A Writer's Words - The Influence of True Love

The Influence of True Love

by Mackenzie Crowne

 

     Hello. My name is Mackenzie Crowne. Mac to my friends. I’m a romance author. One of eight kids - yeah, I said eight - I was raised in a middle-class, Irish Catholic clan. I’m also a five year, stage III breast cancer survivor. I was honored when SMP invited me to share a bit about my lighthearted survivor’s guide Where Would You Like Your Nipple? I immediately began crafting a piece on early detection because I’ve seen first hand, the benefits of catching this senseless disease in its early stages. But if I learned anything from my battle to survive, it’s that life throws you curve balls. This week, life threw my clan a big one when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time.

     Mom is a funny, strong, pragmatic woman, but at eighty-three, her health is already on shaky ground. Consequently, many of the debilitating treatments that allowed me to beat breast cancer, simply aren’t available to her. Like the strong woman she is, she’s taking the diagnosis in stride. My youngest sister has been caring for her the past several years, and when she sat her down to tell her about the diagnosis, Mom replied, “Oh, thank God. I thought you were going to tell me you’d wrecked the car.”

     That’s my mom. As you can imagine, my mind is full of her and all she’s been to me throughout my life. Babysitter, nursemaid, teacher and cheerleader. She and my dad encouraged us all to chase our dreams. My dream was writing. So, how does a chick from a middle-class, Catholic upbringing end up writing romance, you ask? Simple. I had a front row seat to a world class love story from the day I was born.
     I admit to not always appreciating the experience. I mean, can you imagine how embarrassing it is for a teenager to witness her father patting mom’s butt in appreciation as she passes by him in the kitchen? Gross! But as a grown woman, the memory of the sparks that flew between the two of them, well into their golden years, reinforces my belief in true love. And where true love exists, it can’t be contained in the souls of two. It spills out to enrich the lives of others like a living force. I can attest to the fact that it spilled out to me and my siblings, but it also touched others, like the local florist in my parents’ town.
     Every year, a few days before my parents’ wedding anniversary, Dad would stop by the little shop. A jovial man, who referred to himself as the fat Irishman with eight kids, he lived his days with humor and hope, and made friends wherever he went. The florist was no exception. Like his yearly order of carnations (Mom’s choice. Carnations last - and they’re cheap. I told you she was pragmatic) the conversation went pretty much the same way every time. “I need some flowers for What’s-her-name,” he’d say. The florist would laugh and hand over a tiny card on which he would pen a cheesy poem beginning with Roses are Red, Violets are Blue. I can’t tell you how his many poems ended, especially not the ones that made Mom blush, before she tucked the card in her dresser drawer.

     Fast forward to 2004. We lost Dad on a clear July day. He didn’t make the trip to the florist’s shop that year, and yet, several months later, on the morning of their anniversary, a clutch of carnations arrived at Mom’s door with a simple card that read: “To What’s-her-name.”

     You see, true love not only exists, it doesn’t die. It lives on in the hearts of those it touches. It also reaches out to those in need. My dad was an incredible man and I expect, the best soul I’ll ever have had the privilege to meet as I walk this world. Mom is my rock, the strongest woman I know. Together they understood the power of love and their door was forever thrown open to those in need. I like to think both Mom and Dad approve of my story of humor and hope. Born of their loving example, Where Would You Like Your Nipple? is my attempt to lesson the fear of those facing breast cancer.

     This week, I may need to re-read Nipple myself.

     So, do those self exams, ladies and guys too. They may just save your life. And don’t forget to hug your mother.

                   Mac

 Where Would You Like Your Nipple?

http://www.amazon.com/Where-Would-Like-Nipple-ebook/dp/B009AEU4WG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1356808633&sr=1-1&keywords=where+would+you+like+your+nipple%3F

 

A Writer's Words - Curing the Winter Doldrums

 

Celebrating 10 Years!

