Gearing Up For NaNoWriMo

November is the month of NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month.  Over 300,000 crazy writing people from all over the world have set aside the month of November to write 50,000 words.  I'm one of them, my young nine year old daughter is one of them.  We have been preparing ourselves for the big write.  We have notebooks and exercises and we talk about it.  She is formulating her story I'm researching mine.  We spend more time at the computer each day.  I'm not sure what my husband thinks about the whole thing, he is not very expressive.  To really give us a boost in the write direction, pun intended, fate has planned a visit by my brother and his wife.  I love my brother dearly and have missed him most of my adult life and I love his dear wife of at least thirty or more years of marriage, so I am excited.  They are driving down from Canada and will stay with us for one weekend.  You would think that a drive of that magnitude would grant a longer stay but that's not the case since most of the vacation will be spent on the road.  Apparently he and his wife love road trips and are not bothered by the long drive.  This is something I get, since I have always enjoyed a challenge and am not put off by adventure.  Their visit will coincide with the end of the first quarter of the great NaNoWriMo. This requires much cleaning and getting ready on my part.  Not for the great Write but for the Great Visit.  Cupboards are being completely emptied and shelves washed and papered and most things being thrown away. Piles are being deleted and rooms turned upside down. This is all happening at the same time that we are finishing out the harvesting and storing of our garden and produce and the planting of garlic. The permanent garden beds are being winterized and the green house filled up ready for the great winter sleep. This is all going to be such a blessing for NaNoWriMo because, the big work will be done before the writing starts. The house will be in order for the first time in the history of me living in it, the garden will be finished and the strawberries covered, the garlic planted. All these things will be done and I will have perfection under my belt for the Great Write. The first week of November is a school vacation for us. Our little one teacher, one student homeschool will be closed for a week. We will be writing. I will try to get most of my words written in that first week. I hope I will be ahead by the time my brother and his wife arrive. This will be great. I will relax and enjoy the precious time together knowing that I have the secret weapon, of plenty of words written, stored away . I cannot possibly sit and write non-stop for hours at a time, but need ample time to move around and do regular duties in between writings. I did this when I wrote the fairy tale about Little Richard. I washed the dishes and cleaned up from a birthday party while I wrote the fairy tale. It was a great way to open the channel to the next discovery in the tale. I would be washing dishes and get the idea and hurry to dry my hands and get to the keyboard to type it out, then back to the dishes until the next idea came. I feel that it is much better to have real world things to do while I’m writing. I can smell and breathe and have accomplishments away from the writing. It produces energy. The things which take away energy from me are, facebook, complaining, worry, and disorder. Perhaps facebook isn’t always draining if I only read some really positive truths about the writing process and how we just need to get to it. But mostly it is as draining as watching TV, which I don’t do. Complaining I can manage, I just try not to do it, it leads to bad thoughts and accusations which will stop the creative channels up like constipation. Worry I will have to learn to manage since I am a mother and when I am presented with dramatic problems to which there is no known answer and the proposed quality of the child’s life is descending rapidly into the pit of gloom and may not recover ever, I tend to tense up and hover around the phone, waiting for them to call and say they have it figured out and will be ok and for me to not worry. Disorder will be solved by the amount of cleaning and purging I am doing now. Those are the things which threaten the writing process. There is one other thing which both my daughter and I will have to work out together. No interrupting someone who is typing. Even if my hands are not moving. If I’m at the computer please don’t show me some picture you have created on a Kindle App. I can’t look at it and the interruption just blew my words right out of my head. This goes for me too. I will have to be quiet while she is at her computer. We have to respect each other’s writing times and inspirations. This will be good for us. I am setting my standard at 2,500 words a day seeing that several days it will not be possible to write much and other days none at all. I put a counter on my blog wall, hopefully it works, to show you how I am keeping up. When the month of November is over, I will put my novel away and focus on my Elsie book until it is finished. I will be designing and illustrating the pages for the picture book and try to have it finished in time for Easter 2015. Then I will get my novel out and begin to work on it again. I don’t even know what it will take because I have never done this before, but I will keep you, my readers, informed about the process as I learn. Join NaNoWriMo to write your novel in a month. It is free and fun and supportive. https://nanowrimo.org/sign_up

by:  Elizabeth Williams  I'm sorry it is so long, 1,071 words, I can't seem to write anything shorter than 1,000 words anymore.  I had already written my morning pages today.  My word count for today is: 2,093

Little Richard - a Fairy Tale

As part of the warm-up to NaNoWriMo I signed up for this writing assignment.  I was given these words and these instructions;

- Fairy Tale, Carnival, old key -

Here are the rules:

1. Genre - Your story must be written in the promoted genre. However, some cross overs are allowed. For example, if you get Suspense your story could also have elements of historical fiction. 
2. Location - The bulk of your story must take place in the specified location.
3. Object - Your object must be incorporated somewhere in the story. How much the object has to do with the plot is up to you.
4. Length - 1000 words. 
5. Time - submit your story by 10 pm Sunday October 19 to be within time. 
6. Keep it clean - per the rules of the Nanowrimo forums should you choose to share here.

