Jane Austen: Writer And Superhero

Merry Christmas to everyone.  I hope everyone had a magical day full of happiness.  I also wish everyone a wonderful New Year.  I am not someone who makes resolutions for the New Year and instead try to make resolutions often throughout the year to be happy or find a way to do that. Yet, as we start 2012 I wish everyone a year of happiness any way that they find it.

Many of you may have noticed, and commented, that I have not posted anything in over a month.  That is very true.  I have spent that month a bit stressed, busy, tired and pulled in a million different directions.  Most of that involves work but the holidays added to that.  I did not get a chance to post here on my blog, or write in my journal or even write on my novel.  I missed it all.  I missed being able to open my pink, leather-bound journal and release the stress I was feeling, coming to my blog and sharing with everyone the process and thrills and horrors I have experienced in writing my first novel, but even more I missed actually writing.  I missed writing in my novel and even missed the characters as if they were real people and we are living this story together, which in a sense we are.

Christmas has ended and though work will still be busy and stressful I was able to take a little time and look back at my novel and do some writing on it which exhilarated me.  Many of my friends and family laugh at me but when I do get to write it energizes me and I get excited.  I was able to find that excitement again.  I am in the midst of editing chapter nine and have almost finished writing chapter ten and that thrills me because my characters are back in my life again.  We are moving the story along and I am living with them again.  So, I am also back on the blogosphere again as well and it is a welcomed return.

This time away from my writing though being caused by my job made me realize how much life can interfere with what we have planned.  We all dream as kids of the grand career.  For my son it was to be a train engineer.  For me, I was going to be a dancer or a writer.  My baby sister was going to drive a bus, have ten kids and purple hair and take lots of aspirin.  Needless to say not all of us get to do our dream jobs or have our dream lives but as adults try to find little dreams that are similar to keep that joy we had as kids.  Writing has always been my dream.  My mother used to have a fit with me because I wrote on EVERYTHING!  I would write on my clothes, on furniture and on the walls.  She was always chasing after me with toothpaste to clean off what I did on the walls.

Sometimes though life interrupts these dreams just as it did when we were kids and our dreams would change or the world would intercede and make them difficult to accomplish.  We can either lay those dreams down and never pick them up again, we can change them to work around the difficulties or we can use the difficulties to push us forward in what we really want.  I would love to have that rare movie image of a writer where I sit in my beautiful home on the beach where my office and work space looks out over the ocean and vacation in the south of France for inspiration.  That is not the reality though.

The dictionary defines reality as something that exists independently of all other things and from which all other things derive.  I don't know that I really like that definition.  To me that means our dreams and reality are separate.  The dream is that I want to be a writer and do that full time.  The reality is that it takes work to be a writer and it isn't like in the movies.  You have to love writing to really be a writer and consider yourself a writer.

This past Christmas I got one of the best presents I may have ever gotten in my life.  It was a book from my boss titled Writer with a Day Job by Aine Greaney an Irish author.  I love this book.  It gives exercises writers can do to help them in the creative process and gives inspiration to those of us who are the majority of writers.  The ones I call superhero writers because we are workers at our job by day.  We go to that nine to five job and work hard, we commute with the masses to the office, we maintain the professional persona by day and at night or during our free time, often stolen at lunch or when commuting, we are our superhero persona.  We are writers.  We are dreamers and psychologists and anthropologists and narrators. We are what writers really are today.  Jane Austen would be working as a secretary today for a boss she probably hated and then use that as fodder for her stories.  Walt Whitman may have been a construction worker by day and a poet by night.  Superman has nothing on today's writers.

To be this superhero type of writer though you have to really love writing in a way that you love breathing.  I was unable to write for a month and felt as if I were fading or losing a limb.  My pen is an extension of my hand and my story sits and moves in my brain even as I type this.  To go a month without writing was necessary for my job but also hard.  What I love about my new book is that it gives ideas to help get through the busy times. As I did one day when I snuck out of work for a quick lunch break and went to my new favorite writing spot and in the cold sat outside in front of my Mexican revolutionary ready to shoot, don't worry it is a statue.  There I sat and watched the people around me and I wrote in my journal and just that thirty minute break to write revived me more than any medicine and let me get through my week.

So now I wake up early and grab my cup of coffee and my pen and paper or I sit on my train or steal away at lunch and just as Clark Kent would use the telephone booth to change into superman I too go to my spot and change in my superhero character, Anne Brenner the writer.  I may not save your cat from a tree or fly you away from danger but my hope is that I am able to entertain you.  So as you walk into that coffee house or by the bench with the man sitting in a business suit and a pen and paper in hand you can smile to yourself because superheros do exist and you may have just passed one.

Turn Off That Music And Let's Talk

Have you ever had a moment when you are listening to someone talk, or rather should be listening, and yet all you hear is sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher, Wah Wahwah Wah Wah!  I know people often tell me I am such a good listener, and I may regret letting this secret out, but often my open eyed gaze at you could not repeat back what you said because I was actually listening to the music in my head. 

One of the issues with writing a book is getting your idea across but also getting your discussions to appear real and interesting and yet also something that this character you have created would actually say.  I once read a book, and I will not list the title or author out of respect, where I had real issues with the characters and their voice.  The characters were in an impoverished position in life.  They lived amongst the lower class of society. They were poor and uneducated and a bit crass at times.  Yet, when they spoke within in the novel and had any type of discourse their language was almost what you would find a university professor to use.  They used large, difficult, not found in common language words.  For some reason this really infuriated me.  To me that is an author trying to show off just how smart he really is by giving his characters words that the reader, no matter how intelligent, would have to look up.  Reading with a dictionary type of writing is good for textbooks but not pleasure reading and not when your use of the language in their discussions does not match up with the characters you have created in the readers imagination.  The only props I will give this author is that the idea and theme of his book was enough to make you want to buy the book and read it to find out how it played out.  The rest is my opinion of course but I think then he lost the reader with his need to be more important than his writing.

Writing in discussions can be interesting but there is a fine line a writer needs to walk.  The writer has created characters that, if done properly, need to seem real and relatable.  That means that when the reader comes to scenes with discussions and "talk"  there are three things that need to be considered. 

1. Is this something that character based on their personality would actually say?,
2. Does this discussion make sense to the story and the plot and move the action forward?  Does this discussion even make sense?, and
3. How to change the style of discussions based on different characters, environments and actions?

