For the past few days (except the weekend) I've been at the computer in "writer's mode" every morning. The goal is to be started by nine o'clock or soon thereafter, and write for 20 minutes, break for ten, write 20, break 10, etc., until noon. So far, this has produced two short stories. (I still can't get my head into the novel I'm supposed to be writing.)
The goal this time was to have a middle grade mystery story (900 words) submitted to the contest at Children's Writer by the April 30th deadline.
The first story I wrote was okay, but I realized when it was done that it was not a mystery. It was an adventure. Okay--the next day, I used the same characters and wrote a mystery called "The Case of the Missing Baby-Sitter". I polished it a few times, and this morning I submitted it online to the contest. Fingers crossed!
Writing again, through the mushy brain. I find the write 20/break 10 routine works for me.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Easter season
Easter promises of warmth and flowers are slow to appear this year. A day of sun here, followed by a day or two (or more) of rain and chilly breezes. A real downpour yesterday.
I had hoped that by starting my blog again, I might be prompted to do more writing. The blog got stalled by its heavy message, but I have been trying to write.
I can't get my head into my novel yet, so I've been trying to write a short middle-grade mystery for the Children's Writer competition. I need to submit a 900 word story by April 30th. I've been toying with an idea for the story for a couple of weeks, and this morning I actually wrote the story. Well, A story. It needs lots of work before it can be submitted. But I remembered that when I wrote my nanowrimo story, I followed a pattern someone suggested, and it worked today as it did then. It's simple: write 20 minutes, take a 10 minute break, write 20 minutes again, take another 10 minute break, and so on until you've written the number of words or the length of time you planned. I planned to write from 9am until noon, but got interrupted about 11am. That's okay, because my 900-word story was already at 920 words, and I was busy trimming it down. Now, whether the story line stays the same throughout other rewrites (assuming I follow the same regime tomorrow), that's the big question.
At least I'm writing again. Ken prefers that I don't fuss over him, so this keeps me out of his hair, and within calling distance.
I had hoped that by starting my blog again, I might be prompted to do more writing. The blog got stalled by its heavy message, but I have been trying to write.
I can't get my head into my novel yet, so I've been trying to write a short middle-grade mystery for the Children's Writer competition. I need to submit a 900 word story by April 30th. I've been toying with an idea for the story for a couple of weeks, and this morning I actually wrote the story. Well, A story. It needs lots of work before it can be submitted. But I remembered that when I wrote my nanowrimo story, I followed a pattern someone suggested, and it worked today as it did then. It's simple: write 20 minutes, take a 10 minute break, write 20 minutes again, take another 10 minute break, and so on until you've written the number of words or the length of time you planned. I planned to write from 9am until noon, but got interrupted about 11am. That's okay, because my 900-word story was already at 920 words, and I was busy trimming it down. Now, whether the story line stays the same throughout other rewrites (assuming I follow the same regime tomorrow), that's the big question.
At least I'm writing again. Ken prefers that I don't fuss over him, so this keeps me out of his hair, and within calling distance.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Lent
Lent is in full swing. Usually I like to work on the psalms in Lent, also my pet Sunday project. This year things are different. This year, my brain is mush.
This is the second time that this has happened.
The first time was May 2005, when my 22-year-old grandson Derek drowned on his sister's 19th birthday. Stricken with grief, I could not think. I certainly could not write. The young man's death was bad enough, but what made it even more tragic was that his father, my eldest son Frank, was nearing the end of his ten-year battle with esthesioneuroblastoma, a rare cancer that took his life in November of the same year. That was six years ago.
This is not the sort of thing that one gets over. You simply get through it. Life somehow carries on.
Now, my brain is mush once more. The nightmare is recurring, believe it or not. Now my second son, Ken, is afflicted with advanced lung cancer which has spread to his lungs and kidneys. This is a different person, and a different cancer, but my brain is the same mush.
Perhaps returning to blogging with help me move through the mush. Without my faith in God, I really don't know what on earth I would do. Please pray!
This is the second time that this has happened.
