For eleven years, I have facilitated a FREE creative writing workshop in Camp Hill, PA, at the Fredricksen Library. I try to emphasize honest but positive feedback -- brutality can march right out the door. In those eleven years, some fine writing has emerged and can be found here: http://www.sunburypressstore.com/A-Community-of-Writers-A-Collection-of-Short-Stories-9781620060490.htm
I agree with the blogger -- these little writing workshops you'll find sprinkled throughout the south central PA area are treasures, a kind of oasis for writers itchin' to write, but not in a vacuum.
Enjoy the read. And check out a writing workshop nearest you soon!
]]>I say "familiar" because in the late 70s, early 80s, I followed the wisdom of a Sandberg predecessor — Gloria Steinem. I continue to greatly admire Ms. Steinem, founder of Ms. magazine: http://www.msmagazine.com, among other noteworthy accomplishments designed to empower women, which contained information that opened the eyes of my then-20-something self. I modeled myself in those days after Steinem's courage, intelligence and grace-under-fire. And I believed with my whole heart and soul that I could have it all.
It was not until I had become a mother, not until I was faced, nose-to-nose, with having to make The Choice, that the full meaning of "having it all" slapped me upside the head. Having it all in the 80s and 90s meant the McMansion, the designer clothes and accessories, two or more SUVs and maybe a zippy little Miata "just for fun." The only way an average couple could maintain this lifestyle was for both to maintain high-income jobs. Reality translation: long, hard hours spent in mid- to high-level corporate or institutional jobs where every drop of blood is sucked from you, leaving your child with what was left of you at the end of the day: a dried out husk.
All in the name of something our society called success, measured by how much stuff you can accumulate. (A popular saying at that time was "Whoever has the most stuff when they die, wins.")
Children? Easy fix: daycare.
I fell for this as an "older" first-time mom (35) because my career had been carefully cultivated by then and I had been working in what many would consider a glamour job carrying some amount of prestige. As Creative Director for Pfaltzgraff, a York, PA based international housewares manufacturer, I brainstormed advertising and public relations campaigns with an international advertising agency, calling the shots on what made it and what didn't. Two to three times a year, I worked in a tiny office within our dazzling Madison Avenue showroom and hobnobbed with giants of the housewares industry. I oversaw photo shoots in SoHo lofts and ate power lunches with bridal magazine editors in trendy Village bistros.
I traveled around NYC on an expense account, taking taxis to this appointment or the next. At one point, during a launch of the company's American Bone China debut, all of Bloomingdale's was at my, and my boss', disposal — after hours! That same trip involved a late-night cocktail party at the boss' midtown apartment, overlooking The Chrysler Building.
Why would I give all that up just because I wanted to start a family? I can have it all, right?
With baby in belly and clipboard in hand, I began to survey all the available offerings for daycare facilities (keep in mind, this was still a bit of a new concept), selecting only the best, and there were few. Armed with a dozen questions, I fired away at a young woman, the director of one of the toniest daycares in Harrisburg at the time, who answered them with intellligence and empathy.
And then I toured the facility.
My baby, I learned, would receive his very own cubby, destined to be filled with my daily schlep of diapers, wipes, ointments, bottles, toys. The cubbies lined the walls of the infant room — a cavernous space filled with two rows of cribs. Out of one popped a sleepy-eyed, pouty-lipped baby, head aglow with a mass of blond curls. He held his arms out to me.
I lost it.
"Sorry," I said as I tried to get out of there as fast as my seven-month pregnant body would allow. "I can't do this." I started to hyperventilate, gulping back what I knew would be a torrent of tears. "Please get that child now. He wants to be picked up." I bolted for the door and never looked back.
When I had announced my decision to my husband later that day that I wanted to raise our child, I wanted to be the face he saw when he awoke from his naps, I wanted to be the rock in his life on which he could always lean, well. . .he was surprised. As were all my friends and co-workers. Because I was always the ambitious one, I was the one spouting the platitudes of having it all.