This is my story, fairy tale,

Once upon a time in a far away town lived a little boy named Richard. Now Richard didn’t live in an ordinary house like most of us do, because Richard didn’t have any parents, and in those days there weren’t any foster homes or orphanages. Richard could have had a place with a group of poor thieves but Richard would not steal. As a result he had to find his own way in the big world of this small town. He lay down at night in the shelter of an old wooden box, and tucked into a bag once used for feed. The floor and back wall of his tiny abode leaned into the backside of a pile of warm horse manure. The man who’s pile it was allowed little Richard to stay there as payment for collecting manure from the streets. The man sold manure as fire bricks and made a very meager living. He could not afford to feed little Richard. Richard spent the nights before he laid himself to sleep, foraging the compost bins and garbage of the towns folk. He managed to find a crumb here and a crust there. Some of the towns folk beat him if they found him digging in the garbage. Sometimes dogs chased him away, wanting all the scraps for themselves.

Every year in the summer the carnival came to town. For two weeks the townsfolk partied and enjoyed themselves. Poor Richard longed to go to the carnival and play the fun games with the other little children. He longed to run races and play kick ball. But Richard was much too poor to go. He often walked around the outside of the wall which surrounded the carnival. He imagined what was going on inside. The music, singing and dancing. He imagined the games and shows going on. He especially imagined all the good food there was to eat on the other side of the wall. Every evening he ended up going to his little bed in the manure hungry and tired listening to the hilarities of the towns people in the distance. Every morning he went inside the walls of the carnival while everyone was still asleep and picked up the horse droppings from the day before and put them into his bag. He made several trips through the carnival and back to his pile. Every evening when the town folk came out to play, little Richard went back to his wooden box.

One day when he was picking up horse droppings inside the carnival walls he heard the cries of an old man coming from a tent. Cautiously he peered into the tent and saw that the man had fallen. He helped him get back up and asked him if he needed anything. The man said he had given him all he needed and thanked him. Before Richard left the man handed him a key. He told him to hold onto it. Richard didn’t know what to say. It didn’t look very valuable, rusty and pitted. But it was special only because the man gave it to him and he couldn’t remember when he had been given anything other than a kick or a hit. He hurried back to his box, dragging the last bag of manure behind him, there he pulled a string out of the feed bag and threaded it through the hole in the top of the key, tying the string together he made a loop which he put his head through. The key hung from the string and lay hidden beneath his thread bare shirt. That night he lay in his bed holding the key tightly in his hand.

The next day when the sun began to glow in the western sky and the lights were being lit along the streets, Richard heard a commotion coming closer down the road. A horse drawn carriage was making it’s way toward the carnival. Richard could see the crowd of towns folk gathering around it, following it. It must be the Royal family making an appearance at the carnival. He knew he would have to pick up the droppings after they passed by so he waited with his bag the key hidden underneath his shirt. Just as they neared the place where he waited the carriage became stuck fast on a rock. Two guards stepped down from the carriage and stood one by each side while the footman tended to the wheel. Richard watched the guard in awe. He stood straight and proud, ready to fight for the Royal family, his face motionless. Richard thought he saw a slightest smile around the corners of his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes. Richard turned to follow the road and gather the droppings from the royal horses as quickly as he could. The droppings would fetch a better price and his master would be happy. He hurried through his tasks and came back to the spot he had been at. The guard still stood in his place. The footman was almost just finished loosing the wheel from between two stones when a golden decorative flower loosened from the side of the carriage and fell at Richards feet. Quick as a whistle Richard picked it up and held it in his dirty hands. Immediately a cry came from the crowd. “Thief! Thief!” His eyes grew large as he looked around him. Men were coming at him and grabbing him up. “Thief!” they shouted. Too scared to be frightened he did not feel the beating he was receiving at the hands of the indignant crowd. A voice rang out above the noise. “Stop!” He heard. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. A woman stood in front of him. It was the Queen. He could see the King just behind her and a girl about his size peeking out of the carriage. He handed the Queen the golden flower proudly. “Your flower fell off your carriage, Your Majesty.” He said looking at her and handing her the flower. But she was looking at the key which was hanging around his neck. It was not old and rusty anymore, it was shiny and glistening golden in the evening light. “The golden key!” she exclaimed. She picked up Richard, golden flower, key and all, except for the bag of manure, she didn’t pick up that, and carried him to the carriage. The King and Queen and the little Princess took Richard into their family and they lived happily ever after. After that Richard went to the carnival every year and danced and played and made music and ate lots of very fine food.

