writing prompts: first laugh, navajo.

i really really miss wondertime. here. i collected this idea because i love the sensibility of it. what a beautiful tradition.

wondertime used to run this whole series of firsts--readers could send in a quick description of their child's first--time skiing, lost tooth, snow day, etc. i still want to use this idea to create photo books of my children.

billy collins--forgetfulness

please please please read a book of poetry by billy collins. that is all.

the art of family.

i read this article a few years back, and have since had it in my head to have a creative space--a studio of sorts--where brad can make art, and i can write or whatever, and the kids can do anything and everything in between. i never expect we will have a large house, but i know that we will carve out whatever space we can for our family studio.

if you've seen any of the "i'm a mormon" spots, you'll recognize cassandra barney. i appreciate her perspective--see her video here.

new yorker: how i met my wife

found again here. i collected this idea because i love word play.

How I Met My Wife By Jack Winter, Published July 25, 1994 in The New Yorker

It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate.

I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way. I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I’d have to make bones about it since I was travelling cognito.

Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn’t be peccable.

Only toward and heard-of behaviour would do. Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim.

I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion. So I decided not to risk it.

But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make heads and tails of. I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen.

Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated as if this were something I was great shakes at, and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times.

So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings. Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous.

Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d’oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself. She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savoury character who was up to some good. She told me who she was. “What a perfect nomer,” I said advertently.

The conversation became more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal.

We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she has requited it.

“How I Met My Wife,” by Jack Winter Published July 25, 1994 in The New Yorker

to be published.

i just found out segullah wants to publish one of my poems in their spring 2011 issue. i'm surprised and excited. i submitted three poems on new year's eve 2009 for their annual contest, and heard nothing for months. i finally inquired about it, received a polite rejection letter, then had a baby and didn't submit the poems anywhere else. now i'm glad i didn't. this will be my first publication, and i feel honored. to find out more about segullah, click here. they also have a lovely blog. this is one of my favorites. and this.

family home media.

here is another article from my files. this article was written by one of my film professors. i was lucky enough to take a class he taught on children's media. i try to think carefully about what kind of media my children are exposed to and how we use it in our home. film, music, the internet, books--they can all be such powerful tools for good. reading his advice periodically is a great way to remind myself of what i want our family to be doing with our free time, and what kinds of stories i want them to hear and see. i like to think that sharing good stories with my children is like handing them a huge bouquet of balloons. stories can fill us with wonder, take us on journeys, and instill in us a sense of identity and purpose. stories can help us see the world.

image from the red balloon, one of our favorite films.

words

hopefully you've seen this by now, but it's been a while since i posted a movie. this is one of the best films i've ever seen. ever. and it's about one of my favorite things: words.

you can see more radio lab films here. i also hear the podcast is amazing, lifechanging even. i'm embarrassed i haven't checked it out yet, but if you feel like changing your life today, here.

the gospel vision of the arts.

here. i love this beautiful talk by spencer w. kimball. i first read it in a directing class in college, and appreciate the direction it helps give me as i work.

collections: ideas.

i am my mother's daughter, and really, my grandma's granddaughter for that matter. i have a blue file labeled "writer's prompts." for the past several years i've used it to collect ideas--articles about writing, interesting stories and anything that i find interesting. i am in the process of scaling down the file and going more digital, especially since i have found many of these articles or stories online. i will be sharing some of them on here, too.

we realized when we moved to this house, we decided to make the third bedroom a nursery/studio space. i also decided that i wanted to hang a bulletin board to use as an inspiration board. for months it has helped me stay on track with the color scheme i want for flora's side of the room. plus the pictures make me happy.

when we were visiting my family this summer, b pointed out that my mom has a similar bulletin board hanging over her desk in the kitchen. i knew this when i put up mine, and once again, chalked it up to being my mother's daughter.

how do you collect ideas and things that inspire you?

encouragement.

i've been thinking lately about my attempt to make summer a writing season. understandably, summer was not the time to do it. between new baby and vacation and birthdays and a little someone in our house starting school, the season has flown. but now we are in a new season: a season with daily rituals and routines, a season that requires more order and discipline, a season with less sunshine and earlier bedtimes.

so i'm going to try again. i figured if i write 1 story per week, i could have 52 stories one year from now. it's important for me to break down big projects into little bits like that--too often i think, "i want to write a book," but that statement has no instructional value.

with all this on my mind, i found these profiles especially encouraging. i'm just getting more into the new yorker lately (seriously, where have i been?), and found that over the summer they featured stories from 20 writers under 40. i have yet to actually read a story, but have been immensely interested by the profiles. suddenly i feel much better if it takes me a year to write a book. or several years. i'll still be under 40.

the writing season

this morning my dad sent me these quotes from stephen king's book on writing.

"Being swept away by a combination of great story and great writing-- of being flattened, in fact-- is part of every writer's necessary formation. You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it has been done to you." [p.146]

i think this first quote is my favorite. i tend to gravitate toward writing poetry and short stories, but when i think of work i have been flattened by, i think first of essays. the works of e.b. white and adam gopnik, to be exact. jonathan goldstein's short stories as well as his essays have also flattened me. dickens too. i realized recently, and now again reading this quote, that i need to be even more selective about my reading because i want to be flattened more.

"Reading is the creative center of a writer's life. I take a book with me everywhere I go, and find there are all sorts of opportunities to dip in. The trick is to teach yourself to read in small sips as well as in long swallows...." [147]

isn't that lovely imagery? i love his next advice too:

"...I believe the first draft of a book-- even a long one-- should take no more than three months, the length of a season. Any longer and-- for me at least-- the story begins to take on an odd foreign feel, like a dispatch from the Romanian Department of Public Affairs, or something broadcast on high-band shortwave during a period of severe sunspot activity." [154]

writing is a funny creature for me. it's something i think about doing, something i want to be doing, and for some reason, have a harder time actually doing it than i logically should. i find it easier to make excuses or justify doing other things instead, especially when i think of making long commitments or trying to write something longer than a one-page poem. but a season? i love the sound of a season. a season has completion, but it's not as long as a year. it waxes and wanes, like a good story should. i think a writing season sounds just about right.

i don't want to set any large parameters here, for many reasons. mostly, for once, i want to just see what happens, to start writing and see what the end of the season might yield. i don't know what the harvest will be--it may not amount to much more than writing in our journals more often--but even that would be something. i feel like my life looks like this right now












*

and if i choose to, i can care for it and get more of this














*for the metaphor's sake, i'm pretending those are cherry trees even if they're not. isn't imagination great?