The first time was May 2005, when my 22-year-old grandson Derek drowned on his sister's 19th birthday. Stricken with grief, I could not think. I certainly could not write. The young man's death was bad enough, but what made it even more tragic was that his father, my eldest son Frank, was nearing the end of his ten-year battle with esthesioneuroblastoma, a rare cancer that took his life in November of the same year. That was six years ago.
This is not the sort of thing that one gets over. You simply get through it. Life somehow carries on.
Now, my brain is mush once more. The nightmare is recurring, believe it or not. Now my second son, Ken, is afflicted with advanced lung cancer which has spread to his lungs and kidneys. This is a different person, and a different cancer, but my brain is the same mush.
Perhaps returning to blogging with help me move through the mush. Without my faith in God, I really don't know what on earth I would do. Please pray!
Monday, January 2, 2012
Christmas past--age 13
We moved from Battersea to a flat above a shop in Brixton. Now my dad was living with us. It was great for me, but it was obvious that my parents did not get along. Christmas came, and Dad brought home a big tree--not as tall as the ones in Winnipeg or Vancouver, but tall enough that I could not reach the top. Mum and I were out one day and came home to find my dad drunk. I think it was the second time in my life I had seen him in that condition. He was a funny drunk, full of jokes and tricks. He had not only bought and decorated the tree, he had also bought presents, wrapped them, put them under the tree, and blown up enough balloons to fill the whole floor of our sitting room. Christmas Day, we had a big dinner, now that we had three ration books to buy a reasonable amount of meat, etc. It wasn't turkey, but whatever it was, it was well appreciated.
Around that time, my mother received a letter from her mother who was still in Vancouver. Granny had sold her Vancouver house and bought a small farm an hour's drive from the city. She had written a will, that gave one acre of land to each of my mother's siblings, but instead of land Mum was being given a trip back to Canada. I was ecstatic! I hated England with such a passion--I had always told my classmates that if I could arrange it I would be on the very next boat out of there. Here was my chance. Mum began to look into what needed to be done for this trip home. We'd need vaccinations. We'd need to find out what transportation we'd be taking. Granny had somehow arranged with Cunard for us to simply go into the London office and book passage on a ship. She had also arranged with the Canadian National Railway and the Canadian Pacific Railway for our trans-Canada journey--with another stop-over in Winnipeg.
At the Cunard office, my mother was driving me crazy and throroughly annoying the desk clerk. She hummed and hawed about this and that until I finally got up from my chair against the wall and went to the counter to see what was going on. I listened for a moment, and then I said to the clerk, "When's the next boat out of here?" He said, "Saturday." I said, "We'll take it." My mother started to protest--we could go to Scotland, we could go to Paris.... I said, "We've been here three years. There was lots of opportunity to do that and we didn't. Let's just go home." The clerk was so glad at the prospect of being rid of my mother, that he had everything all set up and ready to sign in no time at all.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to me that my dad would not be coming with us. Granny had not provided for him.
The Christmas tree was still up in our little flat, when my dad took our bags down to the taxi and accompanied us to the train station. That was the last time I ever saw my father.
Around that time, my mother received a letter from her mother who was still in Vancouver. Granny had sold her Vancouver house and bought a small farm an hour's drive from the city. She had written a will, that gave one acre of land to each of my mother's siblings, but instead of land Mum was being given a trip back to Canada. I was ecstatic! I hated England with such a passion--I had always told my classmates that if I could arrange it I would be on the very next boat out of there. Here was my chance. Mum began to look into what needed to be done for this trip home. We'd need vaccinations. We'd need to find out what transportation we'd be taking. Granny had somehow arranged with Cunard for us to simply go into the London office and book passage on a ship. She had also arranged with the Canadian National Railway and the Canadian Pacific Railway for our trans-Canada journey--with another stop-over in Winnipeg.
