Reading with the Kids: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

One of our summer's biggest delights are the stories, tales, and written words read by both myself and my kids.  They aren't li'l ones anymore, so we all read independently, but even each of us reading our own separate worded worlds while all of us are in the same room feels like we're sharing our books together.

More than once there has been one kid reading from a printed book on one end of the sofa, while I'm on the other, reading an ebook on my phone, while the other kidlet sits on the floor right next to us and reads an ebook, checked out from the library on the laptop.

And occasionally, two or three of us might share a special story.  Recently, I started reading Anne of Green Gables aloud to my sweet girl and with each word spoken, I wander down memory lane, revisiting when those words were my first time reading them as a girl myself.  She loves sharing the story so much that her prized yard sale find this summer is her very own copy of the old book that she picked up for fifty cents.  Now, I read aloud as she follows along, gingerly turning the pages of her newest treasure.

And even better, a book that again allows me to wander through my memories and that I'm then able to pass on to another generation.  The imaginative tale of  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl has been just that tale.  My boy was first introduced to Dahl reading Matilda with his class a few years ago and laughed himself sick.  And my girl has been experiencing his worlds with James and the Giant Peach before Charlie arrived on our doorstep.  

Dozens of books, thousands of pages, and millions of words have yanked the three of us into dozens of different writers' imagined worlds.  And we are smiling because of it.

What are you reading this summer?  If you have kids, what books, pages or screens, are they sticking their noses in?

This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan’s Candy Bar, the world-famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year-long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City plus much more! For every entry submitted, Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then, join From Left to Write on July 24 as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

From Left to Write: Summer Fun

With three weeks left on the countdown clock 'til the school's last bell rings, the buzz coming off the kids is palpable.  Ready or not, summer is coming.

And while I am more than excited to ditch the 5:40 am alarm clock, I would rather be ready and have some activities planned out, or at the very least, thought out.

There are the inexpensive to free activities that will be the staples to fill our days:

~ Trips to the coast to build sandcastles & take adventure walks along the
    beach
~ Summer library reading programs to keep li'l & big brains from getting
    jellified
~ Tending to our growing edible garden in the backyard
~ Riding bikes through the neighborhood
~ Playing with neighborhood friends
~ Mornings at the park (mornings, because uber hot days & I are not on
    the friendliest of terms)
~ Painting with the kids (looking forward to framing some new pieces)
~ Learning how to play the guitar

And then there are those activities that cost some dough, but are totally worth it:

~ Taekwondo (Big Bro began taking classes over a year ago and four
    months in, Li'l Sis jumped in too)
~ Swimming lessons
~ Local day camp
~ A couple of local museums we want to visit
~ The Zoo
~ Jelly Belly Factory tour
~ Mrs. Grossman's sticker factory tour
~ Exploratorium

That should keep us pretty busy!  What are you up to this summer?  Any exciting plans?  Any fun destinations you're looking forward to visiting?

This post was inspired by Bittersweet by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, a novel that exposes the gothic underbelly of an American dynasty, and an outsider's hunger to belong.  Join From Left to Write on May 20th, as we discuss Bittersweet.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

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From Left to Write: Sparkle Words Shine in Ruby

"Use your Sparkle Words!"

Flashing back to my son's first grade classroom, I easily hear his teacher rallying her students to include descriptive adjectives into their writing.  As they were six years old, those words often consisted of a favorite color from an eight pack box of Crayolas;  or the words a lot, very, many, great, or cool.  As simplistic as those words are, even several years later, I still think of those or any descriptions as Sparkle Words.

Clearly, those lettered images grow as kidlets' vocabularies increase.  And by the time words are whipped into published story, hopefully those stitched together letters and phrases paint pictures for readers to see into the writer's world.

Cynthia Bond transports her reader, creating magic with her Sparkle Words, in her debut novel, Ruby.  The imagery her words paint firmly embeds a reader into time, place, sight, sound, and smell.

My eyes sucked in the opening of Bond's tale, telling of a mad woman, but it was only the second paragraph that grabbed and pasted me stuck like a winged creature on a permanent fly paper pit stop.  Bond uses her version of Sparkle Words to tell us of Ruby Bell.

