Characteristically Speaking

White Picket Fence

2011-04-14T20:41:00.000-07:00

So almost 3 weeks later, I finally have my white picket fence story finished. I post it here for your reading pleasure (I hope). It comes in at 760 words.

I do have a funny story that goes with the story though. As is oh-so-typical of me, I found something unusual (odd) after I wrote it. I made up the address and I've never lived in New York City. Since we live in an age where we can look ANYTHING up in an instant, I thought I should Google the address and see what came up. It turns out that it is a real address. And get this - it's a restaurant called "Joe's Place." Geez, I crack myself up.

White Picket Fence

The Brownstone at 1841 Westchester Avenue didn’t look like the others. It had wrought iron railings leading up to the front, and eight steps like the ones next door, but a six foot section of white picket fence stood out on the sidewalk in front of it. The fence wasn’t connected to any other fence. It just stood there, picket-like, on the street edge of the sidewalk as if it could deter something or someone from crossing the imaginary boundary it created.

Stewart sat in his Dodge Dart, watching people across the street detour around the white picket fence. He didn’t know anything about the place, but the faded ink address on the front of a sealed manila envelope he found tucked under his windshield wipers this morning compelled him to look up the address and drive the twenty blocks from his house to the row of Brownstones that had been here since the late 1800’s. He turned the envelope over and back, looking for a clue as to what was inside. Whatever it was, it was somewhat stiff and fully the size of the 8 x 10 envelope. A picture, perhaps?

He opened the door of the car and it groaned with the movement. Stewart looked both ways and crossed behind a school bus, choking on the thick black smoke that belched from its hind end.

As he neared the Brownstone, the front door opened and a little girl hopped down the stairs in front of an old woman carrying a shopping bag and wearing a dark green scarf on her head. He kept walking toward them, hoping to catch them at an opportune moment to return the envelope without having to make a decision as to whether he would go over, around, or through the gate of the white picket fence.

“Excuse me,” Stewart called to the old woman and he waved his hand a bit so as to catch her eye.

The old woman stopped on the fifth step and looked up while the little girl skipped around on the sidewalk calling for her to hurry. The little girl didn’t look toward Stewart and he briefly thought that maybe she was deaf. Her voice sounded far off and muffled, like the voices of the deaf when they haven’t heard sound for years and years.

The old woman clearly saw him, but put her head down and kept going down the last three steps, ignoring Stewart’s call and confusing him into standing still in front of the gate.

“Excuse me,” he tried again. “Are you Mrs. Fontaine?”

The woman stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Stewart was barely five feet away from her on the other side of the picket fence. She looked at him closely, peering over the fence, leaning in like she couldn’t quite see that far. “Ah! Stewart! Mr. Fontaine said you’d be coming with the pictures.”

The envelope in his hand was addressed to Mrs. Fontaine, 1841 Westchester Avenue, Bronx, New York. Stewart looked around, certain someone must be playing a joke on him. He didn’t know a Mr. Fontaine or a Mrs. Fontaine, and he was certain he’d never been to their home or anywhere near it. But she knew who he was, called him by name, and expected the envelope he carried.

Stewart got a cold chill as if the sun had slipped behind the clouds. He stood and looked at Mrs. Fontaine, feeling like the kid who got called on in class who hadn’t been paying attention. He noticed that she too sounded oddly far away. After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Fontaine reached out for the envelope.

“Greta, come over and see the pictures Stewart’s brought us,” Mrs. Fontaine said to the still-skipping girl.

Mrs. Fontaine opened the envelope gently and pulled out an old black and white print of a young man in military uniform. The little girl skipped to where they stood and seemed to see Stewart for the first time on the other side of the fence.

“Oh, hello. Are you Stewart?”

Stewart still hadn’t quite found his voice again, but a nod of his head worked and she looked to the picture Mrs. Fontaine held out for her. “This is your older brother, Michael, who was killed in Normandy.”

Greta glanced at the picture and said, “He looks like Stewart.”

“Yes, he does, honey. Yes he does.”

Stewart noticed that the noises of the city sounded oddly far away as he opened the gate and stepped into the yard.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Flash Fiction

2011-03-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

Flash Fiction is something I don't do particularly well, so I make myself do it every once in a while to get better at it. As you could probably tell from my blog posts, I am a bit verbose.

Flash Fiction is a short story, a very short story, that fits into less than a thousand words. If you read a garden variety paperback, you could guess that each page is 250 words, so Flash Fiction is usually about four of those pages long. The hard part is making a complete, engaging story fit into that short of a space. Some Flash Fiction is even as short as 50 or 100 words - but I find that to be completely impossible.

Hemingway wrote one of the shortest (and best) stories ever. 6 words.

"For sale. Baby shoes, never worn."

It is a complete story. We can all imagine what it means.

All day, every day, I see or hear or think of something that would make a good story. Since I started writing, it has become the way I think. Maybe I always thought this way and just never identified it as storytelling. As a kid, I spent an inordinate amount of time in my room, by myself, grounded for various and sundry reasons by either of the wicked step monsters, and I had to entertain myself somehow. So, I made stuff up.

I think everyone can do it, it just gets nurtured in some and ignored in others. The talent is in compressing it, molding it, fine tuning it enough so that other people want to hear the story.

Something as simple as "a white picket fence" can set me off into composing a story about the fence. I wish I had more time to think, but for some strange reason, I find that being busy makes me more creative - in a more condensed fashion - than in the past two years. Go figure. Less time - better writing.

Huh.

I don't recommend it. I think real writers need to do just that - write. But, as I say in my bio, I'm a writer in my unreal life.

In a few days or perhaps a week, I'll post the "white picket fence" story. It should be about 500 to 800 words or so. I just started it last night and I know everything except the ending. I start stories very well and agonize over the ending. I always read the last page of a book before I start reading it and I never knew why. Still don't, but perhaps it has something to do with how I compose a story. One beginning, many possible endings. Maybe I should collaborate with someone who always knows how to end a story, but struggles with the beginning.

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Sorry, I digress.

I love things that have symbolism so ingrained, and yet subtly different for everyone. The "white picket fence" topic is one of those, and it will be interesting to hear how others interpret it.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Characteristically Falling Down

2011-03-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

I named this blog Characteristically Speaking for a few reasons. The most obvious reason is that I talk a lot and it seems quite characteristic of me to be speaking. The other reason was that most of my writing revolves around character, so I had high hopes of being able to write about character development and other things as I learned them myself. Teaching something is the best way to learn it.

Besides those two things, I found from the very beginning that somehow my character's strongest impact was from their voice, their way of speaking and of telling their story.

But if there is something that is also strongly characteristic of me - it's that I fall down. Right about now if my former medic partner John is reading this, he will have spit beer (or coffee - depending on the time of day) all over the screen as he remembers the numerous times I fell down, literally, on the job. For no reason. I would be standing there, and then I would fall down.

Now this is not a weakness kind of fall, but a fall only the most klutzy among us can master. That would be me.

We were standing in a patient's living room, and I fell down. I wasn't even moving. I still swear it was an earthquake. John just looked down at me and laughed.

Another time, I turned from a patient's bed and a very helpful Volly (volunteer fire) had wrapped the EKG cables behind my legs and I fell forward towards the slightly ajar bedroom door with enough force to cause my left hand to slip off of the door frame into the void, swiftly followed by my right hand pushing the door closed on my left hand hard enough to break my ring finger. The five aghast family members sitting on the sofa watched in silence as I simply elevated my bleeding hand and walked out.

There have been more, but it's probably a blessing they are long forgotten.

However, I did it again the other day.

I was cleaning the shower (and this is PROOF that housework is bad for you) and I was squatting down (jeez, I hate that word -squatting, but that's what I was doing) scrubbing the tile floor with a scrubbie pad. Minding my own business. Trying to clean. That's all.

Suddenly, my feet went out from under me - sideways (think of Bambi on ice and that's pretty close), and I hit the inside of my left knee on the tile so hard that I sucked all the air in the universe into my lungs. The next thing I thought of was how cold the water was going to be if I couldn't get up. What can I say - I'm a survivor.

I love to think of myself as graceful and all that, but it just isn't true. Three weeks later, my knee still hurts. And my walk is less than graceful. Waaa.

Graceful isn't just in the way we move, but in the way we are. Sometimes these blogs are not about the smallness of my world, but really they are about documenting the bigger world and what is going on in it.

Japan has been knocked to it's knees, and her people are showing an incredible amount of grace in the face of immense tragedy and gigantic obstacles. I am sure they will get up, and walk gracefully through to the other side. The other side which we call "normal."

I've been crybabying about my silly sore knee and this last week of watching the news has made me realize that my problems and aches are infinitesimal compared to theirs. My grace, which I want to believe I have at least a small amount of, pales in comparison to theirs. My prayers are for their continued strength, and for me to learn something from them.

We Americans love to characterize ourselves as survivors, fighters, winners (OK, now that word is forever ruined thank you Charlie Sheen). Japan and her people are an example to me of grace. If there were any quality I would want to cultivate, it would be characteristic grace.

Bless you Japan.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

I Miss . . .

2011-03-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

I miss lying on the grass and watching the clouds for hours.

I miss a poet I know only as Jonathan because he doesn't post anymore and I still want to read what he has to say.

I miss my baby's neck - he's 13 now and his neck doesn't smell or feel the same.

I miss being able to eat an entire pizza.

I miss a quiet house. My son did not talk until he was 2 1/2, and since then he has not shut up.

I miss the passion I had for changing the world.

I miss the crunch of snow beneath my feet, but I don't at all miss anything else about it.

I miss my friend Kevin. I still hear his laugh sometimes.

I miss caring for patients who were nice, or funny, or brave.

I miss the excitement of Christmas Eve and pressing my nose against the cold window as I looked for Rudolph.

I miss being fascinated by ants.

I miss sitting on the swings and talking with my friends.

I miss my characters when I finish their stories.

What do you miss?

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Being Positive

2011-02-26T22:35:00.000-08:00

For most of my life, I've been positive. Positive attitude, positive I could do something (or positive I couldn't), positive that God existed and so did ghosts, even if I nor anyone else ever saw them.

I'm also quite sure (who am I kidding - positive) there is a gene that influences this as I don't even have to make a conscious choice to see the world this way. My early life challenged this mind set over and over, but I always knew I would rise above. Still, sometimes it takes a monumental event to kick it into high gear.

I went to Africa in May of 2000 and it changed my life. I went with my husband and some friends on a two week photo safari to Kenya and Tanzania. I shot 27 rolls of film (for those of you younger that me, film is the stuff pictures used to be printed from - little canisters- 27 of them), got some great pics, great memories, and had two profound realizations:

When we landed on the airstrip at the Serengeti, I walked out of the plane and felt . . . like I was home. I've never had that sensation before or since and I can only explain it on a genetic level . . . home. Nothing - not the plants, the animals, the smells, nor the feel of the air was the same as my physical home, but it was somehow incredibly familiar and comforting.

The other thing about Africa is that the people were happy, content - with NOTHING. They built their roads by hand (seriously by hand - I saw them) and earned maybe 300.00 per year, but they were so surely "in the land" - in the cradle of civilization - and they were happy.

I live in the United States of America. I have a job. I have a roof over my head. I am rich beyond measure compared to most of the world.

I was truly humbled.

And I was newly positive and happy in a way that has never left me.

I was so happy in fact that I quit my job (because I was lucky enough to be able to), stayed home with my son (who was then 3) for four years, and then when I was bored I went back to work.

More wonderful material things have come to me since I stopped working FOR them and just worked for the joy of it. Call me silly, but being positive and grateful really are the keys to being happy. Not stuff. Never stuff.

People are a given though - gotta have the peeps.

Being positive is not without its drawbacks.

I recently began a new job which involves learning lots of new things and managing a staff of . . . some, let's just say some. Anyway, it feels challenging but not overwhelming, and I am positive that I can be good at it within a few months. One of my staff asked me (very nicely) if I had any concept of what was going on . . . did I get it?

It suddenly occurred to me that I appeared clueless because I was so happily and positively taking on a challenge. My words reassured her that I was not oblivious, but I hope my actions reassure her even more.

I get it. I really do.

How can anyone be happy and positive if they have any idea of what the reality of the world is these days? The economy, the instability in the Middle East, work pressures to do more with less, violent and strange weather all over the world, the threat of CME's (Coronal Mass Ejections which frankly scare me the most - what if we lose computers???!!! E-gads).

Is anything made better by being negative? No

Is anything made better by being positive? Yes

It seems to me like the most obvious thing in the world, but maybe I'm just lucky.

I have written two novels so far - because I am positive that I can do it. It is such a monumental task that I don't think you can take it on unless you know it can be done. Doing it well and actually getting published is a whole other story, but the fact that I have finished and am currently revising two novels gives me great satisfaction.

I haven't written much about writing here lately, but I think it speaks to motivation of character if you analyze global mind sets like positive vs negative. From which side does your character view the world? Right, left, dexter, sinister, positive, negative - it is a starting point for motivation of action that supersedes all others. Experience and environment can modify a basic tendency, but your character is at his/her core a positive or negative being.

Which side are you on?

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Being in Two Places At Once

2011-01-27T20:41:00.000-08:00

Lots of people accept the futility of being in two places at once. I thought of this today as I was working a few hours at one of my jobs and a few hours at the other. It would be much more efficient to be in both places at the same time.

Impossible.

Or not.

One of my favorite books is "The Fabric of the Cosmos" by Brian Greene (whom I would love, love, love to meet someday). It's a book about theoretical physics and how our knowledge of the universe is evolving. Space and time are not (it is theorized) what we thought them to be. One of the most startling ideas is that you could be in two places at once. They've actually proven this part of the theory on the atomic level. How is that not common and awe-inspiring knowledge?

I cannot do any of the ideas justice as far as explaining them. I have to read and re-read them to really get it, and then read it again. But to me, it is completely worth the effort. It is challenging and interesting and satisfies my desire to learn. If you are interested, the book can be found here.

String theory and quantum physics are made interesting and accessible by Dr. Greene, and for that I am truly grateful. The idea of multiple, parallel universes is not just an excuse for the odd things that happen in life. At some levels, it makes the odd things make sense.

It also makes me laugh to realize almost everything I've ever thought to be impossible - isn't.

And I think that is a very inspiring idea.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Encouragement

2011-01-24T19:15:00.000-08:00

Encouragement seems to surround me these days.

At work, those who know I have a new job and am still trying to do the old one too have said, "You can do it." The nurses and docs have said as much about my learning case management, and as for my writing - well, my writing partner has given me renewed enthusiasm for working on Road Clothes even as busy as I am.

For all this I am grateful.

This recognition of encouragement sent my way has made me consider all the people in my life who assist me, often unnoticed or underappreciated. People who do jobs that make my job easier, people who are my friends and family who let me work long hours and talk about my characters ad nauseum, and people who make me laugh (like all these people), are indispensible. I couldn't do my work, be a somewhat normal human being, and write if not for all the assistance and encouragement I get. I think most of us are like this.

But how often do we thank those who make what we do possible? I don't know if I do it enough, but along with my renewed interest in revising my novel I have renewed enthusiasm for appreciating those who help me.

That would be you. Reading this helps me. I know the connection may sound tenuous, but a writer is just a writer if no one reads the words. A writer communicates if someone reads them. The entire reason I write is to communicate. I talked about this in a previous post, and time has not revealed any other reason to me. I don't write to be famous or rich (which is a good thing because fame is not happening anytime soon and I am already rich beyond measure if the definition is having all that I need). But I do so like to communicate.

I think that's why my new job will suit me well. It is all about communicating. And communicating. And communicating. Did I mention the increase in the amount of communication I am doing? Just checking.

So, thank you for reading and for being my co-worker, friend, family and encourager. It is much appreciated.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Another New Job

2011-01-12T20:04:00.000-08:00

I have a new job again this year. Last year at this time I was writing about how I was going from House Supervisor (and de-facto master of the universe) to a desk-and-data job that was in the new universe of Monday through Friday eight to five. It was a rousing and successful year, full of getting up at a reasonable hour and going home on time. I am refreshed after having a "normal" life for a year.

Now, not to say that what I will be doing is "abnormal," but it is back in the realm of the Big House as I like to call it. I will be the Assistant Director of Case Management. Ohhh. What's that?

Case Management is nursing, but it is not the bedside nursing I am used to. It is nurses assisting patients and physicians through the maze of hospitalization and the payment for such. Or something like that.

I basically can't explain it yet, and since there aren't any TV shows with Case Managers running into closets with hot young interns, it probably means that it's not really one of the exciting parts of nursing. But it is necessary and valuable, and I have great esteem for things that make me feel necessary and valuable.

I'm looking forward to it for all the career-nursy reasons: something new, challenging, patient-centered. This last one is the part that also appeals to the writer-me: being able to interact with patients again. I have to say I missed it. Check with me next month though, and I may want to retract that statement.

Let's see, what else has happened since October (October? Really?)?

Ten of my poems were published with some writer friends in an anthology that I'm pretty proud of. Found here to my utter amazement.

One of my dear friends died in December and I miss her every day.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were wonderful.

We got our new puppy, Abby the black Lab, and already she is so big. Cute too. Really. See?

I got to see an old friend (Kim!) and meet her wonderful family and for that I am so grateful.

I've continued to send out stories and poems to publications and have gotten quite a few personalized rejections. I guess that's not too common, but while it feels good to know they really have read it and liked it enough to comment, the over-achiever can't quit at ALMOST.

I usually try to have my blog posts come around to some theme, or be conveniently wrapped in a point or two, but just the basics are all I can muster at the moment. I think with blogging, it becomes a slog (hey, that rhymes) and I certainly don't have the time or energy to really compose. But I'm not ready to give this up yet either. I have to learn to let it be mediocre sometimes (or dismally bad?) in order to end up with some gems.

