12/21/09

Writer’s Circle,

I would like to participate in the group as I am in town to do so. My husband and I travel a bit.

I am retired from HSU three years ago. Writing is a new interest for me after a full career as a professional dancer, and head of the dance program at HSU for 26 years.

Yes, that was really me in my submission of Cancan, as well as …ordinary be beautiful.

Contact information: Linda Sievers, sieverslinda051@gmail.com

The Next Writer's Circle Meeting

Hello all,

This post is to inform you that the next meeting of our group will commence on Tuesday, January 19th, at the home of our own Nikola Maria, 1305 H Street, Eureka, CA. The hour is TBA. Refreshments will be provided. Guests are welcome. We will be discussing pieces to be provided by Nikola and Dawn here on the blog shortly.

Sincerely,

James Edward Glavin IV

to make a book

Go to http://www.kodakgallery.com/ or http://www.shutterfly.com/ to make a book with photos and text. I used kodakgallery. I have heard that shutterfly gives more text formatting flexibility, but I have never used it. Judy

Story Idea

This is a brainstorming session that developed into a LONG synopsis and story outline of a project I originally envisioned as an alternate history/fantasy-allegorical super-epic released in a series of books made up of connected short stories. It's very long, 2800 words, even after I've cut a lot out already so don't hesitate to skip around. This is probably the only thing I've written that's not totally derivative (even though it totally still is) so it's SUPER TOP SECRET and you have to forget it and wipe your computer clean after reading it. Also, I apologize for posting it in its entirety here because it is grossly long, but I have to because this blog is private and mine is not. I will hide it in the comments, so to read it click on "Story Idea" above and read it from its' own page. Ok, now, without further ado...

Extra Ordinary April

April was entirely ordinary. You might even say she was extra-ordinary (although I wouldn’t suggest it because she hated that word; she couldn’t decide if it meant outstanding or extremely mediocre). She had an oval face, almond eyes, wavy hair colored somewhere between brown and blonde, and she was on the taller, thinner side of average. People constantly told her how much she reminded them of other people. “Do you know Marybeth Lock?” they’d ask obliviously. To which April would reply by saying “no” and closing her eyes so no one would see them roll up into her head in annoyance. “Oh,” they’d press on like the dense juggernauts they always were. “Because you look just like her.”

Or, her personal favorite:

“Hey, are you related to Marie Holden?”

“Yes,” another eye roll.

“Yeah, I could tell. The resemblance is uncanny.”

But April’s ordinariness didn’t just end with her physiology. Even her temperament was wholly unimpressive. She was a typical girl: moody, insecure, and attention-seeking. She wasn’t particularly good at anything and she wasn’t very charismatic.

Now, this isn’t to say she wasn’t noticed. April was pretty, although if you saw her you’d be convinced you’d seen her somewhere before. She was also not entirely socially inept so she had friends, though they tended to overlook her quite a bit, or even worse: compare her to her sisters.

April’s sisters were incredible. Her older sister, Marie, had a generous nose and underwhelming lips but she was beautiful in her flaws. People called her quirky or endearing. And her character was dazzling. To call her a spark, would be an understatement. Marie was more like a forest fire. She burst into a room and instantly hijacked the attention of every person. With April’s older sister, there were no gray areas. She was passionate about everything and everyone knew it. She was a visionary, unendingly dreaming up new career paths and constantly discovering new ways to wear her hair.

Caroline, two years younger than April, was adorable. She had beautiful, chestnut ringlets and a charming, little turned-up nose. Everything about her was sweetly sensuous, with her feminine curves and gigantic, enviable breasts (at fourteen, she wore a size 34DD). She knew she was gorgeous and used it to her advantage (and oftentimes, to the chagrin of her father, misused it) never going one night without at least three ridiculous boys calling, hoping to catch her ever-fleeting affection. Caroline was also the wittiest girl, April had ever met, always surprising people with her clever jokes and sharp retorts. Big breasted women weren’t supposed to be smart.

Both Marie and Caroline were immensely popular in their own crowds. When April was still in middle school and Caroline in elementary, Marie would bring home stories of the outrageous antics of the drama freaks, over whom she was queen. And Caroline, though only in fifth grade, was already being stalked by horny adolescent boys. April spent her school days trying to push her way into her small clique of friends who had known each other since the beginning of time and could not possibly make much room for one more. She settled for a position in the outer circle of the middle-class cluster of eighth grade girls.

