Life Lessons

Like I say, a little gray hair is a small price to pay for all this wisdom:

On Being a Kid:

1. You grow out of being the smallest.
2. Fractions are more important than you thought.
   
3. Never "joke" that you saw a neighborhood kid floating in the canal.
4. Assume that your brother will find your diary and show it to his friends.
   
5. Hope you get that many interested readers later when you have a blog.
6. Your mom will find out when you change your report card.
7. A tight curly perm won't make you look like Annette Funicello.
8. Don't ever swear at your mom.
9. Someday the mean 4th grade boys will be your sons.
10. Grandparents are nicer than parents.
    

On Being a Teenager:

1. Even the popular kids don't think they're popular.
2. Peer pressure prepares you for parenthood.
3. It's the longest six years of your life.
4. The music you love will always be the music you love.
5. It really wasn't the best time of my life.

On Being Married:

1. It really is the best time of my life.
   
2. Marry somebody you like being with for hours, doing nothing much.
3. Reminisce often so you'll remember why you fell in love in the first place.
4. Notice reasons to fall in love over and over again.
5. Laugh as often as possible.
6. Expect troubles. They come whether you're married or not.
   
7. Perfect people are very annoying. Be glad you didn't marry one.
8. Go on trips,
   
9. Or plan trips you want to go on,
   
10. Or at least watch TV together.

On Being a Mom:

1. It's harder than you think.
2. It's way more fun than you think.
3. There are lots of days you wonder why you had kids at all.
4. You can't imagine your life without your kids.
5. Kids totally take over your life
6. But you'd give up anything for your kids, so it works.
   
7. You hope your kids will someday realize all the stuff you did for them;
8. You wonder if you really did anything important for them.
   
9. Kids put you in a time warp—
10. Twenty minutes til bedtime can seem like six hours
11. Looking back, twenty years can seem like six hours.
    
12. You'll feel older when they're 8, 6 and 4 than you do when they're 28, 36, and 40.
13. They won't remember that you picked them up faithfully every day after school.
14. They'll remember the one day you got there fifteen minutes late.
15. Their most memorable present will be the one they didn't get.
16. Kids teach you more than you teach them.
17. You could be a really good mom if it weren't for all the kids.
18. Parenting books are written by people with nannies.
19. Most of us think we became functioning adults all on our own.
20. All mothers are working mothers
21. Motherhood is a multi-faceted career.
    
    

On Getting an Education:

1. School teaches you how to learn.
2. Most education takes place after you finish school.
3. Life stages are like advanced degrees.
   
4. It's possible to get several master's degrees at once:
   
5. I studied childhood psychology for 20 years,
   
6. Family relations for 43 years,
   
7. Adolescent behavior for 20 years.
8. I minored in Homemaking, History,
   
9. Creative writing, Computer science.
   
10. Continual learning keeps you from noticing senility.
    

On Life in General:

1. I am wiser than when I started.
2. Getting old is just as challenging and interesting as being young.
3. Fear is the opposite of faith.
4. Worrying doesn't do anything except make you feel like you're doing something.
5. Collecting people to love is a worthwhile hobby.
6. In spite of everything, life is fun.
7. God is good.
   

I'm glad I made it to sixty-three!

Happy Birthday to me!

Music to My Ears

Me, Bryant and Carol in Salzburg, 1969.

If your Junior High had a hootenanny you're one of my peeps. I fell in love with Rich McClure, Keith Roark, Tom Carter, Bob Evans—any guy with a guitar. I sang "Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore" at church to a strummed accompaniment. Back in the day "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" to the tune of a guitar was the expected closing song at a missionary farewell! Guitar was a love language for boomers.

Jess, Lucy, Chloë

Dee and I had our own baby boom,

and into the third generation they're still speaking our language!

Uncle Pete and his backup.

The Halverson Heroes just got back from a week in the woods, and the hills were alive with the sound. Under one tree or another there was a jam session going the whole time, and I loved it! "Starting on A, one, two three ..."

"Havin' fun at the campout, singin' a song,

Havin' fun with Oma all day long ..."

The little kids wrote lyrics and taught each other chords,

"Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da ..."

and the big kids remembered when they used to sing

"You, my brown-eyed girl."

"I was riding shotgun with my hair undone in the front seat of his car ..."

