Resuscitation by Fiction

The current covers for the Jack the Ripper Victims Series
The current covers for the Jack the Ripper Victims Series

I set out to revive the victims of the Whitechapel Murderer in fiction, to write dramatic novels about their lives and create a Jack the Ripper Victims Series. 

There is something of Doctor Frankenstein in what I did. These photos give a sense of where I started—with the police reports and evidence. They are mortuary images of four of the five victims taken shortly after they were murdered. The fifth victim was left unrecognizable, and the crime scene photo is so extreme, it’s not fit for viewing on this blog. Part of my goal was to give voices back to the five women who were lost 131 years ago, so they might tell us what life was like in their time. In the midst of the work on the writing, I used Adobe Photoshop to manipulate the mortuary photos and bring life to the faces. Being rather visually oriented, repairing the damaged features, opening their eyes, and giving them a hint of color gave me the most vivid sense that I was reviving them. I strove to change the faces as little as possible. Even so, I have no idea if anyone who had known the women would have recognized them from the images I came up with.

Motuary photographs of four of the five canonical victims of Jack the Ripper. From left to right, Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes.
Motuary photographs of four of the five canonical victims of Jack the Ripper. From left to right, Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes.
From left to right, Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes.

Of course, the same would be true for the novels. When writing a fictional drama about the life of a person who is long-deceased, one has to make up much of the story. I had to invent, to flesh out around what was merely a skeleton of information. There are points in the historical record in which we have some confidence that certain things happened. But we do not know what motivated the women from moment to moment. We don’t know what they said or did in most cases.Just as Victor Frankenstein did, I had to borrow parts to make my creations’ lives seem whole. Not body parts as the fictional doctor did, but parts from other lives. I borrowed from my knowledge of the people I’ve known, from history, from the dramas I’ve read and watched. I asked my female friends and family members a lot of questions. Some were surprised by what I asked about the female experience of love, sex, pregnancy, and child birth. Filling in the gaps, I had to bring my own emotional experience in life to the telling of the tales. As an example, my experience as an alcoholic was invaluable to the telling of tales about alcoholics, which several of the women seemed to have been. Yes, the stories are inevitably inaccurate. Yet establishing fact is not my purpose. A different sort of truth emerges from the tales. The object was to give readers some experience of the world the victims knew, to provide a sense of walking in their shoes, of knowing a different time and place through senses that, although fictionally portrayed, gave a persuasive representation of a bygone environment and social situation. That took a lot of research, something that, though plenty frustrating at times, I thoroughly enjoyed.

Covers for an earlier release of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series.
Covers for an earlier release of the Jack the Ripper Victims Series.

As I developed the book covers for the series, I chose at first to take advantage of the high profile Jack the Ripper has in pop culture. On each of the original covers there was at least an intimation of the killer. Although that may have attracted attention to the books, it wasn’t the best idea perhaps, since the novels are not about JTR. Instead, they are about the struggles of women in a society with a class system that kept the poor down, one in which women had few rights and were treated as having little value if they had lost their male partner and were past their prime years. These are novels about women for women. Men who love women will also find much to like in these tales. Female readers appealed to me to depict the women on the covers in a manner that spoke of life. I took the advice to heart. Working from the images I had derived from the mortuary photos, I created a whole new set of covers for the books. I regressed in age the faces I had done to depict the women in happier, healthier times.

For the interior illustrations for the novels, I often opted for the expressiveness of hands to convey emotions for the characters. As my good friend, Jill Bauman once said to me, “Hands are the voices of figures in artwork.”

"Reaching into the Past," interior illustration for OF THIMBLE AND THREAT, the novel about the life of Catherine Eddowes.
“Reaching into the Past,” interior illustration for OF THIMBLE AND THREAT, the novel about the life of Catherine Eddowes.
"The Old Woman's Crooked Hand," interior illustration for SAY ANYTHING BUT YOUR PRAYERS, the novel about the life of Elizabeth Stride.
“The Old Woman’s Crooked Hand,” interior illustration for SAY ANYTHING BUT YOUR PRAYERS, the novel about the life of Elizabeth Stride.

Not all the illustrations are of hands. Here’s one of a phantom of alcoholism that haunts Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols. All the illustrations appear in black and white in the paperbacks. The ebooks have some full color while others illustration are sepia, blue or green monochromes.

