Third afghan in as many months

The Last Snowflake

The Last Snowflake

Spring came early
in February;
sunny days, blue skies,
cumulous clouds abound.
Sweater weather, shorts and sandals,
daffodils were teased above ground.

That was yesterday.
Now I drive in a squall
counting the snowflakes, 
wondering when I'll see
the last snowflake  fall.

The Art of Listening

I grew up hearing my grandfather say that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason: we should listen twice as much as we talk. There is nowhere more apparent for this need as there is in large group settings.

As writers we are often isolated in pursuit of our endeavors and need the social interaction with those of our own ilk – yes, I did say ilk!  No one understands another writer like other writers.  And when we do get together it is understandable that we are excited to talk shop.  I’ve often gone home from our meetings excited about what we’ve discussed and eager to write.  When there is an emotional connection, a coming together of the minds, we recharge creatively, and that’s a good thing.  But oftentimes during the course of the evening, our enthusiasm gets the better of us and there is less of a give-and-take in the conversation as one or a few people often end up dominating the conversation, however interesting tangents those might be. 

The part the moderator plays in any given meeting is 1) to keep the conversation going and on track,  2) make sure everyone gets a chance to speak – being sensitive to those who can’t seem to get a word in edgewise! And 3) leading with questions, but not talking about themselves and their own writing unless specifically asked.  I understand the “me-too!” quotient – this is a form of identifying with others, but this is also a form of hijacking conversations!  I’ve often been guilty of this when talking to my younger son who would then brutally respond by saying “Way to make it about you, mom!”  So with that in mind I would like to gently remind us all that when people speak, let them talk. Listen without interruptions.  This is group give-and-take.  Side conversations belong after the meeting, not in the middle of it.  If those specific comments and questions pertain to the meeting, I encourage you to take your turn and bring those questions/comments up for us all during the course of the evening.  If they have nothing to do with the meeting then those conversations definitely belong after we are adjourned.   When side conversations start occurring, this is the point of group disintegration.    

There is nothing better than being part of inspiring, stimulating group discussions where everyone has a voice and everyone is heard. As different as we are, we have a lot in common – and we have a lot to say on many subjects – we are writers, after all. Opinionated, eccentric, and garrulous – my tribe. God love us.

Perfecting our Craft

Mused

January 2017                                                                   ~ Mela Saylor

January is always a good time to take stock of our situations and make a plan for improvement in all things – and of course I mean writing or any creative endeavor. Practice makes perfect, but if we’re practicing our craft wrong in the first place, continued practice is not going to help us at all.  In February it will be three years since I have picked up a crochet hook and a ball of yarn. I can look back and visibly see the improvement in my crocheting.  I found good teachers on the internet and watched them until I understood and saw exactly what they were doing.  There are many people on Youtube who have tutorials and some of them are not good.  They’re confusing and shouldn’t be there in the first place, but hey – it’s a free country.  It’s left up to the viewer to discern the difference between good teaching and bad.  And now after three years I understand a lot more than I did when I first started.

And so it should also be with our writing, for that also is a craft.  Some would argue that writing is a talent that many are born with.  I don’t disagree. Some people have a natural affinity toward writing, many of whom write “by ear” – not exactly knowing the rules of grammar and composition but knowing what good writing is by hearing it.  However, for the majority of people, writing is and can be learned.   To all who read this – please assume you are one of the majority until you are told by someone who actually knows something that you are not.  This is not said as a derogatory statement, but one from a teaching standpoint.  In order to learn, one must be teachable. To be teachable, one must never argue or make excuses when a correction is suggested. That is one standing rule of critique group – to listen and not argue your point.  Besides, your words must stand without any explanation.  If they can’t stand alone, you’ve some serious work to do.

I have spoken to a writing mentor of mine and asked what one thing should I be working on that will help improve my writing.  I plan on concentrating on that this year. No matter where we are as writers, we have room to improve.  The point is that we grow in our writing.  Don’t go to family members for feedback. Your family and friends aren’t going to be honest, really.  There is always room for correction and even if they knew anything about writing they wouldn’t hurt you for the world. Flattery isn’t going to improve anyone’s writing. Whose mother doesn’t think they’re a genius?

