Next time you throw a pity party for yourself think about Tyler Liebegott, a twenty-one year old college student who was born with mitochondrial disease for which no cure exists. I'm no doctor but from what I gather Tyler's illness robs him of energy typically derived from food and oxygen. He has survived four strokes and has undergone 38 surgeries in his lifetime. He lives with constant pain and has been on death's doorstep multiple times.
The life expectancy for mitochondrial sufferers is about 10 years, but most succumb much sooner. So why even bother to make something of yourself, right? Wrong, at least as far as this young man is concerned.
Tyler spends his time away from his studies in biological sciences at the University of Pittsburgh, Greensburg, PA, speaking to high school students about his condition and how it propels him to move forward despite its debilitating symptoms. He mentors children afflicted with mitochondria as well.
One might be led to think that Tyler only lives for the moment. You'd be wrong on that count, too. This fellow dreams of being a doctor specializing in, you guessed it, the treatment of mitochondria. Tyler has no time for self-pity but instead sees everything in his life as opportunities to be cherished.
People like Tyler Liebegott give the rest of us mere humans pause for thought. A headache, back pain, or a failing mark on a test send most spiraling into a deep funk. Woe is me! I'm a good person so why is this happening? Stop feeling sorry for yourself in such mundane matters. Nip it in the bud and find something positive to focus on.
When throwing a pity party for yourself, remember Tyler Liebegott, but don't be inclined to throw one for him either. He can't be bothered with such self-indulgence because he's in the business of changing lives one person at a time. He doesn't feel sorry for himself and he certainly isn't looking for your sympathy. He'd rather you learn more about mitochondrial disease and join him in the fight.
Tyler can be reached at www.trustinhope.com
And for God's sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself!
Monday, April 28, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Overrun By Youngins!
I'm on holiday in the Carolinas and am being overrun with short people. Everywhere I turn height-challenged creatures are competing for my attention. My five grandsons plus a neighborhood crew of eight girls and four more fellas are literally overtaking the adults. What a blast they're having and I'm in seventh heaven. Seeing young people play together, cooperating at times, disagreeing more often than not, being downright mean in rare instances, reminds me of the world we live in. By allowing these children to interact, enjoy each other's company, settle disputes, make amends, and then get on with their fun again and again is not only healthy for them but extremely beneficial to their overall development.
Let the children play! More importantly, let them figure out their problems by making decisions on their own, no matter if what they decide is what we, the adults, would approve of or not. Children need practice in handling what life throws at them when they are very young, in order to make right decisions as teenagers. Then perhaps tragic events such as Columbine and Sandy Hook will become less and less.
With our group, unless a child is in physical danger, adults are not permitted to intervene. That's my rule and everybody is obliged to conform to it at least while I'm here.
Let the children play! More importantly, let them figure out their problems by making decisions on their own, no matter if what they decide is what we, the adults, would approve of or not. Children need practice in handling what life throws at them when they are very young, in order to make right decisions as teenagers. Then perhaps tragic events such as Columbine and Sandy Hook will become less and less.
With our group, unless a child is in physical danger, adults are not permitted to intervene. That's my rule and everybody is obliged to conform to it at least while I'm here.
Monday, April 7, 2014
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW
Last week a local woman walked her eldest son to the bus stop, kissed him good-bye, and upon returning home, ordered Luke, her three-year-old, and Daniel, her six-year-old, into the bathtub, submerged the two boys under water, and then fully-clothed, sat on them to make sure they couldn't get out. Afterwards she called 911 to report that her children were unresponsive laying on the bathroom floor. Luke was dead when the paramedics arrived; Daniel was flown to the hospital in critical condition. Five days later, having been placed on life support and declared brain-dead, Daniel died, too.
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
But as human beings who begin asking "why" practically from the time we slip out of the womb, I guess some explanation would help to settle our confused minds. She told the arresting officers that the "crazy voices" she was hearing suggested she'd be a better mother to her firstborn son if the other two were out of the way. By identifying the voices as "crazy" why would she then listen to and act upon them? If she knew these taunts were illogical, why harm the children she loved?
