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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Writing, Creativity, The Arts

On The Farm

Since I’m loathe to simply slap up the “Writer At Work” sign and leave my poor readers with only the Sunday paper or less worthy blogs (blogs of dear friends excluded, of course,) I’m doing the next easiest thing: posting something I’ve already written. Frankie got a lot of love last week, so for all you Frankie fans out there — enjoy this excerpt from my book. And don’t hold it against me if the sign’s there next week. 

Arguments with my mother can sound like Abbott and Costello routines.  We are parked in the car and my mom is taking Frankie out to do his business.

“When we get back, we can eat!” she tells him.

“I thought you said you didn’t bring any cookies,” I say.

“I didn’t.  You said you brought grapes.”

“I did.  But those are for lunch.”

“But we always have a snack at the park.”

“Yes.  We always have cookies.  You’re welcome to the grapes.  But they were for lunch.”

“Well, I didn’t bring cookies.  I thought we could eat your grapes.”

“Again.  We can.  I’m just saying, they were for lunch.”

Frankie whimpers to remind us he needs to go out or this could go on forever.  As the door shuts, she shoots me a look that says I’m a spoiled child, unwilling to share.

Continue reading “On The Farm” →

5

Remembering Amy

by Emory Clements

I lost a dear friend last weekend. Because it was unexpected, many of her friends are still reeling. But we came together last week, not for a service exactly, but a gathering of sorts, a service before the service.

While there, what struck me most was, while I knew very few people, I wasn’t the only one. Everyone there, it seemed, didn’t know anybody else. This beautiful person had touched so many lives — and most of them in random ways. So-and-so met so-and-so on eHarmony or in a class, and that someone knew a neighbor of Amy’s who turned out to be somebody else’s realtor. And so it went. I met Amy several years ago at a self-improvement workshop that neither of us particularly cared for. We joked that the best thing to come out of it had been our friendship. The assortment of people that arrived last Tuesday may not have known each other, but it all led back to Amy.

Her short-time love (that they weren’t yet married is just a technicality in my book) spoke of two words Amy associated with herself — creativity and connection. Someone else spoke about how, upon hearing the news, her best friend was prompted to say “I love you” to her for the first time in over twenty years. I had similar experiences. Friends, those I see all the time and those I hadn’t heard from in months or years, reached out to me. Connections are important. The lesson I left with is to tell the people you care about that they matter.

On the way home, another good friend of Amy’s mentioned that Amy’s easel was still at his house. They had taken an art class together. Amy had gotten bored. She didn’t have the attention span for it. He, on the other hand, was on to something. He showed me some paintings on his phone. They were good.

As a creative person myself, I feel certain that Amy has left it to me to encourage him. This is a role I gladly accept. I think everyone has the potential to be creative or do something that makes a difference, something they feel passionate about. We differ only in how much we’ve actualized or stifled this natural urge.

When I considered writing this blog, I hesitated. Was it selfish of me to write about something so personal? About losing a person most of my readers don’t even know? And then I remembered: that’s the magic of writing. When done well, it makes you feel. There’s something in it that the reader can relate to. So, it doesn’t really matter if you knew Amy or not. I write what’s personal to me and you can connect to it through something personal to you. Magic.

And so, I find that this giving friend of mine keeps on giving. And I simply pass on the message. Creativity and connection. Do with that what you will.

Amy Louise Hyler
1966-2012
13

Carpe Diem

Ever feel that a movie’s theme is the theme to your whole life? I watched Dead Poets Society again last weekend and it struck a chord deep inside me then, as much as it did in 1989. Then, the passion it stirred up was like that of the student’s in the movie, largely unfulfilled, barely recognized even. Now, I know my desire to write with the same certainty that character Neil Perry feels for his love of acting.

I might have even gotten a tattoo with the words Carpe Diem. Now it feels a bit too cliche — both the phrase and the tattoo itself. I guess I missed that opportunity some years ago. At least I didn’t miss the writing life.

So, I encourage you to “gather ye rosebuds while ye may” if you haven’t already done so. Gather them now, don’t wait. Or in the words of Henry David Thoreau, “…and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. “

5

Live Forever!

“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper.” ~Ray Bradbury 

When something newsworthy happens in the writing world, I’m inclined to write about it. When that something is the death of one of the most legendary and prolific writers of our time, I have to write about it.

Author Ray Bradbury passed away after long illness on June 5th at the age of 91. In a career that spanned more than seven decades, he wrote hundreds of short stories, close to 50 books and numerous poems, essays and screenplays. But perhaps he is best known for his science fiction novel Farenheit 451 and other classics like The Martian Chronicles and Something Wicked This Way Comes. Much of his work has been turned into film, television shows and radio plays.

My mother remembers him first from comic books. Many of his short stories appeared in science fiction digests and comics in the 1950s.

