It rained today (in case you can't tell from the title)! I spent the entire day writing. Most of you got an email from me on my txbrkr topic - What Every Woman Needs to Know About Cervical Cancer, so I won't worry about copying it here. Besides, as I noted, I don't own the content...I sold my writing soul for $5.00 for a 500-word article! The good news is that I'm learning a lot, I'm honing my writing skills, and I'm enjoying it.
Here are my latest eHow articles (all were requested by editors):
Gray day here. Not cold, but raw...rained all last night. Productive morning. It's noon and I've already:
Applied for my 8th job at BNY Mellon
Chatted with Aunt Gladys
Researched and written a 500-word article on choosing a pet urn (this is for a site called textbroker.com. - you log on, take a writing test, get assigned a skill level, browse open requests for articles to be written, choose one, write it, submit it, make any necessary edits, and get paid - unlike eHow, you don't own the content and you don't get any residual earnings, but you do get paid a flat fee [or later when you get to be in demand, a negotiated fee] at the time of writing - this client may ask me for more articles - don't get excited about the pay yet, it's only a penny a word, so my article paid me $5)
Walked to the Post Office and store in town
Don't forget that tomorrow is the celebration of Earth Hour. At the same time all over the globe, little green people will turn off their lights to make a dent in our carbon footprint. On the east coast, it's between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m.
After making my rounds in town this morning (with an extra stop at the GS table for a box of thin mints), I came home. Between noon and 10pm (with the exception of a nap), I've been writing about making an heirloom toy box. Again, this was a requested article...I never would have written it without extra "points" involved. I've learned a great deal about toy boxes, but I already had the ideas for making it an heirloom. Whether other people will like the ideas is another question entirely!
Each night I climb the stairs and crawl into bed beneath the slanted ceiling of the attic-less second floor. As I begin to drift, I hear the scutter-scurry of its nightly ritual. Like tiny fingerless hands and toeless feet fruitlessly trying to anchor themselves, it slides and skitters its way from the peak of the ceiling to within inches of my head. I hold my breath and quiet my beating heart. Again, it scurry-scutters this way or that, and I imagine I hear it speaking softly to itself. If it moves again, how will I keep the buried scream behind my white tight lips?
I was getting cabin fever the last few days, so today I decided to just ride the bus to get out for a change of scenery. It took about 2 1/2 hours to do the loop that starts in Vineyard Haven, goes through West Tisbury, Chilmark (including Menemsha), Aquinnah, and back. I enjoyed it thoroughly and for 90% of the ride, I was the only one on the bus. At one point I passed a farm with a couple of horses standing in the snow near the barn. One of the horses was basically a beautiful chestnut color but had several large splotches of white. I found myself wishing I could turn to Dad and ask him if that was what was called piebald.
Besides taking some photos, I had some time to think about how to achieve more quality in my writing. A few days ago I read a foreword to a section of the Childcraft Volume 1 Section called Children's Own Verse. The foreword was written in 1934 by an NYC professor who believed even then that children have a natural ability to speak in what we adults would call poetry or literature. I enjoyed reading the selections by children in elementary schools all over the U.S., and it made me realize that I don't need to be more sophisticated to write...I need to be less sophisticated and more elemental. So much of what we write is influenced by others, or by our fears of what others will think of us. Children are honest (although in 2009 they are more quickly "corrupted" than they were in 1934), and I hope to peel away the layers of protection we build up around our hearts as we grow up in order to get to the core of my writing style - that essential and innocent self.
I had been feeling pretty good about my writing progress. My goal is to complete a historically accurate novel about the first quarter century of my dad's life. My family is so lucky that Dad took time several years before his death to write many little stories about his childhood. Not only are they an insight into his personality and family, they are a treasure of information about early 20th century rural American life. My job is to weave the little scenes Dad left into a coherent story that covers the period from 1920 to 1945 or '46 when he completed his tour of duty with the U.S. Coast Guard in World War II. I'm not finding it too difficult to tie the stories together, but I'm not at all happy with the quality of my writing. Hopefully I'm just being hard on myself. I am early in the process and have a number of rewrites ahead. At this stage I should be satisfied to gather historical information to intertwine with the sketches to give the story authenticity. I should be satisfied.
Today I mailed away to the Embassy of Ghana in Washington, D.C. to get the visa necessary to enter the country in January. It's so weird to have to mail your passport, but that's what's required. I used Express Mail, so hopefully all will work out.
During my walk through town today I noticed that more and more businesses are closing for the season. I understand from talking to locals that between January 1st and the middle of April, the town is very, very quiet. I hope I don't get cabin fever! I will have to make sure and shift my focus to include more exercise in order to chase away winter blues.
Random photo: Sunset in Vineyard Haven this evening from my front yard
This morning it was rainy - slow, steady rain soaking everything well and cleaning the air. It’s windy now, and the trees around my cottage are bowing their graceful heads as the leaves run races across my front yard.I’ve been here two weeks already – how the time flies.
I contacted my writing workshop leader, and she gave me the name of a woman who may be starting a writers' group on the island. I've left a message for the lady, so hopefully I'll hear back from her soon and be able to get involved from the ground up.
I keep photos of Grammy and Granddad Hogan up in my cottage window to help inspire me to write. Yesterday was particularly productive. I have so far to go in order to put together an actual story about Dad, but I was able to capture several memories that will help when I begin weaving the story. (**Rules of any comments on the writing in order to protect my 'artist child' - only good things, no suggestions or corrections.**)
Dad never wore a shirt. Okay, he wore a shirt to the dinner table and to town and to mass on Sunday, but in my memory of him, he is always shirtless - swinging a hammer, or laying mortar on brick, or using his hand saw (with the handle painted green). His back was the color of baked earth - terra cotta, the Italians say - and his weathered cowboy hat would cast a shadow on this shoulder or that as he moved around, steadily, purposefully, with very little wasted energy. Dad despised waste. Having been 9 or 10 at the time of The Great Depression, he considered waste a sin because everything was a precious gift from God. Even his health and strength and work ethic were gifts. He loved a good laugh, but when it was time to work, it was time to work...
