The trek begins! Via San Francesco

I want to start with some photos of Rieti, a small city in the very center of Italy. Here’s the proof!

Rieti is the exact center of Italy, so is known as the “umbilica” –as this huge belly button honors not far from our hotel.

Unknown town, Annie found our hotel down these tiny (dead on Monday) streets by miraculous instinct alone

It turns out most businesses are closed on Mondays, so Annie and I had to settle for beer and shared chips (we missed lunch) instead of get the gelato I craved. But the beer was fine!

And here we see our first real references to the man himself: St. Francis of Assisi. This is where we join the Camino, the via… its called many things. If we had time, we could have trekked up to the mountains near here where St. Francis meditated and perhaps died. It turns out when he died they discovered stigmata  on his body. He had not revealed this before because he had not wanted to make people feel uncomfortable.

Saint Francis -I like how dramatic the sun’s angle makes him here

Saint Francis again, his austere kindness showing in more light. A good man to try to follow at least a little in his footsteps

I’m exhausted now, after 7 1/2 hours of hiking/walking over flatland, up hills, down dales, by highways, on asphalt roads, over roads created by tossing down large rocks, scattering the surface with smaller pebbles, then running over it with a semi able to create exciting ruts throughout.

This is one of the wider, smoother paths we were on, not counting actual roads. I found myself craving mud.

We traversed streams, picnicked next to a first century Roman bridge,

The Roman Bridge, first century

and saw one other hiker with poles, but he was not on the same via we were. Plus he was German and could not help us with our confusing directions. At one moment we passed by a taciturn woman standing next to a large pile of smelly garbage in the middle of nowhere, but that was pretty much all the humanity we came across, if you don’t count the drivers who neither slowed nor veered, but also did not hit us.

One of the views on our walk. Pretty, isn’t it? Luckily, Annie noticed so I turned around to look also.

It was a glorious day and we did it! Yay feet and arms and legs and hips and general joie de vivre.

Near the end of the walk, Annie and I started singing: Both Sides Now, They Call the Wind Mariah, Tall Pine Trees Growing, plus a little bit of Belly Up to the Bar, Boys–stuff I haven’t sung since we were kids.

Dogs barked, but then they barked when we didn’t sing also. We had to stop regularly to consult directions that didn’t always make sense, and therefore we went on faith much of the time, which is of course appropriate considering the path. And we gave a grateful huzzah each time we saw the pilgrimage sign.

YAY! We’re not lost!

 

And now we are at the hard to reach but so peaceful Agriturismo Santa Giusmo on the outskirts of Poggio San Lorenzo, said to have 578 residents, but who’s counting? We are the only guests, but one of the family brought us a large beer to share. The swimming pool felt like someone had dumped cubes of ice into it along with a large bug population, but I went in anyway. The hot shower afterwards felt might fine, my friends.

Pretty place, and we are mighty tired. And so grateful to collapse!

 

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Firenze to Rieti-before the trek

The Duomo lit up–Just for us of course! It fills the sky.

Today I made the resolution not to despair if I could not figure out the blogging issue on this trip. But that doesn’t mean I will stop trying!

Today, Annie and I travel from Firenze to Rieti. If we were doing the full Francesco Pilgrimage, we would have started at the Duomo, but that takes a good 35 days and we don’t have that long–not this time. Speaking of the Duomo, take a look at what we saw last night on our way to our first Italian meal.

Annie arranged for us to stay right near the Duomo at the Hotel Balcony, and this morning I discovered coffee selections of every imaginable type at the press of a button. A learning moment: Cappuccino has very little coffee in it; Caffe latte has more. Both are good, but in tiny cups.

We then walked, each wearing an earbud attached to Annie’s phone (not an easy or graceful feat), from the Duomo to the Ponte di Vecchio as led by Rick Steve’s on his audio tour. We’d been to Firenze before, and had seen these sights before, but what a glorious city! Too bad we couldn’t stay to truly appreciate all the artistic glories of this city, but we needed to catch a train.

