers shuffling in on walkers, wearing out-dated daisy-print blouses, polyester blue pants, and maybe an old rhinestone dragonfly brooch. These ladies are the salon's most frequent patrons, escorted weekly by devoted daughters (distracted by the texting of their own most likely newly minted adult daughters) to have their thinning hair washed and set in pink rollers.

Being such regulars, one anecdote can be continued from week to week, and these anecdotes usually are precipitated by hair washing; something about craning your head back into a sink inspires the confessional. As about the negligent grandson who left his attaché case on the train given him after he graduated law school by Grandma; he forgot it "so he "claimed," because "the wife" was calling about the broken laundry machine and he was so distracted, he left it on his seat; but Grandma gave into his other "claim" that he really did love the attaché case; so Grandma made her daughter drive her to the mall to find the exact same case but for fifty bucks less than at Christmas and isn't it wonderful that "with just a few dollars you can make a problem go away."

When the washing and rolling is done, so is the chatting, and these ladies are comfortably settled under dryers, to flip through home-decorating magazines, to doze off, or, in one case, to pass away:

"I did, I thought she'd just nodded off," Angelina was telling me on one visit. "But when I went to check her hair, she was dead."

Last time I'd sat under one of those dome dryers was when I could still squeak by with mere highlights to disguise the gray. But I remember that, enjoying the heat and hum, and thinking this is what it was like to be inside a fishbowl.

Rubber-gloved, smearing poo-colored goo into my hair, Angelina had gone on to tell me how they'd called an ambulance and the deceased lady was "wheeled out." Then evidently, she'd moved on to her next customer.

I looked at her in her gilded gold-leaf mirror. Fake ivy trailered dustily down the frame. "You....didn't close or anything?"

She actually chuckled, more of a phlegmy cough from 30 odd years of smoking. "Hon, what was I supposed to do, reschedule everyone for the next day when I was already booked?"

She set the timer and walked away.

I had only myself to look at in the gilded mirror, my head a matted gooey mess.

After what seemed hours of my trying to focus on my Kindle without overhearing more sink confessionals, the timer finally went off.

Then it was my turn to crane my head back into the sink for my own little therapeutic session.

Deb, the hair washer, started hosing the goo out of my hair, asking, "So how ya been?"

Well, I thought about this. I could spew the saga about my mother driving into the wall of a carpet store, then taking a mandatory road test only to fail and lose her license. Or I could tell her about how my eight year old worried he looked like a girl. That my basement flooded because a sock got stuck in the drainage hose. That recently I discovered my first wrinkle that is no frown or laugh line, which, from the hair washer's vantage point, she could probably see for herself, as well as probable nose hairs.

I couldn't pick or choose one thing so I just closed my eyes and said, "Oh, great. I've been great."

And I will persevere with the blond until I succumb to a turkey neck. Honestly, a small (minute) fraction of my 49-year-old youthfulness looks forward to that surrendering to the snow-white. And if I cannot spend my last moments breathing in salty air at the edge of the sea, I would opt for that, dying in my sleep under a hair dryer.











 



P.S. I'm migrating over to wordpress so start following me, please, over there!

http://www.awriterweavesatale.com/

Friday, June 8, 2012

Workshop Guest Post: Julie Jordan Scott from Julie Unplugged

This week, my Writing Workshop Hop prompt was to write in the "close" first person point of view. All the points of view are worthy reads – You'll find some rich writing linked up here!

Not all are the "close" first person, which doesn't matter a hoot. The key is to keep your voice consistent, whatever point of view you choose. Julie does happen to nail the "close" part; she succeeds in establishing a colloquial – the spoken – voice. The reader can hear this narrator speaking, her actual tone. At the same time, Julie doesn't neglect those descriptive details that make this moment visual and immediate for the reader:

I don’t know how I get myself into these crazy schemes with Lisa and her life coach friend, Candy. The last thing I want to do is invest an afternoon hearing little miss chirpy talk about how to create a wonderful life when I should be working on my novel .