Find someone who is more experienced – and published in the area in which you are writing and ask them what you should be working on.  Don’t go to a novelist for advice if you’re writing poetry – and don’t go to a poet if you’re writing essays, articles or even short stories.  Even within the realm of poetry there is a wide array of opinion and disagreement on style and form.  Sometimes there are no rules to be found in poetry.  It may not be so, but many times it seems to me like there’s an “anything goes” attitude, much like a “personal truth” Find a person in your niche that you can trust for an honest educated opinion.  

Tradition

From the tree trek in the woods to the hand-blown glass ornaments that Great Aunt Pauline handed down, Christmas is just as much about family traditions as it is about our shared religious beliefs. When we hike in hip deep snow in snow storms up and down the side of hills looking for that perfect tree, we remember doing this with our families or fathers when we were young. And we create new memories with our children. Sometimes those memories are of enormous Christmas trees that were too big for our living rooms. Somehow they always look smaller in the fields than they do when we get them home. Think Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation.  I think it was last year that we physically had to orbit our tree to get to the dining room.

One year I learned the hard way one should always decorate all the way around a tree even if it is against a wall. That was also the year I put up a (flimsy) artificial tree, the likes of which hubby would never have approved.  I’m sure every one of us has a memorable Christmas tree story. Mine is about the very first (and first real) Christmas tree I had when first married. That year we learned that one should NEVER hose down a tree (full of road salt, of course) in 20 degree weather.  It ended up defrosting all night in our kitchen – snap-crackle-pop!  Twenty-seven Christmas trees later, it is still a surprise what kind of tree hubby brings back and how I plan to decorate it – or attempt to cover it up! I think we’ve had two perfect trees in all these years. Last year I picked out the tree with one of my boys. When we got it back and in the house we discovered that from one side in particular – it looked pregnant.  That was the one we had to orbit. But those are memories I think of when I start to get all our Christmas stuff out of the attic.  I smile reliving all that.

Sometimes it’s about remembering all the different size trees we’ve had in the past years and how we handled those obstacles. Sometimes it’s about reliving our childhood and all the memories of Christmases past and turning off the television and turning on the Christmas music and the tree lights – all eleven strands of them! But it’s what we do together and how we create Christmas anew each year that binds us together as families.

So why the heck not?

After listening to a newly published friend's excitement about being published FOR THE FIRST TIME - EVER!, I started wondering  what I was waiting for.  I had allowed a number of years to lapse without making an effort to get anything published since I wrote for Doctor of Dentistry professional magazine.  Sure, I had written a few short stories and some poetry, but nothing I really considered serious writing.  But honestly, writing does not have to be non-fiction to be considered serious and print-worthy.  So I started small and from one link to another
(you know how that works on the internet), I found the site of Haiku Journal and submitted two of my haiku poems I had played around with about two years ago and didn't do anything with.  The response I received from the site was almost immediate. 

I LOVE Borders!

I Love Borders!

Like a star atop a Christmas tree or a frame around a painting, borders are a beautiful artistic necessity on my afghans that proclaim “Ta-Da!” the work is finished.

From a simple corner to corner to an ornately detailed afghan, borders are the finishing touch. They frame the work and provide a definitive ending to the work and keep the edges from looking arbitrary, as if the person who made it just decided to call it quits and ended it there. Many times I’ve used multiple borders and included many of the colors I’ve used in making the afghan. The border is not the place to introduce new colors to the piece! It’s my artistic eye that won’t let me get away with anything ordinary and I love the challenge of learning new stitches – especially crocheting “lace” for the edging.

Borders – I adore them. They are akin to the flounce on a dress, the ribbon around a bonnet, and the bow upon a gift.

I finished this last spring and at the time it was a challenged for me.

