For a long time, I wasn't a consistent writer. I figured whenever inspiration struck, I would write. Until then, though, I prefered to do other things with my time. In consequence, I didn't write much, and I didn't get much better at my craft.
However, a year ago, I started writing every day, and I was shocked at how much easier it got. An article that once took three hours to write now takes thirty minutes, and my writing has gotten much better.
If you want to get better at your craft, write every day.
But during Christmas?
However, during the holidays you might think, “Oh, it's okay if I don't write today. I'm on vacation.” I think you will be missing out on a huge opportunity, though, if you don't write this week.
Here are three reasons why you should practice your craft during the holidays:
1. You're going to be around a lot of people.
Good creative writing is always about people, and during the holidays, we spend more time around people than any other season. What better time is there to study people's desires, histories, and actions?
Ask people about their pasts. Pay close attention to the details of their actions. Try to discern what they want most in life. Paying attention to people this week could inspire dozens of new stories.
2. Holidays are transformational.
Christmas and Chanukah are periods of liminality. Liminal space is called the space betwixt and between, which means that it is not normal time. It is special time, and most importantly, it is the period when all transformation occurs.
Fiction is about watching a character change. Elizabeth Bennet starts the story prejudiced and ends in love. Jean Valjean begins a criminal and ends a saint. Rocky starts as a loser and finishes a champion. We love reading about people who change, and the holidays are all about change.
Pay attention and see how people change this Christmas. Then, write about it.
3. You pay more attention to the details during the holidays.
On my way home from a morning walk, I saw a little bird in the white branches of the birch tree out in front of my house. He was green and yellow and only two inches tall. I crept up to him and he didn't fly away and then he did. I walked inside.
You have time to notice these things during the holidays. You have time to breathe in deep and sip coffee slow and look for green birds. And you will even have a little time to write about it.
PRACTICE
Practice writing today.
Write about the people you're with, how they've changed, and those little details you notice.
Write for fifteen minutes, and when you're finished, post your practice in the comments. We'd love to see what you write!
The little boys are starting to roll their eyes and glance at each other when we say things like “Cool” or, in my sister’s case,“Groovy”. Bless her heart. They still grab their presents and say “Thanks” as quickly as possible, wait impatiently for “You’re welcome” and then tear in.
This year I didn’t know what to get. I got the names of some books but anyone can get books. I went to Little Dickens, the locally owned toy store, and what did I find but a display of aquatic frogs. They were all in little plastic cubes with one stalk of bamboo and neon-colored sand, purple, green or orange. My nephew, Sam, loves frogs. He makes model frogs from cardboard, and he draws them eating bugs. We have several frog pictures on the fridge.
If I get Sam a frog I might be “cool” again,I thought, and a manic thrill, the shopping bug, overtook me.
The frogs looked healthy but they didn’t have anything to perch on but the one little piece of bamboo. All of the frogs spent a lot of time with their heads above the waterline and their huge legs and feet pushing against the sides of their cubes. Were they trying to climb out? Are frogs social, like the poor little parakeets that sit alone in cages?
I asked a sales girl how long they could live and she said “Seven years”. I called my sister to ask if I could get one for Sam but she said “No, you’re so sweet, but actually we are already getting him one, with a terrarium and all.”
Now I can’t wait to go to North Carolina, three hundred miles, to see a frog and play Scrabble.
Time up.
No way! So they already got the frog for him? That’s hilarious.
Well done, as usual, Marianne. It’s interesting how this is structure, present tense opening and then you jump to a past tense that’s seemingly more present than the first paragraph. I wonder if you could switch that first part to past tense and the second part to present.
But I love that first paragraph. It’s so fun, and a great characterization of both the kids and the parents. We get an instant insight into the relationship dynamic, and I’m sure it’s one most can relate to.
The second to last paragraph is simple and yet accomplishes so much. The last paragraph, though, came out of the blue for me. You weren’t disappointed you couldn’t be “cool”?
I will just have to accept that I can’t be the frog gifter I guess and forgo all that coolness. I may be Sam’s Scrabble partner (I usually am), and if we slay them, then I will be supremely cool. I noticed those tense changes but finished in fifteen minutes. I am now rewriting several of these. I just love this group.
The little boys are starting to roll their eyes and glance at each other when we say things like “Cool” or, in my sister’s case,“Groovy”. Bless her heart. They still grab their presents and say “Thanks” as quickly as possible, wait impatiently for “You’re welcome” and then tear in.
This year I didn’t know what to get. I got the names of some books but anyone can get books. I went to Little Dickens, the locally owned toy store, and what did I find but a display of aquatic frogs. They were all in little plastic cubes with one stalk of bamboo and neon-colored sand, purple, green or orange. My nephew, Sam, loves frogs. He makes model frogs from cardboard, and he draws them eating bugs. We have several frog pictures on the fridge.
If I get Sam a frog I might be “cool” again,I thought, and a manic thrill, the shopping bug, overtook me.
The frogs looked healthy but they didn’t have anything to perch on but the one little piece of bamboo. All of the frogs spent a lot of time with their heads above the waterline and their huge legs and feet pushing against the sides of their cubes. Were they trying to climb out? Are frogs social, like the poor little parakeets that sit alone in cages?
I asked a sales girl how long they could live and she said “Seven years”. I called my sister to ask if I could get one for Sam but she said “No, you’re so sweet, but actually we are already getting him one, with a terrarium and all.”
Now I can’t wait to go to North Carolina, three hundred miles, to see a frog and play Scrabble.
Time up.
No way! So they already got the frog for him? That’s hilarious.
Well done, as usual, Marianne. It’s interesting how this is structure, present tense opening and then you jump to a past tense that’s seemingly more present than the first paragraph. I wonder if you could switch that first part to past tense and the second part to present.