Yes, the hair on my arms is standing up at the thought of listening to Candy’s drivel and the need to smile into the hopeful eyes of Lisa, who is chronically concerned with my lack of motivation.

It’s easy for Lisa to say. She has been in love with Frank since she was twenty years old. I introduced them, for God’s sake. She doesn’t know what it feels like to wake up in an unhappy marriage for the last ten years because you just don’t know how to escape it.

No one writes novels about this: they’re too busy writing stuff about sexcapades of an early twenties woman discovering her kinky side with her jet-setter “how did he get so rich by his mid twenties anyway?” boyfriend.

Worst yet, Candy probably imagines herself as one of those women.

I see Candy standing at the big picture window, waving at me from half a level above me. Her orange and pink jacket scream, “I am the center of attention or I am nothing!” Her enormous pendant atop her petal pink blouse wreak confusion: power woman meet woman ready to conceive, or something like that.

Now that I’ve been spotted, there is no way I can go home. I smile and return the wave as I see Lisa join the scene at the window.

She looks exactly the same as the day I introduced her to Frank. You can’t see a single wrinkle nor any excess baggage from her three babies.

On the other hand I carry at least an extra forty pounds from my years with Mitch. Perhaps it is a pound for every month since the two of us have had a significant conversation.

I was still considering making an excuse when I heard the door open and Lisa’s voice call out to me. “Laura! I am so glad you are here!”

There is no escaping now. Damn.

Nice work, Julie! Stay tuned for my next prompt, I'm hoping by Sunday! Wish I could get my %$@# button to work!







 

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

The Plea

Trifecta weekly word challenge: "new":

This was new to her. This affinity she had with amphibians. Rather, water frogs. Her son's African Dwarf, actually. He'd won the dull little brown frog in the classroom lottery, bringing him home in a tupperware container.


She'd poured him into the old beta fish bowl. Then boiled a few rocks from the garden and plunked them in – She wasn't going to invest again in pretty colored gravel and plastic trees; she knew how this would go, the same way the beta fish had gone – the frog would be ignored except when she was the one to remember to feed it.


Though as ignored as Blooney the blue beta fish had been, he'd been far more responsive; when she came into the kitchen, he was always there at the glass, fins waggling, as eager as a puppy.


The frog was not eager. Just earnest.


When the frog was small, it hid beneath the rocks. But then it grew. Big enough to knock the rocks around. There were mornings, after the kids were off to school, when she'd sit at her computer to check email and the house was so quiet, she could actually hear that, the rocks gently knocking against the glass of the bowl.


One morning, she got up to go over and look at him. His webbed feet had grown so big and awkward, she was reminded of her son as a toddler shuffling around in his daddy's too-big slippers.


The frog stared out at her. Or past her.


She dropped in a food pellet. He remained motionless except for his eyes – he looked up at the surface. His webbed "hands" were splayed as if in supplication. Until the pellet dropped. He sprang. Gulped. Then returned to his stance of supplication.


A stance she recognized. They were one and the same. Both trapped in their own bowls, where their pleas for help raised up could not be heard above the watery surface.


 

 

Last Call!

This is the last day to link up with Sandra's first prompt for

her writing workshop hop.

Thank you to all who have linked up and be sure to read each other's "manuscripts"; make thoughtful but kind comments. All writers need critiques as well as encouragement. In my teaching experience, some of my most successful students have been those whose work needed the most revision. They revised and revised until they got it right. So that's the purpose of this hop, to help fellow writers become their own best editors.

Link Up! Sandra's Writing Workshop Hop

 

Monday, June 4, 2012

Tale Tuesday: Oh, Shut up

Oh, shut up.

That nasty little phrase can be on the tip of my tongue all day. Like a Tic Tac, a nasty milk-sour one, that just won't dissolve.


I long to blurt it at everybody. Even the dumb squirrel pausing in the middle of the road, paws in air as if to make some terribly poignant point, so I must swerve to avoid smearing its bushy grey existence across the pavement.

The too-eager restaurant water kids who can interrupt my own poignant point to ask if they can top off my water glass: Oh, shut up.