Some of what we saw:

Duomo in daylight may be even more impressive

The Rape of the Sabine Women, of particular interest since we start our trek in Rieta, where the Sabines came from. One story says that Romulus, after he killed his twin , Remus, needed women to grow his new city, so his men stole the women away from the Sabines. By the time they got their act together to attack Rome, the women were family to both sides, and pleaded that there be no fighting. Hm.

And next to this taking up large amounts of the piazza di Medici square…. huh? Maybe this is akin to the next colossus of Rome, but I don’t think so. Still, we see the signs that art is not dead in Florence

More art–this time it looks political. It stands next to the replica of  the David.

 

I  already know I packed way too much. How do I know? My luggage is a million pounds. The reason is that I decided to bring 5 pairs of shoes, including two pairs of hiking boots. Excessive for seven days of challenging walking? I think: yes. And perhaps I didn’t need to bring two pairs of sandals and some attractive walking shoes to go with a flirty outfit I decided I must pack to look swishy in Roma, but I was under pressure when I made these decisions. I also brought all the underwear I own and most of the socks, a sun hat, hiking poles, two liter-sized water bottles and a contigo to carry in the fanny pack I’m using as a purse. I brought two backpacks. What was I thinking? I don’t know. I was not thinking about hefting this bag up into train and bus overheads. Or even trundling it down streets which are not smooth asphalt but bumpy pavers or (uh-oh) cobblestones. I was not thinking of hotel rooms which are on the first floor–but that the first floor is, in Italy, up several staircases. Next time I will think of these things. Please.

But we made it to Rieti, only tripping and falling up stairs once as we tried to heave our bags quickly onto a train. The conductor laughed charmingly. We through several tunnels, which does make us think…hm, cutting through large hills, which we shall be walking.

One last quick view of

I’m not positive but I think this our path out of town tomorrow. Down. And up.

Rieti before I go to bed to prepare for the Big Hike tomorrow!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On the Road, in the Skies

Longer line at the Peace Arch border than anticipated–scarily tight connection because of it.

Annie and me after a long night awake–and the airport ceiling, a work of op art.

I love this! The man inside this enormous clock, erases and re paints the hour and minute hands every minute. Looks totally real.

I’m writing most of this from this lounge spot. Can you see the grand piano? No one is paying the slightest attention.

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Enter into Adventure

This is a test. This is only a test.

I’m kidding. This is not so much a test as an experiment. And here it is: I’m going on an adventure. To Italy! I leave tomorrow!

And I’ve bought a nifty set up to see if I can blog about my adventure while it’s happening.

Here’swhat I bought:

This is a keyboard–the little plastic gizmo behind it holds my iPhone so I can see stuff. The keyboard opens up and presto!

I can type–almost normally.

So that’s partly why this is a test. I don’t really know if I’ll be able to post while I’m traveling. Will this gadget withstand my lack of savvy when it comes to my very cool but sadly already outdated phone which I don’t really understand?  We’ll see. That’s why it’s an adventure, right? You don’t really know what you’re getting into.

This is what I do know: Last Spring, my sister Annie planned this exciting trip with a good friend.  I was jealous–who wouldn’t be? They were going to be walking into Rome on the St. Francis of Assisi Pilgrimmage Trail! The days on the trek would be challenging, anywhere from 8-14 miles each day. Annie and I are dog walking buddies, so I said, sure, I’ll help you train. We did a few long hikes. Then in August, her friend got hired, a dream job. But she had to move; she couldn’t come on the trip.

I’m taking the friend’s place. Tee hee. And so, since early September we’ve been seriously training. I’ve seen places and trails in my neck of the woods that have stunned me with their beauty.

Below is a view from the Watson Lakes Trail, followed by some other photos from ’round these parts.


Mount Baker is OUR mountain around here in northwest Washington State

Annie perched above Raptor’s Ridge with her dog.

View from the Chain Lakes Trail up on Mount Baker

Fireweed, also on the Chain Lakes Trail.