A lot of the above-mentioned mediocrity changed in April’s freshman year. She remained ordinary, but she discovered the advantages of being the prototype for all women. She began observing her female peers in every activity undertaken and then experimented with their different mannerisms. At first, she kept her examinations inside her group of friends, watching and then imitating. After carefully scrutinizing Katie’s innocent, girlish behavior, April would subtly mimic her and watch the group’s reactions. They hardly noticed the difference, but April noted a considerable decrease in the amount of swear words uttered by the girls.

After perfecting her “Katie act,” April moved on to bigger challenges and tried out for the volleyball team. She had never exhibited much of a talent for volleyball but that didn’t really deter her. During try-outs she made sure she was last in line for every exercise and, in the time leading up to her turn, learned every gesticulation, tone, and overall attitude of the most well-known athletes in the school system. She adopted Ashley Curry’s long stride, Brea Smith’s bold expression, and Alex Iorg’s irritatingly mannish posture. When it came time for her to bump, set, or spike, no matter how inconsistent or inaccurate she was, the rest of the girls and on occasion the coach would praise her. She had a spot on the A-string by the end of the first hour, which she promptly turned down, cryptically saying she had already gotten what she’d come for.

April was thrilled by her newfound talent. Where she had once cursed her ordinariness, she now realized she hadn’t been so much invisible as she had been blank – like a canvas waiting to be painted. She was a chameleon. Empowered, April determined to hone her skill and conquer every clique in the school. Dot, dot, dot.

...ordinary be beautiful

…ordinary be beautiful
Linda Sievers
DRAFT


The doctor, who delivered my premature mother in 1913, stuck her in a shoe box and told my grandparents she wouldn’t last the night. She survived to make the ordinary be beautiful, her whole life.

Multi-talented, her lyric soprano voice and excellent piano skills filled our house with music. Beaming, she’d cajole my dad into singing Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy ballads.

Memories of their romantic duets still fire my heart.

At Christmas, mom would gather used Kleenex boxes and artfully transform them into miniature houses. A small mirror became an icy pond framed by a wintry forest of entwined twigs. We placed a nativity scene on a hillside of angel hair near our Bethlehem village. A soft yellow light illuminated the sacred birth.

Together, we made the commonplace magical.

Mom tried to teach me to play classical piano, and to sing soprano arias as effortlessly as she, but the sparks flew between us. Hyperactive, I much preferred to belt Elvis tunes pedaling my bike for miles, or to spend my evenings and Saturdays at the dance studio. At eighteen, I left home in a passionate fury to create my own magic. Letters, phone calls and visits sustained us through the years while mom taught voice, played the organ and sang for her church, and I performed, choreographed and taught dance.

One visit, I noticed the grand piano was layered in dust. As mom gestured in conversation, I saw knobby, swollen fingers. Standing from her chair she faltered. I had to repeat myself, often. To speak louder. Sadly, I realized mom could no longer hear herself sing or play the piano.

Phone calls followed from my brother. Mom has breast cancer. Mom broke her hip. Mom must go into a nursing home, her greatest fear.

Mom can no longer hear my voice; no longer recognize me as her child. Now, as I watch the nurse wheel my mother down the hall for her bath, I long to tell her that her love for beauty, her ability to make the ordinary be beautiful, inspired my whole life.

Online publications

Here is an interesting site to explore if you want to consider submitting your work for publication. It has a vast array from which to choose!

Duotrope's Digest
www.duotrope.com

Eileen

DESERT KID VISITS THE BEACH


KiKi is a desert kid. In the desert the sun shines almost every day.
It gets really hot. Sometimes it's too hot to go outside and play.

KiKi likes to ride her bike. She rides with her Daddy when it's not too hot
It's dry and they get thirsty. They drink from their water bottles a lot.

KiKi goes swimming in the pool. Sometimes she just floats when she feels lazy.
Mostly she swims and goes under water . She opens her eyes and sees Mommy's legs are hazy.

