I Would Have Written It…

Differently. We all have those books. We’re reading along, there might be some inconsistency in the writing but we’re still in it. Until that moment when we think “No, this that and the other thing needs to happen right here.”

And as writers, our brain sets off like a freight train.

I just had that happen recently in the middle of a book. And my brain is chugging along. I have several ideas that haven’t got the steam on their own, but maybe if I smash them together I can get somewhere.

Spoiler Alert: I’m working through this as I’m writing. I will tell you there will only be generalities about the stories because, whelp. It’s not that I believe someone will “steal” my ideas. You and I could be given the same setting, plot and characters and write completely different stories. It’s because if I write too much or discuss a story my brain is over it and I lose all interest in writing it.

So first off, the book stat I was reading (and DNF’d) was trying very hard to be a mafia romance. And for some odd reason it made me think of a story I had started and stopped quite a few times– it deals with witches & warlock vs mage ability. What’s the difference and what happens when you are one but everyone assumes you are incompetent at the other? This idea is hands down 100% fantasy so obviously no mafia. But warring factions? We can do that.

The part I put it down at was a “meet the head of the family” type of moment and it was not going well. Whelp. Last year I started watching those super short shows– you know the ones. Rich guy drops his wife who is a secret billionaire who is now gonna make his life hell. Ok, so take part of that– the part where they really have NO IDEA who the heck they are dealing withand smash it with witch/mage thing.

I really want a sentient house in there too. I love them. When the house is a character it can go either really really well or very badly for the people involved.

But then I’ve been leaning towards shifter romance, although none of the ones I’m seeing are catching my eye and/or imagination. That might A. Be one step too far or B. Just be a reading thing. I know I tend to not read what I’m writing or what I’m hearing up to write so I might just go back to some old favorites of that type and see if that scratches that.. oh that’s in poor taste.

So. There you have it. My creative brain run around and proof that even the books we don’t finish can be worth it for us.

Ta, my lovelies! I’m off to write a bit now!

Have you ever met the book

That you wish you’d written, but you’re so grateful someone else did… You’re also so scared the ending won’t live up to it, to the homage? The call back?

I just did.

I make no bones of being inspired by Willie Wonka and his Chocolate Factory. Specifically, Gene Wilder’s version of the candy man. It caught my imagination, burrowed in and still can be found there to this day.

I had no idea what was in store for me when I picked up “The Wishing Game” by Meg Shaffer. Should have maybe inferred it, but there’s nothing blatant about the homage on the OUTSIDE of the book. On that fateful bookstore birthday shopping spree I didn’t check the inside. I never do, unless I’m checking out the writing style. If I had read the praise, or even the dedication, well…

I would have squealed, loudly and proudly.

This book has taken me a few days to read, not because it was slow, or dense or anything else. But because I was scared. Even though I had already flipped to the back of the book. And yes, I’m also the person who cringes hard and looks away (or pauses) when watching TV or a movie when the characters were being cringey, or being embarrassed by others.

I had a lot emotionally invested in this book, even with never having read a lick of it. I hoped for the characters. I wished upon stars with them. And I celebrated with them too.

It does not contain a candy garden, or a chocolate factory. Sorry. No Oompa Loompas, either. But there is a family found and bound with love, and forgiveness and understanding and hope.

It was unexpectedly the book I really needed right at that moment.

Oh! And it contains the poem– the one Gene Wilder says in the boat. Or at least the first stanza. But Shaffer also gives credit (cites the sources as Jack would say): ODE, BY ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY.

How wondrous to buy a book and have it echo so many of your own imagination’s quirkiness.

Widow’s Walk

(I wrote this in response to a class assignment. It is inspired by a picture by Rob Gonsalves and the journey of a dear friend. )

Widows walk. They walk along the balcony, pacing out the nights. One step after another, chained to a mast that never comes into view. No skips, no hops for the balcony is dangerous. Weeping into the ocean doesn’t count if you are alone.

Widows walk alone, friends and family woefully out of step. They bear the isolation alone, watching the clouds skittle across the night sky, longing, wistfully, for a glimpse of the one who left them behind. They walk, they pace, they shiver and moan. Even among the crows, they are alone.

