tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88894007707361239322024-02-08T07:52:48.701-08:00AS I WRITE I BREATHEAsiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-6667384718719600532017-12-04T18:45:00.000-08:002017-12-04T18:47:28.950-08:00LESSON 6, 7 AND WRITING WEEK<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">This is almost the end of my journey with THE STORY INTENSIVE. It has been quite an experience. Though I have been unsure about how well I would do, I gave myself permission to at least give it a try. I don't regret one minute of it. This is a three part exercise which will end with WRITING WEEK which we are in this week. This is not a finished story. I will be fiddling and refining in the weeks to come and post it together when it's done. It starts with a 1st person POV and the 2 other titles are 3rd person, omniscient I'd say.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">THE BIG BUCK’O LOTTERY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> Yes,
we have your order, we’re just not ready to deliver it yet, said the girl at
the front desk, after I’d been waiting for more than fifteen minutes for her to
be done with her call I knew wasn’t to anybody in the shipping department. She
reminded me of my first wife. She had that kind of defying attitude, daring me
to show her wrong. She was ready for me to go “ at
it” with her, so I didn’t say another word, turned around and left the
building. Everyone is entitled to the respect they give, I always say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> Anyways,
I’m buying a BIG BUCK’O lottery ticket today and I’m going to win myself some
leisurely time with my darling Honeycomb at last and that little missy at Home
Depot can just kiss my behind before I give her anymore thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> All
the stars are aligned for it to happen, Honeycomb said to me as I was getting
ready for work yesterday. Which I hate doing while she is enjoying her second
coffee, snuggled with a book in the comfort of the new Laura Ashley “canape” I
bought on credit last week. It’s a couch I said to myself and left it at that.
I was in no mood to try to convince Honeycomb otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> I
hope I can find a parking space. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> A
black truck speeded through the red light as I got out of my car, missed me by
no more than an inch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> Good
luck. I knew as I let myself fall against the car, a bit winded from an almost
certain death if that truck had hit me for sure. I nodded at Suyin rushing out
of the store asking me if I was alright.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> This
thought then pushed itself in my mind; of all the ways to die, falling asleep
to never wake up would be my death of choice, though shocking for Honeycomb to
find me that way. And I certainly was not going to die, hit by a stupid
speeding truck on today of all days. The Day I was winning the BIG BUCK’O
lottery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> Still
I stayed there offering my saved face to the sunrays not giving a damn if it
was smeared or not with sunscreen. I was still here and for once I was going to
let that inner voice, the one Honeycomb talks about for hours on the phone to anybody
who will listen, tell me I was winning this week’s BIG BUCK’O lottery, no ifs or
buts about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> So
I marched in the Convenience Plus and came out minutes later with a ticket with
my lucky numbers 4, 8 and 10 and mine and Honeycomb’s birthdates, in the end,
to make it six numbers, I added 13, tempting fate or pushing my luck, I don’t
know, but I did it anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> After enquiring about the near miss, sweet Suyin told me
not to forget to sign it in case I lost it, someone else could legally claim my
winnings. I turned to look at her and thought how long I’d known this young
woman for stopping by almost daily and never once did I worry about her, but
her kindness reminded me to put her on my list of people I could do something
for with the money I won.</span><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> The
adrenaline-charged feeling stayed with me. There was no way I could settle down,
so I started to walk, laughing out loud remembering how I had teased Honeycomb
when she and I joined a walking group to help us get into better shape and me
saying that round is a better shape than none. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> She
didn’t laugh, not even a smile. The thought of her rarely humoring me by
laughing or at least smiling at my jokes crept in my-winning lottery thoughts-I
humor her all the time. Especially when I force feed myself her spinach soufflé
when she knows I hate spinach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Peggy Elms, writer</span><br />
<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">November 03, 2017</span></div>
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HONEYCOMB AND THE BIG
BUCK’O LOTTERY MYSTERY<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She is nervous this morning. She is pacing from her boudoir to
her reading room. From her reading room to her mini-gym. From her mini-gym to
her four season solarium. She has been doing this for more than twenty-seven
minutes. As she walks past the clock on the wall in her mini-gym, it points
exactly on the hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Nine o’clock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She resists the impulse of thread-milling her fears away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She has never seen Blake act out in this unusual manner. Her way
has always been the way, for her, there is no highway. She oversees everything
and everyone gravitating in her life. This man she calls Her Husband is
her biggest fan and she has always been smart enough to know what to do to keep
it that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She runs to her bedroom for the comfort of her image in her
cheval mirror.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">No, she screams at her flawless painted face in perfect horror.
