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...

a tangled web

by Karen Dums


At times the muse can work against us. Our minds are so full of ideas they become fishing line full of knots. If you've ever tried to untangle fish line you'll know its a near impossibility.

Journaling helps me with this. I can blather on in my journal without rhyme nor reason since no one is going to see it but me. But even that can get to feeling "old". Something that makes at least a modicum of sense would be wonderful.

Enter the prompt. I often throw out prompts at writer's group. But when my head is a tangled mess how am I  to come up with a decent one? What do I have to offer myself or anyone else until the web inside my head becomes a nice, smooth, straight line of coherent thought?

Shopping. Book Shop shopping.

The local bookstore shelves held this beautiful little tome. All browns and golds and lovely to look at. Much more importantly was what lay within. Ideas. It was a five year journal with ideas for each and every day. A journal that gives a sense of direction instead of just a blank page. Of course it found its way into my shopping bag. I love it. I love that if my untidy, clutter mind is more or less empty I can open it to the date and fine something sublime or something ridiculous. Not only that, but if I'm true to this little treasure, I'll have years of joy and directed writing to compare one to another.

Bliss.

Sigh.

It may be difficult to untangle the web, but I can still write with clarity in the meantime.

I love a good "book."

the friction of silence

by Anna Maria Hansen

 

 

~ ~ ~

I cannot write

words dried up, blood from a wound

fire quenched, only smoke left, wreathing

each thought silent prisoner, dragooned

Sitting silent

waiting for their return, birds frightened from the nest

Ears straining, the friction of silence audible

no sound of my words returning, no peace and no rest

I am speechless

fingers hovering, hoping to capture phrases

Like stealth, like hunter, watching for some sign

seeking words through the mindless mazes

I cannot write

creativity sapped, draining, dripping, drying

As a tree in winter, leafless, dead at first glance,

spring must come, melting words, I cannot stop trying

~ ~ ~

 

 



Part of being a writer is knowing that stretches will come, sometimes only a few hours, sometimes days, when words will not come.

Just empty pages, the cursor blinking palely on the screen.

The trick for me has always been sidestepping the writer's block, going around it, instead of trying to battle a straight-forward way over the top. I wrote the above poem on a night when I sat down at the computer determined to write for 20 minutes. I couldn't come up with a single useful line for my book, so I opened a new word document and typed the gospel truth, "I cannot write." And then proceeded to do just that.

Learning to understand (and accept) the silence of thought is a work in progress. I've often found that when I cannot work on a set project... doing something else is usually the key. Change the pace, the rhythm, the tone. When writing is impossible, read over what you've already written. Sooner or later, a sentence will stand out at you and resisting the need to tamper with it will be impossible. You'll be writing, even if it's only a few words.

Writer's block, I'm told, is all in our minds. Truly then, the antidote to it must be there as well.

"...I cannot stop trying..."