"The Bonehill Ghost," interior illustration for A BRUTAL CHILL IN AUGUST, the novel about the life of Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols.
“The Bonehill Ghost,” interior illustration for A BRUTAL CHILL IN AUGUST, the novel about the life of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols.

While writing the first novel in the series, I feared my effort would be greeted with the same horror people had toward the lumbering monstrosity that first awoke to Doctor Frankenstein. An American male, what qualified me to write about British women of the 19th century? I worried that women, my British friends, and those who consider themselves Ripperologist would ridicule my depictions. Yet that did not happen—far from it. The reviews for the books in Ripperology magazine have been glowing ones, women have praised the stories as sensitive and pro-woman, and the UK market is where the books sell the best. I gained knowledge of my subject and confidence with each novel. The Whitechapel Murderer is not a dashing figure who got away with something daring. The killer did not deserve my time and creative energies. The tales in the Jack the Ripper Victims Series are of common women who would have been forgotten but for the outrageous manner of their deaths. As with all of our stories, simple or complex, rich or poor, it’s the emotional content and context that counts. I found I had a lot to work with.

—Alan M. Clark

Eugene, Oregon

The novels are available in paperback, ebooks in ePub and Kindle format, and audio books from Audible.com

Click here to purchase the novels from THE RIVER’S EDGE

Below are links to purchase the novels on Amazon.com (The listing on Amazon may sell you one of the earlier releases that had a different cover and possibly fewer interior illustrations):

A Brutal Chill in August 

Apologies to the Cat’s Meat Man

Say Anything but Your Prayers

Of Thimble and Threat

The Prostitute’s Price

Puzzling It All Out

By Lisa Alber

My sister recently sent me a puzzle. It’s a beautiful, laser-cut wooden puzzle with intricate shapes and over 500 pieces. She had discovered the joy of puzzles to while away the winter and thought I might find the pastime therapeutic.

She sent me this “Twelve Days of Christmas” puzzle. A hundred bucks for a puzzle? Outrageous! But you know what? So worth it to experience the solid click of two pieces fitting together. It’s ridiculously satisfying.

The puzzle pieces are gorgeous, and, being real wood, they’re also sensual. Many of the pieces are shaped like birds or bows or figures. I love picking them up, holding them, fooling around with them as I binge-watch some Netflix show on a dull evening. (I’ve got a medical thing I’ve been recuperating from that’s ongoing — but that’s another story for another time.)

The puzzle sits on the coffee table. At first, slow going as it was, I spent dedicated time putting it together. Now, I’m savoring its pleasing disarray. Perusing it, I may pick up a piece here and a piece there, or collect together pieces that belong in certain areas. I’m not actively trying to complete it, and in the act of not trying so hard, I’ll all of a sudden grab two pieces and snap them together. Or, I’ll suddenly see how a little portion of the puzzle fits into the whole. Some area of my addled brain is working on the puzzle even when I’m not really working on it.

Sounds a little bit like the writing process, doesn’t it? I’m once again reminded that the brain is an amazing apparatus. I’d been having trouble with my standalone, and my enforced break from anything creative (talk about pain and suffering) hasn’t helped. However, the little puzzle moments — A-HA! — give me hope and the tiniest bit of inspiration that maybe I will get back to writing fiction in a serious way in 2020.

As 2019 approaches its end, I send you good will and peace and love. xoxo, Lisa

P.S. Here’s Fawn, hoping for a holiday treat. The ornaments in the background are vintage from my childhood.

 

 

 

My Holiday Gift to Writers, by Eric Witchey

Sitting female teacher surrounded by school-aged childrenPhoto Source: iStock, diego_cervo.
Please pardon my abuse of form, line, and rhyme.

A Holiday Story

Eric Witchey

Twas three weeks until New Years, and Wrimo was done.

The revisions had started. They weren’t very fun.

Plot  stickies were strewn o’r the coffee-stained floor

And my phone was turned off. Ha! Ring nevermore!

I hated the tinsel, the red and green lights

That draped from my bookshelves and flashed in my nights

My pumpkins and witches, bones, and fake gore,

With my raven were stuffed in a box by the door.

My letters to Santa went out in e-mail.

“Buy my book. Leave reviews. It’s right here on sale.”

Santa ignored me. He did every year.

My stories lived only in ether, I fear.

A notice of email pinged on my box.

Damn, I forgot to shut off my intox.

Better than fixing a flaw in the plot,

I clicked on the notice with nary a thought.