Her hands bunch up the pockets of her silk dressing gown as she searches her
delicate features she may have left untended. Her feet keep shifting from left
to right, right to left in an uneasy dance. Catching her breath slowly, she
leans in closer, her hands resting lightly on the wooden frame, shoulder
height. From behind, one would almost believe she is caught in an embrace
with a lover, her head tilting sideways. Yet, the only thing she is embracing
is her beauty, with her eyes, making sure, once more that everything is where
it’s supposed to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Reassured by her mirrored face, she takes a few steps and let’s
herself fall gruffly on her bed. Her body sinking softly in her goose down
comforter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“”Oooh, she moans softly, smiling to herself, this is so much
better than last night’s sex.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The act of coupling was messy to her, so naturally it was put
down the bottom of her “TO DO LIST”. After twenty—two years, she had this sex
and candy rule down, so she made sure to curb her husband’s carnal appetite at
one “séance” a month.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">After the two minutes of much needed snuggling on his part,
which was more than she could take last night, they took turns in the shower
and of course, together, they replaced the soiled sheets with fresh ones. She
had never known any other lover to do that snuggling-bit thing. She would have
been happy to go back to the high-school days, when once the deed was done, the
boy keeled over and slept. Better, he left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The memory of her husband’s sweat sends spasms of uncontrollable
hiccups up her throat with bile she unwillingly swallows, not daring to leave
the slimy yellowish green streak of it on her white comforter. She makes it to
her on-suite bathroom just in time to kneel over the toilet ready to let go the
disdain from inside her, perhaps along with the ugliness of the life she has
made for herself also.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Again, facing herself, this time in the vanity mirror, she wipes
her mouth leaving traces of her pink lipstick on the plush towel she promised
Blake she absolutely needed for the finishing touch of her perfect on-suite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She puts it back neatly folded on the towel hanger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Instantly, the pit in her stomach makes her doubt in her power
over him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She is surprised of how afraid this harebrained idea her husband
has come up with might unravel her daily order she works so hard at keeping
safe and predictable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Saturday is shopping day, she’d shouted to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">“BIG BUCK’O LOTTERY”, was all she heard as he left, without even
sharing their morning kiss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p> Peggy Elms, writer</o:p><br />
<o:p>November 20, 2017</o:p><br />
<o:p><br /></o:p>
<br />
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<b>HAPPENING WITHOUT METHOD OR CONSCIOUS DECISION<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Suyin can easily picture the mix of colors every time she closes
her eyes. Better focusing from her mind’s eye, she relies upon. The warn-out
wallpaper falling at the corners, comes alive instantly. Carrying her to a time
when feeling the velvety contours of each flowers of the pattern, meant safety
and warmth and love, running from under her tiny fingers, straight to ayi
Zhou’s arms. She affectionately called <i>a
yi’yi</i>. Her aunt Zhou never corrected her about the proper way to say aunt
in Mandarin, which was <i>ayi or yiyi </i>also,
but keeping the second <i>a</i> with <i>yiyi,</i> made it exclusively <i>their language.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></i><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The old woman laughed when Suyin came home upset one afternoon,
from her Mandarin classes, claiming she was taught the proper way to say the
word. Aunt Zhou shrugged it off and put Suyin on her lap, wiping the tears from
her cheeks, still laughing and hugging her. The child was surprised and
irritated at how her aunt was reacting to something that made the kids in class
make fun of her. But asthe tears had dried out, aunt Zhou explained quietly,
breaking in giggles between some of it. Suyin recalls still being upset not
only with her classmates but with her aunt Zhou, which had never happened
before. Still, she wanted to know why it was so funny to her only ally she had had
in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></i><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Oh darling <i>niuniu</i>
(little girl), she said. There are many ways to say <i>aunt</i> in Mandarin anyways. Who would care if we invent our own
language, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> The
memory so vivid makes her run her fingers through her hair just like her aunt
had done then. The tiny squeeze to her heart make her yearn for a moment the
comfort she remembers from the heath left by ayiyi’s gliding fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Familiar
moments, closely binding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> A
ritual for the child she had once been long ago. There is safety in repetition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> As
she moves in her daily Tai Chi gestural, grounding herself into today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Today, she is a grown woman. And
feels a bit older than the forty years she’s lived. Though no one could guess
by looking at her. Changing into her work outfit consisting simply of a pair of
white leggings, an oversized blue sweater on top a pink T-shirt. A pair of Sketchers
sandals, </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;">comfortable and stylish, the ad
said. Worn and in good shape, too. So she ordered them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;"> Suyin always bought her clothes in
thrift shops online or off, she rarely bought used shoes though, for obvious
hygiene reasons. So she made sure to give them a good cleaning with a her Aunt
Zhou’s dream cleaning recipe, made of baking soda, vinegar and lavender
perfumed essential oil, which was popular in her household way before you could
find, prepared in so many different ways on the web today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;"> Sketchers were her favorite style
when it came to sandals. Never mind, the fact that they were made of rubber, light
and easy on the ankles, the suede straps held her narrow feet perfectly. But
what did it for her was not only finding them in a size 6, which was a miracle
in itself, they had a two inch Wedge style heel which added two substantial
inches to her five feet three height, that gave her a perfect five feet five,
she was proud to stand in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> She
barely looks old enough to be working at all, she’d overheard a woman say, to
her friend, just the other day. The latter adding in all ignorance, but
thinking she understood something of Suyin’s culture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Well,
you know the Chinese, they have a saying about making their children productive
as early as you can. I think they would make them start as soon as they left
the crib if the law permitted it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> They
had laughed at their racist comment, but stopped when they saw Suyin looking
straight at them, expecting confrontation from the young woman. Suyin saw their
flushed cheeks and remembered thinking, at least they know enough, that they
shouldn’t speak that “kind of talk” in front of a Chinese person. These women
were regular customers too, coming in and out of her store ever since Suyin can
remember. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> But
it still hurt to hear snide remarks from the people she applied herself to serve
in the deferent manner she had been taught to do day in, day out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She
shrugs, lifting her dark mood as she leaves the back store for the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> In
an emulation of her all time idol MJ, she slides along the aisles </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;">gently. Aware that she is not as graceful as
him, she however holds on happily to her groove. Check-list in hand, ready to
fill any empty space on the shelves rapidly. She finds none. The facing is
impeccable. She understands how Fridays can get busy and knows first-hand how
difficult it can be to reshelf the whole store, let alone make it look so good.
