words, words, words

by Anna Maria Hansen


Sometimes my words are not enough. Hollow, ringing, ostentatious, flippant, brassy. My paper becomes a snarl of scribbles, scratched-out lines, fragments, disconnected by blank spaces.

Fortunately,  my words are are not the only ones. When they are not enough, I find friends, mentors, guides, and inspirations in the writing of others who say what I cannot. Words surround me... a web... a wind... an embrace... a circle of words all around. When I'm not writing, I'm reading. I learn from it all; the bad, the good, the great.

It is my belief that all writers are other writers' guides. There is no such thing as a solitary writer. We are all affected by each other... that is how writing works. Find me a writer who doesn't read. More specifically, I have a hard time finding a writer who hasn't been moved to write by something they read. Endless circle. A pattern of writers making writers.

Seldom do writers realize the worth of their own words. Louisa May Alcott nearly burned Little Women. Joe Shuster (original Superman creator) did burn the first Superman story. Robert Lewis Stevenson never made more than 14 pounds off of Treasure Island, which is now sprinkled like salt over the face of the planet and is one of the best known stories ever told. Tolkien held onto the beautiful, majestic, intricately detailed Silmarillion until his death believing that somehow he would be able to make it better. And you know what? He probably could have. But millions of people have read it just the way it is and this it perfect.

So even when your words seem empty, continue. Even when you're not certain who will read them, continue. When you don't know if it is finished, continue.

For we are all just writers and readers in the end; the audience and the storyteller. And all of us, every one, loves a good story.

reader's regret...

By Karen Dums

Suddenly, or so it would seem, I've discovered authors I paid not one bit of attention to during all my reading life. My bad, since the two combined have given me more insight into my writing life than all the scribblings and scratchings I've been at for the past 40+ years. (note: I started VERY young)

The first is Ursula LeGuin. I've not touched her fiction. Fantasy of that sort is not truly my thing, unless of course the author's name is Tolkien or Lewis. A snob. I admit it. But her non-fiction A Wave in the Mind is absolutely, hilariously entertaining and enlightening. Seems all these years I've spent fretting over not fitting in were a sheer waste of time. Many of us have simply not been invented until just recently, if at all. What a relief it was for Ms. LeGuin to move out of the eternal "he" and into her own self at last. Apparently my "fit", as well as my relief, awaits.

The second author was not simply stumbled upon while browsing among the stacks, but recommended by a friend. Ann Patchett's Happy Marriage has little to do with the married life and everything to do with the writing life. Having fallen asleep while deep in this book I had a dream which the next morning became the new opening of the first chapter of my novel. Was she my muse? Perhaps. Or perhaps my mind was open enough to let an idea that had been clamoring in.

One idea Ms. Patchett reiterates in nearly every chapter is one that Third Story Writer's Guild members share. We must keep working. If we're not writing we're not honing our craft. We're not becoming the best writer's we can be. What's the point then? Our minds can be filled with ideas.  Good ideas. Bad ideas. Ugly ideas. Unless we get them down on paper or on the hard drive or flash drive of our computer if that's how we work, they are going nowhere.

How hard is it to pick up a pen? Or to sit down at a computer terminal? The answer would seem to be "easy" -- but in the real world it is not. For many of us it is hard. We are inundated with demands on our time. Real demands. Work. Family. Volunteerism. A to-do list that runs from here to eternity. The clock ticks eternally. Yet if a writer is what we would be, then write we must, or fail in our attempt at what we hope to attain.

Patchett makes a neat comparison that I found particularly intriguing. If we want to learn to play the cello (or any other musical instrument) we enter into it with the idea that it will take work and practice. While some may say that playing a musical instrument is simply regurgitating another's art I disagree. Playing, as singing, painting, drawing, crafting, sewing or any other art form is just that, an art form. Writing is no different. While it would be lovely to sit under a tree or on a beach or in whatever place we find lovely and wait for the lightning of inspiration to strike, that's not how it works. It works when we work.

