Writing - the ups and downs

I noticed after I put the post up of my review of The Shack I lost a few followers, well not a few, two. Once I get "friends" it makes me sad to lose them. Even if it's only two. Esp if it's my fault. I didn't mean to offend. And if I did, I apologize. The diversity of blogs and blogging is why I'm here. To learn. To offer what little bit I know about life and writing. And to make some new friends. This platform gives us not only a place to share our thoughts and feelings and writings but a place to form a circle of supporters that we would not otherwise have. I'd have never met the very funny Luvia and her wonderful baby Emma, or Deb S. and her beautiful essays so far away in Washington, or several of my friends from far away places such as Austrailia, and the Uk. Or Granny Kate who writes of things that touch my spirit and heart and soul. Perhaps I didn't lose the two people because of anything I said. It may have just been their time to

I never wanted to be like my mother. Growing up, I thought she was strict, old fashioned, regimented, too old to really know what was going on in my life and certainly too old to know what was going on in the world. The very last thing I wanted to be was --- like my mother. Today, as I started my day, I realized as I went about my routine I am exactly "like my mother." Each day, first thing I do is have a cup of coffee and then breakfast. I'm not a big breakfast person and neither was she. Next, I make my bed, straighten each room in the house, get dressed and decide what I'll do with my time that day. Since I don't work anymore I have the freedom to choose. It's a lovely freedom and one I never take for granted. My mother did those exact same things every day of her life. Now, I do them too. In order. Very structured. Very orderly. Most days, R and I have coffee and watch Good Morning America. Mother always checked out the news. I can't sit

The Shack by William P. Young has been much touted in the last few years. Some people love it. Others hate it. As it was one of the books discussed recently at our writers meeting, and the group was clearly divided in their feelings about the book, I decided to read it. I knew very little about the book when I opened it and I was hooked in the first few pages. It's about the disappearance from a camp ground of a beautiful little six year old girl named Missy. The shack comes into play early on when the little girl's bloody dress is found in the shack in the woods. Okay, we move along backward getting to know the characters in the story. Then, Mack the father gets a letter from papa, which is what they call God. He's invited back to the shack in the woods by what he assumes is God. He goes. It's winter and it's been snowing and is icy. This is where he started to lose me. The weather which he's having trouble walking in turns suddenly to spring or su

Every Wednesday at noon, Joy Ruth takes old Minnie Hendrix to McDonald's. She pushes the wheelchair up to the counter where the old woman orders a Big Mac, large fries, and a black coffee. Today, they are sitting in the newly remodeled section which has green plastic ferns hanging from the ceiling. "My tail bone is killing me," Minnie complains as she eats. She has just turned eighty and is a finicky eater. McDonald's is the only place she will finish her food. "Raise up a minute," Joy Ruth says, "I'll see if I can fix that skinny tail bone of yours." Minnie grasps the wheelchair and lifts her frail body up from the seat of the chair. The young woman reaches over and fluffs the flowered pillow underneath the old woman. Satisfied, Minnie sinks back into the pillow and straightens her red satin dress. Every week the old woman insists on wearing the red satin dress with food stains on the bodice. Joy Ruth always offers mor

Several years back we had two weddings in one year. Our oldest daughter married in June that year, our middle daughter in October. (Our middle daughter said all she wanted was a new car. Her father helped her get one. Next thing we knew, she wanted a husband as well. You cannot trust daughters.) After that busy year, I figured when the time came for our youngest daughter to get married the wedding would be a snap. Not. It seems having two weddings in one year is a walk in the park compared to marrying off the baby. It wasn't just that the price of weddings had skyrocketed. Marrying off the baby was significantly different than marrying off a regular daughter. This is the wedding of the one in whose presence the word "no" has never been uttered. Even if it was uttered it was quickly changed to "yes." She's had the best her family could give her. No. She's had better. And, as is the case with many last borns, our youngest offspring had perfected the

SOMEONE said writing a story is like giving birth to a child. Each one has its own significance, its own breath, its own place, its own pain in becoming. Beforehand you were in awe of it, a little scared of it, knowing not what to expect. It moves us forward to the next plane, the next level - giving us the knowledge and commitment that strengthens us for the task of caring for AND launching our charges. What do you think? Anything you'd like to compare writing to? Look forward to hearing from you! Blessings on this new and unfolding month.