KiKi likes the Saguaro cactus. There are lots and they are taller than most of the trees.
The cactus grow arms. They grow in ones, or twos, or sometimes fours and threes.

KiKi goes to Grandma and Grandpa's. They live far away by the beach.
The ocean is really big. It goes so much farther than she can see or reach.

KiKi and Grandma go to the water. You must be really careful KiKi is told
The waves can knock girls down. She doesn't wade long, the water is too cold.

KiKi looks for sea creatures. She watches seals and sea lions resting on rocks and in caves.
They eat lots of fish. They catch fish by shore and sometimes beyond the waves

KiKi likes to play in the sand the best. She can dig holes, build dams, and make sand cakes.
Grandma helps her build a sandcastle. With just a shovel and a pail that's all that it takes.

KiKi sleeps with a warm quilt. Mornings are cold and she cuddles with Grandpa real cozy
One morning there is no sun. It's like she is swimming under water and it looks fuzzy.

KiKi asks what's going on. It's like she can breathe underwater and everything is soggy.
Grandpa says it's the cool ocean weather. Lots of mornings the sun is covered and it's foggy.

KiKi walks in the redwood forest. Grandma says some of the trees are almost 300 feet tall.
They have to look up high. KiKi lays on her back to see the tree trunk, branches, top and all.

KiKi has to go home soon. She loves visiting her grandparents at the beach and is sad to go.
But, KiKi is a desert kid. She likes to be warm and watch the cactus fade in the sunset glow.


This is my current project. It is for kids about 3-6.

Your comments helped inspire me to rewrite this. I think of it as a poem, so I formatted it to read more like a poem that doesn't rhyme.

BORN BESIDE THE SEA


I was born beside the sea and it resides within my soul.
As with all things worthy of love, the sea flows with beguiling complexities.

The ageless and ancient oceans can be compared to the many wonders of this earth.
But none can surpass the haunting and secret depths of the sea.

The war between water and earth provides a dynamic energy that artists forever strive to capture.
Yet, it can become fouled and the beauty damaged so that I turn my eyes away in shame.

Moisture, salt, earth, exotic creatures, rotting flesh, and debris are all of the sea.
The waters nourish the red flesh of salmon, sweet meat of crabs, buttery clams, and then me.

There is no sound as loud or as quiet as the sea.
Surrounded by the fluid crash of water against the shore, it's as if no one else exists.

The gentle waves move the shifting sand beneath my toes and sooth my grief and turmoil.
An unbearable pain is soothed in the face of the sea breeze and roar of the breaking wave

Each second brings constant change and movement, yet it's always the same sea of my birth.
It is so familiar and there is no greater mystery.

Though, my trust cannot be placed upon these beloved waters.
So easily, deception of the deep could take my breakfast, my courage, or even my last breath.

It’s powerful forces are indiscriminate and it has no compassion.
It takes a tree, a child, or millions of grains of sand to flow within its dark belly.

It is life and it is death.
When only my spirit remains, it will endure.

Some work from my undergraduate English minor...

Here is a piece I wrote for a 300-level English class at the University of Missouri, Kansas City, heavily re-edited. It's 15 pages, so I posted it as a link to another blog I operate. It's based on a lot of research I was doing at the time into the intersection of financial fraud, the illegal drug industry, the intelligence community, and 'black' international policy - so most of the stuff herein is based on real events or exposed practices of the CIA. Here it is...

http://thesmellofinspiration.blogspot.com/2009/12/hsuwrite-post.html

A Classic Sonnet by Mollyanne Hogan

Love Unjust

Oh, how thou dost confuse the common man
Your unpredictability frustrates
To give so generously once, and then
Without warning, willingly dost thou take
In you I diligently strove for naught
Thy cruelty, eager to disappoint
To slaughter hope and leave the heart distraught
'Pon brow, a condemning kiss you anoint
And yet, your callous ways be not futile
Forsooth I see you dictate all beneath
If thou striketh me, will not I struggle,
The best for one, to me, thou dost bequeath
Mayhap, 'tis a choice I have before me
To live with love unjust, or die simply

Headlights

Darkness arrived early. Wind shrieked a predicted storm's arrival while rain amplified its existence with deafening pelts on my car. My grocery shopping was finished and I wanted to get home to relax just a little. It had been a difficult day, and the weather certainly made its contribution.