I don't think this is one of the gems, but I thank you for reading. I'm shooting for 1 post per week - we'll see how it goes :)

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Lies, All Lies

2010-10-29T22:28:00.000-07:00

I am pretty comfortable saying I’m a lousy liar. To say I never lie would be, well, a lie, but I think I do it so rarely as to be in the group that could honestly say, “I don’t lie.” I tried it out when I was younger and I sucked. Pitted against a younger brother who was a natural, I never had a chance to develop any level of skill in even the normal, every-day kid deceptions necessary for survival to adulthood.

The “I didn’t break it, eat it, lose it, put it in the dryer” excuses (lies) were never convincing enough for my stepmother, and I even began to take credit for things I really didn’t do because she didn’t believe me anyway.

So, no positive reinforcement for lying was ever received and I’ve gotten along just fine without it.

However, writing fiction and poetry – telling stories – is essentially lying. This came into stark relief the other day when a reviewer asked me if something I had written was true. Part of it is true, the tiny grain of an idea that begins the story (or in this case a poem), and I certainly want it to have enough impact as to feel true, but I don’t really want to throw myself under the bus either. So I told the truth, said some of it was true, and left it at that. Perhaps my real challenge is not truth versus lie, but knowing when to STOP TALKING.

Do you remember the TV commercial where the old woman has fallen and she uses her alert thingy to summon rescuers with “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”? My son uses that to make fun of me and mid-lecture will say “Help! I’m talking and I can’t shut up!” I know I should be parent-like and get mad at him, but I laugh every time because it’s so me.

I should not feel like I have a duty to explain my writing, or classify it as truth or lie – it is fiction and it is poetry. That is all. It’s my prerogative to use my life experiences in any way I see fit. But my life hasn’t happened to just me, and if I write about an interaction with someone, they may know it’s about them and maybe at some level I want them to know, but my intent is never to lay bare all of the truth. That would be memoir and frankly, my life hasn’t been that interesting. There is no one in my past or present that I aim to hurt - even the wicked step-monsters (except for calling them that – which pleases me to no end).

Maybe no one else thinks of it, but I’ve begun to wonder if people really get the difference between fiction and the truth. In my job it is imperative that I am truthful, and there is no question as to that benchmark. In real life and in writing, there is room to hedge. If you ask me a question, I will tell you the truth - to the point where you might want to carefully consider the question and if you really want the answer. If the question is never asked, I probably will not seek you out to tell you how I feel, or what I did, or what you didn’t know. This can’t be much different than how most people view the truth. For civility and to be considerate, we don’t go around saying exactly what we think all the time.

And yet, I am not angered or annoyed by this question about something I’ve written. I take it as a compliment that my writing seems real. I just have angst about responding, because I don’t want to lie. Communicating to someone cryptically through story or poetry has certainly been done. It’s just not something I do. If I really have something to say to you, I will track you down. This does not mean that there are not experiences that I now understand more fully (because I am older) and want to revisit in this artistic way. I think there is real value in evaluating life and not just living it. That someone reading my work can commiserate or see their own experiences through my analytic lens makes me happy.

If I choose to see the lies of storytelling as metaphorical truth, perhaps I won’t feel so compelled to defend or explain this kind of lying. It is the greater truth of a situation, not the particular truth, which teaches us. Becoming skilled at writing fiction demands skill at creating something that did not exist before – lying - but the intent is often (for me) to illuminate some truth. So I will lie. And that’s the truth.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

You're an Excellent Driver

2010-10-27T17:40:00.000-07:00

We were talking at work about compliments recently and I found it interesting that people remember some rather unusual things as their favorite compliment. As with any other human behavior, it is personal to each of us what means much or little, and often we don't know something will be meaningful in the moment.

I've had two compliments in my life that I remember. I'm sure I've had more than two, but these two were particularly meaningful. They aren't compliments of the ordinary sort, so I will explain.

I was working ambulance and we had a big grinder (wreck - 4 cars) out on Hwy 46 East which is where James Dean was killed. We had three ambulances on scene and I was doing my job, nothing special. We ended up changing partners as my partner and another EMT were doing an extrication, so I drove one of the other rigs to the hospital. The best thing for a trauma patient is a lead foot, and I have one of those. At one point on the way in, the medic stuck his head into the cab from the back and said to me, "I forgot how nice it was to ride with you. Thanks."

He was busy and didn't have to say this, but I have remembered it because I loved being an excellent driver.

The other compliment I remember was when I was working as the charge in the ER. One of my nurses asked me if I thought I could run the department if the opportunity came up. I was about to answer her when one of the ER docs started laughing. We turned around to see what was funny and he said "Are you kidding? She could run a small country."

I loved that too.

So the things I've remembered have been comments on my ability, not my looks or my clothes or my possessions. The conversation at work made me think about how I compliment others and what I base it on. I hope and will aspire to tell them something meaningful to them, and to take the time to find out what that might be.

My son, at 13, is in that place where nothing anyone says makes a difference, and yet everything does. I'm trying to teach him to filter, but I don't know if what I'm saying makes him feel good, or if I'm scarring him for life. Writing about him in the blog is probably not a great idea in terms of a childhood unscathed, but it illustrates the point of making your words count in your everyday life.

Taking the opportunity to thank someone who said something meaningful is another good goal, and one I failed to realize the importance of until recently. So, thank you Dr. John, and thank you Wes. I've never forgotten your kindness.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Random Things

2010-10-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

I've had the most random memories pop into my head lately. The one I can probably share without too much personal embarrassment is my favorite ER Nurse phone call. Back in the 90's, you could call an ER and speak to a nurse and ask them questions. We never really answered the questions, but we let you try. Now there is a long and tedious message at the beginning of the call that tells you the ER staff will not give you advice over the phone, but occasionally, someone makes it through even that obstacle to ask their question. We still don't answer. We hedge, we sympathize, we do not give advice over the phone. Even to those who think the rules do not apply to them.

My favorite ER Nurse call ever was in 1999. A pleasant young woman called on a not too busy night.

Caller: "I have a question. If I drop acid, will it interfere with my Amoxicillin?"

Me: (Trying not to laugh) "If you're going to drop acid, why do you care if it interacts with your Amoxicillin?"

Caller: "Well, I wouldn't want to do anything to hurt my body."

Me: (Not really hiding the laughter at this point) "Um, most of our drug books only cover legal drugs, so you're on your own. Sorry."

Caller: "That's okay. Thank you very much."

I miss the ER sometimes. I especially miss many of my co-workers, a very few of the patients, but none of the hours. The ability to work 72 hours a week (yes, a WEEK) when I worked ambulance, then four 12-hour night shifts in a row when I was a nurse are looooong gone. To my complete amazement my body is not like that of a twenty year old.

But even if I was not encumbered physically by having the good fortune of discovering sleep and therefore not wanting to give that up again, I'm kind of done with working in the ER. That's a really good thing since I'm not anymore. I haven't been ER staff since 2001, and while being the House Supervisor for 6 years after that had me there a lot, it was different to be able to play for a while and then LEAVE.

IV's? Codes? Sure, no problem. Seizure day? Oh hey, I'm busy in ICU - sorry. Not that I did that to my nurses all the time, but the point is that I COULD. I didn't have any direct patient responsibility. I only had responsibility for a 100,000 square foot building and everyone in it. Much easier.

What does any of that past experience have to do with writing, and more specifically, writing character? For me, it is an un-mined field. I have the great fortune of having been witness to the range of human experience, mostly on the tragic side, but all those responses to critical situations become tools for writing well. I have been absolutely floored by grace in times of difficulty, both from the RN's and MD's and from family and friends of those in my care. You can't make this stuff up. I've also seen what horrible things humans do to each other.

This speaks to motivation and situation, but mostly it gives me a vast and rich memory for story to use as I write. But I rarely use it.

I've been asking myself why not lately. I think that's where some of the odd memories are coming from - because I'm looking in my past for ways to illustrate action, or motivation, or cause. I have tons of "material." At a recent writing workshop, when I said I was a nurse, the teacher responded with a smile and said my profession was the goldmine for writers. And yet I don't want to or don't feel comfortable using it yet. Maybe I'm not far enough removed to revisit THOSE memories again - the ones that left me sleepless for days on end.

The other challenge is finding the right tone with stories specifically about human suffering. Sometimes you can be caustic, sometimes funny or flippant, but mostly you have to be respectful (I think) of human nature. I can show it in all its grace or depravity, but there still has to be a reverent acknowledgement that I know of these stories because I got to be a nurse. Who else gets to experience a hundred lifetimes of experience through others? Not many, and I thank the ER for that - the patients, the nurses, the docs.

So, here's a short list of "Things I Learned in the ER," and I hope it shows some of the scope of the experience, and some of the challenge of writing about it.

1. The weirdest things fit in the weirdest places. Patient confidentiality prohibits any further detail. Use your imagination and you still won't be able to encompass the full scope of this delightful human pastime. The excuses and explanations are all the same however.

2. The ability to have olfactory premonition is very helpful (I would sometimes smell blood right before a trauma - independently verifiable by my former coworkers). Either I have some level of psychic gift, or I'm a vampire.

3. An artery can shoot blood all the way across a room.

4. Playing practical jokes on the doctors makes the day go by faster.

5. Surgeons don’t have the ER sense of humor.

6. People really do not realize when their hearts stop. If they are otherwise healthy and awake, they are incredibly surprised when I hit them in the chest, or shock them, and they yell “Ow! Hey! What’d you do THAT for?” (Well sir, your heart wasn’t beating).

7. Pain medicines do not take away all the pain; they make you not care that your leg is broken.

8. There really is a light in your eyes that goes out when you die. Watching it is humbling.

9. People will accept suffering with an amazing amount of dignity and grace if they feel it is for a reason. Any reason.

10. If you tell a mother that her eighteen-year-old son is dead, you will remember her face and her name forever.

11. If you advocate for a mother to hold her seven-year-old child one more time, she will remember your face and your name forever.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Cursive

2010-10-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

We went to my son's Parent - Teacher conferences tonight, and no less than two of his instructors commented on his nice handwriting, his cursive to be exact.

I was a bit shocked that they mentioned it. It hadn't occurred to me that many kids his age (13) spend so much time on the computer, or texting on the phone, that they don't take time to practice their writing. Since I am of the age when computers didn't exist until I was in high school (and then were a bit of a novelty for the science-nerd-techie crowd), I learned to type in 10th grade and had my first computer at 20 something. So, that means all communication before then was - gasp!- hand written.

Oh the horror!

I actually like to write longhand. My cursive is of the flourishing, curly sort, which is a bit difficult to read, but it looks pretty good. And sometimes I still write with a pen.

Poetry especially is more suited for paper and ink, at least at first, because it doesn't come quickly. It must be painfully extracted if you want to know the truth.

Prose, on the other hand, comes out so fast that it is cumbersome to try to get it all down on paper, and the revision process looks like hell.

Jake (my son) has great handwriting, and he writes quite often. I've read a few studies lately that there is a neuronal connection between handwriting and creativity. It makes sense in a very common sense way. As an evolutionary tool, communicating by written language required development of symbols to get an idea across. That humans are hard wired from brain to hand seems reasonable.

In my office I have lots of examples of my fascination with words (the subject of previous posts), and as I look around the room, I notice that quite a few of them are handwriting examples: my grandmother's notes above her Vaccai vocal exercises, artist's signatures on paintings, my own script. I think many of us think that handwriting is a tedious chore, but I've always seen it as expression.

I won't be giving up my computer in this lifetime, but there are days, rainy days, when I sit on the bed, pen in hand, paper on lap, coffee nearby, and write.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Now for Road Clothes

2010-10-18T21:37:00.000-07:00

Giving equal time to my other novel, this is an excerpt from Road Clothes.

This scene is in the middle of the book. Cassidy collects road clothes and because she does, she found a jacket in the roadway with an arm in it. She lives with her mother, Linda,who is a hoarder. This scene gives some background to the genesis of the problem. When Cassidy was sixteen, her father burned most of their possessions and then dropped dead a few weeks later.

Road Clothes

She'd always loved him very much, her dad, but those last few weeks, when he'd burned their things and yelled, and then left them for good, she'd put him in a remote place in her mind. Her mom didn't take it very well, she heard her sister and friends say. She kept waiting to see someone take death in a good way to have something to compare it to, but by the time the headstone came, shiny black granite with gold flakes that glittered in the sun, she decided it was just a figure of speech. There was no such thing.

She found her mother wandering around the house, picking up items and setting them down. She wondered how long Linda would stay in this foggy-eyed trance, looking to Jenna and Cassidy for answers to simple and every day questions. It took awhile to notice that he house had gotten cluttery and Jenna was the first to be offended. Linda didn't work and the girls were in school all day. Jenna was graduating from High School in June and threatened her mother that she would move out if Linda didn't get rid of the accumulating things.

Linda would buy things every day, saying they reminded her of him. She would stop at any garage sale or second hand store, bringing things home like a lamp that she thought Dad would have liked. Jenna and Cassidy exchanged glances and picked up as much as they could. It wasn't trash exactly, but the amount of stuff that Linda piled everywhere precluded them cleaning very well and Cassidy thought the house took on a faint, musty smell.

It made Jenna crazy, this uncontrolled collecting and she screamed at her mother to stop. Linda blinked and did not cry.

When Jenna graduated, her party was at a friend's house, and people stopped coming over. Not even the priest was invited to visit. Cassidy took sides and landed on her mother's mess, unable to fathom losing both her partents, but thinking a while without her sister wouldn't hurt.

With her husband gone, and perhaps a tendency to want stuff anyway, Linda's control was gone too. She assigned value to things way beyond their influence. A two inch teddy bear that came with some Valentine's candy would be kept in the living room. A button that caught her eye in the store would go in a jar on the counter to be used "someday" for "something." She wouldn't throw anything away. It might be useful someday. She might be useful someday.

Lightning! And Thunder!

2010-10-17T15:25:00.000-07:00

Oh my gosh, we had lightning and thunder today! I love lightning and I miss it so much. When I was little and we lived in Texas and Kansas, we could sit out on the back patios and watch the lightning like it was a movie show. Central California has lightning once every 3 or 4 years and we've had two "events" in the last month. Surely the end of the world is at hand.

Since I wrote about the novels yesterday, I thought I would give an example of the middle grade one, as it is not as complete as the other one. Well, that was clear. Let's start over.

Novel 1 - Margaret of Thibodeaux (middle grade or young adult) - not complete
Novel 2 - Road Clothes (literary fiction) - complete but not revised.

So Margaret was the original voice of this blog, mostly because I had fear about being myself on the internet (now I don't have fear - you have to do hard work to get lots of people to read it). This is the very beginning and introduces Margaret and her father.

No need to comment, but rave reviews are always welcome. I am alway so curious about what other writers are working on, so just thought I would share mine.

Margaret of Thibodeaux
Daddy stood on the porch slapping his hat against his leg. "Come on Margaret, we have to go," he called into the house.

Margaret stood in the middle of her room, dressed and ready, but trying desperately to think of a way to get out of going to Dina's house for supper. It occurred to her to run in place and she did so as quietly as she could, waiting until she knew a second yell would be coming soon, then hurried down the stairs, her heart beating faster and her cheeks filled with heat.

"I think I have pneumonia."

"You don't have pneumonia. Get in the car."

"Maybe I have leprosy."

"Margaret Louise, you do not have leprosy. Get in the car please." He said the last word as a threat against further delays from her, but she stood, feet together and unmoving on the walk, as if she would fall off a cliff is she continued toward the Dodge Dart parked against the curb. "What's the matter with you today?"

She met his eyes and felt a new flush across her cheeks. It was unnatural to disobey him, but the conviction she had over not going to Dina's house, and therefore giving her blessing to their friendship, was winning the pull inside her. She could not think of a reason for her obstinance that sounded true, and he would want a reason.

"I don't want to go," she said finally, putting her head down and dragging her eyes away from the fierce reaction she imagined in his face.

"Why not?"

"I don't think Mama would like it."

A tension sprang between them and she peeked up to see if he was mad or shocked, and instead found him staring down at his hat, turning it gently in his hand and feeling the brim with his thumb.

"Get in the car," he said.

She thought it would be easy. She'd resist and he'd give in. But that didn't happen and now she would have to go where Mama warned in a cryptic message from the Ouija board, "Don't go."
"I can't, Daddy."

"Get in the car, get in the car, get in the car!"

"Mama said 'Don't go!'" she yelled back at him, not meaning to say, "Mama said," because how could she, if she was dead.

He'd gotten a grip on her upper arm, to lead her to the car like a young child, unaware of the reason behind his daughter's dread until the words hung heavy in the air. "What did you say? How would she have said to you 'Don't go'"?

"She talks to me sometimes. She doesn't like Dina."

He pursed his lips in disgust for long enough to convey the message. "Margaret, that's a bunch of horse shit," and the conversation was over.

Margaret got in the car, the heavy door creaking a complaint at being made to move and slamming shut just as noisily. She rested her head on the door, her face pressing against the window. The cool glass felt good and comforting against her recently defiant and now defeated cheek. She was being taken to Dina's house; she wasn't getting out of it. She hoped that Mama would understand, and knew that Daddy wouldn't.

Tomorrow, a Road Clothes excerpt. Thank you for reading.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Making Progress

2010-10-17T04:43:00.000-07:00

The characters for my two novels in progress have been left at home lately with nothing to do. This writer has been sidetracked with various small projects so I'm not really writing, I'm thinking about what I'm going to write, and somehow that isn't really the same thing. November is National Novel Writing Month, and I've decided to NOT participate this year. Not that I don't think it's useful, or fun, or a sadistic form of writer-torture, but I have two novels that I need to finish, and if I start one more, then I'll have three.

