On, In, and Around: I'll Be There Wishing Good Things for You

I took my girl to this castle-ish place (above) when she was a baby. She does not remember it.

Since then, fifteen years have passed. Six of those years (almost half her life), I have been a writer in this space. To her, I suppose, that must seem a lifetime.

Over that "lifetime," I have written almost 1,300 blog posts, both here and at two other personal blogs. Other bloggers would have garnered more page views over all this time, but I feel satisfied that these posts drew over 250,000 views.

Half a lifetime for my girl.

And what is that in blog years? (Somebody said to me yesterday that blog years should maybe be calculated like dog years. Maybe I've been really blogging for about forty years then.)

This week, one of my authors (I'm a small press publisher) sent me flowers, to thank me for believing in her book. I do believe in it. She'll go far. The National Review and World Magazine have both requested copies. She's going to be on quite a few radio shows. I want that for her.

I no longer want these things for me. If I ever did (I'd like to think I wanted these things as an author; it seems like the kind of things an author should want, to gain a certain level of success. I know I want my authors to want these things for themselves).

Anyway, I guess it's not important to settle this question. What's important is how I want things for other people. And how this has become the focus of my life's work.

 

Why yes, I'll still be a writer. That won't end. It might even grow.

Not that I necessarily want that either. Five books is a lot to care for. (Still, I do seem to have this little compulsion to keep putting things onto pages, where people can take them to bed, or on a picnic, or to their back porch.)

I do not any longer have a real desire to blog. "Forty years" is a long time. Or six, if you want it in human years. Or half a lifetime, if you look through the eyes of my daughter.

My girl is growing up. I want things for her. I want things for my authors.

And look... the sun is going down (or is it, in fact, just coming up). Let's walk into the sunset (or the sunrise), as the case may be. I'm in a good mood (don't let the mini-drama of this post fool you), so if it's okay with you, I'd like us to sing and laugh along the way.

Race you to the castle!

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You can always find me at llbarkat.com, to see if I do, in fact, keep writing (Oh, I'm sure I will. It's just a question of how and where). And I wish you a beautiful writing and reading journey, whichever you are on (and if you are a writer, it must be both). Thank you for letting me love you so long through the medium of words.

L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and co-creator of the quotes-on-photos app WordCandy.me. Give her another six years and who knows. She might be selling chocolate or teas.

On, in, and Around Mondays: Writer Needs Reflection

I can feel my heart beating too fast. My breath feels shallow. My body, jittery.

It's not caffeine. There's no threat here in the kitchen. It's nothing at all.

Still, the next phone call I take, I walk with it. There's something about walking that drains the barely-perceptible unease that pervades my body. It's as if with each step something falls away. I miss this outer movement that creates inner space.

After my walk, after my call, I sit and just think. What do I really need?

Swaths of time. Time to go deep. Time to stop surfing (oh, I do love to Internet surf, and find great inspiration in it).

I need a book. Something more than a 500-word screen article. Something to hold in my hands, with a cup of tea beside me. So I do it.

In the green wing-back chair, I settle with a stack of books near my feet. I read one half-way through—a book on Branding. My notebook is filling with notes. I drink Red tea and consider my own personal brand. Not my writing and my logos and online images and posts. Just my self. The Brand that is Laura.

I get up and go to my email, write an apology to a friend. An apology for being so outside-my-personal-brand lately. I thank her for her patience with me, then I close up the laptop and return to the comfort of my chair, my books, my pen.

It carries over into my morning today. Before anything, I sit down and study French, drink my green jasmine tea, plan my week, my day. I even take time to smile to no one at all. Just sit and smile in the dining room. This is me. It feels happy.

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On, In and Around Mondays (which partly means you can post any day and still add a link) is an invitation to write from where you are. Tell us what is on, in, around (over, under, near, by...) you. Feel free to write any which way... compose a tight poem or just ramble for a few paragraphs. But we should feel a sense of place. Would you like to try? Write something 'in place' and add your link below.

If you could kindly link back here when you post, it will create a central meeting place. :)

<a href="http://seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5083/5217906589_c7120874ca.jpg" width="308" height="69" alt="On In Around button" />

This post is also shared with Laura Boggess, for...

On, In, and Around Mondays: The Enchanted Writer

I have been thinking about enchantment.