But I love that first paragraph. It’s so fun, and a great characterization of both the kids and the parents. We get an instant insight into the relationship dynamic, and I’m sure it’s one most can relate to.
The second to last paragraph is simple and yet accomplishes so much. The last paragraph, though, came out of the blue for me. You weren’t disappointed you couldn’t be “cool”?
I will just have to accept that I can’t be the frog gifter I guess and forgo all that coolness. I may be Sam’s Scrabble partner (I usually am), and if we slay them, then I will be supremely cool. I noticed those tense changes but finished in fifteen minutes. I am now rewriting several of these. I just love this group.
This is the first time I’ve submitted writing here. It feels unfinished because I stopped at 15 min., but I guess that’s the point. Here goes:
Everyone is a little fatter than last year, swollen with time. One of the first things you notice upon your return home after you move away from your small town for years to the big city is the change in proportion of fat to skinny people. There are two kinds of fat small-towners. Some are plump with contentment. It’s as if happiness over time makes you ripen into a round fruit with pink cheeks. Barely recognizable peers from high school driving cars beyond my budget have grown from their life of comfort and abundance. On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who wear their weight as padding to protect them from more pain, as if they will be safe from more injury if they just add another layer. You can tell the difference if you look at the eyes. Sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks indicate the happy kind of weight gain, but the other kind, well the other kind is just as easy to see because it makes your stomach turn in on itself and you have to swallow harder to keep the sadness down.
By stepping outside of the 4th dimension of time and popping back in again, you gain a new perspective on a person. Take for instance, the chinese man who owns the legendary restaurant, First Wok. Last time I saw him, maybe 5 years ago, he was bouncing around giving orders in chinese to his staff, trying to keep his head above water. Then his hair all turned grey and his speech slowed, punctuated by his more labored breathing as he stood stationary behind the counter.
Ha, this is very funny Jon. I was a little worried at the beginning that you were just making fun of the small town folks you left, but then you go deeper, and this superficial thing you’re kind of making fun of becomes a kind of sad and profound observation, “there are those who wear their weight as padding to protect them from more pain.” It’s great.
Thanks for practicing. Glad you took the leap. Are you going to work any more on this piece?
Thanks, Joe! It was a fun exercise. I’m really glad it didn’t come off as mockery since that wasn’t my intention. Between this website and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, I’m feeling encouraged/inspired to lean more towards story telling instead of the nonfiction rambling I’ve written so far. I want to teach lessons and write good content, but I want to do it in a way that is beautiful. So far, what I’ve written feels more like your average run-of-the-mill “how to” blog, and it’s getting old.
So to answer your question: I probably won’t work any more on this piece, but I want to use the chinese restaurant owner again because I’m struck by this character. He is an enigma in my small, midwestern hometown, and I’m sure his story is fascinating. I should ask him about it, actually!
I love Bird by Bird, and I think that’s a good way to lean. The best non-fiction writers use story. The best TEACHERS use story. Story is how humans have learned for thousands of years. So even if you don’t write fiction, I encourage you to tell stories. And the chinese restaurant owner would be a fascinating place to start.
it IS unfinished. that’s the point. well done, Jon.
Thanks, Jeff! 🙂
Jon
I like “swollen with time” as well as the passage that Joe mentioned. It is such a profound statement. I love it! If you write on it some more, I’d love to see it. I read “Bird by Bird” and I think my writing improved at that point. She also wrote a book called “Traveling Mercies” about her faith.
Thanks, Marianne! I’m going to read Traveling Mercies next. I’ve heard great things.
Jon
This is the first time I’ve submitted writing here. It feels unfinished because I stopped at 15 min., but I guess that’s the point. Here goes:
Everyone is a little fatter than last year, swollen with time. One of the first things you notice upon your return home after you move away from your small town for years to the big city is the change in proportion of fat to skinny people. There are two kinds of fat small-towners. Some are plump with contentment. It’s as if happiness over time makes you ripen into a round fruit with pink cheeks. Barely recognizable peers from high school driving cars beyond my budget have grown from their life of comfort and abundance. On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who wear their weight as padding to protect them from more pain, as if they will be safer more injury if they just add another layer. You can tell the difference if you look at the eyes. Sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks indicate the happy kind of weight gain, but the other kind, well the other kind is just as easy to see because it makes your stomach turn in on itself and you have to swallow harder to keep the sadness down.
By stepping outside of the 4th dimension of time and popping back in again, you gain a new perspective on a person. Take for instance, the chinese man who owns the legendary restaurant, First Wok. Last time I saw him, maybe 5 years ago, he was bouncing around giving orders in chinese to his staff, trying to keep his head above water. Then his hair all turned grey and his speech slowed, punctuated by his more labored breathing as he stood stationary behind the counter.
Ha, this is very funny Jon. I was a little worried at the beginning that you were just making fun of the small town folks you left, but then you go deeper, and this superficial thing you’re kind of making fun of becomes a kind of sad and profound observation, “there are those who wear their weight as padding to protect them from more pain.” It’s great.
Thanks for practicing. Glad you took the leap. Are you going to work any more on this piece?
Thanks, Joe! It was a fun exercise. I’m really glad it didn’t come off as mockery since that wasn’t my intention. Between this website and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, I’m feeling encouraged/inspired to lean more towards story telling instead of the nonfiction rambling I’ve written so far. I want to teach lessons and write good content, but I want to do it in a way that is beautiful. So far, what I’ve written feels more like your average run-of-the-mill “how to” blog, and it’s getting old.
So to answer your question: I probably won’t work any more on this piece, but I want to use the chinese restaurant owner again because I’m struck by this character. He is an enigma in my small, midwestern hometown, and I’m sure his story is fascinating. I should ask him about it, actually!