I had my son in 1990 (a wonderful time in history to be a parent: we were in peace time, the country was prosperous, there were jobs out there if you wanted them and terrorist attacks were not yet part of the mainstream conversation). Because I had developed a nice career prior to motherhood, Pfaltzgraff did not want to lose me. The powers that be were wise enough to negotiate a contract with me so I could work from my home on a given bank of hours, which I had greatly reduced from the regular grind. That sweet arrangement lasted only a year, as I knew it would — it took that long to find someone to replace me. But that one leap of courage allowed me to work as a freelancer: I'd go after the projects I wanted when I wanted to work on them. And I'd work around the needs of my baby: when he napped, or when daddy came home, or when he was asleep at night.
I suppose today, I would be considered one who "leaned out" of her job instead of "leaned in." For me the price was simply too high.
What Does All That Really Mean?
The moms out there are probably asking themselves by now: how did your decision translate to the realities of keeping up rent or mortgage payments, child expenses, etc.?
Going from two healthy incomes to one and a quarter was not easy. There's a word out there that could be considered old-fashioned and has been nearly obliterated from the English language during the high flyin' 80s and prosperous 90s: Sacrifice. That's it. That's what it took for parents of our means, mid-level execs with no help from parental coffers or trust funds.
We resided in a residential area of Harrisburg city in a lovely "starter" Cape Cod while our friends or colleagues broke ground in one of several tony neighborhoods, preparing to build their dream McMansion. My husband drove a mid-80s Isuzu Trooper and I an 86 Toyota Corolla. I still smile whenever I spot a rare glimpse of a Trooper, remembering our newborn son puddled into a borrowed car seat in the back, my arm around his tiny shoulders and my eyes never leaving his beautiful face.
We borrowed a dear friend's crib, having to weigh all purchases now for practicality. The crib was newish, safe and free. Today we smile at the notion that our collective offspring of three, successfully-launched young adults began their lives in the comfort of that white crib.
A recent article outlining the real costs of Leaning In (about $96k a year when you consider the army of help you need to pull it off) depicted a mom handing off her baby, about six or seven months old, to an eager, smiling young woman ready to receive her.
Okay, while mom may have no regrets missing stinky diapers or singing "Wheels on the Bus" for the hundredth time, or cleaning up baby spew, there is something to be said for that sleepy-eyed, tousled-headed toddler wiping away a nap haze with dimpled knuckles. Something to be said for greeting him with a huge smile, feeling the warmth of him, hearing his heart beat next to yours. Something to be said for long walks in the neighborhood, to the farmer's market, the library, playground, play group. Something to be said about chattering on about the world around you, helping your baby NOTICE something other than a wallpapered Peter Rabbit and rows and rows of conformity.
I am not ignorant of many parents having to pull in two incomes today to survive nor am I offering a black or white rebuttal to Sandberg's mantra. I admit there are many women who should return to their jobs, and I've known many. But for those, like me, caught off-guard by the siren song of their own infant, I say: Go for it. Love every minute of it. Don't beat yourself up by comparing yourself to the Sandbergs or Mayers (Yahoo CEO who took two weeks maternity leave). They had a huge head start in the working world, and they employ an army of helpers. I am confident in saying that their hubbies may count unloading a dishwasher as pitching in around the house.
I am reminded of another mom in my child-rearing days who put herself on a pedestal: Kathie Lee Gifford. This talk show host, nightclub singer, actress and published writer touted over and over again on her gig with Regis Philbin how wonderful it was to be Cody and Cassidy's mom and shared ad nauseum all the cute things they did . . .
She even went so far as to say in an interview that every morning before she left, she wrote her children a note and placed it next to their plates, as if that fulfilled her duties of mom for the day.
I wonder. Did Cody and Cassidy reach for that note every morning or the willing arms of the person left to care for them?
It's a personal choice, no doubt. And the caregiver does not have to be mom. Dad would do just fine, if he is so inclined.