I wrote a scene with one of my main characters and a "bad guy".  I had to make sure that discussion did not come across too cliche and corny but also make it understood that this character was manipulative and violent.  I am also coming up to the part of my novel where time periods will change and that needs to be considered when my past characters interact with the modern characters.  It will also be set in another country and that needs to be considered as well.  American slang just won't work coming from an 1800's Romanian Duke.  Although the thought of it makes me laugh. 

The trick is getting all these words to line up into a discussion that makes sense and is relatable.  That is no different than what everyone does everyday when they are telling a story.  When I tell the story about how my Mother wore two different colored and types of shoes to church one day or how my Dad decided to wash clothes in the dryer, I have to make sure the person hearing the story understands.  The laughter or response at the end of any discussion assures me that they turned off the radio in their head long enough to not only be amused by my story but because they showed how delighted they were they showed they understood my telling.  

When you meet a co-worker at the water-cooler to tell them how your son wore his clothes inside out and backwards you hope for a laugh.  If you did not get one it may be because you said, "My eldest offspring decided to garnish himself with vestments that were inverted and astern of him."  Even I don't think that is funny because it is not real and relatable.  Now, if I were having the same discussion with an Ivy League grammar professor then he may find that funny.  Again, it is also based on your audience and not just the words.  You change the way you speak based on the person or people in front of you.  I have given many speeches to varying audiences and that is important.  Now that I am writing this novel, I consider the readers as an audience to a speech and that they all attended for different reasons and are of different backgrounds.  I need to try to relate to each one of them.

So I have had to learn to turn the radio off in my own head and listen when people speak.  Everyone has their own nuance and mannerism.  It is fascinating and often at the end it leads to an open discussion.  So if this finds you interested....let's talk about it.

Out of Chaos…Hope

Out of Chaos…Hope

A farmer stands looking out over his fields
Angry, lost, scared
No clouds in the sky
The wind blows, the air heavy
The dust sweeps over the land
Barren, dry, dying

A farmer’s wife steps outside the house
Bruised, beaten, alone
She leans over the dry earth
Digs down deep
And plants the seeds of beauty in the ground
Crying, caring, hopeful

A farmer returns home at night
Hopeless, fearful, hollow
Listens at the door
The sweet voice of his wife
Asking for love, asking for hope
Weeps, releases, prays

A farmer wakens to a new day
Forlorn, crushed, clinging
Steps outside for another day
Stops stunned, amazed
Blowing in the breeze a single red, audacious flower
Bright, Vibrant, Loud

A farmer falls to his knees
Released, sobbing, full
Feels the warm, soft arms encircle him
Wrapped around him tight, concerned
Sees her eyes, the love
Strength, devotion, peace

A farmer and his wife
Shaking, wanting, believing
Feel the touch
Soft like a feather
Pulsing with the wind
Cool, sweet, clean

And it rained…

A woman sits down in the rain
Hungry, solitary, forsaken
Places her head on her knees
To quiet the noises
To soothe the hunger
Loud, unforgiving, distant

A man steps outside
Busy, fast, rushed
Pulls his coat close
Grips his briefcase
Continues to lay the brick for the walls inside him
Forceful, powerful, isolated

A woman shivers in the wet, dark streets
Cold, hurt, deserted
Wraps her thin coat tighter about herself
Hoping for warmth
Yearning for love
Shivering, scarred, resigned

A man rushes through the streets
Unaware, unaffected, absent
Brushes past people
In a hurry to get nowhere
In a dash through each day
Impassive, inattentive, thoughtless

A woman walks slowly down the street
Whispering, moaning, praying
Reaches out to touch
Pleads with the nameless to feel
Collides into a man, angry and rushed
Shoved, hurt, reeling

A man walking through the streets
Upset, stopped, stares
Suddenly looks, suddenly notices, suddenly feels
And with gentle hands places his coat
And with gentle words give solace
Soothing, slow, aware

And the rain stopped….

A young woman at the beach
Absent, consumed, misplaced
Sits watching the dark waves crash
Designing the ending of her story
Watching the tempest roll out to sea
Scheming, arranging, intending

An aged dog runs along the shore
Happy, carefree, loved
Feeling the wind wash over him softly
Feeling the warmth of the peeking sun
Feeling life running through him
Content, relaxed, free

A young woman at the beach
Troubled, anxious, imprisoned
Struggling inside herself
Haunted by the past
Aware of the void of the future
Confused, numb, dazed

A young woman at the beach
Fearful, enraged, searching
Screams out in pain
Cries out for relief
Shouts for attention and care
Loud, forceful, alone

An aged dog runs along the shore
Aware, knowing, sensing
Hears, feels the agony ahead
Stops short his jovial race
Rests softly next to a young girl at the beach
Quiet, timid, comforting

A young woman at the beach
Awakened, revived, reinvented
Sees again the endless borders of time
Feels again the rays of light like a song
Sits quietly, gently with her new friend
Expectant, hopeful, faithful

Out of chaos hope again hung over the land.  And a rainbow appeared…

Having A Cold At The Ballet

Over the past week I had been battling a bad cold.  I was not mobile most of the week.  All I wanted to really do was sleep or just lie around doing nothing.  Unfortunately, I am also a single, working mother so that is not always possible.  Oh, to be ten years old again, and able to stay home from school and just eat Mom's chicken noodle soup and watch cartoons all day.  Well, since that is not possible I trudged forward.  I went to work.  I took care of the boy.  I talked to friends.  I also did not do much writing because any spare time was spent lying down and not moving.  All I could really accomplished was a lot of thinking doing that.

Many mornings I get on the train for my long commute into work.  As I get closer to my stop, I cross over the Potomac River and see the sight of the Washington Monument and the Thomas Jefferson Memorial outside of my train window.  I am always amazed by the sights of Washington, DC and the feel of its history as you enter into the city.  It is not a large city but as you come across the river you feel its importance.  It is not only beautiful to cross over and see the Potomac and the monuments but you can feel the city's largeness of power if not in size.

One morning last week was a bit rainy and the only good thing was that it at least was not cold.  It was more of a light rain, you know, enough to make you annoyed but not enough to really make you wet and angry or happy and splashy.  Since the rainy weather was not too bad it was nice enough that the rowing teams from the local high schools were out on the Potomac.  I love to watch as they work in unison and move smoothly through the water.  The way their arms move and the boats glide through the water is like an animal and yet also like a ballet.  It is fascinating to watch.