Written by Elizabeth Williams, 1,113 words.

The House 10

Josh sees a beautiful house. The House is the most beautiful house he has ever known. He does his best to care for the surrounding grounds. He wants them to match the house in beauty. If there is anything which needs to be repaired or painted he offered to do it but in all the time he’s known the house it has not needed anything major.

That month, Teddy, Greta and I spent more time outside. Exploring and investigating the out buildings, the hedges, the gardens and remaining orchard, reveling in the last of the years warmth. We found a chicken coop, which looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time. We found what looked like an herb garden and a glass greenhouse. Several panes were broken. I began to think about the spring and how much fun it would be to plant a little garden with the children. To grow some herbs again and maybe even get a few chickens. I smiled at myself. There are a lot of things I could do. I have my whole future ahead of me. I looked at the kids, they have their whole futures ahead of them. What a great place for them to grow up. I thought briefly about the meager plans I had had for them just a few months ago compared to the possibilities ahead of us today. Gratitude filled my being. I had an impulsive desire to bless my Grandma and thank her by doing something special for her. From around the other side of the barn I heard the excited cries of the children calling me. I went to see what new treasure they had found. There was a wall made of large stones about three feet tall. Greta had managed to climb to the top and was sitting up there looking around. Teddy was attempting to climb it but was having difficulty. I was concerned about safety of course and ran to Greta, to save her from a possible tumble and pick Teddy up and set him up beside her. We looked over the wall and saw that it was a large enclosed rectangle filled with tall weeds and small brush. The wall had crumbled in several places where vines had pulled it apart. I took the kids off the wall and we began to walk around it. I was looking for an opening. I wondered why I hadn’t seen this before. There were still a lot of places to discover. Today we had already found several new and interesting places on the property. We came to a place where the stones had fallen down and both the kids scrambled across and stood triumphantly inside the wall.

“Can we have a picnic?” Greta asked immediately. I smiled, she is so much like me. It does look like a great place for a picnic. Like archaeologists taking a break for lunch.

“Should we go and get one now?” I asked. “It’s a good time for a snack.” Both kids agreed and took off for the house.

Back in the kitchen I realized that it was already time for lunch. We put together a few sandwiches and cut celery and an apple each. I cut the apples in wedges for the kids. We found a basket in the pantry and some linens in the closet. The basket had swinging lids. Teddy stood on a chair opening and closing the lids as I placed the things in the basket. I filled a jar with milk and packed a couple of cups. I grabbed a blanket from the couch to spread on the ground.

“I’m ready,” announced Greta. She came into the kitchen with a hat on. One of Grandma’s hats I believe. Teddy wanted a hat as well. Greta had discovered a box of fabulous hat’s in the closet. We all donned one turning and smiling at our reflections in the long mirror. They were all much too big for Teddy but he was adorable. He had chosen a straw, small brimmed hat embellished with fall flowers and a checked sash. I tied it under his chin.

“We better get started,” I announced. “We don’t want the milk to spoil.”

So we headed out with our hats and our basket. I felt light and free. Of all the things I had ever dreamed of doing, this one had never entered the line up, but it was by far the best one yet. I wondered how many more beautiful experiences like this one I would have with my children. My life was joyful right now. The remembrance of Georgia’s visit becoming dim and the rocky stressful life with Stan growing further and further away in my mind as I trekked through the weeds to the little stone wall beyond which our inaugural picnic would take place. A plan began to brew in my mind. A plan for Grandma. A plan for her to come back to the house. To visit at first and then perhaps to stay. In my mind, I worked out the sketches of the plan while I sat on the blanket in the weeds eating a light lunch with the kids running around. At first they sat nicely on the blanket. It was a mere formality however, and it didn’t last long. I watched them play while I thought about what I would need to do to get the place ready for Grandma. I decided not to say anything to her yet.

Greta and Teddy were yelling for me. They had found something in the weeds. I went to investigate. It looked like a large rock. We pulled the weeds away. Some of the weeds were almost as tall as me. As I pulled the weeds out I began to realize that this was not a rock but a headstone. The front and back, polished. I scraped weeds away from the face of the stone. On my knees in front of it I read the words; Loving father and son. Henry Theodore Platte. March 21st, 1966 - September 15th, 1998.