I love Bird by Bird, and I think that’s a good way to lean. The best non-fiction writers use story. The best TEACHERS use story. Story is how humans have learned for thousands of years. So even if you don’t write fiction, I encourage you to tell stories. And the chinese restaurant owner would be a fascinating place to start.
it IS unfinished. that’s the point. well done, Jon.
Thanks, Jeff! 🙂
Jon
I like “swollen with time” as well as the passage that Joe mentioned. It is such a profound statement. I love it! If you write on it some more, I’d love to see it. I read “Bird by Bird” and I think my writing improved at that point. She also wrote a book called “Traveling Mercies” about her faith.
Thanks, Marianne! I’m going to read Traveling Mercies next. I’ve heard great things.
Jon
I have a friend who flew to the west coast a few days before my son flew from the west coast. I say my son “flew,” as in, my son landed in Charlotte about 8:30, coupla hours ago, this partly-sunny Christmas eve. In another fifteen minutes or so, about the time I finish writing this, my son will walk through the door of the home where he grew up–this home that is an island of peace and tranquility in a world of trouble. But we will be saying to him– and to his sister who is driving him here, having driven herself from Georgia a day or two ago–we will be saying to them–Merry Christmas, and thanks for your Home Coming. And to the son we will be saying welcome to the sunny south, glad you could be lifted out of that misty Seattle Sound for a few days.
With the hundreds of trees in this, our–God’s–little acre and a half, we see birds and appreciate them right outside on the deck while we celebrate the annual reuniting of our family. One bird in particular I saw, a little snowbird, although the snow isn’t here yet. Unlike last Christmas when we had a foot or two. Anyway, I saw that little junco out on the deck. He pecked around for awhile, and I said Merry Christmas little bird!
Then he flew away.
Rise, little bird, rise! Fly to your home in the sky.
I have a friend who flew to the west coast a few days before my son flew from the west coast. I say my son “flew,” as in, my son landed in Charlotte about 8:30, coupla hours ago, this partly-sunny Christmas eve. In another fifteen minutes or so, about the time I finish writing this, my son will walk through the door of the home where he grew up–this home that is an island of peace and tranquility in a world of trouble. But we will be saying to him– and to his sister who is driving him here, having driven herself from Georgia a day or two ago–we will be saying to them–Merry Christmas, and thanks for your Home Coming. And to the son we will be saying welcome to the sunny south, glad you could be lifted out of that misty Seattle Sound for a few days.
With the hundreds of trees in this, our–God’s–little acre and a half, we see birds and appreciate them right outside on the deck while we celebrate the annual reuniting of our family. One bird in particular I saw, a little snowbird, although the snow isn’t here yet. Unlike last Christmas when we had a foot or two. Anyway, I saw that little junco out on the deck. He pecked around for awhile, and I said Merry Christmas little bird!
Then he flew away.
Rise, little bird, rise! Fly to your home in the sky.
I wrote three stories from my morning. Here goes:
The Farmer
The man in overalls sits down to eat his breakfast: a decadent spread of pancakes, biscuits, and eggs. It’s 9am. His day is already half over.
He removes his John Deere cap before taking the first bite. Habit, I suppose. His fork cuts into the syrupy pancakes, and he begins.
His clothes are worn and dirty; he has already been hard at work. However, his hands are clean. He is a farmer, after all.
His skin is like leather, and his face full of wrinkles. He neither smiles nor frowns. He doesn’t read the morning paper or watch the TV. He just enjoys his breakfast.
The folks at the other end of the McDonald’s are roughly his age. But they are a different breed — “soft” folk they are. They laugh and hoop and holler, drinking coffee in their polos and khakis. The farmer pays no attention to them.
He is alone. He is content.
He just eats his breakfast.
The Dog
My dog lies in on the kitchen floor. We’re at his grandparents’ house. Yes, I know it’s ridiculous to call my in-laws “grandma” and “grandpa,” but we do. We are officially “those people.”
He lies in his bed that grandma got him last time we visited. His eyes squint as he gazes into the sun. He has positioned his body perfectly to receive maximum amount of sunlight that pours in through the window. There is only one place on the floor where the sun is shining, and he is lying in it.
For a moment, I envy him.
The dog’s head head slumps into his comfy cushion, and he sighs a doggy sigh. This is all he knows. This is all he needs to know.
He doesn’t worry about where his next meal will come from or what kind of retirement plan is the best. He just enjoys the moment.
And I envy that about him.
The Cook
She is making a potato casserole. “So far, so good,” she said, after having placed them into the oven fifteen minutes ago. It has been years since she made the dish, she admits.
The kitchen is clean, how she likes it.
Her children will be over soon.
In the house, there is no less than six Christmas trees, each uniquely decorated with strands of lights, ornaments, and popcorn chains.
There is a pitcher of iced tea on the table, alongside a snowman centerpiece.
The house is fairly silent, except for the occasional Christmas music from an electronic, singing doll.
In the distance, you can hear the faint blare of the the television in the living room. It never gets turned off. Also, how she likes it.
She opens a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Rite and pours it over about a dozen pieces of sliced ham. She covers the place with foil. This is dinner. Or supper, if you prefer.
She runs the disposal and pours some food down the drain, using a wooden spoon to scrape it all away.
All is how she likes it.
This is cool. You describe things that are familiar because the lives of the farmer, dog, cook are typical lives in this country in this time, but they also contain details that make them your own, like the Diet Rite color over the ham (i was told just this year to soften roast beef for bar-b-que with Cola) but not Diet Rite. They remind me of little prose poems. I like the last one the best because it contains the most detail but I think the trio works better than any one by itself. Thank you!
Yep, definitely prose poems. And I agree, they work well together.
Nice, Jeff!
I liked how you didn’t tell us the farmer was in a McDonald’s until the story is almost over. It caught me by surprise. I was picturing him at the homestead. I liked that. I might avoid the word “just,” which you use twice towards the end. Great comparison though. I liked that twist at the end.