My big girl has been carting Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment around. And this is part of it for me. I had meant to read the book, but as of yet it's been coming to me through her, this sense that the child in us (and sometimes the big person too), needs some kind of mystery and beauty and whimsy to inspire us.

Let's bring it down to me though. I have been thinking about what I do best. Or maybe just what I want to do best— and that is, be an enchanting writer, speaking directly to readers who want what I have to offer. There are readers who want what someone else has to offer; those aren't the readers I want to try to relate to.

This is important, because it means embracing who I am and trusting that there are readers out there who, in a sense, are similar, and want to obtain an experience of their voice, dreams, visions, and longings being expressed through words.



These readers probably have musicians and artists they prefer too. And maybe the musicians and artists give them something similar to what I give. I have been thinking about this a lot recently. I have love to give. Crazy, tangly, image-rich love. This might not enchant you. That's okay. But if it does, I might just be the enchanting writer you've been searching for in the woods, at the edge of twilight.




_______

On, In and Around Mondays (which partly means you can post any day and still add a link) is an invitation to write from where you are. Tell us what is on, in, around (over, under, near, by...) you. Feel free to write any which way... compose a tight poem or just ramble for a few paragraphs. But we should feel a sense of place. Would you like to try? Write something 'in place' and add your link below.

If you could kindly link back here when you post, it will create a central meeting place. :)

<a href="http://seedlingsinstone.blogspot.com"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5083/5217906589_c7120874ca.jpg" width="308" height="69" alt="On In Around button" />

This post is also shared with Laura Boggess, for...

The Book I'm Not Writing, Rachel 2

It is amazing how much time I spend thinking about a story I am not writing. It is even more amazing how anxious it makes me when I consider how lazy I am (a true novelist would perhaps look forward to figuring out such details as a story's time period and accompanying artifacts, would look forward to finding the answers to questions such as, "How do you, in fact, make a shoe?").

I do not want to answer these questions or dig for the details I would need. I remind myself that it's okay. I am not writing this story.

Still. This particular character has been hanging out in my head for a good seven years. When I first met her, she was strolling in the park, walking a dog. She looks the same. She is just as lovely and wears the same grey shoes. She is not nearly as bold. Her name is the same, and her Jewish heritage has traveled with her, but she is hanging out with sparrows instead of Golden Retrievers.

She is still meeting an Italian man, but he was much older before and rather talkative and married to... well, the same woman he will be married to here... except this wife is younger and I think she might even dance the Tango. Or something like that. Unfortunately, that is a detail I may have to put in and then take out when I discover the story's time period.

But that should be okay, right? Because how much work can it be to revise a story you aren't even writing?

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Part One, if you haven't read it yet.

Pigeons were cooing just outside the window, and one appeared to be nesting in the geranium box. The geraniums should have been red this year. Last year she’d planted pink, and the year before a brilliant purple. But this year it was time again for red. Instead, a pigeon was staking her claim, making a place for little ones where the geraniums should be blooming.

A hand crossed Rachel's forehead and slipped a lock of silver hair behind her ear. It was Francis.

“Fifth Saturday, remember?” she said to him.

“I remember, Nana.”

Rachel lapsed into silence. The pigeons were still cooing and the sky was that kind of blue that makes you wonder if the whole world is floating in a universe of water.

A voice came from the other side of the room, “What’s she talking about, Frankie?”

“Oh, the fifth Saturday. That was the day she met my mother.”

“She loved your mother, yeah?”

“Adored her. Not like how it was with my father. I think he scared her with his quiet ways. But my mom. Maria! They were like a tree and its shadow; one moved and the other bent to follow. You don't come by a friendship like that more than once in a lifetime.”

It was true, thought Rachel. She and Maria had met on the fifth Saturday.

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Do you have a story you aren't writing? Add your link below and link back here from your post. Thanks! :)

The Book I'm Not Writing (yes, I stole your title, Bradley)

What could it hurt to write some fiction? A scene here and there? Besides risking a little embarrassment because it's not my best suit, what could it hurt? I remember Julia (sorry my anti-Julia friend) saying that any one of us could write a novel just because. Just for the heck of it. I'm anyone, aren't I? Not a novelist by any means. But someone who wants to play...

---

The first thing she noticed were his fingers. Or maybe his fingernails. They were cropped to the tip, ridged and beaten. Yet despite their obvious wear, for a shoemaker’s nails, they seemed remarkably clean. This is the first thing she noticed.

