Writing from the World Around Me

I have noticed since I have been trying to make a go of this whole writing thing that everything around me has become fodder for my stories. When I watch television, I find my mind wandering to who came up with the original premise and how the writers work together to come up with what will happen for each character and in each episode.

I have noticed this to some extent for years. I have shaken my fist at the heavens to curse the writers who killed my favorite character (although I realize that tends to have more to do with the actor than the writers) or had someone do something I considered to be a bad idea or out of character.

When spending time with friends, family, or even random people, I look at each of their mannerisms and consider what kind of character they would be in a book. I see each one of my friends as the leading man or leading lady of another story. Maybe the math teacher is the ship captain or that one cousin is the meddlesome

Last night I was at a basketball game, and I met a woman behind me. As we spoke, I couldn’t help but think she would make a great friend, acquaintance, or maybe even a lead in a romance. Just a few tweaks, and I could make her the heroine of my next novel.

I’m sure I could make her a heroine as she is, but I don’t know her well enough to write a fully-dimensional character yet. Also, I like to put a little bit of myself in all my leading ladies. Yes, I know I haven’t published anything yet (first book is coming any day now, actually-more on that later), don’t remind me, but they’re either in my head or drafted, and trust me, there are plenty of them.

I find it immensely satisfying to take elements of my real life and the world around me and use them in my stories. I have spent the majority of my life feeling powerless as things unfolded around me. In my writing, I can make sure the good guy wins and the bad guy gets what’s coming to him (if it serves the plot). I can make the fearful brave, the unnoticed noticeable, the dead live, and can right a few wrongs which I can’t right in real life.

At the same time, though, I can’t bring myself to make things too perfect. I leave some flaws, anger, sadness, injustice, annoyances, and such so the stories and characters I write feel real. They are real to me, after all.

Writing is Hard

Clearly, whether or not writing is hard and how hard it is will be relative to different people. For me, writing can be easy. I am the type of person who crafts an outline or a story in my mind, so I can often sit down and easily write an essay, a chapter, 10,000 words or so if I have been able to give it a proper amount of thought.

Now, that only works when my brain has not been broken by other things. This is where it gets hard for me.

Someday, I hope to be able to support my family entirely with my writing. I love the idea of being able to work for myself and to be beholden to no one but me. I’ve never liked being told what to do. I’m pretty sure that comes from me being the youngest child and being bossed around and punched into submission during my formative years. It is also because I hold myself to a high standard, so I don’t really need other people to do it as well. Anyway, I digress.

As much as I would like to work for myself, I am just starting out, so it would be unwise for me to quit the day job (teaching) and the part-time job (also teaching).

The problem I’m running into is that I spend so much time and mental energy on the things I must do (working the salaried jobs, keeping my children alive, feeding myself, etc.), I have very little energy left for this thing I love to do. And it is really bumming me out.

I have an intense, pure, hopeful desire to write and to write well. I can feel the characters and the stories in my mind knocking and scratching at the doors to be let out, but I keep having to shush them so I can get my work done. My creative brain is being stifled by the obligations of my real life. I’m struggling to find that balance so I can have it all, do it all.

So, here I sit, typing away when I should be sleeping. Perhaps I was hoping writing it down would help me find the solution. (Hey, that works for me sometimes.) I think mainly I am hoping someone out there has the answer and that person will stumble across my blog (obviously brought along by one of my many followers who have raved about my genius) and convey such wisdom to me. Either way, it feels ever-so-slightly better to have it written and put it out in the world. Even if no one reads it and no one has an answer for me, it’s comforting to know the idea is out there. It’s on the record that I’m trying. It may take me twice as long or ten times as long, but I’m determined to do it. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Review of “The Saturday Evening Girls Club”

The Saturday Evening Girls Club by Jane Healey was recommended to me in one of my Facebook author groups when I asked for books that were written around the World War I time period. I recently realized that I have spent much of my Historical Fiction reading in books based around World War II, and I am branching out. (Obviously not very much, because now I’m reading a bunch of books from that time period, but it’s progress.)