His incredible imagination and love of the fantastic was part of him even as a child. He liked to recount the story of meeting a carnival magician, Mr. Electrico, in 1932. At the end of the performance, Mr. Electrico reached out his sword, touched the 12 year-old Bradbury on the forehead and commanded, “Live forever!” Bradbury says he decided that was the greatest idea he’d ever heard. He started writing every day and never stopped.

I am always touched by the passion with which he talked or wrote about writing. This video, taken at the age of 86, can move me to tears. I get that way in the presence of truly passionate people, particularly when their passion is writing. My writing teacher often reads passages from Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing and our group sits marveling at his prose.

It is fitting that the ending of Farenheit 451 reads:

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.”

He’s everywhere.

5

Keeping It Interesting

I discovered recently that Frankie is timid around men. And he doesn’t like the smell of fish. As a result, he really tries to avoid men who smell like fish. So, you’d think he’d be less than thrilled to spend a recent morning on the Jacksonville Beach pier, right? Wrong. He was beside himself.

I walked him there in my power chair to meet a couple of friends one weekday morning. He was tugging at the leash as soon as we turned south instead of north. He didn’t care where we were going. Just that we’d never been there before. When we reached the paved walkway next to the dunes, his pace quickened and he weaved back and forth, trying to take in all the strange scents simultaneously. Gulls called overhead, people whizzed by on bikes and rollerblades and the breeze carried in the smell of salt and Tropicana off the beach.

Dogs are allowed on the pier if they’re service dogs. Frankie is enrolled in classes with a trainer who can certify him as such, so technically, it wasn’t a lie. Frankie is a service dog-in-training now. But I have to admit, little Frankie looks nothing like those well-behaved helpers, particularly bounding ahead of the wheelchair with no special vest and barking at birds.

He was so excited that even being approached by smelly men with coolers full of fish didn’t faze him for long.  After our outing, his little legs carried him most of the way home, probably running on pure adrenaline.

Later that week, my writing coach gave us a suggestion that rang especially true. She said – do something new. As writers, we need to fill the creative well with new images, scents and tastes so that we can call these up in our writing, keeping things from sounding stale or cliche.

And non-writers need this mental stimulation too. Are you like me, always ordering the same thing off the menu? Mix it up! Try something different. Or better yet, go to a restaurant you’ve never been to before. Take in a museum exhibit on your lunch hour. Or just drive a different way to work. Our lives are so filled with routine that it’s easy to get stuck in a rut.

Remembering this advice, I took Frankie to the park the following week. We were rewarded when a mama duck and at least seven little ducklings crossed our path. True, Frankie was excited enough just by the Mallards waddling by, but I was happy to see the babies. We sat for a long time in the butterfly garden, Frankie attempting to dig in the mulch while I watched a Swallowtail flutter around. It was calming and it broke routine. That butterfly and those ducklings are now deep in the well of my creative subconscious just waiting to be called on. And Frankie’s happy. To him I’m just keeping it interesting.

1

Defending the Games

I haven’t gone to bed before midnight in four days. I blew off every responsibility I had last week. And Frankie hasn’t had an evening walk in quite a few evenings. The reason for my new devil-may-care attitude? I’m completely addicted to the popular trilogy of books by Suzanne Collins.

Great literature it’s not. I don’t think The Hunger Games nor any of its sequels is going to win Collins a Pulitzer Prize. There isn’t any stunning prose. But there’s something to be said for thinking up a great story and telling it in such a gripping way it becomes hard to put down. In fact, I’m writing this post after finishing book one, but before starting book two, just in case this is one responsibility I’m tempted to shirk once I start reading again.

As usual, I found the book better than the movie, though I thought the movie was quite good. I almost want to start seeing films before reading their books just so my enjoyment of them isn’t dampened. But I like being able to create my own mental images without the help of Hollywood casting agents. And in this case, I have to admit I would have been confused at times if I didn’t know all the plot details from the book.

Even having taken in both, I’m clueless as to what all this talk of racial controversy is about. Is it over the casting? I found the casting ideal. Jennifer Lawrence (Winter’s Bones) is perfect as the gritty heroine, Katniss Everdeen. Attractive enough, but not too pretty. I did find myself rooting for the opposite romantic interest from the book to the movie (Liam Hemsworth plays Gale, Josh Huctcherson plays Peeta) because of chemistry and on-screen appeal.

But back to this alleged racism. Three main characters in the film are black, but one of them is described that way in the book, so I don’t see the problem. (Lenny Kravitz plays one of them and if you’re looking for the ’90s cover album version like me, you’ll miss him. Who knew Lenny Kravitz could act?) Then there’s the fact that the citizens of the 11th district of this dystopian society are particularly angry over their oppression. Tensions seem high and hot enough to boil there. I’ve only finished one of the three books, but I’d put my money on an uprising beginning in District 11. In the movie, the majority of people that live in this area are also black. Does that make the movie racist?

