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Sometimes you have to turn a story inside out to find the real one. Angela, a writing group friend, has been struggling with a story that just didn’t seem to be going anywhere. “It doesn’t have any tension,” she observed. “Nothing is really happening. Nobody would read more than a page or two.” “So, why did you write this story? Why is it important to you?” another member asked. Angela’s voice was tentative as she began to explain. When she got to one element she had stashed in a single paragraph near the end, she exclaimed, “I really have two stories here!” A jolt of electricity pulsed through the group. We realized that her true and powerful story is buried deep inside the presenting story. That tiny seed of real story is where all the conflict and tension is, and the outer story seems almost dead, because it is only a shell. After Angela pulls the true story into the dominant position and gives it proper attention, the dull part will become relevant and lively.   A mental movie ran...

Beyond all the words is a place of great silence. I recently read this sentence (or one much like it). I wish I remembered the source, but all I recall is being struck by its simple profundity. The context referred to endless talking, but my mind instantly shifted to writing. Serious life writers, whatever form we choose, may find ourselves awash on a sea of our words. We write story after story, journal day-by-day. Words fall from fingers like autumn leaves from the tree of life. I write, as many others do, not only to leave a legacy of personal and family history for future generations, not only to share with friends I know and haven’t yet met, but for understanding and insight. Journal entries, vignettes, essays, scribbled diagrams and mindmaps — these are all dots of understanding. Eventually dots connect into pictures, words into stories, and stories into understanding. Until I read about the place of great silence, I assumed my words would pile up forever, and to what avail? No...

Imagine that you have a magic crystal ball that sees the past as well as the future, able to change the shape and color of events. The other day I was blessed with such an experience, though the ball was nowhere to be found. It happened in the early morning as I wrote in my journal. As my coffee began to kick in and my fingers limbered, I began writing about a person from my school years, someone I’ve always believed “made my life miserable.” I’ve even been known to claim (only partly in jest) that said person “ruined my life.” Suddenly I dropped my pencil as a voice in my head blurted out a startling message: She didn’t ruin your life. She didn’t even make you miserable. If anything ruined your life, it was the way you compared yourself to her and came up short in your own view. Plus the way she had a few people skills you hadn’t yet learned. But that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with you. Besides, was your life really ruined, or simply nudged around an inevitable c...

Heather Summerhayes Cariou's book, Sixtyfive Roses: A Sister's Memoir , is not new to this blog. I published a review of in on Amazon back in June introduced here by a post on June 2, and I've referred to it a couple of times since. There is much to appreciate in this book, and two of them are especially relevant to the classes I teach on writing sparkling description and dynamic dialogue. Heather is a master of both. Today Heather has agreed to be my guest for the second in a series of mini-interviews especially for readers of The Heart and Craft of Life Writing.  In this interview, Heather explains how she was able to craft compelling descriptions of places from times long past and dialogue about events that happened thirty or forty years ago. As a bonus for listeners, she gives several tips that will help anyone with writing dialogue, description, or really anything. The interview lasts for 14 minutes. You can listen on the player below, or click the link to download it...

  Photo by Slagheap at www.flickr.com This morning I jotted down some memories of September 11 in my journal. As I wrote, I thought of the intense fear the occasion called forth, the fear that life as we had known it had crumbled as surely as the Twin Towers.  That triggered a related memory of a day a couple of years later when I experienced a blinding flash of the obvious, realizing in an instant that hate is not the opposite of love, FEAR is the opposite of love.  I felt those shackles of fear break free as divine, sublime love flowed into my being. My spirit soared in awe and gratitude. For several days I floated on a cloud of bliss, feeling free and strong, exploring the plethora of ramifications of this blessed “knowing.” I wish I could tell you I've been 100% confident and joyful ever since. Not so. I still  get the willies now and then about one thing or another. It may be news related, like the situation in Iraq or healthcare reform, or it may be more personal, such as fam...

What more worthy aspiration could writers have than to hope their stories will sound fresh and new more than sixty years after they were written? Such is the case with Mrs. Mike , the true-to-life story of Boston-born Katharine Mary O’Malley. In 1907, when she was only sixteen, she was sent to live with her uncle on his ranch north of Calgary to recover from pleurisy. Shortly after her arrival, she met Sergeant Mike Flannigan, a red-coasted Mountie and they were soon married. The rest of the book details the story of the first few years of their marriage as they faced the rigors of frontier life in the northern reaches of western Canada. She survives ferocious fire, virulent epidemics, mammoth mosquitoes, brutal winters, and tensions between whites and natives, along with personal tragedy and triumph. This book is written in first person, in the style of a memoir, but the authors of record are Nancy and Benedict Freedman. The Freedmans met Kathy Flannagan in California where she moved ...

   Clothespin dolls, by Sharon I wish I remembered clothespin dolls. I'm surprised I don't. They are exactly the sort of craft that I began learning about the time I was weaned and potty-trained and enjoyed ever after. Maybe it's because spring clothespins had come into widespread use by the time I was born. Had I known about them when I was around ten years old, I would have spent weeks making them, creating shoebox homes for them. It's not too late. I have discovered clothespin dolls now, and found a new purpose for them. I made six to be shared among the tiny granddaughters who are about to arrive for a visit and a couple of local friends. What fun I've had making them. If it weren't for the press of time, I'd make another dozen. What fun I've had, raiding my dwindling scrap bags of yarn and fabric, devising ways to make hair, crafting wee dresses. I feel like a kid again!  Not only have I made up for the memory I don't have, I hope I'm cr...