As the investigation continued, the news reported that Laurel Michelle Schlemmer had tried to injure the same two boys before in another incident. Though no charges were ever filed, it appeared that this mother accidentally ran over them with her car. In 2009, she left her toddler alone in the car while she went shopping. When observing a small child seemingly by himself, a responsible person called the police who determined that the temperature inside the vehicle had risen to 112 degrees. She was never held accountable in either situation.
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
It isn't my place to judge, and I don't. Her husband and the church her family has attended for over a decade are supporting Michelle, as she is known by those closest to her, through prayer and fond memories. The only conclusion her pastor could offer is that Satan is indeed alive and working to infest the souls of good people even today. Perhaps that is one way of looking at her horrible actions. Other professionals cite mental health issues which were never completely addressed. Possibly severe depression and acute anxiety played a role in her decision to murder her boys. Perhaps somewhere in-between these assumptions, lies the answer to the question, "why." But, for me, I still ask
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
I never met this family yet somehow in a strange way I feel strongly connected to them. My heart goes out to Marc Schlemmer and his remaining son, Joshua. How do they ever pick up the pieces of their severely fractured family? Where do they go to escape the horrific notoriety pressed upon them through no fault of their own? How do they reconnect with a wife and mother who murdered their son and brother? And, most importantly, will they ever know "why" she did what she did? I don't think so and perhaps they'll be much better off if they never have that question answered.
HOW COULD SHE? I DON'T KNOW AND PERHAPS IT'S A BLESSING NOT TO KNOW!
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
But as human beings who begin asking "why" practically from the time we slip out of the womb, I guess some explanation would help to settle our confused minds. She told the arresting officers that the "crazy voices" she was hearing suggested she'd be a better mother to her firstborn son if the other two were out of the way. By identifying the voices as "crazy" why would she then listen to and act upon them? If she knew these taunts were illogical, why harm the children she loved?
As the investigation continued, the news reported that Laurel Michelle Schlemmer had tried to injure the same two boys before in another incident. Though no charges were ever filed, it appeared that this mother accidentally ran over them with her car. In 2009, she left her toddler alone in the car while she went shopping. When observing a small child seemingly by himself, a responsible person called the police who determined that the temperature inside the vehicle had risen to 112 degrees. She was never held accountable in either situation.
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
It isn't my place to judge, and I don't. Her husband and the church her family has attended for over a decade are supporting Michelle, as she is known by those closest to her, through prayer and fond memories. The only conclusion her pastor could offer is that Satan is indeed alive and working to infest the souls of good people even today. Perhaps that is one way of looking at her horrible actions. Other professionals cite mental health issues which were never completely addressed. Possibly severe depression and acute anxiety played a role in her decision to murder her boys. Perhaps somewhere in-between these assumptions, lies the answer to the question, "why." But, for me, I still ask
HOW COULD SHE? SIMPLY PUT, I DON'T KNOW.
I never met this family yet somehow in a strange way I feel strongly connected to them. My heart goes out to Marc Schlemmer and his remaining son, Joshua. How do they ever pick up the pieces of their severely fractured family? Where do they go to escape the horrific notoriety pressed upon them through no fault of their own? How do they reconnect with a wife and mother who murdered their son and brother? And, most importantly, will they ever know "why" she did what she did? I don't think so and perhaps they'll be much better off if they never have that question answered.
HOW COULD SHE? I DON'T KNOW AND PERHAPS IT'S A BLESSING NOT TO KNOW!
Monday, March 31, 2014
Connecting Generations with Generations
In order to give my first chapter book, Playing Hooky, more authenticity, I included pics of the "real faces and actual places" that inspired it. Photos of my mom and dad, baba and zedo, and my brother and uncle were easy to come by. All I had to do was open the dresser drawers in the spare room and wade through the thousands that have yet to be organized and most likely never will be.
But since I didn't have photos of a few of the places, I decided to return to my childhood stomping grounds to see it they still actually existed. And they did. I visited the church and school, the community center and the creek, and the bakery that has survived over 60 years in a neighborhood that's been dying for close to a quarter century.
A few weeks later, my daughter, Joy, and her family came from out-of-town for a short stay. My grandchildren, Brady and Brenna, were bored so I asked them if they'd be interested in seeing where my mom and dad were born. After stopping at the Blue Bonnet Bakery for the best-tasting donuts and mimi coffee cakes ever made in the entire world, and taking them on an abbreviated tour of the Stay Tune Distillery which was once the John Munhall Neighborhood House and driving down the path to the infamous creek where my brother nearly lost an eye, it was time for a trek up Hayes Lane, a short, curvy Ravine Street offshoot.
Strange as it may seem, although I'd spent practically all of my pre-teen years roaming Ravine Street in Munhall, PA, I'd never ventured up Hayes Lane before. During my extensive research, I applied for a copy of my mother and father's marriage license, and lo and behold I found my maternal grandparents' address with house number included. I also discovered that in the 1930's my dad's family had lived on the lane as well.
My daughter was leary about driving up the narrow road since it was perfectly clear to both of us that only one car at a time could go up or down and there wasn't much space to move aside to allow for somebody to pass. But I was so excited, she had no choice but to continue on. At the top of the hill the road came to a dead end. Brady, Brenna, and I jumped out and began searching for 1042. Joy stayed in the car in case we had to make a quick getaway.
Midway down the lane I spied the sad-looking house bearing the #1042 with bags of old Christmas decorations and tons of empty beer cans stacked high on the dilapidated front porch. With my two brave grandkids right behind me, I walked up and rang the doorbell, waited a few minutes and rang it again. Just as we were about to leave, the door opened and a scruffy, unshaven man probably around 70 stood staring me in the face. I told him my name and asked if he knew who'd lived in his house previously. He said he'd been born and raised in that house and his family had lived in it since the early thirties. I gave him our family surname and he immediately rattled off the names of my baba, zedo, mom and uncle. Then he pointed to the house three doors down and on the left. "That was their house," he said. I asked him if he knew my dad's family. He nodded and pointed up the lane where three or four lots stood empty. "Those houses burned down years ago," he said. "But I believe one of those was where your father's family lived." Naturally I was disappointed to hear that, but was eager to see where my mom, and their great-grandmother was born. The three of us raced down the hill.
For some reason, the address number on my parents' marriage license was incorrect. It should have read #1032. Even after all those years, the house of our ancestors carried itself in a stately manner. It's a two story structure built high up with a pair of steps I'm positive my zedo built with his own hands. It has a front porch that extends the width of the house, and from what I could see, a back porch, too. From the looks of it, nobody was home. I told the kids that the next time they visited we'd certainly be back and hopefully gain entrance into the place that remembers our family's history.
By this time, Joy had driven down to where we were standing. As we got in the car, Brady began telling his mother all about what we had learned. When I asked him what he thought of our historical tour, my eleven year old grandson said it was cool. However my eight year old granddaughter wasn't nearly as impressed. But that's okay because as she gets older connections with those who have gone before us will become increasingly more meaningful to her.
They have certainly become more meaningful to me. And I intend to keep searching as far back as I can go. This journey has stirred up such strong emotions in me that have both allowed me to release some of my deeply-buried anxiety and helped strengthen my bonds with the people that mean everything to me.
I advice all of you to retrace your steps back in time and connect with your own families. It is definitely worth your time.
http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Hooky-When-Were-Kids-ebook/dp/B00J9UNB08/ref=la_B008DF4EE2_1_7_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1396275263&sr=1-7
But since I didn't have photos of a few of the places, I decided to return to my childhood stomping grounds to see it they still actually existed. And they did. I visited the church and school, the community center and the creek, and the bakery that has survived over 60 years in a neighborhood that's been dying for close to a quarter century.
A few weeks later, my daughter, Joy, and her family came from out-of-town for a short stay. My grandchildren, Brady and Brenna, were bored so I asked them if they'd be interested in seeing where my mom and dad were born. After stopping at the Blue Bonnet Bakery for the best-tasting donuts and mimi coffee cakes ever made in the entire world, and taking them on an abbreviated tour of the Stay Tune Distillery which was once the John Munhall Neighborhood House and driving down the path to the infamous creek where my brother nearly lost an eye, it was time for a trek up Hayes Lane, a short, curvy Ravine Street offshoot.
Strange as it may seem, although I'd spent practically all of my pre-teen years roaming Ravine Street in Munhall, PA, I'd never ventured up Hayes Lane before. During my extensive research, I applied for a copy of my mother and father's marriage license, and lo and behold I found my maternal grandparents' address with house number included. I also discovered that in the 1930's my dad's family had lived on the lane as well.