She reminds herself to tell Derek he did a great job as soon as he walks in
later on. He is not only a thoughtful young man. But he has a self-discipline
quality rarely found these days. She wants to keep him motivated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;"> Most teenagers she comes across are
for the most, entitled and easy to frown upon any changes in their schedule.
And though they agree to fill in for her when they discuss the fact that they
may be called upon to replace her from time to time, during every interview,
they seem to forget about it when she needs one of them to fill in for her when
she needs a day off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;"> One never knows when one needs a
permanent replacement for oneself, musing out loud as she ends her dance by
moon-walking behind her counter, ready to cease the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<o:p>
</o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> Peggy Elms, writer</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>December 4, 2017</o:p></div>
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Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-66802266221642695882017-10-24T14:37:00.000-07:002017-10-24T14:40:38.716-07:00LESSON 5 - ASSIGNMENT<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #535454; font-family: adobe-jenson-pro, garamond, georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
Hello to my faithful followers, </div>
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Isn't this just the loveliest day. Oh yes, it is raining buckets outside and I feel lucky to be alive and sharing my work in Lesson 5 of The Story Intensive. This one was all about plot & drift. I admit to having had some resistance here. I did what I trained myself to do now with the help of Sarah Selecky, my teacher and my fellow writer students, trust the process . I can't say enough how this is helping me grow, not only as a writer but as a person. </div>
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A little note about this story. I needed to cut alot of the juicy details of it to fit the 300-500 words for the assignment, but I will try to post the whole story soon for you to get it all. Still, I feel it quite stands on its own. </div>
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Thank you for stopping by.</div>
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<b>DEAR DIRECTOR OF YOUTH PROTECTION,</b></div>
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I am writing this letter to tell you what I did was CHILD PROTECTION and why this unusual event took place today and why my actions may have been misconstrued by everyone implicated.</div>
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Earlier, on my daily walk, I notice this sweet little boy, barefoot, playing quietly in the sand, while his mother sat on a park bench, her cellphone cradled in her hand, instead of her son. She sounded like a child herself warning her son in her whiny voice. Mommy needs her phone-time, like you need your play-time. I’ll call you when I’m done.</div>
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This was not a safe situation; his mother not watching over her child’s safety.</div>
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Though, the outcome presented me with the advantage of taking a closer look at him. I noticed right away, his tiny frame lost in a worn down t-shirt that went down to his knees, his bony shoulders poking through the soft material. His arms and calves slightly bigger than the unsavory chicken legs I had for dinner last night. I sighed.</div>
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It was disturbing to me not to see him skipping up and down the monkey bars or the giant spider-web-like jungle gym, my nephew lives in whenever I bring him here.</div>
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I casually sat on the swing near him. It took all I had not to bend down to get even closer to him, he being so near me, I wanted to sweep him up, cradle him in a way he surely never had been. He then did the most remarkable thing in joining an ant in its daily labor, instead of crushing it, which I’m sorry to admit my nephew would have done without giving it a second thought. I wondered if his days were as laborious. It seemed he knew of the dulling work the ant repeats day by day to feed itself and the colony. From the gaunt looks of him, he did not get his three daily meals. He spread down on his stomach, gently leading the ant carrying its scavenged loot to its hole. He let another one climb on his index, watching closely from his under circled eyes, how it traveled freely up and down his hand, arm, and neck, the ant trusting this little giant would do it no harm. He smiled at it and I knew he needed me then.</div>
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I’ll swear to anyone who asks, his mom stayed on that phone for more than an hour, and you will find this as disturbing as I did, she never once looked up to see to the well-being of her son.</div>
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The helpers of the world.</div>
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Though I’m sure we all are familiar with the famous expression -shit happens-, we seem to think that when it hits the fan, or when we are swimming up in a creek full of it, we somehow, don’t know how to stay clear from it, be it blowing or drowning us.</div>
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All I can say for my defense is that I was eager to save an innocent child from his delinquent -ignorant in this case may be a kinder word- mother.</div>
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Isn’t a mother responsible for providing a safe, stable and nurturing environment for her child?</div>
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Well that’s what I was doing when the police stole him from me and put me in jail.</div>
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Peggy Elms, writer</div>
Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-32247909087110482522017-10-11T09:07:00.002-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.248-07:00THE STORY INTENSIVE -LESSON 4- DIALOGUE<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 15pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Hello this week I was working on Dialogue in the SSM classroom. Let me tell you this was challenging and envigorating. Here is my assignment. Enjoy and if you want to, leave your thoughts on it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">SOMEONE ELSE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He’s standing wearing only jeans.
