Oct 17, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I like watching DVDs with commentaries. I’ll watch a complete season of TV on DVD and then start from the beginning to watch the episodes with commentaries. I love to hear the “behind the scenes”: what the writers wanted, how the directors portrayed the vision, what the actors brought to the table.
I just love the details of who, where, when, what, why, and how.
Sometimes as a creative writer, I feel the need to explain myself: why I wrote what I wrote; point out some cute little insights that the reader might not pick up on. Most of the time, my writing stands on its own but sometimes, I’d like to share my own “behind the scenes”.
I’ve fought against sharing too much, keeping it instead inside me, or in the pages of my journals… just waiting for someone to ask, “What were you thinking/feeling when you wrote that?” But with a limited readership, not too many ask. When I offer, the response is overwhelmingly welcoming and supportive. “Oh! That makes sense!” or “I’ll re-read it now.” So it can’t be all bad to share some background.
As it happened last week, I was glancing at a Louis L’Amour book I don’t yet have (but is definitely on my wishlist!), and saw that he often added Author’s Notes behind his short stories. It was as if the clouds cleared and I could see the mountain I had already half-climbed. If Louis L’Amour, a great, detailed, descriptive writer who brought the wild west into our hearts and homes so easily, felt the need to add notes, then surely, it was okay for me to do the same!
Starting next week, I’ll be posting “Author’s Notes”. Maybe once a month, maybe once a week. But rest assured that shortly after a creative writing post, I’ll delve a little more deeply into the details, the backstory. The commentaries. I’ll also post a tab on the home page, with links to the Notes, and those notes will have the link to the original creative work. It sounds like a rabbit trail, doesn’t it? Don’t worry. I’ll leave a trail of bread crumbs.
It’s as though Louis came into my writing room, turned the light on, and gave me permission to keep doing what I’m doing. Only this time, with a bigger goal: an audience. And that’s incredibly exciting. And intimidating.
I’ve also hesitated in putting too much effort into submitting my “ready works” ~ those short stories and whatnot that are finished and ready to go. What am I so afraid of?! There are about a buzillion excuses, but no good reason.
What is it I’m always telling Dot? “Fear is never a reason to not do something.” Well, yeah, but… we’re talking about entry fees. And red-lines. And rejections. And, not being good enough… I mean, those are legitimate concerns!
Flashback to several years ago when I discovered the beauty of Max Lucado. Actually, my mom discovered him for me. For Easter, 2006, she gave me this great little book: Mocha with Max. It’s a fantastic little collection of short inspirational reads.
Since my writing epiphany two weeks ago (which really was more of a conscious realization of what everyone around me already knew!), I’ve been taken with Max’s writings as well. Page 103, an excerpt from his book, “A Love Worth Giving”. He gives an example of hope, endurance, patience. From a writer’s point of view.
I often think of that story when I feel … afraid. Despondent. Rejected. And I think, if Max can persevere, so can I. If Louis can share a backstory, so can I.
And if they can be published, and accepted…
So can I.
But it won’t be handed to me on a silver platter. I have to work for it. I have to hone my vocabulary; be willing to expose myself to editors and critics. And I have to put myself out there.
But they did it. So guess what.
So. Will. I.
Sep 16, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
My mom and I and Dot are all pretty close. Three generations of women living in close proximity (don’t forget the five female felines!). Mom lives alone, just down the street, but we’re at each other’s house often enough. We talk every day, often. Our houses even have the same floor plan, but reversed. (That explains why we zig when we think we should zag.)
It’s pretty hilarious when I call my mom and we both have the same topics in our heads. We both want to make mac-n-cheese on Saturday. We both watch the same news, listen to the same music (Charlie Rich, Jimmy Dean, and Sinatra… now that’s music!). We both order the same QVC kitchen product, at the same time. We both have the same ideas about home decor, although her theme is Country Spring and mine is Coffee House Autumn colors. Even some of our furniture is the same (she likes white, I prefer dark mocha colors). Not all of this is planned. We just like the same things. We just have the same views on life. We are distinctly different, and wonderfully in sync.
Now, I’m not saying we’re identical. She won’t go to Disneyland with us. I don’t read the papers like her. She doesn’t rock out to the Backstreet Boys and I’m not too successful at gardening. We don’t spend every single moment together. She kicks me and Dot out of her house when she’s tired, and I send her packing when it’s time to watch “Friends” with my daughter. We do separate and have our own lives. We just share them with each other. A lot.
My mom’s turned into my best friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without my Mom. She instilled my love of words. I can’t remember her not reading to us as children, or giving books as toys.
I remember once when I was about seven, she came home from the store and gave my brothers toys. Things they could play with, interact with. And I got a Golden Book, something about a puppy. I was so upset. You can’t play with a book. You can’t make it climb things like a stuffed animal. You can’t build with it like Legos. And so I cried.
Until Mom came over and opened the cover, and asked me to read the first page. Aloud. Without realizing it, I had been swept into a world of saving the puppy, or the puppy saving something else, I forget. What I do remember is the feeling of freedom. While my brothers were confined to the physical attributes of their toys, I had the whole world in my hand. I had an adorably soft little critter who looked at me with his tiny eyes. I had the power to help him on his page-turning journey. I had imagination. I went to sleep that night holding my book. I dreamt of the puppy and our adventures together. The next day, I took out my stuffed animals and reenacted the story.
Indeed, my Mom gave me much more than words on paper that day. She gave me life.
