There once was a man who loved to go for walks along unfamiliar trails, thrilled by the idea of exploring, seeing things fresh, smelling the wild , relishing the unknown. Then, one day, he stepped on something round and hard, and looking down he found a silver coin. So excited was he, that he spent his walk searching the trail for another coin. Everyday after that he looked down on his untraveled trails until (his eyes fixed on the earth beneath his feet where he had once found a coin) he ran into a low hanging branch and was knocked off a cliff .
Wow! He was visited by lady luck and immediately, he tried to capture her.
I remember with delight when a wren chose our mailbox as her home. “How dare you clutter up my nest,”she scolded when mail got in the box—her home. Surely fate has a sense of humor, we were delighted and laughed with joy that happenstance had taken up residence in our mailbox.
So has it happened to you? Did you find yourself in the chance meeting with a stranger; get a message carried in the words of someone; catch an emotion or an idea, fully developed and out of the blue; have a vision of an event to come; find a 4-leaf clover? Instead of mail, did a bird arrive to live in your mailbox? Ah—then you know about happenstance!
My father never looked for 4 leaf clovers—he just knew in passing, that one was there smiling at him in a clump of ordinary. How? Once in a blue moon we meet someone for the first time and already know them. From when? And in non-sense ditties—those lines that fly, like the wren that lived in our mailbox, those penetrating thoughts buried in junk-mail, stun us with wisdom we didn’t know we knew. Why? Ah—it’s the magic of happenstance, when what is peripheral becomes central, catches our eye, touches our hearts, flies into our face. But happenstance follows no rules and can’t be boxed in, for like a caged bird, it stops singing.
Next week our Portal topic is a step beyond Happenstance: “Finding Yourself by Getting Lost. ” I was so inspired by that idea that I wrote the following poem to tempt you back here next week for another go-round with a Magic Door to another dimension.
I guess I’m lost
Been here before
When they threw me out
And slammed the door
Which way to go
Where shall I turn
Toward heaven’s peace
Or hell’nburn
But since I’m lost
I’ll look around
See what I missed
Jailed-up in found.
Ah the clouds are touched
With the dawn of day
Birds float and dive
And show the way
I hear the heart
Beat of each tree
And know the rivers
Fall for me
I smell the prairies
Vast and wide
Discover caves
Where I can hide
I’m lost again
Don’t look for me
I’m traveling light
Footloose and free
Error: Contact form not found.
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back,
recently released in all e-book stores.
New novel: The Way Back. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
When I think of a portal, I imagine a magic door to pass through leading to new life beginning for a changed person. My example is the recent movie,”The Dallas Buyers Club,” the grimy gutsy tale of a Lone Star, bull riding, hard-living tough who emerges a super hero when faced with a death sentence. He never gave up hope and seized life for himself and others.
The poet Yusef Komunyakaa wrote about this miracle—when all seemed lost:
“I knew life
Began where I stood in the dark,
Looking out into the light.”
As we bungle our way through life, showing-up, perhaps making sense of our journey by looking back at what worked in the past, old tactics can become useless with changing circumstance, and inevitably, trying to do something, we fail or fall, and there seems no way to follow our dreams. The ancients say that should you fall down seven times, you must rise up again 8 times. Edison tried repeatedly to create a light bulb, finding 10,000 ways that didn’t work—until one did. Winston Churchill said, “Never, never, never, never give up.” Hope.
Philosophers, poets, and common folks recognize this “tune without words” that sings the way in our darkest hour, this eternal flame, this Fiddler on the Roof as hope. And holding tight to our dreams, we are builders of eternity.
Light sparkles from a charismatic mind! Have you seen hope shining in the eyes of a wounded warrior determined to walk again; Have you laughed with the delight bubbling up in the giggles of a tickled child; do you cheer spirit when the winning horse, ablaze with desire, opens up in the stretch. Do you dance-on to the tune of life played by the “fiddler on the roof.” Can you hear that music? Shell Silverstein says this about hope:
“Listen to the mustn’ts, child.
Listen to the don’ts.
Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts.
Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me…
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.”
Look to the animals to image hope. The sniffer dog, hoping to please, uses his sense of smell 100,000 times more keen then the human nose, to sniff out weapons, drugs, even early stage cancer, his body quivering with the excitement that comes with partnering with his human god. The dog may sense danger, his job being to communicate that, even though he is himself in harms way. Some say it is because he does not understand, but I think it is because the dog is selfless in love, and filled with hope.
