by bsquared5@aol.com | Jun 28, 2016 | Thoughts
**This post originally appeared as a guest post on The Eternal Scribbler.**
Anyone who has ever wanted “to be a writer” knows that putting coherent thoughts on a page can be a challenge. So many elements vie for a writer’s attention: setting, plot, word choice, character, dialogue. Trying to tame these wild things into submission sometimes feels like a frenzied game of Whack-a-Mole, flailing away in a sweat ending only with the writer needing a stiff drink and the mole hobbling about with painful bruises.
On any given day, writers tend to waver alarmingly between feeling god-like and feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a pig farmer’s boot. One minute, characters and ideas spring like gazelles from their imaginations, and they spin gripping tales of romance and danger they can’t wait to share with the world—or at least that one friend who only says nice things. In the space of an hour, their mood shifts–now dialogue reads like it’s been recorded by the minivan navigation system and all the characters are dull cretins who move stiffly through the plot like hand puppets.
The difference between the first—(the artist)—and the second—(the hack)—lies in writing invisibly. Many years ago, pushed by a looming deadline in a graduate class, I wrote the following story, hoping to at least win some humor points with my professor. This is one version of “invisible writing.” Bonus: it takes less than a minute to read.
The Invisible Story
Once , prince princess.
marry, but
evil dragon. ?
“No!”
“ , my love.”
many tears.
land far away, .
, . !
Instead, her. “ !”
roaring, gnashing, flaming .
scales . Sir .
princess. , thrusting his sword, .
, ! last gasp,
shattered armor . roar,
triumphed, eating . grisly .
died of grief
from her tower.
Moral:
While the moral of this story is left to the reader’s imagination, you easily garner the main idea with just fragments and punctuation. The thing is, it takes very little to convey an entire plot. The skeleton of a story, if it has strong bones and especially if it’s a universal tale or truth that resonates, can ably stand without much interference from an egotistical writer.
Writing that appears effortless tends to occur when the writer gets out of the way of the characters and their goals. The writer is present, of course. The story and voice are hers, but she doesn’t leave grubby fingerprints all over the pages, which is distracting at best and annoying at worst. Rather than keeping a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, a good writer lets the story steer itself for the most part, with only the slightest corrections here and there. I love that the earliest writing tools were quill pens topped with feathers, a visual reminder to have a light touch.
How do you write invisibly, less heavy handedly? There’s no need to be as cheeky as my example.
- Know the tools. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, sentence construction. Read anything by William Zinsser or go back to your high school Harbrace for the basics. This should go without saying, but here I am saying it. Leaving errors littered through your writing is leaving a trail of breadcrumbs straight to the writer rather than allowing the reader to focus on the story and is anything but subtle.
- Write YOUR story. This does not mean that if you have never touched a dragon, you can’t possibly write about them. Imagination is allowed! It simply means that the truest (most invisible/effortless) writing that will resonate most with others is that bit of yourself that has been scarred, deliriously happy, or terrified. Draw upon that instead of manufacturing fake tears—the reader can tell. Everyone has her own story. Even if everyone has been to a sixth grade dance, not everyone has been YOU going to YOUR sixth grade dance.
- Pay attention to language. If you don’t have a somewhat freakish fetish about words, back away slowly from the page. Writers should at least feign interest in the words they enlist. Otherwise, the workers may just rise up in mutiny. Thesauruses are useful, but use real, recognizable words. Don’t use a fifty-cent word when a nickel word will do. Don’t insult the reader’s intelligence by explaining everything in excruciating detail. Some writers are like those people who shout rudely at foreigners, thinking they’ll be understood better if they just increase their volume. Finally, use profanity sparingly. As my mother used to say, it shows a lack of imagination.
- Practice. Lots. It takes at least 10,000 hours to be any good at anything, so you may as well get comfortable. In the course of practicing, in which you will write choppy, painful sentences and incoherent drivel, you will eventually learn to sift the chaff from the wheat and begin to duplicate the parts that flow, have a rhythm, and ring true—in other words, parts where you were invisible and the story shone through.
- Imitate. (see #3). In your love affair with words, you will need to read prolifically, maniacally even. Read widely and outside your preference and culture. Read poetry, screenplays, non-fiction, and novels. Reading will do two things: it will increase your vocabulary and it will train you to recognize beautiful craft. At some point, you will be casually reading a paragraph or a sentence, when you will be struck by its perfection. Not only has the writer nailed a feeling or situation so exactly, but he will have done it with words that read like poetry, where your only response is to pause, savoring it and staring into space at the deliciousness of it, the book held limply in your lap. That is what all writers aim for. Find your writing heroes and reverse engineer them. Let them influence your thinking, which will influence your writing.
