the other mother - free writing workshop for moms

Hello, Sunshine!

Sometimes it feels as though you have nothing new to say or do. Maybe this doesn't actually happen to you--maybe it happens to me. But there's new and invented and old and fascinating to be dredged and sifted if you are willing to rethink the basics: purpose, energy, time. You know, the small stuff.

In terms of writing, I like to think of spring as less about renewal and more about retrospect (ask me tomorrow but not today). That is, you used to be able to invent anything. Remember that? Remember making castles for ants? Remember your own brilliant Broadway show? Sometimes the best way to be creative is to be seven years old again, when you were entirely capable.

Do this: make some lists. Not cleaning lists, not to-do lists. Instead, make a list of things you love to do. Then a list of things you don't know how to do. Then a list of things you plan to do, in this perfect world. Try a list of moments you wish you'd had a snappy comeback--write the snappy comeback. Bodies you'd like to inhabit, and I don't mean celebrities (no offense to celebrities, but celebrities are boring and almost never get to eat anything good), I mean the dwarf Japanese maple on your neighbor's lawn, I mean the ant for whom you built that castle. I mean a new person, no mistakes yet in the world.

Then put your lists away, and just do this: write a story, write a chapter, write a poem, or write an essay. One of these, a whole one. You know what? You can write a whole draft at one sitting if you don't think too hard. I dare you.

Epistle

It's a funny word, EPISTLE, but all it means (though I think: thistle, artichoke, epi-pen) is letter.

There's some thaw today, a single snowdrop gracing the garden among the gray grass and mealey mulch. I visited my daughter's school as part of an arts program--bring in a quality print (this is an amazing program--they have a vast circulating collection) and discuss a bit of art history, asking questions about the painting. Lucky me; it just happens to  be the season for the Poetry Project, where you direct the class to write a collective poem about the painting. So much to think about! We directed our poem within the frame of an epistle: who do you want to ask about this painting? What questions do you have? What kind of action words might you use in your answers?

The resulting poem has a bit of a narrative. Never mind that the kids are six and seven years old; they're full of language and ideas, and within a half hour we had this:

Epistle: Renoir’s Dance at Bougival

Dear Mom and Dad,

What kind of dance are they

dancing?

Ball dance, kissing dance, cha-cha, the waltz, step dance,

square dance, Macarena, rolling rumba, chicken.

What kind of drink are they

drinking?

Apple juice, wine, orange juice, grape,

Cranberry, root beer, fruit punch, lemonade.

What kind of dress is she

dressed in?

White dress, dance dress, ballroom,

yellow sash, wedding dress, when?

What kind of thoughts are they

thinking?

Love thoughts, valentine, snacktime, hungry,

happiness, honeymoon, puppy love, kids.

Love,

Mrs. Starace’s First Grade

 

So here's your assignment: find a work of art. Maybe it's a pillow on your living room couch (mass produced or hand woven, it's up to you to choose), maybe your new faucet has a post-modern design, or maybe you have a copy of Jansen's History of Art growing heavier with information on your bookshelf. Choose a work of art and write a letter about it--to your parents, your art teacher, to the woman in the frame. It's up to you. Have at it. (30 minutes. Use your listening ears and don't forget to raise your hand...)

Write what you don't know

Last week I encouraged my fiction writers to read and write some list poems--in particular, about the JCC. because a description of the bulletin board there (everything is superlative! order your cinnamon babka! Talk to Schmuel at the cafe! I'm paraphrasing, sorry, Cindy) sounded just like a list poem, and because we were discussing how to make details tell as much story as the more straightforward activity of plot.

We're always told to write what we know, but sometimes it's what we don't know that holds the fat fruit of fascination around the seed. The web is a wonder for finding out what you don't already know--and sometimes digging deeper is as easy as reading a book, taking a continuing education class in auto mechanics or hair design, taking a walk around the neighborhood with a guide to trees.

Maybe as we head into the darkness of winter, the light we need is learning something new. Maybe that's what we should write about.

Here's your topic:

Make a list of what you don't know. Take fifteen minutes to do this.

Then take your list and pick one thing to learn, or to invent. Say you wrote, "I don't know about my grandparents' sex lives." You may not want to research that--you may want to use fiction to make it all up--changing names to protect the innocent, or at least to keep those holiday cards a comin'.

Lovely, lovely leaves

We just went for a walk in the lovely, lovely leaves. My daughter, who for some reason is sweetest of all, got stung not once, but twice by wasps. Are some of us really sweeter than others?

All this drama reminded me that I hadn’t posted for a while...

So here’s a writing topic that worked wonderfully in class:

Write about needles. Pine, pins and, dentists (ugh), sewing, knitting, being needled—whatever comes first to mind.

Write for 11 minutes.

Don’t be afraid to go there, even if it hurts (clearly this writing exercise can vaccinate you against fall gloom).

Post your writing in the comments section below (for any newbies who don’t already know). In class, the writings had a remarkable connection to each other—it charged the class with ideas and interest, and no one got hurt.

In other news, if you’re in northern NJ and would like to come meet me in person, come to the Ramsey Public Library in Ramsey, New Jersey on Sunday, November 16th at 2pm. Here are driving directions to the library.