It got me to thinking also.  Here were examples all around me of movement.  One was of myself and the painful, disjointed movements I was making when I was sick.  The other was the beautiful, graceful, synchronized movements of the rowers on the water looking almost as if they were dancing on water.  Everyday and everything we do has some type of rhythm or movement associated with it.  Even a person laying on a hospital bed has the fluids moving through tubes and the monitor beating in time to the heart.

Writers as well need to have focus on the movement of their pieces.  To me when I think of poetry there has to be some fluidity of movement as if it is a modern dance.  It moves you along sometimes without you realizing what is really happening within the story.  Short stories though would be more quick, staccato movements like an African tribal dance or a tap dance.  There is smoothness in it and yet a quickness that leaves you breathless from the feel of the quick beats as well. 

As I am writing my first novel though I have noticed that there is a difference of movement for novels.  When you write a novel there needs to be more of a slow, graceful, glide of movement through the story process.  You don't want to have a quick story that ends up boring the reader with is predictability. Yet, you also don't want it to drag on and on and on and on, well you get my point.  You know those stories, yes Tolstoy I am talking to you.  It is like attending the opera with your wife and then hoping to sneak out after the first act but your wife keeps you in the seat next to her.  Then you spend your time nodding off and dreaming about the bar and getting a drink at intermission just to get you through the rest of the opera or ballet.

Movement can be beautiful though.  As your story progresses you think of a ballet or opera.  There is a storyline and a sequence that relates to your story without giving out everything.  Sometimes, it works to even slide in a surprise action or a funny action that entices the reader.  At the end though there needs to be a movement to your story.  It can be graceful or harsh or quick but that movement is what our reader brains move to.  So the lesson to myself is to keep that in mind as I entice and move my story along.  I don't want to be the girl who has a cold and has to watch all the movement of the ballet around her.  I want to keep my own story moving and gliding along smoothly so the reader feels the same.

The Comfort Zone In An Uncomfortable Chair

Today is one of those days that are beautiful and crisp and sunny.  Yet, all I want to do is curl in a big overstuffed chair with a blanket, a good book and some jazz music in the background.  Maybe my book would actually be my writing notebook but it feels like a good day to write to me.

In football teams are given bye weeks where they have a weekend off from playing.  Work has been so busy lately and I have been relaxing in more social ways by hanging out with friends and neighbors that it interrupted my writing a bit.  In a sense I had a self-enforced bye week from my blog.  While I had this week away though I wrote another poem, started another short story and got into the middle of Chapter Nine of the book.  Not too bad!

This week made me think though and one word came to mind often...Location!  I know what you are thinking.  Wait! You already wrote a post on location.  The location of your story becoming like another character with life and dimension and holders of the story.  This is not about locations within your story though.  This is about finding a spot, a comfortable zone, a location that brings you comfort and becomes your writing place.

This week when I would get home from a long day at work I was tired and the thought of writing did not even cheer me up.  The moment I sat down in my writing spot though I would instinctively reach out for my writing notebook and feel my body relax and the words begin to flow out of me again.  It is nice having this oasis where I can feel creative. 

It does not have to be one spot in your life and that is the only place you should work.  In fact, on Saturday I was waiting for my neighbor.  I was sitting at her dining room table in an uncomfortable chair that makes me think of one of those outdoor patio chairs.  I was wriggling left and right trying to get comfortable in the chair while at the same time also trying to listen to the discussion going on in the room.  As I turned another time to adjust the seat again I stopped...I borrowed a piece of paper which happened to be one of those shopping lists pages that hang from refrigerators......I sat back in the chair...I found my mind buzzing and no thoughts remained about the chair but only about the idea that came into my head. 

There I had been uncomfortable, out of place and yet still found inspiration but once I felt the comfortable feeling and yet strong need to find a pen and paper and write I transformed my zone into my writing place.  Inspiration can be demanding and strong and overpowering but then writing it out and releasing those ideas turns your location into another world of imagination and, as in my case, transformed an uncomfortable spot into my little writing oasis for ten minutes.

So on that shopping list page I wrote down the first stanza and notes on a new poem I am working on and as I ran out of room on the page I laid the paper down.  I looked up at my friend and neighbor with a smile on my face.  Then...I wriggled in my uncomfortable chair.

It is nice having a spot when I feel tired or a lack of inspiration that is comfortable for my writing.  Yet, don't make that the only place you can find inspiration or do any type of writing.  Some of my best ideas can come when I am in strange or unknown or different situations.  This may also be why I have a purse with about twenty pens inside of it.  I have paper and little notebooks dispersed throughout my house.  Now, I just need to learn to carry around a little notebook in my purse I guess since I have so many napkin, shopping list, receipt poems that I carry around with me currently.

Location is important and can lead to inspiration but the writing comes from an idea within and the ability to turn any location into "A Writing Spot."

Class Pictures

Below is the first draft of a short story I am working on.  This story will be developed a bit more and may even turn into more than a short story.  Ideas and stories are like flowers, sometimes when you water and feed the idea it grows into a bigger piece than initially envisioned.  As always, any comments are always welcome.

Class Pictures

The alarm sounded and I slowly rolled over to make the loud, persistent noise stop.  Without ever opening my eyes I rolled back over and burrowed deeper under my covers hoping for just a few more moments of sleep.  As I lay there warm and secure, my eyes suddenly fluttered open.  I remembered what today was…Class Picture Day!

That morning was going to be its normal bustle of activity trying to get myself ready for work and trying to get Jack ready for school.  I poured myself a cup of coffee and then leaned against the counter as I took a sip.  This was my brief moment to relax before the rush of the day started.  As I stood there this morning though with my hands wrapped around my steaming coffee mug I could hear Jack in the bathroom.  I listened as he meticulously got ready for school.

Jack was nine years old and had a tendency to mutter to himself when he was frustrated.  This morning was no exception.  I stood and listened as he had to have the perfect outfit and then tried to get his hair just right.  I could picture him running a comb through his unruly brown curly hair and maybe even slicking it back with water in hopes of having the perfect look for his school pictures.  I heard him give a big sigh and say, “good enough,” and then walk out to greet me.  He looked at me hoping that I would notice all the care he took on his appearance that morning.  “You look very handsome champ.” I said as he sat to eat his breakfast and he gave me a big smile.

A bit later I dropped Jack off at school and drove into work.  I managed to arrive at work right on time and got to my desk quickly.  My boss soon after made his normal rounds of checking on everyone.  As he stepped to my desk he asked, “How are you?  How is Jack doing?”

“We are good.  It is class picture day and he is a bit nervous but he is well,” I responded.  He smiled absently and then nodded and walked away saying, “Good, good.”