My daughter was leary about driving up the narrow road since it was perfectly clear to both of us that only one car at a time could go up or down and there wasn't much space to move aside to allow for somebody to pass. But I was so excited, she had no choice but to continue on. At the top of the hill the road came to a dead end. Brady, Brenna, and I jumped out and began searching for 1042. Joy stayed in the car in case we had to make a quick getaway.
Midway down the lane I spied the sad-looking house bearing the #1042 with bags of old Christmas decorations and tons of empty beer cans stacked high on the dilapidated front porch. With my two brave grandkids right behind me, I walked up and rang the doorbell, waited a few minutes and rang it again. Just as we were about to leave, the door opened and a scruffy, unshaven man probably around 70 stood staring me in the face. I told him my name and asked if he knew who'd lived in his house previously. He said he'd been born and raised in that house and his family had lived in it since the early thirties. I gave him our family surname and he immediately rattled off the names of my baba, zedo, mom and uncle. Then he pointed to the house three doors down and on the left. "That was their house," he said. I asked him if he knew my dad's family. He nodded and pointed up the lane where three or four lots stood empty. "Those houses burned down years ago," he said. "But I believe one of those was where your father's family lived." Naturally I was disappointed to hear that, but was eager to see where my mom, and their great-grandmother was born. The three of us raced down the hill.
For some reason, the address number on my parents' marriage license was incorrect. It should have read #1032. Even after all those years, the house of our ancestors carried itself in a stately manner. It's a two story structure built high up with a pair of steps I'm positive my zedo built with his own hands. It has a front porch that extends the width of the house, and from what I could see, a back porch, too. From the looks of it, nobody was home. I told the kids that the next time they visited we'd certainly be back and hopefully gain entrance into the place that remembers our family's history.
By this time, Joy had driven down to where we were standing. As we got in the car, Brady began telling his mother all about what we had learned. When I asked him what he thought of our historical tour, my eleven year old grandson said it was cool. However my eight year old granddaughter wasn't nearly as impressed. But that's okay because as she gets older connections with those who have gone before us will become increasingly more meaningful to her.
They have certainly become more meaningful to me. And I intend to keep searching as far back as I can go. This journey has stirred up such strong emotions in me that have both allowed me to release some of my deeply-buried anxiety and helped strengthen my bonds with the people that mean everything to me.
I advice all of you to retrace your steps back in time and connect with your own families. It is definitely worth your time.
http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Hooky-When-Were-Kids-ebook/dp/B00J9UNB08/ref=la_B008DF4EE2_1_7_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1396275263&sr=1-7
Monday, March 24, 2014
When Royalty Visits
I've cleaned the house, bathed the dog, and curled my hair. Yesterday I roasted a turkey, sliced it and am now letting the white meat soak in its own juices. This morning I'll make a chocolate cream pie and be sure to have a variety of beverages in the refrigerator from which to choose. Although it's rather cold outside, the sun is shining brilliantly. Even Mother Nature cooperates when royalty visits.
Prince William and his wife, Kate, are too busy with the new baby to come by any time soon. And, no, Mr.and Mrs. Obama aren't making an appearance today. I'm sure none of the gubernatorial candidates in PA will show up either since they're diligently crafting their pie-in-the-sky promises for the upcoming election.
But the folks mentioned above don't hold a candle to the elitists who will grace my humble home today with their presence. Having my first-born grandson, Brady, and my only-born granddaughter, Brenna come and stay for a day or two is an honor my hubby and I breathlessly hope for and ardently embrace. I suspect all grandparents feel the same way, yet there are those who either seldomly or tragically never realize such an honor. For you who are members of this sad group, you have my deepest sympathies.
I've drawn up a tentative agenda of activities for Prince Brady and Princess Brenna. They include breakfast at Pamela's, a hole-in-the-wall Strip District eatery, that is famous for its unmatched pancakes and crepes. Afterwards they have the option to try out the newly-opened tube sledding track at Kerber's Dairy, a local attraction noted for its ice cream delights as well.
Another choice on my agenda is for them to accompany me to a few of my old childhood haunts.