Widows walk alone into… . They carve out a path made of stone yet soft as sand. Night becomes day becomes night and still they walk their lonely halls of grief. Typhoons, monsoons, tsunamis break over them. The trick, the widows say, is to let them break. Let them rain down on you, absorb the fury and power of nature into yourself because otherwise it will burn you alive. The clouds on the horizon are puffy and white… or are they a sail in the wind… or will they change as they start to come in. Widows walk alone into…

The unknown. Once you are half of a hole (it’s wrong but it fits and oh how that hurts!) how do you become whole while only half of you is there? Once, you were whole all on your own. You didn’t choose to walk this walk, you didn’t ask for this you didn’t want this–never this– game of life that tossed the rules out on you– why did the rook take the queen– you didn’t know you didn’t want you didn’t mean in when you said you only wanted a minute alone youdidntyoudidntyoudidntyoudidnt

But still. Here we are.

Somber as a post.

Knowing.

Widows
Walk
Alone

Copyright 2020 Wynelda Deaver

#becausewecan: 82 Cards

A lot of things are going on in the world right now, and what we need is inspiration. The docotrs and scientists need inspiration to find a way to navigate us out of this mess. And we need inspiration to help us remain human and connected in a world of social distancing.

Some things happened the weekend of March 20th that inspired me. Some people inspired me. The first was Jennifer Pastiloff. If you dont follow her on Facebook or Instagram, you should. In the face of losing her livlihood, she decided to hang on by asking “How may I serve?” She did one of her classes online for a donation… to help feed others. To buy diapers, food. To help. She could have set it up and done her confrences that way– Zoomed her way into a paycheck. I still think she should consider it. But at this time, when we needed help, we needed to remember that you can always find 5 beautiful things right here and now… she gave me that reminder. That hope.

The other person that inspired me was Jon Bon Jovi. He did a video of the start of the song and asked that the people watching help write the rest. I don’t remember the name of the song, but i do remember thinking that he has already made an anthem for these crazy days. Because We Can. And also Army of One.

Those who know me know that Bon Jovi wrote the soundtrack to my life. At one point I toyed with writing a monologe set to their music. Is it any wonder that when I was looking for inspiration and comfort and the “Hell yes we can do this!” I turned to them, to the band that I grew up beside?

So.

How many have seen the meme about writing cards to seniors in rehab care facilities? On Monday night i got a wild hair and called the one Dad had been in here locally.  They have 82 people there. Writing cards is my super power. I dont just sign my name, I write. 

And then God laughed. I wrote Tuesday. I came home from work Wednesday and crashed (essential employee). I wrote Thursday. Ended up on the phoen a lot Friday, still wrote thouh. I wrote on my breaks. I wrote on my lunch. I wrote on Saturday and on Sunday morning. And at some point, your brain goes to sleep and magic happens and you’re just creating.

I delivered 82 cards on Sunday. All the cards opened with “To My Special Friend” and ended with the note that they are special and they are loved. I signed only with my first name. No phone number, no return address. Because while it would be great to know if the right card got to the right person… I am fighting my need for positive reinforcement.

I did it because I am an #Armyofone, and #becausewecan.

And also because Jen Pastiloff asked “How May I Serve?”

Gardens, Secret, Forgotten and otherwise

I had not read any of the accolades  on this book before reading it. I picked it up because it intrigued me, quietly and simply.

I didn’t expect to be so immersed, or for it to bring up so much of The Secret Garden (by Frances Hodgson Burnett). Frances Hodgson Burnett is largely responsible for me wanting to learn how to craft a story. But more than that, to craft a story that people can fall into, fall in love with, and never want to leave.

I’m still reading her books, all these years later. They still resonate, still inspire me.

And apparently Kate Morton feels the same way about Frances. Because not only does The Forgotten Garden takes The Secret Garden, grows it up and deepens it. She adds a family history, takes the male cousin and makes it another female, shakes and stirs and just adds so much to the tradition it humbles me.

I really wish I could write like this.

But I am so glad that someone out there does, in fact, write for girls like me. Girls who want to go beyond the Secret Garden and find out the mystery of life.

Oh, and to add Burnett as a character in the novel? Near where the secret garden and the maze was?

Priceless!