Your second story has an interesting bit of comparison, too. Your dogs contentment vs. your own stress. I’m starting to notice a theme to these stories.
And the last is about someone who is content, someone making something to be shared, someone working for others. Theme complete.
What’s interesting to me in the first and third is where the narrator is in this. You give great detail and seem to be somewhere inside the character’s head because you know what they’re feeling, and yet, the narrator is visible with their quirky “if you prefer” and “I suppose”s. I think having a conversational tone is interesting, but I’m not sure it works in 3rd person omniscient, the point of view you’re in. It might. I could be wrong. It would be interesting to think about who your narrator is and how they know so much.
I wrote three stories from my morning. Here goes:
The Farmer
The man in overalls sits down to eat his breakfast: a decadent spread of pancakes, biscuits, and eggs. It’s 9am. His day is already half over.
He removes his John Deere cap before taking the first bite. Habit, I suppose. His fork cuts into the syrupy pancakes, and he begins.
His clothes are worn and dirty; he has already been hard at work. However, his hands are clean. He is a farmer, after all.
His skin is like leather, and his face full of wrinkles. He neither smiles nor frowns. He doesn’t read the morning paper or watch the TV. He just enjoys his breakfast.
The folks at the other end of the McDonald’s are roughly his age. But they are a different breed — “soft” folk they are. They laugh and hoop and holler, drinking coffee in their polos and khakis. The farmer pays no attention to them.
He is alone. He is content.
He just eats his breakfast.
The Dog
My dog lies in on the kitchen floor. We’re at his grandparents’ house. Yes, I know it’s ridiculous to call my in-laws “grandma” and “grandpa,” but we do. We are officially “those people.”
He lies in his bed that grandma got him last time we visited. His eyes squint as he gazes into the sun. He has positioned his body perfectly to receive maximum amount of sunlight that pours in through the window. There is only one place on the floor where the sun is shining, and he is lying in it.
For a moment, I envy him.
The dog’s head head slumps into his comfy cushion, and he sighs a doggy sigh. This is all he knows. This is all he needs to know.
He doesn’t worry about where his next meal will come from or what kind of retirement plan is the best. He just enjoys the moment.
And I envy that about him.
The Cook
She is making a potato casserole. “So far, so good,” she said, after having placed them into the oven fifteen minutes ago. It has been years since she made the dish, she admits.
The kitchen is clean, how she likes it.
Her children will be over soon.
In the house, there is no less than six Christmas trees, each uniquely decorated with strands of lights, ornaments, and popcorn chains.
There is a pitcher of iced tea on the table, alongside a snowman centerpiece.
The house is fairly silent, except for the occasional Christmas music from an electronic, singing doll.
In the distance, you can hear the faint blare of the the television in the living room. It never gets turned off. Also, how she likes it.
She opens a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Rite and pours it over about a dozen pieces of sliced ham. She covers the place with foil. This is dinner. Or supper, if you prefer.
She runs the disposal and pours some food down the drain, using a wooden spoon to scrape it all away.
All is how she likes it.
This is cool. You describe things that are familiar because the lives of the farmer, dog, cook are typical lives in this country in this time, but they also contain details that make them your own, like the Diet Rite color over the ham (i was told just this year to soften roast beef for bar-b-que with Cola) but not Diet Rite. They remind me of little prose poems. I like the last one the best because it contains the most detail but I think the trio works better than any one by itself. Thank you!
Yep, definitely prose poems. And I agree, they work well together.
Nice, Jeff!
I liked how you didn’t tell us the farmer was in a McDonald’s until the story is almost over. It caught me by surprise. I was picturing him at the homestead. I liked that. I might avoid the word “just,” which you use twice towards the end. Great comparison though. I liked that twist at the end.
Your second story has an interesting bit of comparison, too. Your dogs contentment vs. your own stress. I’m starting to notice a theme to these stories.
And the last is about someone who is content, someone making something to be shared, someone working for others. Theme complete.
What’s interesting to me in the first and third is where the narrator is in this. You give great detail and seem to be somewhere inside the character’s head because you know what they’re feeling, and yet, the narrator is visible with their quirky “if you prefer” and “I suppose”s. I think having a conversational tone is interesting, but I’m not sure it works in 3rd person omniscient, the point of view you’re in. It might. I could be wrong. It would be interesting to think about who your narrator is and how they know so much.
We didn’t know what to say to them after the accident. We waited for them to contact us. For the past four years our only correspondence has been in response to law suit threats for such grievous offences as hiring someone to clean up the mess made from their tree falling into our yard or our desire to put in a dock on their side of our property. He’s lawyer so the law suits cost him nothing.
Now they have violated us. After a drunken fight, she decided to leave him. But instead of driving to her mother’s house, she pushed the wrong peddle and drove his Mercedes into our house—sideways. We weren’t home, so she drove back into her garage. The police report said she was outraged on two accounts: the neighbors called the police? She got a DUI in her own driveway?
The lawyer’s e-mail said that he would do everything he could to help us repair our house. And he did. He even stopped at the top of our driveway to chat with us in person on several occasions. He said he had never suffered so much in his life—losing his insurance, paying for therapy, worrying.
He was expecting us to sue. We did not. We chose to model grace and humanity. We hoped that it would patch our differences and show him a new way to treat people. Our kindness confused him.
The rehab required her to apologize to us. She had to face us and admit that she did a bad thing. It was hard for her since she did not remember hitting our garage. After five months, and just before her final hearing, she caught us over the fence and gave a long, sincere explanation of her ordeal. It broke our hearts, and we were glad we did not file a law suit and cause her more trauma.
We were happy that the lawyers reduced her charge and the hearing went smoothly. No more jail time.
A month later, I contacted our reformed neighbors to tell them that more of his limbs fell into our yard. “I see you your yard service guy is there. Could I throw these limbs into his trailer?”