He left the top button undone, she hates looking at the tightness of the
stomach she works so hard at keeping slim on her own body. In the doorway, he’s
steadying himself, arms stretched, hands pressed to both sides of the frame.
Still, he calls out like a spoiled child, pleading his defense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Louise, no one is blaming you of
any wrong doing. I’m only curious as how many hours you need to give this new
boss every week. I remember you stating; “It’s policy. No overtime at The
Firm”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The woman, neatly dressed. Form
fitted in a navy blue two-piece skirt suit stands facing him in the hall
outside the apartment, both arms falling to her sides for seconds before she
looks up in a controlled fury. Summoning the words, she is obviously tired of
repeating to come out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I told you weeks ago when I started
working. Mr. Powers picked me out of the Legal-Assistant Pool of nine to work
on this high-profile case. You knew this was coming. You’ll be busy with your
hockey anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She bends her head, wanting to go
in under his held up arms. He resists, teasing her, then lowering them down to
keep her from coming in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Oh come on now, let me in so I can
get my lunch bag and head on to work. I’m late and I still want a divorce Hank.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Whoa honey, slow down now. You know
how I hate the divorce word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He holds her by both her shoulders.
He smiles at her with only one corner of his mouth lifting, he peers down, in
her eyes. She looks down, at least escaping momentarily. His height and built
given him the advantage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I think I remember you telling me
about some overtime, he says carefully picking a bunch of her neatly coiffed
hair, to let it fall, unruly on her shoulder. She flinches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">You should know I can’t hear
anything while I’m watching hockey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He presses his lips to her neck in
a half-kiss. She doesn’t move. She feels the pressure of his hands he’s
measuring just so looking to meet her eyes, while she turns her head to one
side and the other. He tries moving her out of the doorway and into the
apartment by pushing his body against hers. But she backs outside again, just
as the elevator bell rings and a couple come out, stopping to look at them.
Louise fixes her hair. They give the impression of a couple who can’t get
enough of each other. The neighbors nod, making their way down the hall. The
surprise gave Louise time enough to put a distance between Hank and herself.
Still, she stays and keeps arguing. Angry at the way he almost won her over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Sex won’t make me change my mind
Hank. I’m done with you ignoring me. Hockey is only one of our many issues…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Okay, okay, settle down, not so
loud he cuts in. He tries to quiet her down. Afraid he’s made her cross. Here
let me get your lunch bag and we can talk this over when you get home this
afternoon. I’ll cook you your favorite dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He goes in and comes out with the
bag. Hands it to her. He leans in waiting for her to give an answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She waits a few seconds before she
speaks again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I, I can’t tonight, I have to work
overtime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">What, what for? he says. The words
barely come out. This is not what he had been imagining her response would be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He feels cornered strangely wearing
the disadvantage he’s feeling. It doesn’t sit well with him. His body is
fighting not to go at her, he knows to slip his hands in his pockets which
helps him calm down. He fights inwards a battle he’s not used to. His biceps
can’t save him now. He slumps down, his back sliding down the door. All he can
find are words now. They need to hurt, cut even. Instill fear like a hard pinch
to wake her up. But he changes his mind and simply asks her if she can make
something up to tell her boss and come home early.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Can’t you just tell your boss you
need to be home early?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">No. Hank, I love my work. As a
matter of fact, my work has nothing to do with the fact that we are not
compatible anymore. I don’t want us to go round and round anymore. It’s
useless. You know it is. I know it is. Let’s get this divorce done and over
with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He looks up at her slowly
registering changes in his wife. He thought he had her cornered a few minutes
ago. He could have sworn, she felt it also, but something in her didn’t give
in. He then noticed her beautifully sculpted black silk covered legs. The new
clothes. She used to dress so unassumingly down for him. He remember having
convinced her she look sleazy because of her curves. All I want is to protect
you from dirty looks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Now, in this navy blue jacket and
skirt, she looked sophisticated, well-educated, and anything but sleazy.
Even with the tug he’d put in her flat ironed hair, she was still stunning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Someone else was coaching her into
this woman-of-the-world look and persona. Someone else was telling her just how
beautiful, powerful and smart she was. Someone else…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He understood that this was a
battle he would lose. She had been warning him for so long about this moment.