At the Cunard office, my mother was driving me crazy and throroughly annoying the desk clerk. She hummed and hawed about this and that until I finally got up from my chair against the wall and went to the counter to see what was going on. I listened for a moment, and then I said to the clerk, "When's the next boat out of here?" He said, "Saturday." I said, "We'll take it." My mother started to protest--we could go to Scotland, we could go to Paris.... I said, "We've been here three years. There was lots of opportunity to do that and we didn't. Let's just go home." The clerk was so glad at the prospect of being rid of my mother, that he had everything all set up and ready to sign in no time at all.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to me that my dad would not be coming with us. Granny had not provided for him.
The Christmas tree was still up in our little flat, when my dad took our bags down to the taxi and accompanied us to the train station. That was the last time I ever saw my father.
Christmas Past--age 12
While still in the house where we had the 18" tree with the green paper angel, I had a wonderful surprise one evening when I was, as usual, alone. The doorbell rang, and to my amazement, there stood my dad!!
He had lost track of us with all our moves, and had asked the Salvation Army and the Red Cross to track us down. Then, he just took the train across Canada and a ship across the Atlantic and a train to London and a taxi to our house. Unfortunately, we had only one bedroom with only one double bed, no sofa and no big chair and no sleeping bags. So I don't know who slept where that night, but my dad did not stay with us. However, he was back in my life and that was all that mattered to me. It wasn't Christmas then, but he was my best gift ever.
He moved in with one of his brothers in Birmingham, and often came to London to see us. Meanwhile, Mum and I moved yet again--this time to two bedrooms above a grocery shop where we shared the back-room/kitchen with the grocer--still in the borough of Battersea. There was a sort of chaise longue in the kitchen, and when my dad came to London, that's where he slept.
Christmas arrived. There was no place in the shared kitchen or either of the bedrooms for a tree, so that was once again dispensed with. However, my uncle invited us to his place (where we had stayed on our arrival in England) to have Christmas dinner. I don't remember if it was Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but we had a good time and stayed far too late. When my uncle realized the problems we were going to have, he shooed us out in time to catch the last bus to The Angel Islington, where we would catch another bus to Battersea. Unfortunately, when we got there, the queue was very long and we could not be squeezed onto the last bus going anywhere from that location. We walked around, looking for a taxi or a bus or anything that would get us home. No luck. Even the tube stations were barred shut. We ended up at a train station. It might have been Victoria, but I don't know. My dad saw to it that Mum and I could find a place to sit in the Ladies' Lavatory--there were benches in there, in a room adjacent to the row of toilets. Mum lay down on a bench and slept. I did a jigsaw puzzle on another bench to pass the time. Early in the morning my dad pounded on the door for us to come. There was a train due that would take us to Clapham Junction and we could walk home from there (maybe a mile or two). I remember that walk: passing the horse-drawn milk delivery carts on their rounds. That was my second Merry Christmas in Merry England.
He had lost track of us with all our moves, and had asked the Salvation Army and the Red Cross to track us down. Then, he just took the train across Canada and a ship across the Atlantic and a train to London and a taxi to our house. Unfortunately, we had only one bedroom with only one double bed, no sofa and no big chair and no sleeping bags. So I don't know who slept where that night, but my dad did not stay with us. However, he was back in my life and that was all that mattered to me. It wasn't Christmas then, but he was my best gift ever.
He moved in with one of his brothers in Birmingham, and often came to London to see us. Meanwhile, Mum and I moved yet again--this time to two bedrooms above a grocery shop where we shared the back-room/kitchen with the grocer--still in the borough of Battersea. There was a sort of chaise longue in the kitchen, and when my dad came to London, that's where he slept.
Christmas arrived. There was no place in the shared kitchen or either of the bedrooms for a tree, so that was once again dispensed with. However, my uncle invited us to his place (where we had stayed on our arrival in England) to have Christmas dinner. I don't remember if it was Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but we had a good time and stayed far too late. When my uncle realized the problems we were going to have, he shooed us out in time to catch the last bus to The Angel Islington, where we would catch another bus to Battersea. Unfortunately, when we got there, the queue was very long and we could not be squeezed onto the last bus going anywhere from that location. We walked around, looking for a taxi or a bus or anything that would get us home. No luck. Even the tube stations were barred shut. We ended up at a train station. It might have been Victoria, but I don't know. My dad saw to it that Mum and I could find a place to sit in the Ladies' Lavatory--there were benches in there, in a room adjacent to the row of toilets. Mum lay down on a bench and slept. I did a jigsaw puzzle on another bench to pass the time. Early in the morning my dad pounded on the door for us to come. There was a train due that would take us to Clapham Junction and we could walk home from there (maybe a mile or two). I remember that walk: passing the horse-drawn milk delivery carts on their rounds. That was my second Merry Christmas in Merry England.