By Elizabeth Williams.

The House 9

In the afternoon I sat next to my Grandma on the little couch in her room. We drank tea together. The events of last night seemed far-away and foolish now. I looked at her, really looked. Dark, soft, natural curls, accented by silver lines, graced her head. Her hair, always clean and freshly groomed. Her skin, soft and delicate a beautiful pearly pink. She didn’t cover it with powders and creams. She had a secret skin beauty.

She’d say, “Lottie, beauty doesn’t come from the outside.” As she ate her daily avocado and cucumber. Her skin held a soft beauty as a result, without creams nor moisturizers. Without powders and blushes. I admired her so much. Yet she looked much older than she really was. Her undressed dark eyes spoke volumes about pain and suffering and yet they seemed to smile in a simple beauty rarely seen. Only a few months ago I had sat beside her bed preparing myself to lose her forever. I barely knew her then. Now she sat upright on the couch beside me, her fingers caressing the edges of the warm teacup. A miracle. On nice days we walked outside. Today we sat and had tea. Greta and Teddy lay on the floor, coloring. Their pages lined the walls of her small but comfortable room. I wondered so much about her.

“Tell me about the house, Grandma.” I eventually burst out. She quietly set her cup down and looked into my eyes. She held my gaze like that and I saw in my mind a parade of events. The little girl I had seen in the window reflection, other children running outside under the fruit trees in the orchard. I saw children playing with chickens and feeding a pig. I saw grownups and then a dark cloud, the color of ink, blot all of it out. I started. She must have sensed what had happened because she took my hands in both of hers and squeezed gently. Her eyes had flooded with tears but she kept her gaze on me. In a moment I looked away and she dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” I returned

“It’s yours now. I won’t need it anymore.” She said quietly.

“But…” I began. I couldn’t absorb the fact that she keeps saying the house is mine. She must mean that in a hospitable way. You don’t just give a whole house and property away. Then there is the creepy way it moves and creaks and sometimes groans.

“It groaned.” I said quickly, half hoping that she wouldn’t notice.

“Things happened.” I added.

She became a little fierce in her response. “Don’t let them in. The house knows.” I looked at her in amazement. The house knows what? I wondered. She was so vague but I got the impression that the subject was now closed and she wanted to see what the children had drawn. Exclamations over the artwork ensued. Laughter and explanations filled the space around me. I found new places to tape the pages so that Great-Nana could see them. We began our good-byes. I put my arms around her shoulders and held her close for a moment. It felt so good to be there. There was a strength in her yet her body was so small and frail. It was as though courage filled her up and spilled over onto me. I kissed her gently. As we parted she smiled her infectious smile and announced.

“Inside is safety, Dear. Discovery is inside.” She held one hand up in a triumphant pose. Greta and Teddy copied the pose triumphantly, falling into the spirit of the stance. I made an attempt at the pose myself, though I was weak in it from feeling silly. I didn’t know what she meant by it.

We drove away. The kids happy. I wondered, why can’t I get any real answers from Grandma, only more questions. The kids were chatting about their artwork and the crayons. They love the crayons at Great-Nana’s. Somehow everything at Great-Nana’s is better, more wonderful. Even the cookies are better. I began thinking about Aunt Melinda. I should call her sometime and ask her about it. Maybe she knows something. She has been to the house, just never actually lived in it. Perhaps Grandma has confided in her. I know they are close.

We saw Josh, the neighbor, mowing the lawn, perhaps for the last time this year, as we pulled into our lane. I stopped to open the gate.

“Can we get out and run Mama?” Greta asked excitedly.

“Run?” asked Teddy, clapping his hands.

“OK” I gave in and unbuckled Teddy, while Greta unbuckled herself. I let them run beside the drive, shouting and jumping as they raced beneath the Maples. I closed the gate behind me, they had a head start and I drove slowly keeping my eye on them. When we got to the house I parked the car in the garage. I didn’t go into the house but walked around, running free with the children. I put my arms out and pretended to be an airplane. We flew around until we found Josh. He stopped his tractor and we went up to him.

“Ma’am?” he questioned.

“Nice day, Josh!” I declared.

“It sure is, ma’am.” He agreed.

“Josh,” I demanded, “what do you see?” I gestured with my arm the whole house, looking at it with pride.

“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.” He stammered uncertainly.

“Well, what do you see?” I reiterated. Sweeping with my arm again. This time I looked at him. He looked around.