“Mr. Writer, it started”—innocent enough.

“I read your last story and think it’s real buff.

It made me think of my mom and my dad,

And I couldn’t help wonder if you knew how sad

My parents are that I’m leaving real soon.

They’ll miss me. They love me. Please grant them a boon.

Stories are healing, though I can’t be healed.

A story for them, I hope that you’ll feel

Is worthy of time, of love and attention.

Please, when I’m gone, if you could just mention

Our names in a story about love and joy.

Remind them that they still love this small boy.

Remind them that love makes a life and a family.

If you could do this, that would be dandy.”

After I wiped away my sad tears,

I read the kid’s closing and let go selfish fears.

“Please do this for me,” the brave child said.

“Give them a vision of love when I’m dead.”

Now, Wrimo meant nothing. Revisions felt lame.

Only one thing mattered. Not fortune or fame.

Only the love that a story can weave

Into the hearts of the people we leave.

Stories are doorways, or windows, or paths

Into hearts and minds to do work as salves.

Distraction, or message, or battles with dirks,

Stories give healing for foibles and quirks.

By telling in paper, e-reader, or chant…

By ink or by stylus, by pen or by rant…

The word shamans’ duty since stories began–

To bring healing and peace to just one fan.

That letter to me, no Santa would read

Santas don’t write. They can’t plant a seed

Deep in the hearts of those who must heal.

Word shamans do that—we whom muses wield.

For a child who loves beyond life and reproach

To the pen, to the page, to the tale we approach.

The years that will come are made of our vision

One family from all should be our heart’s mission.

-End-

Let’s Talk Portals

by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

In a past blog I shared a poem titled “Portal Home”. Today I’d like to expand on the subject. Portals are similar to the cosmological concept of a wormhole and some portals actually work using wormholes. When writing science fiction or fantasy a magical “portal” can be used to take characters to another time and/or location.

Why use portals?

  •  It literally gets your character from one place to another.
  •  It is a kind of decompression chamber, allowing your readers to make the transition from the realistic to the fantastic. It tells the audience that the rules of the story world are about to change in a big way. The passageway says, “Loosen up; don’t apply your normal concept of reality to what you are about to see”. This is essential in a highly symbolic, allegorical form like fantasy or science fiction, whose underlying themes explore the importance of looking at life from new perspectives and finding possibilities in even the most ordinary of things.

This tool in writing has no limits.  Places linked to a portal can be:

  • A world between worlds (parallel world)
  • The past or future (time portal)
  • Other planes of existence (heaven or hell)

The beauty of this story device is once your character has gone through the portal you then have license to create multiple portals—portals within portals!

A few examples you will recognize are:

  • Rabbit holes (Alice In Wonderland)
  • Mirrors (Through The Looking Glass)
  • Cyclones (Wizard of Oz)
  • A wardrobe (The Lion, The Witch and the Ward)
  • A Chimney (Mary Poppins)
  • The Door in the Living Room (Coraline)
  • A Cairn Tunnel (Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children)
  • A Wall at the Train Station (Harry Potter)
  • Television set (Pleasantville, Poltergeist)
  • A Rope Swing Across a River (Bridge To Terabithia)
  • A Science Lab (Back To The Future)
  • A world between worlds (Stanger Things)

What I enjoy most when using portals in my writing is I’m not only taking my readers/characters on a journey through space and time. I’ve also taken myself  “down the rabbit hole”.  Worlds are limitless and reality is whatever you choose it to be.  In my own writing somewhere deep in the swamps of southern Louisiana there is an Island void of present reality or the constraints of a date on a calendar.  Now while traveling to this Island may take you through a portal beware because one there you may encounter many more portals—through mirrors, dolls, juju’s, dreams—the possibilities are endless.

At this time of year most of us watch the infamous “A Christmas Carol”.    Which is your favorite movie?  Mine is an older version (1951) featuring Alastair Sim as Scrooge.

In “A Christmas Carol” Scrooge is transported from present, to past, to future.  In your opinion what was the portal used? What portals have you created in your own stories?