If we shed what weighs us down—regret, grief, fear, despair, or nostalgia, we make room for the angel of hope, as Emily Dickinson describes her:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all —”
The Olympic torch is carried aflame before the games begin, and this fire of hope burns brightest within the heart of each athlete. Some will not win medals, but entering the arena is already a win, for it is in this space that hope lives.
Error: Contact form not found.
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back,
recently released in all e-book stores. New novel: The Way Back. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Inspired by the latest ”must read” blog of PJ Reece, http://www.pjreece.ca/blog/wordpress/ill-go-anywhere-as-long-as-it-is-forward I decided to share my reaction to an image of a compelling protagonist in the kind of story we humans are craving. Why? Because we will all—one day—“run out of geography.”
Layered over and under my mind, is an image I once saw.
Years ago in a far off land, I caught my breath and stopped to wonder at a painting. Surely it is a very famous work that I can find again, I thought. Yes, I find the painting over and over, for it is hanging in my mind. Almost every day it surfaces, wanting to be seen and shared.
Imagine the scene with me.
A sphere fills much of the canvas, darkness all around it—a planet laced about with a trail through forests, over hills, lost in canyons, tracing seas; clearly it shows the way traveled by an old man who has come to world’s edge (oh see, his eyes shine with visions as he looks forward) bent with age and the trials of blazing his path— and he is about to step off the earth. Indeed the ground is falling away under his cane, as he hobbles onward.
I feel I could paint this scene. It is that vivid. The man speaks these words to me:
Another step— I must now take.
Hear the call?
What is solid, is no more,
Crumbling away beneath me.
Feel the rumble of stones rolling whence I came,
Taunting me with echoes of, “Go back.”
Still I go forward through delicious fear
To what I do not know.
Behind me —behold my path
Twisting up mountains, climbed —but never high enough
Plunging down valleys, fertile, scented with life, and tasting of abundance —that never satisfies my hunger
And the rivers, the oceans, with my track running alongside and over, Living waters that break against my still thirsty heart.
My tortured trail marks my legacy, and ends —
With the step—
I must now take.
…
Have you ever been in this place of needing to go forward, yet not knowing how to do so in this world—in your world—in what in the world, for nothing holds. And if so, can you write about it? If you are a writer, does your protagonist come to this place in your story-this place PJ Reece calls—the dark heart of the story? Clearly, it requires stepping through a “magic door.” Please comment.
Error: Contact form not found.
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back,
recentlyreleased in all e-book stores. New novel: The Way Back To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
There is allot of common sense that comes from horseback riding: pretty is as pretty does. Be sure you can stop before you start. Remember horses run fastest toward the barn so slow your speed toward home. Know your horse and let him know you. Power without trust can get out of hand!
…
I asked if I could ride him. He was a striking black gelding with white stockings and big white spots that frosted his sides; his mistress had named him Sheik. She rode him with a light hand, jingling a little chain, and speaking sweet words while he curled his neck and obeyed her every wish. She didn’t say, “Watch out.” Guess she didn’t know Sheik was a one woman horse. She didn’t say, “Hope you live through it,” she said, “Fine.” So, me who had always admired the handsome figure they cut, thought I could just get on and ride pretty. Well-horses are different beings. You don’t master them because you are rough and tough, they accommodate you because they submit to serve and there is love in that. So, when I mounted-up—a stranger and a fool,—so began a ride to remember.
Thinking back on it, images come to mind. Just as I hit the saddle, Shiek snatched the bit and spun. Instantly we were streaking along an iced-over snow-packed road glowing silver(the sun had came out to shine it “slippery”) and a quarter mile ahead, in horror, I saw the long driveway angling away at 90 degrees, ending at the barn. I remember it was fairly cold—maybe plus 15 degrees F.— but I got considerably warmed up ratcheting a rein, trying to pull his nose around, all the tricks I knew to stop Shiek. Much like the Flying Goddess hood ornament, he charged forward, like he was out to win the derby. We were closing fast on disaster. It would be like expecting a run-away train to make a square corner. There was just no way. I figured to go loop-de-looping into the ditch and be killed. (Was this his special way of getting rid of strangers?) but Sheik didn’t want to end up in the ditch with me, and I wasn’t going without him, so, in spite of gargantuan efforts to buggy rein him right, he executed at top speed, an impossible turn left, and zeroed in on the barn. Thankfully, the door was closed, but next to the barn was an open gate framed with logs calculated to sweep a rider off a horse should one try to go through. Sheik was in full stride (the better to be rid of me he thought) so I flung myself down indian style, flattened against his outstretched neck, prayed to be thin, and then we were plunging in great leaps and bounds into huge drifts of snow so deep, too deep, until finally Sheik stopped just short of the river. I thanked God for snow as we turned back around. There she was—my girl friend standing in the gate waiting for us to high-step our way out of the field—and she was smiling. “Can’t get to the river this time of year, too much snow,” she informed me. We didn’t talk about it again.