The moment when he’d understand that he’d lost her for good. The moment when
she would give her heart to someone else. He asked the obvious question to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Are you seeing someone else?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Yes Hank, I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Okay then. You got a lawyer?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Yes, she dug in her shoulder bag
and took out a card and handed it to him and left. He took the card in his hand
and pushed it in his back pocket. He waited until he heard the elevator bell
ring making sure she had made it safely to the downstairs lobby before he took
a few steps to peek at her walking away. When he saw her getting in a big white
limousine. He realized that was her someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">He would find later on that same
day that her someone else was Justin Powers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #535454; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Peggy Elms, writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-81849369836758527032017-10-11T06:48:00.001-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.252-07:00THE STORY INTENSIVE- LESSON 3- SHOW AND TELL<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #535454; font-family: adobe-jenson-pro, garamond, georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<b>Hello everyone, I am here today with this Exercise I did a few weeks ago. In my SSM classroom we did a SHOW-AND-TELL about a book we enjoy, a book we come back to. I did mine on RUSH HOME ROAD. You can read all about it and let me know what you think. (Of course for copyrights reasons I can't show you the excerpt, but I must say, a little trip to the library and you would be all set)</b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Candy canes</span></b></div>
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First, I want to tell you that Lori Lansens was introduced to me by my oldest sister Soelah. She was an avid reader. She introduced me to novel reading in bed at the age of 11. Since then, I don’t think I can remember a time I didn’t have a book on my bedside table. We have shared a lot of books together. But Lori Lansens was one of the last writers my sister suggested I read before she passed away in 2005 (yeah, breast cancer). Not only did we love the fact that she is Canadian, we were amazed of her insight on the black culture in Canada. I read Rush home road in a minute, so I read it again at a lower paste of a few days and went to the end over and over again until I stopped crying. Call me crazy, I’m just a sucker for a book that will go right through me.</div>
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Lori Lansens makes up ordinary characters living in ordinary circumstances; being an old black woman with a mixed color child and brings everything along the ride to make it into something that the reader relates too. Not forgetting the fact that she is white. I just have to bow before such judicious talent mixed with solid courage.</div>
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The narrative is a form we see a lot in novels, yet Lori pushes it up a few notches in the way I feel I am going through Addy’s hardships, though things would be so different today for her. In general society could not blame her for it now.</div>
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I am working on condensing my words so the readers feel like they’re watching a movie. It happens to me when remembering passages of this book. I see the whole scenes before my eyes. I want to write like that. I’m learning it’s possible. If anything, the writing in this story has shown it over and over. The best influence a writer can get.</div>
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To me, there is no “meh” writing in this book. Not everyone might agree with me. But, with all due respect, I will stand by my word. “Meh” writing would have been telling the whole story from beginning to end, chronologically. This is far from happening here. Keeps the reader curious and interested.</div>
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The book starts with Addy and Sharla living together. Great way to start a story right, in the middle. Fresh from Lesson 2, I smiled at the genius of Lori Lansens. The magic in Lori’s writing is we become these characters by the way she appeals to our own naiveté and humanity both as we follow Addy Shadd back and forth through her life.</div>
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What always kept me interested was as I read along, she finds not only a way to salvage what seems to be a wasted life in being willing to care for another child whom has no ties or relations to her. That’s when humanity ( or Lori, I should say) saves the day. With all that Addy has gone through, you’d think she would not give a damn, and in the beginning she doesn’t. Until she understands that she has no other choice. This is who she is. Her mission will be to secure the child’s future in finding someone trustworthy to care for her.</div>
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Here are some highlights for you:</div>
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At some point, Sharla is wondering about who will take care of her.</div>
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Who will have me? , such a 6 year old lost child question to ask and formulate this way because they don’t always have the words. Reading this, made me want to pick her up in my arms and scream: I will, I will. Yet, Lori Lansens, not only gets it right in words, but in emotion also. This is no time to show Sharla how desperate the situation can become (Addy is pushing 70, a not long ago non-smoker, she quit the summer she got Sharla) instead she reassures the child through common sense, humor on page 425. Great parenting skills and psychology here. (I admire this quality in any parent)</div>
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Addy has been having flashbacks of her younger years. She has been raped and shun by family and neighbors. So she leaves suffering poverty, trusting thee wrong people and many losses.</div>
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v We learned O Canada in French. (details of interest for the reader and the fact that she is learning it in French is something that connects me to the story)</div>
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v Mmm-hmm. (What mom doesn’t answer in this manner throughout the course of a day, love it.)</div>
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v He make the bed with you in it? (the correct grammar would have been Did he make the bed with you in it?, but this is a child and the words she uses in the dialogue is different from the adults one. It sits naturally with the reader (me) and adds another touch of realism.)</div>
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v Page 428-This part was complete magic to me, for poor Sharla, from where she come from, supper could have been magic, but Addy has this way of capting Sharla’s curiosity:</div>
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v Addy glanced around mysteriously, then whispered “Santa’s a magical man, Sharla, and magic’s a thing not to question. Now you want to get up and go look in that closet or not?</div>
