Impossibilities

“Why, sometimes I've believed 

as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

~The White Queen from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland

This quote reminds me of an exchange I had back when my now-taller-than-me son was only three.

“Mama, what’s a mature?”

“A what?”

“A mature.”

“Honey, mature isn't a thing… it’s, uh, a state of being — like being grown up.”

“No it isn't.” He scowled, then hiked up his big boy pants and stomped away.

5 minutes later —

“Mama, what’s a mature?”

“I thought we went over this. Here, I’ll get out the big dictionary (back in the day when it was actually a book) and show you.” I carefully read Webster’s take. “Of or relating to a condition of full development… Satisfied?”

“No WAY.” More scowling, more hiking up, more stomping.

5 minutes later —

“Mama, what’s a mature?”

“I think we've been over this.”

The scowl deepened, and I was gripped by the fear that I’d be responsible for putting another curmudgeon into the world. So, I threw up my hands and sighed. “Okay, okay, I give up. I’ll confess. You see, a mature is REALLY a glowing worm that lives in Antarctica and only eats square snowflakes.”

Everything stopped.

His lips quivered, his eyes widened, and then an enormous sunrise of a grin spread over his face. “I KNEW it!” he squealed and scampered off scowl-free.

Goodness, I love that boy.

And the lesson I learned that day has helped me with my craft — 

If you want to write for children, you've got to believe in the possibility of impossible things…

But, hey, are they really impossible?

Heck, my great grandfather’s impossibilities are my realities today.

PROMPT: Indulge in the world of impossible possibilities. What wondrous things did you once believe? On the flipside — what fantastical thing did you think could never happen, that actually, amazingly did? What glorious impossibility would you love to make real today? Write, paint, create about it.

Ditch the scowl. Embrace the grin.

Adventure Is Out There!

Are you an adventurer?

Alas, I must admit that I am not.

I mean, given the choice between camping in a snow cave and cleaning grout…

Spelunking and cleaning grout…

Or whitewater rafting and cleaning grout.

I’m going to choose the grout.

Every. Single. Time.

In the vast world of writerly types, I am as close to a card-carrying hobbit variety as you can get…

Without actually carrying a hobbit card.

Yes, I like warm fires, good books, second breakfasts, and elevensies.

Most of all, I like being home.

And yet…

I am about to embark on my most adventurous summer ever!

First, I will travel to a foreign land where my communication will be limited to toddler-level sentence structures, such as “Want coffee” and “Dinner good more wine.”

Then when I've barely recovered from the jet lag coma, I have a date with the Great White North. I’m calling this one “Ten Days No Showers.” Because really, everything else (dehydrated food, bears, whatnot) is irrelevant.

And so…

I will expand my hobbit horizons, and of course, accumulate lots of writing material.

Because even nonhobbity writerly types know…

It’s all material.

Besides,

H. Jackson Brown's mother was right —

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines. 

Sail away from the safe harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore. Dream. Discover."

From: P.S. I Love You:

When Mom Wrote, She Always Saved the Best for Last.

PROMPT: What’s your next adventure?

Explore, Dream, Discover… and Write on!

A Chance for Rants

For the love of Pete (and simplicity), why are there so many buttons on my television remote control?

I don’t want to change the world, I just want to change the flippin’ channel.

And here’s another thought —

Why is it that wearing underwear in public will most likely land you in the backseat of a black and white…

But donning a bikini covering roughly 3 square centimeters of skin gets a thumbs-up from the authorities?

And finally —

When I call in to receive my voicemail messages, why oh why does the pseudo-human robot voice eat up precious cell phone minutes to ask me if I want to hear my messages?

No. I do not want to hear my voicemail messages. I actually called because I am lonely and longed to hear a pseudo-human robot voice. OF COURSE I WANT TO HEAR MY MESSAGES!!

… Deep cleansing breath.

Have you ever wanted to go off like a Roman candle over some petty annoyance or things that don’t make any sense?

Unless your first name happens to be “Saint,” I’m pretty sure you've answered in the affirmative.

Well, today is your lucky day.

It’s time to have a little fun with those rants in your pants.

So, grab a bit of inspiration from my favorite ranter, Hank Green...

Yep, it’s 17 Rants in 4 Minutes.

PROMPT: Write out your own personal favs in the rant department, or create an awesome rant for your main character. 

Write… and rant on!

Don’t Be Afraid of the D-A-R-K

Maurice Sendak would have been 86 today. So, let’s take a moment or two to celebrate the life he muscled through.