I do have a story though. I could do a little bit on it. 65,000 words isn't that many. Right?

I've discovered my writing block to be at the revision end of a completed work. My son is on my case because I intend to kill his favorite character in my Middle Grade novel. He doesn't get, nor does he care, that it will move the protagonist to a discovery she wouldn't have made if her best friend was there to keep her safe. He begs me, "Please don't kill Honey!" and I respond, "but I HAVE too." The grocery store was the last place this came up and I didn't edit myself until I saw the sideways glances and Jake's sudden realization that people were looking at us. End of exchange.

I am perfectly capable of making my own writing decisions and suffering the consequences if necessary. That usually is only a monetary drain on otherwise hopeful earning streams, but not as unexpected in our current economy. I'm years away from finding an agent, so perhaps the ability to get a well-written book out there will not be the leviathan task it now seems from this side of the fence.

I went to the Central Coast Writer's Conference at Cuesta College last month and had a few very helpful, very interesting classes. Dr. Clark from Cal Poly did a great poetry intensive that inspired a few of my latest works. Charlotte Cook was from a publishing house and read the first three pages of the brave souls who brought their blood and sweat and ink to her hand. For better, a "this is nice," to a worse, "don't do that," we all saw in quick succession that an agent or editor will give us about three minutes of their time. Rarely more, but at least a few.

It reminded me of me buying houses. I've bought so many that I see the outside presentation, walk through the flow of the rooms, get the gist of the timbre of the structure and make my decision. Some detail work is done later of course, but the decision to go onward can be made rather quickly. Charlotte does this with writing. I keep that in my head when I'm constructing the beginnings of things now.

My very most favorite presenter was Melissa Pritchard. She is a professor at Arizona State University and has written novels and short stories. I hadn't read her work before sitting in her class, but I instantly like her manner, her style, the way she spoke softly but so that all could hear, and really interacted with the class. Style. She has class and style. I love it. Some of the things she said in the workshop made intense divots in my illusion of having a great system for working full (and now also part) time and still being able to write. And her writing is . . . stellar. I truly love it. Her detail and story progression seems familiar, like something I've read before, but not boring. It's something I want to read over and over. My idea of literary fiction.

Not that I would have to do everything she did - you could say some of the things were quirky - but her point of shaking up the picnic blanket of your life so you could see what tumbled back to earth and where it landed - to see your own world differently - clicked into the space in my brain that had been patiently waiting for it all these years.

Now to make time to put those "out of the box" mental escapades to work for my girls Cassidy and Margaret. I had no concept of how very large a novel was when I started. Two sitting on my desk almost make me want to turn around and go get a nice hot cup of coffee and sit on the couch watching QVC. There is a system for revision - it is still overwhelming. So, I've let myself off the hook for a deadline.

I think I will have them both ready to shop out in December 2012 - just in time for the end of the world. That suits my pessimist side, but having a goal of two whole years to finish two whole novels makes the optimist sing.

Work will have to be wedged in there somewhere, along with the two men in my life, but they are pretty easy going and if there is food in the house, they don't venture far.

It will truly be a life accomplishment, a bucket list check, to complete and revise and refine and publish the novels. I really like the heroines and the stories. Hope readers will like them too.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Good Morning

2010-09-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

"Good Morning, Vietnam!"

I don't know why I woke up to one of Robin Williams' screen personae bellowing in my ear, but I did. Figuratively, of course.

I think it's because today is the first day of fall and for the life of me I cannot come up with an expression that is well known for acknowledging the seasons. We acknowledge holidays - usually with "Happy something-or-other," when holidays are notorious for not always being happy times. But we don't really acknowledge the changing of seasons, and I wondered why.

Perhaps it's because, while there is a date and time for the season to change, our realization that it's changed comes with the weather or our schedules, and those don't line up with the scientific definition of season.

Is fall when school starts? August 30: "Happy Fall!"

Does it come when the weather turns and the leaves change color? In California that's Novemberish: "Happy Fall!"

What about people who live somewhere else like Maryland, or Australia? Pick random day: "Happy Fall!"

So, I see the challenge of acknowledging a season - it isn't always the same day. Also, some people don't like one season or the other, so a "Happy" exultation might not be true for them. I still think the seasons are important enough to be heralded though.

What to do . . .

We could make a national Candy Corn day (I swear I don't know why I love them so, but I do), and then that would announce Fall. For Winter it could be those peppermint patties, Spring would be "Peeps Day," of course (although I'm not fond of those really), and summer would be - tah dah - "Ice Cream Day :)" (with the silly smile face and everything!).

Have you noticed a food theme here?

Fall means oatmeal for breakfast and a big cup of coffee. I wonder what they eat for breakfast in Vietnam?

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Lost and Found

2010-09-22T05:21:00.000-07:00

I've been working on establishing a better routine for my life, so that I get more done and have more time to write. Here I am at Oh-Dark-Thirty wide awake after maybe six hours of sleep. What does that mean? The more I try to organize my time, the more my internal clock gets screwed up.

Maybe I just function better without a routine. Writing my blog is a perfect example at the moment. I have found it nearly impossible to post with any true routine. My thoughts and what I have to say get boring even to me and I really want to say something at least moderately interesting when I do take the time to blog. When I was working 12 hour shifts, most of them were at night, and most of the time I worked 3 on, 4 off. I always thought I would get a routine when I worked "normal" hours. I've worked "normal" hours now since February, but still no set routine. It feels like a failure of mine, but it's a personal failure and therefore not so important as the failures one can see - such as losing something.

I almost never lose any of my stuff (oh, I think I see the Karma sword off in the distance). The funny thing is, stuff is not all that important to me. So if I did lose it, I probably wouldn't care much. I have wonderful people in my life, and I'm lucky enough to have the ability to replace said stuff should it really be an important piece of stuff.

One of the duties of my new job is dealing with people who have lost stuff in the hospital - not that it happens very often, but as you can imagine, sometimes stuff gets lost. It makes me have angst. I care way more about other people's stuff than I do for my own. I have absolutely no control over whether something gets lost and this control freak pretty much freaks out. I really don't like it.

When I worked in the ER as a nurse, I frankly didn't care about people's stuff - I was saving lives dammit! I was never reckless with said stuff, but really, it was so low on the priority list for me, and for the most part, for the patients at that moment. I cared about the person, and cared for the person, and stuff be damned. So I really get it that in crisis moments, stuff gets pushed aside. But now I work on the other end (meaning the administrative type end) and caring for people means that I'm upset for them if something is lost.

What I don't like is the weird mentality that pervades our society of "someone else" being responsible for your stuff. If you really value your things, take care of them. Don't expect those in service to do everything for you if you are able to do it for yourself.

Yes, I know, sometimes people's stuff is more important to them than life, or they are temporarily unable to care for themselves, much less their stuff. I have a nebulous concept of that. But because I personally don't care about stuff, I think the angst I feel is more about having to care about it. I'll get over it. My personal value system usually meshes with my work, and it certainly won't affect the performance of my duties, but I think this one issue speaks volumes on a societal level.

Do you ever notice how many Self Storage places there are? Why do we have so much stuff? I have an absolutely astounding amount of stuff and I try to use it or give it up, but if the house burned down, there is nothing material I would have wanted to save. (It would be bad if it burned down because my husband is a fire chief - but that's an embarrassing kind of bad).

My novel that is complete, but not finished (meaning revised, edited, perfected) is about a girl who is compelled to pick up the clothes she finds lying in the road. Her mother is a hoarder. It's all about how we value stuff and let it take over our lives. So, I think about this topic a lot. Do you ever wonder how/why those various and sundry pieces of clothing end up on the road? I do. I have a theory that there is a portal from the dryer to the roadway and that's where all of the socks go.

Now I've spent more words on the subject and am no closer to any kind of personal resolution than I was before. I do have another kind of lost and found story that is part of the reason for my absence of late. In mid August, we went to Hawaii for two weeks. It was great, fun, great fun. When we came home, our dog Jessie did not seem very enthused to see us and I thought she was mad at us for leaving her for so long. The next day she was still not herself and I noticed her gums were pale. The diagnosis was a hemangiosarcoma and our sweet Jessie died on September 14th. She was the best dog we ever had, and we miss her.

I swore I would not get another dog . . . for about 2 days. What we lost could not be replaced. But we found another puppy. We'll bring her home in November - a black lab girl born on the 19th of September. We don't have a name for her yet, but we can't wait to get her.

So this loss, and find, is an exchange of the immaterial kind. I much prefer that kind of lost and found, even if it is more personally painful, because if it hurts, it means that it meant something.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Where I Write

2010-07-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

My writer friend Leslie features pictures of "where I write" on her blog, and today, she's put up a picture of my space.

Very cool. Thanks Leslie.

I don't think you can see it in the picture, but her blog is on my monitor 'cause her lessons and exercises are wonderful and I use them a lot when stuck for ideas.

It's made me think a little bit about "where I write" and I've come to the conclusion that it is not really a place in the world, but a place in my head. What no one around me knows is that I am writing all the time. I listen to conversations, analyze physical situations, and try to translate how tension makes itself known. This thinking gets written down at various times at my desk, but I don't really need a bunch of desk time to get pretty good results.

In the last few months, I have taken a break from writing. This was kind of an enforced break due to school and the pursuit of another new job that I wanted. School is almost over and the job is lost, but I choose to take that as a signal that I should continue to write.

The link to Leslie's blog is here, and I think you would enjoy a few moments with a truly wonderful, giving writer.

Thanks for reading me.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Beloved

2010-06-24T21:00:00.000-07:00

May I just say that I love Toni Morrison? She is absolutely brilliant. For those of you who do not know, Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993. In my English class, we are reading "Beloved," and it is seriously one of the best books I've ever read. It's about a woman who escaped from slavery and the things she did to ensure her freedom. Some of those things were unforgivable.

Online classes are a bit of a challenge in that your discussions are done in an online exchange and you don't have the benefit of voice inflection, expression, and rambling to help you make a point. I've been impressed by my classmate's ability to make me see things differently. I tend to understand the books with layers of inferred or hidden meaning, but sometimes you "meet" someone who gets it at a level that makes reading a book an event. So thank you, classmates, for the enlightenment.

The other writer I discovered is Zora Neale Hurston. You may have heard of her novel, "Their Eyes Were Watching God," and the movie with Halle Berry was pretty good. But the book is fabulous. A bit hard to read at the outset because she uses the dialog to get the Southern black inflection, but once you pick up the cadence, the story is amazing.

How's this for a first line:

"Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board."

Wow. If you are looking for something to read this summer, give it a try. It is a story about an unforgettable, strong woman, and I kind of like those stories. You might like it too.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

It's June!

2010-06-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

Holy Cow! It's June! How did that happen when I wasn't looking?

Am I the only one who writes the date at least 50 times a day, but somehow does not realize it has been 2 months since I've done something I love? (That "something I love" would be posting on my blog oh-you-who-go-to-the-dark side).

I got a very kind and thoughtful email from a writer friend today, saying she missed me and my posts - how's that for making my day? Fabulous, I tell you - it felt fabulous. It felt so fabulous in fact that I felt like writing, which I haven't felt like for awhile. I think I'm starting to sound like Winnie the Pooh.

My silence has been from the usual busy, but also from the last push to finish school, applying for a big job I didn't end up getting, and other nefarious things thrown in my way, trying to get me to stop talking, or writing, or both.

Now that I'm almost done feeling sorry for myself (not quite done yet, but I will be done at 4:17 on June 28th), I can get back to writing. It feels kind of like the pool when you take the cover off- hot on the top and cool underneath, but refreshing and inspiring now that I've waded in.

My last two classed for my BA in English will be complete on August 9 and I will officially be done with school 20 something years after I started. I do not advise this. My dad told me once he didn't really care if I got a degree, just that I was well educated. Unfortunately, the rest of the world cares, so I caved to the pressure and got one. There. Boy, I feel so much more smarter now.

Life is good, all things considered, and I think a little break from writing every now and then will be a good thing. But I'm back, so get ready to read.

We are planning a road trip for the summer - up to Yellowstone - and I think I might do a road trip section for the blog just for the heck of it. Planning, going, going, going, re-planning, going some more - and all the stuff in between. It might not be that interesting, but it will keep me writing when I keep saying I have too much to do.

I hope it ends up being a bonding experience for the three of us (hubby, me, and 13 year old son), and I fondly remember road trips of my youth: Eating crunchy mac and cheese and crunchy red jello somewhere in Arizona after a sandstorm, wondering what the heck was so fabulous about burnt marshmallows but eating them anyway, lying in a tent that was just under 179 degrees with crickets singing so loudly my eyeballs hurt. Ah, the American Dream - the open road and all the discoveries just waiting over the horizon.

Now we have an RV and air conditioning. I hope my son will not suffer an incomplete childhood because he didn't get to experience camping in all its rustic glory. He'll get over it. I bet we can come up with completely original Taylor Fails for his story telling days. I'm going to be brave and share. Pictures may or may not be included.

Thanks for reading and thank you, dear Laura, for letting me know you thought of me today.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

A Short Story Today . . .

2010-04-17T16:31:00.000-07:00

Okay kids. One more post of my recent writings and then I'll get over myself for a while. But not for too long.

I wrote this one day when I was thinking about the 3 Navy Seals who are being court-martialed for hitting someone they captured. It just doesn't sit right with me. I don't know the details, and maybe I don't want to know, but most of my family served or is serving in the military. I'm proud of them all and also of the friends and their families who have served us.

I wrote with Leavenworth in mind, I lived there for a year when I was 7. Not IN the prison, ON the base.

Enjoy. And THANK YOU!

Everything Fell Into Black (1075 words)

The door closed in slow motion and the metal clanged together in a sound so final, even light stopped coming in.

For days, maybe weeks, he lay on the small cot, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep out thoughts of home: lightning bugs in the front yard, rain on the gravel drive, bacon frying in the cast iron skillet on Sunday morning. Random memories of the place he would never see again didn’t give him comfort, and he wished they would recede into faded images like the ones in an old photo album he could close and put away.

He felt better if he was able to move around, to concentrate on the outside world and not his inner, desolate one. In the yard, a gravel path hugged the perimeter fence and one of the guards said, “You should walk – the path’s a quarter mile.”

He began to walk, always in the same direction, counting laps for the day and scratching them into his cell wall with a fingernail every evening. It wasn’t where he expected to spend his days; a cell reserved for those who broke the laws of God and man. The laws of God were easy to abide, the laws of men were more difficult.

He did what he was told to do. He found the man who kidnapped and killed three of his brothers in arms. Both sets of laws guided him, but somewhere in the office buildings where detail is Lord, it was decided he broke a rule of engagement. It was a conflict, not a war, but the price for all parties was the same.

The enemy spoke enough English to taunt, “I’m glad I killed them, they cried like little children for mercy.”

His punch was instinctive, a posthumous defense of brothers he never met, but a broken jaw crossed the line of acceptable treatment of an enemy combatant. The guilty verdict for a war crime charge brought with it a life sentence. Life meant something different before he came here. It was one thing to willingly serve your country, but he wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong to have to pay such a heavy debt to society.

The scene was always the same when he came out into the sunshine for the hour of daily exercise, but it shocked him that it wasn’t his own back yard. The guard who gave him the hint about walking made small talk like they were just standing on a street corner.

“Walking today?”

“Yeah, for a little bit, I guess.”

“Watch out for where the rain made some little gullies. Twist your ankle something fierce if you don’t see it.”

“Thanks.”

No one smiled in prison, but they exchanged nods and went on with their days. The crunch of the gravel beneath his shoes gave him the satisfaction of the sound of progress, even if he only went around in circles. Some folks did that their whole lives and never knew it; the soldier recognized it painfully with each step that took him nowhere. Nice Guard let him finish twelve laps that day, delayed calling everyone in until he got back around. The soldier never asked his name and he never said, but Nice Guard seemed like a good enough name in a place where nobody had one.

On the other side of the tall, razor-wire-topped fence was an old country road that he’d only seen tractors and a red Ford pickup on, no matter the weather or season. He didn’t really know much about where he was, so the road meant nothing aside from another thing that went away from him. The Missouri River was nearby, and when the breeze blew just right, he could hear it gurgle like an old man clearing his throat.

Nice Guard handed him a piece of chalk one day and the soldier dipped his chin as he took it. The school-board chalk made it easier to keep track of the laps he’d done. The neat sets of marks already went down to the floor, so he started the chalk marks up higher on the cinder-block wall.

About half of his cell wall was covered with marks when Nice Guard came up to his cell and unlocked the heavy door. “Come with me.”

The sun dropped behind the distant oak trees on the other side of the outside road as they neared the path the soldier walked every day. He loved the smell of dusk and the hum of insects in the warm summer air. Shadows disappeared into the ground and everything fell into black except the muted colors in the sky.

They walked out to the path and stopped, the soldier didn’t know what they were doing, but he stood at attention, expecting judgment once again. Flickering lights and the faint sound of folks singing came into his ken and he realized a large group of people marched slowly down the rough country road. He peered into the darkening land, still not able to make out exactly what was there. He saw candle flames as they moved with the oncoming mass of people, and heard their soft voices singing “There is A Balm in Gilead.” He felt the power of a gathering of people united in one direction, marching toward something, or for something, or perhaps even away from something.

Nice Guard said softly, “They’re marching for you.”

The soldier had words to say, but his throat was too tight to let any of them out.

“They came all the way from your home town to protest your imprisonment. I wish I was on the other side of the fence right now.”

In the twilight, as the voices grew louder and other guards moved to the fence to determine friend or foe, the soldier turned to Nice Guard. “I’m glad you’re on this side.”