While doing research for my first ever chapter book, Playing Hooky, which hopefully will be ready for publication next month, I recently went back to my hometown to talk with people I hadn't seen in sixty years and to the places I still remember with great fondness. Believe it or not, even though change is inevitable, most of what I heard and saw was remarkably untouched by the hands of time.
Taking my grandchildren to these "holy icons" of my past, would mean a great deal to me, and give Brady and Brenna a greater understanding of their royal heritage. They need to know that they were born into a family whose history is rich in deep commitment to each other and to their religious beliefs. I also want them to realize that the generations that came before possessed an outstanding work ethic that led them out of the Great Depression whole and unscathed. By showing them that the men in our family unselfishly fought for our country in World War II, and that my dad died in the steel mills that supplied our forces with the necessary tanks and artillery to ensure a positive national outcome, I hope to impress upon them the fact that they come from a royal line of true heroes.
If we actually do everything on my list, there won't be much time for anything else. But I believe that it will be time well-spent for both the young and the old, and will have provided all with a wealth of memories fit for royalty.
My hope is that from their visit, Prince Brady and Princess Brenna will wear their family crowns with pride. And, even more importantly, as they mature, that they will emulate those kingly qualities their ancestors reflected throughout their lives.
Prince William and his wife, Kate, are too busy with the new baby to come by any time soon. And, no, Mr.and Mrs. Obama aren't making an appearance today. I'm sure none of the gubernatorial candidates in PA will show up either since they're diligently crafting their pie-in-the-sky promises for the upcoming election.
But the folks mentioned above don't hold a candle to the elitists who will grace my humble home today with their presence. Having my first-born grandson, Brady, and my only-born granddaughter, Brenna come and stay for a day or two is an honor my hubby and I breathlessly hope for and ardently embrace. I suspect all grandparents feel the same way, yet there are those who either seldomly or tragically never realize such an honor. For you who are members of this sad group, you have my deepest sympathies.
I've drawn up a tentative agenda of activities for Prince Brady and Princess Brenna. They include breakfast at Pamela's, a hole-in-the-wall Strip District eatery, that is famous for its unmatched pancakes and crepes. Afterwards they have the option to try out the newly-opened tube sledding track at Kerber's Dairy, a local attraction noted for its ice cream delights as well.
Another choice on my agenda is for them to accompany me to a few of my old childhood haunts.
While doing research for my first ever chapter book, Playing Hooky, which hopefully will be ready for publication next month, I recently went back to my hometown to talk with people I hadn't seen in sixty years and to the places I still remember with great fondness. Believe it or not, even though change is inevitable, most of what I heard and saw was remarkably untouched by the hands of time.
Taking my grandchildren to these "holy icons" of my past, would mean a great deal to me, and give Brady and Brenna a greater understanding of their royal heritage. They need to know that they were born into a family whose history is rich in deep commitment to each other and to their religious beliefs. I also want them to realize that the generations that came before possessed an outstanding work ethic that led them out of the Great Depression whole and unscathed. By showing them that the men in our family unselfishly fought for our country in World War II, and that my dad died in the steel mills that supplied our forces with the necessary tanks and artillery to ensure a positive national outcome, I hope to impress upon them the fact that they come from a royal line of true heroes.
If we actually do everything on my list, there won't be much time for anything else. But I believe that it will be time well-spent for both the young and the old, and will have provided all with a wealth of memories fit for royalty.
My hope is that from their visit, Prince Brady and Princess Brenna will wear their family crowns with pride. And, even more importantly, as they mature, that they will emulate those kingly qualities their ancestors reflected throughout their lives.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Yes, You CAN Go Back!
Last week I made a journey back in time. While doing research for a new book, it became necessary to visit my home town. Although I drive through the place of my birth quite often, I've never actually stopped in any of my old stomping grounds. But last Friday I did just that and am so very glad I did.
The John Munhall Neighborhood House was our town's community center where everybody gathered to learn, laugh, and love. It was a place where everybody knew each other by name and most likely was related to in some way. As a kid, I learned to tap dance, make fudge, do somersaults, master the game of chess, and a gazillion other things. It was there that I made my first real friends and had the first crush of my life. My mom learned to sew there, my dad made us a kitchen set and cornices for the house there, my uncle Paul was the woodshop instructor there. It was from there that many families left for a week they'd spend together at summer camp.