The event is free, and I’m hoping for some of the amazing questions I’ve had at book groups lately.

Come! Tell me you read the blog!

And, as always, I’d be happy to sign bookplates if any of you would like to get your holiday shopping wrapped up early with signed copies of The Other Mother. Just send me an email with your name, address, and what you’d like me to write. I’ve been sending them out by the dozen, and it feels great to know more people will be reading about Thea and Amanda and hopefully feeling just a little more compassionate toward other mothers everywhere.

pro-cras-tin-a-tion

The thing is, I'm not usually a procrastinator. Sure, I look at that stack of laundry-to-be-folded and walk the other way; sure, my inbox looks like the beginnings of a very big, luscious bonfire, and sure, my kids aren't the only ones who have a hard time getting going in the morning, but when it comes to writing, I'm usually right ready when I have the writing time.

I always recommend scheduling the time--I write it in my Franklin Day Planner, to which I've become addicted since my working-in-an-office days. I am willing to sit in the quiet, thinking, giving myself permission to write notes before getting to the scene at hand, but today is different. All week I've used my sudden embarrassment of time to write. The kids are back at school; I have notes and plans and small scraps of paper with phrases that will start the important truths of this newest novel, and I've been using them. Until today.

Today, I want to go for a walk. Today, I miss our dog, who died last year. Today, my knitting looks ridiculously compelling, as if I could pick it up and finish my mother's birthday present, the huge sweater I'm making in bulky gold wool, the holiday gifts I feel compelled to begin ahead of time. I envy my friends who procrastinate by cleaning out closets, and THINK about cleaning out closets, but I'm just not getting to the writing.

I believe I know where I'm stuck: I suddenly have time, and intention, and prompt. I have clues about what I want to write, and there's a part of me that just doesn't want to write it. There's some bits of plot at the core I've been trying to write for years. They're painful, even if the story is ultimately a hopeful one. I have to get through the painful bits. I have to write them. So instead, I'm writing a blog post. But hopefully, it'll help anyone else who is procrastinating today.

Here's one self-imposed assignment I dig out whenever I hit this rare mood. Maybe it'll help you if you're stuck at the beginning, like I am. Maybe it'll help you if you're stuck in the middle, stuck near the end. Maybe it'll help if you haven't even started.

So here's your topic ...
Make a list: Things I Never Want to Write About

Give it a good 15 minutes, but probably the first few are the most important. They probably have to do with loss, and with love, and with fear, the biggies.

Then make another list: Things I Need to Write About

Take only 10 on this one. Then take a look at your lists. Is there any overlap? I will use mine to give myself writing prompts for this new novel for next week and beyond.

Even if the things I never want to write about are wretched, there's probably something good in there, and maybe I'll be able to exhaust them and move on to those I need. Or those I want. For now, another cup of coffee, and the lists themselves. Any writing counts.

AND THE WINNER IS....

Oh, welcome back to the blog. Maybe you've been in Norway, or to a wedding in Maine, or maybe you've been sitting in the backyard eating black raspberries (in which case, where do you live? I covet black raspberries). I've been to a wedding, I've met the mayor of DC, I've watched the clouds roll in and out of the sky like show curtains. And today, at last, both kids are at school (at least for a half day) and I'm back to the desk, missing them a little, relishing the quiet.

Your entries were delicious, elegant, sad, and I thank you for them all.

Everyone who entered the contest, please send me an email at ggross@gwendolengross.com with your snail mail address and I'll send out a teeny token of my appreciation.

The winners are two, actually, because I couldn't decide between, "June, the month of ME!" (an exuberant, brave, and wonderful sentence that matches the rest of the piece) and "June is a horse race. It's the Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont all rolled into one. A thundering, earth shaking, blinders up, mad dash to the last day of school and the sweet victory of lazing in the open pastures and grazing on the blue grass of summer vacation." Wow. Just wow.

So, Lisa R. and Adrienne Campbell, please email your addresses, you are both the first ever:

MOMS WHO WRITE  Summer Contest Winners

Meanwhile, let's have at it, everyone -- and hey, if you're in my workshop and reading this and meeting up on your own for writing practice (hooray! hooray!) -- feel free to use this topic and post what you wrote:

Write about a wedding. You are in it. You are neither bride nor groom. Something at the wedding bothers you--a leaf hopper on the bride's bouquet, a cracked nail on the great-aunt's toe.

I'm asking you to stretch here, because if you can't find it in your memory, you're going to have to reach for fiction. Write about that thing that bothers you at the wedding for a good 12 minutes. Then bother us with the details.

Can't wait to hear all about it.

You've come a long way, baby

So summer is winding down. Never mind that we haven't yet been to "our beach house" (a one-week rental, and believe me, I'm excited -- this year it's more than 400 square feet!), but back-to-school is a full-on event out there. A friend at the pool told me she spotted Thanksgiving items in the Rite-Aid. C'mon, folks, let's not skip the all-important DNA Day! Tolkien Reading Day! National Boss Day!