They walked in silence back to his cell, the heavy clang of the closing door echoing against the high, sweet spiritual. He lay on his cot and let the sounds of peaceful assembly surround him. The thought wasn’t going to change anything, but he realized that he served his country, and paid a debt if he had to, so that all those people could do what they were doing right now outside military prison walls.

He got up from his cot once more and wrote neatly beneath the marks of his journey: “Peace.”

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Loved the Responses!

2010-04-16T21:27:00.000-07:00

I have to say I loved the varied responses I got from posting that poem. Y'all are very nice. Even though there are only a few written comments, lots of people told me they read it.

In case anyone finds it interesting, the way I came up with that poem was a prompt in a writing group I'm in that included the challenge to use certain words in a poem. The one's I remember off the top of my head were:

wings
zero
bodice
skyscraper

There were a total of ten we had to use, and the list of words brought immediately the image of a young lady stepping off a building. Beyond that, I have NO IDEA why that came to me.

When I decided to enter the contest, I had to weigh whether I would send in the poem I liked best, or send the one that is a bit brave, different, has a bigger impact. What will people think if I wrote about a girl jumping off a building? Obviously, I went with go big or go home.

For those who were concerned or think they might not read the rest of my stuff if I always write DEPRESSING things, I give you a more typical poetical offering from me. This is the one I liked best. Tomorrow, I'll post one of my short stories. I can do that . . . publish myself right here . . . because it's my blog . . . and I'll write if I want to. :)

Fire's Censure

She gathers twigs in nearby wood,
selecting only dry and good
sweet-smelling apple for the fire -
near to the place of her retire, long understood

as adversary to the cold.
Used all throughout the days of old,
the warmth and dancing flames instead
inspire stories - lovers wed with bands of gold.

She weaves a tale to no one there
of love and loss - all from the stare
into the flames. She spies reprieve
from deepest woe upon the eve of love's despair.

She wakes to find the embers died,
no memory if lovers lied,
the prose is gone on smoky thread,
the flame put out by words of dread, a tale denied.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Published Poem!

2010-04-04T12:09:00.000-07:00

First off, Happy Easter. I rose early, went to Mass, ate a big Brunch, and my 12 year old son is making Boeuf Bourguinon (a la Julia Child - love her) for dinner. I am a blessed girl.

But, even better than that - today I had my first experience in which I saw my name above something I wrote IN PRINT!!

Okay, so it was only the local paper, but it's still a big deal to me. I'm starting out small so as not to overwhelm the competition. Heh heh.

I'll post the poem below with a warning that it is not a nice, happy piece. It's rather dark and especially dark for me as this is unlike my usual style. But - somebody liked it enough to use ink! That just slays me. I don't usually write free verse either, but hey, whatever works. Enjoy.

(PS - I just realized, looking at the date, that it is my mother's birthday and the day Martin Luther King, Jr. was assasinated. You may think it's strange that I just now remembered her birthday, but she died in 1967, so I think I'm doing pretty good, never having celebrated it all these years.) Happy Birthday, Mama and Requiescat in Pacem, Dr. King.

On Her Way To Zero

Below her
sounds of the city
tumble along
skyscraper canyon walls

Birds
like black freckles
on the face of a distant dome
too far away to see wings flap
or hear the caws

With an eagle eye
she notes the time on the clock
two stories down

A note tucked in the bodice
of her yellow-flowered summer dress

His careless words
left lying on the clean-swept floor

Her descent is as calm as
stepping off her mother's porch
No frantic hands
no fierce grabs at air that
will not save her

on her way to zero

And Another Thing . . .

2010-03-21T14:35:00.000-07:00

As you can tell, I'm still not really writing much in the way of blog-ish stuff. BUT, I found another really cool webpage today, found here. It plays a note for each of the planets as they orbit the sun. Makes for some celestial music and I've had it on as background while I write about a guy in jail. Just thought you might like to hear what the heavens sound like.

That is all.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

A Truly Cool Thing

2010-03-14T17:07:00.000-07:00

As a writer, I'm always looking for inspiration - everywhere. There is a very cool thing called StumbleUpon on the web and it is a search engine that finds various pages from the World Wide Web.

Face it, if you had to search for something, could you really find everything you were looking for? What if you don't know what you are looking for, but you'll recognize it when you see it?

That's where StumbleUpon is way above any other search engine I know of . . . it finds random things that you can save as favorites, or click through in rapid fashion if it doesn't do anything for you. You can make a profile, mine is JoTaylor776 and it shows all of the pages (84 so far) that I've "liked" and saved for later.

I'm finding this to be fun, educational, and a better use of 10 minutes to fill than watching the same old same old on TV. Check it out.

I leave you with this, an interactive map of the constellations I found just today and it thrilled me beyond belief because one of my current stories has to do with my favorite constellation, Casseopia.

Try it, you won't be sorry. Maybe you'll Stumble once a week or so like I do.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

I Write

2010-03-06T17:32:00.000-08:00

I was asked the other day why I write. So, I thought about it. And then I thought some more. And then I tried to go to sleep but instead kept myself awake trying to come up with something clever. At this point I will settle for just plain truth.

The truth is elusive to me on this subject. Partly because I don't really know, I just do it, and partly because the reasons why I write change all the time, like the color of the sky at dusk.

Writer's block is not something I've ever experienced, but lately I've been going through a phase where I think that no one could possibly be interested in what I have to say, or even the way I say it.

This has nothing to do with my concept of self, and everything to do with my concept of the quality of my writing. Everything I write is not fabulous, but it isn't terrible either. I am not personally satisfied, and so I write and write and revise and start over. I know what my writing lacks, and that is always better than not having any idea, but it is infinitely more uncomfortable.

When I sang in my youth, in high school and college, I had a pretty good concept of my ability. Good technique, but the voice itself didn't have that "it," the subtle quality that captures attention. I was okay with that. The part I wasn't good at was the part I had no control over. I was good enough to sing Master Classes and fortunate enough to learn from gifted artists, but I knew I could not be a singer. I was simply not good enough.

When I was a nurse, I was also very cognizant of my strengths and weaknesses, even to the point of realizing before it was apparent to anyone else that I should stop doing patient care because it was sucking the life out of me.

With writing, I have found something that I desperately want to be good at. But I'm not yet. I can't even explain to myself why I want to be a good writer. Is it a reach for fame or recognition? Is it a choice of something, anything I can practice long enough to master? Is it selfish or is it for others?

At some level, it must be from the desire to make a mark in the world, to make a difference by word or action in the lives of others. But why writing? I have been a word snob my whole life, so that part makes sense. I always think that I am entitled to my opinion, and so is everyone else, so check off that box too. I am inherently physically lazy, so writing works for that as well, but the collection of attributes does not begin to describe what prompts me to put words on the page.

"I desire . . ."

Finishing the phrase gives me the best and only answer I can come up with that is true. "I desire . . . to communicate." For all the reasons communication exists, both to express myself, and to connect with others. Sometimes the simplest answer is the best, an Occam's Razor example if ever there was one.

Waiting . . .

2010-02-17T12:24:00.000-08:00

As a group, we Americans are terrible waiters. I don't mean the job as in 'waiting tables,' I mean the physical act of doing nothing in anticipation of something. The online dictionary, found here, tells me that waiting has many uses in our language.

Noun - a period of waiting, pause, interval or delay
Adjective - serving or being in attendance
Idiom - in waiting - in attendance, as upon a royal personage (really? this sounds the same as the adjective to me)
Verb (used without object) - to remain inactive or in a state of repose, as until something expected happens
(THIS is the one that suits my current state, which I will get around to explaining here after a bit)
Verb (used with object) - to continue as one is in expectation of (waiting one's turn)

So, if it is a word with such vast application, why do we do it so badly? Is there something inherently painful in being bored? Certainly, we've come up with enough distractions for waiting to be tolerated for at least the next three millenia, but sadly, it's not enough.

Efficiency is a god and the highest and best use of our precious commodity - time - is a goal on many lists. Maybe that is one of the things I don't get about the world. I like waiting. I like having to wait. I like anticipating an expected happening.

It lets my mind go anywhere I want to go. I get to notice the people in line who look like they will next end up on here. Or in my next book. Frankly, we miss lots of what makes up life when we try to distract ourselves from the nothingness of waiting. That's too bad.

"Ah!" you say, "I have to wait in line at the post office with small children. What's to enjoy about that?"

I didn't say you had to enjoy every moment of waiting. I think the people in Haiti right now are thrilled to wait, because they have hope and expectation of something happening. It's all in how you look at it.

So, today I wait. For a good thing. A new piece of furniture that I am lucky to be able to afford, and find, and have a place for. It's not about the furniture, or the inconvenience to me of having to leave work to wait and then go back. It's about being lucky enough to have the luxury of waiting. It is a luxury.

We have the whole world to meet our daily needs, but the delivery of those services makes us wait sometimes. At least I don't have to wash my clothes with a rock in the river, or kill my food in order to be able to have dinner tonight. I'll wait.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

I Don't Wanna

2010-02-06T13:14:00.000-08:00

I'm having a bit of a temper tantrum today. The sky outside - well, it's right there with me. This is the view from my front door. I am really happy that this picture is not of 3 feet of snow like they had back East today.

As I write this, I am supposed to be writing a paper for my English class. It's due tomorrow, but - whatever. I don't wanna.

I'm a grown-up and you can't make me. There.

Somehow, the paper has not magically appeared, perfectly written and formatted, during my hissy fit. How come the world doesn't work like that?

Of course, I could chose to not do the paper at all. I would then have the ramifications of a bad grade (ee-gads!) But - totally my choice. By signing up for this class, I implied that I would be responsible for the work assigned. Responsibility is a heavy thing sometimes, but in this case, it is my own sense of responsibility that holds me to a certain standard. No one will be injured if I do not complete the paper. But I'll do it anyway, even when I really, really, really don't wanna . . . because I said I would, and for that promise, the task must be completed.

They know who I am, those responsibility police, and they know where to find me.

In these days of Internet annonymity, it is possible for us to hide behind screen names and "Annonymous" comments, but I think that erodes our sense of feeling tied to what we say or do. I chose to use my real name in my Internet presence because I think it implies a certain sense of ownership. It makes me think before I hit "send" and at times, I say less than I might in a real life situation because I know that many will read it. I wonder if that is me censoring me for a good reason, or is it an external censorship - the possibility of popular opinion that I don't want to come crashing down on me?

I'm the "get-along" girl. I can get along with almost anyone, and I find it easy to see the common ground between people instead of their differences. There is a role for that, both in real life and in cyberspace. Many people use blogs as the way of putting their opinions out into the ether, hoping perhaps that it makes those opinions valid, as if they are published by the sheer force of will. Me, I just say what I think, not really pushing any kind of agenda. I'm absolutely amazed that people find even that small offering interesting at times.

I totally understand those who chose not to use their real names, and I'm not impuning that decision. I'm just saying that, for me, it made me feel less responsible when I used a pseudonym, so I stopped doing it. A few days ago, I read a very interesting post from one of my favorite blogs on how this annonymity can be not just irresponsible, but hostile and dangerous. Here is the link, and this wonderful woman puts the problem into such an interesting context.

Funny thing, but I just realized that the topic of my paper is the transgression of irrresponsibility. Perhaps I've been working on it after all.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

I Get To Wear Clothes

2010-02-03T06:08:00.000-08:00

I hope the title hasn't scared you. I usually do wear clothes. But I started a new job on Monday, the day which happened two days ago, and it's the kind of job where you sit at a desk and you wear regular business clothes.

This is only remarkable because, at age 44, I have the first job I've ever had wherein I don't wear some type of uniform. I worked at Baskin-Robbins and wore the uniform and silly hat, I worked ambulance and wore a jumpsuit (my personal favorite - step in, zip up: dressed), I was a nurse for 16 years and wore scrubs everyday with the requisite stethoscope and various tools and papers stuffed in my pockets.

Now I go to work in "clothes" versus "scrubs." So far, it is very fun, but I haven't had that day yet where I stand in the closet thinking I have nothing to wear.

Yesterday, when I was in the hospital cafeteria with my dear friend Holly (who bought me lunch! - thank you), someone - I don't remember who - remarked loudly and with great enthusiasm, "You are wearing clothes!" Now I know, and everyone who works in a hospital knows, that her comment meant that I was wearing clothes and not scrubs, but the poor elderly lady sitting in the corner got a most painful look on her face that I could only mentally transcribe as "did she used to walk around nude?"

I was entertained by this for the rest of the day.

There have actually been a few variations on this theme, such as "oh, I didn't recognize you in your clothes!" and "isn't it nice to wear real clothes?"

Again, these things, said around anyone who works in the hospital, would not make them pause their thinking or activity. But sometimes, there are visitors or patients nearby and I just smile as I look around and see them regarding me with confused expressions. The explanation is too long. It is an inside joke.

I live in a small town. My writer brain goes immediately to the coffee shop on Spring Street where the old folks sit and chat and I can hear them saying "Did you know - I heard them saying she didn't used to wear any clothes!"

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Frankenstein

2010-01-20T19:07:00.000-08:00

For my English Lit class this week, I had to read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. With all the reading I've done over the years, this was one of the classics I'd never even picked up. I saw the movie. I know what happened. I am dumb.

I should know by now that Hollywood movies back in the 30's didn't stick to the story line AT ALL. I really should know this. But, I was pleasantly surprised to find a well-written, interesting literary story that was a completely new discovery.

I am not quite finished, but I got to read the monster-y part while the wind blew, lightning flew, and thunder crashed around me. We are having a big storm and today I stayed in my jammies, made hot chocolate (with marshmallows), got out the blankets, sat on the couch in front of the fire, called the dog up onto the couch with me, and read a good story. To know me is to know that this was a little slice of heaven.

One of the things I like about older novels is the minutia and detail about daily life they include. Jane Austen does this, Proust does it to a degree that maddens most people, and if I'm not in the mood to be slowed waaaaaay down, to read about life in slow motion as it seems the 'olden days' were, then I too get bored easily. The weather and the dry and comfy house set the mood for me today, and I enjoyed hearing about what the character did each day.

I think that is one thing missing from literature being written today. We live faster. The pace is just different. So to write about what I did for two hours when I wasn't doing anything is boring. We are now in a culture that demands stimulation, progress, entertainment on a scale never seen before. I don't necessarily dislike it, but it comes in to sharp focus when I read something written two hundred years ago. Proust wrote pages and pages about the few minutes right when you are falling asleep. I think it is very interesting, but now many people can't slow to that timelessness of contemplation.

Frankenstein was written by a very young woman in response to a friendly challenge. What could I write if I had to live the way they did in 1818? If the power goes off, I can't quit hitting the light switch every time I go in to a room, so I don't think I'd be inspired. I'd be annoyed to have to live without the modern conveniences. I do think that time spent doing nothing but listening, taking things in, instead of always spewing things out would do wonders for our culture. Slow down, just a little. Think before you say something. Really listen to the world around you. Shelley noticed some interesting things. I think those things might still be there, if we just paid attention.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

I Am Still Me, But I've Changed

2010-01-18T19:01:00.000-08:00

This last Saturday, I had the wonderful privilege, the fabulous luck, the absolute thrill of seeing two of my college roommates for the first time in 20 years. I would have recognized them anywhere, they look the same, and they were kind enough to say the same about me. We have aged oh so gracefully. We only had time for dinner this visit, but I hope there will be more visits in the future.

It made me think, in the subsequent days, how I have changed. The introspection isn't always comfortable, but the occasion to see dear friends when you've not seen them for years is a rare thing. Compared to the twenty-something me, the forty something me is less bothered by what other people think of her. I used to constantly put words in people's heads about what they were thinking of me when I was young and insecure. These two dear and wonderful women were always kind, sincere, not involved in the cattiness many women get swept up in, and sought always to be supportive of me and the path I was choosing.

I often feel bad, and feel like I am a bad friend when I have failed to stay in touch with people who've been part of my life at some time in my life. My friends assured me that it was never taken that way, and that they felt the same way sometimes.

My grandmother used to be very particular about me writing letters to friends as I moved around the country with my family from Army base to Army base. I had a hard time keeping up with friends, and they would slowly drift to the bottom of the 'to do' pile. I never meant to put them there, but staying in touch was hard work sometimes. Grandma would tell me how she still wrote to all her friends. It's very likely that Grandma only met 500 or so people in her whole life. I've met 5,000. Or more. How do you keep up?

Until just recently, the answer was, you didn't. I thought often of my friends in Killeen, Leavenworth (the town, not the prison), Joppatowne, Lompoc, Solvang, and San Luis Obispo, but finding them was out of the question. Then came the internet, then Facebook. It's been so easy. And I've been so happy. There's no pressure to write long tomes of all the things you've done - people just catch up as we go forward together in time.

I have to appreciate Facebook sincerely for this. I have no more 'I didn't keep in touch' guilt. And I've discovered that you basically continue to be the person you have always been. The girl I was at 20, she's still around. Maybe more polished, less anxious, more grateful, and less needy, but there nonetheless.

Realizing that about myself has been mildly interesting, but finding out that two dear friends are still two dear friends - now that is fabulous!

I hope to always see my friends this way - not looking for how they've changed, but searching instead for what it was about them that made me like them in the first place. I want to be understanding of the trials that have battered them, grateful for the joys in their lives, and hopeful that their presence in my life will be ongoing.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Data

2010-01-14T20:05:00.000-08:00

Since my new job will involve lots and lots of data, I thought I would get into the swing with a little data of my own.

About my writing . . .

Never fear, I will not share work or life data here. (Hey, that rhymes!)

Anyway. The new revision process I am using had me go through my manuscript (MS) and write down things that are not right for various reasons. The data that came out of this exercise was interesting. I think its interesting although I may lose many of you right about now. now. now.