You will still have those distracted Whack-A-Mole days that leave you exhausted from the wrestling match, but try to tiptoe more than you stomp through your pages. Your readers will appreciate being beckoned softly along by the voice of the invisible writer.
by bsquared5@aol.com | Mar 2, 2016 | Thoughts
Along with a good segment of America, I’ve started to pay attention to Waco, Texas because that’s where Chip and Joanna Gaines host their HGTV show Fixer Upper. Not only are the Gaines’ (as Chip might say) sweeter than candied yams dipped in honey with them big ole pieces of white sugar on ’em and a dadgum cherry on top, but the finished products in the show’s reveals are gorgeous. Like, sometimes jaw-dropping beautiful where the new owners are brought to tears at the thought that they will be living in this actual loveliness.
What I love most about the show, though, is not the vintage, farmhouse style that each of the Gaines’ homes spotlights, but the easy camaraderie of the couple and the sit-on-the-porch-and-have-a-drink vibe that emanates from each house they create. The South is all about place, roots, and home, and Waco rests squarely in that geography.
Southern homes say welcome. As soon as you cross the threshold, you’re liable to be handed a sweating glass of tea or a slice of red velvet cake. The same is true whether you’re at one of those seer-sucker and bowtie events at a Charleston mansion or at Aunt JuJu’s double wide in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Folks in the South share what they’ve got, from surplus summer-ripe tomatoes to that joy, joy, joy down in their hearts. There’s a reason it’s called Southern hospitality.
For years, we hosted a weekly evening gathering of friends. As the night grew long, we’d put children to bed in every spare corner (sometimes even in the bathtub) while the adults stayed up talking. Everybody knew where the spoon drawer was and could help themselves to whatever was on hand: extra sippy cups, a cup of coffee, or a cookie or two. Often a layer of dust coated the piano and laundry lay on the arm of the sofa, but it wasn’t about that. It was grab your favorite chair, take your shoes off, and stay awhile.
Home is where we breathe deep. It’s the base we come back to after playing tag out in the world all day. Right inside the door, usually in a big messy heap, it’s where we drop our stuff: backpacks, keys, tight shoes, sports gear, winter coat or wet pool towel. It’s where we shed our anxieties: crisis at work, driving in Atlanta traffic, that grade in chemistry. Off come the scratchy sweater and bra along with all the fakery we sometimes show the world: I’m fine, my life is perfect, I’ve got it all together.
Home is where you don’t have to be fussy or extra-starched. If it is to transcend from house to home, it’s messy and full of life. I’m talking about the upstairs window, cracked by a hockey puck, dog nose prints on the storm door, nail polish in the carpet underneath the strategically placed end table, or the desk piled high with papers (it’s a system, people!). I mean messy like dishes all over the kitchen from my son’s experiment with molecular gastronomy (google it), finding glitter in perpetuity from my daughter’s Christmas crafting projects, and my husband’s giant shoes by the door, ready to take the dog for her evening walk.
You can sink into the lumpy couch and have a good cry without people edging away from you, wondering about your particular brand of crazy. If you tire yourself out, you can lie right down and someone might just come along and cover you up with your favorite blanket. Chances are good that even after slammed doors and scowly faces, someone will be saying sorry and someone else will automatically reply “it’s ok,” and mean it.
Growing up in a military family, I moved frequently in my childhood. With each new house, my mother immediately set to work freshly cleaning each corner before moving us in. Then, over time, she set to work removing wallpaper, adding new coats of paint, and making curtains for each window so we would feel settled. Once the grandfather clock was wound and we could hear its reliable chimes every quarter hour, something in me would relax into the new place and begin to see it as home.
It must be a natural instinct to feather these “nests” of ours, to fill them with people and objects that soothe. I’ve been in the meanest huts in Africa where the women still take care to sweep the dirt floors smooth and hang a bright colored piece of fabric on the wall, just because it’s pretty to look at. We want our littles to feel warm and safe there, and guests to feel welcome. It amazes me each year when I find bird nests in the yard, blown down from the latest summer storm. Each one is intricately woven, often lined with feathers, horse hair, stray ribbons or strands of hay. Does this make the nest sturdier in some structural way? I like to think the mama birds just like the way it looks and know it will feel good to come home to after a long morning hunting worms.
Feathering our nests is such a creative effort. Aside from taming the smudges on the refrigerator or crumbs in the carpet, adding pretty colors, favorite pictures, or a bouquet of flowers gathered from the yard nourishes the spirit and that place within that yearns to co-create. I’m no expert, though I love trying new things. So many fellow creatives have such overflowing talents! Here are just a few blogs and instagram posts that might offer you some inspiration, too: Melissa Skidmore, Diane Henkler, Bre Doucette, Lucy at Society 6, Patsy @ blessedmommatobabygirls on Instagram, and Kelly @ eclectically vintage.
Whatever your style, whether you’re an HGTV addict or prefer the bohemian yard-sale look, feather your nest to nourish yourself and others. No one cares if the laundry’s piled up or the baseboards haven’t seen the light of day in months. Aim for peace, but don’t mistake quiet for peace. Families with pets and children and full calendars don’t get many doses of quiet. It’s peace like a river, not a pond. So, grab a glass of tea and take a load off.
by bsquared5@aol.com | Apr 15, 2015 | Thoughts
I learned exactly zero domestic skills from my mother. It wasn’t due to her lack of trying to impart them. With a needle and thread, she crafted quilts, clothing, and toys. With a few things from the pantry, she whipped up deliciousness nightly. She could fold towels and fitted sheets with military precision. Early on, I gave up on the sewing; I hadn’t the patience. My “folded” fitted sheets still look like wrinkled irregular lumps in an otherwise neat stack of linens.
