It can't tune in Helsinki, but it can hold my Cuisinart.

It's so much fun to take something that's not getting much use and turn it into something both practical and beautiful. In my dining room, I'm currently using vintage test tubes as flower vases. In the living room, an antique shadow box explaining the tadpole to frog life cycle does a turn as our end table. And in the kitchen, I've just completed the transformation of this 1930s radio into an island.

I have a thing for old radios. Maybe it's my fond remembrance of writing up the news for a station in Winona, Minnesota, during my college years. But whatever the reason, I always stop to admire radios when I go antiqueing. I bought this one almost 10 years ago. Sorry to say, I didn't take a before picture, but the piece had a poorly done stain job, and I always meant to refinish it. It never actually worked as a radio, and I had little desire to learn how to fix it, but it was a decent piece of furniture in our living room for many years.

Then, we moved, to a house whose small kitchen has SIX! doorways/doors. I wanted more storage, and also a place where the kids could sit and have a snack or work on something while we're cooking. I shopped around. Nothing was the right size or price. Then, my eyes fell on the radio I already owned. If you've never opened one of these things up, you'd be amazed how much space there is inside, once you gut it. There's a huge main compartment where the speaker was, another compartment where the tubes were, a pull out drawer which used to house the record player and a cubby for holding records (now wine).

I painted the whole thing in a chocolate brown, then dry-brushed black over top. I couldn't find butcher block at a good price, so we bought an IKEA solid beech table, tossed the legs aside, and attached the table top with some glue and screws. Decorative brackets added a nice touch, as did the fabric I attached to the piece of plywood that used to hold the speaker. The old diner chairs are from a local thrift stop.

I love, love, love this island! And now I'm eyeing all the other stuff in the house and thinking about what it could become. Hmmm, the dog is about the right size for an ottoman...

 

Write Like a Mutha

Ah, Mother's Day Eve.

Tomorrow, after the kids climb into my bed smiling those sweet little grins when they present me with a plate of French toast they helped prepare, I will hug them and thank them, and feel thankful for them, and then I will shoo them away for a few hours to work, likely some much needed freewriting on my second novel.

What? you ask. Aren't you spending the entire day basking in the adoration of the fruit of your loins? Nope, sorry. I bask every day, you see. I get plenty of basking around here. Recognizing that I need a little time to be creative, and demanding that time for myself (within reason) is what gives me the strength to be an okay parent. When days go by without any writing time, I am a cranky mommy indeed. How can the kids say they love me? By playing nicely and quietly with Dad while I do something I love.

I recently applied for a grant specifically for writers who are parents of young children. That such a grant even exists filled me with joy. And it seems more such programs are being added all the time, programs that recognize it's difficult to be creative while assuming full-time parenting duties, whether from a monetary standpoint, from the standpoint of not-enough-time, or just from the emotional standpoint of giving yourself permission to care about someone else (often fictional people, in my case!) very deeply and with the kind of attention that you usually reserve for real, flesh-and-blood family members.

As part of my application, I had to write about how being a parent informed my work. What an impossible question that was! How could I tease apart my life as a mom from my life as a writer? Was it even possible? And would I even want to? I know I couldn't have written my first book if I wasn't a parent.

How does being a parent affect my day-to-day writing life? Well, I could write faster pre-kids, right? The answer should be "yes," but it's not. I wasted a lot of time, surfing cat pictures on the Internet and whatnot... Being busier means I have to do a better job of prioritizing than I ever did pre-kids. It means I have to be better about setting professional goals, making deadlines and meeting them (as someone who answers, professionally, to no one but myself, this can be difficult...though to be fair, I've got a bitch for a boss;) 

Tonight, like many nights, I've got one ear tuned to hear footsteps on the stairs, the other tuned to the voices in my head. I'm writing like a mother, the only way I know how.
 

The Little Man Inside My Head

So, I've been having this problem with...um...with... (Hey! Is that a Chipping Sparrow at the birdfeeder?)...FOCUS. After a long (sometimes painful, sometimes exhilerating) struggle to complete my first novel, I'm ready to begin the next one. I have a bare-bones idea for the book, and I've been doing lots of background reading, but I just don't feel quite ready to type the words, "Chapter One." I want to know more about my characters and, especially, I want to know more about the conflicts that await them, the plot points that will make you, dear reader, want to continue reading.