All of us can't "quit our day jobs", nor perhaps should we. But if writing is to be a part of our lives it is up to us and no one else to make it so. Carve out even a few minutes each day. Who knows how far it will take you? Best of all, unlike me, you'll be left with no regret.


 

what's in a year...

by Karen Dums


The Third Story Writers Guild website and blog is celebrating its first anniversary. As stated in my "myriad musing" on the website, it's been a year of discoveries. Some pleasant. Some not so much.
But I look at it this way. We've had a great year as a group, and it is hoped, as individual writers.
One thing this writer has discovered? Having a presence in the virtual world is hard work -- time consuming and plain, flat out hard work. If a site is going to be good it needs to be kept up. Hope we're doing well in that department since the musings, the wramblings, the book recommendations, all come from within. There is no "passing the buck."

Not that it's all been pure drudgery, we've had a lot of fun in the past year too. Kourtney Heintz came to visit with us last year about this time. We'd all just met, yet now many of us are fast friends with this Connecticut native, hard-working, giving, wonderful woman, who will be back with us again in little more than a week. So willing to share insights and advice. Amazing.

Jerry Apps and his wife Ruth joined us for a program in October 2013. He spoke with our group in private, and gave a wonderful, well attended public presentation. We now count him as friend, giver of advice and insight. This man who has nearly single-handedly saved the "little histories" of rural life in Wisconsin is our friend! Amazing.

During the winter months we held write-ins. What a fun thing, to be able to stay in our beautiful public library after hours and just write. Unbelievable how much work gets done in a few hours when there is no phone, no television, no dishes in the sink to call one's name and become a distraction from concentrating on the written word.

Four of us made a trip up to Northland College in Ashland to hear an author speak. It was a great little road trip. Interesting to see "how other folks do it."

We did an open read at Chequamegon Canoe Club. We are always well received there, and we have an absolute blast every time.

June brought us the long-awaited gift of Michael Perry's presence. What a humble, sharing, down-to-earth, hard-working, multi-talented man! Again, amazing!

On a personal level some of us were "accepted," some of us "rejected." That is each individual's story to tell and I will not put it here, but we soldier on.

We are a little writing community. Please let us know what you think.

                   



                  

just do it

by Anna Maria Hansen

I've been struggling to write. More than I'd like to admit.

It feels like my initiative to put words on paper is sapped. Completely gone. It's been months since I've written a poem that I liked. Even longer for a short story. While I clicked open my unfinished, in-desperate-need-of-editing novel about once a week, I just re-read it and occasionally changed a sentence or two.

 

Last week, it got to the point where I began to question my ability to write. Wondering if it was really gone, and if I would get it back. For the third time that week, I had set aside time to write and was simply sitting at the computer, chin cupped in my hands. Blankly staring at a blank text document flashing palely on the screen. Fingers tentatively pecking, I'd punched in two stanzas of a poem that I already hated.

 

It was corny. Like a cheesy, dime-a-dozen Hallmark card. It positively oozed amateur writer.

 

Moody, sullen in my lack of success to have the perfect words snap electricity from my brain to fingertips, I nearly hit the power button to black out my inability to write.

 

No.

Only a day ago I'd said, if you want to be a writer you must write.

 

Okay, prove it. Walk the talk. Write.

I drew a line under those two saccharine stanzas and started again.

write! Please, words, please!

Let me write you!

write! Pencil, do my bidding

I can't fight you.

Write! I can't stand the silence of wordlessness,

wasted on air-conditioned eight-hour days.

I can't stand the silence in my head, restlessness

the laziness that plagues me, endless delays.

Write! I can, I may, I must!

I can't stand this waiting,

this gathering dust.

Write! Fingers, obey!

Move like you used to

fill pages and pages

slashes of ink

that clear my head

to let me think.

Write!

Write!

I can, I know I can.