There is no greater thrill I have then my mom’s daily phone calls after she’s read my blog or whatever other writings I’ve sent her way, and to hear her say, “You did good today.” It’s those little backpats that make it worthwhile. Because while I write because I can’t not write; and I write because I was born to write; it’s not her approval I’m after. It’s because I love her and the way she raised me that I write, and try to write well. I’m proud of my mom. I love my mom.
And this is my way of returning the world to her. This is my way of saying, “Yes, I can be the person you raised me to be.” This is my way of letting her know she did good, too.
Thanks, Mom. I heart you.
Aug 19, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is my response to a Writing Prompt from Writer’s Digest Community last year.
GONE SWIMMING: You and a friend break into your neighborhood swim club late one night to go for an after-hours dip. While splashing around in the pool, you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet – it’s someone you know.
It was perfect. I laughed a conquering laugh, having made it to the other side of the fence without getting caught. My limbs showed the light scratches of the chain-link we just scaled, landing on the damp cement with the quiet of a cat burglar. Joanie called me to wait.
Instead I ran full force, leaping into the enveloping wetness. It felt oddly warm for this time of night, this time of year. Perhaps the snow made it welcoming; 65 degrees in winter is much more appreciated than 65 degrees in summer.
Joanie beckoned me to stay in her frantic presence. I refused her again; reveling in the anti-gravity element. I climbed out only for an Olympic-sized belly flop. I welcomed the shattering pain and dove deeper into tumbles and other gymnastics I learned a lifetime ago. It was easy to drift, knowing I couldn’t get far. Until temptation began its slow tingling crawl into my determination. I kicked and pulled away from the buoyancy in a need to feel the boundaries of my surroundings.
The waters overtook me and I found myself floundering, not knowing which way was up or how much further I could sink. I was startled to feel Joanie’s grip on my arm, pulling me into a lighter darkness, away from the depths and into the moonlight. It was colder in the air above. I shivered as Joanie’s terrified eyes glazed. Without turning, I became aware of a presence following me up from the deeper dark: a body rising to the surface.
It was a wreck. Torn, bloodstained clothes. Terrible scrapes and deep, penetrating cuts on its arms and legs. As I concentrated on the ghastly wounds covering its head, Joanie’s grip released and I was sickened to be drifting closer to the mess before me. The bloodwater threatened to engulf me completely.
There was no spasm, no terrible calamity. Just a slow, methodical turn as the body brought its face to sight. I recognized the body, the face, as my own. I looked at my scrapes from the fence. Blood flowed rapidly from nearly every wound. I felt so dizzy. Was I floating? Or falling? I could feel nothing but the collision of my body becoming one with this, my body, in the cold dark waters.
The pool waters turned thick and red. Joanie fell a world away. Was she still reaching? I could no longer feel or hear her. She was quickly vanishing into a vision blurring into a dream. A very dark dream.
Joanie and I, driving in the wet cold; halfway between dinner and doorway. The flakes came at us like we were tunneling through a pillow fight; thick and unique. We celebrated in our excitement.
The fence transformed into heavy, crunching metal as I flew from its grasp into the water turned to blood, my blood. My body and I collided to welcome each other and sank into the dark tranquility. It was perfect.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 13, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is my response to a writing prompt from Writer’s Digest Community last year.
BENDING THE RULES: The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service”—but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside.
The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service” – but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside. He laughed at the thought of what he must look like to passers-by. No doubt, a down-on-his-luck replica of that famous you-know-who celebrity. If they only knew. Nothing is ever as it appears.
“Get a job!” someone scowled, causing him to jump back. He lost his footing on the wet sidewalk and landed, bum first, into an oily puddle. I need a stunt double, he mused to himself, then broke out into hard laughter. For it was always his choice to do the stunts himself. It gave more honesty to the scenes, he often said.
And now, with no director or script or camera crew, here he was. On the rain-soaked streets; trying desperately to reach her.
She glanced back playfully; egging him to keep after her, daring him to the chase. He rose to the challenge and started again. His stride automatically increased in large bounds but his focus turned to recall of how they met. There had been auditions and screen tests. Agents and managers. Meetings and negotiations.
She’s stubborn to work with, they warned. She has a will of her own. But he always loved a challenge. And he always got the girl. There was no need to think otherwise. Until now.
Their courtship barely started and he was in love. The tables had turned, and this strong leading man was now being led.
And so he chased. Whenever they weren’t working, and sometimes when they were, he pursued her in a manner almost ridiculous. Like now.
It had started when she greeted him in costume. She often found him half-dressed. Giving him no time to prepare, she grabbed his sandwich and ran away with a smile and “come get me” look. The chase, the game, the race. It was all on.
He gave no care to anyone or anything except pursuing her, and suddenly she was trapped. She managed to escape into the deli, out of the wet falling sky.
The irony struck him. Her beauty had always opened doors for her. Here he was. Soaked. Dirty. Determined.
He paid no attention to the sign, and strode in. With authority. She backed into a corner, almost laughing. The patrons, drying and feeding themselves, stopped to observe, whisper, and gawk. He gave no attention to his peripheral vision.
Finally, with no place to go, he backed her into the corner. She took one bite of the sandwich and dropped the remnant on the floor. She was collared, and she knew it.
He smiled his Oscar-winning smile. “Tell me you love me,” he urged as his embrace became more of a stronghold.
She looked up, licking her mouth more for his benefit than hers. Almost nodding, definitely winking, she answered.
“Woof.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
