The First Look at Mamie

Every writer has a novel.  Mine is about Mamie.  She has followed me around since my sons were boys.  I began to research her backstory at a kitchen table in Cudahy when I interviewed Irene.  Funny, but it was Thorp Irene described when I asked what a small town would look like. 

After looking at the scraps of Mamie's life that fill notebooks and pages and random swirls of research, I think the reason her story hasn't yet been told is because I'm afraid once her story is in the great big world, no one will read it.

Now, her story is my secret to enjoy.  Every now and again, I take her out of the red binder and add something to her experience, her steps, her world.

When the novel is public, her story will be criticized, judged, panned and discussed.  People will read into her story their own ideas.  They will react, or not, based on what they know.  


So I've decided to test the waters a little.  Sprinkle some phrases into the universe to see what readers might think.  This is a bit from the winter chapter.

She awoke one winter morning earlier than she should have.  Looking out at the pre-dawn chill, she thought of all the seasons that had gone before.  Spring with its unending promise beckoning her to grow.  Summer’s long lazy days pushing her to keep in motion, keep going, keep doing, stop thinking.  Autumn’s spiraling decisions made causing whirlwinds of life to spin beyond her reach.  And now winter.  Quiet, cold, dark days closed inside like a package waiting to be opened.  Mamie didn’t fear winter or shirk away from its closeness.  Rather, she enjoyed the days of solitude and rest.  The tightening from inside, the layers of protection.  

Mamie thought that winter would keep her safe from the outside.  She expected that no one would look far enough inside to see where she really was.  She was wrong.

So.  What do you think?  Want to know more about Mamie?

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

A Writing Day

Today is a writing day.  It has arrived. 

The day when I get the words from my mind to the paper that will tell Lisa's story of her night in the audience.  I'm sure you're not surprised since it was you who asked again and again about Lisa and her view of the play that night.

So.  Today that's what I'll write.

And I'll work a bit on the cover and add everyone's corrections into the manuscript. Then.... then.... I think the second book will be ready for typesetting.  Not by November 1st as I had hoped.  But sometimes the words aren't ready and so we must wait.

While you're waiting, so you don't think I've forgotten you, here is a re-print of a previous post to help you understand the way of words.

Stay tuned.  A book may be soon ready for your enjoyment!

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Originally Posted: Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Words Dancing Across My Page 

So. Here I am. At Dunn Bros. Writing. Because I can.

It’s a new season, I think.

Surrounded by a babble of familiar voices I have never heard. Encased by familiar buildings I’ve never ventured within. Sipping tea and tapping my heart.
But with a new sense of purpose. A new sense of identity.

The barista said, “I can’t write.”

I answered, “oh, I’m sorry. I can’t not write.”

His co-worker laughed in complicity. He understood.

Words don’t leave me even when I’m trying to leave them. I don’t always like my words, you know. I wish they would leave me alone and let me just go on without being so pushy, forceful, demanding.

And so I’m listening to writers talk about issues and friends talk about relationships and I’m letting the words have their way. Like a wild horse let loose to run in the field.

There go the words. Free. Beautiful in their own confidence. Not as if they had ever been reined in and made to walk properly. I can almost see the wind following behind them as they frolic.

I’m really enjoying listening to the writers talk about writing. I wonder what they would say if they knew I was writing about their words, about their thoughts. I think they wouldn’t mind. After all, writers like to be heard. That’s the point of writing.

Well, maybe not the point, actually. But the impetus, the thing that pushes us to the paper. The thing that wakes us in the morning with a song suddenly waiting to be written. The thing that pushes paper to pen – whether the paper is a napkin or the back of a bulletin or a scrap tossed aside and the pen is a pencil or is black or blue or orange. The words don’t always have to be heard, but they must always be recorded, left behind.

Now the writers are discussing a poem and the memories to which it belongs. It makes me think of the bridge at Jackson Park that I just visited. I tried to explain the bridge to someone who didn’t really understand. He tried, but the connection was too ethereal, too disconnected, too much water color and not enough pen and ink.

I wonder if my words are heard like that by most people. Do they float too quickly beyond what people expect to hear? Expect to see? Do they require more definition and people don’t want to work that hard to understand? Or are the ideas and the topics too personal and don’t translate well?

I don’t know if anyone will ever want to read my ramblings, but I still can’t not write. The words live on their own and grow at their own pace.

Mostly, honestly, I do enjoy them.

Like I enjoy sitting here listening to the writers talk about writing and the friends talk about relationships and the students talk about classes while the jazz softly plays and the tea cools.

I’m a writer. And I write because I can’t not.

The Door Swung Open.....

The first writer's challenge of the campaign asked for a 200 word story beginning with the words, "The door swung open" and ending with the words, "the door swung shut."   Below is my piece.  How long does it take for you to figure out who she is and what she is looking for?  

Enjoy!

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The door swung open, silently.  

She looked carefully at every inch before her.  Over the counter, around the cupboards, beside the appliances.  Nothing.

Instincts tightened, senses heightened, she took one step, then another.  She knew, she absolutely knew something was there. 

Perhaps what she heard was something else?  Someone instead of something? 

But, no.  She knew exactly what it was.  It was hiding now, but she would find it.  She knew every nook and cranny of this room.  The precisely lined containers along the marble countertop would reveal, not conceal.  The mirror-like, spotless stainless steel refrigerator and stove reflected nothing.

Slinking, she moved again.  The Italian tiles were smooth, cool beneath her feet and absorbed her steps.  Carefully she peeked around the corner. 

There it was; clearly cloaked in fear, trembling. 

She strode across the floor, then, confidently swaggering.  With great disdain she looked down upon the mouse like a mighty hunter about to take its prey.  Eyes narrowed, she licked her lips, twitched her whiskers and tail in unison.   “Too small,” she thought.

Emboldened by fear, the mouse made one last ditch effort to escape.  It jumped into action, skidded gracelessly through the opening and the door swung shut.