The second thing Rachel noticed was the way he looked at her when he put the bag containing Edward’s shoes on the counter. It was not an unusual look by any means, and not too long. It was simply a flicker across black, like something remembered. Then it was gone.

She fumbled through her worn leather purse to gather the appropriate payment, which she placed on the counter in exchange for the paper bag containing Edward’s shoes. The bag crinkled and muttered as she gathered it against her chest, and she glanced at the wall of shoes behind the shoemaker. So many shoes stacked in little openings, like orphans awaiting adoption. Brown and black, grey and navy, and a pair of red shoes off to the side. Who did they all belong to, she wondered. Then she blinked and said, "Well, thank you, Mr. Delano."

The transaction complete, and thoughts of what Edward should need for lunch beginning to crowd in, she walked out into the day. Elm shadows played at her feet, gray against her gray flats. Her shoes were rough at the toe, perhaps because she sometimes scuffed the ground when she got distracted looking at this or that sparrow. Who knows why Rachel’s shoes were actually in need of repair. It could have been any number of reasons—their age, her gait, the wrong leather, maybe even that she never polished them. But she suddenly understood what needed to be done. She would wait, though, for three Saturdays. And then she would go.

---

I think it is good for me to write in arenas where I'm a beginner. It reminds me how tentative a person can feel when putting his words out there for the world to see. It reminds me to be very encouraging, accepting, and careful when I work with new or shy writers. I think it is good to write something I have no plans of writing... to simply play.

(As an aside, my older daughter just gave me some feedback: "Well, it's not very bad." Yes sirree. This is definitely embarrassing. :)

Egg in the Window photo, by L.L. Barkat. Apologies to Bradley J. Moore for stealing his title. :)

The Republic of Tea

Two unacquainted men left a business conference early. They shared a taxi to the airport, where they discovered they were also about to share a plane ride. Seven hours later, it was semi-settled. They would start a tea business together.

I didn't know much about their story when I ordered The Republic of Tea from the library. It was on a list of 100 Best Business Books and sounded intriguing. I also didn't know I was about to suggest a year-long "tea pilgrimage" to my girls.

It is probably subversive to call a year of pursuing something ordinary a "pilgrimage." But I'd already forged the way with another journey. So here we are. On Tea Pilgrimage.

The Republic of Tea showed up right on time, and I'm reading and discussing it with my 13-year-old (who stole it away and is already two-thirds through). The book is a delightful chronicle of a business, born and forged. It feels right— this playful treatise on business philosophy, packaging, tea markets and "Tea Mind."

After all, we have purposed to put tea on our minds (and in our cups) until at least next July. Who knows. Maybe this will begin a longer journey, like the 18 years that is now behind two men who left a conference early... and who are still filling cups (and minds) with tea.

10 Reasons to Write (or Not) a Book About Writing

I woke up thinking about reasons to write a book about writing. The slant of light behind lemon curtains and room-darkening shades told me to go back to sleep. It was too early to think about such things.

By 6 a.m., my thoughts were so loud I had to leave my warm, ivory cotton sheets to make a list of reasons (to do or not to do). The list is not a promise, it is a question.

1. I wonder if writing about writing might make me a better writer— it seemed to work for Anne Lamott and Annie Dillard

2. It is so predictable— a writer writing a book about writing

3. A handful of my favorite books are... books about writing

4. Is there a writing quota one must meet before writing a book about writing? Maybe I haven't met it.

5. I should write about what I want to write about. I have always wanted to write a book about... you guessed it :)

6. There is nothing new under the sun. Why do I think I will uncover something fresh? (Note to self: writing in place may be the key)

7. In Bradley's comment box, I said I wasn't going to write another book for a good long time. I should stick with my story.

8. People have enormous expectations when they open a book about writing. What if I disappoint people? (I think I am getting ahead of myself here.)

9. My daughter thinks I write boring books (translation: I don't write sci-fi fantasy). What if I disappoint my daughter by choosing to write on yet another non-fiction subject?

10. I am too busy to write a book about writing. This is an excuse of course. But it may be a good one.

My list is not a promise. It is a question. I'm trying to remember it's perfectly within my rights to answer it any which way I want— yes or no... or perhaps, maybe.

Fireworks photo, by L.L. Barkat.

The Soul Tells a Story

"How'd you get your start as a writer?" This is a question I've been asked a lot, and which I've done my share of asking.

