IWSG August 6, 2014 – Write! #IWSG

First Wednesdays come very quickly, far faster than other days.  It is now time for the Insecure Writer’s Support Group post. This is the once-a-month blog hop started by Alec Cavanaugh . IWSG = Insecure Writers’ Support Group .  We share our insecurities and support each other with empathy, sympathy and  practical suggestions. 

I was speaking recently with someone who is disheartened.  He is experienced, and while he is only recently published, he has written for years, and through the years has honed his craft.  He tells good stories.
But there are others that he sees, those who put out products that – to him, at least – do not have a whole lot of merit.  They crow of their successes, they flaunt what he thinks are fabulous sales numbers, while he has nothing to boast of.  He just does not fit in.
I replied that some of the great writers did not fit in.  They did what felt best to them and never lost sight of who and what they were, and the source of their joy.  He is a writer: he should write and follow his own path (taking advantage of the aid offered, of course.)
I sometimes break into (pretty bad) poetry, and for this post I decided to offer this bit of doggerel, which expresses my musings on my friend’s questions:
What am I?  (With a nod to Jean Valjean and a bow to Shakespeare)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Alas, that I should take this wearying path
That windeth through such perilous wilderness,
And with this throng;
‘Tis certain that my steps herein shall lag
Through many deserts without hope of aid
with choices wrong –
To follow my own heart, or heed the cries
Of those who claim to know the secret pass
That leadeth to the land of fame and wealth –
‘Tis sure they lie and knoweth not their way –
…Or do they?
I fear that perils loom on ev’ry side,
My own heart tells me that they menace me
With thoughts of quick success, such as might wreck my gift –
And leave me with no hope.
So then, I think: what am I to do?
The urge within me says to simply write,
To let the words flow from me to be read;
To glory in the spate of thought and act
Capturing the joy of times long past
When telling tales held me in joyous thrall –
But is it right—?
But is it right?
The question still remains, and so I ponder it.
As I have pondered through all the passing years;
Who am I?
…And the answer comes:
What have you sought to be through years of waiting?
The glad times you sought words and let them dance,
The tales you spun,
The way your heart had sung
And you knew the path was true.
And all else to the side.

Tell your stories.

I have been rediscovering my gift, and the joy that using it gave me.  I think we lose sight of it, of the reason we are writers.
In A Chorus Line, Cassie, who had done some solo work, exclaims, “God!  I’m a Dancer!  A Dancer dances!
We’re writers.  All else is to the side.  Without the writing we are nothing.
…So let’s write!

Check out the hop.  There are some fabulous posts to savor:


Sharing a Little Holiday Joy (flash mob)

This has taken the internet by storm, and it came at a moment this morning when I was feeling overwhelmed.  A good reminder of the Reason for the Season at a time when I, for one, am being bombarded by stories that I find upsetting.

But this reduced me to tears.  I am sharing the beauty.

I’ll be away for a few days.  I hope return to find all well and happy when I return.


…is defined by Webster as:

the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for

We have all had experience with this.  The turn in the road that opens out to a vista of a splendid purple sunset (I was driving on Rte 87, heading south in southern New York state), the bird glimpsed at the moment of flight…

I have a camera in my phone, and I’ve started using it.  I also have a nice camera at home, but it isn’t always with me. 

I remember one time (the umpteenth time) walking past an old, beautifully weathered wooden barn sitting in a field of larkspur and bright dandelions and pausing to fill my eyes with the splendor of rich brown, periwinkle blue and brilliant yellow among velvety green, with hills rising behind it.  It was at the end of the street on which my parents’ lakeside cottage was built.  It would be there the next day, I’d grab my camera first thing in the morning, when it was catching the dawn light, and click away.

…the next morning I looked at the new-mown field and shook my head.  The larkspur never came back.

So, t’other day, driving along past another serendipitous sight on my way to the post office, I decided to take action.  And I’m going to share.

Here it is.  Six mailboxes in a weathered wood setting.  Bright colors – true red, hunter green, (weathered) cream, peach, blue and black.  I’ve been driving past them for years, smiling at them – and then, yesterday, in a bit of a hurry, I nevertheless stopped, parked, and jumped out of my car with my phone clutched in my hand. 

I took several shots, then backed up and took a photo of the entire scene.  My passenger (my sister) thought the view was pretty, but she’s the one who came up with the reason for the colors: 

“If you look,” she said, “The mailbox colors match the doors.  I frowned, squinted, and then began to laugh.  HOW many years had I driven past and enjoyed the view?  There’s the red door, and there’s the blue door (check the arrows).

And now they’re caught!

Maybe I’ll catch a snapshot of that old hand-made shelter by the side of the road…