As he stepped away I leaned back in my chair with the second cup of coffee in my hands that day and gave a relaxed sigh.  I started to think of Jack and his picture day and hoped his pictures turned out to his satisfaction.  As I usually did I started thinking back to my own 5^th grade picture day. 

I did not realize how important that day would be for me then.  I could remember the day in all its detail though and as I sat there my mind wandered back until I could almost feel the same feelings and remember those same thoughts of my ten year old self and I was back twenty years earlier.

First Grade

My mother softly padded into my room that morning wrapped in her pink, fuzzy robe and matching slippers.  She softly laid her hand against my cheek and gave me a little kiss.  That was how she used to wake up all of her kids.  My eyes opened slowly and then my face instantly scrunched up and my voice creaked out, “Class picture day.”  I dreaded class picture day and she knew it.  She just smiled and told me to get up and put on my new lavender dress and ribbons she bought earlier that week.  She was hoping that would help ease some of my anxiety over class picture day.

I dragged my feet that morning though and barely had time to eat my breakfast.  My mother ended up in a rush braiding my hair and putting in the new lavender ribbons that matched my dress.  I did not always hate picture day but it just never seemed to work out for me.  By fifth grade I dreaded my pictures and picture day and I was sour faced as I sat there waiting for my mother to finish braiding my hair which was torture itself since she did not have a light touch and tended to pull my hair really tight.  “I have three other kids to get ready young lady.  Sit still and stop complaining.”  I remembered she finally said to me that morning.

It all started with my first grade class picture.  I was so excited that year to have my picture taken.  That week I was allowed to get a new store bought dress.  Mom normally made all of our clothes at the time but then it was only me and my brother and my brand new baby sister.  The night before my first grade pictures was utter chaos in the household.  My sister was only a few weeks old and screaming at the top of her little baby lungs.  My brother was three and he kept running around the table screaming his war cries hoping to garner more attention than the baby crying.  Every time he passed me with his little foil and cardboard sword he would poke me so I was yelling, “Mom, make him stop.” 

Our mother finally got up and picked up the baby and said “I am taking a time out.  You two fight amongst yourselves until your dad gets home.”  We just stared at her for a moment and went back to our fighting.  My brother tired though of his one-sided sword fighting and saw the bag of Halloween candy my mother was going to give out in about a week during trick or treating.  He picked up the piece of gum and started chewing it.  He did not like how big it was in his mouth though and took it out of his mouth and threw it.  He used to throw everything or run into everything or crush and destroy everything with loud fanfare.  The fanfare that night was my screams at him and then my tears.  His gum landed right in my beautiful long blond hair. 

My mother tried everything to get it out.  She used peanut butter, baby oil and then just tried tugging until I was screaming too hard to continue.  Finally, she had to cut off my long hair.  She tried her best to shape my hair to look nice but since the gum was so high up on my scalp it was pretty much a lost cause.

My first grade pictures arrived and I had barely any hair and I looked miserable with my sad little face looking out.

Second Grade

The next year I decided my second grade class pictures were going to be different.  I was determined but still excited for the day to arrive, even more so now to erase the picture I had to see everyday for a year from first grade.  My brother was four now but still a bit loud and obnoxious, at least to my seven year old self.  I kept as far away from him for the whole week leading up to picture day, at least as much as I was allowed.  My little sister was one but dainty and small and still too little to do any damage.  I figured I had my plan and I was excited.  It was going to be better.

The afternoon before picture day I decided to instead play with some of the neighbor kids that often hung out at our house.  We had a large back yard with a jungle gym, an enormous swing set, a sand box and the best and biggest tree for climbing possible.  They loved hanging out in our back yard.  We loved to play hide and seek at that age also.  I hated being the one to count and have to seek so I always tried to be in the group to hide.  That day I found the best hiding place. 

We had a small yellow shed on the corner of our backyard where my parents kept their tools and the lawnmower and miscellaneous items needed.  On the far left side of the shed was where my Dad kept our firewood under a blue tarp for the upcoming winter months.  There was just enough room between the firewood and the fence dividing our property and our neighbor’s for me to scrunch up really small and slide in there.  I was so proud.  No one found me and I was the winner.

We were all called by our mothers for dinner a bit later.  As I sat at the dinner table I started to feel uncomfortable.  It was as if a thousand pins from my mother’s sewing basket were being stuck in me and made me want to itch and scratch them.  I started to not feel very well.  As dinner was ending my father looked over at me and asked, “What is going on with your face?  You have little red spots on you.”

I started to scratch at them and then my mother took a look at me and asked, “Where were you playing today?”

“I was by the firewood.” I said as I started to whimper a bit and feel the tears coming.  I knew it was not good.  My parents looked at each other and both ended up saying in unison, “Poison Ivy.”

My second grade pictures arrived that year and I am pictured with little red spots on my face and of course there was still the same sad little face that was in the previous year pictures.

Third Grade

Third grade picture day was upon me a year later.  I was still excited but getting very wary about the day.  I knew I needed a really good picture that year.  My mother said she wanted to use all of our pictures to make a little collage for our grandmother and I was determined that this year it will be a fantastic picture.  I had another baby sister arrive a few months previously so she along with my now two year old sister and five year old brother would all be pictured in what was supposed to be a cute collage showcasing all of us as young kids. 

The night before pictures my two year old sister, who liked to follow me wherever I went, watched me as I did my homework.  I was practicing my handwriting on a sheet of paper.  I could not find my pencil though so I grabbed Mom’s permanent black marker pen and was writing with my new cursive letter skills.

My sister and I shared a room now since the new baby had to be put in the small baby room which was located closest to our parent’s room.  That night my Mom was tired since all the new baby did was cry, and she sent us to bed early.  It was still daylight but would be dark soon and I had played all day outside so I fell asleep right away.  My little sister though was wide awake and bored. 

As I slept she got out of her new big girl bed and saw my handwriting paper and the marker I had used.  She picked up the marker and started to make pictures all over the paper like she was practicing her own writing.  She got bored with that activity though and my little sister, who was always a little naughty with a big twinkle in her eyes that often gave her mischievous side away, walked over to my bed where I was sleeping and gave me freckles and drew rainbows on my cheeks.  She used to draw rainbows on everything.

The next morning my mother came into the room and saw her sleeping on the floor with her little butt in the air and paper and pictures she had colored all over the floor.  Then my mother looked over at me and that morning I was not awakened by her normal morning kiss but rather her scream of “Oh my God!  What in the world happened in here?!?”