My MS is 191 pages. I have 17 pages of things that are not right. That makes about 9% of my MS. I'm really pretty happy with that. I went into it thinking at least half of what I wrote back in the fog of November would be complete dredge. So, with a fear of 50% to do over, 9% is rather spiffy.

Loving words as I do, over the years I've attached certain words I find interesting to facts and data that just seem to hang around in my head, useless, until I have my very own blog and I can write what I want. Here are some of my favorite words and their data.

Humans and armadillos are the only animals who can get leprosy. I'm not sure what this says about humans or armadillos, but leprosy is a very cool word.

The indentation in the bottom of a wine bottle is called the "punt."

A sixty-fourth note is writen out as a hemidemisemiquaver.

Antidisestablishmentarianism used to be the longest word in the dictionary when I was in second grade. Oh wait, it still is! Either I am younger than I previously thought, or the wordsmiths of the world have been on vacation. Get to work people! We need more long words!

Speaking of getting to work, that is what I should be doing. Homework, work-work, housework, writing-work. . . I think blogging needs a more serious nomenclature to represent the effort involved. How about Blork (pronounced Blerk). Blogging-work. Or perhaps I just need another nap.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Direction and Focus

2010-01-07T05:39:00.000-08:00

I know I said I would post a few resolutions in the new year, but I think we are all bored with that already. Nothing major to change, so no hoopla about changing it. Instead, I've had a little lesson recently in direction and focus and how they are not exactly the same.

I stumbled upon a program by a writer about how to go about revising a novel systematically. I love systems. Give me a structure to work in and I am a-okay. Finding this so-far-very-good system when I am starting the FIRST revision of my FIRST novel may save me decades of wandering in the "working on my novel" labryinth.

What I've learned in this very short time is that I can be incredibly focused, yet have no clear direction or desired end result. If I have a clear direction, then I can focus on the details as they come into view. I never thought of writing in these terms before and it feels a bit like a revelation. Perhaps not so much for the creative, writing part of writing, but definitely for the revising part of writing which takes eons longer.

All that time saving and being efficient is very important to me for the next few months as I finish up with my Bachelor's Degree, revise the novel, and start a new job. I have clear ideas of the general direction for these components of my life and hopefully, with that in place, I can switch my focus back and forth without losing my way.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

The End of the . . . Year

2009-12-29T15:47:00.000-08:00

The end of the year is a good time for endings.

Please do not be stopped by my profundity. I mean it. And so, the end of this year brings about an ending for me. I am changing jobs. I will still be working for the same company, at the same hospital, but I will be doing something entirely different. It is so different that I don't even know exactly what it is yet.

My new job is the Risk Review Coordinator. Yeah, I don't know much about it, but it involves abstracting data. This may sound very boring, but I don't think it will be boring. The non-boring thing about it is that I will not have to work any more NIGHTS, WEEKENDS, or HOLIDAYS. It is - tah dah - a Monday through Friday 9-5 kind of job. I have never, ever had one of those. Seriously.

I will also never talk about said job in the blog. Just that I will be doing it. It kinda involves stuff I can't talk about on a blog. Whatever it is.

The end of this year also brings about an end of a personal streak (of sorts). I have a cold. I have not had a cold for two years, and I have subsequently forgotten what a wussy I am when my face hurts. I think that is about all. Anyone interested in more cold details must have had too much cold medicine themselves.

At the beginning of the year, I will post my resolutions if for no other reason than having something to NOT accomplish next year. I think it will have something to do with string theory and alternate universes (thanks, Dad).

I know it is only December 29, but I figure it is close enough to the end of the year to count. Besides, this is one of the last times and last places where I can say "close enough." Data people are supposed to be exact, calculating, precise. I think that's also why it is a good thing that I'm a Pisces. Two fish - one is the data fish and one is the creative fish.

Let's hope there are no data sharks (or Query Sharks) in the New Year, or it will be the end.

Peace,
Jo Taylor

P.S. Query Shark is an inside writer's joke.

Peas On Earth

2009-12-25T10:06:00.000-08:00

When I was young, I heard words differently. I could spell anything, if I knew what the word really was. Yes, I was that kid who got all the song lyrics messed up, and thought the Pledge of Allegiance was to the Republic for Witches Stands.

So, you can imagine the thrilling discoveries that awaited when I learned to read, and realized that it was "Happy Birthday," and not Hippo Birdie. Or that I was supposed to be saying "Hail Mary, full of grace," and not Hail Mary, full of grapes.

The range of misunderstanding was far and wide. Christmas had lots of words that were misunderstood, mostly because of the singing involved, but I'm pretty sure some of those people didn't know the words either.

Angels we have herded nigh
Harp, the Herald Angel sings (I thought Harp was the name of one of the Angels)
Deck the Halls with bells of folly

Eh, you get the idea.

Merry Christmas to all
and let there be Peas on Earth.

(I swear I still see, in my imagination, snow with little peas all over the top - I looked everywhere I lived and never saw Peas on Earth. It must be a very rare and wonderful thing).

Peace,
Jo Taylor

Poetry

2009-12-13T18:35:00.000-08:00

I've been writing a lot of poetry lately and I haven't the foggiest idea why. My best guess is that November saw me writing (just a little) over 50,000 words. So, now I want to be able to work, but finish something shorter.

When I was a nurse (I'm still a nurse technically, but I supervise - so in effect I just watch others nurse), the type of nursing I was attracted to was the kind where I could complete tasks and then go on to something else. At first, kicking and screaming, I was made to work in an intensive care unit for a year. It was too intense. And I never got done with anything. I did a task over and over and over. Ahhhhh! It is kind of like the rationalization of making the bed in the morning. I'm just going to mess it up again tonight - why bother?

Then, when "they" deemed my skills acceptable, "they" let me work in the ER. Yes. This suited me. It still does, except for the fact that I'm kind of done with the ER. But, what I mean by this is that I like, and my personality excells at, task oriented / completion oriented work.

I am finding this to remain true now with my writing. I think poetry, in its structured forms, requires thought and work to get it right. It isn't my favorite thing to read, but in thinking about fitting words and what I want to say into a certain structure, it works for me in sorting out the bigger story. I don't think I am particularly good at it either, but my reason for doing it isn't poetry as an end result. I wonder how many other writers use a different form to hone their skills in their preferred form?

If you have read all the way to the bottom and are the least bit curious about what I've written recently, I submit this sample. This is blank verse which is unrhymed iambic pentameter. It is the hardest form I've tried to write, but I'm pretty happy with this. I did it to help flesh out how I want to approach this story in its longer form. This is the little book I talked about finding a few posts ago. I'm fascinated by this old book of someone's tiny details of life. I know there is a story in there somewhere.

Time Book

The record lay among archaic notes,
a 'Time Book' from your days of railroad work.
Your name, address, and occupation there
in faded, penciled script upon the page.

The writing started January one.
The year you wrote was nineteen twenty-nine.
A movie cost you fifty cents back then,
and 'sweets' a nickel, taken from you hoard.

A cook for Southern, paid in twenty bills,
the engine logged was G-R-O one-two.
Twelve, fourteen, twenty, ten: the hours hard.
The column added up to fifty-six,
just thirty-five one-hundredths by the hour.

A Memorandum page tells why you must
have felt the need to write minutia down.
"I married her in nineteen twenty-three"
was followed by a separation date
mere days before you first put words on here.
It breaks my heart, your lonely, wistful hand.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Rationalization

2009-12-08T21:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, sometimes I crack myself up.

We writers have heard it said (even if we don't follow the advice) that sitting at the writing place and being present for the words to come is part of the work. So, sometimes I sit in front of the computer for an hour or two to test this theory. It kind of works for me, but a deadline is the thing that makes me produce.

Yesterday, I needed to do some Christmas shopping. A task, and if you look at it a certain way, work. The only problem was - it was raining. Hard. It does not rain here and it was raining rats and frogs (or is that cats and dogs?). Anyway. So, I drove to the place where the shopping was to occur. I turned the car off and waited for the rain to let up a little. It didn't.

Rain does not usually make people melt, but I have lots to do lately, so I decided not to take any chances. I waited in the car for 5 minutes. It then came to me in a flash that I was present and available for the shopping, so that counted as doing the work! A writerly rationalization if ever there was one. I started laughing while I sat in the parking lot. What a bunch of hooey. It didn't change my mind about actually going into the store through the pouring rain, but at least I recognized my silliness as it was occurring.

Funny how no shopping was ever accomplished, just considered and prepared for. Yeah, it doesn't work for shopping and I'm getting the feeling that it doesn't really count in writing either. Prove one idea wrong and the rest fall like dominos.

So this little real life experience showed me that the real work of writing is only accomplished when you WRITE. Sitting at the computer for 2 hours DOES NOT COUNT. Writing counts. I thought about this in terms of telling my son, "Well, I went near the store, and I intended to buy you a Christmas gift . . . "

I'll be going to the store tomorrow. It will be 22 degrees (which is really, really cold for here), but I will actually go inside and purchase something. Perhaps I shall write something too.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

A Long Time

2009-12-06T17:45:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time between posts and I have no good excuse. It just is, or has been (?) a long time.

Right there. In that very first two-sentence paragraph you can probably tell WHY I haven't posted for a bit. My brain is mushy. It kind of hurts a little too. I'm still deciding if writing basically non-stop for 30 days was a good idea or if I have permanently pulled the brain muscle.

In the month of November I also received two very nice form rejections which I added to my neat little (okay, getting big) stack . . . of rejections. If this was dating, I'd decide to be a nun. Ah yes, character building. How fun.

I'm ready to be excited about something again and it is all in the way you choose to look at things. Christmas shopping, that could be exciting. Curling up on the couch with a blankie, the fire going, and reading a good book -- that's definitely exciting. Having a few days this month to spend with my family -- thrilling I tell you!

In the writing arena, a few ideas are floating around looking for a format. I found this small log book in an antique store, and it was a Railroad Time Book. The man who owned it wrote very neatly his name, address, work place, and the prices he paid for things like milk, movies, and insurance. In 1929! I love this stuff. The internet, being the amazing, people-finding thing it is (Facebook, anyone?) will be the start of some kind of interesting story. And if not, I'll make something up.

I just don't know if it will be a short story, or a novel. Who knows what I might find. That is the kind of exciting I like -- the start of a new story and the possibility that it will be fabulous. I think that is the most fun part of anything -- anticipation. When you are anticipating something, it can be perfect in your mind.

I'm trying to not end every paragraph with a sarcastic remark, and for those of you who enjoy them, they'll be back. I will find something honestly exciting to write about next time too. I think I'm just sick of myself lately. So, it may be a long time before I post again. Or it may not. Being quiet has never been my strongest quality.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

NaNoWriMo Progress, Day 25

2009-11-25T19:56:00.000-08:00

Holy cow, may I just say that doing anything for 25 days in a row could, perhaps, make you crazy?

Besides the brownie interlude, I have successfully tap tapped my way to oh, about 44,000 words so far. I'm close enough to make it, but never has 6,000 words seemed like SO MANY.

Thank you for listening, again, to the whining. It will stop soon. Or it may not. A glass of very nice red wine was just placed in front of me by my dear husband, so I guess that should tell me something: my whining is ever-so-much more tolerable after I've had a few glasses of wine. Or not.

My spelling is definitely worse.

I think that means I need to stop blogging now and go back to the NaNo novel and finish it. Should be interesting reading in a month or two, or ten.

Peace, and have a glass of wine :)

Jo Taylor

Brownies

2009-11-23T17:15:00.000-08:00

My son came home from school today and made brownies for me. I love brownies. I've been hard at work on school, writing, work . . . all sorts of stuff, and so my son decided I needed a treat. I happily agree with him. So a brief break for brownies . . .

There now, don't they look wonderful? They smell good too.

Oh, and here is the brown dog pitifully waiting for a taste of said brownies . . .

Ahhh, much better.

Before I was distracted by the wonderfulness of food, I was contemplating how amazingly weather parallels human mood. You read it in fiction all the time, you see it in movies, and people make comments about how the weather affects them. I personally think the only thing that affects people more than weather is music, but that may be only in my own little world.

I looked through various photos I had to see if it would help me to mood-set as I wrote, seeing as how it is almost always sunny here on the Central Coast of California. I found out that I don't take many pictures that show the weather.

But, I have noticed that I use weather very often to mirror or intensify my characters moods. I don't know if that is an amateur move or not, but it works for me right now.

Sunsets? I have tons of those. Dawn? Hardly any. Clouds and troubled skies? I found one from just recently when rain threatened but never came. That happens here a lot. We don't really have weather. As a matter of fact, if it rains here, people stop what they are doing to go look at it. I'm not kidding.

Here is a picture of that one cloudy day -

I thank you for your patience, most of this post was to facilitate figuring out how to put pictures up on the rare occasion that I don't have much to say, but still want to show something.

Goodnight . . .

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Being Brave

2009-11-19T14:16:00.001-08:00

The novel I am writing, Road Clothes, has a main character that is the most not-me of anything I've written to date. If you are a writer, writing variants of yourself is common, though not mandatory, and I found it works as a way to learn to write character. Start with what you know.

This girl, Cassidy, is not intentionally like me at all, nor is she the antithesis. I gave her things to do that I have done, but her qualities are not meant to be a version of me. It is turning out to be harder than I thought.

The blatant dissimilarities are:

She is 25, I am . . . not.

She is auburn haired, fair skinned, I am . . . not.

She has snappy comebacks . . . I realize two days later the thing I should have said.

(Writing is cool for making retorts be just the way you imagined them. It gives me great selfish pleasure.)

Her ideas about love and family and truth are not necessarily mine. She is a younger generation and thinks differently due to the experience and influences on her life being something I've only watched in others. It makes me wonder if I'm getting it right. Is she congruent and believable despite her made-up-ness?

So, it has made me think a lot about how generations view each other. Do I really understand, given the environment she grew up in, her motivations for action? Or will someone that age read her with the knowledge that an older author wrote it? Only time and 27 revisions will tell.

But, I'm working hard to get it right. I have friends her age and I have always been an observer of people. Even if I cannot have empathy for someone and agree with what they think or feel, or how they see a situation, I usually know what they are after when certain behaviors show. And I think writing from the point of observation lets me simply write the characteristics and let them drive the actions of the story.

My stories are not usually about happening, but about character. I spend most of my writer-thinking-time (sort of like nap-time in kindergarten), on their desires and motivations to bring about a logical story. Something that elicits their best, their worst, and allows the reader to see someone familiar in there.

This isn't to say I don't try to have a good story too. I see it as a picture and a frame. For me, the character is the picture, the story is the frame in which that character finds himself. Most frames and pictures are interchangeable, and either can stand somewhat without the other. But often there is that one combination that looks and feels best.

Unfortunately, in the current times we live in, we have the luxury of choice: too much choice. I'm one of those people who would like 3 or 4 choices and leave it at that. Same goes for stories. I have been too dependent on similar characters and stories, the frames and pictures all have a certain style. So, this time I'm trying to be brave, do something different. Every once in a while, you have to put the Picasso in a plain wooden frame.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Recovery

2009-11-13T22:20:00.000-08:00

My night shifts are completed, but it has taken me literally three days to recover. During those three days I was still trying to write because I have a deadline, and this morning I made the mistake of reading back over some of what I wrote. Bad idea.

So, I'm following Dory's advice to "just keep swimming" and cranking out sentences. Pitiful, wasted sentences that will require months of revision. Sentences that are truly cringe-worthy. But, it's all good because I am soon to finish the story. I know where I'm going. Once I get it all written down, I can re-write to my heart's content.

This will be a huge accomplishment for me as I've never finished a novel before. I've started three or four (or five) but haven't covered the entire length of the story. Once the ground is covered, it can be retraced, backtracked, reviewed and revised. Re-covered. Recovery.

I'm starting to get sick of my own words. I'm only now beginning to understand the value of pushing myself to complete a project in a certain time frame. Just do it. It is painful and humbling and a whole lot of fun. It is, in my opinion, very worthwhile. I'm learning something about the way I write that will help me in the long run.

I've also had the premise for two new short stories come up in the times when I was stuck for some direction or dialog or setting. Things I thought of that wouldn't fit in the current story, but are great ideas for later. So, I just jot those down too and "keep swimming."

My writer friends have been very vocal and encouraging and I've failed on my end to be as much of a support for them. I realize that, but cannot pull myself out of the viewfinder to look around and acknowledge those near me. It is a very different thing for me, social animal that I am, to be sort of insular in order to accomplish my goals. I'm not sure what it says about me.

Perhaps it is that I've taken on too much at once, and in order to finish everything, as any good over-achiever knows is the only acceptable outcome, I've had to put blinders on the other parts of my life that are not time sensitive. This too shall pass. I think I've heard that somewhere before.

It is 1pm, as in 1 in the afternoon and I have yet to get dressed. I've been writing all morning. I don't know yet if that is a good thing, or if I've just developed the best excuse in the world for my inherent laziness (you know I am, really I am). I promised myself I could post to the blog if I finished 1500 words for the day, and I did, so I did.

Now it's back into real life: groceries, walking the dog, getting the kid from school, making dinner (nah, let's go out), school, work . . . what was I talking about? Ah yes, recovery. Also known as writing.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Night Shift

2009-11-10T22:22:00.000-08:00

I've been absent from posting for a little reason I like to call NaNo (22,000 some odd words - yeah!) but tonight I am doing the unthinkable. I am working a night shift.

Yes, I did this (work night shift) for 15 years, but I have not done it in a while, and I am not only doing 1 of them, but I am working 4 night shifts in a row!

It is yet another sign of the apocalypse.

How in the bleep did I do this all those years. Years which, I might add, I barely remember. I liked it once upon a time, but that fairy has died and I do not like it now. Only because I love my co-workers (and hope they work for me so I can go to Jamaica again), do I do this.

Thank you for listening. I'm done now.