While Dee was singing a duet with Lucy at the campfire,

"Are you Eliza?"

"Guess again, Oma."

... one of our little twin granddaughters asked me,

"Has Opa ma-wied Tayloe Swift yet? I know he loves her."

Of course he loves her. She plays a guitar.

In my heaven angels won't play harps. They'll have guitars.

And it will be a hoot! (enanny.)

(If you want to know what I'm singing about today, click here.)

4th of July Flag Cake

This isn't your regular red velvet cake recipe.

This is the original red velvet cake recipe.

I've been making this flag cake for fifty years and it's worth the effort,

I promise!

Click here for the recipe and easy directions!

How to make a 4th of July flag cake.

Introduce Yourself

Piano Man at SLC Farmer's Market

I almost missed the guy with the portable piano. Tucked behind the cookie stand (Butterscotch Bacon was the flavor of the week) there was a one-man band, transported by bicycle. The thought of it made my upper thighs quiver. When I tossed my coins in his tin pan I could see this was his passion—he certainly wasn't doing it for the money. Interesting.

What's his story, I wondered. I could almost hear his mom: "Turn off the TV—you need to practice." And his dad: "Put your bike away before you practice." And him: "I'm using my bike—I already practiced."

Obviously he became a pianist and a biker. Maybe he majored in music; maybe he rode his bike to play in a bar. I wonder. How did he tell his grandma he wanted to strip down her upright piano so it wouldn't weigh so much? Where does he stash the piano between gigs? Does he stay in the bike lane? How does he make a left-hand turn? Scary!

