lundi 4 septembre 2017
Hello there you beautiful people,
It has been a while since I've been here. I missed coming here and sharing my writing. I admit to being shy about the results yet, I am learning in THE STORY INTENSIVE that sharing is part of growing as a writer. So here I go. My first lesson is a I don't remember exercise in freewriting.
Thank you for stopping by, leave a word or two about your thoughts will you, I'd love to hear some input.
I don’t remember…
I don’t remember walking home from the school bus the day Samantha slapped me across the face for no apparent reason I knew of. I don’t remember if I cried or if any of my friends witnessed this unpleasant scene.
I don’t remember my first day in first grade. There was no kinder garden then. They started having kinder garden classes the year after I started second grade and cried the whole first day.
I don’t remember why I wrote a love note to Jackson in fourth grade when my heart was set on his best friend Isaac.
I don’t remember if my father was with my mom, Nathan and I while we moved in our brand new home in 1967. I don’t remember seeing mom packing our special picnic lunch of potato salad, baloney sandwiches and a homemade Boston cream pie, she had prepared. So in the end we had one third each of a delicious enough apple pie our new neighbor dropped off to welcome us in the neighborhood. What a treat.
I don’t remember preparing my lunch of baloney sandwiches every day. But I know for a fact my mother never did. She was always dead tired by the time she got home late from her work in the factory and would go to bed right after we watched the Flying nun at seven thirty.
I don’t remember how they put Uncle John in the ambulance the night he got really sick and his kidneys failed. It took forever for him to come home from the hospital. I don’t remember my parents giving me a straight answer when I asked about his return. Can’t have been much of an answer or I’m sure I wouldn’t have kept on asking. I don’t remember where I hid the silver dollar I would have wrapped with my favorite wrapping paper I kept neatly in the bottom drawer of my dresser . I picked this happy one in my mind believing it would cheer him up and remind him I was waiting impatiently at home for him to come back and be all better.
I don’t remember when Safka our fourth and last pet dog left for a new home. Mom didn’t either when I asked her. Dad hadn’t the faintest idea either. So maybe she just ran away.
Terrebonne, 3 September 2017
Peggy Elms, writer
lundi 5 janvier 2015
She looked at the stove clock and it said 6 :02 am. Miles had left the day before. Good paying job for a big mining company. This was his third time. They flew a crew of about twenty young men to this lost place called Miracle Bay, the coldest area in the province.
It was still dark outside. The almost noiseless split AC unit was humming coolly above her head. Elias was still sleeping and he had left the computer on, another familiar sound. Miles had said that it consumed less energy if you did. So as good obeying parents, who knew nothing really about computers, they knew about saving money and that was fine with them.
Maxine missed her son. The distance set by this trip was but a prelude to what life had in store for her. Kids do grow up. Kids do become independent adults. All part of life. All good. At least that’s what she was telling herself lately.
She smiled when she heard Elias call out in his sleep. Dear man, he is a slave to his work and dreams, she thought. She wished he could do more for himself than for her at times. She would be more at peace with herself then. He had worked non-stop for the past three months. Saving up to make up for their holiday in the sun. The first in their twenty year marriage.
She kept on writing. Practicing her hidden talent. How she enjoyed the fantasies she would dream up. Laying them on paper was the hard part. Sharing her stories was like a whole was burning through her stomach lining. Too many ‘’what ifs’’.
For instance, while on her daily walk yesterday she thought of how amusing it could be to write about her childhood summers. Of course, she would use this cool name list she found on the web for her characters. Also, Adele, her best-online-friend had sent her a cool link for writers and she found a whole community laid at the end of her fingertips for her to explore in many ways and in many of her days.
She delighted in the idea of sharing her early mornings getting her ‘’day-at-the-pool-kit’’ together. How her mom would remind her that she had left a towel on her bedroom chair, as she kissed her forehead before she left for work in the morning. How grown-up she felt fixing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on her own. And the special times, her dad offered her the little spice cake he said he hadn’t been hungry for at work. Maxine knew now that he would save it as a special treat for her whenever he could afford to get one for her from the big food distributor she remembered from a visit at his workplace months earlier. It took all she had not to cry at these memories though.
She could write about how she would hold on tight to her dollar bill then, while Shelly and her walked, almost ran down the street, filled with excitement at the joy the day would bring. How Shelly would plan their lunchtime right before noon, so they could share a French-fry, which they would soak with vinegar and sprinkle generously with salt.
The writing went on for a while. She felt confident about elaborating a little, not too much from ideas that would spring, it seems out of nowhere. When inspiration lacked, she did a stretching routine of about twenty minutes. When that was not enough, she would dress-up and go for a long brisk walk outside, searching inside herself for peace settling in her mind, so she could go on writing again. She tried and at times, succeeded in not scaring herself crazy, and kept at it. She would revel in the days she would produce anything at all on a blank page. Even more, when she could type it out on her computer and share it via the world-wide-web.
Maxine now saw herself as a writer. A published one? A popular one? Not really, but she loved that she had come to a place where her breathing felt less constricted in her chest and allowed her heart to beat more freely. Hence, follow her inspiration and write.
Peggy Elms, writer,
Terrebonne, 05 january 2015.
mercredi 11 juin 2014
FIRST THE SURPRISE
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!
What is this?
Is this for real?
That's what came to my stunned brain and out of my big mouth as I was reading Sarah Selecky's email explaining how an anonymous doner had paid for my STORY IS A STATE OF MIND ecourse because he/she had been moved by the comment I had written on Sarah's blog about how positively encouraging she had been with a fellow writer concerned about ''the flow'' in her writing.
This is what I wrote: