Bio Bits
I haven’t written my whole life story, yet. Maybe someday. This is just a wee tidbit about my very humble existence…
Writing is a passion with me.
I’m like a smoker going through withdrawal if I’m not near my computer or a notebook and pens. Too many ideas and people live in my brain for me to walk away for long. They all beg for my attention–all at once. Just like my real family!!
Speaking of which, if you were to stop by my house on any given day, the place wouldn’t be much of a palace. I’d rather be writing, or doing ANYTHING else but housework! Housekeeping is a vanity and a striving after wind, anyhow, when you have a houseful of boys! Or girls, or any mix thereof . . . I just happen to have all boys. Keeping a spotless house is naturally lower on their list of priorities than it is on mine.
How’d I get started on this trail of madness?
Well. . . it’s like this–What kid likes to go to bed at night? None that I know of, and my brother, sisters and I weren’t any different. Since my sisters and I shared a room for years, I told stories to them until we fell asleep. We’d act them out, even. That was great fun! Amazing the things you can imagine your bed to be when you aren’t supposed to be out of it!!
Now the story goes, that when I was a tot, I asked if I could write a letter to my grandmother. Instead of just letting me scribble on a piece of paper, and “translating” it to English, my mother told me that once I started school, and learned to read, write and spell, I could write Gramma a letter.
And that’s all I thought I was in school to learn. My mother neglected to tell me that other subjects were involved, and that I’d have to stay for years–even though I’d learned to read and write and spell well enough to write a letter to Gramma.
I excelled in anything that had to do with reading and writing. I clearly remember being able to spell complicated words in first grade, but refusing to do math for the first half of the year. Not what I was there for! Only the threat of being held back made me hustle to catch up with the rest of the class. And that’s pretty much the whole story of my academic years.
My mother’s introducing us to the Litchfield Library, (the old building with the museum on the bottom floor), further sparked my interest in reading. Set it on fire, actually. Impressed with my insatiable appetite for books, the librarian finally agreed to up the limit I could check out from two books every two weeks, to five, then nine and finally eleven. But–I had those all read in a week or less, too. Read one or two books a day, depending on the length. My mother often showed up at the doorway of my bedroom to kick me outside. Reading was fine, she said, but getting out and playing was beneficial, too.
Yep, yep, I will. Just let me finish this chapter . . . Of course, if she left and forgot about me, I’d finish a few chapters more . . . !
I can sympathize with her feelings now. Couldn’t then. I wasn’t bothering anyone–I was just reading. Discovering new worlds. My kids are thrilled to be in their little worlds located on those game CD’s or cartridges . . . I have to kick them outside, too. Now, if they picked up a book–I probably wouldn’t bother them!!
Upon the occasions I speak at the schools, I gratify the teachers– especially the fifth grade teachers–when I tell the kids my real start in writing came in the fifth grade, thanks to Mrs. Miller, Southwest School, Torrington, CT, somewhere around 1960.
Ah, The Arabian Nights!!!!!!! Mrs. Miller read a tale to us every afternoon till the book’s end.
After it did, I started writing my own fantasies based on them. Caves filled with glittering treasures, haunted houses; houses that had so many rooms, you never went through the same one twice. Put my classmates in those stories–which Mrs. Miller let me read to the class each afternoon at Story Time. Terrific confidence booster!! There should be more teachers like her! At the end of the year, I stapled them into book form, and gave them to her.
I don’t know if she kept them forever, but I do know that my favorite 8th grade teacher still has the story I wrote for her!
In Jr. High, and later, High School, I didn’t always get the privilege of reading my stuff to the class. Nope, the teachers often did that for me. Which could be both an honor and an embarrassment at once. Especially for my vocab sentences.
Well, you know . . . I didn’t just write a sentence for each vocabulary word. Oh, no, no! I made those sentences connect into paragraphs. Complete stories, in fact, when the words were right.
My twenty-five sentence masterpieces were held up to the rest of the class as examples of brilliant ambition. An English teacher’s dream!
Being painfully shy in those days, I feared reprisal on the part of my less ambitious, less imaginative classmates. Surprisingly, no one ever made fun of me, or accused me of trying to show everyone else up. Wasn’t any inspiration to anyone to try harder, neither.
In whatever class it was, though, if it gave me an excuse to write, I wrote.
In Math class, for example, following long standing habit, I did just enough math malarky to pass. Sat in the very back of the room where I could work on whatever story I had going at the time. Extra practice came when Mr. C. gave the whole class group punishment assignments. You know–the ol’ “I want you all to write 100 words about Why You People Are Being Such Jerks Today!!!”
