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.

There's still time

Time yet for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea (sorry, TS Eliot, if I didn't get it quite right).

Such a glorious time of year; the dogwoods in brown-red blush, the ginkos yelling yellow, the lawns still holding their green. It's a wonderful time to write, and I hope you will.

I owe a couple of comments, but first, a new writing topic:

Answer this question in list or narrative format (or both) (list could become a poem) (a list poem, even), fictional or not, first or third or even second-person:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

If you need a kick-start, make it a dialogue...

Write for 12 minutes.

Looking forward to reading you!

In Defense

Hello everyone, and happy fall leaves, Santa Anas (if you're in San Diego), fog (San Francisco), and I dunno, you'll have to tell me what else you have. Leaf rot? Bulbs to plant (this weekend's plan). Small animals nesting in the gutters?

Welcome to members of the Just Write class who are new here (or returning). Take another look at the writing practice guidelines and get to it! Can't wait to read you!

So here's this week's writing topic.

In the spirit of this blog's genesis, write either an interior monologue (running thoughts) or an actual dialogue with a Working Mom or a Stay at Home Mom defending her choice (of working or staying at home -- to another mom, to her children, to her own mother).

If you're feeling brave, choose the mom who is not you as your narrator.

Write for 14 minutes.

For example,

"Just because you did it your way doesn't mean my way's crap," I said to my mother. She nodded her head, a slow, gray nod on a tall, red-lipsticked woman. My mother has moved like an old person since she was twenty.

"But, honey," she started.

"No, no honey," I said. "You call me honey to infantilize me..."

That's just a start... As always, we're going to assume everything's fiction, so feel safe to get as vitriolic as you'd like!

You go, mamas (and nonmamas alike).

Falling

for all of you and your lovely posts. I promise I'll comment on them later this week, but I have to go to the doctor, and to pick up the dog's ashes (very sad; she was old, but we really, really miss her), so I wanted to post a new topic for all you Write Women.

Fall, adding sweaters, sorting closets, picking apples and peaches, the hay maze.

Here's the writing topic for this week:

First, re-read the rules. Think about one of them for a moment (don't think, use your senses, whichever hits you today).

Then, write about giving something away. (old clothes, a car, a kiss, love, money, a baby...) Write for 9 minutes.

I can't wait to read you!