Think back to last Saturday and imagine a snippet of your life. Were you baking butterscotch bacon cookies? Stripping an old piece of furniture? Pulling something (or someone) on your bike? What's your story? Write down what you were doing and see what it says about you. You might find it interesting!

~~~~~

This post is an example of a mini-memoir. Using the roving piano man as a vehicle, I share eleven details about myself. Before you read further, go back and see if you can find them. Did you figure out that:

• I live in Salt Lake City.
• I'm fascinated by unique people.
• I make up stories in my head.
• I'm not a biker.
• I give money to buskers.
• I like cookies.
• I took piano lessons.
• I'm a parent.
• I worry about hitting bikers while I'm driving.
• I think journals are important.
• I think writing helps us discover ourselves.

Details woven into the story introduce a character in a realistic, natural way. It's a trick of fiction that works well in memoir, too.

Pondering Joy

An incredible experience began for me in February 2012 when I was called as Relief Society president. I thought I knew what to expect because I'd been a counselor in RS five times, but I was clueless. It's like becoming a mother—there's much more work than I ever imagined, much more time, but much more joy. I'm exhausted with joy.

I can't count the whispers of inspiration that fill my mind as I think about the women I'm responsible for. Early in the morning, when my normal self would be sound asleep, ideas wake me up. They don't drift through my thoughts like vanishing dreams, they come with details, gently but firmly, with enough time to write them down. Solutions come for problems I won't know about until later, impressions of who I should contact settle in my heart, and a sense of peace restores me: it's lovely.

I'm brimming over. In my old estrogen-filled days, tears relieved the pressure of abundant emotion, but I don't cry as easily as I used to. Instead I gush, brag and rhapsodize about my ward, my neighborhood, my presidency, my bishop. I am totally overwhelmed with love for the people around me. I want to always feel this way. A primary song keeps running through my head:

I feel my Savior's love in all the world around me,

His spirit whispers peace in everything I see.

He knows I will follow Him,

Give all my life to Him,

I feel my Savior's love, the love he freely gives me.

I can't begin to express my gratitude for this blessed time in my life. It is pure joy.

The Best Dad

Heroes, 1983

Forty three years ago I chose the father of my children.

Of course I didn't know then what I know now. I chose him because he was cute and funny and he thought I was cute and funny, too. He listened to my rambles and understood what I meant. We dreamed the same dreams and saw the world through the same lens. As far as parenting skills, I assumed he'd contribute curly hair and brown eyes . . . hey, enough for me!

I know a lot of moms who undervalue dads. We women have a superiority complex that lets us think that we do it all, all alone, all the time—and we're pretty good at moaning about it. While there are some awesome single parents (moms and dads) who have that challenge, I'm very blessed to be only half of a team. Here are some elements my other half supplied, one for each year he's been a dad. (I could have listed zillions more.)

Dee did this with our kids:

1. Made bird feeders during Morning Friends (5-7 a.m. activity time for human early-birds.)
   
2. Constructed a cardboard model of a cathedral.
3. Taught coin collecting, stamp collecting, anything collecting.
   
4. Made real oatmeal for breakfast every day, whether they liked it or not.
   
5. Found out what they wanted to do, and encouraged them to do it.
   
6. Surrounded them with books; always went to parent teacher conferences.
   
7. Made grilled cheese for lunch every Sunday.
8. Held Wunsch Conzerts (classical music turned up full blast Sunday mornings.)
9. Became a builder so they could have a house.
10. Tossed jelly bean prizes for Scripture Chases on Family Night.
11. Featured them in hundreds of photos.
12. Sold his photo equipment to buy them stuff.
13. Taught them it was fun to clean the garage, water the lawn, and shovel the snow.
    
14. Took them to a potato chip factory,
15. A cheese factory,
    
16. The train yards,
    
17. A train museum, gun museum, army museum, every museum.
18. Picked them up from school when they were sick.
19. Paid for broken arms, collar bones, surgeries and fillings.
    
20. Attended their dance recitals, choir concerts, plays, games and meets.
21. Sold his collections to pay for dance, piano, gymnastics, violin and clarinet lessons.
22. Didn't burden them with adult worries.
    
23. Gave them each a year abroad.
    
24. Read all the historical markers on the side of the road.
    
25. Emptied the dishwasher, ironed his shirts, did the laundry and let them see.
26. Drove a no-frills car so they could have one.
    
27. Dried their shoes, polished their shoes, trimmed their toenails, treated their athlete's foot.
28. Took them to the fish hatchery so they'd be sure to catch something.
    
29. With asthmatic lungs, ran the field as a soccer coach,
30. And little league coach; took them tobogganing, golfing, and shooting.
31. Lived when he could have died a few times.
    
32. Was the school's first room-father,
33. The troop's first den-father,
34. Went to scout camps, winter camps,
    
35. Girls camps.
    
36. Let them rebuild a pioneer cabin.
37. Let them have a dog.
