Picture this

What do you notice first when you look at this photo? Setting? Character? Action?

Look at the image for a few minutes and let your mind wander. Then, look away and start writing whatever comes out on the page.

What grows from your first thought? A poem? A story? Did the result surprise you?

Light and artistry

San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome, 2010

At Challenging Perfection, Lila recently wrote about the use of light in both visual and literary art. As a beta reader, Lila notices details of light in a scene and has often brought up inconsistencies I missed when writing. Having a group of readers with unique skills and points of view has helped me become a better writer. For that, I thank them all.

We've spent the last month at writersvibe highlighting visual arts. If you visit our blog, you'll see my fellow writers are multi-talented to say the least.

My art of choice is photography. I love the process of capturing a moment and framing it. Choosing a focus. Changing an angle. Looking to the light.

I took the photo on the right at San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome. I visited the church to see paintings by Caravaggio, who has been my favorite painter since freshmen art history. His dramatic chiaroscuro is how I see the world, darkness making beauty of light.

Snowday vacation

"Snowmageddon" folks were calling the storm expected to hit the plains last Wednesday through Thursday night. For a week, grocery stores were jammed with people stocking up on supplies. I bought a big bag of dog food and two bottles of wine. The check-out guy considered my purchases, and smiled, saying, "You'll be good for a week."

Turns out, snowmageddon fell as flat as the Mayan apocalypse, but expecting tough driving conditions, schools and businesses had shut down Thursday morning. I ended up with a free day. Oh, I could have been productive, but that's against the basic nature of a snowday.

I spent the day reading for fun.

I finished an entire book,  The Bedlam Detective by Stephen Gallagher. It was the most enjoyable read I've had in a long time. I'm not going to analyze it today--only recommend it. If you enjoy mysteries, rich in character and setting, you will like this one.

Are we there yet?

If "there" means a published novel, then, no, we're not there yet. It's a long drive, rife with twists and intersections, but I'm moving forward. A full year has passed without an entry here. I suppose the emptiness of this blog is a testament to the fullness of my days. 

I've moved to an old house in a neighborhood with big, glorious trees. In truth, I love the shady street more than the house itself. When I was a kid, our house had huge picture windows, all looking out to a big yard filled with trees and shrubs. That's home. That's a haven. Nothing like the stripped-out subdivision where I lived for the last 12 years. I'm middle-aged and too impatient to wait a quarter century for a good shade tree. And so, the old house.

Old houses--I'm one of those suckers who has always fallen for them. Sure, sure, the floors squeak and the windows rattle and the basement looks like a perfect setting for a slasher film. Ah, that's just character. Right?

Now, when brushing your teeth before bed, you hear a faint "drip, drip, drip" coming from somewhere on the first floor and wander down to check the kitchen sink--only to find the kitchen ceiling sagging in a giant bubble . . . well, that's a lot less charming. In the past few months I've learned about electrical wiring, patching drywall, doing a decent skim coat on a lumpy wall, and more about home fixes than I supposed I would. And, I've enjoyed it.

But, dividing my time between tool time and write time,  I've slowed my progress and stalled out more than once. I hit a wall. I felt I'd never write another word and never have the ability to "fix" the stories I was revising. I didn't know if I even wanted to try anymore. I checked out books about writers' block and editing and creativity and read them in a panic in those free moments when I should simply have been putting words on paper. Any words. Anything at all. But, in every part of my life, I'd crashed into crazy fix-it mode. Everything needed tending. Everything at once.

Now I'm sitting in an office stripped of wallpaper with white plaster patches on the still-sticky walls. I hardly notice the mess around me. That's how it is when I'm writing. So, the paint cans wait. The balance that looks so much like chaos has returned.

I'm working on what will be the last revision of my first novel. Some more research on the occult in medieval Europe. A little rearranging in the middle of the novel--returning, in part, to the rough draft's storyline. It's almost there. 

A Cultural Collection to Inspire You

Last week I came upon a resource I'd like to share. If you're interested in anthropology, folklore, or music history, you'll want to take a look at this.

Folklorist and ethnomusicologist Alan Lomax began making field recordings of southern folklore and music in the 1930s. From the 1960s onward, he focused on comparative research in world music and dance.  As a result of his work, Lomax compiled an extensive collection of audio and video recordings and photographs that capture decades of folk culture in the U.S., England, Ireland, Italy, Scotland, Spain and the Caribbean. The Association for Cultural Equity, founded by Lomax in 1983, is custodian of Lomax's archive. On the ACE website you'll find a research center containing digitized items from Lomax's archive as well as teaching resources, which can be a source of inspiration for any lifelong learner. And, the great news is, the digital resources are growing. By the end of February about 17,000 tracks will be available online for free streaming.  I know I'll be stopping back.

Right now

Where have I been? Mostly, right where I am now--sitting at my desk having a staring match with the computer screen. Well, to be honest, there's been more reading and typing than simple staring. I'm swallowed up in revising Gates the Hours Keep.

The dogs are snoozing in my office. Sadie's stretched out by the closet, and Tali's curled up under my desk. I've opened the curtains to have a glimpse of bright blue sky, and except for the dormant brown lawns, January looks like April.  Sometime this afternoon, I'll slip outside and steal some sunshine for myself.

A warm winter should be welcome, but the first winter without my dad shouldn't be so extraordinary. I want dull skies and bitter, biting winds. I want a world of grays and browns, not sprouting columbines and cloudless blue. When I walk the dogs today, the sun will warm my face and I'll think what a rare gift such a  winter day is. On days like today I feel more alive. And, then I think of Dad. He would be out tinkering on broken-down machinery or sitting in the tavern praising the warmth but commenting on the dryness.

Days such as today are a gift I can't share with him. No happiness comes without my remembering he's not here. Yet, happiness comes. In friends' smiles and sunshine and smelly dog fur, it comes.

The one good snowfall we've had this winter was Tali's first. Watching her and Sadie play in the snow, I laughed and laughed. Here's a glimpse of that day. I hope it makes you smile.

Exploring character through valued possessions

Photo by Timitrius

Imagine you have to pack up your home and can only take with you those things that fit in the trunk of your car.  Bringing family members along?  Then you have to share the trunk space with them.  What do you take?  What do you do with those things you leave behind?  Who decides?

For a while now I've been considering those questions, and I have about a year to come up with the answers.  The flowers transplanted from my grandparents' house, the china hutch Grandpa built, the desk I bought during grad school, shelves and shelves of books--those things simply won't fit.  The spices in the kitchen cupboard?  Those, I ought to bring.  Everything I have must prove its worth.  Necessity is winning out over sentiment.  And, I'm surprised.  I've always had trouble letting go of items to which memories are attached--even gifts I don't especially like, I cherish because I love the giver.

This has me thinking about the impact of objects in my fiction.  Most often my characters' prize possessions are valued, not for their usefulness, but for their emotional weight.  Nothing wrong with that.  But utilitarian objects--a hammer, for instance, or a bow--could be even more important to a character.

With that in mind, consider a character from your work and make a list of the five objects most important to him or her.  Now, delve into each object.  Describe it in depth.  How would the character describe it?  How would the character explain the object's worth?  Is there a story attached to the object?  Does it have a history?  Where and how is it kept and cared for?  What sort of condition is it in?  And so on.

At the exercise's end, you will likely have greater insight about the character.  You might also have some fresh ideas for the plot or even for an additional story.  Let me know how the exercise works out for you!