Cosmic Birth- Small

“Cosmic Birth” an original painting by Cheryl Owen-Wilson

In this painting I’ve imagined a cosmic tree of life giving birth to new worlds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brains Don’t Do Random, by Eric Witchey

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Brains Don’t Do Random

Eric Witchey

Every year over Halloween weekend, I go to a group of cabins in the mountains on the banks of the Mackenzie River here in Oregon. There, a little over a dozen writers and I settle in on Friday night and write scary stories. We set the goal of starting Friday night and having at least one story ready to read out loud on Saturday night. Most years, pretty much every writer gets a first draft of at least one story. Some of the more practiced and prolific writers will produce as many as three in a twenty-four-hour period.

Every year, someone finds out about this event and tells me I’m lying. “Nobody can write a short story that fast.” My response is pretty simple. I say, “Okay.” Then, I go about my business.

Every year, someone else who finds out about it says, “How can they do that?” There’s a hell of difference between the first person and the second. For the second person, I settle in and answer as best I can.

As near as I can tell, there are 4 components to being able to write 1 to 3 short story first drafts in 24 hours. The people who show up at Ghost Story Weekend have all four. If they don’t and they show up again, they generally have all four by the third year of attendance. Here they are:

  1. You have to believe it’s possible. See it happen, and you start to believe.
  2. You have to have internalized a sense of what makes a story. This is easy. If you grew up in a family that uses language, you automatically internalized a sense of story by the time you were three years old.
  3. You have to abandon the concept of making it good or getting it right. This is easy if you’re still four. It’s harder if you’re an adult; however, it can be practiced.
  4. You have to train yourself to produce in order to discover possibilities. See 3 for caveats.

The next step of talking to a writer who asked the second question usually involves them wanting to know how to practice 3 and 4. That’s a hard question to answer since no two writers are quite the same, but brains do have some common characteristics. Brains are all about recognizing patterns. Where no pattern exists, the brain will create one. Anybody who has looked at the night sky and said, “Look! There’s Orion!” has acknowledged this ancient and wondrous phenomenon of the human brain.

So, back to number 2. The brain knows what a story looks like. The brain knows you want to make a story. Now, you can plan a story. In fact, I often do. I’m not in any way suggesting that you should or should not. What I’m trying to convey is how 15-17 writers can, and often do, produce 1-3 completed short fiction drafts each in 24 hours. We are not talking good, though some are quite good. We are talking fun, finished, and shared. See number 3

Where was I? Oh, yes. The brain knows what a story looks like, and the brain will create a pattern even when no actual pattern exists. So, the real trick is telling the brain you are going to create story so that it starts trying to create story patterns out of the stuff around you. There’s a bit of a ritual to this. You can make your own ritual. I have one I use every day, which I will share shortly. However, the ritual for Ghost Story Weekend is kinda like this:

  • Decide to go.
  • Sign up to go.
  • Participate in the meal planning.
  • Start paying attention to ghost stories and all things Halloween.
  • Show up, have communal dinner, laugh, talk stories, write like hell, talk more stories, walk, more communal food, get anxious about the Saturday deadline, write like hell, print it out no matter how bad you think it is, and run to the reading.

I know. That’s doesn’t sound like much of a ritual. No arcane symbols were drawn (probably). No goats were slaughtered (certainly). No virginity was lost. (as far as I know). Still, the brain experiences all this as intention. Ritual establishes intention. The brain is internalizing these things as a set of instructions to get its shit together and start building ghostly stories in order to be able to create, produce, and deliver in a community where the tribe agrees this behavior is a good, proper, and rewarded. Human brains respond to tribal values. They get this stuff. They love a good fire and a little shaman tale-telling. Even more, they love to tell the tale.

Okay, but how do you practice at home to get the brain to play this game on demand. For me, it’s been about getting up every morning and doing some speed writing. I pick a writing concept I want to practice and three random topics from a long list I’ve built up over the years. The topics don’t have to be from a list. They can be anything. The first time I did this, it was a dirty coffee cup, a newspaper article I had just read, and a picture of a submarine. In the example below, the number came from rolling ten-sided dice. I go to that number in my list and use that topic. Here are the topics from this morning:

Concept: Push Pop (a.k.a., moving in and out of backstory in this case); 3084 Treatment center; 2243 Shaking, sitting on the bumper, after being lost in the back country. Freezing. Sweating. Relieved, and still trying to look like I belonged there. Like I meant to do that.; 0861 I always pre-read Christmas gifts I give. Doris.

Next, I check my watch or start a timer. I’m going to write as fast as I can for fifteen minutes. In that fifteen minutes of, literally, non-stop key bashing, I will try to execute the concept and touch all three random elements.

