Spring, finally

As I write this, the snow is mostly melted, the sun is shining, and it's 50 degrees at 10 am. Spring, finally.
Don't get me wrong. It's not like full-blown spring with budding leaves and daffodils. Not yet. But somehow, I can see the subtle changes that tell me my favorite season is not far away. A few patches of yellow-green are struggling amidst the brown grass. Roadside brambles have taken on a pale pastel hue, not quite green, but no longer the color of toast. It's time to push aside the layer of dead leaves and uncover the new life ready to grow. Time for new ideas and a fresh outlook.
In preparation for reading for my critique group next week, I am uncovering 10 pages that I wrote a month or two ago. I need to look at it anew and brush off the dead layer off. Hopefully, that will allow it to grow into the story it is supposed to be.

Living history, I guess

I had one of those "Omigosh" moments this morning. A girl in my Sunday school class, about 13 years old, told me her homework for Music class included writing a historical look at the Beatles. Who knew I'd live to see the day that the music which has been the soundtrack to my life would be the subject of a history lesson?
Some of the Beatles' music has clearly not stood the test of time. It was pop music, good for a little while, but only revisited when a radio station plays top hits from a single year. On the other hand, some of their music has morphed into classic status, destined to be sung and recorded by another generation of musicians and vocalists.
Any artist (including a writer like me) could only hope for such a legacy. I pray that thirty plus years after I finish my book, someone picks it up and finds it to be a timeless classic with a unique voice.

The shortest month of the year is the longest for me

PA winters are too long for my taste. If I had a choice, winter would end on January 2nd, all the daffodils would come up and I'd walk my dogs without the coat, gloves and scarf. To combat that stuck-in-the-house feeling I get by February, I visited my best friend Joni and her hubby and son in San Antonio for a few days this week. My visit to them was long overdue and absolutely wonderful. There is nothing better than basking in the warmth of an old friendship to refresh me, inside and out. It's better than spring.
In hopes of breaking up the winter doldrums for some friends here in PA, Michael and I are hosting an Oktoberfest tomorrow night. We'll be serving up some wurst, sauerbraten, weiner schnitzel, potato pancakes, dumplings, spaetzle, red cabbage and lots of other recipes from my German cookbooks and my mother. I've got German music, Hogan's Heroes episodes and I even made up a couple of games. Here's hoping we have a good time. Prosit!

Writing and rewriting

A lot of the writers in my critique group find it easier to write new material than to self-edit: slashing out pet phrases, paragraphs or whole pages. Not me. I think I prefer self-editing and the whole rewriting process. It's as if my first attempt is a blurry picture and I need multiple edits to bring the characters and story into focus.
I can edit my work and re-write anytime, even if I have 15 minutes available. By contrast, to write a new scene, I need the right conditions: at least an hour, minimal distractions, a clear head and no fatigue. Focused time like that is a rare commodity for me.
I have a whole file of 'early versions' of my novel saved on my computer, versions that involved a different protagonist, scenes that I decided not to use, or plot lines that were dead ends.
I don't know why I'm saving them. Maybe they'll come in handy sometime in some other novel. Or maybe they are all just part of my learning curve.

Write what you know?

When I first started writing, one of the first rules I heard was "Write what you know." Well, I know about PT with kids, so did this rule mean I was supposed to write about PT with kids? That struck me as kind of boring. I was already doing it all day. Did I really want to write about it all night? My answer was 'no.'
The more I thought about it, I saw it as a challenge. Couldn't I take some of what I've learned and turn it into stories? I don't mean PT stuff like hamstring stretches or wheelchair prescriptions. I mean real lessons, like the dignity of the individual, how alike we all are underneath our bodies, how the disability of one person affects their family, and how different community members react to that person and their family. I was intrigued. And I started writing.
In the fiction novel I am writing, Sophie, the protagonist, develops polio. She goes from being an insider to being an outsider in her own society, an experience common for people with an acquired disability. She learns that her true value as a human being is not tied to her body. That's what the kids I work with have been teaching me for 30+ years.