My Life as a Writer

Snipets from my Composition Books

2011-09-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

I write in composition books all the time. My house hides them in many a nook and cranny. Today I picked up an old one. It's binding is coming loose. It's cracked and weathered on the edges. I look at it and I remember the entire week I spent with my writing group. We spent a whole week and talked only of writing. It was heaven...and hell...both...as most writing tends to be.

I wonder what will come of these old things. Bits of stories started and never finished; freewrites; little snippets of my life. Will my children throw out the boxes of composition books when I am dead? Will they read them? Am I okay with that? You could almost call them journals but the writings are in no linear order. They're fractured, disjointed, sometimes incoherent...perfect.

Many of the things are too raw to even share with my husband and so I share them with the lines on the 100% recyled paper. Here are just a few sharable, yet still personal bits that mean nothing really. They never went anywhere, but some of them are gems, at least to me.

"And when I held his newborn baby in my arms, I knew that we had done it. We had overcome what was impossible for most. And our lives now? They're whatever we will make them. Here's to the road ahead."

A thought on overcoming our childhood that I wrote down after the birth of my brother's oldest child.

"There's a picture in the tupperware bin. It's buried in the 1983 pile most probably turning into a strange yellow-orange color. It's a picture of an hours old baby, my brother, being smiled at by a brown haired little 42 month old little girl, me. That little girl smiles as if to say, "Welcome to the world...now I'm not alone."

Thoughts on the birth of my brother, Robert.

"I was ten years old when I realized he was never coming back. I had the calendar, the one where we'd sat down together and marked off its dates. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Six weeks was no time at all. The calendar was old now. Two years old. Six weeks had come and gone sixty-seven times. He visited me that day. Every time he visited I hoped that maybe this time he'd stay, maybe this time I'd be enough. But I wasn't enough. I never would be. I watched him go. I ran to the window and waved, willing him to look up from the window of his Budget Rental Car, to see me. But he didn't. I was ten years old and I realized he was never coming back."

On my dad's departure.

"Your apron is hanging off your shoulder, your head through the arm hole. And you...the younger one? You are covered in flour and have crunchy milk remnants on your upper lip, your pigtails askew. You are both perfect. I love dancing in the kitchen with my daughters."

On a moment with my daughters about 2009

"Do you remember our canyon drives? Sliding through the canyon like a bobsled on its run, the sunroof open, we listened to Tom Petty. We were young, untouched, In love. Naivitee, what a beautiful gift."

Remembering drives in the Civic with Doug before we were married.

"Here I am, back from one of my trips down dreary lane. It's nice to be back."

A scribbled random thought

"Stop looking at the ways we differ and start looking at the ways we are the same."

A tidbit

Here's an epitaph I found on a very old gravestone while wandering through a Cemetary in Park City. I hoped to use it in my writing sometime. Maybe I still will.

"We cannot tell who next may fall beneath thy chastening rod. One must be first but let us all prepare to meet our God."

"Have you ever seen a strawberry field? Leafy vines interconnecting for miles. There's nothing like a strawberry patch in summer. It draws you into its web with a smell that calls your name. If you lie flat on your back, you can disappear in strawberry vines. Did you know that?"

A memory of visiting my step-mother's family farm in Cavan, Ontario, Canada.

"Baby skin. New. Fresh. Elephant skin. Babies have it, but only the newborns. It slips and slides and wrinkles before the mother's milk fills it out into fatty rolls. We come into this life wrinkled, skinny. We leave it the same way."

Observation on the circle of life.

Hailey and I wrote these two poems as we drove through Provo Canyon in 2009

A Poem by Hailey, Age 6.

I like these mountains

they're so beautiful

I love the deer creek

I love the hills

I love the bushes

and I looooooooove my family

A Funny Poem to make Doug laugh by Christie

A creek the color of dark blue eyes

reflecting the happiness of summer skies

They seem to speak from their lofty abode

As we travel down the road.