I start pounding keys in my attempt to touch each random thing while executing the concept. I don’t force the concept or the items. I just keep them loosely in mind while I let myself move into the mental space of allowing free association to flow through my hands. If typing is too slow, do this longhand. If you are going to use dictation as your dominant mode of composition, dictate. The goal isn’t to get it right or do it well. The purpose is to internalize patterns (concepts) while seeking to strengthen your flow state connection from brain/heart to your mode of composition.

In terms of Ghost Story Weekend, the concept would be Ghost Story.

The random topics can’t be tolerated by the brain. The brain needs a pattern, so it will almost automatically create one. Because of that, and no matter how impossible it seems, the mind will occasionally deliver the beginnings of an actual story. The more often you do this kind of thing, the more often it will deliver a story start. You don’t need to look for it or try to make it happen. When it does happen, you’ll know. You’ll be pounding away and have no thought in your mind of actually writing a story. Then, suddenly, you’ll go, “Huh. That’s a story. It just needs X, Y, or Z, and it’s a story. I’ll be damned.”

Of course, about then, the fifteen-minute timer will go off. You’ll think, “Shit. I was just getting rolling.”

So, you turn off the timer and keep rolling. I never place a limit on how much time I spend. I am always willing to continue beyond the fifteen-minute exercise. However, I do require at least the fifteen minutes.

Note: If you try this, keep in mind that it is very important to go as fast as you physically can. I tell people, and I mean it quite literally, if you don’t know what to write, write, “I don’t know what to write. I can’t believe that asshole wants me to do this stupid exercise…” Keep writing like that until something shows up or until the timer goes off. Over time, it gets easier. That’s the point.

Now, this ritual I have translates nicely into Ghost Story Weekend. At this point in my life and development as a writer, I get about three story starts per seven sessions. I get about one I really like per seven sessions. Add the ritual of intention that goes with attending Ghost Story Weekend, and the number of starts per seven sessions goes up. Normally, I need maybe three random topic sessions to find the first story I’ll draft at Ghost Story Weekend. Once I have one, others seem to come more easily, which I think is because my anxiety about getting the first one is gone. I can relax into the fun of the experience.

How do the other writers do it? I’m honestly not sure, but I think the combination of ritual, tribal values, and the brain’s innate need to find or create pattern is a part of the process for every writer in attendance.

The bad news is that this year’s event has been sold out since July. The good news is that the people who make this event happen have many other events coming up. Check out http://www.wordcrafters.org.

Here’s this morning’s warm up draft from the random topics above. When my time ran out, I couldn’t quite see a story, but I could see that the map, the compass, the cold, the idea of a planned life–all of these could be used to support a theme about a good life being built from the moments in which we are truly lost. We’ll see. I saved it. I always do. You never know when the brain will wake you up at 3 a.m. and demand that you complete the pattern it came up with while you were trying to sleep.

Concept: Push Pop; 3084 Treatment center; 2243 Shaking, sitting on the bumper, after being lost in the back country. Freezing. Sweating. Relieved, and still trying to look like I belonged there. Like I meant to do that.; 0861 I always pre-read Christmas gifts I give. Doris.

Sixteen miles was eight more than I had intended. The truck welcomed me a little after sunset, and the late winter freeze of falling night washed through the valley and my skin. Even before I reached the truck, my body betrayed my fear, relief, and nascent hypothermia. Still, my ego made me look around to see who else might have parked in the sno-park—who might see the late day cross-country skier returning to the safety of his truck and wonder what he had been doing out in the back country so late into the afternoon that another half hour would have seen him returning to the shelter of park, truck, and warmth in a racing skin in temperatures nearing 0.

I knew it was stupid. Part of me even knew it was cold, hunger, and dehydration, but pride kills people, and I was a person. Nobody saw me clatter over the plow piled snow ridge and the edge of the lot. Nobody saw me fall, strip off my skis, and hobble to the rear of my truck, and nobody saw me drop my ass onto the bumper of the truck even before I made an attempt to get my car keys from my fanny pack.

A vague, self-observing part of me laughed at my vanity. Another, less vague voice, smiled in relief.

Hubris? Pride? Narcissism?

Hypothermia. I started to shake in earnest, and I knew I needed to get my keys, get into the truck, start it, and crank up the heat before I would be able to put my gear away.

