Invisible Writing

If I couldn’t publish, I would still write. I will be forever indebted to Julia Cameron for introducing me to the concept of ‘morning pages.’ It has become a combination journal/diary/planning book;  a way to gather the threads of my life and focus on daily happenings. I consider this my ‘invisible writing’...writing that is meant for my eyes only.

It is a special period in my day set aside with little routines. I always write at the desk in my bedroom. A scented candle flickers on the desk’s upper shelf. Cheap ball-point pens are stashed in a nearby drawer to prevent a halt in the writing when a pen runs dry. I finally settled on five-section spiral notebooks and even fill-in the blank divider page if I’m flowing.  

What I write to cover those lines that I do my 'two pages' every morning is never meant for publication. This is a private conversation with myself which enables me to clarify my thoughts and feelings. My ‘morning pages’ is the way I add concreteness to my abstract impressions and judge whether they are worth pursuing or not.

Writing, the act of writing itself, is an endeavor that satisfies something deep within. I've come to realize that through the act of putting words on paper, I can make sense of my world. It sorts out jumbled thoughts and helps me consider in a very direct manner those feelings and convictions I feel deeply. The ‘morning pages’ is a special writing that I try to practice every day that is just for me. It is my ‘invisible writing.’

I Dig Researching

Researching for accuracy is one of my favorite writing-related activities. Whatever time setting I place the characters of the novel I'm developing, I strive to incorporate tidbits that reveal the environment and culture of that period.

For a present work-in-progress I needed to learn more about the 'homefront of WWII' - how did our country being involved in a war affect those at home and what activities were they involved in as their part of the effort?

One of the cliches of WWII is Rosie the Riveter. Looking behind the scene, so to speak, I discovered Rosie was an actual person. Let me quote what I learned:

Walter Pidgeon (1897-1984), a Hollywood leading man, traveled to the Willow Run aircraft plant in Ypsilanti, Michigan, to make a promotional film encouraging the sale of war bonds. One of the women employed at the factory, Rose Will Monroe (1920-97), was a riveter involved in the construction of B-24 and B-29 bombers. Monroe, a real-life Rosie the Riveter, was recruited to appear in Pidgeon’s film.

It just so happens that I also write a weekly blog for Venture Galleries.com about interesting cities I've come across, their origin and history. The week of January 6th I featured the city of Ypsilanti, Michigan. If you're interested in learning more about this fascinating place, you can read more at: http://venturegalleries.com/blog/historic-america-happened-ypsilanti/

Juggling the Writing Hats

No one ever told me when I first began to write how many different hats I'd be required to assume. I'm still trying to decide if I'm a writer or an author. Can anyone tell me what exactly is the distinction? I know once you have published a fiction book you are allowed to call yourself an author.

I started my career by writing nonfiction---articles for magazines, devotions, even published a newsletter for a period. At the time I always referred to myself as a writer.

But with the publication of a novel, a memoir, and a collection of short stories, the number of hats I've collect increased dramatically. In this day and age, with the publishing industry undergoing such tremendous changes, a published author of fiction has to learn to wear so many different hats, especially if you plunge into the self-publishing arena.

I've had to learn to be a researcher, an editor, a proof-reader, a book cover designer...all before the book even takes on life. Once you've got a completed book, the hats multiply. Then you need to become a publicist, a promoter, a public speaker, and a marketer. And that doesn't begin to include the skills you ought to acquire if you plan to use social media to help sell your book.

Let's face it...this writing obsession automatically opens the door to a lifetime of learning and acquiring new skills. That's not such a bad thing, is it?

A few years back I gathered articles of mine that had been published in The Writers' Journal magazine and others I'd written for some writers organizations' newsletters and compiled them into a book I entitled Some Write Thoughts. My intent, hopefully, was that by sharing what I'd learned and experienced in my twenty-five years of writing it would in some way smooth the path for others journeying this road. It's available on Amazon in both paper and Kindle format:  http://www.amazon.com/Some-Write-Thoughts-Gay-Ingram/dp/1461167078/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

If you've been bitten by the writing bug, you might glean a few gems from my book.

Writing Short & Twitter

       @ + #

There are dozens of Twitter accounts for websites that publish only 140-character stories. Some of the most notable are @OneFortyFiction, @seedpodpub, @sixwordstories, @twitterfiction, @7×20, and trapezemag.

All, unfortunately, are unpaid markets. But if you just wanting to see your words on the internet highway, consider the above.

If your tastes run towards non-fiction, rather than fictional tales, consider adding #cnftweet. Each day, @CreativeNonfiction selects one tweet with this hashtag to retweet, and these tweets are then eligible to be included in upcoming issues of the magazine, or in their newsletter.