I hope you will follow me on this trip into the unknown. The lessons I am trying to learn so far:

1) That wild rumbling feeling in my stomach, that edginess in my shoulders, that thing that keeps me tossing at night? Call it  excitement. Because that’s what it is.

2) Laugh first. Those were the bon voyage words of a friend of mine. How wise!

If you have more advice, please share in the comments. Until, then, andiamo!

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Chaos Boxed

Sometimes my world seems so out of control and out of focus I don’t know what to do with myself.

Last year too many big shifting events that carried loss for me happened too close together. As a friend explained about what can happen when grief hits, my compass got broken. I lost my footing. The universe was no longer behaving how I expected it to, wanted it to, counted on its doing.

This happens to us all at some point, and how we respond is as individual as everything else about us. Metaphorically AND literally, I turn around in small circles for a while, repeating over and over, “What do I do? What do I do?” After I assess the damage (some might call this grieving), I have to find a way to box the chaos so that I can function within it.

If I look at the image above–IMAGINE the hugeness of this galaxy Cassiopeia–GET that it’s only a small fraction of the universe itself–SPIN out of control into the immenseness of the thought–I freak out. But when it’s boxed up in that photo in a gorgeous representation? No need to worry, I can sit back and bask in the wonder of it all.

Yay boxes!

They protect us from danger

 

Wrap presents

 

and, like the Tardis, maybe take us to strange and wonderful places on the outskirts of our imagination.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I’m talking about is my need for structure, especially when my life goes awry. I need to feel in control, even in the midst of unknowing. Especially in the midst of unknowing. Structure gives that to me.

Without the box to tame the wonder, the danger, the surprises, the creativity in me, the fluster of not knowing what to expect from this new universe takes over. The school I attended provided a great box that I functioned happily in for 4 years. Ironically, one of the losses that hit me last year was the fact that I succeeded in the program. I got my degree! I graduated! Yay!

Except now it’s over, the chaos hit again:

How am I going to determine what I want to do with my life?

How am I going to make that happen?

I’ve always been tremendously jealous of people who know what they want to be when they grow up, what they want to DO, who have a passion that drives them beyond everything else. That’s not me. Let’s face it, I’m a writer, yes. But it’s not like I think I’d die or go up in flames or something if I wasn’t allowed to do it. Does that mean I shouldn’t bother? There are people who say, yes, it does mean that. The world has plenty of writers already! But since I don’t want to listen to those people and I don’t have to listen to those people, I’m not going to!

But I still need my structure, my box for the chaos of who I am. And here’s where a series of gifts I got last week comes in. 1) A writing buddy and I shared writing contracts for the year (mine includes a monthly blog post, huzzah).  2) Another friend asked if I would join her in daily goals and following-day accountabilities via texting. I agreed. 3) I found out about bullet journals, created by Ryder Carroll as an organizational tool. So far it’s working really well for me.

More irony–I’m using my Van Gogh (not the sanest guy)’s journal to keep me sane!

Inside are lists and indexes and hand-crafted calendars and more lists! Keeping me steady, keeping me true to my promises to myself.

Here’s what I particularly like about it:

  1. It’s hand written. No computer necessary, just pen and notebook (make it a durable one, though.)
  2. You can start without knowing much about how to do it and it’s still useful.
  3. There are videos showing you tips and how-to’s when you want to get advanced.
  4. There’s a lot of crossing off of accomplishments, but not a lot of judging.
  5. You can (it’s suggested you do) use if for all aspects of your life.
  6. It’s particularly good for me, who is self-employed and self-motivated.

It’s great to feel empowered by boxes. What strategies do you use to feel excited by life?

 

 

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Open My Heart

Well, I never imagined I’d be the kind of blogger who posts twice a week (or even twice a month), but as my French maman would say, “Il n’faut pas exagérer quand même!” Translation: “Even so, one mustn’t exaggerate!” When I was 17, I spent a year as an A.F.S. student in France. My French mother was marvelous and forceful. I still hear her voice in my head and see her finger lifted to scold.

It has been two years since I last posted.

Oops. Sorry.

Oops. Sorry.

