Living with My Characters

 

My Annie Clock. A friend painted her for me, bringing my mystery heroine to life.

I am currently writing a non-fiction book, 300 Unsung Women. The women did exceptional things but were not properly recognized. In some cases, their work was stolen by men. They are from multiple places and times.

I'm also trying to finish an anthology of my short stories and poems, many of which were published. Title: The Corporate Virgin.

Going over the stories written over the last couple of decades was like having tea with old friends.

When I write fiction, the people I'm writing about move in with me.

Thus, Diane is a still a pain-in-the-ass sister, Liz worries about sexual discrimination at her college, Anne-Marie can't decide to return to her controlling husband, Daphne continues her friendship with Florence as they struggle to get their historical cartoon book published.

And there's Annie a part of my Third Culture Kid mystery series. She was with me for years. I still miss her. I watched her solve murders, live in places like Edinburgh, Paris, Geneva, etc. She married and had her daughter.

When I'm writing, it is almost as these characters sit on my couch and discuss what they want to do next. They wake me in the middle of the night sometimes suggesting complete paragraphs, which I usually remember in the morning.

The research for 300 Unsung Women and the writing has taken more than a year, and now as I start the final rewriting/editing process, I want it done. 

I miss fiction.

I've two novels I want to write. One is called Twins with two sets of twins who've taken very different paths and the other is Bean Pot. I didn't mean to write that but when I told a friend about my bean pot used by my great grandmother, grandmother, mother and now me, they said it would make a great saga. Since all the people are dead, I realize I can do that intermingle family history and fictionalize where necessary.

I've 3/4s of Twins written and put it aside to do 300 Unsung Women. As for Bean Pot -- as scenes pop into my head, I write them.

I cannot not write be it a novel, short story, blog. I try and leave time each day for living, enjoying my dog, my husband, my lives in France and Switzerland. 

I read that Rilke was too busy writing to attend his daughter's wedding. That's not me.

I never want to be too busy writing to miss checking on the donkeys or doing a café sit while sipping mint tea and people watching or staring at the many moods of the lake or Mediterranean depending on where I am.

I want the joy of the first fallen leaf in autumn, feel snow flakes kiss my cheeks in December, or discover flowers peeking from the ground in spring. I love watching a little girl chatter to her father as he carries the baguette, still warm from the boulangerie. Some sights, sounds, smells, tastes will work their way into my writing.

Others?

It all is part of what I call my life as writer as a woman.

Note: check D-L's website: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

Reading

 

 

A gift from a friend, reminding me of my love of reading. I hang it where I can see it every day.

Reading lets you live other lives. I've heard this attributed to many people including Rita Dove. I did some research and came up with this website https://shereads.com/quotes-about-reading/ all of which I agree with.

I especially love this quote from George R.R. Martin — "A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.The man who never reads lives only one." It applies to women too.

I was a listener before I was a reader. My mother and grandmother read to me daily: The Bobbsey Twins, Thorton W. Burgess, Barbar, Make Way for Ducklings, Fairy Tales, Jack and Jill, books from the library and more.

When I  went to school, I was thrilled at the idea of learning to read and was disappointed with the "See Dick run. Run Dick run..." text. I finished the book which was to take until December before the first October leaves fell.

So far this year I've read 24 books with 8,576 pages: mysteries, chick lit, politics, history, biography, autobiography, literary fiction... 

When I read, I find myself living within that book. It's thrilling to read about places I know, and in fact, if I want to visit Boston all I have to do is read a Spencer novel. I can picture the old town in Syria, villages where Miss Marple walks, the London Tower because I've been there. And no taking off my shoes in security and pulling my laptop from my suitcase. I can just curl up on the couch with a cup of tea.

The reverse was true when I went to Stockholm. I'd read books set there so I felt I knew it. However, the cinnamon rolls were a discovery that wasn't in any book I'd read set in Sweden.

And there are imaginary places like Louise Penny's Three Pines. I never read any of her books when I'm hungry because of all the good food mentioned. I "know" its streets, its people. I wait to see what Ruth the poet will do next and will Rosa the Duck continue to quack obscenities.

People in books become as real to me and not just those like Cathy and Heathcliff or Jo and Beth. They can be women and men of many different nationalities, situations, philosophies. For whatever time it takes me to finish the book, they become part of my life and I wonder about what they will do next the same way I wonder about the result of my neighbor's visit to the hospital or what my friend Jan will tell me about her job interview. 

