NOT REIMBURSED

Sometime ago I read an article stating that the FTC stated every blog writer must now make a statement when writing reviews or making recommendations for books or products. We must let readers know whether or not we have received any kind of compensation for praising the writers we read. Sounds very inept (or should I just say stupid and get it over with?) to me. But here goes.

To all of my readers who have heard me praise the following readers or their work--I, do not personally know these authors, their agents, promoters, or book distributors. I purchase the books or magazines with their work in them with my own money--and have not been paid to write a good (or bad) work about them or their work.

The following writers have been discussed in my blog:

Natalie Goldberg, Charles Martin, James Lee Burke, James Patterson, Kenneth Koch, Lisa Jackson, Robyn Carr, Zane Gray, Charlotte Harris, Jane Eyre... Oops, she didn't write a book, did she?

This could take forever, folks, and I think it is so ridiculous I refuse to be a party to such time consuming affairs. So sue me!

Sue me for what? I didn't get compensated, remember?

PURPLE MAJESTIES

I didn't have any idea what I would write about today but my snail-mail poetry group's return of last session's poem gave me an idea...the subject was purple. Sitting here at the keyboard I realize I am wearing a purple tee (with the words California Dreamin') and next to my note pad rests a purple ink pen. With my first published book, "The Quilt Maker," I began autographing with purple ink. Though I don't want to admit to the "age" thing, for as long as I live I will wear purple.

I also tie the color into royalty and Jesus Christ. And I believe that as a child of God, who is my King, I am allowed to wear purple. Though a commoner in the sight of the world, I am precious to Him.

So...I love purple clothes, purple shoes. Purple (they're not really red) onions in salad. Purple (I think they are more burgandy) wines. Purple orchids, purple-leafed canna lilies, and my favorite purple irisis blooming in my garden in early spring.

Here's a short poem--not the one I shared with my critique group--just a little thing I wrote in my journal.

When I think of my love
for the color purple
and list all my favorites--
purple irisis, purple sweater,
purple shoes, purple ink,
and that favorite wine,
I realize that none
of these compare compare
with my favorite purple.
The one that touches my heart
fiercely grips at my soul is
that Purple Heart on the
breast of a soldier
young and old.
(Barbara Deming (c)2011)

GO WITH YOUR INNER CHILD

Growing up, I was the eldest of five children and was required to entertain the youngest as babysitter and second mother. Maybe that is the reason I became a writer. I learned to use my imagination at an early age.

Have you ever thought of your childhood play time? I was the kid who turned into the teenager who became the adult who made up stories, told little white lies when younger in order to dodge punishment (or to see my parent's faces grow pale) and, as long as I could make believe with voice or on paper, I was never bored. I was curious and observant and noticed details others (especially my siblings) swore were never there.

Some details we notice at crazy times and from the weirdest places, are the fuel for great short stories and novels. Even personal essays that drive our relatives wild because they swear it never happened that way. The details are what makes the story.

Did you see that shoe beside the road? One shoe? How did it get there? Who wore it? Could she be limping around on one high-heel shoe. There's a story there and you can tell it.

As children, we played, walked around, merely lived in tune with our senses. If you don't believe me, watch a child out on a walk lift up their nose and take a deep breath walking by a bakery, bury their nose in a rose, or wrinkle that same smeller when they get a wiff of a dairy. A child rubs sand between their hands to feel the texture, eats dirto or an ice cream cone for taste, and laughs at a clown's antics or daddy playing peek-a-boo. They are experts at using their senses.

Children easily make connections. Would you reach out and touch a starfish without hesitation, hold your hand next to it and say, "They're the same shape?" If you wink at a child, would you consider yourself a blinking light? If oatmeal cookies are your favorite, would you create the same shape out of clay? Look at your childhood, or the world through a child's eye, and realize just how creative you really are.

A child runs, laughs loudly, cries with big tears and deep sobs, and plays pretend vigorously. Their emotions are on the surface--often too much so according to their parents. Use that same emotion in your writing.

Be a child again. Connect with your inner child self. Your muse will thank you.

CURIOUS PLACES

Years ago while attending a creative writing seminar, an instructor had us write for ten minutes in the conference room where held. She gave us a topic and asked that we freewrite for that time--no stopping, no corrections,just write. The she moved the small group outdoors to a sunny patio to write for another ten minutes--same directions--without a topic.

If you don't think the world around you affects your writing try this experiment. I found my first ten minutes was more restricted, more classroom-like. It didn't mean that I couldn't produce something readible within those restraints and that time-frame but it was more like being in school again. My ten-minute writing outdoors flowed more freely, seemed more open, and read like I had connected with my inner self.

My recommendation is to try your writing--even on the same subject matter--in your office and then move out to the patio, down to the park, or find a back booth at a fast-food place. It is worth the test to see if you write with more enthusiasm and ease in one place or the other.

One of my favorite poets, and writers, is Gary Snyder. This is one of his thoughts that resonated with me:

"Memories and our old pathways are woven like ghost nets invisibly filling the landscape of our days."

WHERE DO I START?

This is not the time to apologize for not being here for all of you. But...Life has had its ups and downs, the muses have been playing games with my heart and soul, and sometimes we all feel like running away from home. Enough said. I am here and, hopefully, will do a better job of keeping my readers updated, informed, having fun with, and hoping to let you into, not only my life, work, and dreams, but offer a little knowledge from someone who has been playing this creative game a long time.
***
When I was five I had already learned to read and was the youngest child at the nearby County Library to be given her own library card. By age ten, I had read everything in our small school library, could only go to that County Library every two weeks, so decided I'd create my own "books" and stories. That love for creating other lives has clung to me for more years than I want to admit.

Every time I think I have nothing to write about, in my memory I recall growing up in that small Texas town. I remember taking pencil in my teeth, Red Chief Tablet tucked in my waistband, and my climb to the top of a favorite mulberry tree. It was a great writing room--a place where no younger siblings could bother me and I could hide from Mama calling me to do chores. There are stories upon stories in those childhood memories.

What is your favorite place to go for peace and relaxation? Where would be the perfect spot for you to "hide" in order to write without interference? I sometimes take my notebook--or just a spiral notebook--and walk several blocks from my home to Jack's Pond. During many summers we have taken two weeks, driven 350 miles north, and camped on the Kern River where Ray fishes and I write. Along Bull Frog Creek, with the soft sound of water falling over the rocks, the muse opens up and pours forth all manner of creativity. I work on my stories already started. Or I soak up those sounds and sights around me--emotions that then seep out of my pen or laptop in poetry form. A peaceful place can allow you the right to freely compose whatever your heart dictates.

Look around you, or change your location. Listen to the world in that special place, or shut it out entirely. Close your eyes and soak up the atmosphere, or dream of worlds beckoning from your imagination. Never forget there is a time and a place for you muse to open up, and there is always something to write about.
***
I'm working on a novella, "Badge of Honor," written from a prompt given to my creative writing class. Sometimes my muse grabs one of those starters and runs with it. Carmela Rojas has just slipped away from her former fellow Agents into the night to pick up evidence she has hidden. I know she is going to meet up with a murderer. Does she save herself? Or does she get the help she desperately needs?