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The reader is in the room with Sharla and Addys, how can you not? It’s easy to understand by the way the child reacts. I sense maybe seeing, but not believing what she sees for she couldn’t dream this possible a few months ago. More, that someone would think of offering her a gift in the first place. I can read all this in these few words.</div>
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She could barely say the words.</div>
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The energy dashes to your heart with the next two words:</div>
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“A television.”</div>
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“Mmm-hmm.”</div>
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Sharla was quiet for a long time before she said, “I never heard of Santa bringing no one a television before.</div>
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The chapter ending shows us how loving Addy is with her “girl” by being honest in telling Sharla that she is aware of the “bad things” she did, but emphasizes that she is “…mostly good” and .”knows that to be true”. How safe Sharla must feel with Mum’ Addy.</div>
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Little note about Lori Lansens I picked up while researching some interesting things to know about her. This has to be another reason why I love Lori’s writing so much. This is what she answered when asked what was the best advice she ever received. Parenting advice, she says. She walks the walk, not only talks the talk in her novels. I suspect, in her daily life too. Now that’s my kind of writer.</div>
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The best advice I received was parenting advice. It came from different sources. Condensed, it looks like this: Let them fall down. Let them fail. Let them bleed a little. Dirt’s okay. Let them suffer disappointment. It’s good for them to cry now and then, too. Comfort, but don’t coddle. Protect them from injury, but not pain. Pain teaches. Pain strengthens. Love them fiercely and tell them so every day.</div>
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Source for the whole interview:</div>
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<a href="https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books-and-media/lori-lansens-on-why-she-wrote-her-new-novel-the-books-she-reads-again-and-again-and-more/article24006081/?ref=http://www.theglobeandmail.com&" rel="nofollow" style="background: none; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #87b684; display: inline; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books-and-media/lori-lansens-on-why-she-wrote-her-new-novel-the-books-she-reads-again-and-again-and-more/article24006081/?ref=http://www.theglobeandmail.com&</a></div>
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Thanks for stopping by it's always such a pleasure to know you care.</div>
Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-32171105082602698432017-09-25T12:28:00.002-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.244-07:00THE STORY INTENSIVE-LESSON 3–CHARACTER<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Hello, this week is all about character. We did some hard work that paid off. I get to live in my character when I'm writing, when I'm on my daily walk, as I prepare lunch, even in the pool this afternoon. But, I have to tell you, this short story came from a dream, at least some parts of it. I am enjoying these exercises in writing and I always want to kow what you are thinking.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">SURPRISE, SURPRISE,
SURPRISE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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I
walk in the jam packed <i>cafe </i>feeling
nervous. It’s nearly lunchtime. In line, I order a double latte, decaf, one
cream, one sugar, keeping in mind I’m still breastfeeding baby Bruno. The
barista smiles and repeats my order loudly above the crowd’s noise making sure
to offer me their daily special. <i>Turkey,
lettuce and tomato on rye bread, mayo or Dijon, </i>which<i> </i>I kindly refuse. I find a table in the back part of the restaurant
so I can watch as people come in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As
entertainment, I sip my coffee slowly while eaves dropping on my “coffee
mates”. Mom hates it when I do that, but even when I explain my delight in
objectively observing people, she still dismisses it as an unhealthy thing to
be doing. I see no harm in it. Even Oprah says to be vigilant in strange
places. I’ve been doing this for years now and become a master at noticing,
without being noticed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In this
instance, as I sip, I look up just so and discover someone observing me. I’m
not quite sure, so I wait a little, fiddling with my cellphone to keep her
suspicions at bay. I look again and I then notice how beautifully polished this
woman is. Her face is symmetrically perfect as far as I can see. Her light blue
eyes remind me of Cooper’s powder blue “blanky”. Oh and the soft blue dress
she’s wearing invites anyone, male or female for a longer look. Just a glance
around me and I know we are all admiring Miss Vogue. I don’t even want to see
her legs at this point or her Stiletto shoes. They must be long and muscular
where they need to be. I’m praying she won’t get up and leave, it will just
floor me if she does.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Right about now,
would be a fantastic time for Tyler to get here, so I can be the one to
surprise him for a change. The clock says twelve fifteen. My coffee is still
warm, but if he doesn’t get here soon, I’ll have to order something to eat. So,
I make my way casually to the ladies room. In there, I look over my make-up in
the mirror while pondering on that sugary pink gloss Miss Vogue efficiently painted
on her lips earlier. Would the effect be the same on mine? I already know I
couldn’t pull off that whole pure immaculate look even in a lifetime of trying.
I can hear mom revealing to me what I already know, <i>your lips are full enough, and you don’t want to attract attention to
them or yourself, right sweetie.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Before I know
what I can do with myself, Miss Vogue enters the ladies room, I can see her in
the mirror but she can’t see me. That’s when I dash and lock myself quickly in
the stall behind me. Feeling caught, I flush the toilet, pull on the toilet
sheet roll and wait so she knows I had a legitimate reason to be here. The room
is quiet but for a few fogged out sounds of music and conversations. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I then hear her
talking to her phone, like she’s giving it an order. “Call Big Boy” I wrap my
hand on my mouth for fear of bursting in laughter right then and there relieved
to learn that Miss vogue has a little kinky side to her. “Right, she whispers
softly, I’ll be coming out of the ladies room. “ And “mwah”, she kisses the air
and hangs up. I get up and out of my stall quick enough to see only the back of
her blond highlighted hair, cut in a line so straight, you’d think her cutting
edge hairdresser used some kind of laser beam over her back. You know the kind a
carpenter uses to level his cuts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I smile at the
picture I see of the carpenter in the glamourous beauty salon in my mind’s eye
while I wait the expected time lapse to go back to my table. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What I’ve never understood is</span></b> how I made it to my table standing.