Even my husband. Who likes to point out that we're out of bananas. Bananas are a sensitive issue. His morning granola otherwise seems inedible.


Then there is my mother: "You'd have more money if you didn't waste it on things like aluminum foil."


And my kids. Sometimes I have good reason to yell at them to shut up, when I actually restrain myself.


But on one particular evening, I had no good reason to tell either one to shut up. Still, I longed to, as when my youngest came up behind me with one of his many daily mom requests:


"Mom? Can I have a bowl of water for my grasshopper?"


"In just a minute."


"He may die of thirst."


It's there. On the tip of my tongue. That milk-sour taste. "I'm making dinner," I said.


Then the phone rang. I was hoping it was a telemarketer because it's ok to tell them to shut up, and when it's a computerized friendly recording I do tell "it" to shut up.


It was actually a friend calling. Who also happens to be the mother of my son's best friend.


She and her son felt like taking a bike ride over for a visit.


Now? Six o'clock? I felt my neck tensing. My face was leaning into a steaming pot of boiling water and I couldn't remember why I was boiling it. "Well, maybe not today," I said pleasantly, even though it was actually evening.... "I'm actually making dinner."


"Oh, well, Don's cooking tonight and he's not home until late."


Oh, how, nice. A husband who not only cooks, but would cook coming home from work late. While Mommy gets to think about dropping by for a visit at other people's houses while they're slaving away at their own mundane meals. Maybe burning the rice as I was then, filling a bowl of water for Mr. Grasshopper and trying to remember why I was boiling water in the first place. Had I been thinking first pasta instead of rice?


So now I wanted to tell her to shut up.


I didn't, of course. As I didn't with my husband, mother or children. In fact, I mustered a tone so even keeled, it made my teeth ache.


Since she was a friend, I decided to tell her the truth. That this wouldn't be a good time to drop in for a visit because I felt like telling everyone to shut up.


She laughed and said, "I just love how you're able to take care of yourself."


Hmm. I had to think about this. And about this friend who was actually the mom of four boys, three in junior high and then the first grader– a crowd compared to my two. Who, every time I've visited her house, has emanated an aura of calm in the midst of chaos; stacks of laundry folded on the couch yet to be put away; a fish tank green with suffocating fish; a dining room table of encrusted breakfast plates and broken Lego creations.


Yet, she could meander through the chaos as if strolling along a peaceful wooded path. And I'd always envied this calm, as a glass of juice spilled on a bad day can send me into a tailspin.


But maybe she's not so calm. Maybe the "calm" was a veneer to cover up the fact that she might actually stifle that: her own deep desire to tell everyone to just shut the hell up.

After hanging up, the sour Tic Tac seemed to finally be dissolving. At least for this day. And I called for Kenny to tell him he could have his bowl of water now -- a cereal-bowl-size full. What was I thinking, it's for a dog?


Wait. What! for a grasshopper? In the house?

Link up with my Writing Workshop hop!



 

This post is featured this week on BlogHer.com



Featured on BlogHer.com

Friday, June 1, 2012

The Comet Homework




Trifecta weekend challenge:

It wasn't the first time he'd forget his homework. He'd had to write about a comet: "A frozen mixture of ice, dust and rock." But so what. It's really just a giant dirty snowball. In space, that's all.

Come link up in Sandra's writing workshop



Writing Workshop Prompt: "Close" first person point of view

Trying out my own writing prompt for my Writing Workshop Hop: experimenting with the close first person point of view. I'm far more comfortable writing in the more formal first person, so this is a challenge for me as well. What do you think? Can you guess the character's age?

Joey says I'm a liar. He says I'm lying about moon trees – I swear it, we have them. You know, how trees can look when the moon is a big? Like sticks. The trees, I mean. I don't think all trees look like black sticks, just some. The ones with not so many leaves. Those are the moon trees. My Gramma even told me they're real; that some astronaut took seeds into space then brought them back to plant on Earth.

Popular Posts

Lightning Bug

onestop blog

http://i1139.photobucket.com/albums/n558/WordNerdSpeaks/OSBW7.jpg