They say that God is telling me

something about who he wants me to be

but I don't know what he's saying

to figure it out, I ought to be praying

"Technically I didn't see you first, rather I felt you. And that can't count because I was in pain and afraid. "Touch her head," they said, and I did, my shaking hand echoing my fear. It wasn't what I had expected. It wasn't hard. It was squishy and wet and it felt like brains. It scared me more. And then, you were there. I reached down as was my plan, pulled you up and placed you on my chest. You didn't cry. You looked up and smiled, which I know is impossible, the first of many impossibilities you'd shatter I guess. It was the first time we met, at least the first that we met like this. On Earth. Mother, Daughter. I waited for that rush of love to come. The one that everyone talks about. It would come later, when we were alone. In this moment, all I felt was awe."

On meeting my daughter, Hailey.

"One girl. One backpack. One passport. One Summer. Each day I wake up with a vague idea of where I will go, but I allow my feet to take me and may not end up where I'd planned. I drink and eat and kiss exotic men with names like Armondo and Pierre. I walk topless on the beaches, my feet sinking in the warm sand. On the beach I have time to feel each grain of sand between my toes and the waves lapping at my ankles.

It's what I dream about while washing the dishes in the life I actually chose."

An ironic look at my life in an apparently disillusioned moment.

H Love

2011-07-25T21:32:00.000-07:00

Loving you
is having a hole
in the middle left side of my chest.
Yes, a perfectly drilled hole;
with the nerves and sinews exposed.
And there sits that great beating organ
Raw with loving you.
And every time you cry it is poked.
Even the good things
(Like your small hand on my cheek)
squeeze so hard it hurts.
And I'm thinking of writing this feeling down.
And I'm putting away your dirty pink tennies.
And out falls a penny.
Lucky copper.
It tinkles when it hits the floor.
It's heads. It's you.
And I feel it...right there,
my open heart.

7 Random Facts about my writing.

2011-07-10T21:59:00.000-07:00

I've never gotten a blogging award. I don't really understand them, but I'm not going to lie, I felt a little honored to be the recipient of one from my friend, novelist Jeana Watters. I have been awarded "The Versatile Blogger" award. This award also comes with a rule that you have to write seven random facts. Since it's all about writing here, my seven facts are about my writing.

1. I once won a short story competition and was published in an anthology. The story was called "The Tattered Sandals" and was about domestic violence. I was 15 years old.

2. I have recently taken up poetry. I'm a lover of poetry but I would not consider myself a poet. I'm too maudlin. However, my little poems have brought me great joy over the past few weeks and I have no intention of stopping.

3. I am in the middle of two novels. One is a work of historical fiction and the other a mid-grade novel. I have been writing these books for two years.

4. Ever since I started writing seriously and studying the craft I can't read in the same way and I have lost a little bit of my ability to get lost in the story.

5. What I really want to be is an essayist, but feel terribly unequipped.

6. I have been paid to be a copy writer and a sports writer.

7. I listen to music when I write. It weaves itself silently into the subtext of my work. In fact, when I read my work I can hear the echoes of whatever I was listening to while writing. Is this some unique form of plagiarism? Can one plagiarise emotion?

P.S. I have to award someone else this. Like horrible chain mail that never ends (and yet again, oddly flattering). So I bestow that honor upon poet extrordinaire, Cami. Here's to you!

An Exercise from Julianna Baggott's Writer's Boot Camp day 2

2011-07-06T21:45:00.000-07:00

A great writer that I once workshopped with is Julianna Baggott. She is running a summer writer's boot camp at http://www.bridgetasher.blogspot.com if anyone is interested.

I've been working on it daily and when I write something delicious, I'll post it here. I found one exercise on day two to be amazing. I thought I'd post it here if anyone wants to try it.

She had you go to the table of contents of a poetry anthology you've never read (her example used Sharon Olds) and pick a poem. Then write a poem with the same title (without reading it of course). She says that tables of contents can be great prompts.