One of the first things I noticed about this book was its emphasis on the power and potential of women. This book clearly establishes that women can be successful and should be able to pursue the life they want. I did at times wonder how accurate some of the attitudes and actions of the main characters were. Many of the female characters are assertive, outspoken, and take some risks that I am not confident would have been so prevalent at the time. (Yes, I realize that at any time period one could find women who possessed these traits, but the book had a whole conglomerate of them.) Even though I question how realistic that idea is, I loved it. It made me feel empowered and inspired by how women were able to become successful on their own or perhaps with the assistance of others, often other powerful women.

I loved how the book emphasized that people’s dreams and happy endings can look different. (I’m also noticing that is a pattern in books I’ve read recently.)

I’ve seen other reviews on this book that had negative opinions about the book’s few historical inaccuracies. I don’t understand people who expect Historical Fiction to be 100% accurate. We are talking about fiction right? It’s not real… It’s a fake story inspired by real events. I like how the author used a real club and some of its real members to build an uplifting story. Also, it has several romances, and I’m a sucker for that stuff.

I feel no obligation to be consistent in how I give ratings on reviews, so this time I’m going to do it like a teacher. I would give this book a decent B-, maybe an 83% or so. I cared about the characters, and I find myself wanting to know more about them and how their stories end up after the book ends.

Review of “In a Field of Blue”

In a Field of Blue by Gemma Liviers takes place around World War I, primarily in France and England. This novel starts with a mystery when a woman shows up with a child, claiming he is the son of a man lost in the war. Rudy, his brother, beings a journey to find what really happened. What follows is an intricate series of events and people.

Through separate timelines, the author slowly reveals what happened for certain characters individually to get them to that same point in the story. Some of the stories are heartbreaking, some frustrating, some a bit predictable.

There were a few times in reading when I found myself frustrated with how the point of view shifted (usually at a climax which was annoyingly interrupted). However, after a while, I appreciated how the author used that method to give the reader pieces of information as she saw fit. Even though it drove me crazy at times, it was very effective at keeping me on the edge of my seat, and I ended up devouring the book in a couple days.

I wouldn’t give this book my highest rating. There is, at times, quite a bit more tell than show. A few significant pieces feel a bit glossed or skipped over. But the story itself is compelling, heartfelt, interesting, and shows some of the harsher outcomes of war people often forget. It got me thinking about how some aspects of war are universal regardless of race, gender, or time period. I would say 3.5 or 4 out of 5 stars. I wouldn’t say you should sprint to read it, but I think if you have a chance to pick it up, you may not be able to put it down.

Give the People What they Want(?)

As I make the final touches on my first novel (hoping to release this month) and continue drafting my second (the sequel to the former), I find myself a bit at war with…myself. (Feels weird saying the same word in one sentence, but it’s what is happening.

I have a vision for my story and my characters. I see them in my mind, and I try to do them justice. I want them to seem realistic, relatable, endearing, etc. However, I also want to please my audience.

Some aspects of my stories, for me, are set in stone. This person will be a good guy; this one will be a bad guy. They will go here, and these things will happen. Some things are debatable. Some characters are vital to one part of a story but not another. Do I send them away for work or a vacation or do I create circumstances that lead to their death? Or do I write them out entirely if they aren’t needed for the whole story?

It could be just me, but I feel some responsibility to these fictional characters. Unless they are the bad guy (or gal), I want good things for them, but that isn’t realistic.

We shall see how the fates turn out for my current work in progress. I know there will be a happy ending for some, for others, they will get the ending they deserve, good or not. Some of them, I don’t yet know where their story will end. I may end up just as surprised as anyone else.

Review of “As Bright As Heaven” by Susan Meissner

I knew after I cried for about the fifth time; As Bright as Heaven by Susan Meissner will be one of my forever-favorites. This is not a book that will gather dust on my bookshelf as many, sadly, have before it. I mean no disrespect to the books, of course, but I don’t have all the time in the world. I must prioritize.

As Bright As Heaven is about a family who lives through (though all may not actually live through) the Spanish flu outbreak that overtook the country, nay, the world in 1918. I love books that shine a light on forgotten, or less often talked about, events in history.

This book does very well to make the experience feel fresh and the characters real. 

While I will endeavor to not give too much away, I will say this story takes a somewhat unique vantage point on death itself, how it is perceived, and the actual role it plays in our existence. I found it refreshing to read a description that showed death itself isn’t necessarily the “bad guy” in the story we paint him to be. 