A mixture of the real with the imaginary colors my world making a rainbow.

Tomorrow's blog will discuss how as a writer, my characters come and go in my life.

Check out D-L's website: Https://dlnelsonwriter.com

Free Write Rain

 

 

Today's Free Write was more difficult not for the writing but for deciding on the prompt. Two of us are still in France and one of us is in Switzerland. It was a rainy, raw day. If we are to believe the forecast for the rest of the month, March will go out like a lion after quite a few days of being a lamb. 

With transmission confusion of info on the prompt, our fault with transmission of one a village photo and then when it started to rain we changed it to rain and sent that to Julia.

This is the first time we've used a video.

D-L's Free Write

Today was the picnic. Sally had made the potato salad last night as her contribution. She'd been looking forward to today for weeks.

Waking, she had heard the sound of rain on the roof. 

It had been months since it had rained. There were water alerts. No watering flower gardens or lawns. Vegetables were okay. The golf course fairways were yellow, but the greens were still green because of an exemption.

Sally and her friends were to meet at the lake, which because of the drought was more like a pond.

It wasn't fair. California, Brazil and other places were flooded.

Sally wished the rain had waited just one more day.

Her phone rang. Peter said they would have to cancel.

"No," Sally said. "We'll call everyone and have them picnic here. I'll put blankets on the floor.

"We can sprinkle dirt to make it seem more real," Peter said.

"Let's not go that far," Sally said.

There were water alerts.

Rick's Free Write

It had been a long time since the villagers had seen rain. Too long. Much too long.

So they didn’t mind the steady drizzle and inconvenience of puddles on the pavement.

Merchants rolled out the awnings to cover the café tables and fruit stand. Those who needed to do errands popped dusty umbrellas for the first time in months. Children on the way to school turned their faces to the sky and stuck out their tongues to catch a drop or two. Dogs shook, walked a few feet, and shook again. The parched plants lining the pedestrian street sighed with relief.

It wouldn’t last much longer. It had rained through the night, hard at times on the tile roofs. But it wouldn’t be enough even to start a steady trickle in the dry riverbed. It would be insufficient to replenish the reservoirs. The drought had been going on intermittently for several years. The summers had been getting warmer. The farm fields shrinking. Prices rising.

Steadily, those who could were migrating north – to central Europe with its mountains, even to the Scandinavian countries, the new Riviera.

Man cannot survive without water.

 

 Julia's Free Write. Observing people.

An ordinary morning in the pedestrian zone of the small town in Southern France where I had come to “get away from it all”.

As I sat there with my warm croissant and coffee, I gave myself up to the pleasure of watching the to-ing and fro-ing of people: a couple had obviously run into an old friend – Madame was all smiles (an old flame perhaps?). The greengrocer on the corner was extolling the virtues of her hand-grown veggies to a somewhat reticent customer. Others, farther away, were walking away – many with sacks of all shades and combinations, full of their recent purchases.

No one noticed me, except one chap standing still and scowling.

Really, did he think that I was a spy? Do I look that out of place? OK, maybe he has ESP as, yes, I had been sent to observe and report any suspicious persons by my bosses – the local tax authorities. After all, someone buying too much or too expensively might be cheating on their taxes!

D-L's Free Write

The smell of baking bread is the first thing to notice in the early morning of Pete’s French village. He loves to go out and get the breakfast baguette usually before anyone else is up. In summer when the tourist swarm the village there always seems to be long lines at the boulangerie no matter how early.

Later in the morning there will be the smell of roasting chicken in the machines outside the butcher shops.

Pete looks at the grey sky. He hopes he can get home before the rain starts. Just in case he slips the baguette under his jacket. The day is unusually raw.

He’s a little later than usually this morning, with more people on the street.

Henri is coming his way and wants to chat about the chance of much needed rain.

The café is open and two women, friends of his wife, wave him over and invite him to sit.

He thanks them, saying he needs to get home.

It is now nine fourteen and the greengrocer, clothing store, shoe shop and fancy-dancy art store are moving some of their wares onto the street. Albert looks at the sky and moves his table back in before putting any of the ceramics out.

A few sprinkles hit Pete's bald head. He walks faster, but not fast enough to miss the downpour.

Inside his home he takes off his soaked jacket.

Fortunately, the inner lining protected the bread. His wife comes out and takes it. “Coffee?”

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com