Archive for the ‘writing’ Category
peeking in on some pages
I’ve had my manuscript counter sitting over there on the sidebar for months (go ahead, scroll down; I’ll still be here when you get back), and the number has barely budged. I thought having it there would pressure me to write the second half of the book I’m working on. Hah!
I know that I should force myself to get up even earlier and just write those few pages a day that all the well-respected writing authorities assure me will mean a finished first draft in no time, and yet, no pages in months.
There are tons of excuses, as there always are when you aren’t doing something you know you should be doing. The biggest one for me is that other things like work that pays the bills gets in the way–and when work that pays the bills is other types of writing, well, the last thing I want to do is sit down and write in my “free” time.
Poor me, I know. I wish I could channel some of the enthusiasm of Christina, but for now, what I’ll do is play along with something I saw over at Nova’s place, Distraction No. 99.
After all, the first step in The Writer’s 12 Step Inspirational Program is to admit that you are a writer. So here I am. With the paragraphs to prove it.
Turn to page 123 in your work-in-progress. (If you haven’t gotten to page 123 yet, then turn to page 23. If you haven’t gotten there yet, then get busy and write page 23.) Count down four sentences and then instead of just the fifth sentence, give us the whole paragraph.*
*Since I like to make my own rules, I’ll give you a paragraph from pages 23 and 123 of the same
work.
*******************
Page 23:
Just as that thought occurred to me, a light went on in Frank’s kitchen. Are you kidding me? Daisy couldn’t have woken him up. And anyway, he must’ve gone through this hundreds of times when Bianca was alive. Don’t your sleep patterns adjust to these sorts of things? The rain bounced off Bianca’s umbrella lightly but steadily as I turned my whole body to face Daisy. I thought maybe she would pick up the pace, fearing Frank’s wrath. Instead, I saw only the swaying tail of my new best friend as she trotted toward Frank’s kitchen. So much for being afraid of the rain.
Page 123:
But there was no time to think. I opened the glass doors of the china cabinet and felt around as much as I could without disturbing the various pieces of crystal waiting to clang together. Ah! There was a key in between two glasses. I tried to pry up the jagged edge, but just as I had a grip, the ceiling above me, which corresponded with the top of the steps, moaned. Anthony was coming. I pulled back my hand, shut the doors, and swiped my coffee mug from the dining room table just as he rounded the corner.
********************
Phew. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?
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[tags]writing, writing fiction, memes[/tags]
A Blog By Any Other Name…
I’ve gotten quite a few questions about the origin of the name of my blog lately. Maybe others are also wondering where it came from and are just too shy to ask. Or, most likely, you haven’t given it any thought at all and couldn’t care less about my creative process.
No matter. You’re all getting an answer right now. And we’re going back to when I first moved to Italy in 2003.
I’m a journal-keeper by nature, and so it was only logical that I’d be recording my experience of making a new life in my family’s old village. Remember this was around the time of Under the Tuscan Sun, and I was thinking about at some point organizing my experiences and observations into something larger, which for the sake of argument, we’ll call a book.
So I brainstormed some names for chapters and came up with “Mozzarella Dreams,” (this because I had recently had nightmares on two separate occasions after eating mozzarella in the evening; the chapter would be about food habits); “Questi Uomini” (“these men”; chapter to discuss the culture of machismo); “The Young Girl and the Sea” (talking about my aversion to the beach despite living so close to it); and (I bet you saw this coming) “Bleeding Espresso” (about the coffee-drinking habits around here, including the no cappuccino other than first thing in the morning “rule”).
But that still doesn’t really explain where I got the phrase from, so stay with me here.
“Bleeding Espresso” first came to mind because when I was in college, there was a rather flamboyant football player who was always good for an entertaining quote. One day he let loose with: “I believe if you’d cut me, I’d bleed Duke blue.”
It immediately became a catch phrase among my friends and me because it was so over the top and hilarious. I mean, I like my alma mater and all, but that’s a little excessive. Surprisingly, it’s not as out there as I thought because when I just did a quick Google search for the phrase “bleed Duke blue,” I got 5 pages of results. And none of them were said by this particular athlete.
In any event, that phrase has always been somewhere near the surface of my consciousness, so when it came time to chapter name, I wanted something along the lines of espresso, cappuccino, and the like. I thought about just how much coffee people drink here, and that probably even I at this point would bleed espresso if I were cut.
So I scribbled “Bleeding Espresso” on the inside of a manila folder where I kept random tidbits that I wrote, brochures from travels, etc., and there it sat for a few years.
And then one fateful December night, I got the inspiration to blog, but I drew a complete blank on a name. I thought and thought for a couple days until it occurred to me to go back to the beginning of my Italian travels quite literally.
I went to the folder, and Bleeding Espresso was born. The tag line below it came a few moments later, and my name “sognatrice” (“dreamer”) came from the “Mozzarella Dreams” phrase.