When I was a little older and had realized that it wasn’t just the magical Kitchen Elves who created the wonderful smells wafting into the living room where I sat, usually with my nose in a book, I did start to show some curiosity about how to make things besides pop tarts and cold cereal.
The problem was my mother was taught by her mother, a quintessential Southern cook. When we’d visit my grandparents in Panama City, Mammaw would be bustling around in her frozen-in-the-1950’s-kitchen, making huge quantities of cheese grits, from-scratch biscuits with special “Mammaw butter” enhanced with buttermilk, and mounds of light and fluffy scrambled eggs. Her cobblers were legendary, her fried chicken a lost art in this era of kale and protein smoothies.
I’d hover around the oven like a bee drawn by honey, waiting for those flaky biscuits to emerge. Once or twice, when I got bored of climbing the trees in the yard or trapping blue crabs with my brother, she tried to show me how it was done. Something about flour, milk, and salt, but I don’t remember the rest. I tried to write it down. Wait. How much milk again? “Oh, you know, about this much.” Well, how much is that? A tablespoon? “Just til it looks right.” How do I know when it looks right? “Just add it until it’s the right consistency.” She was getting frustrated, stirring with more vigor than necessary. I gave up, content to just observe from afar.
My mother was the same way. I’d call her and ask for a particular recipe for one of my favorites. That special lasagna sauce? Well, you have to add a little sugar. Right. How much is a little? Which one of the measuring spoons in my drawer do I use for that? Heavy sigh over the phone. You just have to taste it to know.
No written directions! Chaos! Culinary anarchy! Who could cook anything with this insanity? Somehow, you’re just supposed to know how to go rogue with the cookie recipe printed on the Tollhouse packaging. I know it says to add one cup (2 sticks) of butter, but really you should use only one stick and half a cup of shortening. What? Why? My Type-A orderly brain would go into panic mode when given these types of suggestions.
And then there was cole slaw. If you’re from the South, you’ve got to have a go-to cole slaw recipe for family gatherings and summer cookouts. My mother had one. Hers was the only cole slaw I would ever eat for many years. After she died, I lost the taste of cole slaw right along with her. No one else’s could ever equal it; they were always too vinegar-y or too mayonnaise-y.
Some years ago, I was lolly-gagging (as my dad would say) at a yard sale and stumbled upon what looked like a medieval torture device. But I knew it for what it really was: an exact replica of my mother’s cole slaw shredder. Eureka! It was a steel tripod with a hand crank with interchangeable barrels for different grating settings. You’d push a wedge of cabbage or carrot through the top while turning the crank and perfect shreds would come out the barrel right into my great grandmother’s green Homer Laughlin orange blossom bowl. I already had the bowl. My mother had painstakingly scoured antique stores for several of them to be sure each of us had at least one. No kitchen was complete without a “Grandmother Bonnie bowl.” She died before ebay was a thing; she could have done some serious damage with ebay.
Now, now after all these years I could make mom’s cole slaw and recreate that childhood pleasure! On the way home from the yard sale, I stopped at the grocery store for 
cabbage and carrots. Having happily shredded both into the obligatory green bowl, I called one of my sisters for the next step. “I’m making mom’s cole slaw,” I said, perhaps a tad manic in my excitement. “What do I do after I’ve shredded everything?” You have to add dill pickle juice. “Great!” I said, grabbing a jar with one hand and wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear. “I’ve got some right here! How much?”
“Oh, y’know, til it tastes right.” Seriously? I felt like Charlie Brown having fallen for the football gag…again. I finished making it, but it wasn’t exactly how I remembered. I put the grating contraption up on the topmost shelf of my pantry, where it sits in shame gathering dust to this day. I had such great hopes for it.
I will sometimes grudgingly eat cole slaw now, but every bite is a disappointment. I limp along with my version of the lasagna sauce. Every batch of my chocolate chip cookies is always made with half butter, half shortening, although I still do not know why.
I ain’t no Rachel Ray or Martha Stewart by any stretch. But I’ve begun to get the “consistency” thing in other areas. I hear people talk about trying to achieve balance in their lives, between work and family and all the rest. News stories are popping up about “free range” parenting versus the prevalent “helicopter” type. We struggle with purposeful self-improvement and spiritual depth versus binge watching Netflix for an entire weekend.
How do you know when you’ve got it right? What do the media, the magazine quizzes, the current gurus say? For me, it’s a matter of intuition. A little of this, a little of that, not too much of any one thing. It’s not a matter of the exact right bowl or accessory. Taste frequently and when you’ve reached the right consistency, you’ll know. More of those “ahh” moments of joy will pop up–with your spouse, your kids, your work. Formulas and recipes, even for left-brained personalities like mine, usually aren’t the way true masterpieces are made.
