Your Writing Story

Why I write? Growing up in rural Northern California I made up stories as a kid and asked my friends and twin brother to act out the characters. This was in the 1950’s before there was much television and I lived in my imagination. In Junior High School my friends passed around notes to each other during school. This was akin to the Facebook and Twitter posts of the today. In High School I enjoyed writing poetry. I studied poetry in College and have continued to write poetry. I am a late bloomer to prose, starting in my late thirties. Writing was what I did between balancing a family, making art, and working outside the home twenty hours a week, care giving for a mother with dementia, and earning an MA in Studio Art. Honestly I was lucky to scribble a few words in a journal!

About fifteen years ago I began a historical novel set in the 9^th century with a working title of
The French

Three Judiths

Princess. I wrote the novel in twenty minute spurts every morning. From that novel I expanded one of the chapters into a novella. I have one other novel that is set in the 1980’s, a romance and a coming of age after a divorce and caring for a grandmother with dementia. I have spent the last year editing and shaping Blooming In Winter, my third poetry book, an indie, published first, by I Street Press which is now available on Amazon. Many of the poems have been previously published and the book has two write-ups on the back cover by Poet Laureate Emeritus Bob Stanley and Julia Connor. My writing focus, as of this moment, is finishing up a related short story collection, “River Bottom Dragon” formerly (“Farmland Stories”). The collection was a semi-finalist in a contest sponsored by Five Quarterly. I am also promoting Blooming in Winter. Recent book launches and readings include: Olivo Nello Wine Cellar, Cosumnes River College, The Brickhouse Gallery and Arts Complex, and The Sacramento Poetry Center.

I am in three writing groups, in which we critique and edit each other’s work (prose or poems) and support each other in other ways. I recommend joining or starting a writers group. Writing is a solitary activity and it is good to know there are others just like you out there. How do I feel about writing? I love to write.

A photograph of my garden

I love being in the middle of a story. I even like the editing part. Of course sometimes I feel I’m just spinning my wheels. It still hurts to get rejection letters, but they make interesting wallpaper.

When I really need a break from writing I create visual art, garden, walk in nature, ride my bike, hang out with a writing friend at a coffee shop or favorite pub or read a book by someone I aspire to emulate such as Luis Alberto Urrea, Maeve Binchy or Alice Munroe . I don’t think writer block exists for me. I may not be writing what I want but I usually can journal, or edit. It isn’t green writing, but these are important parts of the process.

Detail, Vase of Sunflowers

I try to maintain my writing practice which means to sit down every morning and write or do some form of writing activity. As I mentioned I am also a visual artist so, I often perform a balancing act between the two mediums. I try to give any creative endeavor first priority in the day that usually gets crowded. I feel very fortunate to have the time to write and it is freeing to honor this side of myself. I am on a journey, like many of you, and I can hardly wait to see what is just behind the bend in the road and what new fork in the road I will follow. I 'd love to hear your story in a post below! Also, mention any books you have published and let your friends and supporters know you posted here!

Bush Library

Pat's Story In a family of secret keepers, words were to become very, very important to me. As far back as I can remember (and I don’t remember much of my early childhood), I loved books. In that small town plains environment of Brush, Colorado, where I grew up, I can remember the library in great detail: I entered through the north doors, the librarian’s desk was in the center of the room on the right side, and the children’s section was beyond that desk. This memory is etched in my mind in detail. Maybe accurately or maybe not. Who knows?

I just looked the Brush library up on the internet. It looks just the way I remember it, although I’m not sure what direction it faces, and I’m not sure about there being steps on the north side. Oh, well, it was one of my first chances to have access to something that was in short supply in our household: words. Meaningful words that told a stoy---words that were beautiful that were magic carpets allowing me to escape.

I also remember standing outside my first grade classroom, thinking, I’m going to learn to read. I was thrilled to the core, and I never once found Dick and Jane and Spot boring

This love of words and stories, this passion, stood me in good stead for the rest of my life as I continued to read voraciously, to explore being a writer, and to create the fantasy world which sheltered my sanity. I am a writer because I am a writer. I cannot perceive of myself any other way. Rilke asked the young poet if he must write, and I would have answered yes, I must write. I write to find the truth, to explore the truth, to tell stories, to capture beauty as it flies about on butterfly wings.

Pat Nichol has published poetry in several publications, including Brevities, DADs Desk, and Tiger’s Eye. Several of her poems were included in PTSD Nation, a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Exhibit held in Sacramento in 2014 and traveling the United States. Currently she is preparing a book of poems for publication, finishing the query letter and summary for a novel she plans to have published, and beginning a memoir.
Pat passed away in May of 2018.

Ann's Story Here goes...why I write: I was in junior high when my best girl friend's brother, home from college on holiday gave me a book by Kierkegaart and said, "here, read this and tell me what you think at Christmas break".

I was smitten, and set out copying all of the unfamiliar words in a note book as I read. I don't recall understanding one bit of what I read but I learned many new words. On my own I'd try using these new words in sentences and pretty soon I was writing poetry which of course I never shared with anyone until much later. One line from an early poem comes to mind, "and you and I are walking in the forest munching a carrot."
By Ann Privateer

A CARROT Feb. 28, 2012

—Ann Privateer, Davis

a carrot found

in the street

Oh Dear.

fully grown

green lacy leaves

feather above

but alas

it's yellow

not orange

discarded, I think

I'll take it

scrub it

then eat

this unusual strain

to see

what magic

will be imparted

on me.

Suzanne's Story

I write in corners, on couches, waiting in cars, waiting at restaurant, on envelopes, in notebooks, in art books, on napkins; certainly on computers and longhand, indecipherable longhand. I write when needing solace, company and emotional outpouring, with decision, precision and mooning about the state of things. I write in jeans, barefoot, in e-mails and poetry trails. Mostly I write. In between, I read and unpack my hours.

I draw in corners, on couches, waiting in cars, waiting at restaurants, on envelopes, in notebooks, in art books, on napkins; certainly with designs, and free line drawings. I draw when needing solace, company and emotional outpouring, with decision, precision and mooning about the state of things. I draw in jeans, and barefoot, in between tunes and songs. Mostly I draw when I want to remember. In between, I write and unpack my hours.

As you can tell, observation is one of my strengths and I started writing poems at age 12, absorbing the imagination filled days on a peach farm in the Sacramento Valley. And yes, my siblings were always characters in the dramas invented to entertain us. Smiles.
sMc

Suzanne Caruthers

Here goes me, why I write: I was in junior high when my best girl friend's brother, home from college on holiday gave me a book by Kierkegaart and said, "here, read this and tell me what you think at Christmas break".

I was smitten, and set out copying all of the unfamiliar words in a note book as I read. I don't recall understanding one bit of what I read but I learned many new words.

On my own I'd try using these new words in sentences and pretty soon I was writing poetry which of course I never shared with anyone until much later. One line from an early poem comes to mind, "and you and I are walking in the forest munching a carrot."

By Ann Privateer