Road Clothes is coming along nicely. I've had a few things happen that surprised me, and the word count is rising without undue angst. If I get stuck for some transition, I have the characters go out to dinner, which is what I do in my real life for almost any reason. It is all about food.

I'm sorry that I don't have anything interesting to say. That does not mean that I will not stop talking or writing, but I won't be so offended if I am tuned out. All of my effort is going to my novel and my writing classes, so the blog necessarily takes a back seat for a bit. I thought about putting up an excerpt from the book, but it is really a first draft and while not horrible, it is not in show-off shape yet.

But maybe just this one paragraph, some of you will know the setting:

It was 4:17 pm and 74 degrees on the 12th of November when Cassidy left the impound yard. She eased the Mustang out of the steep drive and headed east toward Union Road. Top down, radio up, Cassidy was taking her pony for a ride. It was the sole reason she loved fast cars, for the feel of the wind in her hair and road humming by beneath her. Some people drank beer to relieve stress, some smoked or yelled at their wives or beat their children. Cassidy drove. And sang. The driving she did well, the singing, not so much, but it was the release that pleased her, not the act. A few miles out Union and the road narrowed too much to be safe at high speeds, so she turned left at Geneseo and then headed east on Highway 46, the complete opposite direction from where she’d found the arm, away from her mother and sister, but closer to something. Closer to herself maybe.

There. I'm not sure that will even be in the final draft, but I'm happy with it for now. I think I just want to prove to myself that I'm making progress in my writing. So that is all for now. After I finish my night shifts, I think I will take some new "character stage" pictures with my dress form and show how Cassidy dresses. That is the goal for the weekend.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Stats

2009-11-05T17:06:00.000-08:00

In Jo's little world:

5 Days

10 Chapters

15,931 Words

In Fort Hood, Texas where I lived from 1969 to 1972:

13 Dead

30 Wounded

I am proud of the first stats and horrified by the second.

There are no words or chapters or days . . .

Peace,

Jo Taylor

NaNoWriMo (Again)

2009-11-04T19:07:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know, boring title. I can't manage anything pithy right now.

Sarcastic, maybe, but not pithy. I believe there is a difference.

It is 7 pm or so and I have been writing all day. I got stuck for a few hours about getting from here to there but I think I solved my problem. My total word count is now 12,611.

As a very sweet and thoughtful reward, my son brushed my hair for twenty minutes. I think I hear angels singing.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

NaNoWriMo Progress, Day 3

2009-11-02T15:36:00.001-08:00

The National Novel Writing Month has begun and so far, so good. I've prepped the family (that I will be busy writing), cleared my calendar (not really, I'm working 15 days this month instead of my usual 10), and set a schedule (not really on that one either).

So, what have I done, you ask?

Written 10,064 words so far, that's what! It is amazing what thinking about a story for 3 or 4 months and not being able to write it will do to you. Word spillage all over. Not that it is necessarily readable, mind you.

Notice that the title of this post is blah, blah, blah, Day 3. Do not look for a Day 1 or Day 2 as they do not exist. I skipped blogging those days. Oh, horrors.

My brain is pretty much fried as far as anything intelligent to blog about after sitting at the keyboard all day. But, I wanted to congratulate all my writer friends for their progress so far, encourage them to keep it up (or step it up), and offer a toast for the next 27 days . . . may they be filled with coherent words!

Peace,

Jo Taylor

In Lieu of Costumes . . .

2009-10-31T15:09:00.000-07:00

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

That is all.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Loving Language

2009-10-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

Today's post is about language. It is written in a language (English), and it (hopefully) will do the job of language: communicate. My husband said to me the other day, (when I told him to stop "kvetching"), that I loved words so much, it didn't even matter what language they were in. He then asked for the meaning of "kvetch" to see if he should be insulted or not. Kvetch is a Yiddish word that means to complain, so of course I Americanized it by adding -ing. He was not insulted as indeed, he was complaining.

I thought on that for a moment and realized how true it was. I LOVE words. I love how they sound, I love how they look. I have a rather eclectic background when it comes to language, so I'll share a little bit about it. Then maybe you will all know why I'm fascinated, but only speak ONE language (I think it's an American failing).

My dad is descended from the Pilgrims. Really. That makes him English. My mother was fully German, but since she died when I was two, I have no real recollections of her family. I do know her parents spoke German.

My first wicked step-mother was Polish and she and all her family spoke - um, Polish. I remember them speaking and that I didn't understand anything for awhile. I was very young then, three or four, but I distinctly remember going to visit her grandmother in a nursing home one day. When we got back to the house, one of the ladies there (no idea who she was), asked what we talked about and I told her everything. Dad just looked at me funny because the entire visit was in Polish. He looked at my step-mother and she nodded that yes, I had gotten it right.

In high school, I got interested in classical music and of course, most of the songs are in German, French, Italian, and Latin. I liked Latin a lot. I used to spend inordinate amounts of time grounded in my room by my second wicked step-mother. So, I translated a bunch of the Latin texts. They lined up with the Mass (as almost all of the songs were sacred Latin as opposed to secular). By the time I was 16, I could say the entire Mass in Latin. This was a very useful thing to learn.

It made my Presbyterian father a bit verklemmt that I continued in my first step-mother's religion of Roman Catholicism, but he liked it better than if I had followed the second step-mother's Jack Mormonism. Are you still following?

At that time in my life, the choice was all about the words. Prayer just sounded cooler in Latin. It still does to me. Now my son is learning Latin too, and my poor husband does not yet realize that there is a gene for this kind of odd language fascination. My writer friends get it.

The weird thing is, I never learned to speak any language other than English. I'm around Spanish a lot, as I live in California. I understand just enough to get me into trouble. I can ask questions in Spanish, but my eyes glaze over when the answer comes. I have not put all the components together. I think doing that requires immersing yourself in the language for awhile.

Last year, we had a wonderful foreign exchange student stay with us for ten months. His English was fabulous. He spoke a total of nine languages. OMGosh! Where he lived, and the family and business he came from, required him to be able to communicate with many different cultures.

Sometimes it is not just the desire, but the opportunity that makes a difference as to whether or not we can pick up this skill or that one. If I had to go live somewhere and no one spoke English, I would be MOTIVATED to learn whatever language surrounded me. That is where I think the American culture fails it's people. We are not surrounded by anyone, except US! In reality, we are, but most of us could live our entire lives without ever needing to speak any other language. I find that sad.

And yet, when in my life, because I love words and language, have I forced myself to learn a language other than my own? A little Latin here (um, dead language Jo, pick another one), a little Spanish there, a bit of Danish, some German, oh yeah, and Gaelic. Gaelic (and maybe Welsh) has to have the hardest spellings. I can say the words, I cannot read them. And that's about it. The ability to say words in all those different languages, but not really communicate.

Here, after writing those words, it hit me. I am not really fascinated by language at all. I am, as my sweet husband said, fascinated by WORDS. To the point where I don't care what they mean. Just how they sound, and look, in ANY language.

I'm free! I now know why I want to hear people speak in different languages. I love the sound of words. Music. Words. It makes sense that I frequently read my writing out loud and change things by how they sound. I wonder how many other writers have this aural component to their creative process? Perhaps they all should?

You would think that with all this musical and language background, that I would write music. You would be wrong. I've tried it. I suck. It is weird that musicality and the ability to write do not converge in the ability to write music. I wish it did.

Someday, when I am very old (and wealthy), I will sit in different cities around the world, at small tables in sidewalk cafes, sipping tea and eating whatever I want, and listening to the language that surrounds me, whatever it is, loving the words.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Gotham Writers' Workshop

2009-10-29T15:46:00.000-07:00

I'm back at Gotham (ooh, that makes me sound Batman-ly). Gotham Writers' Workshop is an online and real life (in New York City) writing school. I discovered it soon after being bitten by the writing bug and it has shaved years, perhaps centuries, off my learning curve.

The curriculum is taught by writers. Ten weeks. No grades. Perfect-for-me!

We read a lot, we critique each other's work, and the instructor gives us stand up criticism or praise as they deem necessary. I actually have to work hard to get good responses, but they are EARNED, and that counts for much in my book.

I've learned more in that environment than anywhere else. It's made me think that maybe what I want to do when I grow up is be a writer. I'm lucky to be at a place in life where I can pursue this idea. I also feel it is leading me to get an MFA (Master's in Fine Arts - Creative Writing).

Do I think that everyone needs to take this path? Not at all. Do I think I could be a good writer without one? Yes, I think I could be. So, why the degree?

I have this delusion that someone will be helped by my disclosure and decision making, so humor me.

First, my father, a great influence on me and a very smart person, always said that he didn't care if I got degrees, he just wanted me to be well-educated. I took that to heart and have been in school for most of my adult life. I'm just now finishing my Bachelor's degree, but I have some 210 quarter units under my belt (most degrees are equal to 120 or so). There. Well-educated.

In the writing department, I want to write Literary Fiction. The heavy stuff. The stuff of complex constructs, and intelligent discourse on the trials of humanity, you know - life. I think the way to learn this particular type of writing is best done through a master's program at a university. I think I could learn it on my own, given enough time, but I started this whole thing with about half my life (I hope) behind me, a full-time job and a family. School will shave years off the learning curve again.

I think anyone can benefit from more education. It's one of those things you can never have enough of. I haven't yet applied to any MFA programs, and maybe I'll change my mind over the next few years, but for now, Gotham is filling my need for intense learning and growth. Thanks, Gotham.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Laughing

2009-10-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

I swear, the thing I like most about any day is laughing. Specifically those things that cause laughter again and again and again.

Cake Wrecks.

Look for it under blogs I read. I laugh out loud every single time I go there. It takes all of about thirty seconds to peruse the new day's offerings and get my laugh for the day. Then I get to show my son when he gets home from school, and I laugh all over again.

Some other things make me giggle occasionally, enough to check them out fairly routinely.

The Fail Blogs

There are about fifty of them, but they are various and sundry pictures, videos, and quotes of funny things. They are not consistently as laugh inducing as Cake Wrecks, but they are worth a few seconds of my time.

A few social media giants exist specifically to give me free and easy access to things that make me smile for sure, laugh sometimes. This too is worth a few seconds of my day.

Twitter

I follow a few people I don't know simply because I found them somehow and they made me laugh. My Twitter name (or whatever it is called) is (hold on, I have to look it up): JoTaylor776.

If you want to see who I follow, feel free to look, but I don't necessarily want to post them all here.

I think I need to laugh every day. When I was little, I wanted to be a comedian. Yeah, like a standup comedian. I told my Dad this one day and he said, "But honey, you aren't very funny."

That burst my bubble in a big way but luckily I went on to be a successful, well-adjusted grown-up despite Dad's horrific handling of my secret desire.

He's funnier than I am.

I'm usually one of those people who is only funny when I'm not trying to be. Yes, one of THOSE people. So, I revere those who can make me spit coffee out onto my monitor screen in a single sentence.

To the people in this world who see it as a funny place to be, I salute you.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

People Watching

2009-10-26T07:22:00.000-07:00

I've always been a people watcher. Seriously, one of those who could sit on a park bench and watch someone or multiple someones for hours. I can even go to a restaurant by myself because I like to be in those situations. Watching, waiting for you to do something I can use in a story. Heh heh.

Since December of 2008, when I started writing, this habit has kicked into overdrive and I've noticed more quirks, or people have just gotten more weird. It's a toss up. First, let me start with the odd things I do so that no one thinks I'm picking on them. This is for character development after all.

I say "actually" all the time. I don't like it, I try to stop, but it is a habit born of my smart aleck childhood. If I get frustrated, I stamp my foot. Yes, actually (oops, there it is again) stamp my foot like a little kid. I cry very easily - like at Kleenex commercials.

Now, put those characteristics into someone who is a boss, and you will either see their employees disrespect them if they allow it to show, or amusement when it sneaks out very rarely in a usually controlled personality. The latter is true for me. I control my quirks well. On a very rare occasion, one will slip out and generally, people laugh. It is hard to write a character that has characteristics that they choose not to show very often. You have to set it up early that they do it, then show them in situations where they've controlled themselves, then let it fly at just the right time for effect. Otherwise, it's just a character with an annoying habit that does nothing for the story.

If you put habits into a story, it is helpful to have the character struggle with that habit, because we all do in real life. (If you happen to have a really cool habit, then you work on doing it more often, so still a struggle).

Comedians are a great resource if you are wanting to come up with something that sets your character apart. They've done all the research. How many of them start with, "Did you ever notice . . ."? Frequently, those are the observations that get laughs. Yes, we noticed, but never quite thought of it that way. You can do that in your writing, and that makes the character memorable. Seinfeld is a perfect example: The Close Talker, The Fast Talker, etc.

For writers, it's not about saying something new; it's about saying something in a new way. I've got the noticing part down, which I would say is at least twenty percent of the battle. Now I have to work on writing about them in such a way that readers see it through new eyes - mine (or rather, my character's). At this point, I've almost done too much noticing and my poor characters are being experimented with in every which way. I have to make them interesting, but not twitchy. So do you think a main character who blinks constantly when she's nervous, clears her throat, has a lisp, stamps her foot, says "Ha!" all the time, drums her fingers, chews her nails, talks with her hands, talks loudly, and invades personal space is too much?

What about a character that pushes up her glasses with her middle finger?

A few well thought out quirks go a long way. I'll have to just pick one or two, and go from there.

I think characters should have more influence from things like generation, family, work as opposed to personal quirks. But the few that you pick are important. Subtle, telling, individual.

I'm not sure what I'm giving Cassidy for my upcoming NaNoWriMo novel that I'm starting in November. I want her to be likable, so it will be subtle, or funny. I'll keep looking and I'm sure I'll notice something in the next few days that will be perfect. I'll let you know after November.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Learning Things I Thought I Already Knew

2009-10-23T18:54:00.001-07:00

I had to spend four hours of a day off at a class today. Usually it is an annoying but necessary part of life, like sitting in the doctor's office. Today, I actually learned something about people; in particular about their character.

That makes me a happy girl. The class was about increasing levels of customer satisfaction, but the difference in this class (from the usual boring drivel) was twofold. One, we had a nice, personable, enthusiastic, and interested teacher. Two, she brought up the idea of relating to people the way THEY want, not the way YOU want to relate to them. This has great ramifications for writing and creating character.

If we look at all the external and internal forces that affect someone's personal style, we cannot overlook things like inherent personality, age, culture and the like. But we often do, because WE are a certain personality, age, culture. Can you see where this is enlightening? I thought I knew this already, because the pieces-parts are fairly instinctive for me. I don't have trouble communicating with others.

In my writing, my characters tend to be variations of me. While that may be interesting for a short time, unless I can develop characters that are multidimensional, yet act in a congruent manner (i.e. they are believable), my stories will go nowhere. If I define them at some level by all these factors that real people have, a full, dynamic character will rise off the page.

In class we took tests that told us what "type" of communication style we had. It occurred to me that my CHARACTERS could also take those tests, or I could make them fit a certain style because, hey, they do what I say (most of the time). I can use this information to create depth and subtle traits which will round out their action for an engaging, character based story. THAT is what I want to write.

These personality tests have been around for ages, but I never thought of using them in terms of defining a character. I will certainly take back everything I learned and use it to my company's advantage. Seriously. I like being a team player and having a job right now is a good thing. I'm just thrilled that I can use it in my writing also. I might as well, I use just about all the rest of my life.

So, personality tests - check. I'll give it a try. It seems so logical, I don't know why I've never thought of it before.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

A Mini Post

2009-10-21T17:59:00.000-07:00

This will be a mini-post today as I experiment with a blog feed to my Facebook page. Now that I've gotten more brave (braver?) about being social, I feel the need to play with all the toys and see what works for me. I have Facebook, and Twitter, and of course, this blog, but all of that is really just testing the public waters. Not public like the bath house, but public as in anyone can be on the Internet now. It's really kind of weird.

I've "met" many people online, and tomorrow I'm going to Los Angeles (hereafter, LA) to meet a few of them in real life. We will be having lunch. A very real, very normal thing to do. It strikes me funny though, that if the Internet did not exist, I wouldn't be doing this. Most of the girls do not live in California even, and one is here from Australia!

Still, it is necessary to make the effort, the attempt to "connect" whether online or in person. It is the same, but different. And that is about as profound as I can manage today. But, like I said, it is only a mini-post, so a mini attempt at Sophist ideals is all that can be expected. I don't know how this will post to Facebook, so if you are my friend and you are wondering why you are getting this, rest assured I will change how it posts if it seems invasive. I think.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Wandering Back

2009-10-20T12:27:00.001-07:00

I've wandered away lately from the whole reason I started this blog. Today, I shall wander back. I called it Characteristically Speaking for a number of reasons. One reason is that I write character based stories. I think of the character first, then I tell about who they are and what made them that way (also known as a plot), and in the process love them and hug them and squeeze them and call them George (an obscure Bugs Bunny reference, sorry). This makes me happy.

I also like to learn about what makes a character come alive on the page. The device and voice and technique that creates this alchemy. I tend to talk a lot, so those who know me personally would say that this blog is characteristic of me speaking, and speaking, and speaking.

So far in this post, I've used a particular device three times. Can anyone tell me what it is? Not humor, that isn't exactly a technical device. Okay, give up? It's called polysyndeton. It means using a succession of conjunctions when they could be deleted and commas used, but the effect is different, not the meaning. So all those "ands" were on purpose. Now usually, I would use it once in a story, let's not go overboard. Some people despise it, and some, like me, like the effect in certain stories. I think it mimics real speech, as bad as that can be when it is supposed to be dialog. I use it as one of the ways to show a character thinking and speaking at the same time, or even speaking before thinking.