As women, we need to respect each other and support our choices. All I ask before you get swept up in another have-it-all hue and cry, or if you're about to soothe yourself with a pint of Ben and Jerry's because suddenly you feel less than a modern woman, read between the lines and realize that Yes! You Can Lean In — when and if it is right for you. And Yes! You Can Have It All.
Just not all at once.
]]>Here, I'd like you to meet a few indie authors I know. We all struggle to find that elusive prize: readers. While every one of these writers' works can be found on Amazon.com, you'll be hard pressed to know about it unless you are in their circle of friends and acquaintances or happen to stumble upon their work through Goodreads.com or some random magazine article highlighting their hard work. To say it's tougher than ever to sell a book today is a vast understatement. So many wonderful reads wade through the ocean that is the Internet where they bump against flotsam like the latest cute cat video on You Tube or withstand gale force winds generated by tripe that shall go unnamed but garners million dollar sales because it hit a collective (hollow) nerve. Nabbing an agent and a book deal with the Big Five still looms large for any author and one can wait a lifetime for it.
When the urge to write strikes, when the writer jumps through all the right hoops —joining writing groups, attending writing workshops, investing in an MFA program, and above all: writing, writing, writing, then revising until they can no longer see straight — one wants to share their stories with the world! Well, at least a portion of the reading population. This is where small publishers fill that space between the Holy Grail of the Big Five and the publish-anything crowd known as vanity presses.
But, here's the rub: small publishers do not have the resources to push the books they print, garner the NPR interviews, or blow their authors' works all over The New Yorker. Advertising, publicity, marketing — necessities in any writer's toolbox today — must cohabitate with the yearning to write.
In the early '00's (sounds so strange, doesn't it?), I innately understood this, which is why I had used money earned from a PA Council on the Arts fellowship for literature to found, curate and publish an indie literary magazine called PHASE. We had a great run, published 50 Pennsylvania authors and countless photographers and graphic designers. The magazine sold out, every time, in a favorite (and Thank God still existing!) venue: The Midtown Cinema in Harrisburg. Appreciative readers had discovered this little literary gem, but not enough of them. After seven issues, I had to fold this labor of love which I am proud to say supported itself, every issue. A wobbly support, but we ended in the black.
In that spirit, here are a few of my friends, some of whom are former students at the writing workshop I facilitate at the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill, who have toiled, combed through every word, endured critques and revisions, and have published with small publishers. There's horror, romance, intrigue, fantasy among the selections, all well written and just waiting for their spines to be cracked, their words to find a home in your mind and your heart.
Cate Masters : http://www.goodreads.com/author/list/2944596.Cate_Masters?auto_login_attempted=true
Catherine Jordan: http://catherinejordan.com/
Mike Silvestri: http://www.mikesilvestri.com/novels/
Don Helin: http://www.donhelin.com/
Madelyn Killion: http://www.amazon.com/At-End-Day-Madelyn-Killion/dp/1620061228
Jon Sprunk: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2915851.Jon_Sprunk
And, of course --
Ann Elia Stewart: http://insidelewybodydementia.com/
That should take you all the way to your upcoming beach reads. By then, I may have more for you. Thanks for your consideration!
]]>Today's a "snow" day. But where is the snow? From my office/studio window I see: a roof dusted with sugar. Naked branches of a mighty maple looking like icing on a broken oreo. Rain tears. Closed front doors. Christmas deer camouflaged in snow. Branches of lace breaking up
gray.
Like --
Dirty dishwater. Flannel. My cat, Benny. A soul in original sin. (Look up your catechism.) Or is it venal? Certainly not mortal. A coated tongue when you're getting sick. Eowyn's battle-fatigued smock. The ocean right before a storm. The new color of appliances. The perimeter of my Otter box. Perpetual twilight. Thoughts in my brain right now. Oatmeal mixed with frozen blueberries. An empty nest (aviary and human). Colonial Williamsburg. Wet newspaper. Unpolished silver. The new vanilla. The stick after you ate the corndog. Zoos. Kennels. OPI's Berlin There Done That. London (not like I'd know or anything. a gray observation, no substance). Smudges on a white keyboard. One foot in front of the other in slow motion. Casablanca without the radiance of Ingrid Bergman. Morning after you forget to take off your makeup. 5 am. Manuscripts that need to be read. Ragg wool. The clutter in our garage (you just don't see it after a while). Dust bunnies. State cars. Second place. Winters in Central Pennsylvania.