Let's call this stage of the novel writing game, "pre-production." You might wonder, what does a writer do with her pre-production hours? Well, speaking only for myself, I can tell you I spend a lot of time staring out my closet-office window.

Don't worry; I've got a nice view from my closet. The pear tree in our front yard is in full, glorious bloom. And yet, you must understand that this is the hardest part of writing, for me, and so many other writers I know. Once I'm really grabbed by a project, once I know my characters and have a rough outline, the task isn't quite so daunting.

But now, my world of possibilities can send me into a panic on a bad day, or into pure space-out mode on a good one. Most days, I'm spacing out, while looking out my window, or worse. I've spaced out on a rare "date night." My husband knows the look, knows to stop talking while I eavesdrop on another table's conversation or try to decipher the waiter's tattoo. Somehow, something around us is connected to my story, and I'm trying to connect those dots.

Lately, nearly every moment I'm thinking about my story, a little man pops into my head. I call him Paul S. Don't ask me what the S. stands for; I don't know yet.

I also really don't know what Paul S. looks like. Sometimes, he's quite fetching. Sometimes, more like the clip art above. Until fairly recently, I've been too busy thinking about my primary character, Ginny, to worry much about Paul S., who was simply going to be a person Ginny interacts with at her job.

But as the days and weeks pass, as I freewrite and freewrite, adding stray thoughts and dialogue to one big computer file, a shocking thing has happened.

Paul S. got pissed. You see, Paul S. doesn't, apparently, want to be just a secondary character. First, he demanded equal time with Ginny. To appease him, I decided that it might be interesting to do alternating points of view (my last book had a single, first-person narrator).

But that didn't satisfy old Pauly. No one cares about Ginny, he whispers into my ear. Stick with me.

Now what's a writer to do when a little man keeps speaking inside her head, demanding to be the center of attention in her book? Anyone else might seek psychiatric care. But me? Sigh, sigh...Paul's beaten me. I'm going to let Paul S. have a go at this, if he thinks he's so freakin' great.

I may regret it. I may drop him quickly and go back to my original plan, leaving him a walk-on role at best. But if I've learned anything in the years I've been writing it's this: you must gives pages to those characters who will not leave your mind. They have something to say, and if they are so forceful about saying it, it's probably worth writing down. He probably has a story that people would like to read.

We writers like to think we're in control, but sometimes we're simply stenographers, transcribing the voices in our heads.

 

A Ghostly Story Comes Back to Haunt Me

Do you remember when you learned to read?  I remember being read to, and then sometime after that, I remember reading on my own. What happened in the middle is a little fuzzy. I remember, as a grade schooler, wanting to create stories that spoke to the lunacy of modern life, that illuminated what we've come to call the human condition (not really; I wanted to write funny things about my classmates).

One of my first creations, around 1st or 2nd grade, was a picture book about a snowball fight with my neighbor. I believe it was aptly titled, "The Snowball Fight," and the last page featured an illustration of two mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Alas, that book has gone out of print.

Later, I took to short stories, including this piece, which was quite popular in its day (approximately 1985): "The Drastic Days of the Gluebottle." Here's the premise: a ghostly glue bottle haunts an evil little boy. The boy, after refusing to learn any of the important life lessons from the glue bottle, is trapped alive in a coffin with him for eternity.

Yes, this is the original story. My mom kept all my school papers. This story now resides in a nostalgic file folder in my office of very old, embarrassing writing. Backstory: I did not get along very well with this particular little boy, who shall remain anonymous. I had the misfortune of sitting directly behind him, but this gave me an advantage. I threatened him once with a squirt of Elmer's down the back of his shirt collar, and after that he pretty much left me alone. I wrote the story for spite, which, for many writers, is as fun (and profitable!) a reason to write as any.

My drawing abilities have not improved one bit since grade school. (Note: the shaky writing of "gluebottle" indicates this story is super scary.) My story writing abilities, I believe (I hope!) have gotten better, but still, each year when I look back over my work, I'm hoping to see improvement.  I read things I wrote just ten years ago (not to mention 30 years ago), and I'm embarrassed. This is a wonderful thing, to be embarrassed by one's old work. It means I'm getting better, which brings me to part two of this post, my volunteer service at my daughter's elementary school.