That's when I saw him. As my windshield wipers frantically removed sheets of water, his faint silhouette became apparent in the fragmented beam of my headlights. He stood along the busy roadside, as cars and trucks whooshed water on his silent figure. I think it was the cap, a sagging, soaked, black sweatshirt, and an arm that held a bulging plastic bag that made me pause. When I noticed his other hand, with thumb directed south, I knew I had to stop.

He slid in the door with rain that made its way in and sprayed the dashboard of my car. I smelled the odor of cigarettes, mud, sweat, and loneliness.

“Thanks”, he said, giving me a closed smile with eyes diverting mine and riveting downward. “Sure is raining.”
“Oh my, yes”, I replied, trying to sound upbeat and exasperated at the same time. “I guess it is what we expect this time of year, but for some reason it always takes me by surprise. Are you cold, can I turn up the heat a little?”
“ Oh, no, no. I'm fine. Just feels good to sit down. Sorry about my wet clothes.”

As I glanced over at him , I saw drenched clothing that clung to his slender body and hands that held the week's grime. “Hey, don't worry about that! Have you been in town long?” I asked, in a contrived matter of fact tone.

“Well, yeah, I have for a while. But not any more. I'm just trying to make my way south. I need to get out of here. This place has bad vibes. They call me and I don't like it. I just don't like it...maybe I'll go to San Diego or something.”

“What's in San Diego?”, I asked, still with an oblivious tone that was betrayed by my wavering voice.

“Oh, I dunno. I guess because I lived there before. I was a little kid, Dad was a contractor there....but....” His voiced trailed off, and then he changed the subject, “Um, I think I might get to see a concert tonight if I get south soon enough, there's some reggae stuff I'd like to hear.”

“ Music is always good... how far away is the concert?”, I asked.

“Oh, I'm not sure. I'll find out when I get there.”

Confused, I decided to redirect our conversation elsewhere. “You have family?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

He paused, then said, “ I have a sister, and two half brothers, but I don't really know them. I mean, I know my sister, of course, but not them.”

“When did you speak with your sister last?” My question was a little intrusive, and I hoped it wouldn't offend him.
“At Christmas.” And he didn't elaborate.

As we made our way through the increasing storm, I held the steering wheel tightly. His words brought back another storm, a life storm that I'd finally accepted, and gently released. The wind and rain pushed against my car. I decreased my speed, gripping myself as well as the wheel, and continued the conversation.

At twenty five, he knew his life had been an eventful one. He told me about his first day of kindergarten, when he decided to walk home two miles by himself, and scared his mother. He smiled slightly as he recalled the story.

We talked about a time at fifteen years of age when his mother placed him in a therapeutic school in Montana to give him a fresh start where he reflected that he “talked to therapists every day and went to classes. Sometimes we went on field trips to go snow boarding or hiking. I remember one time I escaped and jumped on a freight train to Spokane and then hitched a ride to Seattle. I got a free ride on the bus there that took me to Sacramento.” He continued to share pockets of time with frayed images from another life. There was a three week hike in the Bob Marshall Wilderness of Montana with a therapist to get the drugs out of his body and find out why he was doing things that hurt his life. “Yeah, I learned how to make a shelter in the wilderness, and read animal trails. One night a mother grizzly bear and her cubs walked by our tent.” Certain my eyes were opened wide, I commented, “ Wow! That was a close call! You were really out in the wild. Did she come back?”

“No. I was actually asleep when she came by. The therapist woke me after she had gone. He was Native American, and knew a lot about animals and nature. He said he didn't move or breathe. He was afraid I'd wake up and startle her. That would have been bad. He peeked out of a stitch hole in the tent and saw her put her nose in the air. Then she growled at her cubs and moved on....” His voice trailed off again , and he looked out the car window. The mother grizzly's fierce protective instinct for her young was not far removed from mine as my memory bolted to times my own son had been coaxed by unseen life threatening dangers of illicit drugs lurking anywhere, everywhere.

“What else did you learn when you were out there by yourselves?” I asked, trying to regain his attention.