I may, find the way.

I must, this I trust.

Write!

Write!

Frustration confuses the electricity

between brain and fingers

they falter, they fail, they slow

the thought stays and lingers.

Anger mars the flow of pure creation

scarring each sentence with bitterness

each paragraph crippled with stumbles

each word burned in a mental furnace

Loneliness clutters thoughts with vacancy

paradox and contradictions everywhere

denial blurs borders until I can't tell

fiction from a truth hard to bear.

So write!

Write it out and burn it up!

Tear it, scatter the pieces to the wind!

Don't go away, don't give up.

Write!

Write, please write.

Write, just write.

You know it, you're choking on the dust

you scream I can, I might, I must!

I can write storms and life and wars

heal wounds and scars and death

with the tap of fingers shatter doors

 

So write!

Write away the rust!

You think you can,

you know you must.

I'll write myself a pair of wings

and go flying

I'll write myself a shovel

and start trying

to dig the wealth of words

I'll write myself a map

and do it right away

I'll write myself a lamp

so I can see the way

Write

in words are all things

Write

in words are the wings

Write

in words are the things

that make me

Write

Apart from deleting a couple extra stanzas and lines where I continued to ferociously and persistently order myself to pick up the pen, this is the original. I'm not proud of it and there is no use for it...

Oh yeah, there was. It got me writing. Even if it was just ridiculous word and cadence games, I was writing. I firmly believe that to be a good writer you must write – the good, the bad, the unquestionably terrible – but most of all, the truth. Call it whatever you want, allowing some of the words to run out clears my mind.

I didn't close the computer then.

I started a new text document and wrote a poem that was next to halfway decent. Today, I will write another one, and keep writing until I can write... for writing truly does make me right.

to be a writer

by Anna Maria Hansen


On June 23rd, Third Story Writers Guild were visited by New York Times bestselling author Michael Perry. In addition to a public presentation, Perry took time to share insights into his personal writing journey.

There was a lot that resonated during his discussion. As writers, we've heard a lot of the theories before. Write what you know. Find a place you're comfortable with. Look for inspiration. Et cetera. The list goes on into infinity and then just a couple feet beyond.

This was a chance for us to talk to someone who was where we're headed. Michael Perry makes his living off his writing, churning out enough words to support a family and keep the necessary amount of sanity at the same time.

His writing? Everything from full-length novels, to a freelance writing guide, to magazine articles, to truck advertisements. He calls it, “Feeding a habit.” For him, writing is what he want to do most, and he is willing to do what it takes to make that his life.

He writes every day (we've all heard that one; how many of us take it to heart is the question). Not a set word or page count. Just sits down every day in whatever spare minute pops up and writes. Whatever. Anything that he can write, he does.

That gave me an idea. If I can write anything, work on anything that involves writing – yes, I can do that. I love words, reading them, picking them apart, translating, and elaborating them. I can do that every day. It's a skill; sharpen it. Leave it sitting around waiting for the muse, and it will be dull when inspiration strikes.

That was another part of Michael Perry's writing structure that stuck with me and made a lot of sense to my rural Wisconsin life. He likens writing to be a dairy farmer. “You can't wait to be inspired to milk the cows.” And the same goes for writing. If you want to make a living at it, you have to write.

Perry treats writing like a job. One he loves, albeit, but a job none-the-less. Writing pays his bills, fills hours of his day and at the same time, fills a strong desire to fill blank pages with black text. And he operates with the same dedication and commitment that many of us work our jobs. Because if we don't, we loose them. And that attitude toward writing – if you want to make it your living – is what's going to make it possible.

Perry was born a farm boy, went to school to become a nurse, worked as an EMT and then dropped it all to fulfill a passion he hadn't realized had existed... writing. All the experiences he had up until that point and all that came after it fuel his writing and keep it alive.

The key thing I took away from talking to him: If you want to be a writer, be one.

Just do it.