Eyes read those words, just as I was taught at three, moving from left to right across the page.  But, once was not enough.  And I still did not have enough, even reading it five, six, seven times.  Due to its subject matter, the book is not one my kidlets are ready for, but I knew those words in the second paragraph - the ones that would not let me go - are the perfect sample of where I hope they learn to grow their own versions of Sparkle Words, so I read it to them.  And even still, it was not enough.

It took me at least a day before I was able to move beyond just the second grouping of sentences.  And the very last set of words from that second grouping held so tightly to my breath, I fell asleep several nights watching them parade across my closed eyelids.

Fortunately, Bond continued to share her rich and layered imagery for my eyes to greedily suck in the hundreds more paragraphs in her tale.

I hope your world is adorned with Sparkle Words - words you hear, words you read, words you write, words you speak.

This post was inspired by the novel, Ruby, by Cynthia Bond, a gripping story about overcoming our past and embracing love in a racially charged rural 1950s Texas.  Join From Left to Write on May 8th, as we discuss Ruby.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

From Left to Write: Hope's Dream

Young, elementary school kidlets stepping up to the podium, taking the microphone in hand, sharing their dreams for their classes' I Have a Dream presentation carved a niche in me.  They spoke from their hearts and touched mine.

Thinking on my response to reading Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement with From Left to Write this month, those speeches bubbled up.  This is a bit different than my typical post, but where both the book and those children's words took me.

Hope’s Dream

Martin Luther King, Jr. -
Ideas cut through the air, rolling across hundreds of thousands.
Orated ideals, shuttled forward through decades to come;
Words chauffeured through time, but not all lands.

“I have a dream…”
Children speak their own whispered hearts.
Trees for forests, healed and healthy parents, worlds without war -
They have a dream.
Breathing environments, cornflower blue skies, crystal streams channeling dirt-
They have a dream.
Kids free of fear, shining seas, feathered and furry friends left to roam free -
They have a dream.

Dozens of children hope for the wider world around them.
One child hopes for a world he came from, a world he knew.
A future holding more,
A future lacking less,
A future without dirt floors,
A future without empty bellies,
A future with hope.
He has a dream.

This post was inspired by the novel Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement.  Ladydi grew up in rural Mexico, where being a girl is a dangerous thing.  She and other girls were "made ugly" to protect them from drug traffickers and criminal groups.  Join From Left to Write on February 18 as we discuss Prayers for the Stolen.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.  Opinions and response are my own.

From Left to Write: The Cartographer of No Man's Land

I'm not sure when it happened.

It could have possibly happened when I lived on the west coast, just one state south of the border, in Washington, as a young child.

It could have happened when I lived on the east coast, just one state south of the border, in New York, as a kid.

It could have happened when I dove into Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables, landing on a farm on Prince Edward Island.

I'm not quite sure exactly when it happened.

But, at some point it did.

I fell in love with our neighbors to the north.  I fell in love with Canada.

Was there any love lost for my home country?  As a child, absolutely not.  However, I vividly remember my Canada curiosity.

Could I have both?  Live here, love there?  And what exactly was it that I loved so much?

Truthfully, when this affinity struck, I don't believe I had ever even been north of that map line.

As a kid in New York, we once went to Niagara Falls, but I couldn't tell you what side of the Falls we were on.

While living in a number of locales across this country, I have not travelled much - I leave that to my baby brother and his wanderlust.  But, when I did finally travel the wee bit I have, I headed north to British Columbia in '95 and 2000.  And instead of a remembered childhood love of the then abstract place on a map, Canada, I looked around and breathed deep.  As much of a tourist as I was - and yes, I did indeed do the typical tourist activities - it felt more like stepping out into a favorite corner of my backyard.  It was comforting, fresh, natural, and of course, a visually stunning feast for the eyes.

It's been thirteen years since last visiting and I dream of going again.  In the meantime, I think I'll keep exploring that remembered childhood love through words woven across a printed page.

 

This post was inspired by The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel by P.S. Duffy.  Angus enlists in the Nova Scotia WWI regiment and travels to Europe to search for his missing in action best friend and brother-in-law.  Along the way Angus discovers more than he ever wanted to know.  Join From Left to Write on November 14th as we discuss The Cartographer of No Man's Land.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

From Left to Write: Afterwards

Tall black rubber rain boots, navy chino shorts, topped with a nearly too small Pokémon t-shirt.

