filling the feeders, setting the jam

Not that I'm doing the latter. And I think it's putting up the jam, which is beautiful. Anyone know the correct idioms here?

Okay, so what I'm really doing is packing up a little backpack as if I were going on an expedition (expotition, said Pooh), but in fact (dental floss, notebook, eyedrops, pens, knitting project, etc) I'm getting ready to have ankle surgery.

All this is to say I might not be posting as frequently as I might like for a little bit, though I imagine after about two days I'll be very, very weary of recovery time. Knitting seems appealing, but so does not showing up for the bone graft and ligament reattachment bit.

Hey, that's not entirely unlike knitting. So I'm going to give you three writing practice tips, spontaneous in nature and not necessarily directly related to writing practice, but yes, to the practice of writing.

Then I'll give you three topics, just in case it takes me three weeks to come back. Post, though, tell your friends; I'll come back and drink up your words.

Three writing practice tips:

1. Fall in love with revision.
   It's your chance to reinvent the universe. And if you want to publish, you'll be asked to revise; it's best to enjoy it as much as you can.
2. Don't worry about what other people will think.
   In fact, don't worry at all. If you don't suck the marrow out of your material, it'll be dry bones. Worry, editing, vetting is for later (see number 1).
3. Write as much and as often as you can.
   Don't save yourself, your ideas, for writing. I'm a firm believer in writing practice (as codified by such greats as Natalie Goldberg). I also have written at least 400 extra pages for at least of my novels. They live in purgatory files on my computer, and I'm not sorry I wrote them, or that I had to cut them. They helped me find what I really wanted to say.

And, here are the three writing practice topics:

1. Write about family photos.
   You can even use one if you like, or find someone's online, someone you don't know. Write for 8 minutes.
2. Write about being out of breath.
   Start by going into the sensory--the squeeze of empty lungs, the rasp of cold air in the throat, the slowing of blood beats in the ears, etc...Then, give us a why (in labor, running away from a bear, trying to get back into shape, fell off the tire swing, etc). Write for 12 minutes.
3. Open your purse or desk drawer.
   Take out three items, and start writing about one or more. Where did they come from? Why do you have them? What if you lost them? Bottlecaps, the travel clock your aunt gave you, an unopened letter from your last boyfriend...Write for 11 minutes.

Be well, everyone!

Comments

[Jessica (aka Rose)]

Good luck with the surgery Gwen! Thanks for the critique of my poem. It means a lot to me that you take the time to do more than just read.
Don't worry, we'll be here when you get back. Heal fast!

[Milaka]

Hope you enjoy your rest time and come back soon! I haven't posted lately because of holiday busy-ness AND because I was finishing your novel! I very much enjoyed The Other Mother and have just given it to a dear friend to read. Just so happens that she's a working mom and I'm a stay-at-home! Blessedly we don't have the Amanda/Thea tension going on, though.

Anyway, I loved the book and I'm thoroughly thrilled to have found your website. I look forward to having some time . . . no. I look forward to MAKING some time to do the latest writing assignments. And maybe even to catch up on the last two!

Be well!

[Gwendolen Gross]

THANK YOU BOTH, and all the well-wishers who emailed me, called me, brought dinner for the whole family (love you folks).
xo
GG

[dct]

“He’s your only son, isn’t he?” a mother I didn’t know asked at my son’s fifth birthday party. I’d let him invite his closest friends from pre-school and that included a lot of new parents for me. I knew the children from Alex’s stories in the evening and pick up every day when I spent at least ten minutes playing whatever he and his friends were playing to ease him out of school to departure and home.

“Yes, he is,” I responded to the smirking mother.

“I thought so,” she said, walking away from my bookcase that was full not of books but rather portraits of my son at various ages involved in myriad activities – climbing, hiking, swimming, running, playing baseball – watching the ball he’d just hit sail over the house -, tree-climbing, dining, yawning the untainted, sweet yawn of the newborn.

I stood by the shelves as the children and parents milled about, finding a spot on the floor, the couch, the window seat, the chairs in order to better see the party entertainment: a magician. I looked at the pictures the sarcastic mom had belittled with her tone, and tears came to my eyes as I looked at all the years I would never have again. The hay ride when he was three where he got to pick a pumpkin which he decorated as well as to ride a pony for the first time and pet a variety of farm animals, his face full of awe. The pool in Puerto Rico from which he alighted every ten minutes or so to run on his little legs to the bathroom quite a distance from the pool. What three year old doesn’t pee in the pool, I thought? My sweet Alex apparently, who drank the water and peed it out six times an hour.

“Who wants to be my helper for the first trick?” the magician asked.

“Me!” screamed a dozen four and five year olds. Alex sat shyly in the front not sure if he should scream, too.

“Well, I think maybe the birthday boy should come up and pick our first assistant.”

Click. My husband took a picture of the beaming Alex as he proudly got up and stood next to the magician. He glanced at the sea of expectant faces and said in a soft voice, “Maybe my mommy could help with the first one.” Click. My husband took a picture of me.