the other mother - free writing workshop for moms

Roots and Shoots and Seeds of Imagination

Let me start by saying that my grandmother, Ethel Herman, died this weekend, and I will really miss her. She was 92 and died with her husband (Grampy is still with us!) there, in her own apartment--Grammy and Grampy have been a big part of my life, taking care of us when my parents weren't able (or needed a break), sending cards on every birthday, anniversary, mother's day, valentine's day, etc., coming to visit when my son was born, offering sixteen kinds of food when we came with both kids to visit them, emphasizing, always, that family is the most important thing in this world.

I've been remembering times when they came to visit us in Newton, when the rules shifted from Mom and Dad's rules to grandparent rules, when the whole book of world changed syntax, ever so subtly.

I called my grandparents this weekend especially to talk with my grandmother about her uncles, who were triplets. I don't have any official links yet, but I have been working on a new novel, called The Orphan Spoon, about triplets--two identical, one not. I believe the root of my interest in triplets came from Grammy's stories about her uncles. One, she said, was the world's most wonderful. The other two, well, they were okay. I wondered just how that worked.

In our old neighborhood in Newton, in the big house, where I had my own room shaped like a keyhole and my oldest sister, Claudia, lived with eves and windows that looked out on the tops of trees on the third floor (she had a clawfoot tub in the bathroom; my mother had a darkroom upstairs), there were neighborhood triplets. They were boys. They were French. They were mysterious. They were older than we were.

There was a big rock, a glacial erratic, on an island at the intersection of three streets--The Big Rock, we called it, and it was a Big Adventure to go down there as part of our games of sardines, or to watch the geometric wanderings of ants. But the triplets lived down there, and this is just to say that they were a root and seed in my imagination--older, vaguely dangerous, something to be stored for later work.

Writing prompt: what lives under the soil of your imagination? What early places stay with you, stone and scent and light? Write that place. Then populate that place with conflict and play, with all-important family.

I'll miss you very much, Grammy. May you have all the cream-top milk you want, may you magically know how to swim, may you never worry about weight and always know you are loved.

Make Your Own Summer Camp

I know it's been a long time since I've posted, but you're still visiting, writing, and emailing. Thank you! When I'm between novels, I always return to writing practice--I hope you'll come back and try every topic I've recommended.

Meanwhile, the peonies have dropped their heavy petals and the wax begonias are sunbathing. My son just came home with a fat file full of finished work--and we're labeling, signing forms, planning for a summer of daycamps and new pursuits.

I try to think of summer not just as a time to shuttle from drop off to pickup to the much-politicized local natural pool, but also a time to try new things. Sometimes it's best to sit outside and write, even if my pen gets sap-stuck and I can't bring my laptop for glare. I'm remembering my own summers: Bread and Puppet Circus, working at a dairy farm, a stable, science camp and deep, creative boredom on summer trips to Vermont.

It's your turn to stop and taste the green shoots of the timothy grass. Here's your topic:

Write about your summer when you were ten.

Or another:

Write about the summer you wished you had.

Then give yourself the freedom to change your routine--the kids are at daycamp, so put your feet in the kiddie pool and write about something new. Or try something new: try watercolor painting, read nonfiction if you love novels, read a poem outloud to your child, your spouse, your grandmother over the phone. Make a list of things you don't get to all school year, and give yourself an hour each morning--maybe for a week, maybe all summer if you can. Major in the flexible mind.

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 [email protected] 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.

January, the cold grey sky,

snowy miniature daffodil

the squirrels raiding the birdfeeders, the incensed nut hatch pecking the window with displeasure.

Thank you all for well wishes! I'm more mobile every day. Let's have a quick, quiet moment in praise of excellent physical therapists, now (not that they're all excellent; I've heard horror stories, but I'm feeling very lucky for the careful attention of the past months...).

I feel like I live at the PT office.

Here's a new writing topic for you this week: Write for 11 minutes (don't think, don't worry, and don't stop):about planting flowers, picking flowers, or ruining flowers.

It gives you the option of hope or collection or a good cathartic demolition. Have at it!