Utilizing her new skill, she pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, heading for the screen door.

Metal on metal sounds as she slides the worn screen door open, calling out, “I’m coming, Dad!  Wait for me!”

Rain boots making her tiny feet look and sound bigger than they are race across the deck as her ponytail dances on her shoulders, absolutely tickled with delight to help her Dad with yard work.

An audible gasp escapes my lips, caught in one of those rare moments when life simultaneously stands still and flashes forward.

She’s a decade older, a sixteen year old girl a few feet from me, embracing life, even the simple moments.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the little girl in front of me or from the teenager I’ll one day meet.

She’s burned into my heart now.

Looking forward to when the two girls will become one, but for now, I’ll hold on to the li’l girl and her small hands that still look for encouragement and guidance a while longer.

 

 

This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma in Lupton's suspense thriller. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

From Left to Write: The Expats

Moving from one home to another, state to state, town to town, one coast to the other and back again, layers up inconveniences and work.  It also affords grants many favors and freedoms.

Beginning a childhood career of moving at three weeks of age, it took many less years that one might think to garner awareness of these delights.

From early on - though, not quite that first move at three weeks old, for sure - I reveled in the excitement of a move.  Dad always left for the new location, Mom prepared the house for sale, and there were lots of visitors that I learned, as I grew, were people looking to buy what would become our old home.

Sure, there was the pain in the backside to packing - whether it was a company move that provided help or not - deciding what to keep and what could be parted with permanently.  And when little, the parade of people visiting your home is fun, but as you get a little bit older, you have to help prep the house for each potential buyer.  The man that came with the video camera who insisted I stand in the pictures for his wife, so she could get an idea of scale - even though I was home sick - was certainly worthy of a groan.

There's the work and the inconveniences and the good-byes and all the changes.

And then, there's all the changes.

Moving to a new place means everything is new.  A new house to explore.  New friends to find.  New schools to enroll in.  A new neighborhood to navigate.

And a new You.

Everything is new.  Everything is full of possibilities.

Loaded baggage will travel with you from one place to the next.  But, each new location also leaves one hand free to explore what might happen if that baggage is laid down.

Baggage can always be laid down, regardless of a new location, a new you.  But, inevitably it is a much easier and obvious choice to make when geographically starting over.

Moving more than many military families growing up, I can vividly remember the dazzling excitement of a new locale...at least, until I was old enough to assume the responsibilities of moving myself - then, it was a whole lot of work!

And now, happily living in one location for more than a baker's dozen years, I also know the peacefulness of remaining still.

But, no longer will a new location invariably create a new me with little effort.  Staying still means any change I now want, I have to create.  And that is an entirely different, and foreign to me, journey to travel.

This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore happily sheds her old life to become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

NaNoWriMo 2012

It's that time of year again.  No, not the witchy-warlock, sugar induced day we're creeping up on.  Though, come Wednesday, there will be a li'l witch, a grave ghoul, a grown man in a scary mask named Uncle Charlie, and a woman with a pointy witch hat donned for Halloween.  But, it's the day after, November 1st, that I'm talking about.

 

It's NaNoWriMo time again!

Come Thursday, I'll be click clacking the keyboard down the ol' wordy bunny trail.  I followed the trail part of the way last year and am looking forward to what I find along the way this year.

 

If your not familiar with NaNo, simply put, it's a whole lotta people from around the globe, all writing a new fictional novel with a frenzy, attempting to write their way towards 50,000 words in 30 days.

 

Last year, I 'pantsed' NaNo - started writing with merely a brief, vague idea of a story.  I swore I would be a 'plotter' this year and outline what I want to write ahead of time.  And while I've been working out some story ideas, I'm still short of an outline.  Truthfully, I'm still short of a decision about which story idea I actually want to write.  I have three I'm darting between.  All three are different genres.  But, come November 1st, there will either be family drama, a consciousness transfer, or a woman running for her life.

 

Have you ever whipped words together for NaNoWriMo in years past?  Are you participating this year?  If your writing, do you know what words you'll be wicking together?