I spent the morning of third grade picture day getting my face scrubbed so hard that it felt as if I was having a layer of skin removed.  My mother did her best but after a while had to admit defeat.  “I got almost all of it.  I doubt anyone will notice.” She had said in an effort to cheer me up since I had spent most of the time crying my little eyes out.

My third grade pictures arrived and I had two faint rainbows that were noticeable painted on my cheeks and little black dotted freckles all over my face and of course the same miserable, sad face looking out.  To make matters worse, even Mom decided not to use my school picture for the family collage that year.

Fourth Grade

By fourth grade I was no longer excited for picture day but I was still determined to have a good picture.  Plus, I figured there was not much else that could happen to damage this picture.  I was a bit of an eternal optimist, though my resolve was wearing a bit thin.  I knew my hair was long and beautiful again and my mother had spent the morning giving my blond hair sweet little curls.  My six year old brother had the flu that day so he was very quiet and my three year old sister was busy being followed by our little one year old sister herself now so had her attention diverted playing baby dolls with her.

I felt good as I got to school.  I was excited again for picture day.  I sat in class and could barely sit still for my teacher to announce our classroom’s turn with the photographer.  We headed out for a morning recess and I stayed with my two best friends swinging on the swings and could remember the feeling of happiness.  I heard the school bell being rung for all of us to line up and then go back to class.  We ran over to the doors and waited.  Some of the boys continued to play their baseball game though not wanting to end it until they had the last run done.  I remembered hearing the ball hit the bat and turned to see who had made a good hit and then watched as the ball was falling down over me and did not have time to move or react, “Thwack.”  The baseball hit me right in the eye.

My teacher was just coming out of the doors to lead us all back to the classroom and saw the incident.  She rushed me to the nurse’s office where I sat for the next hour with ice over my eye.  The nurse kept saying, “You are so lucky.  Your teacher said that ball hit you hard.  You are so lucky to not be hurt more.”  I was sent back to the classroom and we were called soon after to go down and have our pictures taken.

My fourth grade pictures arrived and I had the largest black eye I had ever seen up to that point, and my other eye was red from crying and I had the same sad little face looking out that I had continued to have for four years now.

Fifth Grade

So, on the morning of my fifth grade class pictures I was not excited, I was not happy; I was just waiting for what could happen next.  I had a frown on my face all morning.  It was raining that fall day we were not allowed to play outside and I just sat at my desk with my head in my hands staring out the window of the classroom at the rain.  We finally were called down to have our pictures taken and I started to drag my feet until my teacher looked over at me and said, “Come on pick up your feet.  You can’t prolong the inevitable.  Let’s just get it over with.”

I waited in line as each kid was brought into the little room to have their picture taken.  For me it was more like waiting in a line to be sent off to my slaughter.  I started to fidget on my feet back and forth until the teacher sent a look over at me that froze me to the spot.  As I edged closer and closer I felt my stomach tighten and knew how bad this had to be.  I was the last person in line and it was finally my turn.  So I took a big gulp and started to walk forward.

The room looked as it always did on picture day.  There was a large camera on a tripod in the center facing a stool with a sheeted background.  Around the sides and back of the camera was a red velvet curtain that hid the face of the man taking the pictures.  There were long, thick black wires all over the floor and as I shuffled forward I tripped a bit on one of them, catching myself before I could fall completely.

I sat down on the stool and wriggled around until I was comfortable sitting on it.  Then I looked into the camera remembering all the awful episodes before today.  I could not bring myself to smile.  I was so busy being miserable and imagining how awful my pictures would be.

A face peeped out from behind the camera.  He was an older man with a white beard and white hair around his ears.  The top of his head though was a shiny baldness that caught the light.  He had soft blue eyes and thin wire-rimmed glasses and his look was directed right at me.

“Why do you look so miserable my dear?”  He asked me in a rich, deep voice that reminded me of my own grandfather’s voice.  I instantly felt as if wrapped in a warm blanket when I heard his voice and proceeded to tell him my sad tale of all the past picture days.

The man listened intently and then knelt down to my level.  “Can I tell you a story?”  He asked me to which I nodded with open curiosity and as I sat slumped a bit on the stool I listened to his rich voice tell me his story.

“I used to have a little daughter much like you.  She was my wife’s and my only child and we loved her more than anything in this world.  She also would complain every year about her class pictures.  She hated them.  She swore that they were too ugly.  Both her mother and I tried to convince her how beautiful she was and how much we loved her pictures but she never listened.

Well, when my daughter turned 15 years old she got very sick.  She spent a lot of time in the hospital.  She had surgeries and treatments.  She lost her hair eventually.  Nothing seemed to help make her better.  Finally, after a year of treatments she was put into the hospital.  She was so weak she couldn’t really walk on her own.  She was very thin and there were tubes connected to her everywhere it seemed. 

One day as she lay in her hospital bed she whispered to me that she heard it was class picture time.  She begged me to take her to school.  I could not say no to her.  The hospital did not want her to leave so we made a secret mission.  I unhooked the tubes and carried her all the way down to the car.  Fortunately no one stopped us on the way.  We pulled up to the school and I carried her all the way to the picture room.  Again, no one stopped us and when we got into the room there was no one waiting so the photographer let me carry her over to the stool.

I had thought I would have to hold her up just to sit and get her picture taken but as I set my little girl on that stool she sat up really straight and gave the photographer such a beautiful smile.  He snapped the picture and I remembered as we were leaving that he had tears in his eyes and a lot of sadness and whispered to her on the way out the door and gave her cheek a kiss.  At this point I had to carry my daughter again.  The moment the picture was taken she lost the energy that held her up and I returned her to her hospital room.  A week later my beautiful little girl passed away.”

The man paused and wiped a tear from his eye.  Then he took a shaky breath and continued, “For weeks her mother and I were sad.  We could not eat or sleep or even talk to anyone.  Then about six weeks after she died we got a knock on the door.  When we opened the door there was no one standing there but there was a large, flat box leaning against the wall.  We brought it inside and both my wife and I looked at it curiously because there was no address slip on it.  We could not tell who it was from or even what it was.  There was just a small angel symbol in the corner.

I opened the box slowly.  I could see that there was a picture frame inside so I tugged and pulled until it came all the way out of the box.  My wife saw it first and gasped and then started to cry.  I turned to the picture frame and saw the most beautiful thing ever.”