I ordered my daughter's school lunch for September online the other day. She has more lunch options than we ever did. Mostly, I ate pb&j, or a cheese sandwich, or the ever-weird (but delicious) pomegranate (now I know I was ahead of my time).

Once in a while we were allowed to order school lunch from the lunch ladies. It came in silver foil and smelled, inevitably, of cardboard, cabbage, and feet. Mmm. She gets to choose between yogurt bag, turkey sandwich, cheese sandwiches, and of course, hot things, every day. What I really longed for was the chocolate milk.

There's still time yet to enter the summer writing contest. If you do it by Labor Day, I promise not to put a turkey on the door until then.

Meanwhile, here's a topic for the waning days of summer:

Write about school lunch. Packing it, eating it, smelling it, wanting it, lacking it, buying it, hating it, loving it. Write for 8 minutes because it's the 8th month of the year.

Then come back in September, because it's time to get writing some more!

Sweeter than Tupelo Honey

sweet honey
image by mateusz atroszko

Some days we all need a little sweetness, a little honey, a little magic. Never mind the initial groans grownups make, this little book is lovely, full of imaginative language and dazzling drawings, and most of all, magic. My daughter is at the age of magic (not that it really ends, ever), and she gasped when she saw this.

"Oh, Mommy, it's the most beautiful book in the world!"

fairy foals

I haven't grown tired of reading it over and over (never mind that we have about a thousand other books in the rotation), and she says the fairy foals are in her dreams. It makes me think about believing, about when I was walking home from kindergarten, so, so hungry for a snack, and I believed myself when I decided I could eat imaginary chocolate pudding from my pocket. It wasn't imaginary, it was delicious. The grasshoppers spoke to me, the tree leaves had a language, I could fly. You remember it, too.

So here's your topic:

Write about magic, when you believed.

It doesn't have to be corny; it shouldn't be cynical, it should be summer cicadas and the hissing of deep green lawns. Write for seven summer minutes.

And don't forget the contest. I've set a deadline: the end of summer. Labor Day. Sure, that's loads of time, but if you hone and post your paragraphs now you can feel as though you've accomplished one summer goal already.

Happy sprinkler weather!

Contest! Brought to you by the letter P

bird of paradise (Strelitzia)

School's almost out, the cocoons have hatched into moths and butterflies, the air conditioners hum and the grass sings with insects that will live very short, lovely lives.

Time for a little contest.

It's little because you only have to write two paragraphs. I'll give you a topic, and you can write for as long as you want (or 23 minutes, if you need a limit), but then take your work off into the outside world and hone two paragraphs for me, make them your best.

The winner gets:

• a) the honor of being the first ever Moms Who Write Summer Contest winner
• b) a fabulous car magnet featuring The Other Mother book jacket, so you'll always know which minivan is yours in the parking lot and
• c) an adorable little box of chocolates.

It isn't huge, but it's good. 4 runners-up get car magnets and can call themselves runners-up in any desired social event.

Take your new status to the Hamptons! Or the Shore! Or the Cape! Or the backyard sprinkler! Fire hydrant! If there's enough interest, I'll send out five fridge magnets as well, but mostly I'm hoping to get your best paragraphs. Don't be shy. Write, hone, post. The closing date is TBA.

Enough details. Now more details:

Yesterday my daughter and I were talking about the plum tree, about how for one week we get an explosion of fragrant flowers, then the next week a plethora of pink petal precipitation, and then, which is now, some perfect purple plums. Sure, they're ornamental, but we've used them as a sort of snack since we had a Persian babysitter who ate them by the bushel, and told us, "If I don't come to work tomorrow, they weren't good to eat." She came back. If you're out there now, Nooshin, we're thinking of you!

So summer means perfect purple plums around here. When I lived in San Diego it meant Santa Anas blustering the night-blooming jasmine and the hot dry wind making your throat ache for the east. June Gloom. In San Francisco the single bird of paradise plant bloomed in the tiny little space between our earthquake shack and the apartment building next door. One square foot of dirt enclosed by walls and a bird of paradise perched there.

This week's writing topic: What is June for you? Write your June, perfect plums or terrible rains. Then post your two paragraphs. Have at it. If you have been lurking, this is the time to post!

teach your children well...

free to be you and me:
marlo thomas and friends

What with mother's day, and library visits and book groups (thank you, wonderful folks, who have hosted me in your homes - I've learned so much!), I've been thinking a lot about how although my parents (look of shock) weren't perfect, somehow they managed to teach me that I could do/be whatever I wanted to do/be.

My neighbor, a few years back, rolled down her minivan window as I walked the dog and baby in stroller (years back!) and said, tearfully:

"You tell them they can do anything they want, but I never expected my little girl would want to go to West Point!"

They adjusted, and so, I hope, will I, to whatever passions my children choose (or whatever passions choose them), as long as they don't hurt anyone else.

But meanwhile, I'm doing my best to teach them -- it's okay for boys to think American Girl Dolls are cool; it's okay for girls to love sports -- cliches, for sure, but true.

Remember Free to be you and me? William wants a doll?

This week's writing topic: Make a list: what I want to teach my children. Choose one and write about it for 22 minutes. Go.