Error: Contact form not found.
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back, recently New novel: The Way Back
released in all e-book stores. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Fill ‘er up?” With a nod from me, the kid set gas a-flowing into the car and busied himself washing the windshield and chattering about his adventures guiding on the Brule River. “I guess you know Presidents have fished the Brule, well I ‘m privy to all the best fishin’ holes ‘round Cedar Island where Coolidge had his Summer White House.” He paused to make eye contact now, for he knew I taught school and wanted to make a point. “There’s them that says I’m wastin’ my life away and should get an education and make something of myself.” He chuckled and polished the rear view mirror as he continued. “Over the weekend, I guided for this high powered, rich, up-tight CEO of 3M and he told me that, and here’s what I said. Me, I says, Well, I’ve been in school all my life— Wisconsin’s School of the Wild. Sure I could go in debt and sit at a desk 8 years or more, get fancy paper degrees and a stressful job. Maybe someday if I worked hard and saved my money, maybe I could get away for a fishing weekend on the famous Brule River. But me, I get to go everyday I want to. I’m the smartest, best learned son of a gun you’ll ever meet.” He did a little dance with the squeegee as a partner and waved me off with his chamois made of an old T shirt.
That night I wrote a poem about it.
I have walked the halls of higher education,
Where my rainbow of mysteries overturned.
And though canned-life got spoon-fed,
Numbers spun around my head,
I felt empty, restless, longing and unlearned
Finding raw boundless wisdom dwells in nature
Enroll my soul for schooling in the Wild
Where choices teach common sense
Untamed, they garner consequence
And I learn awesome wonder like a child
See the shimmer, hear the babble of the riffle
Feel the surge sliding swiftly in a run
Read the pool darkly deep
Sleuth the secrets rivers keep
Breathe in perfumed eons flavored by the sun.
Talk with God strolling misty on a moonbeam
Consult ancients in a fire on the beach
Catch the thunder-lightning show
Let the vastness bring me low
So I know how high and wide my mind can reach.
To which Bill (my partner) gave me this feedback:
“You’re a poet and don’t know it, but your teeth show it! They are long-fellows.” New novel: The Way Back
Error: Contact form not found.
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back, recently released in all e-book stores. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Photograph courtesy of Lloyd Goldstein: http://fineartamerica.com/art/all/lloyd+goldstein/all
We do not have to accept a new perspective, it might be too frightening. Indeed, the saying goes— “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” It reminds me of a story of a mouse that lived in a cramped space but discovered an opening into a new room. She entered, but got so scared by the vastness, that she ran back to her small life. Here is a poem-long puzzled over by many, addressing that very way of thinking.
Locked In
By Ingemar Gustafson
All my life I lived in a coconut.
It was cramped and dark.
Especially in the morning when I had to shave.
But what pained me most was that I had no way
to get into touch with the outside world.
If no one out there happened to find the coconut,
If no one cracked it, then I was doomed
to live all my life in the nut, ad maybe even die there.
I died in the coconut.
A couple of years later they found the coconut,
cracked it, and found me shrunk and crumpled inside.
“What an accident!”
“If only we had found it earlier…”
“Then maybe we could have saved him.”
“Maybe there are more of them locked in like that.”
“Whom we might be able to save,”
they said, and started knocking to pieces every coconut
within reach.
No use! Meaningless! A waste of time!
A person who chooses to live in a coconut!
Such a nut is one in a million!
But I have a brother-in-law who lives in an acorn.
But many do choose to “break through” limits and limiting beliefs. I recall skiing with Special Olympics when a young woman with Down syndrome had the courage to seize insight and move through her own “Magic Door!”
Jenny glowed , her eyes bright as if a light had suddenly come on inside her mind. “Oh I see,” she said. After years on the bunny slope turning and stopping her skiis, she had made it to the big hill at last, but when she fell dismounting the lift, knocking over a whole crowd of fellow Special Olympians come to cheer her on, she lay flat on her back watching other skiers navigate the high slopes. It was then that she announced that she “got it.” Finally, all the years of turning and stopping made sense. It was as if she had found a key that opened a magic door and she left the safety of the bunny slope forever. New novel: The Way Back
Error: Contact form not found.