So now you know.
sunday scribblings: puzzled
Prompt #48: Puzzled
“Dammit!” she yelled, pushing her chair out from under her with her bum. She reached across the small round table to retrieve her industrial-sized paper cup. After burning her tongue on the first sip, she had set it a little too close to the edge to cool off and now its contents and its cheap plastic lid were in a pool spreading ever so quickly to a black-haired man’s left foot. How he didn’t notice the commotion when everyone else in the bookstore coffee spot flipped around to share squinted eye stares was a mystery.
“Excuse me? Sir?” she yelled toward him while exchanging knowing looks with the guy behind the counter. “Hello?”
He looked up from his newspaper crossword puzzle and flashed her the same glare that everyone else had offered a few moments ago.
“Yes?” His deep blue eyes focused on hers, which were slightly hidden by rectangular black frames. He put his pen down, exchanging it for his own industrial-sized cup and sipped.
“Just some hot tea inching toward your foot there,” she said while pointing to the floor. He yanked back his foot, and the guy from behind the counter arrived with a mop just in time. The leather loafers were safe.
“That was close,” he said and put down his cup, still glaring. Then he smirked, grabbed his pen, and scribbled something on the puzzle without looking at her.
“Yeah, sorry,” she said and sat back down at her table, wishing for another glance at those blue eyes and a few more words of his Irish accent.
She wondered how she didn’t notice him when he came in, but apparently she had been too absorbed in her research on Academy Award history. Wasn’t the most exciting assignment, but playing around with the winners’ names would be later. She just needed to make sure all the dates were right.
She rearranged her coat on the back of the chair, loosing a grip on her green silk scarf. As she secured it under the collar of her coat, she glanced up at the counter guy; he responded by reaching for an Earl Grey tea bag. Then she settled back, crossed her arms, and focused on Crossword Guy.
He must’ve felt the attention because he looked up straight at her.
She shot her head down, covered her forehead with her hand, and flipped open the book where her pen had kept her place. She tried to focus on the words so she could continue picking and choosing, but she kept getting sidetracked by stories of illicit Hollywood romances along the way. And by stolen glances of the dry-loafered Irish guy a few feet away.
She turned around and scanned the area behind her. Nothing much happening there. She tried to push her curly brown hair behind her ears, but it wouldn’t cooperate. Then she turned back around and again exchanged an eye-to-eye moment with Crossword Guy. Instead of looking away, she let her eyes travel past him as she looked toward the counter, and, wait, did Crossword Guy just look down quickly? Huh.
She tapped her pen lightly on her notebook while reading about “Wallace and Gromit,” but stopped when she heard an “ahem.”
“Your tea,” said the counter guy.
“Thanks,” she said, and could’ve sworn that Crossword Guy was staring through the space between the counter guy’s arm and body.
She pulled the book onto her lap and placed her tea in the center of the table. With her eyes looking so far down at the book, she figured, she wouldn’t be so tempted to stray.
In fact, she didn’t even look up to grab her cup while she took off the lid. Still looking at the book, she brought the cup to her lips but stopped short. The steam fogged her glasses, reminding her just how hot the tea inside really was. She put the cup back down, still without looking. She wasn’t about to burn her tongue again.
“Excuse me?” Crossword Guy said, foiling her plan to not look at him.
“Yes?” He was blurry through the moisture, but she acted like his image was crisp.
“You don’t happen to know an 10 letter word starting with G for ‘the place to be’ do you?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said feeling a little deflated that this was the reason behind the repeated glances. “I mean, of course. It’s ‘Green Acres,’ an old television show.” Her mind’s capacity for useless trivia had only been expanded by her job.
“Brilliant!” he said, writing furiously. “Finished!” He shoved the puzzle back into its newspaper and tucked everything into his shoulder bag. He got up, slung his coat over his arm, pushed his chair toward the table, and smiled as he walked by.
Then he stopped at the exit of the coffee area a few feet behind her and turned around.
“Same time, same place next Sunday then?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said looking straight ahead. Then she turned around to meet his eyes with hers and added, “You bring the puzzle.”
Writing crossword puzzles for a living has some perks after all, she thought as she sipped her tea, which was now the perfect temperature.
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[tags]sunday scribblings, puzzles, crossword puzzles, writing fiction, short stories [/tags]
sunday scribblings: behold the power of yum
Prompt #46: Yummy/Yum
“Yummmm…” Laura hummed as she swirled a yellow bear with a penchant for honey through the air, swooping down to pick up newspapers with its paws.
She was using every available weapon in the war to get her tea party-playing 3-year-old daughter to help get the house in order.
Lila was probably getting too old to be fooled by the Yum farce, but Laura’s date would be arriving in less than 15 minutes, the babysitter was a half hour late, her six-year-old son was running around in only his underwear brandishing a glowing green sword, and she was pretty sure her hair was streaked with mashed potatoes.
And now even Yum was failing her.
Yum was Lila’s favorite toy, and for a long six months about a year back, was the only authority that Lila would obey. Whether or not a new boss had taken his place was debatable.
“Come on sweetie. You know Mommy’s new friend is coming over soon. Even Yummmm wants a clean living room.” Laura nuzzled Yum’s face into Lila’s neck. “See how he helps Mommy?” Laura carried Yum and the newspapers to the recycle bin in the kitchen and returned to find Lila serving more tea to a rather busty plastic doll.