Today the JMNH is an antiquated building that shows its age and no longer opens its doors to children. I parked in what was once the playground area and began snapping photos of all the familiar outdoor areas.
As I was about to leave, a woman approached me with a smile and an extended hand. She said she was the owner and wanted to know if she could assist me in any way.
After telling Lee Ann Sommerfeld that I was born and raised in Munhall, and that I had spent all of my childhood in the building she now owned, and was writing a book using the area as a backdrop for my story, she invited me in to have a look around.
Upon entering the huge wooden doors, I suddenly became six-years-old again. I could see and hear the faces of people that were so instrumental in my growth and development. Once inside, I began telling Lee Ann about every room in her facility, what it was used for, and what changes had been made since I last walked out of those same wooden doors. Lee Ann was already aware of some of its history, but was amazed at what I'd told her that she hadn't heard before.
Lee Ann Sommerfeld is the chief, cook, and bottle-washer of the Stay Tuned Distillery. Yes, I said distillery.
She and Eric make whiskey and gin. How appropriate I thought, being a place where families gathered to learn, laugh, and love, to a place where beverages are made for families who gather to learn, laugh, and love.
What struck me most was how committed Lee Ann is to keeping the JMNH structure as close to what it was in its hayday than changing it to something totally different. Even though she is too young to have enjoyed the experiences I had there, she seems to understand the importance this old relic had in the lives of our community and believes it deserves to be refurbished rather than reinvented.
As I prepared to take my leave, Lee Ann invited me to visit again if for no other reason than to say hi. Walking back to my car, I felt my heart both heavy and exhilirated at the same time. Heavy because I missed those happy days with folks that are no longer with me, and exhilirated because I got a chance to relive those happy days and meet a person who embraces the mission to keep the JMNH alive.
Yes, you CAN go back! And take good advice from one who did, not only CAN you go back, but you definitely SHOULD!
For further info.on the Stay Tuned Distillery, contact Lee Ann at: leewines160@gmail.com and staytunedstills.com
The John Munhall Neighborhood House was our town's community center where everybody gathered to learn, laugh, and love. It was a place where everybody knew each other by name and most likely was related to in some way. As a kid, I learned to tap dance, make fudge, do somersaults, master the game of chess, and a gazillion other things. It was there that I made my first real friends and had the first crush of my life. My mom learned to sew there, my dad made us a kitchen set and cornices for the house there, my uncle Paul was the woodshop instructor there. It was from there that many families left for a week they'd spend together at summer camp.
Today the JMNH is an antiquated building that shows its age and no longer opens its doors to children. I parked in what was once the playground area and began snapping photos of all the familiar outdoor areas.
As I was about to leave, a woman approached me with a smile and an extended hand. She said she was the owner and wanted to know if she could assist me in any way.
After telling Lee Ann Sommerfeld that I was born and raised in Munhall, and that I had spent all of my childhood in the building she now owned, and was writing a book using the area as a backdrop for my story, she invited me in to have a look around.
Upon entering the huge wooden doors, I suddenly became six-years-old again. I could see and hear the faces of people that were so instrumental in my growth and development. Once inside, I began telling Lee Ann about every room in her facility, what it was used for, and what changes had been made since I last walked out of those same wooden doors. Lee Ann was already aware of some of its history, but was amazed at what I'd told her that she hadn't heard before.
Lee Ann Sommerfeld is the chief, cook, and bottle-washer of the Stay Tuned Distillery. Yes, I said distillery.
She and Eric make whiskey and gin. How appropriate I thought, being a place where families gathered to learn, laugh, and love, to a place where beverages are made for families who gather to learn, laugh, and love.
What struck me most was how committed Lee Ann is to keeping the JMNH structure as close to what it was in its hayday than changing it to something totally different. Even though she is too young to have enjoyed the experiences I had there, she seems to understand the importance this old relic had in the lives of our community and believes it deserves to be refurbished rather than reinvented.
As I prepared to take my leave, Lee Ann invited me to visit again if for no other reason than to say hi. Walking back to my car, I felt my heart both heavy and exhilirated at the same time. Heavy because I missed those happy days with folks that are no longer with me, and exhilirated because I got a chance to relive those happy days and meet a person who embraces the mission to keep the JMNH alive.