She Knows

She knows she’s being watched.  He’s always there, feigning indifference while fully aware of every twitch her body makes. He stalks her.  He hunts her.  He waits until he’s allowed to kill her.

He’s thirty feet to her two o’clock, but looking would give him reason to act.  That’s the last thing she wants.  So she alternates between reading the book she picked up in the terminal and staring out the large panes of glass at luggage being unloaded from an airplane. She knows the best way to save herself is to appear like everything is normal.

To look normal, she stays on schedule.  The schedule that she keeps on her phone and computers has been hacked into.  She’s sure of it.  Even on the rare occasion she manages to slip her tail, he always shows back up again at her next scheduled location.

By nature, she is a planner; laying everything out in painstaking detail, entering it all into her computer’s calendar.  She can’t just run on a whim with no idea where to go, no money, and worst of all, no plan for this new future.

But, she will run.  She has to.  First, she makes plans, all in her head this time, how to successfully get away, survive or at least not die some horrible death only made worse by her obscenely active imagination.  An imagination that has made her successful in life, she's now sure will kill her before he gets the chance to.

“Flight 1183, San Francisco to Chicago now boarding First Class.  Please present your boarding pass to our attendant at the gate.”

It’s her flight. Sliding her book into her bag, she pulls out her boarding pass, rising from the black padded row of seats.  She casually strolls - counting breaths in her head to help keep her pace steady – making her way towards the gate.

He mirrors her, closing the gap to twenty feet.  She keeps her body angled so she can still see him in her peripheral vision.  Without her book or the planes to stare at, she feels naked.

Normal. Normal! Normally, I would be on my phone before boarding.  With that thought, she pulls her out phone, tapping in a quick text to her friend.

* About to board. Will call u after landing. C u soon! *

Times up.  Business Class is called and she has no choice now.  Walking across institutional charcoal carpet, she hands the attendant her boarding pass.  She inhales as deeply as she can without appearing to need it.  Exhaling, she turns her back, walking towards her plane where she will be trapped for the next four hours, 35,000 feet in the air…with him.

It's been a long time since I shared a piece of fiction here.  I've jumped in with a prompt from Write on Edge...of course.  We had 450 words to write a story that takes place in an airport terminal.  I'm at 450 on the nose with a fiction piece that's a little different for me.  Hope you enjoy it.

Wait! Am I reading an ebook or a bound book?!

Crack open a new book; feel the spine crunch as its insides fan apart, its outside backbends for the first time.  Inhale fresh, crisp unread pages.  Hold a treasure that promises to whisk you to another space.  Heaven.

From my first book read at age three to more than half of my thirties that was how I experienced a book - save the "new" part as while my home overflows with bound books, I've also checked out thousands of cherished-by-many books from libraries across the country.

Enter the last year, a Kindle app for my laptop, and my new friend, Droid - the smartphone that never seems to leave my side now - with its own Kindle app to read by.  And the ebooks that I never thought I'd be interested in have wriggled their way not only into my library, but the very manner in which I read.

I realized this last bit late last night while reading my newest bound book, Bloodline, and I actually pressed my finger on a word on the page.  I mean really pressed it!  Why?  I didn't know what the word meant and was looking for the instant dictionary lookup that's ever so convienent when reading an ebook.  Yes, it was quite late, but it struck me how automatic of a response it was to an unknown word.

And in an instant I was torn between my old, ever constant love of traditional bound, paper pages in hand books and the new fancy schmancy, take with you wherever you go, easy to look up a word and continue reading ebooks.  Not only was I torn, but I felt like I was cheating....on both of them!

Ink stained fingers from newsprinted papers were cast aside as clandestine affairs with news aggregates across the interwebs ensued.  Multi-volume back breaking encyclopedias were left to dusty corners of a library as I embraced Google, who I would gladly smooch every single day.  Dictionaries disappeared off shelves and shattering, though predictable, news broke that the Oxford English dictionary would no longer be printed.

Admittedly, I don't think I've cracked open a paper bound dictionary in about fifteen years.  But, in the late hour my eyes were travelling along James Rollins' words on the pages of my printed edition of his latest Sigma thriller, I suddenly became all too aware of just how differently I access information today.