The fanny pack didn’t cooperate. Twisting it around to the front was a gymnastic workout. Finding the zipper took hours. Gripping it was like using frozen sausages as tweezers to pick up a contact lens.

The morning had been so pleasant—so full of joy and promise. A new home. A new job. My first outing in a new set of mountains. This was it—what I had worked so hard for, for so long. I had entered the world of productive white-collar citizens, and I was enjoying the benefits. I could afford the truck after seven years of bicycle only living. I could afford new skis after hand-me-downs from racers and always being five to ten years behind competitive equipment. I had new toys and a new skin instead of my coach’s high school skin.

The morning air was clear, crisp, and green wax cold. For me, it was perfect. Blue skies and squabbling scrub jays welcomed me to the Northwest forest. My trail book and maps were in order, and I had plotted my route—a short four miles, a shakedown route. An easy ski on a beautiful day.

No.

My hands shaking, the zipper finally gave. Digging in the pouch gave me a moment of panic. The keys weren’t there. If I had lost them on the trail, I was going to have to hike out to the main road and hope for the kindness of strangers.

Wax fell from the pouch. My compass. The emergency blanket that would have been my coffin if I had not lucked out and been directed toward the car by a couple back-country campers. I’ll never forget the concern and condescension on their faces—especially hers. I wished I had met her under different circumstances. He wasn’t worthy. He was a dick, and he would treat her like shit. Anybody who would tell a lost, cold man in the mountains that he was stupid didn’t deserve the kindness of a woman who shared her water and pointed out position on a map.

The keys fell out. Painfully, I groped in the snow for them. They couldn’t have gone far. The lot was paved.

Finally, my sausage fingers retrieved them. I managed to open the truck, settle in, start it up. A little afraid to look, I made myself check the gas gauge.

It was fine.

I had survived, and I would go home, but I would not tell the tale. Not ever. Not to anyone.

The first mile had been glorious. My body sang with the joy of stretching out my stride, finding my lungs and my heart rhythms, letting the winter song of roaring silence wash over me and sooth away the anxieties and frustrations of a week of dealing with code while surrounded by executive liars and bean counters who had no idea what went into the magic we did at our workstations.

The quarter mile sigh released all my memories of the week into the mountain air in one long, frosty misty cloud that I left behind.

I found my rhythm, and I knew I could keep it for an hour, which would bring me back to the truck around 11. I’d be back in town by 1. Shit, shower, and shave, and I’d meet Liss for an early dinner and a film. In the back of my mind, she was the next piece of my puzzle of life. I could already feel her next to me, my companion, my mate in life and all the struggles of building family and future. The vision was forming, and the trail ahead was clear.

-Stopped Here-

 

Words of Wisdom to Inspire

By Cheryl Owen Wilson

Please read each word listed below individually.  Close your eyes and see the vision each word brings forth.  Is it not amazing how one word can paint a vivid picture in your mind?

Joy—Peace—Love—Explore—Magic—Laugh

Depression—War—Despair—Fear—Cry

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We writers use words daily to paint pictures in reader’s minds.  We also use them to inject the remainder of the senses: sound, taste, smell, touch.  But what are the other uses for the tiny insect looking expressions of language which magically flow from our brains, through our fingers, and on to a page, or computer screen?

Words, the right sequence of words, when read at the right time as evidenced above in the few I’ve listed, can fill us with hope or bring us down to the dark depths of despair. The world in which we live at various times in history has plunged entire populations over the cliff of despondency.  Thus, I am using my blog today to give examples of how I’ve chosen to use words, in my own humble way, to help alleviate some of said gloom.

At any turn in our lives each and every one of us are in need of inspiration, positive reinforcement.  In every aspect, be it personal, work related or in the midst of an artistic block when our muse is silent, a few simple words can help to move us forward.   Give us that much needed shove to get over the hump, see the sunshine through the fog, or simply get out of bed.  For myself one of the ways I gather encouragement is through positive/inspirational quotes.

My first venture in to this realm began years ago with a deck of affirmation cards called Positive Vibes.  I pick two to four at random monthly and place them on the mirror where my morning rituals begin.  It is surprising, and then again perhaps not, how on the mornings when I would prefer to climb back in bed and pull the covers over avoiding life one of those cards tells me exactly what I need to hear.  I then carry it like a mantra throughout my day.