I agree.

I love the poem I wrote. I chose the title "The Unborn." It was great that I didn't read the poem before because the actual poem is BRILLIANT. I still like mine, but I love hers. Here are the two...

The Unborn- Christie Gardiner
In a way
they've ruined my life-
or at least what I thought it was.
I hear them at night when I'm falling asleep
sitting up with that sick mother feeling...
little empty whispers
slip and slither through my ears.
I've given them years
and blood.

The Unborn- Sharon Olds
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.

Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing
In some antechamber - servants, half-
Listening for the bell.

Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
In the Dead Letter Office

And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
Second sight I can feel just one of them
Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
In the dark, stretching its arms out
Desperately to me.

The process.

2011-07-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

Writing is a process! I'm still here. Still loving words. Still writing!

In the zone...

2010-04-25T22:11:00.000-07:00

My characters are talking to me in my sleep. I'm making notes on scraps of paper in my purse. My wrist callus is back (I'm one of those lazy typists who rests their wrists. Gasp.). These are all good signs. Call it the muse, Call it inspiration, call it anything you want. The fact of the matter is, I'm in the zone.

An Awesome Rejection

2010-03-13T19:18:00.001-08:00

I know the rule. I know the "never submit before it's finished" rule. But I did. I heard a not-to-be-named agent requesting manuscripts that were exactly like mine. So I queried. And I waited and wrote. Waited and wrote. Waited and didn't write for awhile. Then I heard back. It was a rejection, but an awesome one. Agent X stated that she hadn't forgotten and she was sorry it took so long but that she was strongly considering representing me for several weeks but unfortunately a project she was working on was dominating her time.

The letter was LONG and PERSONAL. Both great in the query world.

I don't think anyone has ever been so happy about a rejection letter. And so I'm working on finishing the darn thing and am confident that when the time is right, I'll be able to find representation.

Life fell apart.

2010-02-01T21:39:00.000-08:00

...and I took a break. I'm back now and ready to pick up my metaphorical pen.

Southeast Review Writer's Regimen Day 1

2009-10-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a 30 day writer's regimen course. I won't be posting the assignments as Southeast Review has respectfully requested that we don't duplicate the assignment, but I will be posting my writing that comes from the assignments.

Writing Prompt Assignment:
"I jumped, fell and stood. Repeat."

Reading Writing Assignment:
When they were new, they had this intoxicating smell; slightly sour, musty and sweet. I would bury my face in the folds of their neck and breathe in till my lungs were full. I’d pause to exhale and go in for another hit. Time passed and the smell lessened and lessened until one day I couldn’t seem to get my fix no matter how deep I breathed. Then—sometimes years, sometimes days—later I catch a ribbon of the smell as they scamper past me and out the door on their way to some adventure. My breasts tighten and my uterus contracts. I have to sit for a second because I miss the babies that were swallowed up by these little children. The longing dissolves into laughing when I see them through the window, outside riding their trikes and grass-staining their socks on dew-soaked lawn. The blinds make indentations in my hands from pressing up against them as I watch. I remember what it was like without them and it makes me feel a hollowness in my stomach. It’s an unsettling feeling that I fill back up with echoes of their giggles, the memories of fevered nights: years of motherhood. I look down at my softened body: the lines, the indentations; the body I gave to them. Most of the time I miss what it used to be but at this moment, it makes me proud. And later, at night, one under each arm, I sing them to sleep as their heads cut off circulation and send pin-pricks down my arms into my fingertips. Then there’s no regret; only the passion of a mother’s love.

Riff Word Assignment:
He had this aura about him. I squinted and widened my eyes over and over wondering if it was a glare from the fluorescent lights. Man-Made Light Glare or vibrations of his spirit? It was beautiful and purple-blue, the color of lilacs.

100 pages

2009-07-27T22:49:00.000-07:00

Cheer with me as I celebrate hitting the one-hundredth page in my novel! I've already completed two rewrites and I'm sure there are countless rewrites to follow, but can I just say: it's fun to hit one hundred.

