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.

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.

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

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!)

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.

Ten Reasons to Blog

Here's where I blog.

I've been asking myself—why do I blog? TravelinOma is five years old next week, and this is my 5,000th post! Each post takes me at least two hours to write, so that's over 10,000 hours I've spent working on this little hobby—not counting all the prepping, designing and linking. Since I don't have ads, there's no money-making involved. So is blogging worth it?

Ten Ways Blogging Has Paid Off For Me

1. Blogging introduced me to one of the great loves of my life—Mac. You can read about him in a post I called An Affair to Remember.
   
2. Blogging is it's own reward—I'm becoming a better writer. I've got three shelves of books on writing that I'm always studying, and I use my blog to practice the techniques I'm reading about. Looking back at my early posts, I see improvement, and that's satisfying to me.
3. Because of my blog I take more pictures, download them that day (in case I want to use them on a post) and label them immediately so they're easy to find.
   
4. All my old photos are now organized in iPhoto. At first I was searching through boxes and scrapbooks for pictures to use on posts, so I started scanning them in and making digital albums, labeling them with names and dates. (Another bonus from blogging.)
   
5. I learned how to scan—and create files to store scans in. And color code my files. Initially it was just for my blog, but my eyes were opened to a world of possibilities. (You have to remember I was raised during the Dewey Decimal decades, and this is all new to me.)
   
6. I learned to cut and paste, and then to copy and bookmark and explore icons, which taught me to add images and make italics, and change fonts. That gave me confidence to try other writing programs like Pages and Scrivener. Now I can create my own templates for newsletters—and novels!
7. I haven't even mentioned what I've learned from your blogs. You find humor in the mundane and miserable moments, and you relish the joyful ones. Reading what you write encourages me, and I feel refreshed by dipping into your day. (Even though I hardly ever comment anymore.)
   
8. When something interesting pokes my mind, I think, "Blog." It's a great motivation for research. I wrote about Anne Frank once, and that post alone has had 51,000 hits!
9. Blogging has given me a new outlet. Even the bleakest of days can turn into a memorable post.
   
10. Finally, I love blogging! At the beginning of my blogging career the prevailing attitude (of non-bloggers) was that it was a waste of time. I felt defensive. One of my most popular posts is called Wear Your Paper Bag With Pride, and after I wrote it, I settled into my blogging grove—with pride.

"When I sit down at my writing desk, time seems to vanish.
I think it's a wonderful way to spend one's life."
—Erica Jong

How long have you been blogging?

Leave a comment before Saturday November 5th at midnight,
and you'll be entered to win a copy of my book!

Buy it here!

Baby Boomer Bias

Baby Boomers are getting a bad rap.

Although we're known for Woodstock, flower power and LSD, most of us weren't part of that scene at all. There's a gap in our generation that's creating a bias—nobody's telling our story. These were facts of life for baby boomers:

1. Korean War: (1950-1953) 36,000 US soldiers were killed and over 8,000 went missing in action. (Just for comparison: about 3,000 US soldiers have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan since 9/11.)
2. Cold War: (1946-1991)
   
3. Hydrogen bomb (1952)
4. Nuclear Arms Race (throughout the Cold War)
5. Gary Powers' U-2 plane shot down (1960)
6. Civil Rights Struggles (1954-1968)
   
7. Berlin Wall (1961-1989)
8. Bay of Pigs (1961)
9. Cuban Missile Crisis (1962)
10. John F. Kennedy Assassination (Nov 1963)
    
11. Martin Luther King Assassination (April 1968)
12. Robert F. Kennedy Assassination (June 1968)
13. Viet Nam War (1956-1975) and how to avoid being one of 58,183 soldiers killed in action.
14. Vice President Spiro Agnew resigned because of criminal charges: fraud, bribery and conspiracy (Oct 1973.)
15. Watergate

Are you a baby boomer with memories of these things? Did you have a bomb shelter? Do you remember the Democratic Convention in 1968 when Walter Cronkite cried? Where were you the night of the draft lottery? Our generation grew up thinking seriously about serious things. It was a scary time, and I bet I wasn't the only kid who worried that the Russians were going to bomb us any day. After all, we saw Khrushchev banging his shoe at the United Nations. Police were shown on TV beating teenagers who supported school integration, and we watched assassinations as they happened. How did it affect you?

"Crisis swirls around this sprawling generation as it hits its golden years," claims one critic. "The calamity of baby boomers reaching retirement threatens to bankrupt the country, with social security and medicare payments out of all proportion."

The criticism is what's out of proportion. This quote is from a writer born in 1982, with no mention of the investment boomers made in his future. (Dee and I figure we spent $1,500,000 raising kids who are now making positive contributions to society. The author's parents may have done something for him, too.)