To be honest, I’ve forgotten how to do it. You’d think I’d give it up entirely, but I find I still have things to say. Not all of them are about writing, at least not directly. But since life choices influence writing choices, then sure–this is about writing also. If nothing else, it’s about ME. 🙂

A couple posts ago I started telling you about the word I focus on each year. I’d like to go back and share that my word for 2014 was

Spirit.

I’ve mentioned briefly that the Bellingham Threshold Singers takes up a large part of my life. In a way I’m in a love affair with them. They are my solace, my addiction, my church of choice. By that I simply mean the choir answers my spiritual needs.

I’ve been singing with them since 2008. BTS is one of many Threshold Choirs spread over the world. Though each chapter is independent and different in many ways, many like ours are a group of volunteer women dedicated to bringing soothing voices to people who are dying or in pain or anxious or in grief—people on some sort of threshold in their lives. Sitting on the stools we bring along, three or four of us join to sing to individuals around a bedside. But we also sing to the family and friends in the room. It’s not a long connection—maybe 10 or 20 minutes.

We mostly sing songs written for us, and the lyrics tend to be simple and repetitive. One of our songs is “Open My Heart.” That’s all it is: “Open my heart, open my heart, open my heart.”

Open My Heart

That’s the essence of the practice. I get to open my heart up at the bedside to witness love and grief, confusion, and sweet surrender. Pain and loss. Loneliness. And some of this hurts. It can be hard. But I also witness enormous generosity and faith and humor and resilience and hope. And that carries so much joy with it. I feel rich.

At rehearsals and trainings and while singing at the bedside, I get to open my heart up to my sisters in song, and to the songs themselves, to their words and the powerful vibration of music. With all this “opening up,” I am learning every single day about the human heart. Being human is an astounding and wondrous thing. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but the community of our choir helps when I need some heart healing. We are very supportive of each other.

You can probably tell I feel tremendously blessed to have the choir in my life. It helps me feel connected to humanity in a way I can’t begin to express. And being this often this close to death, to its sacred essence, humbles me and makes me appreciate life and nature and the power of deep breath and the energy that connects us all. That’s spiritual.

So now I want to ask you: what do you do to open up to spirit? Please tell me. I want to know. How do you know you’re open? For me it’s that I feel tremendously grounded and at peace.

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Open to Success

…and to failure and to mystery and to allure and to…. The point is OPEN.

And behind door number three...

 

Waffling on the Threshold

Two summers ago I was ready to quit writing entirely. Oh I’d still be a writer (I don’t think you can change a life perspective quite that easily) but I would cease to make it a major part of my life. A focus of dreams. Then–ta-dah!–I won the award from Writer’s Digest (last post) and suddenly I felt that luscious sensation that maybe my writing matters after all. Maybe I’m good enough that someday someone will read my work and it will bring them a gift.

 

For YOU!

 

But I got so tired of pursuing this dream on my own. My critique group was wonderful, yet it wasn’t enough to push me off the plateau I’d settled on. I needed a mentor. I needed structure and deadlines and other people’s expectations to kick me off the ledge.

I yearn for people to tell me what to do. Decisions are excruciating for me. Open the door…close the door…go out…come in…. People make jokes about cats, but I’m just as bad. To fight the waffling instinct, I tend to say “yes!” when others offer a solution for me.

 

Hmmm. I see this thing opens. WHAT'S OUT THERE?

Christine Myers, a writing friend of mine, nagged and nagged about going back to school for an MFA. “This is what you have to do,” she said.