Again, the man stopped talking and this time a tear escaped and started to roll down his face but he had a sad smile on his face.  “What was the picture of?” I asked so curious now at his story.

“Inside were all the school pictures my daughter ever had all along the edge of the frame and in the middle the biggest picture of them all was the picture she took that day I carried her to the school.  She was beautiful.  Her smile was so bright and she looked healthy and healthy in the picture.

My wife and I took the picture frame and hung it up right in the doorway.  Then everyday I would get home from work it was always the first thing I would see, my little girl smiling at me so perfectly.  Even if I had a bad day or a good day that was my favorite part of the day and always made me feel better.  When I go home tonight I will again see my little girl and her beautiful smile.  She had no hair and was thin and sick but she is still so beautiful to me.”

With that he got up and went back behind the camera.  I thought for just a moment and then sat up straight and gave my most beautiful smile for the camera.

That year when my pictures came back the bow in my hair is crooked and I had one eye slightly closed but I had a big, beautiful smile on my face.  My mother told me it was a beautiful picture as she always did but this year I smiled back at her and asked if we could hang the picture by the doorway.  She looked at me questioningly until I told her the story and then she did put the picture there.  In fact, after that year we always hung our school photos right in the doorway and I would watch my parents come through the door and smile at all of their kids.

As I came home later that night after a long and very busy day, I put the key into the door and there looking at me was the face of my own beautiful son.  His hair all messed up and he had a big scratch down his cheek but a big smile on his face.  I took a deep breath and smiled as I felt all the tension of the day leave me.  I love class picture day.

Bread, Cheese And Wine For The Imagination

Bread, cheese and wine...that sounds like a recipe for yumminess.  The fact that I was born in Wisconsin and even lived in France at one point made me quite a connoisseur of bread, cheese and wine. Yet, a few years ago I was on a mission of life improvement.  This meant that I had to cut out bread, cheese and wine. That was such a sad day and there was a small funeral at home as I buried my wine bottle next to a baguette and brie. Not really, but that was my way of cutting out the fat in my life.

You may be wondering right now why my dietary restrictions are related to writing at all.  Don't worry I will explain.  As I was working on chapter eight, I needed to begin using descriptions to show the reader a setting, a house and how the design inside this house gives much understanding into one of the characters of the story.  Still confused?  Still wondering how it relates? Well, don't worry I will be getting to the point soon.  I promise I am.

As I was writing the long descriptions I remembered an author I read years back, whose name I will not divulge here, but who came highly recommended by a friend.  I started reading this book and after I was only five chapters into the story I set it down.  This author gave descriptions of everything in very exact detail.  I have only stopped reading a book because I could not relate or get interested in the story twice in my life and this author was one of those times.  In addition, I never read another book written by this same author for fear of the same result. The thought of all the descriptions made the story too heavy and boring for my imagination and then I did not want to read that again.  In my opinion, the descriptions and the absolute detail of everything bogged down the story too much for a reader to easily continue into the story.

So as I was writing the descriptions of this house in chapter eight I remembered that author and that unfinished book and I realized that there was a balance that needed to be achieved. I did not want too much detail that it bogs down the story. Yet, I did not want to leave the description so lacking either that the reader can not even find the house in their imagination. When just enough description is given to a scene or a place or even a person you can bring them up in your mind and create them into your imagination so that as you are reading the story you are walking with the character and you are inside the castle or the house in a city or the country depending upon the tale.  A good description places you as the reader into the scene without bogging you into the quicksand of too much description.

You are still wondering why I started out talking about food and wine and why I have now made you hungry.  Well, as I was writing the descriptions of the house and thought of that author who I did not care for and whose descriptions were just too wordy, I thought back to myself and my writing. I know when I tell a story to friends and family that I sometimes get lost in the details and can get a bit wordy. (My parents just had a sudden need to laugh out loud and don't know why yet.)  I did not want that for my writing.  I want the reader to be able to ignite their imagination when reading so that I give them the outline of the picture and then they can fill in the picture with color.  As I put in the description and the reader's mind creates the picture I want to give them enough so that they become a part of the story.

Still lost as to the bread and wine analogy?  Well, as I thought of how I would create the descriptions of the house for my scene and how it needed to also represent the character in the story I started to think of it like dieting. I had an image in mind when I started my voyage of self-improvement and to get there I had to cut out the bread and cheese in my life for a while or at least cut back on it.  Then as I continued with chapter eight and the description of the house I knew that I again had to cut back on being too descriptive or too wordy with my details.  I had to give the reader enough to be in the scene and have confidence in the reader enough that they would fill in the colors with their own palette.

Often as we are writing we also need to cut out the fat. We want to give the reader all the details we see in our minds but then they are lost in our imagination and not their own.  As writers we want to ignite their imagination but we also need to have confidence in the reader that we give them just enough to make them crave the story but not feel as if their are overly fed the details. We want them to be able to smell and see an image of flowers and not get allergies from the fields of flowers or feel consumed by them. We want the reader to smell the bread baking in the oven and the warmth it brings to a home.  As we are writing we want the reader to start to think to themselves, "You know, I am all of a sudden hungry for warm bread with brie and a glass of wine."  We do not want to give the reader so much that we not only made them hungry but also feel as if we then ate their meal in front of them without giving them a bite.

I knew that as a writer I needed to be less wordy in the descriptions and cut fat out of my writing.  So as I sit here popping open that wine and slicing into a nice soft brie to put into a warmed baguette I will toast the reader and say, "Are you hungry yet? Would you care to join me?"

Location, Location, Location!

Many mornings that I go into work I end up walking to the office from the train station.  It is an amazing walk, especially for anyone with any type of appreciation of history.  I get to pass the United States Capitol on my right and imagine all the deals and votes that happen in a day.  I get to picture me looking up into the rotunda and all the artwork that is on top.  Then, on my left, I pass the Washington Monument.  The tallest structure in DC besides the Capitol building.  It is majestic and makes me think of Egypt even.  I think about the people that got to see it two hundred years ago and I am placing my feet in their path and who will be walking in my own path in two hundred years.  After I pass the Capitol and the Washington Monument my next attraction is the sculpture garden.  I love the sculpture gardens.  The weird shaped statues among the beautiful trees and flowers is rather peaceful even in passing.  Then I cross over Pennsylvania Avenue and trendy restaurants as I grab The Examiner newspaper and finally arrive at my destination and my work building, which, by the way, is right next door to the Spy Museum.