I also loved each character and their individual arcs. Coming from a large family myself, I appreciate when an author is able to show how members of the same family can be vastly different, not only in personality, but in how they experience the exact same event. Some can be level-headed and wise, while some may be swept away with emotions, even unreasonable (or what may seem unreasonable to others). 

This novel shows happy endings don’t come when we expect, sometimes not at all, and they certainly don’t all look the same. 

I give this book my highest recommendation. I have no intention of being consistent in my reviews, so 5 out of 5 stars, two thumbs up, one million Schrute-bucks, however you want to rate it, read it.

Nice to Meet You: Why I Write

Well, you found me. I knew this could happen when I put this out here in the world. 

I am primarily a wife, mother (of three), teacher, and procrastinator, but I have decided to add author to that list. That is a decision I haven’t come to lightly.

It started as a whisper in the back of my mind when my eighth grade English teacher started giving us freedom in our writing. “Write a story about anything,” she said. It just had to be a certain length, contain certain literary elements, but the content was for us to choose. (Shout out to Mrs. Hansen, part of my origin story as a teacher and a writer.)

That’s when I realized I had things to say.

For the longest time, they were just for me. Starting in college, I occasionally felt the urge to write something completely and to try to get it published. (I did get a poem published in a small anthology from the University, but I haven’t been able to find it, so it feels like I imagined it.)

The desire to write has been active for years, the willingness to put anything in print for the world to see is fairly new.

To me starting my writing journey really is like the dawn of a new day. I am not a risk-taker by nature. I like things that are a bit more guaranteed. I go to work, I get paid. I like things with a contract, a due date, clear guidelines. I like to know what is expected of me so I can make sure I follow the rules.

However, there is another part of me that wants more. I don’t consider myself very creative, but I also have characters and stories living in my mind. Some of them come and go, and some of them plant themselves for good. I can’t seem to get rid of them until I let them out in their own story.

I think, maybe, the stories in my head are worth reading. I don’t know how many there are or how long it will take them to get out, but I would like to try.

The joys, struggles, and tragedies of my own life and the lives of others mean something, and they can help others understand and appreciate their own and others’. I know this to be true because I also am a reader. Sometimes, I read something and it explains something I feel better than I can, helps me understand something I couldn’t comprehend, or sheds light on an event or issue I was ignorant of. I LOVE that. I can feel it opening my heart and my mind when it happens. Many books have meant something to me.

I can only hope my words may mean something to someone else.



Writing Historical Fiction

There are people and events in history that I find fascinating. I am not great with history by itself. I forget exactly who did what, where, when, and why. At least, when I am trying to learn it flat out. But if I learn something from a story, that’s in there for good. I don’t understand what happened unless I can read how someone lived it. Some events have been covered enough, I feel like I know what happened, but many things haven’t been covered enough (for me, anyway).

So, a while ago, I got my mind set on a particular historical event (you’ll see). I’ve been aware of it for as long as I can remember, but I didn’t comprehend what happened until I saw a film adapation. Even though the film definitely added to the story, I still had questions. So, I read. I watched documentaries. I wanted to understand more. Through my research, I did learn so much about it, but I realized I had to work pretty hard to get that information. I wished someone had written a story that included more, more than the obvious everyone had already seen. As I studied, I found that some people did, but it’s impossible for any one person to cover it all, at least not in the way I was looking for.

I realized, I could do it. Now, I’ll fast forward through the year or so of hemming and hawing where I knew I had a strong desire to write something, but I tried to talk myself out of it. About a year ago, I finally sat down to write. It was harder than I thought.

I knew the main things I wanted to have happen in the story. I knew the ending right away. I had little pieces from the beginning and the middle, but for everything inbetween, I had nothing.

I thought I had failed. I stepped away.

To my great surprise, the pieces came. At random times, chunks of the story would pop into my mind. While I was washing dishes, while I was playing with my kids at the pool, in the middle of a conversation about something completely unrelated. Little by little, the story fully matured. I wrote in each piece as it came to me and over time, I wrote each piece out with description and dialogue. Some days, I could only come up with 500 words. Some days, I had nothing. Some days, thousands of words just poured out.

By the end of August, I had about 85,000 words. My goal had been 75,000. Since then I have been adjusting and fine-tuning that book (with help, of course). This will be my first self-published book. I hope you like it.