That was fun.
Analogies welcomed.
]]>. . .to realize it is December, and yes, you are responsible for shopping, baking, wrapping, greeting, socializing, cooking, pleasing everyone as humanly possible, continuing to work/teach, and finding a podiatrist for your twenty-something son who just arrived home for the holidays with probably a broken heel.
Holiday greetings from my home where boxes of Christmas items linger in the living room like items on my to-do list haunt my thoughts. Where my dear husband's well-meaning project to mend the fireplace (repointing brick, cleaning the chimney) before Christmas prevents us from putting up the tree, which has been assaulted with everything from rain to fog to high and low temperatures as it lay on our patio. It didn't asked to be picked so early. All it wants is to shine. (Personification. Meh.) Where grades are due and book clubs continue to be booked well into 2013 (oh, that's right! I had written a book). Where presents clutter my studio, some waiting to be wrapped, some waiting for a bow. Where one last batch of pumpkin bread waits to claim its aromatic place in my kitchen.
As writing goes, 2012 has been a good year. I saw my novel, twice a child, published by Sunbury Press and well received by readers. I continue to shout it to the rooftops in the hope I can reach an ever-widening audience that may benefit from taking a dip into the mind of an elderly man who suffers from Lewy Body dementia. A collection of short stories, written by my workshop participants at the Fredricksen Library, continues to delight readers with twenty-five of the best short stories to originate from this decade-long writing group (A Community of Writers from Sunbury Press and Amazon.) I started this blog and I am beginning to hear from you! Keep the comments coming, love the dialogue.
My writing students at the Capital Area School for the Arts completed five, ten-minute short screenplays which will become five, ten-minute short films by the end of the school year. (I'll let you know the dates they will be screened.) And guess what? They are all good! The films are now being cast from the excellent actors in our Theatre class, and they are to be produced and filmed by our excellent filmmakers in our Film/Video class. Posters will be made by our excellent artists in our Fine Arts class, and maybe, just maybe, I can ask for one original score from an excellent musician in our excellent Music class.
A fine writing year indeed.
The breads will be baked, the presents wrapped and the subsequent smiles duly noted. My house will somehow come together and Christmas morning, there will be a gorgeous, roaring fire in the fireplace. It all will get done. And I will rest. Sometime. Real soon.
Merry Christmas to all. Keep dreaming. Keep creating. And thanks for reading.
]]>For some of us, that is — authors — it could feel that way. Penguin and Random House merged when the rest of us were hunkering down in our homes, awaiting the storm of the century, Hurricane Sandy. Wow. Think about that one. A storm has been brewing for a long time in the publishing industry, not unlike the one that took out the music industry as we formerly knew it. The digital age is here, like it or not, and as my publisher Lawrence Knorr of Sunbury Press likes to say: "It's easier than ever to publish a book. It's just hard to sell it."
I could go into defensive mode, but no one forced me to become a writer. It is simply who I am: a lover of words, perfect story structure -- brain food.
This past Saturday, a panel of my peers gathered at The Midtown Scholar in Harrisburg, PA, for its Fourth Annual Book Festival. I was honored to be part of two panels, one on the craft of writing and the other on post-publication efforts. The room for both presentations contained writers eager for any words of advice about writing or selling their work. So, allow me to recap some of the advice.
If you want to write, sit down and write. For a certain period of time a day, preferably at the same time (so it becomes a habit), write. Give yourself a word limit. When writing my novel, twice a child, I set a word limit of 1500 words a day, in long hand. That may be a bit much for someone starting out, so you may want to start with 500 words a day using the tool of your choosing.