The response should not have surprised me like it did. “How dare you. I have told you before that legally whatever nature sends into your yard is your responsibility. Deal with it and leave me alone.”
Oh, this is hard to read. Well told, Nancy. Sometimes offering grace is met with slammed doors, isn’t it? Still – you were grace-full. Thanks for that and thanks for telling us about it.
Thanks Nancy! Lots of interesting things going on here. Nicely told.
Great characterization of the lawyer at the beginning. This line in particular is nice, “He’s lawyer so the law suits cost him nothing.” Of course, they cost everyone else quite a bit.
This is funny: “The police report said she was outraged on two accounts: the neighbors called the police? She got a DUI in her own driveway?”
The ending is sad. It definitely is a tragedy. I wonder if anything has changed. Traditional stories require change. Who has changed? Have you?
The only thing I don’t like about this is where are you? I would have liked to see you and your family a bit more. However, maybe that’s something for another practice 🙂
Thanks Nancy. Good stuff.
We didn’t know what to say to them after the accident. We waited for them to contact us. For the past four years our only correspondence has been in response to law suit threats for such grievous offences as hiring someone to clean up the mess made from their tree falling into our yard or our desire to put in a dock on their side of our property. He’s lawyer so the law suits cost him nothing.
Now they have violated us. After a drunken fight, she decided to leave him. But instead of driving to her mother’s house, she pushed the wrong peddle and drove his Mercedes into our house—sideways. We weren’t home, so she drove back into her garage. The police report said she was outraged on two accounts: the neighbors called the police? She got a DUI in her own driveway?
The lawyer’s e-mail said that he would do everything he could to help us repair our house. And he did. He even stopped at the top of our driveway to chat with us in person on several occasions. He said he had never suffered so much in his life—losing his insurance, paying for therapy, worrying.
He was expecting us to sue. We did not. We chose to model grace and humanity. We hoped that it would patch our differences and show him a new way to treat people. Our kindness confused him.
The rehab required her to apologize to us. She had to face us and admit that she did a bad thing. It was hard for her since she did not remember hitting our garage. After five months, and just before her final hearing, she caught us over the fence and gave a long, sincere explanation of her ordeal. It broke our hearts, and we were glad we did not file a law suit and cause her more trauma.
We were happy that the lawyers reduced her charge and the hearing went smoothly. No more jail time.
A month later, I contacted our reformed neighbors to tell them that more of his limbs fell into our yard. “I see you your yard service guy is there. Could I throw these limbs into his trailer?”
The response should not have surprised me like it did. “How dare you. I have told you before that legally whatever nature sends into your yard is your responsibility. Deal with it and leave me alone.”
Oh, this is hard to read. Well told, Nancy. Sometimes offering grace is met with slammed doors, isn’t it? Still – you were grace-full. Thanks for that and thanks for telling us about it.
Thanks Nancy! Lots of interesting things going on here. Nicely told.
Great characterization of the lawyer at the beginning. This line in particular is nice, “He’s lawyer so the law suits cost him nothing.” Of course, they cost everyone else quite a bit.
This is funny: “The police report said she was outraged on two accounts: the neighbors called the police? She got a DUI in her own driveway?”
The ending is sad. It definitely is a tragedy. I wonder if anything has changed. Traditional stories require change. Who has changed? Have you?
The only thing I don’t like about this is where are you? I would have liked to see you and your family a bit more. However, maybe that’s something for another practice 🙂
Thanks Nancy. Good stuff.
Eyes Like Marbles, his hair disheveled, and a slight quiver in his hand were all qualities that dressed the man in front of me, my father. A typical catalytic man, one whose emotions never wavered from idyllic.
“Mom is sick.” Came out of his mouth like that last precarious block of Jenga that sends the structure to its crashing conclusion. Who was this man in front of me? As chemo flooded her body and radiation blasted away abnormal tissue, the catalyst of the family shook with uncertainty. His partner of life for 25 years, according to the doctors prognosis, was going to die.
My Dad not knowing what to do went to buy running. (I thought it very symbolic, but my Dad is an average Joe and left nothing to it.)
“I am going to run a marathon.” He stated in a manner of deceleration.
I snidely returned with, ” Lets conquer three miles before you get too carried away.”
Months went by. Battling a decrepit mutation, my mother live valiantly. Conquering miles of pavement my Dad lived in constant stride.
Thanks for practicing Blake! Sorry to take a bit to get back to you. I loved your line here, “A typical catalytic man.” While I don’t know what catalytic means in this context, I love that description, “catalytic man.” Very fun.
Wow great comparison here. Two fighters, fighting their battles in their own internal ways. “Months went by. Battling a decrepit mutation, my mother live valiantly. Conquering miles of pavement my Dad lived in constant stride.” I think the idea here is that he has this inner / emotional marathon to run. The actual conquering of pavement is simply the inner made outer. Nicely done.
Eyes Like Marbles, his hair disheveled, and a slight quiver in his hand were all qualities that dressed the man in front of me, my father. A typical catalytic man, one whose emotions never wavered from idyllic.
“Mom is sick.” Came out of his mouth like that last precarious block of Jenga that sends the structure to its crashing conclusion. Who was this man in front of me? As chemo flooded her body and radiation blasted away abnormal tissue, the catalyst of the family shook with uncertainty. His partner of life for 25 years, according to the doctors prognosis, was going to die.
My Dad not knowing what to do went to buy running. (I thought it very symbolic, but my Dad is an average Joe and left nothing to it.)
“I am going to run a marathon.” He stated in a manner of deceleration.
I snidely returned with, ” Lets conquer three miles before you get too carried away.”
Months went by. Battling a decrepit mutation, my mother live valiantly. Conquering miles of pavement my Dad lived in constant stride.