Back to School

So I researched schools and decided to apply to the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts (NILA), a low-residency accredited MFA program that is run entirely by writers and not affiliated with any university. It grew out of the Whidbey Island Writers Association and graduated its first candidates in 2007.  Location influenced me enormously (only 90-minutes from my home by car), but I also like that they offer four different genres and encourage cross-training: childrens/young adult, adult fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

Even the application taught me a lot. For the first time I had to write down all my publications—every article in print and on line. I impressed myself! I also had to list every workshop, every conference, every class I’d taken on my path as a writer. Wow!  It became clear to me that this writing thing really did hold importance in my life. I wasn’t just kidding myself.  Finally, I had to write an essay explaining why this school was important for me. I ended with this:

Beyond the knowledge, skill base, and relationships Whidbey will bring me, looms the most gut-wrenching draw of attending this MFA program. The tuition and time required for an MFA is a huge investment in my career. By saying “yes” to this opportunity, I am really saying that I believe my writing is worth the sacrifices this will mean to me, my family and the other people I serve.

I hope you will accept my application. I hope I have to face up to this scary and oh-so-alluring challenge of believing in myself and my work.

Well, they accepted me into the program and I’ve been working like crazy since my last post—over a year ago! It’s a wonderfully challenging program. Whenever I find myself pulling out my hair with stress over a deadline, I remind myself that this is EXACTLY what I wanted for myself. What I’m paying the big bucks for, in fact.

All this to explain my word for the year 2013: “OPEN.” It combines my fascination with vulnerability and a need to open myself up to success.

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A Salute to Being Vulnerable

 

A great mentor in my life said, “Run yourself up a flagpole and see who salutes.”

Run her up

 

That’s energy and power, huh? I need to be who I am and not worry about pleasing others so much. And it works great as long as people do salute. When they mutter and close down and turn away, I want to strip that flag from the pole, stuff it under my shirt, and pretend it never happened.

Being Vulnerable

It’s such a cliche, that nightmare where you’re naked and people you thought were your friends throw rocks at you. But I know that nightmare so well it sits in my gut like one of the rocks, shreds of my skin still clinging to it.

 

So, I hide away. I wrap myself up in masks and armor — anything so that if people don’t seem to approve, I can think, “It’s not the real me they don’t like. They don’t know the real me.”

I’m not alone. Most people wear masks — symbolic, of course, but powerful nonetheless.

Masks distance us from hurt, but also from closeness.  It is only when we see a person’s vulnerability that we care about them.  “Oh,” we think, “you’re human too!”

To reach people through my writing I need to be vulnerable. I need to open my heart and let people in so they can see how it beats. I cannot afford to protect myself.

Scary!

Of course I want people to care about me as a person. And as a writer, I want readers to care about my characters. Which means THEY have to be vulnerable.

I’m not saying this right. We’re all vulnerable.  Everything is vulnerable.  The fierce dragon whose scales under the tongue are softer than the others, the building whose ventilation system is big enough to allow a small child to crawl through, the big, tough CEO whose young daughter has just announced she’s going off to live with her mother instead of him.

The issue, then, is not making ourselves vulnerable so much as admitting our vulnerability.  Our characters don’t have to embrace this aspect of themselves. We writers, we creators, must.

How do we embrace vulnerability?

  • We show the underbelly. Maybe it’s yucky. It’s probably darned embarrassing. And the risks are real.

Showing vulnerability is not  the same thing as pointing an arrow at yourself and declaring to the world, “Look at me! I’m such a loser!! Don’t you feel sorry for me?” But it may look like that if we’re not careful.

  • We also have to preen those peacock feathers.

We must share the feelings of success: so proud and touchy, so scared of being scorned, so gloriously happy and embarrassed that maybe no one else thinks this is a big deal.  Hard, hard stuff.

It’s not the same thing as pointing an arrow at yourself and saying, “Aren’t I great? Don’t you wish  you were me?” Pah-lease. But again, it can look like that.

I’m not so good at all this vulnerability stuff. I’m working on it. For such a show-offy kind of gal, you’d think I wouldn’t have so much trouble putting myself out there for the world to see, but I do.

Look!

Can you see this? My short story, “Moving On,”  won 7th place in the Children’s/ Young Adult Fiction division for the Writers Digest 80th Short Story Contest last fall. Have I even put this big deal in my life on this blog? NO!  Why not?

Maybe it feels like bragging. Maybe I was afraid of making a bigger deal of it than it deserves. Maybe I just don’t know how to open up and share my total delight that such a thing happened to me. To me! An award! I’ve never won an award before. Is that pathetic?