38. Came home every night instead of going out with the guys.
39. Loved them in spite of themselves sometimes.
40. Wanted them.
41. Made them the center of his life.
42. Loved their mother.

I am in awe of good fathers. It's interesting: I wanted to find a good quote to use in this post yet most of the ones I found were condescending or sarcastic. Isn't that sad? Many women who have been disappointed by their own fathers or husbands assign the blame to men in general and seem to spread the word via men-bashing. This sets a low standard for boys, who then don't have much to live up to. Decent dads, who take responsibility, work to support a family physically, spiritually and emotionally, and who set an example of dependability, contribute goodness to the world.

I chose wisely.

Dee and Marta at the zoo
1985

Do Something Hard

From Under a Sunbonnet: 1990

Against my better judgment I became a pioneer woman for a week. Our church youth group recreated a Pioneer Trek, complete with sunbonnets, bloomers, aprons and handcarts. As a leader I was expected to be part of the four-day activity as a chaperone, even though the teenagers would be divided up and grouped as families with kids they didn't know.

Specially trained young adult couples played the parts of Pa and Ma, while the legitimate adults were assigned to accompany each family as participants. I had a 16-year-old son and a 14-year-old daughter who were excited to go, so I reluctantly agreed to join the group. I knew we wouldn't be put in the same trek family, but we would have a shared experience and that was a good enough reason.

It was a grueling first day. The kids started out with energy. I started out tired. We put together our own handcarts and loaded them with supplies. Since they weighed several hundred pounds, each member of the family was supposed to help pull or push the handcart on the 13-mile hike.

Ours was one of the first wagons in the train and we set off with vigor. Excited jabbering and singing was heard down the trail behind us. By 2:00 in the afternoon the little enthusiasm I had had early that morning was gone. It was 100° and I was out-of-sorts with exhaustion, and hunger. Some of the kids were whining and complaining and I identified with them.

I started dragging behind, walking slower and slower as the other handcart families passed me by. Whose idea was this anyway? Why would we take a bunch of teenage kids into the wilderness and subject them to such hardship? I felt disoriented, lightheaded, and miserable.

The trail boss, a man I respected and trusted, noticed me and led me over to a stream where he soaked my bandanna in the cold water, and gave me a canteen of Gatorade. He suggested I ride in the support vehicle behind the group for a few minutes to regain my strength.

Relieved of my sunbonnet, in the air-conditioned Suburban, I cooled off quickly, and chatted with the driver, a good friend who was a physician. He assured me I would make it, so a few minutes later he caught up with the group and let me out, and then dropped out of sight again.

I walked a little faster, passing other handcart families to reach my own. Instead of the flat trail we had been walking all day, we were now going up a mountain. It got steeper and rockier, and was difficult to navigate in a long skirt. Soon I was actually scrambling on all fours, climbing over the rocks. I had passed one group and now I was behind a handcart that perched precariously on some rocks. It was off balance, and the kids in front were pulling while others were behind, trying to push.

Suddenly I noticed that it was quiet. The ma's and pa's had asked the trekkers not to talk. The kids had to negotiate the handcarts on this difficult stretch silently, cooperating by observing their companions, and just doing what became obvious to them. Then the pa's whispered to the boys that they could not participate in the work. It was time for the Women's Pull.

We had been forewarned that there would be a section of the hike where the girls pulled the handcarts alone. Of course it was highly anticipated. The young women were anxious to show off their fortitude and stamina to all the guys. However, the results were not anticipated.

The mountain was the most demanding area we would encounter. Everyone was tired, and shaky from heat and exertion. Going up the steep, rocky slope the families had needed everyone's strength, and now it was cut in half. The boys witnessed the trouble the girls were having; some ran for water, and others whispered encouragement, and went ahead to move big rocks out of the way. The girls had resilience, and discovered new muscles emotionally and physically, tears running down their cheeks as they exerted courageously. The young men were overwhelmed with respect, wondering if they could have risen to such a challenge.

I'm embarrassed to say I didn't have the energy to help. Getting myself up the hill was all I could manage. I was several yards behind a handcart that began to tip. A tiny girl, her face shaded by a big sunbonnet, supported it from behind. I watched as her feet dug into the dirt between the rocks, her back hardened and her shoulders tensed. Her arms clenched while she
pushed the wagon with force and determination. With the help of the girls in front pulling, she jostled the cart up and over a giant boulder in the path.

For a moment she caught her breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead. As she lifted the brim of her bonnet I saw it was Amy, my 14-year-old daughter.