The right place at the right time...

By Karen Dums

Call it Divine Intervention.
Call it fate.
Call it perfect alignment of your stars.
Call it pure chance or coincidence.
Sometimes it's all a matter of being in the right place at the right time.

So a guy walks into a bar... Scratch that.

So a guy and his wife walk into a bistro. Their second choice for dinner out. They order drinks and a pizza. The owner, who knows the guy is a poet, says he'll give him the pizza for free if he stands up and recites one of his poems. This guy has a great voice, both in his writing and in his presentation. Free pizza? Why not. He stands and recites "The Catchall", one of his many poems about fishing.

Two guys are sitting at the bar. Two guys who happen to publish a little paper downstate. A little paper that also has an online presence. When they hear the poem they are impressed (as well they should have been) and ask the guy for some information. Request his poetry. A chance for publication. Boggles the mind, doesn't it?

Did the owner know the two men were in the publishing biz when he asked the guy to recite his poem?

Doesn't really matter, does it? All the pieces were perfectly in place for an opportunity. An opportunity Scott Schmidt, who happens to be "the guy", and who happens to be an active member of Third Story Writer's Guild, took. He took it, he ran with it. Where will it lead? We don't know, but it was an open door. Scott took a chance and stepped through it.

What if he and his wife had gone to the other restaurant they were considering?

What if CCC owner Greg Broome hadn't asked him to recite a poem?

What if he'd been too shy to do it?

[See above]

What if we have opportunity staring us in the face and either don't recognize it, or won't take note of it because of fear or some other "holding us back" emotion?

Not all of us write with an eye to publication. We're content to hide our light under the proverbial bushel. And that's more than okay. But those who want it. Truly want it, must set aside fear, shyness, anything that holds them back and go for it. When opportunity knocks they must open the door and walk  bold through.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained may be a cliche', but it's a true one.

Way to go Scott. Good luck with this. May it bring you great success.

I for one would love to say "I knew him when..."

When change is in the wind...

By Karen Dums

We go through so many phases in our writing life. I chanced upon some poetry I'd scrawled on a  piece of scratch paper, unfortunately it was undated. Some of it was quite beautiful. The reader could tell I was writing of something that touched me deep. These days, weeks, months, perhaps years later I no longer recall what that something was. Puzzled, I pondered it  and came upon one of those starkly honest moments where I got it. It doesn't matter who or what I was writing of at the time. If the words are good, if the meaning is fundamental, it's writing of worth. Time doesn't matter. It will stand that test.

Oh dear. That sounds like braggadocio doesn't it? It's not. I don't value my overall worth as a writer that much. But occasionally I come up with something I like. Being my own worst (and harshest) critic that is an amazing thing! Please let me have this little moment of "hey, that poem was good".

The place I'm residing as an author now is much different than those older words would indicate. I've got a completed novel under my belt at last (something I never dreamed I'd have). I've begun the querying process (something I never dreamed I'd do). I've an eye to a new endeavor in the young adult genre (something I never dreamed I try). It's scary. Yet as writers we must embrace some change if it means we're growing, enhancing our craft. Besides the muse is as changeable as the wind...and sometimes about as friendly. It can push towards places we really didn't intend to go.

Once upon a  time I would have worried over writing something so different than my usual.

Once upon a time I would have fretted about a professional editor or acquisitions agent reading over my work.

Once upon a time I would have talked myself out of completing any serious long form work in the first place!

Once upon a time is a great opening for fairytales...

Don't get me wrong. Our old stories are wonderful. A soft blanket we can snuggle in to when we're tired, alone, discouraged. They are the building blocks that form us. But if we wish to grow we must add to them. Sometimes that means letting the capricious winds take us where they will.

Have you ever stood facing a gale? It's exhilarating. Makes one feel alive. I'm hoping this new direction my personal wind is blowing will take me to good places never dreamed of.  Maybe I'll meet you on the breeze...