Mine Your Memories

As I approach my 70^th year, I have a growing appreciation for my storehouse of memories. Many things weaken or diminish with the passing years, but if I’m observant, I can gather fresh life experiences every day. These are a priceless resource for my writing. 

Even painful experiences can serve me well. I remember the utter helplessness when my first serious girlfriend dumped me for another guy. I remember the numbness of being summarily fired from my dream job just before Christmas. I remember the acrid taste in my mouth as I watched my wife lying on her hospice bed day after day, dying of cancer. These experiences cost me dearly. Why should I try to put them out of my mind? They might bring something redemptive to my writing.

A recent movie titled, “The Man Who Invented Christmas,” showed Charles Dickens populating his “Christmas Carol” with characters he encountered in his daily life. He made exact replicas, down to their names. For example, a grumpy old waiter at Dickens club, named Marley, became the shuffling specter of Scrooge’s business partner, also named Marley. 

Now it would not be very creative or legally prudent to use my memories in such cookie-cutter fashion. (My least favorite high-school teacher could sue for slander if I made my villain an exact copy of him!)  But if I incorporate a few of his eccentric habits and colorful phrases into a fictional character, that character gains authenticity.

Rather than trying to use a memory as a template for your character or setting, I suggest that you take inspiration from it. Use it as a litmus test for what you create. How realistic is the character’s response when bad news comes? How authentic does the cooking smell in your heroine’s kitchen? How plausible is that Oklahoma native's slang expression? These are sorts of questions your memories can answer. 

We often hear that a skilled writer has good instincts. Even more important, I believe, a skilled writer has rich memories.

Joe Allison has been a member of the Indiana chapter of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2010. He lives in Anderson, IN. His non-fiction books include Setting Goals That Count and Swords and Whetstones.

I'll Take You There

My daughter had hit a rough patch in her marriage. She and her husband were seeing a Christian counselor, but the emotional stress seemed more than she could bear. In desperation, she sent me a text message: "I wish I could be with you guys right now."

What could I do? Much as I wanted to relieve the pressure she felt, I dare not suggest that she pack her bags and come home to Mom and Dad. That would only make her problems worse. But I could offer her another kind of escape...into the world of imagination. So I texted back:

Let’s go to Granny’s porch to eat some watermelon...The sun’s just gone down and the jar flies are singing (ee-oh-ee-oh-ee-oh-ee-oh-eeeee). Tell me what you see.

This memory came from an evening we actually shared at my mother's home in Tennessee twenty years before.  It was a pleasant, peaceful memory for all of us. We couldn't actually go there anymore because my mother had been in an Alzheimer's center for years, and that house was sold long ago. But my daughter texted back:

I see Bouncer and Cricket [Granny's dogs] doing laps around the perimeter of the yard, trying their darnedest to teach those squirrels a lesson…I see Uncle Dan and Keith crafting a complicated firework cannon with Coke cans and duct tape…Howard is bringing a handful of fresh veggies up from the garden…corn, ‘maters, zucchini…

Together we recreated this scene from our past, and it became a soothing balm for my daughter's spirit. She later said, "With that one message you wrapped your arms around me, Daddy (through a veil of tears)…"

I believe this is an important way God can use the stories we write. With just a few descriptive hints (e.g., the jar flies' song), we can take readers to another time and place to gain a fresh perspective on what's happening here and now. Don't disdain the value of "escapist" fiction, because sometimes our readers need exactly that: an opportunity to withdraw from the heat of the battle to be refreshed and renewed. We can spirit them away to such a place, using memories that we have in common.

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Joe Allison and his wife, Judy, live in Anderson IN, where Joe serves as Coordinator of Publishing for Church of God Ministries, Inc. Joe has several nonfiction books in print, including Swords and Whetstones: A Guide to Christian Bible Study Resources. He's currently writing a trilogy of Christian historical novels set in the Great Depression.

Visit Joe's blog at http://hoosierwriter.wordpress.com

When "Small" Moments Become Huge Blessings by JoAnn Durgin

Ever experience one of those sweet moments where you can sense God's blessing and His watch care over you in way that's unique and oh so special? I've been blessed with a number of them in my life and I hope you, too, can name at least a few. One such memory from the last few years sticks out in my mind and I'd like to share it with you.