It's time to tell our stories! History is biased unless it is balanced by the truth of those who lived it. Dee has spent 25 years writing the history of people and places, but this year's projects have been most exciting—they are the first he's written about true baby boomers.

Two unique biographies, both about men who raised families, grew businesses, had health and personal challenges that brought out their best qualities, and succeeded in the most important ways; the books of stories and photos will be treasured by kids and grandkids, and become even more valuable through time. Unfortunately, Dee wrote each biography without input from the main character. Baby boomers are not invincible.


So, write down what should not be forgotten; get out a tape recorder; start a blog; put your experiences in perspective with the times. Your life won't become a story unless somebody tells it, and the best person to tell it is you.

Avoid Baby Boomer Bias!

Homework: Choose a historical event from your lifetime and write about the way it affected you.

Example:
The clock radio woke me early and I listened to the news while I got ready for work. I was sitting on my bed tying my white nurse's shoes when I heard, "Bobby Kennedy has been shot and killed." Was the world ending?? Just six weeks before Martin Luther King had been assassinated. I had cheered for Bobby and Ethel at a BYU rally in March, thrilled that he included jokes about Mormons in his campaign speech. Now my throat constricted and tears started down my cheeks. June 6, 1968 started a long summer of political unrest in America.

Writing a Book

I wrote the first draft with my heart.
I'm doing the re-write with my head.

Write a Children's Book

The Oma Storybook Collection is one of my hobbies.

I'm writing our family history as a children's book, with stories about Dee and I growing up, how we met, and anecdotes about our parents and grandparents. At the same time, I'm assembling materials and doing research for a children's book on our family in England from the Battle of Hastings until they came to America in 1630. It's an exciting and overwhelming project that I've been working on for the past few years.

But the grandkids aren't waiting! I want them to grow up knowing these stories and since they're growing up faster than I'd anticipated, I print out each chapter as I finish writing it, put a spiral binding on it, and send it off to them. Eventually they'll get the chapters all compiled and beautifully bound together in one book, but this way they can learn our history step-by-step as I go along. Seeing their excitement is my motivation to keep typing and make this a reality.

My biggest challenge has been how to illustrate my books without plagarizing other people's art work. I need to get away from scanning and learn how to create my own, so I'm trying out different ideas with each chapter I print for the kids. I just finished Dee and the Giselas, a story about Dee as a little boy, and this time I staged some photo-shoots using the grands as the main characters. It was so fun to have them learn about Opa as they acted out his story for the camera. Then I collaged them together (since the kids live in five different states!) I just have to share some excerpts:

Gordon B. Hinckley said our own family stories are worth telling and re-telling.
Have you recorded yours?

(I'm doing an Oma's Write Stuff Workshop in the woods this week,
so I decided to repeat myself in this post from 2009.)

Getting Acquainted with Sadness

Lots of folks are looking at what the tornado left behind. I identify.
Our life got blown to smithereens this month, and I have to say

"I liked it better when . . . "

1. I didn't feel scared every time I remembered.
2. I thought cancer happened to other people.
3. Life and death decisions were hypothetical.
4. I was ranting about the cost of other people's chemo.
5. My old problems were my main problems.
6. Our future seemed predictable.
7. I could relax my shoulders.
8. At 2:15 am I could concentrate on blogging.
   
9. Feeling hopeful didn't take such an effort.
10. I didn't know how I'd feel.
    

The doctor told us that after a cancer diagnosis, people go through stages of grief. By the time he mentioned it, I figured we'd been through the stages already that week and we'd go forward with a stiff-upper-lip and faith in the future, back to life as we'd known it. What I've discovered is life as we know it is gone. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

With any big change-of-direction event, life becomes a new locale. Thinking, planning, dealing with the day-to-day has new implications. Dee gets phone-calls from his buddies—the ones he coached T-Ball with, the guys he chaperoned scout camp with. Now, instead of talking about fishing in Alaska and collecting cars, guns, or golf trophies, the big conversation is about the incontinence he can expect after surgery, hot-flashes and mood swings that come with his $900 hormone shots, or the ever-present fatigue and constant diarrhea radiation has to offer. Discussions of whether he can work during treatments, if it's worth it to risk a stroke on the operating table, how to handle the horrendous costs before Medicare kicks in, and if it's wise to let the tumors grow wild for a few more months. Questions. We're full of questions without answers and it's disconcerting.

New, unexpected symptoms and side-effects add to the life-long surprise party these guys got invited to. Dee's overwhelmed, of course, and I feel overwhelmed, too. I'm in a crazy time: the final edit of my manuscript is due, my church newsletter deadline is tomorrow, and two or three projects are stacked on my desk. Real life doesn't slow down to let its travelers catch their breath. I find I have to remind myself to eat, a problem I've never had before!