A Writer's Words - A Purl Among Men

A Purl Among Men
by Lily Carlyle

      Joanne’s heart hiccuped a beat when the tall gentleman entered her yarn shop. She took a slow, steadying breath, chiding herself for her nerves. But she couldn’t help it; he was so handsome, his silver hair reminiscent of the platinum wedding band she’d worn for nearly twenty-five years.
      And, of course, not many men visited the yarn shop she’d opened with the proceeds of her divorce settlement.
      “What can I help you find, Mr.—I mean, William?” On his last visit to the shop, a few months ago, he’d insisted Joanne call him by his first name. He’d been coming in every few months for the past two years, always buying several skeins of her best-quality, finest—and most expensive—yarns, but never asking questions or for advice. Joanne assumed he bought the yarn for his wife. An invalid, maybe? At first, he’d worn a wedding ring, but lately his finger had been bare. Although he did seem to be getting thinner, so perhaps it simply no longer fit?
      “I’m looking for yarn for an afghan for my daughter-in-law’s den. She’s trying to have a green home,” he said, with an uncertain emphasis on green.
      “I have just the thing. I got a new shipment of bamboo yarn only this morning.” 
      “Bamboo yarn? How do you make yarn from wood?” 
      “Well, it’s grass, really.” Explaining the virtues of bamboo yarn to William, Joanne found herself leaning closer to him, breathing in his male scent—Irish Spring soap with just the faintest essence of a subtle cologne, and when he leaned across her to pick up a skein, his hard chest brushed against her arm. She gasped.
      “I’m sorry, did I bump you?”
      “No, I, uh, hit my elbow on the shelf,” Joanne replied, a hot flush creeping up her face.
      William looked at the shelf, a good three feet away, and back at Joanne’s blush, but didn’t say anything, fingering a thread of the yarn.
      “Is this easy to work with? Sometimes I have trouble with the gauge…”
      Now it was William’s turn to blush, and Joanne watched the red creep from his neck all the way up to the tips of his ears, wondering what to say to alleviate his embarrassment. She had a feeling that gushing, Wow, that’s great! or Lots of men knit, as true as it was, wouldn’t do the trick.
      She was saved by William sighing and explaining, “See, I’m a retired airline pilot. It didn’t take long, after I got married and had kids, to get tired of the whole bar scene when I was on trips. Television seemed too mindless and I missed my family so much that I couldn’t always concentrate on books. Jokingly, my wife suggested I start knitting, and I actually found I liked it. There was something soothing about it.” 
      He took a deep breath before continuing. “After I retired, I gave it up for a while, spending time on other hobbies, but then after my wife was diagnosed with cancer, and I spent long hours by her bedside, I started knitting again.”
      Without even thinking, compassion obliterating her self-consciousness, Joanne took his warm hand in hers and squeezed. “I’m so sorry about your wife.”
      “She died two years ago.” 
      Just about the time you started coming into the shop regularly, Joanne thought.
      He smiled, a tight, rueful smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Like I said, there’s something very soothing about knitting. Which is why you see so much of me.”
      “It’s always a pleasure to have you visit.” Joanne smiled. He must be lonely, she thought.
      “You know, we have several knitting groups that meet after hours…” But even as she said it, Joanne wondered if she really wanted to share William with all the women in her knitting groups. From those still in their twenties all the way up to the grandmas, they would all be attracted to his good looks and kind manner.
      His face lit up for the briefest moment, before it fell again. “I’m not sure I’m ready to come out of my knitting closet.”
      Joanne chuckled, and to her surprise, William joined in, relieving his tension with a good belly-laugh.
      Realizing she still held his hand, Joanne dropped it, a little of her self-consciousness returning as she took a deep breath. “My assistant will be coming in a few minutes to mind the shop for the afternoon. Can I buy you lunch?”

      William shook his head. “No, you can’t buy me lunch. Knitting notwithstanding, I’m an old-fashioned guy. But I’d love to buy you lunch.”

      And with that, he picked up her hand, giving it a warm squeeze.

 

© 2012 Lily Carlyle

All Rights Reserved

 

Lily Carlyle decided she wanted to be a writer when she was seven years old, but convinced of the impossibility of earning a living that way, she studied history instead (a decision she still can’t explain). After working as an archivist for many years, she returned to her first career choice. Her short story, “Santa Bebe,” will be included in Still Moments Publishing’s Christmas anthology For the Love of Christmas (December 2012).

 

 

     

 

A Writer's Words - Twenty Years Goes By Fast

Twenty Years Goes By Fast

By Vicky DeCoster

It seems like only last week when my husband yelled over the roar of the jet engine into my ear, “I cannot believe it has been fifteen years since we have been alone together in a tube filled with recycled air and screaming babies.” In fact, it was just last week when the two of us headed to a Floridian resort to celebrate the fact that twenty years ago we vowed in front of God, friends and family, and the church janitor to stay together for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, and in sickness and in health—without the need for noise-reducing headphones, costly therapy sessions, and unsolicited advice from the postal carrier.

 

Take it from me: fifteen years is a long time to go without taking a vacation with the one who has seen you (and your hair) at your very worst. Not to worry, our excuse for not going is completely valid and used daily by couples around the world: we have children. But now, they both have finally reached the age where they claim to have never had parents at all, therefore, completely freeing us up to leave town with nothing more than our suitcases and a simple threat: Do not get into trouble or else.

We couldn’t get to our beach chairs soon enough. Hours after leaving our suburban lives behind, we lay sprawled in the sun like two scantily clad lizards. As the sound of the waves immediately lulled us into a hypnotic state, I glanced over at my husband who was slathering sunscreen on his earlobes. He smiled and emphatically said, “Boy, we really needed this trip, didn’t we?” 