Yes, you CAN go back! And take good advice from one who did, not only CAN you go back, but you definitely SHOULD!
For further info.on the Stay Tuned Distillery, contact Lee Ann at: leewines160@gmail.com and staytunedstills.com
Monday, March 10, 2014
Writers Are A Rare Breed
Every now and again writers hit what seems to be a brick wall and can't find a way to get passed it. Even the best of them run out of ideas and are stymied by their inability to move forward. My first children's chapter book flowed onto paper like a swollen creek after the Spring rains. The story literally wrote itself.
But now that I'm working on the second one of the series, things aren't going as smoothly. I outlined my thoughts and, in the beginning, writing chapters one and two came off without a hitch. But then I experienced a conflict with my outline and took another road. That seemed to resolve the slow-down for the moment. Then, lo and behold, it happened again when I tried to start chapter five.
I call this start and stop issue, "sputtering." To see if this was a phenomenon particular to myself, I contacted my good friend, Mimi Barbour, a gifted author of Romance novels. She assured me that every writer sputters from time to time and not to worry.
But Mimi's advise didn't end there. She encouraged me to talk about the story with other writers and family. She said that doing so would yield a plethora of ideas that could be used immediately and even have a few left over for future projects.
Mimi also suggested that by working backwards from the end of the story oftentimes facilitates the writing and identifies paths that otherwise might not have emerged.
Lastly, Mimi offered to help by asking for a synopsis of my book to-date. She's willing to read it and tax her brain for possible suggestions that might lead to a happy conclusion.
Writers like Mimi are a rare breed. They are hardworking, creative individuals who love to tell stories for the pleasure and education of others. But they are just as giving when it comes to helping new authors get going in the business and are their biggest supporters.
Last Friday I was approached by a nana who told me of her nine-year-old daughter's love for writing. She asked if I could spare some time to look at the child's work and offer any advise regarding her budding talent. I read Amanda's stories and told the girl that the best way to become a good author was to write constantly. I also pointed her in the direction of IlluStory A+ found online or in bookstores that would allow her to complete a book from beginning to end resulting in a hardcover edition. Seeing her efforts materialized in that manner would be a great confidence builder. Finally I gave her one of my children's books to solidify a writer-to-writer connection.
Professionals like Mimi Barbour make me proud to be a writer. My hope is that I will reach her status someday and that I will continue to reach out to others that share our passion for the printed word.
But now that I'm working on the second one of the series, things aren't going as smoothly. I outlined my thoughts and, in the beginning, writing chapters one and two came off without a hitch. But then I experienced a conflict with my outline and took another road. That seemed to resolve the slow-down for the moment. Then, lo and behold, it happened again when I tried to start chapter five.
I call this start and stop issue, "sputtering." To see if this was a phenomenon particular to myself, I contacted my good friend, Mimi Barbour, a gifted author of Romance novels. She assured me that every writer sputters from time to time and not to worry.
But Mimi's advise didn't end there. She encouraged me to talk about the story with other writers and family. She said that doing so would yield a plethora of ideas that could be used immediately and even have a few left over for future projects.
Mimi also suggested that by working backwards from the end of the story oftentimes facilitates the writing and identifies paths that otherwise might not have emerged.
Lastly, Mimi offered to help by asking for a synopsis of my book to-date. She's willing to read it and tax her brain for possible suggestions that might lead to a happy conclusion.
Writers like Mimi are a rare breed. They are hardworking, creative individuals who love to tell stories for the pleasure and education of others. But they are just as giving when it comes to helping new authors get going in the business and are their biggest supporters.
Last Friday I was approached by a nana who told me of her nine-year-old daughter's love for writing. She asked if I could spare some time to look at the child's work and offer any advise regarding her budding talent. I read Amanda's stories and told the girl that the best way to become a good author was to write constantly. I also pointed her in the direction of IlluStory A+ found online or in bookstores that would allow her to complete a book from beginning to end resulting in a hardcover edition. Seeing her efforts materialized in that manner would be a great confidence builder. Finally I gave her one of my children's books to solidify a writer-to-writer connection.
Professionals like Mimi Barbour make me proud to be a writer. My hope is that I will reach her status someday and that I will continue to reach out to others that share our passion for the printed word.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)