After permanently returning to my native southern Indiana in late 2005, I worked part-time for five years at The Kentucky Center for the Arts as a floor manager (in addition to my full-time paralegal position). Basically, I ran around with a headset and supervised a volunteer staff of ushers and ticket takers and made sure the patrons found their seats. On occasion, I was required to mediate some difficult circumstances and, although trained in CPR, I thank the Lord those skills were never called upon. It was also during my tenure there that I wrote a number of books in my Lewis Legacy Series; I used the quiet time during the performances (floor managers had to remain outside the theater) to work on my current manuscript (and the references in Book #3, "Twin Hearts," to The Wizard of Oz reflect that "Wicked" was in production at the time).

I loved working at The Kentucky Center, primarily because of the interaction with the volunteers, many of whom are seniors (but always young at heart, as they often reminded me). I developed a rapport with and genuinely cared for many of them, and I like to think the feeling was mutual.  However, there was one gentlemen named Tom who was the proverbial "thorn in my side" for the longest time. Tom loved to tell me what I'd done wrong (especially when I was new in the position), and he corrected me on a frequent basis, usually in front of other volunteers.

Gradually, after a couple of years, I developed a rapport of sorts with Tom. He began to see I knew what I was doing and could perform my duties with a certain degree of proficiency. Tom told me one fine day that he respected me for always wearing a smile and having a kind word in spite of the sometimes trying circumstances with patrons as well as volunteers and other staff. Our relationship changed with those encouraging and supportive words. The wariness I'd felt when in his presence transitioned to mutual understanding. In hindsight, I could see Tom always intended to help me, not embarrass or belittle me. He meant well yet had a unique way of going about it. One afternoon, he sat outside the theater with me (instead of watching the show) and talked with me about my writing pursuits--listening, asking questions and even giving me some helpful hints of ways I might be able to market my books. From that point on, Tom made it a point to inquire about my latest book or project.

On another occasion, during the intermission in one of the shows, Tom happened to be standing nearby. We started talking about something or other in casual conversation and he mentioned the fraternity he'd belonged to at the University of Louisville. He perked up when I told him my dad belonged to the same fraternity, also at Louisville. Turns out, my dad was nicknamed "Cub" in the TKE fraternity all those years ago, and Tom was one of his fraternity brothers. I'll never forget how he gave me a bright smile and said, "You're Cub's daughter?" For one thing, I never knew my dad's nickname in college. Tom shared some fun and wonderful memories of my father and told me his photo was probably still in a certain display case at the university (I found it, and it is).

From that point on, Tom held a very special place in my heart. Whenever we saw one another, he'd give me a big hug and say, "How's Cubbie today?" I love that he called me that. In a way it was bittersweet since my dad passed away a number of years ago. I've only talked to Tom a couple of times since leaving The Kentucky Center, but I'm going to make it a point to look him up again. I hope he's still a volunteer so I can plan on popping in one night to visit with him and get another one of his hugs.

It's this same type of memory and special moment that can infuse your writing with poignancy and insights that will impact your reader, sometimes more than you'll ever know. Especially if it's something you've experienced personally, there's a realism that will resonate with your readers. In one of my books, my hero's father died of cancer (a brain tumor) many years before. His relationship with his dad was explored to a certain extent from the hero's POV. It was a very small portion of the book, but one reader wrote and told me how closely she identified with that situation because her sister is suffering from a potentially fatal brain tumor. Reading about the regrets of the hero and how his father closed himself off and didn't want anyone to see how ill he was encouraged her (the reader) to reach out to her sister and make sure the connection was strong so she could help her, pray for her and let her know she cares and is always there. That touched me in a profound way. This was an aspect of the book I had no clue would ever have a positive impact on someone to the point where it prompted action on their part.

Think about such special moments in your life. Is there something you can share from your own experience that you can incorporate in your books? Something to ponder. Many blessings as you write for His glory, my friends.

