In today’s Write on Wednesday, Becca talks about “practice” (much as one would practice the piano) and asks:How about you? Do you have a writing practice? What’s it like? How has it helped you become a better writer? If you’re thinking about starting a writing practice, how do you envision it? What would work for you?
I really don’t think I do have a writing practice. Oh, I write all the time – and I rework it. And it certainly has improved by that practice. But I do this because it is my work. When left to my own devices, I’m not terribly regular (though more so now that I write on The
Marmelade Gypsy).
I’ve done this “practice” in the past – following Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages routine, I would brain dump for several pages (Becca mentions doing this, also). And, like Sarah Ban Branach recommends, I’ve kept copious gratitude journals. I liked it well enough, but it didn’t really feel like practicing to be a writer because it was simply a dump, or a list.
So, what would I do differently? Well, in a perfect world, I would do it regularly. Every day would be nice. And midday – when I’m at my best. Not first thing in the morning when I’m in a rush, or late in the day/early evening when I’m wearing down. No, I would do it during the time that would be – if I took one – my lunch hour, or the hour before or after that. I might start with a prompt, or revisit one of the tons of ideas that float about in my head (few of which relate to any of the others!).
And then, because I’m me and I love to edit, I’d go at it!
Interestingly enough, here on my vacation – alone in my little cottage, save the orange boy-cat – I’ve been resoundingly productive. I’ve written an essay to submit to a competition, I’ve been doing art like a crazy woman (you see, for me, writing is probably secondary to the visual art part of me, though I’m not necessarily better at it! Maybe that’s why I need more art practice!), read a book, am halfway through a scarf, and have devoured the political conventions.
I’ve been “practicing” in a way. And I am genuinely adoring it!
Becca gave us a writing prompt, either for a journal or a blog thought. I’m going to contemplate, perhaps even write on this. But for now, I’ll share it with you:
“Write about a time in your life when you were learning a new activity - a musical instrument, a sport, a language - and how you went about practicing it.”
Summer is winding down, and we’re looking at the last hurrah!
I’m looking forward to dealing with some UFOs (unfinished objects!) at the lake – I just pulled up the extended weather forecast and its mostly sunny and 70s!
The box had lovely papers – stripes, dictionary, collaged – on all sides! I told Sandra the packaging was as lovely as the prize! Thank you!
Also thanks for the many kind comments about my aunt, Iris, both on-blog and off. They are so very much appreciated!
Wishing you many wonderful moments this weekend.
Seeing the tomatoes reminded me of the first full summer in my house. I planted some flowers, herbs and two tomato plants in the heavy clay soil, and tended them carefully.
One day I saw some wee white flowers; then a small, hard green orb, about the size of a marble. My tomato was growing!
From marble to ping pong ball, then to softball size, the green tomato grew. The color changed, too – green to brown, brown to brilliant crimson.
One day when at the plant, I held the tomato in my hand. It detached almost on its own, and I knew it was time for me to bring the fruit inside.
It was clearly the most beautiful tomato ever grown. Worthy of a full page spread in the finest cooking magazine! I was quite certain it would make the most delicious BLT I’d ever known. Or perhaps, I would enjoy it with some fresh mozzarella. Oh, the anticipation!
I’ve thought of that moment often in the years that have followed. I still grow the tomatoes – and even more things (in pots, not that awful clay!). But now I eat the fruit from my garden (though I do keep it on the shelf a bit longer than I probably should, as I still love to look at it!). And I love it!
I realized that my first tomato really wasn’t allowed to live up to its promise – the promise that it was not only lovely, but delicious. The promise of it becoming part of a lunch or dinner that would celebrated harvest, life and doing things for oneself.
The yellow peppers aren’t quite ready to harvest yet, but aren’t they pretty? And it was delicious!
Later that evening, I returned to the book I’m reading – Tina Brown’s “Diana Chronicles.” 
It is surprisingly good. I truly thought that all books on this topic had been written and rewritten and there was little to add. But Brown is a solid and thoughtful writer and the book is well written and researched. She adds a historical and psychological dimension that looks deeper into all the players and their families than anything I’ve seen before.
And, before her full promise could be reached, she was gone. As unceremoniously and violently crushed as my tomato, surrounded by a paparazzi of fruit flies.
The question: Are we living up to our promise? Do we even know what it is? That’s one I need to think about.
“Promising” Gazpacho
We opened on the beach, eating crackers jalapeno jelly (made by my pal Barb!) on cream cheese, enjoying good wine and later, Anne’s pesto (mixed with shrimp on penne!) Kate made a fabulous couscous salad with cucumbers, and I brought up gazpacho, too. We were set for the weekend! 
Another great sunset finished off the evening! 
The next day we hit the farmer’s market, buying tasty goodies. 
I bought beans… 
Mushrooms (aren’t these amazing-looking?)… 
Lots of fruit! 
And of course, took more than a few additional photos! 
Then back to the lake to create!
I did a journal using the same technique – I’ll wait to show you that when it’s done.
This happy guy was just for fun! 
I also knit up a dish cloth from a Magic Ball my friend Maryanne sent me. It was my first Magic Ball and as I stitched wildly, lovely things fell out like tiny bottles of glitter, yarn, embellishments, and sweet little ducks! 
The fact was, we didn’t want to – and couldn’t stop. We didn’t even go to dinner till around 8!
And I got lots of prep done for other projects – collage art snipping, paper organizing and more!
The Gypsy-boy was waiting!
Iris was the oldest of my mom’s sisters, and the last one of her generation. After a heart attack/stroke last week, she chose to move to Hospice. However, at that time there was no reason to think that things would happen this quickly.
(Iris is between my grandparents, with the dark hair, in the middle holding my aunt, Gracie.) 
She listened and cared about me as my mom would. I’d share teary things with her, and joyful ones. She loved cats and would listen to my Gypsy (and Stimpy) stories eagerly – and share one or two of her own. 
Right now, I am trying to grapple with the idea that my cousins and I are now the “older generation.” We are the elders. I keep thinking we’re still the kids – and when we get together, we still act that way! 