@Nanoism is a paying Twitter fiction market, which publishes three times a week and pays between $1.50 and $1 for stories: not bad, given the brevity of the form. Serialized Twitter fiction is paid out at a higher rate.

In short: keep on writing, and keep your eyes peeled for opportunities to grow your fan base. Depending on where you choose to publish your stories, your work may be exposed to thousands of people. In addition, there are often contests being held on Twitter by various publishers where you can win cash and prizes with your well-written, 140-character stories.

Help! I'm being buried under books

I have this incurable disease called bookaholism. I fully expect to meet my demise under an avalanche of books.

In an attempt to decrease the odds, I began to weed out my collection a few years ago. One way I did this was to put together a basket of books and donated it as an auction item...specifically a bunch of   books about writing that I knew would never have their covers cracked open by me again. Hey! Maybe the winner gleaned a few nuggets of knowledge from them.

I also packed up a box of books dealing with a subject I was no longer interested in and donated them to my local library. I even listed a bunch on Amazon and sold a few there.

But despite my efforts, it seems to me these critters must secretly multiply.

Last year I surrendered to the siren call of an E-Reader and requested one as a birthday present. My husband readily acknowledges he is an electronic dinosaur so I did the seeking and purchasing of a Kindle Fire. Surely now the ever-encroaching tide of books would come to a stop.

Not so. Now I find myself cribbing minutes to read the growing list of downloaded e-books on my reader. Just yesterday I made a stop at the local Goodwill store and walked out with a sack of books.
To be honest, only one of them is for me...the rest are to be given away.

There's more than one way to control this disease.

Distraction to the Writing

Have no idea why I chose this topic to write about. I share my home with only a retired husband and a cat, Sammi. Husband has been trained to not disturb when my fingers are poised over the keyboard. Still working on training Sammi.

At the moment she is making passes between my feet lodged on the floor. If I knew better, I'd guess her message was, "I want to go out side." But, she has already conveyed that message earlier--way before the sun started coloring the sky--by scratching on the wall above the headboard of my bed.

So really, I don't have distractions other than my tendency to indulge in unimportant whims like cleaning the bathroom or cooking supper.

Would love to hear about your distractions to your writing. Could be a productive way to put off writing tomorrow's blog...you think?

Writing Flash Fiction

I enjoy writing flash fiction. What is flash fiction, I hear you ask? It's a piece of writing that tells a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end using only 300 to 500 words. Today I'm sharing a writing exercise using the following words to write a flash fiction story: Linseed oil – turpentine – palette cups. You get to tell me if I succeeded or not.

The apprentice gathered a handful of paint-filled brushes and dropped them into the turpentine-filled jar.

He brushed aside straw-colored hair leaving a steak of ocher on his forehead. Once more his gaze returned to the wet painting on the easel. Could add just a stroke or two to the mouth. Make the smile a little fuller. Feeling guilty, he shot a look across the room to the two men deep in argument.

“Ten lira. That’s all that painting is worth to me. Take it or leave it.”

“But Patrone, just the special colors you demanded cost me more than that.”

The visitor shrugged his shoulders and turned away, shaking his head. 

Maestro grabbed at his cloak, forcing the man to halt in his steps. “I’m pleading, Patrone. What will I have left to live on once I pay my model and the apprentice?”

The man yanked his cloak out of the artist’s clutches, dug beneath its surface and pulled out a leather bag. He loosened the drawstring and shook out several coins. Holding them out in his hand, he said, “Here, this is all I can spare.”

The artist snatched the coins from his open palm and bowed deeply. He followed his visitor out the door and down the steps to the entrance.

Left alone, the apprentice returned to his work. The model, Lisa, had already left but not without some curt comments about her meager pay for the long hours Maestro required for this painting. He swiped at the palette cups, regretting the waste of paint. Tomorrow, the same costly colors would again be squeezed from their tubes. There was always another painting that needed to be done if they were to eat.

The sound of a more amiable conversation drifted from below. What a way to live. Much as the need to create beautiful pictures drew him, he realized this was not the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

He stared again at the wet painting. Lisa was a charming subject, no doubt about that. But there was something about… He snatched up a brush lying nearby and with just the suggestion of hesitation dipped it first into the linseed oil and then in the Crimson Red. He leaned close to the canvas, wanting to be exact in the placement of the paint. There! Just one or two dabs.

He stepped back and surveyed what he had done. Now! That will make everyone wonder what the lovely Mona Lisa was smiling about.

Did you enjoy it? Will you help me give it a name?