Mondays, I sit on a wee, white bench and listen to kindergartners read, offering assistance with unfamiliar words, plus lots of praise, and a cookie for a job well done. There are 23 kids in the class, at very different strages of the reading/writing game. They're working so hard, and it's such a challenge, to do something we as adults don't even think about.

To any parent, the language acquisition process is an amazing thing to witness, but to a writer, it's just mind-blowing. I remember when my daughter, and later her brother, learned to make their first sounds...the da da da that eventually led to "daddy." My daughter's first word? "Didee" (translation-kitty). My son's? "Hi." It was a thrill for me to follow them around and hear what word they'd say next, to hear the crazy way they'd string words together or mix up words. At mealtime, my daughter always used to say, "I'm huggy."

And now she's a studious almost-six year old, reading and writing, turning her bedside lamp back on when she thinks I'm not looking to get a few more pages in before sleep. Yup, she's hooked on phonics, just like her dear old mom. Here's something she wrote last fall after a gymnastics class. (Translation: "How can you do that? Look at me.") Got to love the eyelashed "look" and the girl doing a handstand.

Will she be penning stories about her classmates someday? Who knows? I can't say I would actually advise anyone to be a fiction writer unless they absolutely cannot think of anything else they'd be good at (especially since I'd like her someday to be self-sufficient, capable of paying her own mortgage, eating, etc.). But I do hope she'll always retain the joy of devouring a good book.

I've spent the past few years struggling to write a novel, learning so much along the way, but often becoming frustrated with myself for not learning it better and, most of all, faster. It's good to look back, at my daughter's work and my own and remember where we all, writers or not, begin.



 

Was That Me Going Through Your Trash?

So, I've taken up running, though only when the weather conditions are optimal, and even then only to the end of my block. (Full disclosure--I used to run seriously, when I was a wee teenager, but I was a sprinter then and I'm certain I just don't have the right muscles for distance...it's something about fast twitch vs. slow twitch, right? Can anybody back me up here??). Anyway,even if I'm not yet getting that "runner's high," I am enjoying the act of eyeing the neighborhood garbage while running past on trash pick-up morning. People throw some cool stuff away, like these antique bentwood chairs.

Turns out these chairs were in the trash right next door, so I didn't have far to walk to take them home. Like most of my DIY projects-in-waiting, the chairs then found themselves nestled into my small garage (which has never actually contained a car) until I decided last week that it was time to give them a new life.

Now, it's true these chairs were down on their luck. The wood was splitting at the curves, and of course, they had no seats. They were paint splattered as well. When I told my neighbor that I had taken them, he'd said, "Good luck."

My two kids had outgrown their little toddler table where they do arts and crafts. One of their tiny chairs had finally succumbed to years of heavy use and snapped. It was time to get them a new, big-kid set-up. I'd recently spiffed up a round, metal vintage folding table I found at an antiques shop using some sunny yellow spray paint and adding a new vinyl top (perfectly wipe-able for kids' messy projects).

I sanded the trash-picked chairs and, with my dad's help on a recent visit, cut the seats from scraps of plywood. Yes, I used a jigsaw on this project! I have a natural, and healthy, fear of power tools, being that I need my hands to keep at my writing career and all. But, once I got going, it was kind of fun, in a white-knuckled, don't slip and take a finger off kind of way.

Upholstering is easy-peasy. Foam, fabric, staple gun. I'd recommend it to anyone who's looking for an easy DIY. Fresh white paint in a high gloss (for easy cleaning) and...new chairs. We had most of the supplies already around the house. I spent ten bucks on fabric, for both the chairs and the table.

Here's something I love about these little DIY diversions from my writing--a distinct before and after. It's sometimes difficult to decide when a writing project is "done." If my deadline is strictly self-imposed, I can fiddle around with a piece forever. Sometimes, it's nice to take a break from the nebulous fictional worlds I'm creating, and rev up some power tools, take a piece of wood... Hey, this was a square, now it's a circle, now it's a chair seat, now I'm sitting on it.

I'm looking forward to my next trash-to-treasure (I'm looking at you, broken printer cart!).

Want a Pretty Postcard?