Far more legitimate, and therefore troubling to me, is a reluctance I’ve noticed in moviegoers. Some people are hesitating to see the film out of concern over the violent subject matter. The Hunger Games are, in fact, a competition of survival between 12-18 year-olds. Basically, it’s children forced to murder each other for the sake of televised entertainment. Violent? Yes. Important commentary on the dangers of our own society? Definitely.

Look, I’m as squeamish as they come, just ask my mother. I peek through my fingers at horror flicks, skip most shoot-em-ups and avoid screams and explosions at all costs. Just give me a nice feel-good with a happy ending. But the writer in me can still appreciate good art. I’ve watched many disturbing films (The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, Fight Club, The Misfits) in the name of art.

Not to make Suzanne Collins the next George Orwell, but she did do something kind of neat. Her story questions our current fascination with reality T.V. and sensationalism in the media. It calls to mind issues of privacy and images of war. Part Olympics, part Survivor, part The Truman Show, The Hunger Games reminds us that though it may be fun to watch the good train wreck that is The Real Housewives of New Jersey, networks keep having to up the ante to satisfy our appetites for more and more drama.

Besides, it’s fiction people! I’m pretty sure the real world is nowhere near justifying killing humans for sport. My mom was surprised that I not only enjoyed but re-watched District 9, a particularly bloody and violent movie. I guess it helps that most of the exploding parts were alien. I also liked I Am Legend and Aliens.

It’s ironic to me that some people will cross good movies off their list, yet sit through the evening news without flinching. And don’t forget it’s PG-13. A teenager’s novel! I’m not saying you have to run right out and see it in the theater. It can wait for DVD. But check it out. I don’t think you’ll need to, but you can always peek through your fingers.

4

The Desire

I’m in line at a book signing with my writing pal, Mary. When it’s our turn, Mary asks the author a question he must have answered a million times. “Do you write every day?”

He doesn’t hesitate, “Yes.”

What were we expecting? The general consensus on the subject seems to be that writers should write every day. I think we were looking for a way out of it.

In her book, Becoming a Writer, Dorothea Brand  suggests giving yourself an absolute, non-negotiable 15 minutes a day to start. She then states, in unequivocal terms,”If you fail repeatedly at this exercise, give up writing.” Ouch. She goes on to explain that, for those people, their resistance is actually greater than their desire to write.

I know I would pass the test. I know I would. My desire to write is definitely greater than my resistance. Look, I churn out this blog every week — no excuses. So why is committing to a daily practice such a struggle?

Well for starters, Dorothea Brand is not in my living room. Sure, I get up way before the sun every day with the intention of writing. And most days I do. But some mornings I just return emails. So no, I’m sure I’m not writing every single day.

See, there’s no one hanging over me, waiting for my daily allotment of words to be produced. It does help greatly to be held accountable. Hence, the successful regularity of this blog.

Stephen King writes 2,000 words a day. Anthony Trollope, one of the most prolific English novelists of the Victorian era, wrote three hours a day, every day. Jack London wrote 16-18 hours a day and produced 50 books in 16 years. He also killed himself at the age of forty.

I prefer to hear about Judith Viorst who writes for children and adults by setting a goal of a page a day. She can get ahead, but never fall behind. So when she’s cranking out pages, she can take a few days off. I’m spending all day Friday writing this so I can take the rest of the weekend off for a visiting friend. I think this kind of on again, off again affair with writing worked for Hemingway. You hear about his writing for three to four hours every day, but in his letters he mentions easing off those months when the fishing was good.

And if you’re a writer not writing, prepare to pay in guilt. Gloria Steinem said, “Writing is the only thing that … when I’m doing it, I don’t feel that I should be doing something else instead.”

My writing coach encourages us to write every day. She gave us a nice quote by somebody I can’t remember and whose words I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this. If someone told you that inspiration (spirit, muse, an angel) was going to show up near your house on a rock at ten o’clock, wouldn’t you go to that rock every day and wait?

I would. And so, I’ll keep heading to my desk long before I hear the first seagull outside. I’ll continue to set my alarm even though sometimes, I confess, I go back to sleep. Keep striving for the solution that works for you. Remember, if your desire outweighs your resistance, you’re a writer. You’ll find a way. Just don’t give up.

7

Happy Blog-versary!

Plan more than you can do, then do it.

Bite off more than you can chew, then chew it.

Hitch your wagon to a star, keep your seat, and there you are.

~Unknown

                                                                                                                                                                       I first heard the term “blog-versary” when a writing pal, Mary, celebrated the five year mark of her blog, Random Thoughts. Five years. I can’t even fathom.