Christmas past--age 11
Our time in England was not good. We stayed with my uncle and his family for about a month, then moved to a dingy attic room for a while--then--well, it's easier to remember the places by the schools I attended: Sigdon Road while I was at my uncle's; Drayton Park School when we moved out of the attic into another one-room place; then in with some of my mother's friends when I attended Bounds Green School, and finally we moved to a house in Battersea where I attended a school called Surrey Lane, but later changed its name to William Blake. In all that time, we had one Christmas--that was in Battersea. My mother was not around very much--having found that pubs were more entertaining than our less than elegant homes. So, on Christmas Eve, our first in England, I found myself alone and thinking that this was not what I had heard about Merry Christmas in Merry England. I had sixpence in my pocket which was supposed to be for my lunch the next day. But, ever the optimist, I set out for the shops in the high street where I was able to buy a Christmas tree, about 18 inches tall. It cost a penny ha'penny. Then, I looked around and found a shop that sold some decorations, but all I could afford was a thrupenny paper angel. They came in green or red. I made a mistake and bought a green one. When I got them home, I realized that the green angel on the green tree didn't look very festive. My aunt in Winnipeg had sent us a food parcel (because food was still rationed in England), and I found that she had included some candies with foil wrappers. So I unwrapped all the candies and made decorations out of the foil, and trimmed the tree. No lights, of course. Even if I'd had them, we had no electricity in that house--only gaslight or candles. It didn't occur to me to try to put candles on the tree, and that was undoubtedly a very good thing.
Christmas past--age 10
One day I told my parents that I had seen some pictures of England and that I'd like to go there some day. I was sure they'd say, "That's nice, Dear. Save your pennies and some day you can go." But no. Instead, I came home from school one day only to find the house was for sale and my dad had found a small suite for himself. My mother bought a set of luggage and we had tickets to sail on the Queen Mary. My dad was enthusiastic, because I'd get to meet his mother and some members of his family. He, however, was not coming with us.
Mum and I crossed Canada by train, leaving Vancouver on November 14th, stopping for a few weeks in Winnipeg to visit my aunt, then we carried on to New York. It was Christmas Eve when we set sail. There was a big tree on the main deck, and all the children were invited to go (with parents) to the First Class Ball Room where the captain was playing Santa Claus and we all got armloads of excellent presents. It was a great beginning for a fantastic adventure. Too bad I was seasick for the rest of the five-day crossing of the North Atlantic.
When we arrived at my uncle's house in London on December 30th, Christmas was a memory, and my English relatives did not celebrate New Year. I had always been allowed to stay up for midnight to bring in the new year, but not this year. I slept right through it, and my mother told me that when the clock struck midnight, she was in the copper bath tub in the kitchen, being scolded by my aunt for having the light on so late at night.
Mum and I crossed Canada by train, leaving Vancouver on November 14th, stopping for a few weeks in Winnipeg to visit my aunt, then we carried on to New York. It was Christmas Eve when we set sail. There was a big tree on the main deck, and all the children were invited to go (with parents) to the First Class Ball Room where the captain was playing Santa Claus and we all got armloads of excellent presents. It was a great beginning for a fantastic adventure. Too bad I was seasick for the rest of the five-day crossing of the North Atlantic.
When we arrived at my uncle's house in London on December 30th, Christmas was a memory, and my English relatives did not celebrate New Year. I had always been allowed to stay up for midnight to bring in the new year, but not this year. I slept right through it, and my mother told me that when the clock struck midnight, she was in the copper bath tub in the kitchen, being scolded by my aunt for having the light on so late at night.
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