Thing is, it has an ambiguous answer, because it's generally not a question about the writer-in-question, but about sweet you (or me), the inquirer... as we wonder how we might follow the same path towards publication.

If you asked that question of me, you could discover that, for over a decade, I wrote about air fresheners, baby wipes, Spanish wine, leather-bound collectible books and color film (right, they used to make film when I was a wee little writer :). Anyway, this might give you hope that writers can get their start just about anywhere, even in the wipes department.

I could tell you that I eventually started speaking, first at wedding showers, and later for a bible-teaching ministry, which eventually led to the infamous egg-and-cheese breakfast. This is the one where my spouse said, "You're doing a lot of interesting things, but I think you should be a writer. Writing is your greatest gift."

So we set off to get a professional opinion. And I was counseled to "publish something, talk at retreats, and go to Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference." I had a terrible time trying to get published in magazines, so after a year and a half of consistent rejections, in desperation I jumped the gate and began blogging. (The Blogging Editor has since kindly published hundreds and hundreds of my articles. :)

Going to the writer's conference turned out to be a good idea. I met great people, learned I wasn't alone in my struggles, and received interest in the book proposal my spouse coerced encouraged me to take along. One of the people I met at Mount Hermon helped recommend the book proposal to my original publishing connection, and that resulted in a contract.

In the end, I don't know if any of this can answer the opening question. Because how-I-got-my-start-in-writing may not parallel how you'll get your start. Maybe you'll write about the virtues of 5-point seatbelt systems or the relative elasticity of bungee cords for a decade, before you seek (or not) publication.

More likely, in this day of viral successes, you'll join a community like HighCallingBlogs (open to new members on January 5th, btw), SheWrites, or CCblogs; and if you make people laugh, cry, or sigh about 5-point seatbelt systems, you'll probably get called out by the community. People will begin following you, you may get recommended for feature, or you may even be asked to write specifically for whatever site you join.

At which point you might throw convention to the wind, jump the gate and self-publish. It's easier than ever these days. Or perhaps a traditional publisher will take notice and offer you a contract.

Either way, because I love a good story, I'll probably want to know... how'd you get your start as a writer?

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Speaking of getting your start as a writer, I recommend this gentle read: The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life.

And Bonnie of Being Transformed has just won a copy in our New Year's Giveaway. Congratulations, Bonnie. :) Also, thanks to everyone who joined our celebration with their beautiful "Beginnings" posts.

The Soul Tells a Story photo, by L.L. Barkat.

RELATED:
How to Write a Book Proposal
Publishing Advice from Industry Experts
Melo's Why Write or Share?
Bradley's, from the archives, How God Saved My Life Through Writing
Glynn's How I Became a Writer

Would you like to add your thoughts about Writing Journeys? Melo did a post and it got me thinking, wouldn't it be nice to hear from more of us? (Jennifer, you could turn your comment into a post! :) Anyway, if you want to post something, I'll link. Just drop your link into the comment box here.

Writers Have to Choose

Make some choices.

That's what one of my Manuscript Readers commented, when I was in the late stages of reworking Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places.

What she didn't know (at least I think she didn't) was that I was facing a crisis of identity. I can be lightly humorous at times, but all my Readers seemed more attracted to the poetic aspects of the text. I didn't want to be poetic. I wanted to be liked. People often like funny people. Ergo, I wanted to be funny.

But here was this Reader telling me in no uncertain terms... make some choices.

I think this is one of the hardest parts of writing. From top to bottom. From the big picture down to the individual words. What to leave in, what to leave out. Which face to show and which to hide. Or, if you prefer, which voice to sound or which to silence. (It's one of the reasons I blog and write poetry. In such small spaces, one has GOT to make choices. Good ones at that, to keep a community of readers coming back.)

Someone asked me recently when I first knew I wanted to be a writer. Huh?

I told him I never really wanted to be a writer. Maybe because I knew in my deepest self that, among other things, writing is an exercise in making choices. And for someone as spirited as I am, that was a difficult act of submission. In the end, writing seemed to choose me. Which means I've got to conform to this golden writing rule: make some choices, 'cause good writers have to choose.


Chosen by the Fish painting (don't know the real title!) by Salvador Dali, photographed in Paris by L.L. Barkat.

JUST BECAUSE:

I loved these thoughts from Erica on her history with poetry