Thanks for practicing Blake! Sorry to take a bit to get back to you. I loved your line here, “A typical catalytic man.” While I don’t know what catalytic means in this context, I love that description, “catalytic man.” Very fun.
Wow great comparison here. Two fighters, fighting their battles in their own internal ways. “Months went by. Battling a decrepit mutation, my mother live valiantly. Conquering miles of pavement my Dad lived in constant stride.” I think the idea here is that he has this inner / emotional marathon to run. The actual conquering of pavement is simply the inner made outer. Nicely done.
It was cold and I was alone on the third floor of the stately, old mansion that rested on the crest of a hill. Outside the hundred year old maples and oaks were bare; their fingers scratching at the window as if they, too, were seeking shelter from the icy, lonely, Catskill mountain sunrise.
My candle had burned out and I folded deeper into my borrowed sleeping bag, wishing I had grabbed my New York Kincks mittens and scarf, during my mindless escape yesterday. I heard the familiar stomp of footsteps on the stairs outside the old oak door, breathed in the smell of coffee, exhaled the loneliness of the night before and shivered a prayer of thanks for my dear friend, Ann.
Yesterday, in keeping with the annual holiday tradition, my mother had sought me out, and began an argument that ended in the usual way: her fists pounding my body and her voice screaming “Get out of the house.” This was the aspirin that relieved the pounding that cycled in her brain. Her moods ran like a clock that was either wound too tightly or not wound at all, and I was her key. It was three days before Christmas.
My ten-speed slid and skidded in the crusty slush that lined the road, that early evening, as I pedaled the five miles into town, putting distance between me and the volcano that was my home. I wondered if once again I would be alone on Christmas, and my sprits fell with the darkness.
The church next to my school was my destination, and as I hauled my bike up the glazed, stone steps my prayers for guidance, forgiveness and compassion had already begun. It was warm inside, and in the back pew, the stillness and lingering scent of incense dropped slowly over me in an understanding and welcoming embrace. I began to doze in the comfort and solitude of this safe and sacred place, repeating my mantra, “Bless me Holy Mother, for I am your child”.
I was startled from my uneasy rest by an icy breeze and the slam of the church doors, and I watched my friend, Ann, bounce up the center aisle in her green, men’s boots in her truck driver fashion. She stopped at the center altar, bowed and then sidestepped left to her spot in front of the statue of Mary. She lit a candle and slipped a few dollar bills into the metal offering box that hung beneath the candles and tapers. This was Ann’s daily ritual, her vigil of prayer, and offering for the lost, the lonely and the poor. She felt it her duty and obligation. It was her expression of faith and gratitude, offered in return for her blessings of love and acceptance and family found in her old family home on the hill.
Ann found me after her, “Angels We Have Found on High” solo, as she was clomping back down the center aisle. “Again?” she asked as my tears were the only answer she needed. Without another word she took my hand and held it the five blocks back to her house. She snuck me in through the never used servant’s entrance and up the back stairs to the deserted third floor as the muffled sounds of her family’s holiday celebration filtered up and filled my second sanctuary. I had hidden here before.
After a time my friend brought me soup and hot cocoa, Christmas wreath cookies, a sweater and sleeping bag, a flask of brandy and two Marlboro reds she had swiped from her mom, “the cowboy killers” she chuckled. Then she hugged me and held me. “I love you”, she said, “and you are never alone; you will always have me.”
That was over forty years ago. This year, three days before Christmas, Ann was murdered by one of the tenants living in the boarding house she bought and ran for the lost and the lonely and the poor. She died alone of blunt force trauma on the third floor of her old farmhouse in the cold and lonely Catskill mountain sunrise.
This Christmas morning, as I lit a candle and sang “Angels We Have Hear on High” solo, I felt her hand slip into mine. I know I am loved, and I know that I will never be alone. I will always have Ann.
Wow, this was powerful. True? Actually, “Factual?”, should be the question as this story rings with truth. If Ann actually walked planet earth, what a gift she was to this place and most particularly to you. Thanks for sharing this.
yes, it is true… she was my friend since the 5th grade, she rescued me often when I got thrown out of the house and she was murdered this season… three days b4 Christmas… she was quite a gal and I will always love her and draw stregnth.
Wow is right. I’m so sorry. She sounds like an amazing woman, right to the end. I hope you continue to write about her and about your relationship with her.
I loved this part of your story, “This was the aspirin that relieved the pounding that cycled in her brain. Her moods ran like a clock that was either wound too tightly or not wound at all, and I was her key.” That is an amazing, if painful, insight, that the abuser finds a drug-like relief from their pain through their violence.
And I liked how you developed that motif, 3 days before christmas.
Very beautiful, painful story. Are you planning to do anything more with it?
I would like to sharpen the adj…. and parts of it ring corney to me.
Suggestions, ideas, comments would be most welcomed, Joe
I think the only major thing I would change is that last paragraph. It’s great and true, but I don’t like to end stories with observations, I like to end them with a powerful moment. Check out Patricia’s Christmas story we posted on Dec 24. I helped her change her ending from a truism to a moment that would hopefully stick with people for a long time.
It was cold and I was alone on the third floor of the stately, old mansion that rested on the crest of a hill. Outside the hundred year old maples and oaks were bare; their fingers scratching at the window as if they, too, were seeking shelter from the icy, lonely, Catskill mountain sunrise.
My candle had burned out and I folded deeper into my borrowed sleeping bag, wishing I had grabbed my New York Kincks mittens and scarf, during my mindless escape yesterday. I heard the familiar stomp of footsteps on the stairs outside the old oak door, breathed in the smell of coffee, exhaled the loneliness of the night before and shivered a prayer of thanks for my dear friend, Ann.