Apparently this talented writer and artist, who delivered delight to so many childhoods, had a dreadful one of his own. In fact, in one interview he said the best way to describe his childhood was “D-A-R-K.”

First off, he was a very sickly kid who spent most of his time in bed. This was in the midst of The Great Depression, which made the outside world pretty grim, as well. On top of all that, stability wasn't a big part of the Sendak family plan.

Maurice reported that his family moved often. Why? Because his mother could not bear the smell of fresh paint. Every time a landlord wanted to spruce up the place, they had to go. Of course, Mom’s “instability” made life difficult in other ways, too.

Then World War II came along, and the Sendaks were driven even further into despair as many of their European relatives perished in the Holocaust.

Yes, that is D-A-R-K.

And my heart goes out to the little Maurice who lived through it.

It makes you wonder what one does with darkness like that.

Well, here’s what Maurice did…

From the confines of his bed, he honed his drawing skills. Chaos and gloom may have surrounded him, but he held fast to bright dreams of a better life. Then he used the darkness itself to transform into something completely different —

a Caldecott Medal winner.

Remember those monsters in Where the Wild Things Are? Maurice says they were all inspired by the batty family members who “hovered like a pack of middle-aged gargoyles” over his childhood sickbed.

DARKNESS.

We all have it.

It’s what we do with it that counts.

PROMPT: If you've got life, no doubt you've got darkness. But never, never forget — it can always be used to create something beautiful.

Create something beautiful today.

Got Compost?

It’s May 29th!

And you know what that means…

It’s National Learn About Composting Day!

Go ahead, Doubters — look it up.

I’ll wait.

Satisfied?

Well, dang it, then — let’s learn about composting!

When gardeners compost, they take a bunch of useless leftovers, throw them into a pile, turn them over and over a bunch of times, and voilà!  They create fantabulous fertilizer for rockin’ their leaf-lovin’ world.

You may be wondering exactly what qualifies as a compostable, useless leftover.

Well, wonder no more — I found a website listing 163 things you can compost. The page was cleverly titled “163 Things You Can Compost” and if you’re interested, you can find it here.

As you can imagine, I was incredibly inspired by this list. So much so that I decided to take a few of the items and translate them into writer-speak just for you.

Because here’s a little secret that you ought to know —

Writers out-compost gardeners every single day of the week.

Gardeners (Writers)

Wood ashes (rotten childhood)

Chicken manure (schoolyard bullies)

Bee droppings (the ones who dumped you)

Sunday Comics (the ones you dumped)

Crab shells (lousy bosses)

Moldy cheese (lousy jobs)

Freezer-burned fish (picked last for the softball team…again)

Hoof and horn meal (but first to be seated in the spelling bee)

Dried jellyfish (laid off, downsized, terminated, frustrated)

Dead flies (wardrobe malfunctions)

Dust bunnies (worst haircut ever — she wouldn't even let you pay)

Yes, Writers, you've got this composting competition in the bag.

PROMPT: Take a bunch of useless leftovers, throw them into a pile, turn them over and over a bunch of times in your mind, and voilà!  You've got fantabulous fertilizer for rockin’ your keyboard-clackin’ world.

Yo Mama

Motherhood

It teaches you a few things…

Like how to open a stroller with your teeth.

That zone defense stinks. Man-to-man is the only way to go.

And that you can achieve perfection…

in your efforts to mimic the voice of Goofy.

Only to be asked to use it in every conversation

for an entire year.

You learn that relief is always temporary…

Your next gig?

Oscar the Grouch.

You realize that those fascinating psychological studies revealed NOTHING about the real-world effects of sleep deprivation.

Because in the real world, you find yourself ending phone conversations with “Love you” no matter who is on the line…

Pediatric nurse

Neighbor

The cable guy.

You stumble around for days not knowing the season or year.

You use the dog’s name when speaking to your child.

And you lose your keys 87,000 times —

only to find them lurking in the strangest places…

The file cabinet under “S”

The freezer

Your hand.

Good thing the Devil never shows up —

because you become the kind of person who would gladly hand over her soul AND the 401(k) for a 20-minute nap.

You discover that hazmat suits are for sissies —

a person can actually have continual exposure to bodily fluids and live to tell the tale.

And tell the tale you will — to anyone, no matter who, no matter where…

Graduations

Weddings

Funerals.

Miss Manners be damned.

Graduate school?

Turns out, that was a cakewalk.

And unless your advanced degree was in choo choos or birdies, nobody you work with gives a hoot.

Yeah, I’m still stumbling my way through the mommy years.

I've done well enough to reach the “teen” level.

And this is a tough one —

They've figured out that I have no idea what I’m doing.