Find yourself a writer's workshop*, or a group of peers with whom you share your work and learn from each other.
Read everything you can about the craft of writing, be it narrative, nonfiction, playwrighting, screenwriting, etc.
Find groups on social media -- Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook. They're out there. I learned about the Penguin/Random House merger this morning by checking Twitter, #publishing. I learn so much from a fifteen-minute check of Twitter about three or four times a week. You could spend your entire life on Twitter and social networking sites, of course, but I prefer to write, to teach and to enjoy its alternative: the here and now.
Before you decide to self publish, please see all of the above. Writers need to get their work before people they don't know, aka "future readers." They can be found in workshops and writing groups. It takes courage to do this, and even more courage to "kill your darlings" or edit long-winded passages, eliminate tangents, avoid academic writing (if you are trying to write fiction or creative nonfiction).
Okay, so now the world is down to five major publishing houses. Did the demise of the LP/8-track/cassette tape/CD rid the world of musicians? Of course not. Nor will the shrinking of the traditional publishing industry.
You'll just have to shout a little louder through the din of publishing cyber space and get crafty at reaching your audience.
*In the meantime, take in some workshops around the area: Nate Gadsen's Writer's Wordshop now held at The Midtown Scholar in Harrisburg. The Natalie Craumer Writer's Workshop at the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill, where, this coming spring, yours truly will dig out her "back to basics" workshop for newbies. Write On in New Cumberland, a writers' group, and Pennwriters, another writers' group that gathers at the New Cumberland Library.
We're out there, and the door's always open.
]]>Fast forward some 30+ years into a classroom I now lead: a class of five high school students with enough courage and confidence to enroll in my creative writing class at the Capital Area School for the Arts. Last Friday, a few of my students had been pulled from my class to participate in a collaboration between film and dance so I was left with two out of five. I knew I couldn't review our current assignment (screenplay development) and I also knew that the two in my class either had to edit their script or continue working on it.
I try to maintain a studio-like atmosphere in my writing classroom. We workshop our materials, roundtable style (nod to my former writing coach, Duncan!), and I generally do not allow electronic devices for anything other than writing or research. I had been trying to get one student to open up his thoughts on paper from the beginning of the school year, but the pace of the class and a couple advanced writers proved intimidating to this sophomore*; I knew he had a story to tell, but a steady diet in his regular classrooms of "read this book and write about it" muffled his voice. He had asked if he could listen to music. I know from my own son that kids today can multi-task, that is do their homework, text, check Facebook, listen to music. (They can't clean their rooms, but that's a tangent.) So, I experimented and allowed it.
Within the first two minutes, he fiddled with the music selection. Then it was too loud for my other student who was in editing mode, even though headphones were being used. One warning about getting back on task plunked his attention back to writing his story.
More fiddling with the music selection.
And teacher called it.
Once he freed himself from distraction, this young man who had difficulty from Day One putting his thoughts onto the page suddenly started to . . .write. He literally could hear himself think.
He's still working on his screenplay and I'm liking it: he had taken his thoughts to a whole new level, bathed in the calm of silence.
*The other students are either juniors or seniors, and I am realizing it's a big leap for a sophomore. All the more reason to admire the kid's tenacity.
]]>So it is with great pleasure and humility that I tag below a link to the most recent article searching out an audience for my novel, twice a child. Written by a former high school and college writing colleague, Bill Warner, for my hometown newspaper — The Lebanon Daily News (still seven days a week!!!) — the article captures a tenderness I had yet to experience in a write up about the book. He just nails it.
Spreading the word about your work is like filling a restaurant with hungry diners — you've prepared a feast, now you need mouths to feed before the food gets cold. So you put out the shingle and straighten the chairs, polish the silver and press the linens. Your creation simmers on the stove, filling the little place with the aroma of passion and commitment and perseverance. Sometimes just the scent draws in a customer, but mostly you need to get people to experience, running the risk they may not enjoy your style — and that would be okay too. Finding an audience for your work is not unlike welcoming people to your kitchen with open arms — come in, Mangia! Spend some time walking around my heart and soul, let me know what you think. Then — pass it on.