What about you?  Are you waving your arms in welcome, rolling out the red carpet for the next newest way to access information?  Or do you wave your arms wildly, sending the newest tech down the road?

I hope my world holds both.  I hope I'm inviting it in with arms wide and yet choosing to cherrish the trinkets of yesterday that I wish to never loose interest in; like my long standing bound book love affair.  May there always be rooms full of beloved bound books waiting to be read, thumbed through, and passed on to the next generation to get lost in.


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Affiliate links are used, though this post is not sponsored or solicited.  It's an honest response in reaction to finding myself trying to push tech onto my newly purchased old school paper bound book last night.

Thawing out from a blog freeze!

Saying that time is zipping by faster than a speeding bullet might be true, but leaves me to lay in a heaping pile o' cliches. So, I'm just going to leave that pile and start fresh.

After an extended blogging break, I'm trying to make my way back. Something that I started participating in last year that I was surprised to find great enjoyment in was Microfiction Mondays. And while that original meme is no longer, I'm going to hop back in here with a photo I took a few months ago and a wee bit o' microfiction.

I know we're all running towards summer in this hemisphere right now, but since my writing went into deep freeze for a bit, this seemed a fitting way to jump back in. Hope you like it!

 

Wicking icy webs over the window pane, enclosing their still breathing bodies in an icy tomb; they’re left listening to silence screech each aching moment by.

 

Life has been really good here - just crazy busy!  Where's life taking you these days?

December 31st

Sitting at the only table left out – the rest had been cleared for the party - was the silver coifed woman.  Her wooden chair, at the corner table, faced the bar’s interior, including the front door.  Eyes wandering, they never failed to stop briefly at the glass door with each meandering sweep.

Singing out from speakers on either side of the stage was what young people today considered music, though she didn’t.  Tonight, she was glad her advancing years had taken half her hearing.  Only two more hours to wait; if he didn’t show, she’d be back again next New Year’s Eve.

All those years ago, when her raven hair tumbled from her head till it bounced upon her shoulders, her indigo eyes were clear, and her ears never missed a pin drop, they’d had a wickedly wild affair.  She had never known a love could be as intense as its lust, until him.

He was a trademark tall, dark, and handsome.  He was smooth, charming, and utterly lovely.  Filling their days with the excitement of parties, the quiet of arm in arm strolls around the park, and all the murmurings of long nights in bed.

And he couldn’t stay, he’d said.  He had to go; he couldn’t explain why.  He told her wanted out, but was in too deep.  Logic screamed at her that whatever he was into couldn’t be good.  Intuitively, she knew he wouldn’t bring harm to her.

Forty years had passed since they parted.  They agreed to meet again, if he could get out.  He promised her, if he could, he would meet her at this bar, on New Year’s Eve.  So, Betty came.  December 31^st of every year, for the last forty years; she came, sat, and waited.

Anticipation filled the first five years of waiting.  Her eyes would never leave the entrance.  She eventually met a man she could love; she even married him.  Loving her husband, building a life with him brought her metered joy as they grew older together.  But, she never stopped coming to wait for her soul mate.

Midnight rang with its usual clamor.  The excitement in the room, conversely matched her own disappointment.  Rising, she shuffled her way out, struggling to stay on her feet amidst the hugging and kissing and jumping and dancing from the partiers.  Her waiter found her; offering her his arm, he escorted her out.

On the street, the night’s excitement was still pinging through the air.  With a heavy sigh, the weight that nearly buries her the last days of each year dissipates into the chilled night air.  Looking back through the bar’s glass door one more time, she says good-bye.

Come this new year’s December 31^st though, the silver coifed woman will be waiting in the bar, at her table, hoping for her heart to come back home.

This week, Write on Edge pulled a prompt out of the Red Writing Hood vault from The Red Dress Club days.  We were to pick four random numbers, 1-10, which would give us our character, setting, time, and situation.

Looking for the first four numbers I saw in my twitter stream, I chose, 7, 3, 1, 7 for an elderly woman, a party, winter, and reminiscing how things change.

It's official.  My muse is still not with me.  I'm not giving in though and attempting to write it out without said muse.