And really, who cares if it is?

It’s me.

I am my successes and my insecurities.  The ugly belly and the peacock feathers, wild and wonderful.

And so are we all. And so are our characters. Raise ’em up on that flagpole! Salute!! And then maybe we can treat ourselves as proudly as we do our creations.

This is a good space to brag, if not about yourself, then about your characters. How do they make you proud of them?

 

 

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Release into Laughter!

Hello again!  It’s been way too long since I posted here. But I’m going to start anew and release my guilt!

Whoosh — it’s gone.  Now I can celebrate coming back.

Wheeeeeeee! Fireworks! I release them here.

Shabang! For a wild and wonderful 2012

 

RELEASE is the word I’ve chosen to color my life for the 366 days of 2012.*  I’m excited about it!  It’s a great word for writers. Heck, it’s a great word for anybody. There’s so much we need to let go of: our worries, our guilt, our fears, our inhibitions, our babies (not literally — I mean what we write  or create that needs letting go of to move into the light). There’s a lot to explore and discover in this word.

To begin, I’m tickled to move into the new year exploring this kind of release:

LAUGHTER

That is so funny! — photo by Zach Carter

Sometimes all I need in life is to LIGHTEN UP — not like shining a light on something (which is also kind of wonderful), but the floaty-uppy kind of light.  Like feathers and balloons and snowflakes that dance around so much they never even touch the ground. Release. Poof.

What’s Funny?

Just hearing laughter can make us laugh!  When I go to a comedy, I always think it’s funnier if others around me are laughing too.  It’s catchy.  If you don’t believe me, check out this youtube video.  I can’t watch it without the chortles coming out of me, too.

Baby Laughing Hysterically at Ripping Paper

Laughter transforms me from a grumpy poop to somebody I want to be around.  I even wrote a story inspired by that idea!

PHOENIX and PIG

I made this my SELF! I got to dig into a block of linoleum with chisels, carving away what I didn’t want to show. I inked it with a roller and laid the tile upside down on a piece of paper.

When I looked at the result, a picture book manuscript about the power of laughter practically popped onto the computer.  Like an alive kind of surprise present (A good one — not, say, a spider down my back). Maybe the picture will inspire you, too – feel free to use it to make up your own story. (See Using Art to Create Story)

How to Write Funny

Writing about humor is one thing. What about being funny? What makes other people laugh? What makes books like Captain Underpants hysterical to some and agonizingly stupid to others?

Such good questions.  I don’t know.

This blog from ehow.com (no author listed) describes 12 tips for writing humor. Great advice!

As you research techniques to get funnier, remember that writing is special. Humorists you see or hear perform can throw their arms and bodies around, and make weird faces. They can pause exactly long enough to zing you with the punchline. That funky noise made by blowing a fart sound through your tongue and teeth? How are you supposed to write that?!   The printed word is simply not all that funny to look at.

Throw rocks — from a distance.

You know when a failed joke gets this response: “I guess you had to be there.”  Our job as writers is to make the “there” come alive.  We create the scene. I can’t remember who first said that plot was all about chasing a character up a tree and then throwing rocks at him. The trick is to stand far enough back.

As long as we don’t let the reader get too close to the reality of the misery, wretched life situations can be screamingly funny. For real-life story, the distance usually comes with the passage of time. (The expresssion “you’ll laugh about this later” sounds horribly insensitive at the time of hardship, but it IS those difficult events that give rise to the funniest stories about ourselves.)

With fiction, however, we writers can make terrible, painful, agonizingly embarrassing stuff happen to our characters and it can be funny in the moment. The distance part of humor comes from everyone knowing it’s not true! Although “author” Lemony Snicket narrates the multiple volumes in A Series of Unfortunate Events as if they were true and therefore terribly disturbing treatises on the human condition, readers everywhere acclaim the real author, Daniel Handler, a master of comedy.

