Monthly Holiday Writing

As most of you know, I teach a memoir writing class to seniors at a retirement facility. Each month I give them a prompt for each session and they share their work with their fellow writers. This last week I gave them a list of several "holidays" in the month of February: There are more holidays than just Valentines Day and Presidents Day after all.

For my own sharing, I chose Ferris Wheel Day, February 14. That reached out to me because it brings out a memory that goes back to 1944 when I was four. My aunt had come to live with us while her husband was in the Army; he fought in the Battle of the Bulge and I can still remember how worried she was when she didn't receive a letter for many weeks at a time. Anyway, she was a great aunt and, having no children of her own, she "adopted" me as her own during those years.

Aunt Margie's in-laws lived in Texas City, Texas, about thirty miles from our home. She often took me on the bus with her to visit them; we always stayed for a few days and had a great time. Her in-laws treated me like a favorite granddaughter and I loved the attention. On one of these trips, she took me to a county fair—my very first visit to one. I loved everything about it—the animals, the exhibits, and the midway with all the barkers attempting to draw you in to pay to play their games. Or ride their exciting pieces of magic machinery.

We rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. We rode the Carousel. But my eye was on that huge Ferris wheel towering over the entire fair. I insisted I wanted to ride that one. My aunt tried to discourage me, told me I wouldn't like it, that it was really high up there, that once on I couldn't get off. And I insisted that was the one I needed to ride! She gave in.

Do I need to tell you that it was fun going up but when the chair rose to the top and we sat there swaying back and forth and I looked down on the tiny world below me, I was absolutely petrified. I wanted off. And, as she had warned, there was no way to get off that thing. I began to cry. She couldn't console me. The more I cried, the higher the terror rose in my throat until it came out in a loud wail.
My aunt tried to soothe me. She tried to calm me down. She reverted to something she never did, she threatened to spank me if I didn't shut up. I didn't care what she did once we were off that thing, I wanted off—NOW! I made such a ruckus, the operator let us off as soon as we got back to earth. My aunt didn't spank me, but she was certainly ticked off at me.

Over the years, as a teenager and later as an adult, the Ferris Wheel day became a joke between us. She and her husband had moved to Washington, DC after the war where my uncle had a government job. Later they lived in Virginia, and in each place we visited often. When she proposed we go to some historical sight, I would always say, "Just as long as it doesn't have a Ferris Wheel."

I have never been on a Ferris Wheel since that day. Something about that experience stuck in my psyche and I have never wanted to try it again. I have ridden huge roller coasters across the country, have flown on rings at the Munich Octoberfest, and have zipped through all the rides at Disneyland and Disney World but never a Ferris Wheel has attempted me.

Why not check out some of these "odd or different" holidays each month, pick one, and write about it. It might stimulate you to check each month out--and there must be a market for one of your brilliant pieces.

HOW DID THEY WRITE

Recently, I was reading about some quirks of writing habits among famous writers. I wondered if I had some--not the same--but ones original only to me. Do I write better in certain places? At certain time of day or night? Do I only write on the computer, or with pen and pad first? Is there a certain color of ink I use to write, or sign my name?

I write most anywhere. If I am meeting a deadline or doing final edits, I am only comfortable in my office at the main computer or on my laptop. If I'm writing off the top of my head, or creating a first draft of a story, I take my Acer mini to Jack's Pond, Discovery Lake, or Starbucks. Or out on the patio.

Once upon a time, I could write into the wee hours of the night. Now, I am into writing in the morning or early afternoon when I feel fresher. If I'm on deadline or editing a story or piece, I can work at night but the creative side of my brain, my imagination, is not as active late in the day as it used to be.

I often don't begin writing on any electronic device. I use a yellow-lined pad and a pen. If writing a story, I begin writing and continue until my first spurt of inspiration is run through. Then I will go to the computer, input it, print off the last page for my next beginning point. When writing an article or essay, I complete the first draft before going to the computer. I believe that by putting my work on the computer at this point, I am editing/rewriting the first draft.

And I do have this one quirk regarding ink. For example, when writing in my journal, I swtich colors of ink with each days entry. I think it gives my journal a more colorul, insightful look to my work. And when I autograph my books at a book signing or to send off through the mail, I create my message and sign my name in purple ink. Maybe it is something to do with the poem --when I grow old, I will wear purple.

Here are a few habits of the famous: John Nichols (The Milagro Bean Fields) writes in the tub beginning at 4 a.m. He writes by longhand on the back olf junk mail.

Tennessee Williams wrote "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" on his favorite writing material--an assortment of hotel stationery.

Robert Pirsig (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) wrote his book on index cards.

Count Leo Tolstoy and William Burroughs both used scissors and paste to "rearrange" the drafts of stories.

Toni Morrison writes on yellow legal pads with "a nice number two pencil."

John updike wrote with pen or pencil, no computer for him.

Ernest Hemingway wrote standng up.

What are your habits, or quirks?

CHILDREN WRITE LIFE

"How can you sit down to write until you have stood up to live?" (Thoreau)

I was going through some of my journals today and came across this story I had written from some book I am sure (which one I didn't make note of) I must have been reading at the time:

A poor woman living in the projects could not give her children a room of their own. But she did give each of them a blank spiral notebook. She told each child it was his very own; he owned it. The only thing she asked was that they write in that "book" each day. She didn't read them, letting them know they were free to write what they wanted. ***

Can you imagine what stories those notebooks contained? Did they write from their imagination? Did they tell the stories of the last soccer game, where they could have made the goal, but didn't--or did? Did they write poetry? Or letters to each other, a relative, to that mother? Or did they begin a memoir, painting a picture of what their life was like in that project, including the dreams, hopes, plans they had for gettng out of there?

You have that opportunity. Can you do less than these children? Write today, write in a spiral notebook, on the computer, on your hand--just write. Get your stories out there.