Typically, I hear the stories and characters chattering away in my head and I write from there.  But, there's something about a new year that shuts down those voices and immerses me in color, shapes, and textures, taking creativity in a different, more visual and tactile direction.  I suppose the real challenge is finding a way to intersect these two paths.  I'll keep working on it!

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Red Writing Hood - Waiting

Sitting between a woman in a suit and a man in sweats, holding his lunch in a crinkly plastic bag, she waited to be called.  The head of sandy hair in front of her belonged to a man, tapping out a rhythm on his book.  Several people looked his way, but his rhythm never faltered.

One at a time our names were called.  After a few quick questions, answers that were never quite as quick, the Judge either told them to sit, stay, or go on their merry way.

Young woman, after young woman exited; they were all excused from serving.  Whispers circulated; Tapping Man slowed his beat when the Judge spoke up.

“They’re all college students, in the middle of their semesters.  This case is a capital offense and expected to last at least five months, which would delay their ability to graduate by an entire year, creating undue hardship.  So, ‘no’, I’m not just excusing pretty young women.”  Chuckling, he returned his eyes to his list and the next person on it.

Tapping Man’s rhythm picked right back up, but the beats shifted more erratically.  The process of waiting to find out if she has to serve seemed more tiresome than actual jury service.  If selected, would they call her yet again when another eighteen months pass?

Silence was suddenly startling; it was Tapping Man’s turn.  Three abrupt pounds to his book signaled he was asked to stay.  Sitting, his rhythm resumed fiercely.

The institutional room was still quite full.  Tapping Man’s drumming was so incessant, she began pairing notes to it in her head while she waited.  She always waited; not many people had last names that came after Zavattoni.

Waiting might as well be taken as a middle name.  She was waiting, always waiting; waiting to take her path, waiting for her family’s path drenched in tradition to take her, waiting.

Eyeing her wrist’s new tattoo, she heard Tapping Man’s staccato end to his beats.  The Judge had reached the ‘T’s and had as many people as the lawyers needed for this round of jury selection.  Abruptly, they were excused.

Reaching the door to leave, the clerk recognized her, “Computer sure does like you.  Guess we’ll see you in another eighteen months, huh?”

Adrianna returned the clerk’s impish smile.  But, she was done waiting.  Walking out the door, she was sure she would not be back.

My fiction muse has been on vacation, it would seem.  Not quite sure she's back, but like Adrianna, I don't want to wait anymore.  When I realized the last bit of fiction I shared was at the beginning of December, I decided to just write.  Maybe she'll see me waving flags filled with color - begging her to return! lol

In the meantime, I've jumped back in with Write on Edge's prompt this week to use music to inspire a character or move a storyline.  It didn't need to be any specific piece of music, so I ran with the beat of Tapping Man's drumming fingers here. Does it work?

Adrianna is part of a close friendship of four kindred spirits and this takes place in the week after Loose Spring.



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Red Writing Hood: The Doorbell Rang

The doorbell rang, barely audible above clanging pots in the kitchen, “Jingle Bell Rock” humming from the living room stereo, and the family’s chatter.  Nevertheless, Aunt Suz heard it chime and hurried to answer it.

Still wiping her hands on the Christmas red kitchen towel, she opened her front door.

“Craig!  Merry Chr…” Her voice dissipated when the look on her husband’s friend’s face reached her.  Dressed in uniform with another officer, he motioned for her to step outside.  The kitchen towel slid through her still damp hands, drifting to the ground.

“Suzanne.  Are your parents inside?”

“Of course, it’s Christmas.  Almost everyone is already here.”

Everyone was already at the house, everyone except Aunt Suz’s sister and her family – everyone except my parents and me.

“We need you to come with us.”

“I can’t leave.  I have a ham in the oven, potatoes on the stove…I…”

“Suz.  We need to go.  We need you to come.”

In a daze, Aunt Suz quietly passed off Christmas dinner instructions to her sister-in-law; slinging on her ivory wool coat, she slipped out door and into the night.

Watching out the window as the officers drove her to the hospital in the next town over, she jerked in the frigid air that refused to fill her lungs with anything but dread.  She dug her nails into the icy vinyl backseat of the patrol car, deeper with every mile traveled.