Even after 22 years, the lessons of my Pioneer Trek continue to unfold in my mind. I would never have expected such inner fortitude of young city slickers; we all stumbled on power hidden deep inside ourselves. The experience demonstrated potential and capacity, and I knowwe can do impossible things when we need to. And so can our kids.

Sometimes the most help we can give someone is to let them do it on their own. Desperation can be the source of motivation. A person who is balancing their whole world is more careful about where they place their feet. I learned that from a girl in a sunbonnet.

Think about a time you did something hard. Are you in the middle of a Pioneer Trek experience right now? Write about it. Discover what you're learning. If you write about it, you can learn from it the rest of your life. Eventually you'll see the hard thing as one of the great blessings in your life.

Little Lessons Everywhere

The other day I was sitting in my friend Julie's kitchen, watching her four-year-old through the window. Lauren was playing on the sidewalk when the sprinklers suddenly went on—she shrieked! Arms thrashing, feet slipping, she twisted blindly and howled for help.

"Just walk forward," her mom called through the window. We could see that she was only a few feet from relief, but her predicament was too overwhelming, and her wailing was too loud for her to hear. "Lauren! It's OK! Just walk!" Tears mixed with drops of water and ran down her cheeks while her older brother dashed outside to rescue her. He took her arm and steered her out of the spray.

She wiped her eyes and smiled up at her mom before she started skipping down the sidewalk. The whole traumatic episode had only taken a minute or two, and was forgotten immediately.

I can look back at times when I've been surprised by what seemed like a deluge (a year ago today.) I've howled for help with such a racket that I've drowned out the quiet response, "It's OK, Marty, just walk forward." That's usually when someone shows up to walk with me a little way, and suddenly my tears are gone, and my path seems clear.

I love it when that happens.

Have you had a life lesson lately? Write it down!

Random Writing Recommendations

Chloë and her teacher, Mrs. Nugent

I went to my granddaughter Chloë's 4th grade County Fair, and ran into my own 4th grade best friend. Fifty-five years later, she's now Chloë's favorite teacher, Mrs. Nugent. She was just Karen when I knew her, way back when.

Karen lived right behind me—we shared the back gate. She was tall and I was short and her mom called us "Mutt and Jeff." (Neither of us know who Mutt and Jeff are.) Her grandma taught me to play Gin Rummy and her grandpa taught me not to lie. I'll never forget that day.

We lived close to a canal. Rumor had it that a little girl had once drowned there, and all the neighborhood kids knew we were not to cross the street or go near that fearsome place. One day I ran through the gate, through their garden, past her grandpa and into the yard. The whole family was searching for Karen's little sister Carolyn who was about three. Even Grandpa put down his shovel, pushed back his hat and hollered, "Carolyn!" through cupped hands, and came up onto the grass. "Have you seen Carolyn?" he asked me.

Thinking it would be funny, I said, "Yes. I saw her floating down the canal." You can imagine how that little joke went over. Grandpa grabbed hold of my wrists and walloped me on the backside. "Have you ever heard the story of the boy who cried 'Wolf"?" he asked. Obviously I hadn't. He sat me right down and told it to me, and then informed me that lying was wrong and I better not do it again. He made me promise.

I've never forgotten that incident—whenever it comes to mind I cringe. (It reminds me that I was often a brat.) Carolyn was eventually found and things settled down; Grandpa went back to the garden and we went inside to have some of Mrs. Thatcher's tapioca pudding.

Looking back, I'm grateful I grew up in a time when adults took responsibility for teaching kids how to behave. I deserved that spanking and I'm glad he taught me a lesson I still remember. Now his granddaughter is teaching my granddaughter lessons she'll always remember, with a softer touch. (Chloë is definitely not a brat and already knows how to behave.)

Who was your best friend in 4th grade? Do you keep in touch? What would you talk about if you got together? Write down a memory!

Benji, 3.

Do you have a favorite day? Mine is Oma Day! Benji came over for an Oma Day and entertained me for a couple of hours. I'd heard he loves playing baseball, and has a powerful swing, so I thought I'd let him tell me about it.

Oma: So, Benji, do you like sports?

Benji: Yes! I do!

Oma: What's your favorite sport?

Benji: Well ... I think ... golf.

Oma: Wow! Do you play golf?

Benji: Not now, but I used to when I was a little kid.

He carried around a tiny helicopter the whole time he was here, and when he was leaving, his mom told him to put it away. "Can I keep it?" he asked. "Maybe you can borrow it," I said. "When you come again, you can bring it back and trade it in for something else." He looked at it and then glanced in the Cousin's Clubhouse at the other toys. "Actually, I want to trade it in right now," he said.

Benji and his cousins in the Cousin's Clubhouse

"…writing comes more easily if
you have something to say."
—Sholem Asch

One secret of writing: collect things to say:

1. Carry a notebook and jot down kidspeak. Kids are funny.
2. Listen in on conversations in the check-out line, in restaurants, and the beauty salon.