The thing that started this whole agenda for me today was a recent critique from one of the sites I participate in online. The critique writer said I needed to learn how to use commas correctly and not rely on conjunctions; this in reference to a passage much like the above. Well, yes and no. I am doing it on purpose. I want the effect. It reads differently and has the effect of slowing, of emphasizing, what is being put together in succession with the conjunction instead of the comma.

While I treasure the feedback I get from others that helps my writing, I am discovering that I am starting to nod politely, and then do it my way anyhow. Again, those who know me personally will not be surprised by this behavior. I always do it (ignore advice) when I know a certain amount about the subject matter. It tells me that I have a higher level of confidence in my writing than before. Before: when I would change anything because I assumed I was wrong and they were right. Now, I am not so quick to change. And that, dear readers, is so characteristic of me.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Word of the Day

2009-10-17T19:32:00.000-07:00

I didn't have a particular subject in mind when I started my writing day this morning, so I tend to get time-sucked by the Internet on such occasions. I do actively look for something though. I try Stumble, or the random page on Wikipedia. Sometimes I actually turn to the English homework I'm supposed to be doing to see if anything catches my fancy there.

Today, good old English came to my rescue. I love words. I like to collect them and pin them up on my office cork board in pretty fonts because to me, words are art. I also like being the smart aleck I was born to be by learning any kind of new and/or hard words that I can actually sneak into daily conversation.

My favorite word is obstreperous. It means being a pain in the a**, basically. I identify with that word. Today though, I was reading an essay about Poe and stumbled across two words that I had heard before, but they somehow struck me in a different way. You know how you can pick a word, say it over and over until suddenly, it doesn't mean anything anymore? Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Well, if you did, then you may have some understanding of why "indefinitiveness" struck me funny today. Not haha funny, funny strange. Both that word and "suggestiveness" were used in the same sentence describing Poe's writing.

Sometimes I love Poe, and sometimes I think he's a weird dude. I love The Raven, but The Tell-Tale Heart is messed up. So for this literary reviewer to say that his writing has "suggestiveness" and "indefinitiveness" in the same sentence gave me the giggles. Why can't we just say it's weird? Why do we go to the big words and use them in such a way that no one knows what we are talking about? I mean, of course, the collective "we."

I like scholarly essays as much as the next girl (which is not that much), and sometimes I get a lot out of them. But for this one, I wanted to yell at her after fourteen pages of using language this way (snooze worthy), and implore her to "just say he's weird and we don't know what he meant half the time!"

Which brings me to my current thought - what if I do this sometimes? What if, because I like words and enjoy showing off that I love them, I write stuff that makes readers want to yell at me? I certainly hope that is not the case. In fact, I would say that my style of prose is rather spare and simple. I like to move the reader with the idea, the thought behind the words, and not necessarily the powerful words themselves.

It is an odd realization about myself, that my current style belies my vocabulary. I think this is a good thing. I can learn to weave a fabric of language that is more precise, more intense. I'm not sure anyone can learn to have the intent of writing. Once I know what it is I want to say, the entire language is at my disposal to convey it. If I have nothing to say in the first place, no thought, or stance, or invocation unique to me, then all the words in the language could not fill that void.

Funny how far you can go from finding a word of the day, to realizing something about yourself you never thought of before. Thought, language. I'm very glad to have both.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Reading Fun

2009-10-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

I've been having a huge amount of reading fun thanks to a little contest for the best first paragraphs. I've waded through about 700 of the close to 2700 entries (gasp!) and am just tickled at all the different voices and ideas out there. Plus, since I'm NOT going to read my boring English homework, at least I'm learning something and not wasting six hours playing Bejeweled.

Although, I do think hand-eye coordination is to be practiced every once in a while.

I've noticed something. When trying to read that volume of material, I have started skipping if a sentence is awkward in any way, or if a word is used wrong, or the voice does not capture me. Fewer and fewer stick out. Hmmmmmm. Maybe he's SHOWING us something instead of trying to TELL us. Hmmmmmmm.

I will endeavor to read them all. I'm going to print out all 600 pages and really read them. I think there are some fabulous writing minds out there, and I intend to, for free, learn what I can from technique, style, and masterful creation. Plus, it will be interesting to see if I pick what anyone else (Nathan) would. I have to say, I wouldn't pick mine. I think the voice is okay, but it didn't flow nicely. Now that I've read all those others, I see what is lacking in mine. I'm not sure how to fix it, but I have a better idea of what "good" is.

Just now, this minute the contest is closed. 2651 entries. I guessed 3000 so I was a little short, but I have to go now and start reading.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

First Paragraphs

2009-10-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

One of the agent blogs I follow is hosting a first paragraph contest. I love contests, so I submitted my best first paragraph (I think) which happens to be from Trauma Queen. TQ is the novelized version of my ambulance days (years, really - all seven of them) with my smart-aleck voice and lots of growing up. Today is the second day of the contest which is open to entries for four full days. There are over 1,000 entries already! OMGosh.

I have no delusions of winning, or even being read very much, but I like to be brave and put myself out there now that I know how to do it. My style does not lend itself to an attention grabbing first sentence or paragraph usually. I'm okay with that. As long as you can set up some kind of interest in the early going, I think you have a shot.

The amazing thing is how many are soooo good! I keep going ohhhhhh, I want to know how that comes out. It lets me know how really keen the competition is for shelf space and that good enough - won't be. My writing will have to be spectacular to be published. Or I could be lucky. I'll take lucky too.

So here's my contribution for your reading pleasure:

It's a strange business. I provide care to the sick, the injured, the dying and the insolent unharmed. The phone rings or the radio calls, and suddenly we dash off to a stubbed toe, or six people dead on the freeway. It's kind of hard to prepare for that; hard to come back to normal from life lived at ninety percent boredom and ten percent sheer terror. My next career will be something that looks pretty and smells good. For now, I’m a trauma queen. It’s like being a drama queen, only messier.

I don't think it's the best thing I've ever written, but the contest rules included no angst, so I took that to heart.

Thank you Nathan B. for hosting a fun contest and taking on all the work to wade through what may end up being 3,000 entries. That's right. I'm predicting a cool 3,000. He's silly. But what a great way to get writers to read each other, support each other, and maybe, just maybe, some very lucky (and good) writer will be discovered. I will be sincerely happy for that author. Even if it's not me.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

New Character

2009-10-10T17:51:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm leaving Margaret and Honey behind for a while. Just there, sitting on the shelf. They haven't misbehaved or anything, but it is time to get ready for NaNoWriMo. It starts November 1st and requires a novel from scratch.

This novel is called Road Clothes. I have the general idea, and the main character name and sketch, but other than that, her story will flow onto the page starting in November. Not a moment sooner. The idea for this particular story has a simple and interesting genesis.

I have always been fascinated by things I see by the road. Perhaps this is because we drove, A LOT, when I was a young Army Brat. Daddy didn't like to fly, so we drove everywhere. Texas to California, to Texas, to Kansas, to Maryland, to California. And of course all the places around there in between the big moves. I think it is why I got interested in medicine and working ambulance. Road kill, skid marks. I got car sick very easily, so there was no reading while Daddy drove, or the big black trash bag would sit with me for the rest of the journey. So, I looked around.

I would see signs, or names, or stuff on the road and make up stories about how they got there or what they meant. Nothing stellar, or even anything I really remember, but I did it to amuse myself. Somehow or other, I never stopped making up the stories. If I'm driving my car and I see skid marks, I try to think of what happened and all sorts of dialog that may have been overheard if I was a little fly in the flying car.

Anyway. One day just recently, my son and I saw a jacket in the roadway. Road clothes. Haven't you ever wondered who they belonged to and why they were in the middle of the freeway, expressway, country lane, or highway? Well, I have. I guess my son has too, because he turned to me and said, "Mom, why do you think that jacket is in the road?"

I whooped loudly and he cringed at my inappropriate response, but I had just gotten a great idea for a story! Son, what if we stopped to pick it up, and there was an arm in it?

A slow but satisfied grin spread across his sweet face. "That would be AWESOME!" Just the reaction I'm looking for about a story.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

My Characters Wake Me Up in the Middle of the Night

2009-10-07T17:13:00.000-07:00

I went to bed early and everything. Finished watching NCIS, turned the TV off, and walked into my room and fell fast asleep (well, okay, I took a shower and brushed my teeth, even changed into my jammies). Then I woke up at 2 am. WIDE AWAKE.

Now, where I live there are earthquakes a lot, so I looked on the internet - no earthquake. The dog was sleeping in the living room, so it wasn't her. I went back to bed and realized what had awakened me was one of my characters for my NaNo novel talking to me while I was sleeping.

I can see her. Her name is Cassidy Edmond. She was going through this whole song and dance about how I needed to remember this and add that. The rules for NaNoWriMo are to write a novel in 30 days. Actually, the history of the project can be found here:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/history

As far as I can tell, thinking about the story, maybe even a little outlining is within the rules. Not that they have very strict rules about anything. Anyway. I've definitely been thinking about it and I have the story idea and most of the plot lines worked out in my head. The characters are coming to life, evidently to the point where they feel free to bug me. So far there is the main protagonist, Cassidy, and a boyfriend I have yet to name. It is a bit of a crime-mystery so the police will factor in at some point.

I tend to think of names first, giving them just the right tone for what I want the character to express. Then how they dress, mannerisms, life traumas, et cetera. I'm not sure how much I'm going to pre-characterize or if I'll just let them develop as I go. That will depend on how much time I have prior to November and how organized I can get.

I want to be the kind of writer who creates characters that are living, believable beings. I think the fact that they, in their infancy, wake me up at night is a very good sign. Makes me sleepy the next day though.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

I Guess I Write Poetry

2009-10-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

I'm thrilled to announce that I have won my very first writing contest . . . for poetry.

I wrote my very first poem in March or so, because I read somewhere that the discipline of writing structured poems encourages good word selection and the development of an ear for rhythm in prose. This made complete sense to me, and wanting to write well, I started learning how to write sonnets and other structured forms. I've written about twenty or so poems. Last month, I decided to submit one to a poetry contest on a site called ReviewFuse.

After I submitted said poem, I promptly forgot about it because, well, I don't really write poetry. I guess I do write poetry now though, since a poem I wrote won a contest. This is giggly funny to me. Not because I think it was not good, I'm pretty proud of it. Not because I think the judges were wrong - I have no idea who they were and am honored they thought my poem worthy.

No, none of the usual reasons are why I think this is funny. I think it is funny because it is so typical of me and my life. I am just one of those people who always does things backwards of how I intended, and usually it turns out just fine. What does that say about me? It says I'm pigheaded but grateful, sure of myself but clueless as to what my strengths are (in my writing).

jomicn776 is me, my ID on both FanStory and ReviewFuse.

Here's the link for the poem with great thanks to ReviewFuse:

http://www.reviewfuse.com/blog/2009/10/september-2009-poetry-contest-winners/

I think I'll continue writing poetry. I think this may make me see myself just a bit differently. I've entered exactly fifty seven short story contests and have won none of them. Even when I'm only up against five other stories. Most of those contests are on another site, FanStory, of which I am a proud member.

Both sites are set up for a writer to submit work, have it critiqued, and critique the work of others. I am light-years ahead of where I was when I started my writing journey in December of 2008, mostly thanks to these sites and the people I've connected with through them.

I personally choose to enter contests, not so much to win anything or to stroke my ego (which is a good thing, because with a big 0 for 57, I may have quit writing a long time ago), but I work best under a deadline and I wanted to stretch with unusual topics. I have my stats as a badge of honor on my profile page to keep me humble. For every "Your writing is great!" I hear, I can look at my win - loss record to be pulled violently back to reality.

Which brings me to the ultimate point I am getting to sometime today: What people like, and what is good work, is ultimately a subjective thing. Is my poem really the best of the 300 submitted? For those judges, that day, it was. Don't rest on that. Do better, work harder, keep going. Write, write, write. I am so appreciative of my work being recognized because it is not easy. I've worked hard. But just as I occasionally rationalize a close loss (mine was better), so I should put a win in the same category.

I should, I really should. But just for today, just this one post: Hooray!

Peace,

Jo Taylor

NaNoWriMo

2009-10-05T14:04:00.001-07:00

I'm going to participate this year, in November, in National Novel Writing Month. It will be a first for me, but not the first novel. I have two current novels in progress. One is at 48,000 words and the other is at 16,000. The rules of the game are that you start from scratch and finish 50,000 in the month of November.

If you do the math, it is a very neat 1666.66 words per day. Take into account the holiday (Thanksgiving - at which I will eat so much that I could not possibly write a word all day), and a day or two for organizing, outlining, regrouping, etc., and you come up with a general 2,000 words per day. Or at least, I do.

For those of you who do not write, 2,000 words a day probably sounds like torture. It's really not that bad. It is admittedly first draft stuff and it is meant to just get the words out, then revise later. For comparison, my previous blog post from yesterday came in at a cool 470 words and I wrote it in 10 or 15 minutes. Granted, a novel will take time not just to physically write the prose, but also time to think about it, flesh out plot points, and develop characters.

I think it is an interesting endeavor. I will at least learn something about my process of writing. Hope some of you might join me.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Central Coast Writers' Conference

2009-10-04T15:05:00.000-07:00

I went to my very first writing conference on Friday and Saturday at Cuesta College which is near my home. A big plus for being close by, and I went to school there for my nursing degree. I didn't know anyone, but I met lots of nice folks and actually learned something. I tend to be optimistic, so even if something was not stellar, I was easily able to overlook it because most of the offerings were better than I hoped.

I got tons of insight in the dialog workshop by Kirsten Menger-Anderson who wrote a fabulous collection of short stories called Doctor Olaf Van Schuler's Brain. More on that in another post (but I highly recommend it). Dialog kills me sometimes. I think it is critical to do it well, better than well. She had us do a short writing exercise, with dialog of course, and then asked a few to read theirs out loud. I discovered that I was a chicken.

I'm rarely a chicken, so dialog must still be the thing I think I do least well. Funny thing though, I didn't really think anyone who read theirs aloud was significantly better than mine. So, if I'm not intimidated, why the hesitation? Maybe because I'm new in the environment and don't want to come across like a know-it-all (at this point my Dad would spit his teeth across the room, because I never hesitated to be a know-it-all before), or perhaps I am still unsure of my place in this part of the writing world.

The other workshop that I found very valuable was Point of Narration vs Point of View taught by Charlotte Cook. She is a publisher and a writer and is exceedingly comfortable and capable in front of and interacting with an audience. She gave some tangible examples of what to consider when making the choices inherent in writing that transcended her immediate subject matter. Thank you Charlotte.

The other bright spot was hooking up with a few writers who plan on doing NaNoWriMo in November. NaNo stands for National Novel Writing Month (November) and the title plus .org will find you at a website that sponsors the "contest." I say "contest" with the quotes because you are in a contest with yourself to produce 50,000 words of a novel. If you do that, you win. It's going to be nice to have friends in the same wicked boat.

Tomorrow, I'll post my personal NaNo goals and tell you a little about the book I'm planning.

All I know is that I am glad I got my feet wet at a smaller conference. I discovered that I like them and that they are worthwhile. The folks that put it on did a lot of work, and they seemed rather likable. So, I recommend it.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

On How I Am Scared Before I Hit "Send"

2009-09-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

I sent a story out yesterday. This scares me in a very uncharacteristic way. I started to wonder if anyone else gets convinced there is something wrong right before they hit "send," to the point that the effort is abandoned to check the formatting, the instructions, the FAQ's just one more time. It's probably just me.

I did all that three times yesterday before I convinced myself that I was doing it correctly. I'm a follow-the-rules kind of girl, and in general, I think that's a good thing. Unless it paralyzes you temporarily, checking and re-checking is a healthy career-building habit. Right? I'm not being silly about it, right?

All the blogs I read from agents and other writers sing the praises of those who follow the rules. I can hang with that. But, there are tons of rules. And they are all individually set out. So it makes me a little paranoid that I am following the wrong set of rules. Sheesh. I'll get used to it, I really will. I'm just glad a camera is not set up in my office recording my spinning behavior.

As a matter of fact, I really like rules. The thing that set off this whole episode was the LACK of comment on which font the publication would like me to use. Ah!!! Some are very specific about font and size, and here, there were not any rules about this. I read their entire three page submission instructions looking for the rule. No rule. So, I did what I do in the rest of my life and used my best judgement. I hit "send" and then laughed at myself for worrying about something so trivial.

At least I hope it's trivial. If it wasn't trivial, they would have had a rule. Right?

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Reading With Older Eyes

2009-09-25T16:38:00.000-07:00

I'm going to post a few of the blog entries I did for my last English class, none of which are that profound, but they relate directly to my reading or writing, so I guess they are germane to my own blog.

I have to say I LOVED the short story "Say Yes" by Tobias Wolff. The thing I loved about it most was the realization that now I am older (a very wise forty-four), I interpret things differently than when I was younger. This is an obvious statement, one I have heard many times, but it is just now beginning to sink in. I really do. In my last class, I re-read J.D. Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye." I read it previously in high school, and again in college. This time, I got different things out of it. How can that be? I can certainly understand different people interpreting fiction differently, but the same person - years later? Apparently, it is true.

I do not think I would have liked "Say Yes" when I was younger. I would have thought it was weird, pointless: no action in a simple argument. But I read it when I was older, and have been married for 18 years. This gave such a familiarity to their argument and the undertones of how well they did or did not know each other. It takes on a new dimension of understanding when those long years have passed for the reader as well.

I think I am surprised I noticed this. I certainly don't mean that a younger reader won't understand it or enjoy it. I'm not really talking about age or youth being the filter, but more of an experience subset. Does the idea of theme, what the story is about, come from a different place when you've lived something similar? Maybe war stories are this way. Someone who's never experienced war can still read and comprehend and understand the complexities, but read by someone who HAS been in a war . . . perhaps they glean yet another layer hidden from the rest of us.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

How's Margaret?