“I remember I missed my family a lot. When I came out of the wilderness, I was so happy so see everyone. They surprised me”. His eyes teared slightly as he fumbled with his bag.
“Been a long time, though. Lots has happened since then. I tried going to college for a while, and working. I came back up here, my mom got me into rehab down south for thirty days. That was cool. I liked it. I think I'd like to do that again. But after so many bad people that keep taking advantage of me, I dunno....” Then he catapulted to another subject. “ I had to have part of my intestines taken out last spring. That was from Crohn's Disease. I got into the Dr. just in time, I guess. There was some sort of blockage and ulcers in my colon. I was in there for a week, and stayed with my mom for a while...but then I had to go. I had some kind of mental breakdown, and she called the police. After a few days, I talked to her on the phone.....then I took myself up here to the mental hospital. They kept me there for five days. I was given some good medication, and it helps me think better. I guess I have bipolar disorder or something. My dad has the same thing. Anyways, I guess I'm telling you more than you wanted to hear. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't apologize, please”, I responded. “You have experienced a great deal in your young life, thank you for sharing it with me. You have had so much involved with your mental and physical health. I admire your strength for continuing to try and figure things out. I can only imagine how difficult your journey has been. I'm sure your family loves and misses you so much.... and wants your life to be a good one.”

He looked down and wiped his eyes quickly. “Yeah, I know they do. At least I know my mom and my sister does, I doubt that my dad does.. 'cause he never knew ...” and his voice trailed off again as if he had entered a cave that consumed his words.

After a few quiet moments he told more of his story. He had been kicked in the jaw and shoulder during one bad drug contact, wandered in the forest where he knew he heard someone talking to him and telling him where to go. He had many nights of sleeping on the ground, or in his old car. He found a homeless shelter for a few weeks, shared a room with two men who had just been released from prison. One had been in there for ten years. He also told of a time when he tried going to see his dad in Nevada for a month, but it didn't work out. The police were called after a night of terrible yelling and threats made by both himself and his father. He left and hitchhiked for days, ending back here, as he always seemed to do. When I asked about his mother again, he told me she always loved him, and helped him many times. She got special food for his diet because of his Crohn's disease, washed his clothes sometimes.

I approached my exit, and wanted to ask where he was going. The weather continued its downpour and I was a little hesitant to send him back out into the rain. My mind reeled with the information he'd given me, and I wondered where his journey would take him next. “Hey”, I said as I neared the offramp. “I tell you what. Since your mom lives in the area, how about me giving you a ride to her house? Do you think she'd mind? Would that be okay with you? You might be able to at least wait out the storm there.”

After a long hesitation, he answered. “Well, maybe I could.” He reached into his bag, and pulled out a small cell phone. “Hey, Mom? Hi, yeah. Sorry I haven't talked with you lately. I just had to go, I had to get out of here. Yeah. Uh huh. Well, I'm getting a ride from a lady right now and she said she could give me a lift to your house if that is okay with you. Okay. Yeah. I will. Love you, too”. Closing his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “Okay. I'll take you up on that ride. We have to go about five miles east of here.”

After I dropped him at the end of the driveway, I watched as he made his way up to the door. I saw a small woman reach up and hug the solitary man, and kiss him on the cheek.

I drove home and reflected on the storm that raged outside as well as the one that had raged inside my car. I'd felt the unpredictable wind shift within my traveler many times, and my heart ached with sharp pain, empathizing with all his lonely days and nights. His confusion was like rain that aimlessly swirled around lights lining the streets to my house. “What will happen to him?”, I wondered and suddenly realized how his life paralleled that of my son.

As I entered my warm home, a shiver consumed me. I looked at my end table and picked up a framed picture, taken twenty five years ago. It was of me as I held my month old infant son. My arms and hands cradled him in front of me as I kissed his perfect face. I recalled the joy, and hope I felt. I wanted him to have a happy life. A good life where he could experience the exhilaration and wonder the world had to offer. I hoped for him to be a good man, one who could make a difference for others.

I put the picture back on the table, and took a deep breath. My eyes closed to see him smile again. I wondered where he was, if he was safe, warm and had food. Was he caring for his life, his body? Was he out of danger? Was he taking his medication? Had drugs, with their sinister language, found a way back inside his mind?