The other officer swung the car to the curb at the entrance and Craig helped her climb out of from back.  She focused on putting one foot in front of the other with her husband’s friend guiding her by the arm.  The Emergency Room’s automatic doors whirred open, catching the soft white reflection drift down, they looked back; it had begun to snow.

It's fiction day at  Write on Edge!  And I'm writing with a new story and characters today.  We were prompted to:  use the holiday season to inspire you to write a piece beginning with “The doorbell rang” and ending with “snow began to fall.”


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NaNoWriMo 2011 Wrap Up

A whole month has passed since NaNoWriMo began!  The excitement was a brewin' and I shared NaNoWriMo in 8 Sentences.

How about eight more (with lots of run-on sentences to squeeze it all in)?

The picture above says, "Participant" and not NaNoWriMo Winner for a reason:  while NaNoWriMo continued to be an incredible experience, I did not reach 50,000 words - not even close - and surprisingly, I'm okay with that.

I have an unhealthy relationship with the backspace key, hitting it nearly as often as I tap the letter keys to craft words together - that does serious damage to NaNo word counts!

Word counts quite obviously die when you don't write words...at least when you don't write words for your NaNo project (I missed Maggie, Cassie, Adrianna, and Lauren too much to leave them alone for so long).

I learned what inhibits me creatively, which I think is probably the most invaluable lesson I will take from this experience.

I learned that even if I don't go the outline in advance route, I need to have my story idea more established in my head before taking on my next NaNo (yes, I hope to write along again, sometime) - this year, I was beyond what wrimos call a "Pantser"!

And as a Pantser (someone who starts NaNoWriMo without any outlines or characters sketches or pre-writing work done and flies by the seat of their pants), thank goodness for the writing software, Scrivener - I'm using the free trial right now, but participants get a discount to purchase it - to help me get my proverbial ducks in a row and be able to easily skip around when writing and still keep my story organized.

I learned that yes, I can write while the kids are in the same room with me;  we turn on my writing music, they do their homework and their reading and I click clack across my keyboard and we're all happy.

I have a brand new main character, supported by more than a dozen other characters, quite well established now;  which means, I'm not done with this story and plan to stick with it in the coming months;  it's like my own Christmas present to myself, from myself, nanowrimo.org, peeps at Write on Edge, Cameron Garriepy for organizing us, my tweeps on twitter, and a rip roarin', rockin' awesome NaNoWriMo community across the interwebs - Thank You!

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Road Trip: Aunt Julie & Sara

Leaving the Bay and San Francisco’s June Gloom behind us, Sara fussed with the rented Prius’ radio, before finding my favorite station that I was wise enough to preset.

“You’ve got good taste in music, kid.”

It didn’t seem to matter whether we listened to music from my youth or what’s current now, we enjoyed both. Thank goodness. Nothing kills a road trip faster than different tastes in music in the same small car.

“So, we’ve got our requisite tourist stops: Disneyland, Venice, and the Chinese Theater. Oh, and the beach. Anything else you want to make sure we hit this week?”

“The County Museum of Art?  And I know we’re doing Disney, but can we also spend a day at Universal Studios? I’ve never been.”

“Now that is why you are so much fun to hang with, Sara. A local art museum and a theme park. Gotta hand it to you for enjoying opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“Ah, Aunt Julie, you know I aim to please!”  Her sarcasm nearly lost stifling a snicker.

Though she technically was one now, she’d always been like a little adult.  I was happy to play the role of ‘cool aunt’, but Sara was more like a little sister to me. I wanted to protect her as much as I wanted to ride a roller coaster with her - our arms high in the air, screaming the whole way ‘round.

Florence + The Machine began pumping out music with the voice that could sing an insurance claim and still wrap notes around us. Our hands collided reaching out to crank the volume up as we sang along with Florence while the pavement rolled under us.

It's time for Write on Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt!  This week we're taking our fictional characters out for a spin, or more specifically, a road trip.

I've grabbed my main character, Julianne, from my #NaNoWriMo writing and her niece for this trip!