This type is called crochet overlay.  I just discovered it this past June

Basic corner to corner. I did this because I was intrigued by the 11 rounds of border!

My first corner to corner. I made 4 of the exact same pattern and sewed them corner to corner.

I did this for one of my boys. These are his colors. Corner to corner

up close the pattern is an abstract cat shape

Afghan pictures and wedding gifts

  I have four nieces, three of them are sisters, all on my husband's side of the family.  When the first one became engaged to be married I had just learned to crochet and thought, hmm, I 'll give this a try.  After all, when I married into this family, one of my husbands's aunts made me an afghan as a wedding gift.  

This is my latest wedding gift afghan.  She doesn't get this for two more weeks.  This is by far the most complicated one I've made.  I don't know how I'm going to top this.  These are all made for queen size beds.

detail to wedding #3

Wedding afghan for wedding #2

mine  made in late 2014 - early 2015

This was the first "real" pattern I followed.  I wanted to know if I could actually follow a written pattern.  Yea me!

Wedding gift #1 Finished September 2015

Just because afghan for friend  February 2016

Cat patterned afghan - detail

detail to the one I made to match the quilt I made.

Wedding afghan #2.  These are "her" colors.  I wanted to do something "beachy" as she lives on a lake.  I had to do this in a two month time period since she was in a hurry to get married!  Finished  early April 2016

I wanted to try my hand at a Corner to Corner patter.   love the texture in these.

 I'm in Love!  I discovered a new medium a little over two years ago and it's been a whirlwind courtship.  I started purchasing just what I needed for a project I wanted to do, then found another pattern I HAD to do.  Before I knew it I had more yarn than what I felt my husband would say is REASONABLE.  But who listens to reason when there are all those COLORS calling to me.  I love color and take delight in playing with it, choosing colors that make each other sing, playing them like a harpist would.  This is one of the very first "lapghans" I made as a gift  for a friend.  She loved the bohemian color combination and just rhapsodized over what I had made so much I had to make her one.  This was taken "in progress".  Again, it's the colors for me, the patterns and the challenges to do things I've never made before and all the new stitches.  This particular lapghan was just a big granny square.  2014.

         Where I've been 

It's been a long, long time since I've been on here.  I've been recuperating.  Not from an illness, but from just too, too much.  Last March I had just finished putting this book together for the Writers' Guild.  It is a compilation of our best stories and poetry from the Greater Canton Writer's Guild and the Canton Poetry Society.  That's right - the Canton Poetry Society merged with the Guild.  My husband broke his leg in February - and was housebound - no - bed bound (and we live in a two-story) for three months.  Picture me going up and down those stairs about 25 times a day.  And all summer and fall I was incessantly working on my newest hobby, crocheting.  I've a lot of afghans and stuff now.  Pictures will come later - count on it...

Now back to the book.  This is available on Amazon.  If you can't find it by title, just put my name on the search bar.  My sister in law said she found it that way.  I did the cover art work and my friend and Guild V-P did the interior images.  This was a learn-as-I went kind of thing since the original person who was supposed to have done this (and more technological) basically put this in my lap.  That's all I'm going to say about that.  I took a deep breath and kept calm with this daunting task.  Now I've got the Guild it's own account with Create Space, an Amazon Company that does print on demand.

I have two poems and a short story in this book.  I can share a portion of the story here.  It's called
                                                                 Dying for Laughs.

           The door was ajar and it creaked open when Stewart pushed on it. This was the last place he wanted to be. The request to come back as a guest lecturer was politely phrased by the committee, but held the threatening undertones of a command. Dread now filled him with every reluctant step as he heard the sound of his feet echoing and bouncing off the walls all the way down the dimly lit corridor of the old school building.  An ancient service elevator door stood open at the other end with its interior light flickering, looking more like a yawning mouth ready to consume him.  He hated being summoned like this. He hated this place. As he walked down the long silent hallway to the meeting room, Stewart felt like a school boy being called to the principal’s office. But this time he felt, in the pit of his stomach, the consequences were dire. With his footsteps echoing down the hallway in the almost deserted building, Stewart stopped by the water fountain to get a drink.  He readjusted his tie and took a deep breath. The truth was, he had forgotten about this meeting until about two hours ago. The members of the small, long-suffering writers’ group were waiting for him to give a presentation and his mind was blank. He could improvise, yes, that is what he would do.  He did that all the time at the comedy clubs where he had his gigs. He was an up-and-coming comedian. Everyone loved him. “I’ll have them eating out of my hands before this is over”, he thought.