2009-09-22T13:54:00.000-07:00

There's a funny thing starting to happen. Since I've been creeping out of the writing closet, friends and family who know about my book are starting to ask on occasion, "How's Margaret?" They ask me this as if she's a real person. This secretly thrills me.

I know they are just being kind and asking about something I'm interested in, but really, isn't that all it takes to generate interest in a story?

People read because they like the author. People read because they like the previous story from that author, or they like the cover, or something about it just grabs them. I'll take whatever I can get. Not picky right now at all.

Margaret has been behaving herself rather nicely, which means in Margaret's world that she's getting into all kinds of trouble. I'm actually having the problem of too many ideas and too many story lines at the moment. Trying to write some of them out and then do weeding to let the strong ones grow.

I think writing is a bit like gardening, or vice versa. In a garden, you make the conditions right, throw out the seeds, do a little bit of tending, weeding, watering, and viola, flowers. Or stink cabbage. I like to think of my writing this way because then I feel like my effort is never wasted. I still produced something, still learned what to do, or not to do for next time. Some of it smells, some of it is rather pretty to look at, but without much substance. Some, a very small bit, becomes the prize-winning entry at the County Fair. Hopefully. We'll see how the garden grows.

Peace,

Margaret's Mom

Perspective

2009-09-15T16:31:00.000-07:00

I have these two pictures on my desktop to remind me of the importance of perspective. I took them this summer on an afternoon outing to Mission San Antonio. It is probably evident that I am not a stellar photographer, but when I looked at these later in the evening, I realized how these would help me, the visual person I am, with the concept of perspective.

In narration, not only are you writing in first or third person, you also have a certain distance and that distance dictates the perspective. Are you close, so that the narrator can only see what the character sees? Are you farther away and able to see multiple sides to a situation? I have trouble with this sometimes because I know how the story goes. The character may not. These pictures give me an all important visual.

I think it's important to understand the role of perspective in life also. I've gotten heavy doses of this in my work life, luckily not so much in my later personal life.

Most of what I write has something to do with perspective. Its discovery, how it changes you, how someone else's perception influences yours. It is the thing about humans that interests me the most, and it is enough of a broad concept that I can have millions of words to write about it. Well, maybe not millions. Hundreds of thousands? Sure.

One of the things that lets me have some optimism for writing happens to be the knowledge that my perspective is unique. I just have to be good enough at writing for my uniqueness to be interesting. Aha, that is the challenge. To be interesting.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

On Whether to Disappoint Myself or Others

2009-09-13T15:48:00.000-07:00

The few times I've gotten brave enough to tell someone that I write, it is usually someone I know through work. They know me as a nurse, not a writer. Invariably, they ask if I'm writing something medical, and they look disappointed when I say, "No, I'm not."

I don't want to write about medicine, I am around it all the time. I want to write about other things I know, like young women, girls with odd obsessions, getting through life the best I know how -- that kind of stuff. You know, literature. Writing that explores the human condition and illuminates some facet for the reader that was darkness before.

Whatever.

I do have a novel started that is about the years I worked ambulance, which were a whole different universe of crazy, but I mostly started it because that character kept chiming in while I was trying to write Margaret's story. I am, after all, Margaret's Mom.

Even though I am way past being interested by my experiences in "the field" as it's called, I'm discovering that my friends are still interested. My medical friends. I tell a good story and most of the time when I walk into the ER, I hear, "Tell them about the time . . . " and I go back to those days.

In the perfect world, I will write only one or two novels before I write one that is picked up for publication. What if . . . oh, no! . . . the third novel is a medical one? Would I get stuck writing only that type of work? And why am I worried about this NOW, before I've even finished the first novel? Because that is how I am. Consider all the outcomes, do everything to ensure the best outcome wins.

So, I will disappoint others if I do not write the ambulance novel, I will disappoint myself if that is what I am able to sell, not my more serious "literature." How can I be sure the ambulance one would sell, you ask? Blood, guts, drama, the paraweird. I got it all, baby. And it's so true, I have to novelize it.

I don't know if I chose a "helping" profession because I really wanted to help people, but I'm discovering that I certainly don't want to disappoint them. I guess that just means I need to get writing so I can cover all the bases and make everyone happy, including myself.

Peace,

Margaret's Mom

September 11th

2009-09-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

Today is September 11th. I find myself uncharacteristically emotional today. It may because my son wanted to wear all black to school today. It may be because someone on Twitter is tweeting the names of every single person killed on 9/11. Individually. It may be because when I got to work this morning, one of the engineers was outside lowering the flag to half mast. It may be because I watched the news footage of that day this morning. It may be because my husband is a fireman, and 343 firemen were killed that day. It may be because I remember the feeling of dread; that cold, tense feeling in my neck.

I knew no one killed that day. I can't imagine, if I am sad and emotional, what it must be like for the loved ones of those killed. I hope they find peace somehow.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Do You Write Like You Make Decisions?

2009-09-08T16:14:00.000-07:00

I've been wondering lately if a writer writes the way the writer makes decisions.

That isn't the best sentence I've written all week, but stay with me for a moment. I make decisions in life and in my work on a regular basis. Most of us do. My decision modus operandi would seem fast to some, but I am just able to consider all the possibilities, do a risk analysis, and come to a conclusion in rapid sequence. Lives depend on my ability to do this. Really. I'm a Nurse. I was an ER Nurse for many years. I'm comfortable with the way I make decisions, it works well for me.

I've discovered a hovering link between this and the way I write fiction. I edit as I go, but not obsessively. I go with my gut from time to time and am surprised at the results. My first drafts take a bit of thought first, then writing beginning to end (short stories, not novels), then one or two re-writes after I've put it away for a day or two. That's it.

Now some writers will say they free write, then edit.

Some say they rewrite something fifty times.

Me - I'm ready to barf after reading it for the sixth time, so I think I would just give up if it wasn't good enough by that go around.

My best stuff has come in about twenty minutes. One or two passes at changing a sentence or two and I'm done. I'm not sure if this will be enough for the publishing world. We'll see. I may have to learn to revisit things again and again. But I don't do anything else that way. I would like to find out that hard, accurate, good work will come out the first time. It's how I do my other work. I don't have to try ten times to get an IV. I usually get it on the first, maybe the second try. I'm good at it.

Language can be a bit tricky. As separate skills, grammar, punctuation, spelling, they are concepts you can be good at. Writing fiction will take much longer than nursing to be good at. How many people would have thought THAT was true. I certainly didn't.

Judging by a few sentences in this post, I have a long way to go before I can "just write" and have it be publishable caliber. But, it only took me ten minutes to write this. That can't be all bad.

So, yes, I think I write the way I make decisions. And that is a good thing.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Happy Dance!

2009-09-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

Oh my gosh, I got a lot done today. House clean, husband home, kid watching end-of-the-world shows on the History Channel - it's all about me. I reviewed two stories for one writing web site and four for another. I finished, polished to the shiniest shine I possibly can, my latest short. I sent out an old short that I rewrote (again). I got Margaret's Story (the working title is Margaret of Thibodeaux) formatted to submit to a Manuscript Critique. Someone, hopefully someone who knows how to critique, will look at the first ten pages.

I really, really, really want honest and blunt critiques. I am gracious in my replies. Most people are too nice. I can't help it, they like me :)

It helps me to do critiques for other writers. It lets me put their comments into the correct place. I can usually tell if someone is intentionally being mean, and I rarely see it. I know it isn't because my writing is so stellar. I think it is pretty good, but I still have lots to learn. Today, I actually had to put aside a review on a piece I thought was pretty good. The reviewer had lots of criticism, some of which I agreed with immediately. Some of what they said, I didn't like so much. I am a bit emotionally attached to my stuff, so I've put it in the drawer for overnight marinade.

I hope I can take what they have to say, no matter what it is, and apply it to my story to make it better. That's all I want. I'm finding out that it has less to do with what the reviewer says, and much more to do with the way I take it. I resolve to take it like a girl.

Whatever that means. Maybe it should be "take it like a writer - girl." Little did I know when I started writing that sometimes "character building" wouldn't mean those people on the page.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

Writing Conference

2009-09-05T14:54:00.000-07:00

I'll be attending my very first writing conference the first week in October. It's a local gig so I don't expect to be too overwhelmed. I don't have anything that is ready to pitch to any of the agents who may be attending, so I will not be as stressed as the other attendee's. I'll be down for learning at the workshops and some good people watching.

An environment where folks are stressed is a great place to pick up character ideas. The little behaviors they do unconsciously while they are speaking to someone, or the way they act when they are alone in a crowd of people. I usually will go over to the latter folks after watching them for a bit. It is too painful to let them stand there alone for too long. I remember when I used to be unsure of myself.

I may not be sure of myself as a writer, but in a social situation, I can usually wing it. Going to a conference sounds like my kind of fun. I'm also set to go to a bigger one in February in San Francisco and hopefully, I'll have this novel completed and rewritten at least once for that dog and pony show.

I need to get back on the short story submissions. I'd put those on hold for a time while I learned a bit. I think getting published is in part a numbers game. If you submit a lot, you have a higher chance. Seems logical. We'll see.

Peace,

Margaret's Mom

Seriously Obsessed

2009-09-01T16:57:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but I am seriously obsessed with keeping tabs on the Station Fire in LA. Partly because my husband is there at the moment, but he's smart and in charge of his Strike Team, so I wouldn't say this particular fire worries me. I think I just like to watch fire, or disasters, or both. Fire is primal, in our genes maybe. I hope I don't get someone knocking on my door for saying that. I don't mean I would ever start one. But if you show me pictures or I happen to be near a bonfire on the beach, I'm gonna look.

I've had the last two days off from work and my son is back in school (hooray!), so you'd think that would be prime writing time. Nope. Wrote a little bit but got time sucked by Twitter and live feeds from ABC, CBS and any other thing I could find. I need to work on my writing discipline. Should I write a certain number of words per day? Should I write for a certain amount of time? I haven't worked that out yet. I'm pretty sure that discipline would help though.

Staring at me this moment is a stack of English assignments to be completed in the next three weeks. I want to finish my degree, but I also want time to work on Margaret's Story. Wah. Big baby. I'll just make time. Stop watching the fire and write. It seems so simple! I'll just watch for the rest of the evening and then tomorrow, I'll write. I even try to go to bed and then get up to watch "just a little more."

Writing does that to me sometimes. I get up in the middle of the night with a great idea. Fire and writing. Good thing I'm married to a fireman.

Update 9/5/09

He has returned home safe and sound. Whew!

Peace,

Jo Taylor

A Few Crazy Days

2009-08-30T23:33:00.000-07:00

A few crazy days have flown by, and none of them involved writing. Yikes! Back at it in the morning if I can keep from opening the news and Twitter for a few hours.

Twitter? Moi? Well, yes, moi.

Let me explain.

I've thought the idea of Twitter was interesting, but I couldn't imagine what it might be used for, usefully. I live in Central California and my husband is a firefighter. A Battalion Chief. He goes to wild land fires in the summer. Currently, he is at the Station Fire, a great big monster in the LA area.

We've been doing the "he goes to fires and I stay home and worry" thing for years. We've been doing it for so long that I remember times when he was gone for two weeks and I never heard from him. There were no cell phones! Can you imagine?

It seems like another life when I think back on those days. Now, not only do we have cell phones, but we can text and I can follow the larger scale of things via the Internet and especially - Twitter!

Yes, there is a bunch of blah, blah, blah and repetition, but after you get used to how it goes, you just start to filter out the bull and get to the good stuff. I don't think I'll be one of those people who use it a lot (unless I get published and someone actually cares what I'm doing), but I now have a firm grasp on its value. I get it. I'm rather pleased with myself.

On a serious and sad note, my condolences to the families and brothers/sisters of the two firefighters killed today in the Line of Duty on the Station Fire. Resquiescat in Pace.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

The Long Road to Being Published

2009-08-27T06:03:00.000-07:00

I started writing in December of 2008. The idea for Margaret's story came up as I was working on a short story for a writing contest. Not a big contest, mostly a writing exercise that gets posted and competes against ten other stories. By now, August of 2009, I have a portfolio of about fifty short stories. Most okay, some pretty good, and at least one that is very good. Good enough to almost get published.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the one that is very good was the first story I wrote. The first. It got an honorable mention for Glimmer Train in February 2009. At the time I sent it in, since it was the first thing I wrote, I had no idea if it was any good, AND I had no idea that Glimmer Train is kind of a big deal.

Now I know. I don't know whether to take the honor as signs of bigger things to come, or as notice that I've already passed my peak. I choose the former. I would really like to be published. First, I need to write something good.

Here's the link with my name, Jo Taylor, as proof. Just because it's cool (I think).

http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/glimmertrain/09-February-VSF-HONORABLE-MENTION-list.pdf

The email I received with this link said I could post it on my blog. I didn't have one then, but it was part of the prodding I found everywhere to start this up. Like a sissy, I'm doing it under a character's identity, but I've already explained why. I've gotten more brave (braver?) lately, so I'll be changing the profile to accurately depict what I'm doing here now, now that I have a clue myself.

What I'm doing is using the blog as a way to let characters speak for themselves: As an exercise in finding voice and developing character. Right now it is just the characters in Margaret's Story, but I can see how this may be useful in working with other characters. Besides, I will have a one stop area for reference. Where's that list I made about the things Margaret likes? Oh yeah, right here. No more boxes of dead trees with black ink.

So even if this is not interesting to anyone but me, it has its purpose and I intend to use it fully, on the long road to being published.

Peace,

Jo Taylor

So Far

2009-08-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

So far, I have written 15,000 words for this story. I'm not stuck, but I'm past the point of free flowing ideas, using any available inspiration to give me ideas for the story. I have all those down now, I know the story and now I need to do some work to connect the various actions with their motivations and plan how they will affect the characters in the future. This is turning out to be real work. I'm surprised by this.

It will make me feel personally proud when I have finished this first book, even if it is never published. Writing a novel is indeed an accomplishment. I have no desire to climb mountains, but I have desire to write a novel.

I wonder if those desires are somehow similar, somehow linked in the human condition. Do they come from the same place? Is the ember only different because of the material it comes from? It's an interesting question; one that has application in character motivation too. I can see now, slowly unwrapping itself before me, the idea that the plot happenings in a book can be more about how the different characters deal with it than the action itself.

I know this on an intellectual level, it is not that deep or esoteric. However, actually getting that concept down into your gut, into the inner workings of your writing takes chewing on it. It takes a contemplation that takes time.

Like a good beef marinade. Invariably, all things return to food metaphor and simile. Yum. My husband made a steak last night that was to die for. If I could just write and eat for the rest of my life, I'd be happy.

I'm happy now though. I eat every day, whether I need to or not (really, I don't think I need to for awhile). I write almost everyday. Life is good. No matter how much desire you have for something, it takes time for the learning you do to sink in. I'm just a big chunk of meat at the moment.

Working on becoming a steak.

Peace,

Margaret's Mom

I'm Not Running Out of Things To Say

2009-08-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

My family would say to the above title: "Duh!"

They think it is a physical improbability that I will ever run out of things to say, but they are happy that I am now WRITING said things and not TALKING all the time. Not that I ever did that.

But, what I really mean by the title is that I am indeed surprised that this is my twenty-first blog post, and I am not running out of things to talk about. In fact, I've started keeping a list of things to post in the future. This is coming in handy as the current English class I am taking requires us to (can you guess?): BLOG!

How easy! I can now say this because I am a blogger. It is a bit embarrassing, but I am virtually spewing all kinds of thoughts in that blog because it's mostly about writing, and hey, that's what I do. I haven't gotten any feedback from my classmates yet, so it's kind of like this blog that no one reads either. Happy as a clam. I reserve the right to cry buckets on here if someone there does not get my humor or my teacher thinks my posts are insipid (we are supposed to be thougthtful and appropriately school-like).

I don't know if blogging can be counted in daily word counts for writers (I try to write 1500 words per day), but if it does, my productivity has seriously gone up!

I've noticed lots of capital letters and exclamation points in this particular posting, but it makes me happy so I am leaving it. That's the coolest thing about having a blog. You make the rules. Here are the first few official rules, only put down in case I need to refer to them later.

1. Blog when you have something to say, or not.

2. Try to blog in character at least half the time. (This one is turning out to be hard, she whined.)

3. Do not try to be funny. If you try, you will sound like a toad.

4. Post how you speak, sometimes it's funny.

5. Five rules are enough.

Peace,

Margaret's Mom

Glimmer Train

2009-08-19T17:06:00.001-07:00

Yeah! Happy Dance! We got our copy of Glimmer Train today.

What is that you ask?

Glimmer Train is something I'd never personally heard of until December of last year (2008 - we're being current, currently). It is a wonderful literary publication that is a collection of short stories. I write short stories, and it is the type of publication in which I (Margaret's Mom) would someday like to be published. So it's a big deal. I usually spend the three or four days after receiving my quarterly publication reading, reading, happily reading. And hopefully learning something about writing short stories.

I've been writing a short story for a class on point of view that has been giving me fits. Mostly because the teacher, whom I like, is having us compose the story from a point of conflict first, then filling in beginning and resolutions. Bass ackward. I've never written a story like this and I'm not sure I'll ever do it again, but I actually am learning something. I'm not sure what it is yet, it hasn't "gelled" so that I could actually describe said nugget of learning, but I have that learning feeling. Kind of like that loving feeling, but not quite. I digress.

All I'm saying is that it's good to do something different. Not just different THINGS, but different methods, ideas, paths help us learn something about the preferred method, idea, or path. Could be that we like it best. Could be that we've been doing it 100% wrong all our lives. Hmmm, sounds like a good premise for a story . . .

Peace,

Margaret's Mom