Yesterday, in keeping with the annual holiday tradition, my mother had sought me out, and began an argument that ended in the usual way: her fists pounding my body and her voice screaming “Get out of the house.” This was the aspirin that relieved the pounding that cycled in her brain. Her moods ran like a clock that was either wound too tightly or not wound at all, and I was her key. It was three days before Christmas.
My ten-speed slid and skidded in the crusty slush that lined the road, that early evening, as I pedaled the five miles into town, putting distance between me and the volcano that was my home. I wondered if once again I would be alone on Christmas, and my sprits fell with the darkness.
The church next to my school was my destination, and as I hauled my bike up the glazed, stone steps my prayers for guidance, forgiveness and compassion had already begun. It was warm inside, and in the back pew, the stillness and lingering scent of incense dropped slowly over me in an understanding and welcoming embrace. I began to doze in the comfort and solitude of this safe and sacred place, repeating my mantra, “Bless me Holy Mother, for I am your child”.
I was startled from my uneasy rest by an icy breeze and the slam of the church doors, and I watched my friend, Ann, bounce up the center aisle in her green, men’s boots in her truck driver fashion. She stopped at the center altar, bowed and then sidestepped left to her spot in front of the statue of Mary. She lit a candle and slipped a few dollar bills into the metal offering box that hung beneath the candles and tapers. This was Ann’s daily ritual, her vigil of prayer, and offering for the lost, the lonely and the poor. She felt it her duty and obligation. It was her expression of faith and gratitude, offered in return for her blessings of love and acceptance and family found in her old family home on the hill.
Ann found me after her, “Angels We Have Found on High” solo, as she was clomping back down the center aisle. “Again?” she asked as my tears were the only answer she needed. Without another word she took my hand and held it the five blocks back to her house. She snuck me in through the never used servant’s entrance and up the back stairs to the deserted third floor as the muffled sounds of her family’s holiday celebration filtered up and filled my second sanctuary. I had hidden here before.
After a time my friend brought me soup and hot cocoa, Christmas wreath cookies, a sweater and sleeping bag, a flask of brandy and two Marlboro reds she had swiped from her mom, “the cowboy killers” she chuckled. Then she hugged me and held me. “I love you”, she said, “and you are never alone; you will always have me.”
That was over forty years ago. This year, three days before Christmas, Ann was murdered by one of the tenants living in the boarding house she bought and ran for the lost and the lonely and the poor. She died alone of blunt force trauma on the third floor of her old farmhouse in the cold and lonely Catskill mountain sunrise.
This Christmas morning, as I lit a candle and sang “Angels We Have Hear on High” solo, I felt her hand slip into mine. I know I am loved, and I know that I will never be alone. I will always have Ann.
Wow, this was powerful. True? Actually, “Factual?”, should be the question as this story rings with truth. If Ann actually walked planet earth, what a gift she was to this place and most particularly to you. Thanks for sharing this.
yes, it is true… she was my friend since the 5th grade, she rescued me often when I got thrown out of the house and she was murdered this season… three days b4 Christmas… she was quite a gal and I will always love her and draw stregnth.
Wow is right. I’m so sorry. She sounds like an amazing woman, right to the end. I hope you continue to write about her and about your relationship with her.
I loved this part of your story, “This was the aspirin that relieved the pounding that cycled in her brain. Her moods ran like a clock that was either wound too tightly or not wound at all, and I was her key.” That is an amazing, if painful, insight, that the abuser finds a drug-like relief from their pain through their violence.
And I liked how you developed that motif, 3 days before christmas.
Very beautiful, painful story. Are you planning to do anything more with it?
I would like to sharpen the adj…. and parts of it ring corney to me.
Suggestions, ideas, comments would be most welcomed, Joe
I think the only major thing I would change is that last paragraph. It’s great and true, but I don’t like to end stories with observations, I like to end them with a powerful moment. Check out Patricia’s Christmas story we posted on Dec 24. I helped her change her ending from a truism to a moment that would hopefully stick with people for a long time.
Joe,
Thanks for the article. Esp. the part on liminality. I linked back to this article.
http://bobholmes.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-1-refreshing-restorative-rest.html
Day 1: Refreshing Restorative Rest.
Thanks again Joe! I hope you guys are getting some well deserved rest.
Thanks, Bob! I appreciate the link. Loved your article 🙂
Joe,
Thanks for the article. Esp. the part on liminality. I linked back to this article.
http://bobholmes.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-1-refreshing-restorative-rest.html
Day 1: Refreshing Restorative Rest.
Thanks again Joe! I hope you guys are getting some well deserved rest.
Thanks, Bob! I appreciate the link. Loved your article 🙂
The morning sun lights up the soft honeyed-hues of the hardwood floor, bouncing off the ornaments on our fully-loaded tree. Just three of us for Christmas breakfast – my husband, my mother and me.
She comes to the table shivering a little bit – she always shivers when she comes here, even if it’s August – because at 90, she is always cold. But we’ve turned on the small gas fireplace near the breakfast table and she soon warms enough to smile and sit down to eat.
I’ve made pumpkin waffles – made them on her small waffle maker which I just moved from her house to mine. She is nearly blind, needs hearing aids, and is so forgetful that cooking is getting to be hazardous, so we’re moving her into an assisted living apartment the first week of 2012.
To see her like this causes me physical pain. Always bright, charming, funny, beautiful, my mother is now a worried, frail, confused old woman. And she knows it. She is frightened by it all and frequently in tears.
But breakfast is good – she eats 4 squares of waffle, adding whipped cream and fresh berries to a couple of them, and seems quite content. This is the most she has eaten in several days and it gives me a strange feeling of comfort to be able to give her something that suits her, that makes her want more.
There isn’t much room for ‘more’ in her life just now. She can barely manage what is. In fact, the tension surrounding this move has made every symptom worse and I wonder – will settling into this new space bring improvement? Stability? Less worry for me and less fear for her?