3. Imagine what you would have said if you were rude, or clever, or funny.

The other secret of writing: write!

Put on some bum glue and sit down at your computer and make those fingers go.

If you don't write, you'll never be a writer. It's that simple.

If you do, you will.

Want to read ahead? I've got a book list:

1. How to Write the Story of Your Life, by Frank P. Thomas
2. The Autobiographer's Handbook, edited by Jennifer Traig
3. Legacy, by Linda Spence
4. Tracing Your Family History, by Anthony Adolph
5. For All Time, by Charley Kempthorne

Writing Fiction With Facts

"All fiction is largely autobiographical

and much autobiography is, of course, fiction."

—PD James

Alex Haley taught me about faction. It's the art of finding facts, and filling them in with fiction. For instance, my dad told me about a time he was chased by a bear. It seems like a good story, but that's all I remember and now he's dead and unavailable to give details. Grandma's diary mentions a summer during the Depression when they lived up the canyon in a tent, and I know my dad was sandwiched between a couple of brothers, all just a year apart.

Mel, Alan, Jiggs, 1932

So when I tell my grandkids about a little boy named Jiggs, I combine those facts, and create a story about three brothers who wandered away from their campsite and surprised a bear who chased them down the mountain. There's a crashing river to cross, a tumble or two and a lot of roaring tossed in for color, but my grands learn some history surrounded by names, locations, dates, and personalities in a memorable tale. It's faction.

A rewarding way to practice your writing skills is to create a little faction. Try this: remember yourself at ten.

Now, what year was that? Oh, yeh, that was the year I was the tetherball champion. I think. Anyway, I had Miss Paschel and she read us all the Wizard of Oz books. And I was in love with Steven Jones and I wrote him mushy letters. One time at church we were in the coat closet at the same time and our mothers discussed our affair right in front of us! And then he found out I wore glasses, so basically it was all over.

Now you've got a few facts to work with. After all, you're the expert on your own life—you don't need to ask a soul if you got it right!

For the next step you'll need a piece of paper and a pencil. Spend five minutes googling: History in 1959 (Alaska and Hawaii became states—I remember that!) Just skim the list and pick a couple of facts that jump out. Now google another few categories: Music in 1959, Movies, TV (I loved Rawhide! That was the year Bonanza started?) Jot down some particulars.

You're ready! Open your blog, your journal, or your mouth and tell your story. If it helps you get going, begin with "Once upon a time ..." I like to start with a quote and then weave details into the backdrop of the scene.

"You wear glasses?" Steven's new front teeth looked enormous as he chewed on this little tidbit. I knew my whole class would know by morning recess. Of course, they were supposed to know because I was supposed to be wearing them, but who would take me serious as a tetherball champion if I had an elastic band holding red plaid specs on my face? We had just pledged allegiance to our new flag—fifty stars were now staggered in the blue background instead of the even spacing of forty-eight.

I would go on to describe my teacher, tell how I loved story-time right after lunch, how I still remember the Patchwork Girl and the time a hornet flew in the window and stung Miss Paschel on the ear while she was reading. (OK, that's the faction part. All the details I want my grands to know about me need a plot to stick to.)

At the end of this little exercise you'll have written a memoir. Memoir is a writing genre—you can major in Memoir, but you don't have to—and it's such a useful way to practice your skills! Even the most amateurish attempts are valuable as a record, and writing something down solidifies it in your own memory. And hey, somebody's going to embellish your stories. It might as well be you!

Write Your Own Story

Excerpt from

Son of a Gun
by
Marty Halverson

“There was a man ... my daddy’s voice was as soft and low as a lullaby—would break the heart of Lucifer himself to hear him and Ma sing harmony.” Leo told her then about his sisters, Josey’s harmonica and Nataki . . . “she said our music would make the angels weep.”

“What’d you do?” Ruby asked, picturing the scene.

“Strummed. I got a guitar. We sang all the old Kentucky songs to the Texas wilderness to while away the summertime darkness.” He told her about watching the lightning chain at eight years old, when they first settled the ranch. “Nothing but the wind and the rain to argue with,” he said. Lost in his own memories, Leo went on, “After Ma died of the measles, just before my daddy followed her, he said, ‘I tell you boys, if either of you remember how your ma taught you how to pray, get down on your kneebones this night and tell Him up yonder you’re beholden for the life he give us.’”

Chagrined at his rambling, Leo rolled over and looked at Ruby. “I oughta’ save part of my breath for breathing.” He was talking to her as he’d talked to no one in years.

“You’re good company, Leo Barlow.”

"Guess if you're going to spend your whole life with yourself you need to learn to be good company."