Dear Friends:
I am announcing the birth of my novel, The Way Back. Please download and read it. It is in all e-book formats. The low price of this e-book of historical fiction is on purpose, in hopes you will write a short review on your e-book page.
This is my second book, a love letter to the veterans of all our wars; I hoped to capture Wisconsin, Lake Superior, our farm and the sacred space of the dairy barn in words. It was a tall order. What words could illuminate my parent’s dreams; what expressions would honor the Ojibwa, and the Manitou of the land? Longing to share the untamed and proud, the gentle, yet fierce spirit of the Great North Woods as I knew it, I sought to immortalize those who lived there. Oh to feel again the velvet breath of the horses against my cheek! I wrote about life and death, about philosophy and love and how to find the way forward on The Way Back. True enough, John Chapman’s poetry seethes with anguish, but the sweetness of his spirit sings to you in his words forged in the trenches of World War I, and formed by the hand of fortune rolling out the dice. I promise you will know him and hope you will love him —as I did.
I am inviting you to be my guest on this heartfelt journey into the heartland. http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Thanks,
Susan Carnes
Half a century has passed since I first heard John Shea speak. I bought his books of poems, other books, some tapes, and I followed him on the internet as he flourished in worlds beyond my kin— John Shea: theologian, author, historian, scholar, story teller, poet, master of miracles wrought by the spirit—possibility in the house of the impossible. Given wings by technology, I e-mailed Dr. Shea to ask to quote him on my blog. “Quote away!” he answered. Give freely of what is freely given! Now with his blessing, which words of his should I use? Many of his writings caught my eye and my heart, but there was one…
In 1976 a book of poems by John Shea entitled The God Who Fell From Heaven contained “A Prayer of Communion,” enhanced with the image of a girl on horseback in the rain. It was my favorite poem then and now, perhaps because I felt like I was that girl watching him pass by, connecting in that moment that, fixed by his words, lives forever.
A moment of communion from The God Who Fell From Heaven by John Shea
On a day
that would not become day,
when fog made the sun a memory
and the unceasing night rain
gave morning a midnight mood,
the car took the forest preserve drive
to become one
with the grey, wet world of woods.
It was already inhabited.
By the side of the road
mounted on a motionless horse
she waited,
the fog hugging her,
the rain braiding her hair,
her jeans and shirt
dripping the low sky.
She blurred and focused
with the swish of the wipers.
As the car splashed past,
her soulful eyes
moved beyond the locked doors
into the dry interior of the driver.
The rearview mirror caught the fog and forest
carrying her away.
Now on days
that will not become day,
she waits
in the downpour of memory,
about to dissolve into earth and sky
but bearing for the moment
the marks of communion. New novel: The Way Back
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back, recently released in all e-book stores. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Looking back, I think this was the turning point in what had been a lifetime battle with fear. It certainly was the most frightening and deadly. Once begun, there was little chance of “chickening out”. I had climbed the silo—a huge achievement for someone terrified of heights, and determined that the only way to shovel up the pile of hayledge plugging the auger was to get inside. But the -40 degree weather had frozen shut the doors. The only opening was around the blower spout itself. Even if I could get through that highest door, bulked-up with extreme weather clothing as I was, could I get down to the grassy floor a story below; could I fix what was wrong and get out again? The door was small and 65 feet above certain death.