“The house.” He said, still a little uncertainly.

“Well, what kind of house? A nice house, or a dilapidated house? Is it painted nicely? White with clean trim? Is it in good repair? Or is it broken down and in ruins?” I looked at him again and then back at the house.

By Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,000 words. 
Previous chapters of The House:  The House 8,  The House 7,  The House 6, The House 5 , The House 4 , The House 3 , The House 2 , The House 1
Next chapter:  The House 10

An Awesome Therapy

Yesterday I spent some time in the morning researching websites which talk about freelance writing jobs and how to get those jobs. There were lists of available jobs right now. There were message boards to go through to look for jobs. It was exciting to think that perhaps I could write a blog post, magazine or e-zine article and get paid. There’s nothing like getting some monetary reward for something you love to do. I love to write. I write something almost every day. I would love to get a job doing that. Especially if it were something I can do at home like that. Write a few articles a week and have some spending money. Oh the things I could do with some spending money. I began to look through the opportunities. Lots of topics. Art, design and photography; audio and multimedia; business and finance; computing and IT; entertainment and humor; food and drink; health and fitness; lifestyle; parenting and family; sport and leisure; travel and international; web development; writing blogs; etc. All these lists being very serious about their topic and expecting an educated mind to respond, perhaps with some serious research done.

I have forty-five posts on my blog. All of them quickly typed off the top of my head, from my heart. I have more than that in Scrivener. Nothing serious. I question whether anyone would read my posts never mind pay to have them. I write what I want to write. I write what I like. I just write. One morning I wrote a one thousand word page of nothing in particular. It was rather like a painting loaded with colors, vibrant and soft but with no definite shape or recognizable spaces. Words come streaming out and I an observer. Sometimes I have to change something because I do have a little education and even I know when something won’t work or just plain isn’t right. I have read some books and I have paid attention to some stuff.

These lists of topics intimidated me. I looked at them. I wasn’t even interested in them. If I did feel qualified to write for them, I’m not sure my writing would fit in. I don’t do things like ordinary people. I don’t live like ordinary people. I don’t raise my children ordinary either so even the parenting lists went over my head and out the door. I couldn’t write for the finance columns. What do I know about art? I love art and I like to make art sometimes, although I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since Debbie was here. I couldn’t write about housecleaning and homemaking since I know very little about either. I couldn’t write about being a good wife. Did you know that people actually write about that? Chickens and gardening, well, I’m no expert and I don’t follow the rules even though I read all the available books about chickens, they were impractical and unnecessary and I have had to find my own way. If people knew how relaxed I am with my chickens, well, lets not write about it. My chickens practically take care of themselves and I fill waterers and feeders and open and close doors at night and in the morning and we gather eggs. A child can do it. People write books about it, whole books, long books as though it’s a very important thing to write about. Gardening, well, I’m just learning about that and there is so very much to know and it changes all the time. I’m still reading up on it and learning from Grandpa and from our local farmers. I see gardens in people’s backyards and I’m jealous of them even though I have my own. “Look, they have a beautiful garden.” I say thinking about my own fenced off weed patch which delivers so much to our family in the way of food.

So it seems that I don’t really have anything to offer anyone that could pay a reward to me. I suppose I’m challenged now. Should I become interested in these topics? Should I foster an interest in the American lifestyle enough to write about it? Perhaps I should pretend I was given one of those assignments. Pick one and do my best with it. See what happens. Perhaps I should write about how you don’t need any of that advice at all and that you should just go with your best instincts and make sure that you love you own life just the way you are. Perhaps we should all just stop trying to do everything right and just do what’s best for yourselves and your families. Don’t send your kids to school if you don’t want to. Of course you have to get permission for that. Don’t participate in organized sports if you don’t want to. Don’t go around trying to get the edge on everyone else and don’t go making sure your kids are getting the edge either. Just make sure that they are getting enough sleep. Make sure they have lots of time for play. Make sure they are eating real food and drinking plenty of clean water. I don’t think that kind of writing would be readable never mind getting paid for it. People want to be told how to live. The next best way to do things. That’s why we have our Martha Stewarts. We wouldn’t have those kinds of key people if we weren’t trying to be taught how to make our beds and fold our sheets and what to do with stuff. We wouldn’t have a lot of key people and magazines if we weren’t trying to be like everyone else and know about everything else. I suppose you have to be a little bit interested in the rest of the world if you are going to sell any writing. Perhaps a lot interested. I suppose I should get an education. I’m sure it’s not too late. Or maybe I’ll just write everyday because I enjoy it and it’s an awesome therapy.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,012 words