Like Handler, it’s vital to keep  emotional distance.  If the misery is too realistic, readers  may start feeling sorry for your character, and that’s not funny!  When humor goes out the window, lots of emotions can come in — especially anger against that mean, manipulative writer.

Yikes!

The Author must hate me!

 

Don’t laugh at your own jokes

Just don’t. (You can laugh on the inside, just don’t show it). Don’t let your characters laugh either. This is not funny! This is HORRIBLE. You’ll be tempted to be kind to your characters and give them a sense of humor about their lives. No. Stay mean.

Put the uncommon together

Things that don’t normally “fit.” As you may know by now, I love to be in plays, and I even direct sometimes.  I’m a big woman, and get cast as a contrast to other actors because it’s funny. BIG wife, tiny little husband.  When we see the little mouse beat up on the huge cat? It’s funny! Not so much the other way around.

But avoid cliché

A word of caution here: it’s really easy to fall into cliché (like the examples I just gave) and the joke is old before you’ve told it. In the biz, that’s called a cheap laugh. Some people LOVE hearing the same joke over again (and telling it!), but not usually much after the age of six.

It’s ironic. Despite laughter being a huge release and terribly healthy, we  develop a little shell of protection against laughter that builds up with repetition.  Slipping on banana peels, pants falling down: these are very funny things, but so common that you have to treat them with special creativity to make them appear new.

You can get funnier if you practice. Write. Revise. Edit.  But even so … ALAS!

Not Everyone is Going to Get It

We don’t all share the same funny bone. And trying to explain to someone why you think a joke or a situation is funny is a sure way to kill it.

All I know is sharing a sense of humor with someone is one of the best gifts from the universe.  When I find an author who shares my sense of humor, it’s like I’ve found a new and treasured friend. I look forward to spending time with him or her!

Bruce Coville writes books that crack me up — so does Louis Sachar. What about Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad? I bet most of us have our favorite comic strips that we treasure seeing everyday.  (Mine are Zits and Baby Blues and Bill Waterson’s Calvin and Hobbes).  I just realized something: these are all men writers! Does that mean that men are funnier than women when they write? What’s THAT all about?! That’s it — I’m complaining to God.

No, wait! Hilary McKay, who wrote Saffy’s Angel and that whole wonderful series about the Casson family, totally cracks me up.  Whew! And of course there’s many many more — who? (All right, here’s a guilty secret: for humorous romance? Jennifer Crusie all the way.  AND the queen of all — Georgette Heyer.)

Really, tell me who your favorite funny authors are!  Release them to me!

*For more on How To Choose a Word for the Year, click here. Theresa Ceniccola explains the concept very well, though you may want to know there is some religious content on this site.

 

 

 

 

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The Pen!


Rebecca is a young cousin of mine whose mother (so young herself!) battled with cancer for several years and finally died this spring. Her dad shared this poem of Rebecca’s as part of his own grieving process and they both gave permission for me to use it on this site.

The Pen!

You use a pen for feelings
You write it down on paper
People can see you through the pen
You use a pen to show who you really are
When you use a pen the writing is from the heart
You can just scribble and its still from you
When someone dies or is sick write it down with a pen
You are the ink
You lead the pen
Let the pen flow
Put you on the Paper
You can use a pen to talk
You can use a pen to cry
You can use a pen to tell others how you feel
You can use your memories as your ink
You can use
your life as your ink
If you are sad take a pen write your feelings
write your
love
write your life
Write a story write a poem use the Pen however you want
Show you in the ink use yourself as your writing
If you go through hard times use a pen and go go go!
Use your passion for things
Use your love for things
Take a pen and go leave your life in the ink
Keeps you restored in writing
Keeps you restored in the Pen
Keeps your life going through the Pen
Take a pen and go go go!

–by Rebecca Lytle (age 9)

What a gift of hope this poem is! What a blessing to know that Rebecca has been given the pen (and the wisdom to use it) as an outlet. You know, I can grieve with her for her tragedy but with this poem I can also rejoice with her and in her. So I just want to say “Thank you, Rebecca, for the reminder and the inspiration in the Pen.”

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