Loyal Blog Readers,

Are you behind on your correspondence? Is your Grandma still expecting a thank-you for that Christmas sweater she knitted? Are you dreading the necessity of penning a love note to that special someone for Valentine's Day? Do you long for the days when you got REAL mail?

Let me help! I have a set of beautiful postcards from the wonderful folks at HOOT Review. The cards contain an original flash fiction piece...by little old me. And it's not just any story, but one nominated for a Pushcart Prize! The story is paired with some wonderful black and white photography.

So, whether you want a haiku for your kindly landlord, a threatening note for the neighbor who kept your baseball when it landed in her yard, or just a pretty postcard to pin up on your own refrigerator, I'm happy to supply my own text (or yours) and mail to the address you supply, no charge to you, dear reader.

If you haven't heard of the HOOT Review, check them out. They are a "literary magazine on a postcard," featuring an original work of prose, which the editors then pair with original artwork, once each month. It's a cool idea, based on the premise that, if people can read a tweet, they can surely take time to read the equivalent of two tweets (the poetry and prose they publish is limited to 150 words) even if they claim not to have any time to read literature.

The editors also encourage people to plant the postcards for strangers to find. Imagine the pleasure of discovering a beautiful magazine on a postcard stuck to a chain link fence on your way to work instead of an ad for 2 for 1 buffalo wings. Anyone who plants one should send me a photo to put on the blog (and I'll share with the HOOT editors as well).

Interested? Email me the particulars at marcycampbell at hotmail dot com.



 

Writing by Walking Around

You've heard of Management By Walking Around, the MBWA? Today, I practiced the not as well known WBWA, Writing By Walking Around. No words were actually put on paper, but I considered it a good work day nonetheless. I spent a glorious two hours in the fiction stacks of my local library. I had no agenda, other than to fill my tote bag with inspiration. I ended up with a mix of authors I've never read, but always meant to, authors whose past books I've read and loved, and completely new names I pulled off the shelf based on an intriguing title and/or cover.

I sat on the little wheeled stool in the aisle flipping open book after book and reading first pages. I'd estimate in at least 75 percent of the cases, I put a book back because I wasn't drawn in by the language or voice. In many of those cases, I couldn't find fault with the writing itself. It just didn't appeal to me personally. What a wonderful and timely lesson! You see, I'm in the hand-wringing process of sending queries for my first novel to agents and indie publishers, in the hopes that someday I'll find my novel right on these same library shelves.

Querying is a process that can drive a writer crazy. So much uncertainly and anxiousness. Is the book good enough? Interpreting comments becomes a full time job, searching for meaning where none may exist. If they say I'm a good writer, I am. If they say the book's not for them, it isn't. But writers are of course trained to look at every word, every scrap of punctuation even, and parse it. I do believe seasoned agents and editors know this and have learned to keep replies short and sweet as a result...

The best cure for the aches and pains of endless waiting are to write the next thing. This is easy for some writers. Some just dive in with a single line one morning and set off on a new book. I have no problem flying by the seat of my pants, when I'm writing a short story or essay. I know my time investment will be minimal if it doesn't work out. And it's good practice. But a novel is a different beast. I've written one now, and so I can't claim to be unaware of how it will demand all my mental energy. No one wants to think, at the outset, that this time will be "wasted."

And so I'm trying to redefine, "wasted." Any time writing makes you a better writer. Can't argue with that. But if a writer knew, as she started page one, that a particular book would never be published, would she continue? If she had that crystal ball? When it comes to my first book, I have to give a tentative "yes." Writing the book drove me in ways I can't explain or understand. I couldn't do anything in my waking hours without my thoughts drifting to the book. I'd dream about the book. I'd wake up with fingers itching to get typing. But, I admit, I'd still be very sad if the book didn't find a publishing home.

Book two is still a scattering of ideas. My trip to the library was meant to swirl those ideas around and see what shakes out. I'm trying to find my way into the story, to decide whose story exactly it is, to narrow in on the conflict. It's an exciting time, but a scary one, too. You never know where the project will end up.  In the coming weeks and months, I'll be freewriting a lot, reading a lot, waiting for the moment that, even if I don't have the book entirely figured out, I'll have a firm enough grasp to start. E.L. Doctorow once said, "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." Good advice.