Months have blurred since I last saw my son, without knowledge of his whereabouts. My calls to the police, circulation of his picture, conversations with acquaintances, and prayers have provided no answers.

I hope. I always hope. Tonight, though, my hope is for someone to see his silhouetted figure in their headlights, and offer him a ride home.

Then I could open my door... and kiss his perfect face.

Blog post link - chocolate covered xanax

Hi everyone,

The only writing I've ever done has been on my silly blog, so it's pretty informal and perhaps geared toward people who already read it. Instead of copying it I'm just leaving a link, but I'd appreciate it if you could leave any comments you might have here (as I'm easily confused.) Thanks so much. Kristi

http://chocolatecoveredxanax.blogspot.com/2009/08/maybe-we-shouldve-gone-to-curleys.html

My Cat - My Life Coach

My cat is lying by my side. He is all stretched out flat on the sofa with his speckled toes facing up. He does not have a care in this big old world. He is content. He has someone that loves him (me) to pat his head, his belly is full and he can pretty much do whatever he wants to do all day long. He can sit on my window ledge watching the flittering birds or he can chase his tail. It’s up to him. He has no worries. He doesn’t care that the cat across the street is thinner and prettier than he is! He could care less if his fur is puffed up out of control or lying down nice and flat against his skin. (I should be so smart) He has no judgements. I think in my next life (if there is such a thing) I want to be a cat, or in this life that I am in now, I want to be more like my furry friend! I think that he is the smarter one – he isn’t frantically neurotic about what is going on around him like his owner (me). If I am stressed or feeling sad, he hops in my lap and looks at me like he is thinking “hey, it’s okay, take it easy, relax, breath, purr, chill” He is my free four legged life coach! I thank God for this cat lying by my side – as I feel his purr my heart warms and smiles. God gives us life lessons in funny ways and tonight I am learning in watching my sleeping, twitching cat!

Cancan

Cancan
Linda Sievers
Arcata, CA

Wham! It happened so fast. I landed flat on my dainty derriere in front of five thousand witnesses. As the Cancan blared, and five other dancers cart wheeled and jumped into splits all around me, I sat in a pile of ruffles, satin, and rhinestones on the stage floor.
I tried to get up and slipped again. “$&@!” I said through clenched teeth. Instantaneously I relived hours of sweat to perfect my dance image, how I had swallowed buckets of self doubt, how I hadn’t gone to proms and games because of rehearsal and performance commitments.
Maybe if I rolled over, I could push with both hands against the floor, but my right heel was caught in my skirt. All I managed was to moon the audience with my ruffled behind! “$#@%,” I blurted under my mad scramble to disentangle myself. Then, I heard a strange sound echoing through the microphones lining the front edge of the stage. Oh, no! My groveling amidst my ruffles to get back onto my feet had triggered my long time bad habit of swearing like only a good Catholic girl could swear. My profanities reverberated through ten microphones out to the audience who roared in waves of laughter! I must have looked ridiculous; a pile of fluff in graceless frenzy, flat on my fanny, feathered plume askew, spewing four letter expletives into the St. Paul Auditorium.
Courage! Fight! Get up, I thought as seconds pounded in my throat!
At last, I loosened the skirt, and like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, I shot up, grabbed the culprit heel, extended my right leg above my head, and began hopping in circles.
Audience applause was thunderous with whistles, shrieks, and “Brava! Brava,” as the curtain closed. Lights faded to blackout.
In the darkness behind the curtain, jugglers running past me to their places onstage whispered. “Could have happened to any of us! Nice job! Great finish!”
Smiling, I shrugged and walked offstage toward the dressing rooms. Rubbing my bruised backside I determined I really needed to stop swearing.

Cover letter story synopsis

BLUE BETTY AND THE ELEPHANT 2,100 words

Betty Johnson, the girl with blue hair, is a shy girl on her first day at a new and unusual school. In the classroom, an amazed Betty watches as an elephant gives a show and tell speech about eating pie. Later, on the playground no one notices Betty at all, until the Elephant challenges the girl with the blue hair to a race. All of the other kids are watching. After hesitating Betty nods her head yes, she will run against the four legs of the elephant in what turns out to be, ‘the greatest race in the world’.