In my work life (as a business manager) I tuck one of the many inspirational note cards I’ve collected in each employees monthly paycheck.  I am always seeking new, fresh cards.  These cards are small tokens of knowledge discussing topics from Joy, to Dreams, to Being Thankful, to Being Successful.  I started this practice over ten years ago.  Only once did I run out of the note cards.  Unfortunately I had no time to replenish them, so no words of wisdom fell from my co-workers envelopes when opened.  I received many more comments of disappointment around not receiving those small tokens than I’d ever received over a missed hour or two of time worked, but not reflected in their pay. Now, I make certain I always have a surplus.

In another area of day to day life called social media, we encounter many negative comments. However, I’ve also found a plethora of not only inspirational stories, but also those positive quotes I seek out daily.  In turn, I personally attempt to post at least one inspirational quote a week.  I also pull some of these quotes off the internet, print them, and hang them in my art studio.  They are hung like precious clothes on a line, and interchanged often.

In the vein of all of the above I have collected some positive quotes on this solitary art form we’ve chosen called writing.  I hope you find them helpful.  I hope you print some of them, cut them out and place them where they will be seen when most needed.

What is your favorite inspirational quote?

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Gratefulness: The Stone in Community Soup

FB1FBD85-58CF-4860-9801-6906C8C78E09By Cynthia Ray

In Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants, she says:

It is said that only humans have the capacity for gratitude. This is among our gifts.  It is such a simple thing, but we all know the power of gratitude to incite a cycle of reciprocity. We know that appreciation begets abundance”

It is almost as if appreciation and gratitude create something from nothing. There is an old folk tale called “Stone Soup” in which hungry travelers without resources or food put a stone into a pot of boiling water.  Curious villagers stop by to see what is going on and are told that this is stone soup, and if only they had a bit of garnish to improve the flavor it would be quite tasty.  Intrigued, the first villager contributes a few carrots for which the travelers are grateful.  The next passer-by contributes an onion, and so on, until a delicious soup is created and shared by all.  The inedible stone becomes the catalyst for sharing and nourishes everyone and generates gratitude which begets abundance.

The value of connection with a vibrant, generous, and creative group of writers and artists cannot be overstated. Through the miracle of connection, a wonderful community soup emerges, that nourishes all of us as writers, as artists, and as a people.

When I took a writing class at a local community college, many years ago, I had no idea that it would launch me on a lifetime journey of discovery, of becoming, and of connection.  In that short fiction writing class I met writers with a similar mindset and purpose.  They were quirky, off-beat, had a sense of humor, and loved to write and read fiction of all kinds.  The teacher, a well-known published author, made her living as a full-time writer.  That in itself was inspiring, but she also had a heart for mentoring and encouraging budding and would be writers of all ages and abilities.  She created community just by who she was and what she believed in.   Just like in the folk tale, giving creates community, and is reciprocal, ongoing, and ever-expanding.

One key piece of advice that I took from her class was to join a writing critique group, and to attend writing conferences and workshops.  Since then, I have been a member of several writing and critique groups and facilitated one for several years.  In those circles, one comes to know people on a different level.  These groups provided a place to share the knowledge, expertise, challenge and joy of writing.  The connection and friendships that came from those critique groups continue to unfold.

Over time, the connections that I have made with writers, artists, and mystics, have supported me, have inspired me, and have amazed me.  When someone I know publishes a book or story, I feel pride for them.  I buy the book, read it, review it, and share it.   I know what it takes to write a story, I know what they put into that book. Perhaps I heard them read an early version at a critique group, or perhaps they shared the struggle to produce that beautiful piece of work, and I rejoice with them that it passed out of the valley of the shadow of possibility, and through their efforts into a real contribution to the community soup.

Another gift connection brings is the synergistic and creative collaboration that is born out of artistic community. Two examples from Shadowspinners include the collaborative “Collection of Dark Tales”, and the Labyrinth of Souls Novels, which started as a collaboration between Matt Lowes as the creator of a game called Labyrinth of Souls based on Tarot cards, and an artist in Germany. The game inspired a collaboration of writers to produce novels loosely based on the game, with the common theme of a journey to an underworld.  Some incredible writing came and continues to come from that collaboration.

I am eternally grateful for the indelible friendships, for the generous, open-hearted hands that helped me along the way, with feedback, with encouragement, with a kick in the backside when needed, and everything that went into the community soup, even the stones. No, especially the stone.  It’s the catalyst.

 

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Friends are Forever….