Even so, I've done okay.

How do I know?

If I were in a maturity contest and pitted against my own offspring…

They would win.

PROMPT:  Erma Bombeck made an entire writing career out of motherhood. So, if you mother something — be it human, hairy, or 

houseplant — you've got material. And hey, if you see a mother this weekend, give her a hug. Better yet — a nap.

No Place Like It

  Home is the nicest word there is.

― Laura Ingalls Wilder

Yes, it’s where the heart is.

So, it should come as no surprise that thoughts of the old homeplace can make even a Commander-in-Chief wax poetic…

My Childhood Home I See Again

by Abraham Lincoln

 

My childhood home I see again,

And sadden with the view;

And still, as memory crowds my brain,

There's pleasure in it too.

O Memory! Thou midway world

'Twixt earth and paradise,

Where things decayed and loved ones lost

In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that's earthly vile,

Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,

Like scenes in some enchanted isle

All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye

When twilight chases day;

As bugle-notes that, passing by,

In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,

We, lingering, list its roar--

So memory will hallow all

We've known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away

Since here I bid farewell

To woods and fields, and scenes of play,

And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain

Of old familiar things;

But seeing them, to mind again

The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,

How changed, as time has sped!

Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,

And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell

How nought from death could save,

Till every sound appears a knell,

And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,

And pace the hollow rooms,

And feel (companion of the dead)

I'm living in the tombs.

Well, on that cheery note…

Here’s another take on the subject —

Give a listen to "The House That Built Me" written by Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin, and recorded by Miranda Lambert.

Dang, that’s a weeper, too.

It’s the “live oak” line that gets me every time.

I've got one of those. Do you?

PROMPT: Now it’s your turn. Create a poem to write home about… featuring the old place that put you together. Weeping and/or singing is optional.

Everything’s Better with…

Thanks to yesterday’s post featuring Eoin Colfer, I can’t stop thinking about some of the fabulous “characters” who fill out my family tree.

In particular, it’s my grandmother who keeps coming to mind.

Here are the facts:

She had only an eighth grade education, but she could spell anything. I mean it — anything. Trust me, it was weird.

She never held an official driver’s license, but employed her backseat driver’s license with reckless abandon.

In addition to her faith, my grandmother held fast to a fundamental belief that everything was better with butter — graham crackers, warm milk, 3^rd degree burns, psychological trauma… you name it. If you could slap a pat on it, she was the one to do it.

She had a personal soundtrack of just three songs — “Rock of Ages,” “Amazing Grace,” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” They were sung or hummed in a continuous loop and paused only when engaging in gossip.

Regarding gossip — the main source of most of her material was Mabel. For at least 50 years, it was always “Mabel said…” such and such or “Mabel told me…” this and that. But here’s the kicker — in all that time, none of us ever met the woman. And of course, a few of the nuttier branches of our family tree still ponder whether Mabel was real…

or imagined.  

Yes indeed, a great character is close at hand.

Now all I have to do is…

add butter.

PROMPT: Pick a character from your family and flesh out their facts. Then throw a problem or two his or her way (butter is optional) and voila — instant story, guaranteed!  

The Most Important Meal of the Day

Breakfast aisle circa 1970

I was raised on Red Dye No. 2 and white sugar.

You see, back in the early 70s, before the granola people began serving up twigs and gravel as part of a balanced breakfast, kids had morning motivators like…

KABOOM!

I started every single day with a hefty bowl of KABOOM.

And I’m pretty sure it was 180% sugar.

Obviously, we didn't have the Food Pyramid or that fancy new Food Plate back then.

We had the “Four Food Groups”…

and each and every one of them was topped with about six inches of refined sugar.

It wasn't a big deal.

In fact, everybody was pretty frank about it.

Those “Pops” and “Smacks” you see in the breakfast aisle today once carried the honest labels of “Sugar Pops” and “Sugar Smacks,” and get this —

Moms actually bought them!

And we actually ate them!

Of course, we were bouncing off the walls by 8:05 AM, but our schools had something called “recess” to handle that.

Truth be told, there was an unsweetened part of the morning meal —

those luscious lumps of toxic dye.

And hey, so far I have suffered no ill effects.

Sure, I can read by the glow of my intestines…

But really —

I’m fine.

PROMPT: What crazy era have you survived? Are you a part of the “no seat belts — no problem” crowd? Take some time out today to write about those years spent in the dark ages. For inspiration, pick up The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson — his hilarious take on being a child of the 50’s. Warning: to avoid embarrassment, do not read it while drinking milk (with or without KABOOM).