I nodded. He was right. We really had needed the time away together. As I watched people with imperfect bodies stroll along the beach in front of us, occasionally stopping to admire a shell or build a sand castle, I wondered what they were there to celebrate. It was not long before a young couple wandered near us, laughing and holding hands. I watched them closely, mesmerized by their energy and obvious love for each other.  As they began to gather shells in a pile, I soon realized their mission as I watched them create two words with the shells in the sand: Our Honeymoon. 

After admiring their work, the young couple walked down the beach until they became tiny dots on the horizon, not realizing that I was quietly blessing them with the wish that they would always remember that moment—that happiness—that love.

Twenty years goes by fast. I turned to my husband and picked up his hand. I held it tightly as I watched waves crash onto the shore and thought about our lives together. Just like all married couples, we had been through a lot, but we were definitely stronger for every experience. I smiled as I remembered my father-in-law’s comment on our wedding video, “You two are perfect for each other.” He was right.

Just then, my husband squeezed my hand, prompting me to look over at him as he said, “I’m glad I married you.” I leaned over and whispered, “Me too.”

And that was the moment that two scantily clad lizards vowed once again in front of God, an elderly gentleman armed with a metal detector, and two stingrays to stay together forever.
 

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.”

-Mignon McLaughlin

 

© 2011 Vicky DeCoster All Rights Reserved.

Award-winning humor writer Vicky DeCoster is the author of Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo! and The Wacky World of Womanhood. Vicky lives in Nebraska with her husband and two children where she is working on her third book of humorous essays. Visit her at www.wackywomanhood.com

A Writer's Words - How to Bake a Novel

How To Bake A Novel
By Juliet Madison

Preparation time: Varies, from months to years.

Serves: Potentially millions (if you’re lucky).

 

Equipment:

· One working computer, word processor, or large notepad and pen.
· One committed writer.
· Optional, but highly recommended: truckloads of beverages and snacks.

Ingredients:
· One main plot
· A handful of sub-plots
· One to a few main characters
· Several minor characters
· At least one setting, add more to taste
· One large cup of emotion
· A splash of humour
· A teaspoon of mystery (or more depending on genre of the recipe, er…novel)
· One or two cups of cold-pressed extra virgin (or not) organic dialogue
· One or two goals
· One heaped tablespoon of motivation
· Two cups of conflict
· One cup of resolution mixed with a happy ending (depending on genre)
· A sprinkling of hooks and cliffhangers
· Optional, but highly recommended: a twist of sexual tension and a dollop of romance!

Method:
1. Prepare by opening a new word document or a new page on your notepad, and give it a title, eg: ‘Best Novel Ever’, or ‘I’ll Think of a Title Later’.
2. Write the opening sentence, or the last sentence, or any words you can think of so you can officially say, “I’ve started writing my novel.”
3. Consume beverages and snacks.
4. Introduce one main character, a goal, and splash in some conflict (save the rest for later).
5. Sprinkle a hook or cliffhanger at the end of chapter one to entice further devouring of the story.
6. Add some of the other characters and sub-plots, and stir in some emotion and mystery.
7. Consume more beverages and snacks.
8. Splash in some humour and keep drizzling in the organic dialogue throughout the whole baking/writing process.
9. Combine the motivation with some more of the conflict for a spicy mixture.
10. If adding the optional ingredient of sexual tension, squeeze a little in now.
11. Continue stirring the plot and the sub-plots together so they combine well, making sure to keep topping up the emotion.
12. Consume beverages and snacks.
13. Add in the remaining conflict, sexual tension, mystery, and hooks.
14. Finish by placing the cup of resolution and happy endings on top, and decorate with a dollop of romance.
15. Bake in a closed drawer or backed-up file on your computer, and leave completely alone for at least a couple of weeks, or more if you’ve forgotten to attend to necessary tasks such as showering, cleaning, feeding the family and pets, seeing real live people, checking the mail…etc.
16. Open the file and give it a taste test. Read through it and make any obvious changes and improvements, adding more of the ingredients as needed.
17. For best results, get a trusted friend to taste test it too.
18. Make further improvements.
19. Bake it for a little longer if necessary.
20. Pull bits of it apart and throw them out. But just in case, wrap them up and store them safely away for future reference.
21. Remove the excess words and overused ingredients.
22. Repeat steps 11 and 13.
23. Add extra sweetness to the dollop of romance if required.
24. Decorate and plate-up the finished piece with all the pizazz you can find.
25. Hand it over to a professional, who’ll probably get you to start over at step 20 again.
26. Repeat steps until it tastes just right, or a deadline forces you to serve it up.
27. Consume beverages and snacks to reward yourself for all the hard work.
28. Attend to the necessary tasks that you’ve once again neglected.
29. Smile politely at people who say, “The novel was great, I read it in one day. Hurry up and write the next one!”
30. Begin at step 1 all over again.

*Note: Results may vary between people. Recipe not suitable for freezing.
© 2012 Juliet Madison
All Rights Reserved

Original Publication:

http://julietmadison.wordpress.com/2012/05/07/how-to-bake-a-novel-a-recipe-of-words/