I obviously work in Washington, DC.  I just described a twenty minute walk that left no doubt in your minds that it was Washington, DC.  It is amazing how important a location can be to a story. In fact, I am of the opinion that a location often becomes almost another character in a story.  It can be moody as it was for my city this weekend with rain, clouds and cold air blowing and chilling the air so that everyone made a rush for Starbucks and got a pumpkin latte.  Wait!  That was just me.  It is fall and pumpkin latte time but how would you know that if I did not describe the air and the cold and then described the city I was living to make it appear real.  It can also be relaxed or happy with sunny, warm days and cool, crisp fall mornings that shine on the leaves as they turn red.  A city is another character in a story and just as important to have described as your main character and their flaws.

I remember a few years ago reading the phenomenal book by Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha.  It was an amazing book that I recommend for everyone.  Yet, would the story really have felt the same if it was set in San Francisco or Moscow?  Probably not, because the cities of Japan shaped the story.  I have read many books like that.  Another one that comes to mind is The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.  I heard of Afghanistan in the news of course but did not know its history or landscape really.  I just pictured a country like a dessert with caves and mountains in the distance.  This book showed the reader what Afghanistan was really.  The amazing part I felt was when the main character was living in the United States and the contrast of his new life versus his old life in Afghanistan.  Again, it was all about location. 

I am on chapter eight and have established that the setting of those beginning chapters are in the Washington, DC area but I have also alluded to a change in setting.  The story I am writing will have two main settings and two main time periods even.  One, the present time is set in the Washington, DC area which I can say I have gotten to know but am always willing to learn more about.  The second and upcoming parts of my book will be set not only in a different city but a different time period. I am not as familiar with that part of the story.  That will mean if I want it to sound even remotely familiar I will have to do research to make sure that happens.  I have already spoken to a few people but I am looking forward to getting to that point and going to the library or the bookstore with my little notebook and learning about a city as I get to also shape it for my story.  Just as my characters are discovering their new surroundings I too will be learning about it so the second location will be like meeting a new friend for both of us. 

As I picture the books and the stories it is like watching a movie set in beautiful scenes and colors or stark, cold landscapes and mountains.  I suddenly see the scene marker end scene and the landscape melts away to reality and I turn and my reality is Washington, DC right now and chapter eight.  The new location is still just a dream but will be like an upcoming vacation and a place to visit very soon.

Spinning

Spinning spinning

Round and round

Merry merry goes around

Kids laughing

Spinning circles

Around and around

Is life standing still

Or is life spinning

Around and around

I stop spinning

Fall to the ground

Moving sky

Moving ground

Moving fast

As I lay still, silent

Life is moving

Without me

Fast in circles

Spinning free

I have to run

To keep up with the chase

Dizzy dancing

It is a race

Spinning circles

Round and around

I am spinning

I am dizzy

I am falling from the race

Life is still

Life is bright

Day into night

As I lay watching it pass

Fast and spinning

Leaving me

Leaving light

Darkness in the sky

Stars falling fast

Twinkling bright

Why is it passing

Why is it moving

Fast away

Leaving me

Alone and silent

Still in the circle

Spinning around and around

Zen and the Art of Doodling

I sit here this evening listening to the quiet room.  The son is in the doctor's office and the other parents are reading or watching the kid's movie on the TV.  I love the hour I get while Joe is in his appointment to write.  I was so excited over the quiet hour I was going to have that night to work on Chapter Eight and get started on it so that it flows fast.  Yet, here I sit with my blank page to fill up and no idea how I actually want to proceed with Chapter Eight.  I have plotted out the core of my book in my head to the point that I dream of my characters and their story and yet as I start this new chapter the action seems to have stalled a bit.

After a while of thinking, of writing in my journal instead, of just daydreaming, I look down at my still blank page and noticed that I had started doodling on my page.  Many times when I am on the phone having a long conversation I will doodle little stories and pictures.  If the business meeting I am in is running long and you look at my notebook you probably would find that along with the notes I have taken are little pictures and words lining the side.  I tend to doodle when I am lost in thought. 

That is exactly what was happening to me this evening.  Yet, as I looked at the pictures on the page I felt more relaxed for sure.  When I doodle my mind tends to wander.  It is my way of reaching a zen state apparently because I felt more relaxed as I looked down at my blank page again and then suddenly the thoughts started to flow and I was able to start Chapter Eight.  Along the lines of feeling zen I remembered a quote from Lao Tzu, "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be."  This is a great way of explaining what I realized, and quite poetic.

I had to relax and stop thinking of my characters because they were almost too ingrained into my thoughts and planning their actions then became like a hill that grew overnight and became to large to climb as easily.  So I found my own way of relaxing, I started doodling.  It freed me from the lives of my characters long enough to relax and breath and then see them clearer.  They had become too close for me to see clearly and after stepping back and relaxing the story then was able to appear before me again.  In fact, my relaxed doodling has made it so that I am able to more clearly define what I want to happen with my story.

So as I sit in the waiting room of the doctor's office I finally was able to discover the next part of the story.  I discovered more plot and character definition and description that I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and a little eleven year old say, "Mom are you ready to go yet?  I have been standing here forever."  That is the art of the doodle.  I rediscovered my zen and cleared my head and breathed and the result was the continuation of the story.  Chapter Eight is shaping under my fingers nicely so far.  Plus, we are so close to the main action and "The Event" that will define much of the story.  I tease you with that fact though.  That will be discussed more later.  For now, I say enjoy your day and don't forget to practice your doodling.

ME

Today is Friday and creative corner day.  On Fridays I get to post something I wrote and on this Friday it is a poem that I wrote a while ago.  Enjoy.

ME

When it feels as if no one cares

When the tears pour out like the rain

When the world spins as I stand still

When no one sees me, hears me, feels me

When it feels as if no one is there…

You are behind me and in front of me

You know how my heart beats

Each sound, each rhythm

You know how my breath feels

Each sigh, each intake and release

You know the sound of my voice

Every cadence, every whisper

You know how I feel

Each touch, each caress

When no one hears me when I scream

When no one stops me when I run

When no one sees me through the crowd

When no one kisses me with any passion

When no one grabs me before I fall

You are beside me and around me

You feel each of my dreams

Every wish, every desire

You sing each of my songs

Every note, every chorus

You read every word I write

Every story, every letter

You know each of my faces

Each expression, every shadow

When no one loves me                                   

When no one claps for me

When no one pushes me to go

When no one faces me

When no one stands behind me

You are above me and below me

You walk each step with me

Every dance, every trot

You fight each fight with me

Every battle, every war

You dream every dream with me

Every flight, every roar

You paint every picture for me

Every color, every stroke

When the clouds start forming

When the battle troops start advancing

When the rioting crowd screams for change

When the thunder overhead is deafening

When the murder of one affects many

You are inside me and all around me                        

As I drug myself it is your mind

Lost and hazy

As I starve myself it is your body

Wasting and hungry

As I cut myself it is your spirit

Bleeding and hurt

As I turn it is your face

Wondering and pleading, crying and screaming, laughing and singing

Me……

Writing Beyond The Deadline and Breathing

As I sit here typing to the blog universe it is finally quiet in my life.  The son is in his bed pretending to sleep.  The TV is off.  The neighbors are not even noisy.  I finally feel that breath I have been holding all day escape.  That is Monday for everyone though.  After a nice restful weekend it is back to the races on Monday and the constant pace until night when we sit back, relax and finally...breath.