Memoir is my favorite kind of writing, so there are a lot of memories tucked in my novel of the old west. Using fiction, I tried to capture emotions that were genuine. I've never lived in Texas, nobody in my family played a harmonica, and ma didn't die of the measles, but I remember summer nights listening to my daddy sing, listening to my mama pray. I remember the joy of pouring those memories out to Dee like sweet syrup, introducing him to the girl I'd been. And I remember learning to enjoy my own company. The story behind this story is true.

It's time to write your own memoir.

How would you tell a story from your childhood?

Get it ready for the campfire—summer nights are coming!

(It's the new season of The Write Stuff Workshops!)

What's Happenin?

Baby Kate, 2 months

"What 'cha been doin', Oma?"

On the road with Chloë

This month I tended some grands while their folks went to Switzerland,

Eliza and Jill

Watched some soccer,

Down the street

Wrote four Garden Park blog posts,

Oma at the wheel

Drove to San Francisco, and Phoenix,

Luke and Sam

Saw perfection,

A couple of kids

Cruised the neighborhood,

Cupcake Party

Celebrated ten Hero bdays,

Spoke twice,

Taught once,

Went to thirteen meetings,

Made 17 visits,

Learned to work my new computer.

(It feels so good to make this list ... )

And I had a ton of fun!

"Living is like tearing through a museum.

Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering, because you can't take it in all at once."

—Audrey Hepburn

Missing the Magic

Marty Ann Dee
(my nom de plume)

I used to be a writer. I'd published a mediocre novel and I was working on a good one—a spy novel set in Vienna in 1933, between the World Wars. Based on a true story Dee uncovered while writing a biography, we had actual letters, journals, newspaper clippings and telegrams that described a suspicious death that was never resolved.

Letters describing a possible murder.

We'd read them all, and together we'd figured out what could have happened.

Old Viennese documents

A year ago we were in Vienna, researching settings. I have two notebooks full of descriptions: cafes, streets, courtyards, foods, smells, landmarks.

Erwin Sarkoti passed secrets in this cafe.

I'd written such detailed back stories for my characters that I think about them now, and wonder how they're doing, even though they're just imaginary friends.

Clara wore dirndls like these.

Their cars, their hairstyles, their outfits, the way they took their tea, how they walked and talked—it's all neatly stored in computer folders, filed under "My Book."

In those days I wrote blog posts about writing, taught Write Stuff Workshops, and poured over books like Make a Scene, The Plot Whisperer, and Write is a Verb.

Writing isn't so much a verb for me now—it's a noun. It's a pile of papers I packed away in February—for later. Sometimes I miss my writer self.

"When you're writing, you're creating something out of nothing ...
A successful piece of writing is like doing a successful piece of magic."
—Susanna Clarke

Is there something you love doing that you've set aside?
I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Write Your Story

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

"We go to art museums, longing for a glimpse of the world through someone else’s eyes. The images we see of starry skies and fields of flowers are not valuable because they are truth. The yearning to see them is based ... on the desire to learn a different way of looking at the world. Memoirs provide the same benefit." ---Memory Writers Network

Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh

My mind is like a DVD player. I can slide in a memory and be entertained for hours by the colors, the fashions, the songs, the scenery—I'm never bored. I remember details: like the orange and red flowers on my parent's brown bedroom drapes. Or the sandpapery bottom of the swimming pool the first day of summer, before I'd developed any callouses. I can remember the last names of all seven Lindas in my 7th grade science class. I can even remember things that aren't memories. Like prom. (I was hiding out in my girlfriend's car watching Goldfinger at the drive-in, pretending I didn't care.) But I can still picture the bouffant hairdos the luckier girls wore.

Sometimes when I write these memories, I'm afraid someone else will remember it differently and call the history police. What if one of the Lindas reads my blog and remembers there were really eight Lindas in Mr. Stucki's class? Will I have to publicly retract my statement? Is it libel? Will I be sued? Will my work ever be trusted again?

The great thing about writing a Memoir is that it is, by definition, a biographical account according to your own memory. Nobody can second guess you. If you recall hearing about Kennedy's death while you were eating breakfast, it doesn't matter that it didn't happen until after lunch. Maybe you got up late or maybe you were eating an omelet at 2:00 in the afternoon. It doesn't matter because it's your recollection. It's OK to record an event the way you remember it. Don't second guess yourself, or postpone writing your memoirs until you check all the facts. Get those important memories down, in a way that others can catch glimpses of life in a different light. Your impressions will help both you and your readers see the big picture.

Bonni Goldberg said, "Memory is an aspect of imagination. For writing, memory is one of your most important tools. A phrase from the lyric of a song, a poetic phrase in a book, a fragment of a story, an object from the past is enough to spark the creative, intuitive mind ... Especially rich are incidents and images stored away that you aren't sure ever actually occurred ..."

Remember that!