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Writing a Story
I remember when I was a little girl going on a car ride with my family. Not sure where we were going, probably to Grandma's house to get our fill of pasta for our bellies and gossip for our ears.
As we drove past house upon house, many of them built for the steelworkers in the 1940s, I had a revelation. I would never know the people in that house, the green one. Or the broken down yellow one. Or the white two-story with the picket fence. See, even as a youngster, I understood the magnitude of the world: it was big, and I was small.
So, I made up stories. The white two-story? Of course, a little girl like me lived there. Probably had brown hair and green eyes. Her name was Butterfly, and she liked oreo cookies. She'd only eat the inside of the bread; the birds got the crust, with her mom's blessing. Butterfly had a pet hamster named Charles, who sometimes snuggled with her in bed, keeping her up for all hours because she was afraid she'd smoosh him if she accidentally drifted off and rolled over on him.
And then I grew up.
The stories got buried under the responsibility of adulthood.
More than a few years went by, enough so wrinkles formed around my eyes, my steps not as fast as they used to be.
An online class caught my eye, promising I would write a novel in a weekend for less than $200. I believed it! An author in four easy steps! I set up a little desk in front of a window overlooking a farm field and hunkered down.
I wrote about a girl named Bea. A quirky, loving, smart, wise twelve-year-old. I titled the book "Bea's Summer."
The class was wonderful, except the teacher didn't like one of my characters, a sweet old guy named Richie. Only one kid in his life had a speech disorder, called him "Uncle Itchy."
I was told it made him sound creepy. And just to show you how much I valued that bit of advice, Uncle Itchy will show up some day in Delaney Becker's world.
I never finished the book, but incorporated Bea into Becker's life.
Last week, I was in a bank, standing in line. A woman ahead of me seemed harried, her clothes in disarray, a big tote hanging from her arm, smelling like french fry grease. Maybe her name is Cora, and she's the mom of three kids, and every Wednesday they eat hotdogs and...
Writing a Story
I remember when I was a little girl going on a car ride with my family. Not sure where we were going, probably to Grandma's house to get our fill of pasta for our bellies and gossip for our ears.
As we drove past house upon house, many of them built for the steelworkers in the 1940s, I had a revelation. I would never know the people in that house, the green one. Or the broken down yellow one. Or the white two-story with the picket fence. See, even as a youngster, I understood the magnitude of the world: it was big, and I was small.
So, I made up stories. The white two-story? Of course, a little girl like me lived there. Probably had brown hair and green eyes. Her name was Butterfly, and she liked oreo cookies. She'd only eat the inside of the bread; the birds got the crust, with her mom's blessing. Butterfly had a pet hamster named Charles, who sometimes snuggled with her in bed, keeping her up for all hours because she was afraid she'd smoosh him if she accidentally drifted off and rolled over on him.
And then I grew up.
The stories got buried under the responsibility of adulthood.
More than a few years went by, enough so wrinkles formed around my eyes, my steps not as fast as they used to be.
An online class caught my eye, promising I would write a novel in a weekend for less than $200. I believed it! An author in four easy steps! I set up a little desk in front of a window overlooking a farm field and hunkered down.
I wrote about a girl named Bea. A quirky, loving, smart, wise twelve-year-old. I titled the book "Bea's Summer."
The class was wonderful, except the teacher didn't like one of my characters, a sweet old guy named Richie. Only one kid in his life had a speech disorder, called him "Uncle Itchy."
I was told it made him sound creepy. And just to show you how much I valued that bit of advice, Uncle Itchy will show up some day in Delaney Becker's world.
I never finished the book, but incorporated Bea into Becker's life.
Last week, I was in a bank, standing in line. A woman ahead of me seemed harried, her clothes in disarray, a big tote hanging from her arm, smelling like french fry grease. Maybe her name is Cora, and she's the mom of three kids, and every Wednesday they eat hotdogs and...