Tonight I started thinking of deadlines.  I got a bit lax in my writing this week.  I say lax of course when I really mean that life and work got in the way a bit more than normal.  I had been on such a nice roll with the story and the characters that when I hit a week where everything was hectic and I was unable to write I started to feel behind.  That happens to me at work also.  I get caught up in a project or a task that is taking so much longer than it should that my regular work gets set aside and starts to build up. 

The question is how do you handle it when you are writing, or even in your daily job, when things get behind?  For me, I make lists and I make deadlines.  My boss often teases me at work because whenever I walk into a meeting I have to have a pen and my "crummy" notebook as he calls it.  It is like my safety net though.  I always say if it doesn't get written down my head trashes it into the forget pile.  Granted lists can be daunting when by Friday they seem to have produced like rabbits instead of shrunk down to manageable size but they still make me feel more relaxed and organized in my chaos.

This past week though I had to give myself a talking to.  (It really is not as embarrassing as it sounds.  I don't do it out loud just in my head...well, usually.)  I decided to set myself a goal and a deadline.  I mean I am a writer so deadlines should be so common.  I am like an actress in an old black and white movie playing a news reporter and I am on deadline.  What is my deadline?  It is to finish the next chapter by the end of the weekend.  At least that was the deadline I gave myself this past week.  I did pretty well too.  I finished it today.  I will edited it tomorrow and then file it away.  I was pretty close at least.  A lot closer than earlier today when I realized at 6:20 that we missed my son's 6:00 doctor appointment.  That is of course because I did not write it down.  That way I can just blame the list and not the fact that I got talking to the neighbor lady too long this evening.

Like I did when I missed my son's doctor's appointment, I had to learn also with deadlines for writing a novel that if you don't make them exactly, it will be just fine.  There is always another day and unless you type out The End and have mailed it off, there will be more chapters to plot out.  Plus, being a little late sometimes gives you extra time in thought towards your story which I also discovered today that I needed.  Big day for thinking for me I guess.  I did not quite make the deadline I had hoped but I have a better chapter with no holes in the story and I am also now ready to begin the next chapter.  Onward and upward, chapter eight here I come.  So just as the doctor will still be there next Monday, I will have another chapter in my book to write or another book in my head to discover, or another day to improve my story. 

The dreaded deadline that sounded so tough and steel-like became a good way to focus me and drive me back into my story after distraction.  It also wasn't so tough after all as I learned to also have a bit of leniency with the deadline just as I have to with my story and plot.  I learned to finally let go of that breath I held and just write beyond the deadline.

Ode To Senor Grillo

It is Friday and time to relax and start thinking about the fun that can be had on the weekend.  Weekends are good for sleeping in and visiting friends and just vegging in front of the television.  Instead of my normal post today I am instead offering up just a short story for everyone to read and enjoy.

Ode to Senor Grillo

Senor happened upon my place by chance.  He was a bit squat in stature with a round dark body with one brown spot right in the center.  He also had six long, thin, graceful legs and a chirp that would make angels cry.  They would cry mostly from frustration of course since Senor was a night owl and loved to party and talk all night long.  The moment the sun hit he could be found fast asleep in a dark corner near his wife and his two remaining kids.  You guessed right.  Senor is a cricket.

He came to his wife one day and told her that he was moving them out of the Pepsi can they were living in.  He had made it to the big times.  It wasn’t as awesome as the giant sombrero his brother had moved his family into.  That was too much still for Senor.  Yet, now his family will no longer be subjected to rolling down the hill when someone kicked their home out of the way.  No longer will they be hunted by the furry creatures of the night.  No longer will they need to worry about rainy days and hot nights.  Senor jumped over to his wife one day and told her to pack up her pretty long legs; they were moving into a two bedroom apartment.  He found them a home in the lap of luxury.

Senor made sure to introduce himself to the owners of the apartment from a safe distance, the ceiling.  He laughed a bit as the young boy thought of how he was going to get him off the ceiling to crush him.  No way, Senor was a smart cricket and knew he was safe from the 11 year old's devious little bug killing mind and the older woman’s fear of his crunchy remains covering her walls.  So Senor camped out all day watching them and letting them see he was not afraid.  It was a showdown of the old west style and Senor came out the victor.  The woman and her son conceded that he could live there and they would not bother him and he would not bother them.

A few weeks passed and Senor was out looking for food for his kids.  He loved his new home and lost his fear and became a bit cocky.  All of a sudden Senor was a cowboy and at least a foot tall and shoe proof.  Senor went into the bathroom on this day and saw a beautiful blue color.  He was mesmerized.  He jumped around the object and then went to look underneath and settle into the dark, blue hazy color of the object’s shadow.  Senor always dreamed of living in a giant sombrero and a nice blue one was his preference.  So on this day, Senor snuck in a bit of a snooze far away from his screeching kids who still hadn’t quite learned how to sing properly with their legs yet.  As Senor rested he dreamt of dark green fields and crumbs of food falling from the sky as he headed home to his family living in a large three inch wide brim sombrero.  Through the dream Senor felt the light shift and that was the last thought for Senor.  SQUISH!

Today we say goodbye to Senor Grillo who just wanted a sombrero too big for him that he could live in.  His wife and kids moved away and three weeks later Senora Grillo married again and her new cricket husband moved her and her kids into a nice two story Cheerios cereal box at the end of a nice trash bin outside of a grocery store.  At night Senor’s two kids look up at the giant white circle in the sky and move their legs in turn to the wind and vibrations of the leaves and sing to their father Senor who has gone to the big Sombrero in the sky.

Goodbye Senor.  You will be missed.