Taking a deep breath, Stewart opened the door to find a half-filled room. There they were, the three witches, he dubbed them, huddled around the podium, whispering.  Miranda saw him enter the room and pasting on a smile, she came up to greet him.

            “Stewart! It’s good to see you – it’s been a long time.” She pursed her lips and gave him a brief smile, along with a derisive once-over, noting the beading perspiration on his forehead. He held out his hand and she looked down on it, refraining from touching him.  “Bitch” he thought.

            “We’ve missed you, Stewart.” Rowena chimed in, in her sing-song voice.  Her overly-long fingernails dug into his arms as she grabbed him for a bear hug.

“Please be seated.” Astrid was stone-faced; she raised her eyebrows as in a question clearly trying to figure out why she hadn’t seen him at all during her presidency at The Club.

            As he listened to his introduction, Stewart glanced up at the three women sitting across from him at the other end of the table. All three in a row. He caught their eyes and they smiled at him simultaneously. Forced little smiles showing no teeth. His stomach fell and his eye twitched. He walked nervously to the front of the room and scanned the small turnout. There were some new faces and they all had pens poised in hand to take notes. Uh-oh. Stewart hoped he had note-worthy advice, but did what he did best: he rambled on about nothing, throwing some jokes from his last routine into the mix. They all smiled politely, except for Rowena, who cackled when she laughed. The rest of his audience, about seven of them, sat there frowning, unimpressed. No one had taken any notes. Stewart rambled for fifteen minutes and ended his talk. There was a small, pathetic smattering of polite applause. The room went silent. Astrid stood, and made a point to check the time on her watch. She looked around the room and sighed.                                                                                                                 

            “Are there any questions for Stewart?” Someone in the back of the room snickered.  Astrid turned to Stewart and asked him to sit down while thanking the members for attending his very brief talk.  Stewart hung his head in embarrassment. He was certain he was going to get a lecture.  The polite smiles stayed on Astrid and Miranda’s faces until the room emptied. Rowena blocked the door saying goodbye to the last few people. The door closed with a thud. Stewart found himself surrounded.

            “Fifteen minutes? What was that?” Astrid poked her index finger into Stewart’s chest. Stewart watched her sharp red nails pecking him. In and out. He backed into the closed door and the women followed each jabbing him with their fingers. Astrid looked at Stewart in disgust. “Did you prepare for this meeting at all?” 

He whimpered.  “Hey, I’ve been busy – ouch! You know how it is – work, kids – and I’ve had a lot of gigs – watch it, you’re drawing blood!” Astrid raised her eyebrows in response.

            “Oh really?” Sarcasm dripped from her. Stewart broke out into a cold sweat. Rowena glared at him.

            “Oh Stewart, this was such a disappointment. And to think we gave you your start. Look at you – You’ve been on Oprah! Tell me, did you prepare for that?” Miranda, still pissed, poked him, just to see him squirm. She narrowed her eyes.

            “So you’re telling us you do your best work on a stage? You like a big audience, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you: we’re all busy; Stewart, but I know how it is.  LIFE just gets in the way, doesn’t it?” She poked him again and gave him that little smirk he always despised. She grabbed his tie and gave it a tug, drawing it closer around his neck.  She got in his face and hissed “Maybe that’s something we can fix for you, huh?”

            “You’re moving up in the world. Stewart. And we’re proud of you.” There was a furrow in Rowena’s brow and voice as she stared at Stewart. “But you need to remember where you came from”.