Though I felt like the scene before me brought me to my knees. It took all I
had to grab my handbag and get out, unnoticed from them. The dumbfounded look I
glanced in the man’s dark eyes was familiar. The jerk in my wrist still hurts
as I pulled away from the strength his hand gripped on me. I had missed that
sure grip for three whole years. Not that my husband had ever been physically violent
with me in all the years we’d been together. It’s just that his hands had
always been loving even when strong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now</span></b>, I sit in my parked car with an ache inside that almost
kills me. Our son Cooper is four, Bruno, three months old, our make-up baby as
Tyler lovingly referred to him. My phone keeps giving out loud vibrating buzzes
every minute. Still I can’t answer it when I see Tyler’s name light up on the
phone screen. I want to give in here. I feel I could do it. Drive straight in
the big red brick wall in front of me in the parking lot. It looks too easy. So
that is when I let dad’s warm voice come to me in a resounding plea. <i>Onward now, roll them sleeves up my darling,
we need to get Cooper a new blanky.</i></div>
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<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b> </b></div>
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<i>Peggy Elms, writer.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>September 25, 2017<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-25185134952545099122017-09-12T09:16:00.000-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.239-07:00THE STORY INTENSIVE-LESSON 2-WHAT STARTS A STORY?<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #535454; font-family: adobe-jenson-pro, garamond, georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<b>Here I am again with another Assignment from THE STORY INTENSIVE. We had different choices for this one. I chose to start off with this sentence offered by the class. So hope you enjoy the read.</b></div>
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<b>We all had a stake in it: we all had something to win and something to lose.</b></div>
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Our family isn’t the tightest knit family like the ones you see on TV. So sitting in the waiting room is a beautiful family picture I am dying to snap as soon as I step in. My brothers, they both look so groomed and perfect. Blake sitting alone, again, still manages to flaunt his signature Armani dark blue suit though his features are a bit more wrinkled than usual, and when I look closely the circles are darker under his big brown eyes, that don’t look so big right now either. No tie for him, he’s the casual would-be-millionaire and shows it. I don’t know if his patent leather shoes are shinier than his golden wedding band. Derek, the youngest of my brothers. Two whole years exactly, –<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">mom had them on the same date two years apart, she couldn’t have mastered something so unusual, if she’d tried</em>– Derek makes a point to remind Blake as he pinches the small overlap his stomachs pushes from his shirt stretching because he’s sitting down. But looking at Derek sporting his new leather jacket, I recall the story behind it. He told us, –<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">fakely-shying away from his owenership in being the one wanting so bad to buy it</em>– because his wife begged him to buy it in Italy. He’d went on: it was almost like stealing it, so I bought it to make her happy. -Yeah, right, I told myself, you just loved that Derek-‘’the ladies go wild at the bank when he walks in and he’s wearing his Levi’s dark blue 517 boot cut jeans and white shirt under it, my sister-in-law coos with the biggest of grins, unsuspecting why they give him this much attention. I don’t even want to go there. I am jealous of his still slim silhouette. For Christ’s sake he’s fifty-four and look like a freaking teen-ager. Tell me how that can be fair. When I’ve been dieting all my life. Losing 20 pounds, gaining 25. Losing 25 and gaining 30. It’s a never ending cycle.</div>
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You’d look at our family pictures and swore we were the happiest of families alive. To tell you the truth, we are a far cry from the Braverman family on the TV show: Parenthood. I enjoyed watching the show so much, I’d fantasize about being Crosby’s wife as dysfunctional as they were, they still had each other’s backs. I can’t believe my brothers are here.</div>
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Then I am quickly reminded of why they are, when Derek gets up to greet me distracted by a beep from his iwatch as he asks me how long all this is going to take. I have a busy schedule today. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">don’t you always?</em></div>
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They’ve come to ”cash in” as they say in those misleading lottery commercials. But boy, oh boy are they in for the surprise of their well-tailored, shiny patent leather shoe, groomed, adultery filled lives.</div>
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I’ll even snap a picture of their surprised faces.</div>
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Peggy Elms 09-11-17</div>
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Writer</div>
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Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-91037874316215296212017-09-04T06:38:00.000-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.263-07:00THE STORY INTENSIVE-LESSON 1-FREEWRITING<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="FR-CA">Hello there you beautiful people,</span></div>
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<span lang="FR-CA">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.</span></div>
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<span lang="FR-CA">Thank you for stopping by, leave a word or two about your thoughts will you, I'd love to hear some input.</span></div>
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<span lang="FR-CA"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="FR-CA">I don’t remember…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR-CA"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terrebonne, 3 September 2017<o:p></o:p></div>
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Peggy Elms, writer<o:p></o:p></div>
Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-77080886049872352822015-01-05T05:45:00.001-08:002017-10-11T09:29:00.685-07:00MAXINE'S LATE SUMMER<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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’’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Peggy Elms, writer,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Terrebonne, 05 january 2015.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8889400770736123932.post-85697585805497760852014-06-11T13:21:00.000-07:002017-10-11T09:37:05.258-07:00THE STORY COURSE<div style="text-align: justify;">