The Eight O'clock Hour

Time seemed to tick faster each night.  I could see my reflection staring back at me in the wet window pane.  She looked confused, frightened.  Of course she did.  It had been happening for a whole week now and last night’s episode was just as terrifying as the first.  Glancing at the clock, I knew someone else would soon be haunting me.

When the first one came, a week ago, I blacked out.  I found myself wandering in the street, but have no idea how I got there.  Instead of fear, I felt curiosity surge through my veins, pulsating at every turn.  It didn’t make sense to me to be curious about the ground beneath me, the air flowing around me, or even more strange, my skin and teeth and toes.

For four hours, seven strange nights in a row, I became someone, something else.  Each night left me understanding only slightly more.

As darkness descends, the eight o’clock hour will soon arrive.  I’ll be locked inside, allowed to see, hear, smell, touch, but never speak as someone or something takes me.

It's all about 8:00, am or pm, at Write on Edge this week; 200 words or less.  And I'm bringing the hour to you with a new fictional character.  While I love watching scifi, I've never written any...until now.

I'm Diving In - Yikes!

Not quite sure if I've crossed the line to insanity, but if I haven't already, I'm sure I'll dance with it at some point this month!

Do you know about NaNoWriMo?  Are you participating this year?  Have you participated in the writing frenzy before?

I've seen the NaNoWriMo badges on blogs since before I began blogging myself.  And with a name like that you get to clickin' and your nearest friendly Google page to see what the heck it is.

So, what is it?  NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month.  It's run from Berkeley, California, though people participate around the globe.  And people write a 50,000 word fictional novel in one month.

I had told myself that there was no way I was going to dive in this year.  Maybe next year.  This year?  No.

Um, yea, that went over real well when the NaNo bug started whispering in my ear last week.  And when it had become a deafening roar by the end of the week - you know, just days before the event was set to start - I caved.

I quickly began jotting down story ideas in the car while waiting to pick my daughter up from school and found one that resonated enough, keeping me from running, screaming at the top of my lungs.

And then, I hopped online to figure out what the heck I was getting into.  Yes, I realize I might have approached this a little backwards.  Eh, just keeping life interesting!

While there are over 200,000 participants worldwide, there are a good sized handful of us from Write on Edge getting our novel writing on together.  We have a few veterans, including Cameron D. Garriepy, who is helping us all get our ducks in a row.  And there's quite a few of us NaNoWriMo newbies, like myself.

If you're participating this year, give me a holler & we can be writing buddies.  I'm timecrafted over there.  And if you're not, then please, by all means, send patience, inspiration, nimble fingers, and caffeine!!!

See you in the word pool!

Meet Me on the Mountain

Maggie:           U going 2 hit moguls w me this time? I’ve got ur lift tickets & my season pass. Meet me @ cabin so we can hit slopes 2gether! lmk if u need me 2 bring anything else!

Adrianna:        Thx Mags!

Lauren:            I’ve got Cass & rental. Heading 4 mountains now!

Cassie:             Seriously need 2 invest n electric sock company. Gonna freeze my a** off!

Maggie:           LOL! No ur not. Ur gonna b huddled n front of fire n lodge w warm cocktail all day, prob flirtin ur a** off!

Lauren:            Bwahahaha!

Adrianna:        See if he’s got a friend this time, will u?!

Cassie:             Hmm…like a 2 for 1. Will do!

Last week, Write on Edge prompted us to write a text with a 160 word limit.  I got really hung up on the text message part of it and chose to write it as a piece of microfiction, still within the word limit.

This week, Write on Edge has prompted us to write a piece where athleticism plays a role.  Glossing over the text message part of the prompt last week has been irking me.  And being irked for a whole week is kind of ridiculous.

So, to let my subconscious rest, I decided to tackle this week's prompt that had a 400 word limit within last week's format, coming in at 111 words and putting out that annoying irking whisper in my head!

What do you think?

Flipped

Coated in sunshine, she surfed the sea’s surface ‘til a rogue wave flipped the craft. The pleasure boat was now her tomb as the icy blackness consumed her.

Could not get my muse to play any music last night.  First thing this morning, before my lids fully opened, this popped into my head.

Our prompt, at Write on Edge, has us writing microfiction with a 160 character limit that 'elicit's or expresses fear'.  What do you think?