Now I know that the door was a “Magic Door”, a portal to the unforgettable. Certainly, I will never forget the view along that blower pipe down into the silo, never forget the leap of faith it took to get in and out. Certainly, I was afraid, but I did it anyhow, because I could. So what treasure awaited in the cave I most feared to enter? Self respect. For years, I had been using biofeedback in my work for a chronic pain clinic. I knew techniques to relax and quiet a heart racing out of control. I knew how to tame fear. On the other side of this task, was life governed by self respect. What a treasure! imageproxy-mvc.jpg
Bring it on
I can do it
I’ve been practicing for this
Check it off
This fearful task
Written large upon my list
Fear will not limit
World and vision
I am more then what I thought
I’ll take down
With facts and thinking
The barriers fear has wrought
New novel: The Way Back
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back, recently released in all e-book stores. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
above photo came from http://latimesphoto.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/la-0105-pin03.jpg
I just finished reading Seth Godin’s last blog: http://profile.typepad.com/sethgodin which was about focusing and doing the “hard thing.” With that in mind, I decided it was high time to share the link to what I found to be one of the most inspirational readings on U-Tube) Roll the Dice Why? Because I am about to tell you a story from my past-a “Portal to the Unforgettable” that is about all of the above. I hope it inspires you to do the hard thing. http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WU-gW2ArW5g/S_yGNlmF1hI/AAAAAAAAAW8/Gk5mDX8x9Tg/s1600/Winter+cow.jpg
Well here it was, the day of reckoning. With chagrin, I remembered that building the silo was my idea, because I was afraid of the fires we had started to burn the stubble fields after combining trefoil seed. “I know. We will harvest trefoil for cattle feed, and store it in a silo!!!!!” I declared, relieved that we would never again need to burn over our fields. But, fear begat more problems, that begat more FEAR! And this day, it was COLD-so bitter cold was it, that when I pushed on the “never fail, easy lever” the motor went ZZZZZPLop… dead. Well, I hit the circuit breaker sure enough, but what’s a mother to do? The unloader auger was working 60 feet up in the 70 foot silo and somehow, it got stopped and pushed up a pile in front of itself which froze solid faster than I could say, “Uh-oh.” Well I had finally climbed the silo—me —who was terrified of heights—climbed it at night even—so I can do it again, but it was SOOO FRIGGIN’ COLD—must be -40 with a wind-chill that sunk temps another 10-30 degrees colder then that! And the cattle had come all the way from the balsam groves to eat trefoil and now, with the unloader stuck and frozen in, they were getting “nadda” for their trek. They looked at me with mad cow eyes and BELLERED “FIX it, do the hard thing!”
Fit for pushing levers but not for climbing silos, I sported Sorel boots with felt inserts (the modern day Bunny Boots of the Korean War) a heavy duty snowmobile suit with hood over a full face mask and thick mittens over thick mittens, I was unbendable and about as quick and agile as a manatee out of water. But, I clunked my way up the ladder alongside the clean chute to open a door and see what was gumming up the works. There were doors all the way up the side of the silo and the unloading mechanism moved down with the hayledge, door after door, to blow trefoil through its tall curved blower pipe. Entrance was through the door a story below the unloader. Just open the door and climb in onto the floor of compacted grasses, I thought. I can do this. I huffed and puffed, careful not to look down, a little proud of myself having beaten back fear earlier that winter on my first climb up. So I got to the door I must open, and there were no “easy push” levers up high. True story, my favorite securing system was baling twine. But our new OSHA approved silo had solid oak doors fitted with monster latches —frozen tight. With a death grip on the ladder, I pounded the door with my other fist hoping to shake the latches lose, but it was like battering a wet noodle against the walls of Fort Knox. Now why didn’t you bring a hammer, I assaulted myself for being stupid, and clunked on down again to get a sledge. Up again, and despite unleashing “David against Goliath” mighty blows, the latches would not move.
The only other way “in” was to squeeze around the blower spout where it emptied into the clean chute, and scrunch my bulk through the door alongside and over the blowpipe, and then free drop down a story onto the grass floor. I couldn’t cry, my eyes would freeze shut, but I wanted to. It seemed impossible. I couldn’t get help (that’s not allowed for a full time farmer type with pride) and anyway, who would I ask? We owned the only working silo in the county. I had never tried to scramble through an open door—how to do it? Feet first? Head first? And maybe I’d look down and … ! Breaking News flashed in my horrified mind. “Frozen farmer found stuck in silo door 65 feet up.” I could even see the photo with the News Flash: two boots sticking out the highest door (picture taken with a telescopic lens) the photographer standing on good old mother earth.
Could I get in? Could I fix the problem? Could I get out? If I got stuck inside the silo, the kids wouldn’t miss me until they ran out of Cheerios. Now this would be the greatest battle so far in my war against fear, and I needed to do the hard thing! Yes, I needed a win against my fear–for the future.
TIME OUT! Time to look at how we write, what we write and WHY WE WRITE! PJ Reece, author, speaker, writer of the Meaning of Life Blog, and inspiration to all of us in the Mazatlan Writer’s Group, writes about his process at http://www.pjreece.ca/blog/wordpress/category/blog/ PJ, author and adventurer, uses his Blog to invite us on a journey led by desire to the heart of the story. Like Garth Brooks who claims that
“Life is not tried, it is merely survived, If you’re standing outside the fire,” PJ’s protagonists are those “who have to dance within the flame, who chance the sorrow and the shame, that always comes with getting burned.”