JoAnn
Matthew 5:16

Stringing Pearls, Sipping Tea, Peppermints and Jungle Gardenia by JoAnn Durgin

My dear friends, I must apologize because this is a repost. However, it’s near and dear to my heart. I’d like to tell you about my beloved grandmother, a woman who taught me to believe in myself and that--with the Lord’s help--I could do anything. As much as writing fiction is a driving passion at this stage of my life, I adore the opportunity to occasionally write about my “real life.” Granny inspired me, she told me constantly that she loved and believed in me. May you all have someone like that in your life. Many blessings to you. Matthew 5:16

Many of my own life experiences have eventually found their way into a book. As such, I believe they lend a certain depth of realism that resonates with the reader. Both good and bad, bittersweet or joyous, my unique memories have shaped me into the woman I am today. I’d like to share with you some memories of my Granny, my Dad’s mother. I am independent like Granny. My daughter, Chelsea, resembles her physically and I can see my grandmother in my daughter’s smile. Granny taught me to be strong in the face of adversity and follow my dreams. I like to think I inherited some of her creativity and sense of humor, as well as her positivity and optimism.

When I was three, my parents divorced—a still rather uncommon event at that time. As she tells it, my mom was tired of my Dad’s “ridiculous dreams,” including his elaborate plans to build a bomb shelter in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis and his proclivity to chain smoke cigarettes. In some ways, I’m not sure he knew how to be a father. But in the quiet ways, he showed us he loved us by building things with his hands, including an elaborate dollhouse for me, complete with working electricity and chandeliers hand-beaded by Granny.

After they divorced, Daddy picked up my older brother and me on alternate weekends and he’d take us to visit Granny (with whom he lived at the time) a few miles away. She lived in an old but well-maintained two-story white house on Utica Pike, a narrow, two-lane road and homes with long, gravel driveways and sweeping front yards dotted with large weeping willow and gorgeous mimosa trees. We’d bake apple pies with fruit we picked in the backyard, string pearls, sip iced tea on the screened-in summer porch. My brother and I played with some of the same toys that belonged to my dad and his two brothers—antique toy soldiers probably worth a small fortune today. We listened to her stories of our grandfather’s and father’s respective stints in the Army and heard many a tale about the great flood of ’37 (the “big one” that destroyed their favorite puppet show theatre). Stories of when the Ohio River froze over and they could slip and slide from Indiana to Kentucky. Tales of the Happy Hunting Grounds, her term for Heaven. Granny smelled of peppermints and Jungle Gardenia. She wore handknitted dresses she made with her increasingly arthritic hands. And she had a stole made from a real fox—head included—that scared us to death.

Some of my sweetest memories are sitting in her front yard, cheering on the Belle of Louisville steamboat as it raced Cincinnati’s Delta Queen on the Ohio River in late April, a week or two before the Kentucky Derby each year. When I was seven, Granny took me to the National Doll Club Convention, held in Louisville that year. I’ll admit I was embarrassed to be dressed up like a doll. Even had a write-up in the local newspaper, “Living Doll Attends Doll Show” featuring a photo of me in the dress she made and my doll with a matching outfit. I’ll never forget the pride in Granny’s voice as she introduced me to her doll club collector friends and bragged about how talented and special I was. She believed in me, and I’ll never forget that.

By this time, Daddy had remarried and, for various reasons, there was a period of time when we didn’t see him—or Granny—as much. Before I knew it, I’d graduated from high school and then college and moved to Dallas, independent and ready to greet the world and make my mark. I saw Granny every time I came home for the holidays and she was spunky and active as ever although she’d finally moved into a retirement center. She was born for a place like that. When she started painting in her 70s or thereabouts, she called herself a “Grandma Moses wannabe.” Granny lived the type of life all of us would wish—rich and full with laughter, faith, family and friends. She had a heart attack at 82, and the Lord kept her around long enough to gather her three boys beside her to tell them she loved them before she made the leap into the Happy Hunting Grounds and onto the next adventure.

Yes, Granny had a very strong influence on the woman I am today, the mother I am today and yes, the writer I am today. If you’ve read my debut novel, Awakening, you might recognize my heroine Lexa’s grandmother, Nana, down to the details of stringing pearls and sipping tea on the summer porch. And yes, even a mention of the Happy Hunting Grounds. She taught me that—with the Lord’s help—I could do whatever I wanted. Dream big. And so I did.