Since it wasn’t spelling words 1000 times each, I never protested. Just freely admitted I hadn’t a clue as to why the rest of the class were being jerks, I was minding my own business in the back buried in my masterpieces. If I passed with a grade represented by his last initial, I’d be happy. Wasn’t planning on making a career out of Mathematics, anyway . . .
Mr. C. proclaimed it, not only his favorite, but the best written to boot.
Got a C+ for the year as I recall–and finished my western novel entitled Captive Tomboy. Sent it off to a publisher, and waited impatiently for a response. Turned out to be a subsidiary publisher who said my engaging manuscript could be published for the low price of $1777. Not low enough for a lowly 14 year old! Was a whopping disappointment.
My 11th grade English teacher introduced me to the Writer’s Digest–I still have those 1967-68 issues (and almost every year after that till the present)–plus she agreed to read Captive Tomboy. Guess she liked it. She moved back to Ohio at the end of that year, and took it with her! Wish I still had that story–but I suppose if I really tried, I could recall most of it.
After graduation, I worked in various factories, and in a nursing home for a time.
Kept gathering ideas for stories that cram my head still. One day I’ll get to ‘em! Tried some home study courses in writing along the way. Two, I never finished for one reason or other, but the third I did. With Highest Honors my diploma on the wall proudly announces!!
Frankly, I think that those Harlequin romances my mother began passing me in the ’70’s were my best teachers. I learned what made up a good story, and what made one absolutely STINK! Learned that, with some practice, I could do a good one, too. Only, I hate to see good stories end, so generally it’s a LONG one!
Back then, I still looked at my stuff the same way Quenton looks at his now. They’re pearls–don’t mess with ‘em!! Don’t you tell me I gotta change one teensy period of it! Hurts to cut those treasured passages! It’s almost like throwing good food away . . .
Today, however, I’m my own worst critic. I cut and chop with wild and gleeful abandon. If it stalls the story—I cry a little, then ditch it! Chop! Chop! Chop! And For The Love Of Thomi’s seen over 70,000 words CHOP! CHOP! CHOPPED!
I don’t throw those words away away, however. Like good food, you don’t toss the leftovers! I have notebooks for each story, and I put the trimmed off text in them just in case I might want to use ‘em another time.
I used to write long hand, then type it all up on my electric Smith Corona typewriter once I was ready to send the story out. Such a bore–and what a hassle!! I always wished publishers would accept hand written stuff. Alas–no! Most of us write like we should’ve been doctors. And you know how happy people are with their handwriting! Thomasyna finished off at 1280 pages long hand. In a 10pt font, I’ve got her around 400. Be about 500 in a 6 by 9 format. Looks like Stormi’s story is going to be as long. Joleigh’s is around 250, more or less. The kids’ novels are about that, too. Anyway, that’s how I used to do things. I still do write long hand sometimes.
In time, I moved off, got married, became Mom–more accurately pronounced “MO–OOM” (Verbally bellowed in a foghorn type voice at the top of the lungs!) My writing really developed after that! All this stuff I’d been writing about from an observer’s point of view, I was experiencing first hand. Now I could write about romance, marriage, in laws, husbands, kids, stepkids, pregnancy, school woes and joys, on a first hand basis! Had real notes to compare things with, not just theories or other people’s experiences.
With my third home study course with NRI–the one I finished and with highest honors, no less–I got my first computer. After a little while of learning and working with DOS and 5 1/4 floppies, I got a hard drive for it and Windows 95. No stopping me now! After my stepson married and moved out, I got an office. Not that it meant I was cut off from my family. Oh, not a chance! I wrote while the younger kids–who are now in their twenties–hid under my desk playing hide n’seek. Or ran through the office on their way from the kitchen to the living room. Or vice versa. We lived, at the time, in a center chimney house–the chimney was long gone by then–so they could go round and round forever.
Had a pair of Boston Terriers who used to do the same thing. Round and round until I finally had a major fit and blocked off one of the doors. And oh, we can’t forget the cats who walk across the keyboard, deleting things, or bringi up strings of random letters. Hitting hot key combos that do strange things that panic me for a few seconds. Cats who sleep on top of the monitor or the printer or the scanner or on the notebook I occasionally copy from. Who stick their furry little faces in whatever beverage I have by me, or sneak my snack, or munch my meal!