For Abby

2009-07-11T21:59:00.000-07:00

They introduce her by the shortened version of her first name. How odd, I think. They do not even know her. Listening to her speak I think her genuine; her voice has a musical quality with a hint of smoker's rasp. I buy her books and put them down in front of her to sign. She holds a cigarette in one hand, a tattoo on her forearm. As she writes I wonder how this nice old woman came to have an inked lizard on her arm. I'm thinking of starting my memoir, I say. She scribbles words of encouragement. I shift my weight, uncomfortable in the role of groupie. Later I see her curled up, barefoot on a brown wicker chair with an orange cushion. She looks at the sky as if it belongs to her.

They hail her, speak of her, talk as if they were close to her. They call her, "our own." Pathetic.

I bump into her once more; outside the barn. She is smoking, I am putting something in my car. She smiles at me with one crooked front tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth, her turquoise ring the width of two fingers. That night even my friends abbreviate her name. Ridiculous.

It is three weeks later. I have finished the books with her Best Wishes written sloppily on the title pages. The way the words were shaped and sculpted on each page has changed me. Tonight I sit on a deck chair, barefoot. I look at the sky as if it belongs to me. And now, I know.

When I met her--before--I shook her hand. If I met her now--after--I would throw my arms around her, thank her for the beauty her words have brought to the world. Maybe I'll see her again someday. If I do, I'll call her Abby.

Viral Marketing for Writers

2009-06-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

When I was at the Writers at Work conference someone (I think it was Julianna Baggott but it may have been Terrell Dougan) referenced this youtube clip as a way of grassroots marketing. This woman, Kelly Corrigan, author of The Middle Place, had a very soft opening for her book. But after that she made this clip she and attracted over 4 million hits, her book launched to the NYT bestseller list. I watched it out of curiousity and ended up thankful for my own group of friends, but also wanting to buy her book. Brilliant. And as an aside, I'm glad that 4 million other women out there have what I have with their friends, I'd be lost without it.

I'm a baby writer.

2009-06-25T19:53:00.000-07:00

Here I am, at my computer. My fingers are at home, safe. I've developed a writing bump on my finger from scribbling notes. I haven't had one of these (way chic) bird finger bumps since college when I sat under the giant maple tree on campus and wrote faux beat poetry. It's been awhile.

I've spent the week soaking in this world. Some of it I love (the readings, the panels, open mic, Julianna Baggott, Abby Thomas, Eileen Pollack). Some of it I hate (Heated POINTLESS debates about religion, Arrogant people). I'm being taught, (by brilliant litearary minds) but mostly I'm being humbled (I'm not a brilliant writing prodigy? Are you sure?).

In some ways I feel old, like my proverbial ship has sailed. The time for becoming a writer, getting fancy degrees that declare me to be literary, and philosophising about weather or not to include religion in my writing has passed. Destined for the writer's cemetary and only twenty nine!

Another realization I have had this week is that...wait for this one people...you ready?...here it is: I am not a great writer. Sad. Everyone take a moment and shed a tear. I am ambitious and I know how to write lovely little words but inasmuch as becoming a novelist is concerned I-- my three readers-- am a baby writer. An infant who cannot speak, walk, talk or even communicate in this world. In my writing I am the following: Overly sentimental. Cliche. Dishonest to reality. Manipulative. Clueless as to how to write a novel. I could go on and on and on.

I am a "very talented writer" and can paint a pretty picture made of words, shaded with images and tinted with characters, but pretty pictures aren't real. To be real and great I'm going to have to grow up.

Yes, I am a baby writer. And it sucks.

P.S. If someone chooses spike leopard print heels over chaco's can they really be a writer? Sigh.

My fingers are dancing on these keys!