<u>FIRST THE SURPRISE</u></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God! </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>What is this? </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Is this for real?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">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 <a href="http://www.sarahselecky.com/">STORY IS A STATE OF MIND </a>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is what I wrote:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Dear Sarah,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I came across your newsletter by a friend on pinterest. She sent me your course and how I would like to do it someday. Money is a bit scarce right now. Still, how glad I am to be finally writing. I started last week and do all the prompts, I had not been writing for at least 2 years and it shows in the way I have become. I am not so thrilled with me these days and you and my sweet friend are life savers. I enjoy my 10 minutes of writing in the morning, I am feeling better and better everyday. I believe writing is curing my sadness, so I shall continue to do so.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Thank you so kindly,</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">P.S. I had no idea people like you existed. I wish you much success with your future books , I know you deserve it.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So here I am starting a writing blog to share some of what I will be doing with Sarah's ecourse <a href="http://www.sarahselecky.com/">STORY IS A STATE OF MIND,</a> along with links from the tremendously big world wide web, whenever I find them interesting, helpful and insightful for me to share. I know I can only get better at writing as long as I stick to this program and I'm sure I will be open to try more of what <a href="http://www.sarahselecky.com/">STORY IS A STATE OF MIND</a> has to offer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I actually struggled a bit on lesson 1, still enjoyed the experience. It was challenging, creative and made me feel I was learning something new in every step. So I couldn't wait to start Lesson 2. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><u>This is exercise 2;</u> starting a story with another author's first sentence:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Jill McCorkle-</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA"><b>Dear Dr. Love, by now you have gotten several
letters from me and this will probably be the last.</b> I have decided to go ahead
with my plan to end my life along with Lizzy, my wife, on the twenty fourth of
March, which would be our sixtieth wedding anniversary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">I did not tell her or anybody else about my
decision. Sadly, there is really nobody else to tell. As you know, from my
first letter, I recently received a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis which
would take me to the hospital and leave sweet Lizzy to move into a nursing home
alone, and we promised each other we would not let that happen. You know I
could not live with myself even for a short time, knowing Lizzy left to bare
life alone with Alzheimer. I have seen her become agitated, confused and at
times really filled with rage, but the hardest part is when she is sad because
she can’t figure out who I am or where she is or where she left her doll. So you see I am faced
with the outcome alone. I am “stepping up to the plate” as my tender hearted
Lizzy would say, one last time and doing what needs to be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">I made sure all our legal papers are in order,
I’ve attached a list of names you’ll need to contact. The only special request
we have, is that someone spread our ashes in our beautiful lake near our cottage, we sold off
years ago, it was by far Lizzy and I’s favorite place to spend leisurely time
together when we could at last afford it, I figured it was just the right place
to spend eternity together. </span>I’ve drawn a map of where it is on the back of this page. The owners know about our request, but you could
check with them if it’s still okay with them. I sure hope it is, for there is
not much I will be able to do about it when the time comes and hate to leave
that burden with you.</div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">I am sorry we never got to meet in person,
though I sensed more than once by reading your column, you respect my decision
to terminate my wife and I’s life in dignity and love. As any human being should
have the right to do in a dire situation as ours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">I wish you joy and happiness, but most of all;
dignity in life and death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Yours truly, Nathan Prestonn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><u>LESSON 2 EXERCISE 3: write with a sentence I started a paragraph with-</u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><b>The door shut slowly as she quickly turned
around, making sure he had left.</b> She then let herself slide to the floor exhausted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">At first, she felt like she was having an out
of body experience the shock being so intense, not quite believing she had
screamed as loud as he did:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">-Go now, you want to. I know I want you to, so
go…go now! And he did just like that. Magic really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">He should have slapped her, he should have
pushed her, he should have kicked her. He did not do any of these things,
though he said if she had been a guy he would have punched her in the face. For
that reason only, he did not. Could it be he was as tired as her of this sad dance
they had been performing for too many years? Maybe so, she might never know,
and honestly now in that moment, she did not care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Still, she sat there motionless, numb mainly
and for so long she wasn’t even startled by the sound of the phone ringing in
the kitchen where Brian had thrown it in a fit of rage over an undercooked
chicken recipe she had labored through most of the afternoon for them to enjoy
together. Seems senseless now. And at the same time, everything was making sens again. She realized that no matter what she did to
please him, it would never be enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">The phone kept ringing. To her surprise she still would not move. Bracing herself for the burning sensation in the pit of her
stomach from the fear she lived with for too long, but it never came, instead, the shift had come in her. </span>She was finally free.</div>
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Peggy Elms, writer.<br />
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Asiwriteibreathehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01274341448719890026noreply@blogger.com4