I'll be moderating* a panel at the Midtown Scholar Bookstore's Book Festival, Saturday, November 10, from 4 - 4:50 pm. It's entitled: Congratulations, You've Published a Book? Now what? It's all about how to get people into your kitchen to try your delicious concoctions. Come on out. It's always an amazing time.
*I'll also be part of a panel discussion on the craft of writing, beginning at 2 pm that same day.
]]>What does this have to do with writing? This: during his recent stay at home, several of my son's former school mates paid him a visit. Two are working in their field on the east coast, but the job is more factory-like: they paint prosthetics. In my kitchen they bemoaned the fact that at the end of their day, the last thing they wanted to do was apply makeup on performers, or anyone, even themselves! In less then two years of joyfully sailing out of their college with a diploma in hand, it seemed to me they have already given up any hope. What they loved, their passion for creating monsters,just wasn't attainable in their minds.
Writing is a lot like that. I've been at it for forty-six years now (if you count a competition-winning essay at the age of nine! Go ahead, do the math, I embrace it!) and while I have felt like giving up many times, my passion for writing simply will not allow it. At the age of 55, I finally found a publisher for my debut novel, twice a child, a story written from my heart. My husband commented recently that he would have given up a long time ago; he marvelled at my perseverance over the years. And still, I feel there is such a long way to go. Promoting the book is more difficult than writing it — trying to attract readers, identifying specific websites that could help share it with a community dealing with the difficult task of caring for someone with dementia (the subject of the novel), finding venues to address book clubs or festivals. . .all time consuming, exhausting and yet, in some strange way, exhilarating when something actually happens.
Something like this: a recent post on a wonderful website, http://wewantedtobewriters.com/2012/10/books-by-ann-stewarts-bed/. A dear writing friend of mine who happens to write the best book reviews ever (Harvey Freedenberg) urged me to join Twitter-land, and while I balked at first, I discovered a huge community of writers just like me. People who do not have the benefit of an agent or publication from the Big Five, but who are no less passionate or accomplished. With work, a targeted approach to getting the word out about your work, and luck, things can happen.
So, if you love zombies and monsters, do something about that. Go to school and learn how to make them. Then put yourself into the right environment that will help you grow and prosper. Likewise, if you love to write, well, sit your butt down in the chair, put your fingers to the keys and write! Just know that success (however you define it) does not come overnight or the next week, or the next year. Or the next ten. (Unless you write badly about bedroom antics.) It may never come in the form of the societal definition.
Success, to me, means you are honoring your passion. You did what you could to spread the word. But you didn't give up. You never give up.
]]>So this blog is for you: writers and those who want to write but maybe are a bit timid to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. I want this to be a dialogue, not a monologue. Feel free to ask me anything about writing and I will answer to the best of my knowledge and experience. Or I will direct you to other sites chock full of writerly advice.
But I do not want to limit this blog to just writerly advice because, frankly, you could find that just about anywhere. Writing involves having lived life. Even if you're fifteen, with your whole life before you, you've lived. And if you have the inclination to write, you have something to say. I know this how? I also teach three days a week at the Capital Area School for the Arts in Harrisburg. Five high schoolers eager to write, willing to learn, and having a lot to say. They range in age from fifteen to eighteen. And their take on life is beyond their years.
As for me, I've been writing since I was nine, published at fifteen in my high school newspaper, then again in my college newspaper, and when I embraced the professional world, publishing creds have included daily newspapers, weekly magazines, countless (and byline-less) advertisements and marketing materials, speeches, short stories and novels. I know where stories originate. They originate from life.
I'll let you in on some of my own experiences and how I turned them into fiction if you are willing to explore your own. With me, right (write) here. And well, we'll just take it from there!
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