2009-06-20T21:42:00.001-07:00

In twenty-two short hours from now I will be immersed in my craft for an entire week. I'm going to do nothing but write for hours on end without children luring me away from my keyboard by being irresistable, without goodreads distracting me with engaging conversations, without a husband wanting to bond with me over a plate of nachos and a great DVD. This week is devoted one hundred percent to my dream of a career as a writer and launching myself into its grasp. Today, I'm giddy.

"I am addicted to adverbs," she said desperately.

2009-06-13T20:53:00.000-07:00

Help. I'm addicted to adverbs. I'm doing much better with curbing them in my novel, but I use them in excess in my every day life. That's what we dramatics do, emphasize everything. -LY -LY -LY. I love them truly, madly, deeply, hopelessly, endlessly.

I'm in big trouble.

I loved this...

2009-05-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

...little clip from Katherine Center (author of The Bright Side of Disaster and Everyone is Beautiful) Enjoy.

Never count anyone out.

2009-04-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

This is an awesome clip. The embedding has been disabled so you'll have to jump over to youtube, and search "Susan Boyle" to watch it, but if Susan Boyle can be a singer, I can be a writer! Good for her- and me.

Artists and Moods

2009-04-09T22:20:00.001-07:00

What, do you think, is the common denominator between artists? What is the one thing that links us all together into one solitary whole being? My mind tells me that it's moodiness. Artists are moody. We weave ourselves in and out of moods, dragging along unwittingly those poor souls closest to us. We plod through the mud of despair, we flit on the clouds of glee, we weep the tears of the world's heartbreaks- all in one day.

You will note that I am currently working on the sixtieth page of my novel. I have been for seven days. I've been so utterly depressed this week. I've trudged along through the string of days uninspired and hopeless. A stark contrast to my mood of last week in which I wrote sixty pages and where I informed everyone I encountered that, "I am so Zen."

A slightly silver lining tells me that I am suffering so that I will know my characters. Every thought I have links itself in some way to Lily and J.R. I know them better for my moods.

I guess the moodiness is necessary, a suffering for our art. Art is not free. It comes with a significant pricetag.

Practice makes Novelist?

2009-03-30T19:18:00.000-07:00

When I'm not writing, I'm reading about writing. As of this very moment, my copy of Goldbereg's Writing Down the Bones sits lazily across my lap- sharing the space with my computer. So far, the main theme is to shut out the world and find the writer within. I need to do better at that. I am loving this book. It's very zen. The emphasis the author has put on one concept in particular has struck me, and that is the importance of practice via freewriting. It has been so long since I sat and practiced freewriting. I constantly carry hundreds of editors on my shoulders as I write. Everyone from my mother to my potential reader sits, metaphorically perched- adding their imput to all I do. Goldberg's theory is that it is your voice as a writer that makes a fine novel and that voice will only come through practice and most often freewriting. Maybe it's time to ask the critics on my shoulder to leave and return to the creative freewriting I did as a younger woman.

Natalie Goldberg: "It's good to go off and write a novel, but don't stop writing practice. It is what keeps you in tune, like a dancer who does warm-ups before dancing or a runner who does stretches before running...Writing practice embraces your whole life and doesn't demand any logical form...Think of writing practice as loving arms you come to illogically and incoherently. It's our wild forest where we gather energy before going to prune our garden, write our fine books and novels. It's a continual practice."

Raining on my Passion Parade

2009-03-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

You all know the passion I have for my writing. What a funny thing that I just expect everyone to feel the same excitement and passion about it. Today I have realized that people want to talk about other things. They also have lives outside of my writing. How dare the world rain on my passion parade?

Blissfully Tired

2009-03-26T00:07:00.000-07:00

It's after 1 a.m. I've just finished my writing. I've spent the day reading The Writer's Market and Guide to Literary Agents (although the foreward is by Debbie Macomber, my arch nemesis). They motivate me to keep going! I finished 6 pages today! A very productive day. I just can't wait to tell this story!

Music

2009-03-21T21:09:00.001-07:00

A fellow writer mentioned to me this week that she listens to the music that her character would listen to while writing. Tonight I decided to try it and it really does help. In the theater world, we would call this method acting. So I guess I'm method writing?