I started this blog roughly one year ago, against all wise advice to the contrary. I had, still have, a book to finish. I’m sure I’d have been finished by now if I wasn’t spending half my writing time here. More really, if you count thinking time (and I do.) My biggest struggle has always been the thinking, dreaming up ideas. One year. That’s 52 blog topics to come up with.

Luckily, I never looked at it that way. I just jumped in. I think that’s what you have to do. Don’t dip your toe in to find out the water is freezing or you’ll stand there shivering in dreaded anticipation. Just jump. Don’t think about it too much. Or fear may stop your forward progress. Have a little faith.

You’ve heard it before. Leap and the net will appear. I love that.

I also love this quote about writing by E.L. Doctorow that can be applied to any risk-taking in life. “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” Writing a blog is like driving a car at night, too. When things are flowing smoothly, I have topics planned two or three weeks ahead. It gets more nerve wracking during the week before a Sunday when I haven’t a clue.  For example, when I wrote the post “Material,” I had no idea what to write about until my wheelchair fell off the back of Mom’s jeep a few days prior. See? No use worrying. I should’ve had faith that this little disaster would occur.

The commitment of a weekly deadline has got me thinking like a writer. I go through life always on the lookout, always observing, trying to see the humor in any situation. That’s not a bad way to go through life. I’m also more likely to accept an invitation or take a risk because at the very least, I may get a blog post out of it.

There are other benefits, too. (Writers, listen up.) It’s great practice. You can fine-tune technique, work on style, or find your voice. And no one can deny there’s great satisfaction to be had in building an audience. Last week, I had someone subscribe to my blog in Thailand. Thailand. How cool is that? It feels a bit too presumptuous and egotistical calling you all fans, so I’ll call you my loyal readers. And your number is growing.

So, don’t worry about where the money is coming from, just plan the vacation. It doesn’t make sense to stop painting the picture because you don’t know where you’ll hang it. And don’t stay at that dead-end job just because you don’t have another one. Oh wait — that one’s sound. But you get the idea. Just leap.

3

Juggling Act

Back in October, as I was striving to find balance in my life and juggling all of my time demands, I wrote about the concept of “big rocks.” The idea is to prioritize in terms of what is most important to you. These items are your big rocks. I established mine as Writing, Health and Frankie. It’s now almost six months later and after a brief interlude of sanity, I’m back to struggling. My big rocks are sinking me.

So, I’ve taken a pickaxe to them. I don’t think this is what Stephen R. Covey had in mind when he introduced the concept of big rocks in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Don’t get me wrong — the exercise has been helpful. Knowing what the most important things are in the larger picture of my life is invaluable. It helps me every day when I scan the to-do list and decide what can wait. I’m just sick of the carry over. If I have to look at ~organize photos on computer~ one more day, I’m liable to lose it.

This past week, my big rocks took some major hits. After much discussion with my writing coach, it was decided that instead of the time-consuming written critiques I’d been doing on the computer, I’d provide only verbal feedback to my fellow writers. We also discussed the option of attending the group once, instead of twice a month. I don’t think I’ll do that since it would take away from my “me time.” (More on that later.)

I took a major chunk out of my Health rock when I put the gym on hold for two months. Disabled gym goers have one advantage. We may have fewer places where we can work out independently, but at least there’s no contract allowing a health club to continually suck fees from a checking account regardless of attendance.

Lastly, I asked my mom to take Frankie more. She misses him. He loves visiting her. It’s a win-win situation. In fact, as I write these words in peaceful solitude, he’s over there bugging her cat instead of mine.

After I had more manageable pebbles to deal with, I made some new rules. Rule 1 — schedule only one appointment per day. By the time you add in the time it takes me to ride the bus there and back, we’re talking about a half day anyway. Rule 2 — Keep one weekday free from appointments. I mean really free. No grocery shopping, no lunch date, nothing. I’ve realized, particularly as a writer, how wonderful a large expanse of free time feels, how ripe with possibility. Never underestimate the mental well-being gained from having nothing on the calendar. For those of you with full-time jobs five days a week — I’m sorry. What can I say? This is one of those disability perks I talked about.

Having knocked time off my big rocks, I’m focusing on taking the next several weeks to resolve some major projects. This brings me to New Rule Number 3 — Only one big project at a time. This seems obvious enough, but last month I took on getting a new power chair, physical therapy for my shoulder and updating my website. No wonder I felt stressed.

Finally, if I can leave you with just one thought. Don’t sacrifice your “me time.” This is one area I never skimp on. My me time is sitting watching the waves with Frankie, going out with friends, or enjoying a meal in front of a recorded movie (I never eat on the run.) It may be a little selfish, but this way, if everything else crumbles, one thing is sure to survive — you.

5

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