We spend much of Christmas day doing quiet things – napping for mom, computer work for me. I open the back gate so that she can to out and wish my brother a merry Christmas. My youngest brother, the one who died two years ago and whose ashes are buried beneath a fledgling oak in our side yard. My brother who had no life when he died – living in a sober living residence, loving AA, dealing with a severely damaged heart. He died in his sleep one early October morning and my mother has not been the same since that hard day.
We drive to my daughter’s home in the late afternoon sunlight, admiring the crystal clear view of the Channel Islands as we cruise down the 101. It’s beautiful out there, and beauty brings its own kind of comfort, reminders of goodness and life and Something/Someone bigger than we are.
The children are wild and wonderful when we arrive – glad to see us, making us feel welcome and loved. My small mom, who had dissolved in tears almost immediately after speaking with my remaining brother by phone earlier that afternoon – she breaks out in a sunny smile, clapping her hands to see the energy and liveliness of my grandchildren as they play together.
After the food, after the crazy-making ripping through paper and ribbon and box and bag, we all help mom out to the car that will carry her home through the night. She has trouble navigating the uneven flagstone walkway, so a son and a son-in-law both offer cell phone flashlights, I offer a strong arm, my husband goes ahead to open car doors. I help her up into her seat – she is shivering again as the night air is frosty – and help her buckle her seat belt. There. She is safely stowed for the last leg of this long weekend journey.
But really, is my mother safe? No, I don’t think so. There is nothing safe about the fragility of her life, there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled, there is nothing safe about losing yourself, piece by agonizing piece.
“God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken, ” the psalmist sings out. Perhaps there is safety there. Yes, I will choose to believe that. In every way that truly counts, my mother is safe, she will never be shaken. Even when she stumbles, even when the tears come, even when she forgets who I am, even when she forgets who she is. Even then. Even then.
This transition into question and reflection is powerful. “But really, is my mother safe? … there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled.”
This is very well written, Diana. Simple. Clear. Beautiful. Deep. As always. Thank you for sharing this bit of your Christmas with us. It’s painful but it’s full of meaning.
The morning sun lights up the soft honeyed-hues of the hardwood floor, bouncing off the ornaments on our fully-loaded tree. Just three of us for Christmas breakfast – my husband, my mother and me.
She comes to the table shivering a little bit – she always shivers when she comes here, even if it’s August – because at 90, she is always cold. But we’ve turned on the small gas fireplace near the breakfast table and she soon warms enough to smile and sit down to eat.
I’ve made pumpkin waffles – made them on her small waffle maker which I just moved from her house to mine. She is nearly blind, needs hearing aids, and is so forgetful that cooking is getting to be hazardous, so we’re moving her into an assisted living apartment the first week of 2012.
To see her like this causes me physical pain. Always bright, charming, funny, beautiful, my mother is now a worried, frail, confused old woman. And she knows it. She is frightened by it all and frequently in tears.
But breakfast is good – she eats 4 squares of waffle, adding whipped cream and fresh berries to a couple of them, and seems quite content. This is the most she has eaten in several days and it gives me a strange feeling of comfort to be able to give her something that suits her, that makes her want more.
There isn’t much room for ‘more’ in her life just now. She can barely manage what is. In fact, the tension surrounding this move has made every symptom worse and I wonder – will settling into this new space bring improvement? Stability? Less worry for me and less fear for her?
We spend much of Christmas day doing quiet things – napping for mom, computer work for me. I open the back gate so that she can to out and wish my brother a merry Christmas. My youngest brother, the one who died two years ago and whose ashes are buried beneath a fledgling oak in our side yard. My brother who had no life when he died – living in a sober living residence, loving AA, dealing with a severely damaged heart. He died in his sleep one early October morning and my mother has not been the same since that hard day.
We drive to my daughter’s home in the late afternoon sunlight, admiring the crystal clear view of the Channel Islands as we cruise down the 101. It’s beautiful out there, and beauty brings its own kind of comfort, reminders of goodness and life and Something/Someone bigger than we are.
The children are wild and wonderful when we arrive – glad to see us, making us feel welcome and loved. My small mom, who had dissolved in tears almost immediately after speaking with my remaining brother by phone earlier that afternoon – she breaks out in a sunny smile, clapping her hands to see the energy and liveliness of my grandchildren as they play together.
After the food, after the crazy-making ripping through paper and ribbon and box and bag, we all help mom out to the car that will carry her home through the night. She has trouble navigating the uneven flagstone walkway, so a son and a son-in-law both offer cell phone flashlights, I offer a strong arm, my husband goes ahead to open car doors. I help her up into her seat – she is shivering again as the night air is frosty – and help her buckle her seat belt. There. She is safely stowed for the last leg of this long weekend journey.
But really, is my mother safe? No, I don’t think so. There is nothing safe about the fragility of her life, there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled, there is nothing safe about losing yourself, piece by agonizing piece.
“God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken, ” the psalmist sings out. Perhaps there is safety there. Yes, I will choose to believe that. In every way that truly counts, my mother is safe, she will never be shaken. Even when she stumbles, even when the tears come, even when she forgets who I am, even when she forgets who she is. Even then. Even then.
This transition into question and reflection is powerful. “But really, is my mother safe? … there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled.”
This is very well written, Diana. Simple. Clear. Beautiful. Deep. As always. Thank you for sharing this bit of your Christmas with us. It’s painful but it’s full of meaning.
This is so true! I’ve been feeling more creative lately and also more sensitive to my surroundings.
That’s awesome. I hope you got a lot of time to write about it!
This is so true! I’ve been feeling more creative lately and also more sensitive to my surroundings.
That’s awesome. I hope you got a lot of time to write about it!
I love this idea of transformation during the holidays! I’m on deadline and will be writing anyway, but this is exactly the sort of thing I need to be tuned into. Thank you.