I trust you have a “Granny” in your life, whether in cherished memories or beside you to hold your hand and help you see the best in people and life’s situations, both good and bad.

Sleep well, Granny. I love you dearly, and I’ll see you again one day.

 

 

 

JoAnn Durgin is the author of the popular Lewis Legacy Series (Torn Veil Books). The fourth book in the series, Daydreams, released in late 2012, as well as Meet Me under the Mistletoe, a 2012 Christmas novella (Pelican Group Ventures/White Rose Publishing). She also has a short story, Please, published in I Choose You, a romance anthology (OakTara Publishers). JoAnn lives with her husband, Jim, and their three children in her native southern Indiana. She's an estate administration paralegal in a large Louisville, Kentucky law firm. She’d love to hear from you via her website (www.joanndurgin.com) or at Author JoAnn Durgin on Facebook.

My Favorite Things

It doesn't take diamonds, or fabulous trips to exotic locations, or anything expensive in terms of worldly possessions to make me happy. Mind you, that's not to discount my travels or my pearl and diamond ring. It's the memories I have, the memories I'm making, and the things I'm looking toward in the future that make me content. And the older I get, the more the concept of simply being content makes me happy. It's not a feeling of "settling," but a feeling of knowing I've run the race and fought the good fight. I'm secure knowing I'm where the Lord wants me at this point in my life. Lest you worry, no, I'm not ill, but with the dawn of this new year, I am perhaps being retrospective. It's not so much the "things" of this life which make me happy or content, of course, but the memories associated with them that give me incredible joy.

What started me thinking along these lines? I bought a Hallmark Christmas ornament at 75% off the other day. It's a replica of the famous "Cheers" sign used in the TV show of the same name. There's a little button on the side, and when pushed, it plays the theme song. It brings a smile every time I hear that song: "Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came..." I'm going to leave it on my desk year-round for when I need a little pick-me-up. Other things that make me smile: the report card with two A+ grades my 15-year-old Asperger's Syndrome-diagnosed son earned in two tough subjects (biology and algebra); my daughter's smile as she finally got her braces (she's 19); the way my husband looked at the photo on my third book and said, "I really love this photo of you." Those are memories I'll always treasure. Other things? Mountain Spring Tide and Downy. Wow, they sure are expensive these days, but they're the best at stain fighting and smelling fantastic, so I spring for them and skimp on other things. The taste of a cake from my favorite bakery or a homemade chocolate chip cookie also make me smile. The sight of the first daffodils of spring pushing their way through the ground hardened by winter's snows, and the scent of honeysuckle on the vine...is there anything quite like them?

When I was a kid, buying three Nancy Drew books with my $5 weekly allowance made me happier than anything (I'm showing my age here, but I'm actually beginning to love and appreciate my current age. It's where the Lord has brought me at this point in my life, and I'm not complaining). Being presented with a doll house made with loving hands by my grandmother and dad filled with me with a sense of pride and family. Going to an antique doll convention with Granny when I was seven and being called "A Living Doll" in a write-up in the Louisville Courier-Journal was exciting. Now, every time I look at that doll, my heart swells with love for my grandmother (the inspiration for Lexa Clarke's Nana in Awakening). She took the doll head I got at that convention (called "Miss Kentucky") and made her into a doll for me, dressing her in a beautiful velvet, beaded dress -- complete with a matching handbag -- and I adored her (still have her, too). Granny always fussed and regretted the doll wasn't "prettier," but to me, she's gorgeous, and is my most prized heirloom from my beloved grandmother.

As a writer, I cherish my book contracts and holding my books in my hands for the first time. There's not much like it. I hope all of you know, or will know, that unique and unbelievable blessing. I always said that even if my books weren't "officially" published, my prayer was that someone reading them (and I had a lot of ladies read the early versions of Awakening) might be somehow touched with the seeds of spiritual truths. You never know how your words might impact someone, so keep writing as He leads you.

What are the things and associated memories that make YOU smile? I'd love to hear, if you'd care to share. Blessings, my friends.