But wait. How connected is a writer to his protagonist? Is PJ proposing that author and protagonist enter the dark heart of the story together? And what about the reader? Just as my mind opened to the dimension of that idea, PJ tagged me to be next to answer the 4 questions posed on a Blog Tour—to have the next dance within the flame.
I worked at accumulating and keeping things most of my life—not at writing. But looking back, I realize there have been moments of transcendence that couldn’t be earned, made to happen, scheduled, or be deserved. Like Magic Doors, they are passed through, perhaps without being noticed. Called “insightful, spiritual, meaningful, transformative, or “peak” experiences, I decided to write about these “watershed moments”-yours, mine and ours, since they cross over the ordinary into another realm. How exciting is that!! Magic! This Blog called “Portals to the Unforgettable” is at www.susancarnes.worpress.com .You are reading it now. My other blog is about the healing power of creative expression. Go to http://www.skcarnes.com to find my paintings, books, and some poetry. If creativity has brought you healing, solace or joy, consider signing up and sharing. What am I working on? Leaving my Midwestern farm life behind, I crossed the Continental Divide westward, even as I crossed the boundaries of guilt, shame and fear into a new life of risk. Discovering the pot at the end of the rainbow makes a great story and I am presently writing it. Yes, another novel! Although it is essentially my story and true from my point of view, I do digress, so a memoir it isn’t! But this new historical novel, nameless at present, is aiming at being a love story, a mystery, full of action, danger, regret, joy, you know, all the spices of life presented in my voice which I am presently honing on my blog. Do you like poetry that doesn’t make you feel ignorant, but wiggles in sideways, and calls out your understanding almost by accident? I hope so. I seem to use the Taro archetypes everyone relates to. Also, I am aware of being carried along. Sometimes, I just sit down and the words come. Then I get to rewrite and that is so much fun. It is like painting a picture, choosing the colors by what feels right.
How does my work differ from others of its genre? I think I have spent so much of my life alone or in the company of animals that I cook up punch that is flavored by the wilderness, impassioned by stallions, mournful as the cry of a sheep stuck in the briars, has a touch of awesome like the Northern Lights, is barren and windswept and sometimes lush as a pool in the rainforest. Of course it is different, for it filters through me, and I am practiced at not fitting in, having long kept my own company. But to my astonishment, when I read my work to my Writers Group, they nod in understanding. Could it be my punch is made from waters we all tap into, like a deep-down brook that runs through us? Listen to John McCutcheon’s “Water From Another Time”, and you will discover this wellspring: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUeEvMSlpFI
Why do I write what I do? I have this idea/dream that we are all on this ship together and looking at the passing scenery, but only from our own porthole. Now, when we share what we see, the view gets bigger. Maybe the word I should use is “compelled.” I am compelled to write it down, to share my view just as Garth Brooks has in this centermost stanza of his hit song, also quoted above.http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/garthbrooks/standingoutsidethefire.html
There’s this love that is burning
Deep in my soul
Constantly yearning to get out of control
Wanting to fly higher and higher
I can’t abide
Standing outside the fire
How does my writing process work? I wake up in the night-sometimes at 2:00 sometimes at 5, and instead of going back to sleep, I get up and write. Then with daylight comes chores and obligations, but during the day things come to me and I jot down ideas to chew on. Sometimes, when I am out walking, I get a notion and it sort of marinates, but if it doesn’t go away, I have to write on it. Getting it out in words satisfies the muse, but so far, I hear her calling me onward over a new Continental Divide to the unknown. I have always loved exploring.
NEXT ON OUR BLOG TOUR: An introduction to C.Michaelswho joined our Mazatlan Writer’s Group, and soon began sharing her knowledge of self publishing and networking, all the while finishing her three suspense novels. She now writes a column for the Pacific Pearlalong with her blog. Keeping the reader guessing, Michaels is currently writing a smart thought provoking novel, the first of a series, called Casual Women, in which Maddy encounters some merciless characters in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. How will C.Michaels answer the 4 questions of the Blog Tour? Ahh-tune in for a revealing session with the empress of intrigue in one of Mexico’s most fascinating cities. New novel: The Way Back
Order the Historical Novel by S.K. Carnes, The Way Back, recently released in all e-book stores. To find it on Amazon, go to http://bit.ly/SoldiersJourney
Error: Contact form not found.
Magic Doors to the Unforgettable. Untold tales and meaningful encounters .