Yeah, like she’d waste calories on that, Laura thought, blowing her too-long bangs off her forehead. Why didn’t I get my haircut?
Hands on hips, Laura surveyed the rest of the mess and caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the glass protecting last year’s Christmas portrait. The first one without Steven.
Doorbell. Oh God, please let it be the sitter.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Tracy, the bubbly blonde, green-eyed daughter of one of Laura’s dearest friends. “My brother came home. . . .”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Laura said turning away from the door and grabbing some stray books with Yum’s paws. As she walked to the bookshelf, she looked over at Lila, who was wiping off her play table. Laura flung Yum on the couch next to her nearly naked son and his sword. At least he’s not running around.
“I don’ t mean to be short, and I know this isn’t really part of your job, but could you please tidy this place up, get some clothes on Lyle, and keep Lila occupied all in the next seven minutes? Chris will be here any minute, and well . . .” Laura circled her face with a finger and then flung her hands downward indicating the rest of her.
“Oh! Your big first date. Get in there and get pretty!” Tracy said, turning Laura around and pushing her lightly. “ER! Pretti-ER!” Tracy said while scooping up Yum and a bunch of markers from the coffee table.
“Yum!” Lila cried, finally noticing that her favorite bear was in the room. “I help Yummmm and Tracy!” Lila squeezed both of them to her.
Once in the safety of her own spotless bathroom, Laura ran a brush through her hair (no mashed potatoes!) and flipped it up into a ponytail. It’s only a coffee date, she reasoned. Ponytails are entirely appropriate for cappuccino.
As she flicked on some mascara, the doorbell rang again and scared the wand out of her hand. Luckily she was on the upswing, or things could’ve gotten ugly. As it was, the big black streak on the mirror was the only damage, quickly repaired by a wipe with a damp tissue.
While studying her laughlines in the mirror, she realized that she just sent a smoking hot 22-year-old to the door to meet her first date since the divorce. At least this wasn’t a blind date–Chris already knew what he was getting into from all the impromptu run-ins at the drugstore.
“Your date’s here!” Tracy yelled from the door. Laura swiped on lipstick–or was that gloss–and flipped off the light. Next stop: hopefully a clean living room.
And it was. And her children were clothed and seated on the couch, Yum between them, flipping through an L.L. Bean catalog.
Twenty spot for Tracy.
“Hi,” Laura said, leaning into kiss Chris on the cheek. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” Chris said with the smirk that hooked her. “You look great.”
Laura smoothed out her sweater before answering. “Thanks. Have you met my children?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Lila said looking up from a page of chinos. “And I even told him we were talking about him before.”
“Oh yeah?” Laura scanned her memory for what they could’ve possibly said about Chris but came up with nothing. “And what did we say?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“Yummmmmmmmmm!”
And there was that smirk again.
Yum indeed.
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[tags]sunday scribblings, yum, yummy, writing fiction, fiction, flash fiction, short stories[/tags]
fancying february
I have a list of writing prompts stored in various files, paper and computer. I came across one recently that goes like this:
“What does January feel like? Write a poem or paragraph (or whatever) that explains your opinion of and emotions felt for the twelve different months of the year.”
OK, I missed January, but I’m going to start today with February. If anyone would like to join in the Monthly Musings Meme, feel free, and please leave me a comment so I can find you.
Here goes:
February. Just the word conjures up layers of clothes, snuggling up close, and mugs of hot chocolate. It’s the shortest month of the year and many would say, “thank goodness!” But not me. I rather enjoy this mini-month.
For me, it serves as the month where I can comfortably, without guilt or peer pressure, be a hermit. I can hole myself up near the fire, just the computer and me, or a good book and me, or, you know, if I’m feeling semi-social, P and me, and just relax, relishing these laid-back 28 (sometimes 29) days of blah.
I’m not big on new year’s resolutions, but even if I were, I don’t think I’d make them until February. January’s still too hectic, recovering from the holidays, getting the house back into everyday order, planning out projects, budgets, and basically debriefing the previous year. How can I possibly decide what I want for myself for the next 11 months with all that going on?
February, on the other hand, is the month in which I pick up the fun stuff I had been meaning to do, reading books I had been too tired to get to at night, thinking about learning to knit (again), getting papers in order for my taxes. OK, the last one isn’t so much fun as necessary, but the wind outside does give me just enough inspiration to dig into the stacks of papers.
February forces me to stay inside the house, and I have to admit, I kinda like it. A lot. All that time to decompress. Stop. Appreciate. Enjoy.
But it’s a short month, so there’s not a whole lotta time between checking on Phil’s shadow and greeting the lion or the lamb. February tends to fly by, but after a month of slowing down, I’m always ready for March’s sunshine and earlier sunrises to kick my butt back into gear.
Because, you know, hibernating can get tiring.
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[tags]february, in like a lion, out like a lamb, hibernating, writing prompts, writing[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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