In the days before I knew enough to save my work as often as I do now, occasionally the boys would poke the reset button, and there’d go whole pages of prose!!!! Or they’d change my passwords . . . or lose the key I’d hidden that locked up the keyboard . . . back in the days when you could lock it up. I had a terrific story about my sister and her friend canoeing down the Farmington River in Connecticut. Was hysterically funny. Gone. Just like that. I think that’s when I started to use the SAVE button more faithfully. I haven’t tried to rewrite that story. If I could find the handwritten copy, I think I’d try it now, though. It’s been ten years since then. Yeah, I’m ready to try it again. But, the horror, the panic, the disappointment of it all at the time!
Yes, yes, I did let them all live–kids and cats and dogs! But now, I miss getting interrupted for some of those little things . . . like Quenton, a.k.a. the little Pookster, who would frequently wander in for a hug and a kiss. Or to declare, “I just wanted to say I love you!” Oh yeah–I really miss those days!
One of my favorite memories is the day Tristen, then about 5, brought me in a tray on which was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some baby carrots, and a glass of milk. With a proud smile on his little face, he placed it on my desk, and proclaimed, “You don’t have to stop writing to make supper, Mom. I got it all under control!” What a sweetheart! Whenever I see that Jif commercial of the mom studying and her son bringing her a peanut butter sammie, I think of that day.
I’ve come to depend on them all to fend for themselves many nights, and appreciate the way they take what I do more or less seriously. While I don’t discuss openly my work much outside our little unit, they will. I feel pretty lucky that way. Most of the time it helps me overlook the war zones they call bedrooms.
Or should I call them natural disasters? After all, if you have kids, not only their bedrooms, but very probably the rest of the place, are naturally going to be a disaster.
Although, as of this entry to my little life’s history here, they’re getting better. Finally. Doesn’t mean my house will be featured in House Beautiful, any time soon. Maybe when they all finally fly the coop–when they’re somewhere around thirty . . . Brett’s turning out to be a real whiz at cooking up meals. Good smells waft up here often! Lure me out of my writing cave . . . Hey! You making enough for everyone, boy?
In any case, their show of independence actually helped them out in their Practical Living Arts classes, (formerly known as Home Economics). Tristen, Brett and Quenton happened to be the only students in their classes who knew their way around a recipe, not to mention a kitchen. Of course, that helped me stop feeling guilty for the long hours I put in sometimes!
Now that they’re older, they come in to talk or to check out what I’m doing, or to just sit in an arm chair for a quiet visit, maybe read a book.
It can get really crazy here sometimes, and then I don’t get as much done. Strangely, on the very rare occasions the boys are all off someplace else, I’m missing ‘em! Go figure. It’s a parent thing. Quenton has a girl friend, and a plan for marriage, possibly in the near future. Tristen’s loves his Eve Online, and Brett is more spiritually minded. While there are girls who’re interested in them too, they’re just not ready for that scene. Fine with me. Just five minutes ago they were in diapers and car seats. Now they want the front seat and the keys . . .
By the way, all their names come from my novels. Never did get to use any of the girls’ names, though. Sigh . . . But you’ll find them pinned on many of my heroines. Thomi, Rikki, Halleigh, Stormi, Joleigh-Anna, Kourtnay, Stacia Lyn. Hey, just go check out the character pages for my books. I think they’re all listed there.
When I’ve been asked to speak in classrooms about the joys of writing, I enjoy the younger kids especially. They seem to show more of an interest, and are surprisingly focused with their questions. But it’s always a pleasure to discuss the tools of writing with others of any age who have a similar interest. To watch someone who’d thought writing would be a chore– r a bore–suddenly get an idea that sent him/her scrambling for pen and paper. Feels pretty good to have a kid tell me s/he’d started a story right after I’d been in to talk to the class. To have a mother call and tell me that since I went in to read my stuff to the class, her son has started to read a whole lot more! Or to have an adult announce loud enough for everyone in the next building to hear that, “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be at this writer’s workshop today!”
Things that give me the warm fuzzies . . . that’s the most rewarding part of all!
My first loves–after my family, and my best friend, who’s pretty much like the daughter I wish I had
I love playing around with photography, and try to use my own photos in my eBook covers and picture books. I love all kinds of photo editing programs and paint type ones, too. Well, look, I’ll check out almost anything that I think might help me in the creation of my books. I wish I were an artist so that I could better illustrate my kids’ book, but for now, I have to rely on other people for that.