            “Of course I do!” Stewart’s voice was shrill.  He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. Looking at Rowena, he realized he had misjudged these women’s intentions. This meeting was not a random request. His heart sped up.

            “I’ll be at the next meeting, I promise” he squeaked out as the women backed away. Astrid threw her arms up in disgust. “Let him go – he won’t get far!”  They all knew, especially Stewart that he was lying. He saw it in their eyes as he backed out of the room, heart pounding in his ears. Astrid waved her arms again and the door shut violently in his face. He turned and ran down the endless hallway. 

With the door shut, the three women looked at each other. They shook their heads and silently agreed. Astrid went to her valise and retrieved the ancient pen she kept in a locked case. Rowena produced the inkwell that she kept in her possession. The pen and the inkwell were given to Miranda who opened her hands and a worn membership book instantly appeared.

            “Write him out.” Was the simple command from Astrid.  Miranda sat down at the table.

“He thinks he’s a comedian, so his exit should be funny, right?” Miranda smiled at the others. Laughing softly, the three women sat down and put their heads together… 

MUSE

March's column for The Greater Canton Writers’ Guild Newsletter

Content can be contentious

I drive my husband batty when I “eyeball” things. I trust my eyes, but he trusts his yardstick more. Our eyes can deceive us, no matter how we feel about something. Thirty-four inches is not a yard no matter how I feel about it, or how it looks at a distance.  This is a unit of measure. We all use it. Architects, builders, designers, mechanics, engineers, cooks and artists. This list could go on. As writers we use the dictionary (or dictionary.com), and grammar rules. Editors and publishers use another unit of measure upon which they base their decisions.  A standard is a unit of measure, however much they vary from publisher to publisher. They have a bar by which all submissions must reach in order to be considered for publication by them. Depending upon publication (and their readership), some standards are higher while others are much lower.  And for many writers there is an emotional attachment to our work that keeps us from seeing clearly any necessary corrections we need to make in order to make our work commercially appealing in order to sell it.  And selling it will get our work into more hands. 

            We cannot base the rightness or wrongness of our writing based upon how we feel about it, for we all feel differently. Some writers use content to shock their readers for attention.  When an overuse of expletives is used, the reader’s focus unintentionally shifts to the words used rather than the story line.

Not all words are created equal

            Words have the power to lift us up, comfort us, and give hope and encouragement.  They also have the power to tear us down.  As writers, we want our words to reach as many people as possible and in order to do that, we need to appeal to as large an audience as possible.  What market and what audience, you ask?  First one must determine who their audience is, then write accordingly.  For example, if you are submitting to a family, educational or public service type publication, one wouldn’t want to write erotica, would you?  To do so would just be asking for rejection.  One needs to be conscious of the words one uses.  Writers can write about almost anything to fit in any genre simply by changing the words they use in their writing.  How’s that for a fluid medium?

 

No explanation needed

                                                                   Muse

                                                 January 2015 column for the 
                                                Greater Canton Writers' Guild


     I guess I'm just going to "go on" about some thoughts I've been having lately.  My dad wasn't artistic in the least - and he had no clue as to what was "good art".  And I've a whole rant on the nail on chalkboard shudder I experience when I hear people say "I don't know anything about art but I know what I like". 

    All that said, there was one thing that he always said that made sense.  It was "if a painting needs a whole book written about it in order to explain it, it's not art".  I get that.  Paintings, sculpture, and any other piece of artwork should be able to stand alone without explanation.  Nothing needs said or explained for the viewer to appreciate the beauty before them.  And the same can be said for our writing.  I understand the need to explain ourselves, but shouldn't our writing stand on its' own?  We deal in words – and that’s all any writer needs.  And if there's something ambiguous about what we've written, we either need to be more concise or we just need to let the reader use their imagination over what we could possibly have meant.  Some writers have actually killed their story with over explanation.  The readers’ imaginations are a tool we often forget about when we write.  Your writing should end climatically with a BOOM, not anticlimactically with an overabundance of explanation.  I hate that.