Distracted...

2009-03-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

My life as a writer has been interrupted this week. So much so that I have had not one moment to write this week. I, for one, cannot write with children present. It messes with my focus. I also can't write with my darling husband in the room, (Picture this: "What did you write now?...How about now?") This week Libby has decided to refuse her nap and instead screams bloody murder for an hour (or two). Her naptime is my usual writing time. And, as you may have surmised, ear piercing shrieks are not the best for writing. I've also had the distraction of having to read 2 books for various book clubs. So now, I'm set. The kids are going to bed at 7:30. The husband is camping. The books are (mostly) read. The creative juices are flowing. The muse and I are going to do some girl bonding!

A Writing Group

2009-03-10T21:03:00.000-07:00

Every writer needs a group, a place where they fit and where they can be safe with their words and their stories. Tonight I met my group. Over the past two weeks we've planted the seedlings of friendship in the soil of a shared love for the written word and tonight it was time to meet. I was so excited. As I read the first submissions this past week, I knew that I would be working with an overwhelmingly talented group of women. I feel inadequate to join them in beginning my maiden voyage into the waters of the writing world. I look forward to sharing our stories and becoming great writers together. There are kindred spirits among them. I feel it.

Bathing in Words

2009-03-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

I am enjoying this immensely. I feel like I'm bathing in words, soaking in them, luxuriating. I have always loved words. Words are the tools we use to create emotion. We are judged on and by our words. When I write, I feel as if I am taking empty and hollow vessels and putting them together on the page to give them life and vigor. It's bliss.

Fact or Fiction

2009-03-05T12:14:00.001-08:00

I'm getting a taste of what it's going to be like to have written a book that is FICTION based on a few facts. The people who know I'm writing are very concerned with how they are going to be portrayed in anything I should choose to write. I've tried to explain that while I am excited to delve into many different forms of writing, if I write a novel it will be a FICTIONAL account. They still feel the need to give me thier perspective, opinions and specific instructions on how to write. I get an ulcer thinking about what people will think when the book is published and they "cast" themselves as one of the characters.

The Muse is back, Doug's not aMUSEd.

2009-03-03T09:48:00.002-08:00

So much to my utter delight and complete relief, the muse came back. Last night. At 12:30 a.m. I made a cozy spot for her in the recesses of my brain and invited her for an extended visit. My husband growled and threw his head under the pillow in an attempt to drown out the evidence of her return, the clickety clack of my fingers on the keyboard. Today he asked me to remind the muse that she is a welcome guest as long as she respects the sleeping hours that we keep. I told him that she would love to, but muses biological clocks tend to cause their waking hours to be the hours in which the children are not filling up her accomodations- my mind. I reminded him that she is a very fickle guest and that we must do our best to make her happy. I also reminded him that we have had worse houseguests. At least she buys her own toilet paper.

The Muse flew the coop.

2009-03-03T09:48:00.001-08:00

It was horrible. I was a mess. Writer's block isn't fun!

My palms are sweating

2009-03-01T10:20:00.001-08:00

I submitted my work for the first time. It was a 1500 word fiction submission for the W@W Fellowship competition. What a vulnerable feeling this is! I find that it is not unlike auditioning for a play.

My first little leap.

2009-02-28T23:33:00.000-08:00

Well, it's 12:36 a.m. I've finished my Fellowship Competition entry for the Writers@Work convention. It may be a gigantic waste of the $20.00 submission fee as I just decided to turn something in two days ago and it is by no means a polished piece. But as with everything in my life, I'm jumping in with both feet first and hoping I hit water. I am a writer now and this is what we do.

A new blog...

2009-02-28T20:24:00.000-08:00

I set this blog up to chronicle my successes, failures and journey as a writer. I figured that readers of my personal blog probably have no desire to read my ramblings about pacing issues in the fourth chapter!