Dee and I have lots of moments of hope and excitement and even exhilaration—we're re-inventing ourselves for our next chapter—it's a technique we've used several times and it's always rejuvenated our lives before. (More in coming weeks.) But there are all the in-between moments when I feel sad, and scared, sleepless in SLC (you think Tom Hanks wants to chat?) breathless, exhausted and depressed: my stomach churns, my head spins and my heart feels a little broken. And I long for how it was before.


Just for a while it would be nice to forget June, and skip back to May for a last taste of carefree.

I liked it better then.
I just didn't know it.

❧❧❧❧❧

Did you ever write about a difficult time?
How did you keep a balance between
Depression and Optimism
in describing your reality?

Make sure your journal isn't all perfect children and marital bliss. (Your kids will wonder what's wrong with their life, if they ever crack open such a boring read.) Tell about your down-days, too. That's when readers identify most, and your blog or journal becomes a teaching tool. Introduce readers to coping skills you've used when getting acquainted with sadness. It might remind you of some you already have, for the especially tough times. The times you look back with nostalgia and say: I liked it better then . . .

Writing Workshop for Kids

"Oma, will you teach a writing class for grandkids?" asked Chloë.
(Can you imagine how thrilled I was?)

Listen in on Oma's Write Stuff Workshop:

"What's a workshop, Lucy?"

"A place where you work and keep your tools?"
"Right! So a Write Stuff Workshop is a place where you work on writing stuff
and learn about writing tools."

"Nowadays everybody writes on the computer. But back in the olden days I just used a pad of paper and a pencil. Really, the only other thing you need to be a writer is an idea."

"Do you ever daydream, Jessi? Daydreaming is an important skill when you're a writer. You need to notice details (using all five senses) and dream about the stories they tell. Let's go catch some daydreams!"

Notebooks and pencils in hand, we went on a walk. "What are your five senses?" I asked. With each answer we paid closer attention to our surroundings. Sounds like flip-flops flapping, tires turning, sprinklers spraying were written down. We smelled garbage and grass, felt a rough brick and a smooth window. "Jessi's eyes are as blue as . . . " We realized that they are a unique blue, unlike any of the blue flowers in the garden.

"I'll tell you a writer's secret," I said. "If you learn to make a Dreamcatcher you'll always have ideas. Write down a detail you've noticed and draw a box around it.


"Does that idea make you think of something else? Write that one down, too. Draw a line from the first idea to the next and on and on. Pretty soon you've made a web and caught a whole bunch of daydreams." It was time to choose a daydream and write about it.

(Chloë used an old-fashioned laptop.)

"Jess, you look like a reporter! Does anybody know what letter a reporter uses over and over to write a story?" Nobody knew. "Stories all need 5 W's: Who, what, where, when and why. For a reader to care about your story they want to know who it’s about, what happened, where it happened, when it happened, why it happened and why they should even care."

We discussed The Three Bears and Cinderella, searching for the 5 W's. They were there! The next part of the workshop involved some reporting, using oral interviews. The girls each called a faraway cousin and conducted an interview, and then wrote a short article for our Cousin's Club Newsletter.


"You've got a few writing tools for your workshop," I told them. "A reason to daydream, a Dreamcatcher, the 5 W's, and some interview skills. Now let's make your writing sparkle!

"Alliteration is fun to read. What if I wrote a poem about Several Nice Frogs? Would it sound more interesting if I called it Five Friendly Frogs? Why? What if I wrote a story and the title was Little Girls Eat Lunch? Would you be more intrigued if it was called Chicks Chow Down?

"Writing words with the same sound is called alliteration. Let’s practice. Describe yourself in three words that start with your initial. I'll start: Marty makes memories."

More newsletter entries: we compiled a list of all twenty cousins and made up some funny facts using alliteration. Chelsea chews chocolate, Lauren licks lollipops and Jill juggles jigsaws were just a few.

Our two hours were up—time to wrap it with a homework assignment and a little present. "It takes practice to become a good writer, just like any talent you want to develop. You don’t become a ballerina just by putting on a tutu; you can’t hit home-runs just by picking up a bat. It takes lots of practice. Writers write every single day. I write a blog to make sure I practice. What's another way to write every day?"

Marta's Mini Diaries

A diary! Of course!
Aunt Min had contributed her special little books
and my new journalists were delighted!

I found this note taped to my computer a little later:

My whole world looks more colorful now!

It was so much fun, I'm taking Oma's Write Stuff Workshop on the road.

Meet me in St. Louis!