Writing in the Mist

One morning last month, I awoke to find the world shrouded in translucent, luminous mist. The huge oak tree one hundred feet across the yard was visible only as a dark form.

I love misty mornings, but seldom experience them. Lacking a compelling reason, I rarely leave the house before noon. The mist was compelling. I slid into shoes, grabbed my camera and headed out the door. It’s challenging to describe the sensory delight that enfolded my senses. The air was neither warm nor cool, and the moist air enfolded me in the most gentle, nurturing way. It was as if the air and I merged to become one. Ordinary thought gave way to a sense of total awe. The wafting wisps of fallen clouds kissed my flesh, like tender caresses from Mother Nature herself. I felt transported into a mystical world.

The street, which runs through the woods along the side of a steep hill, was nearly deserted, so I strolled down the middle, taking the occasional picture of dark tree shapes against misty grayness. If I believed in elves and fairies, this would have been a day to find them in the woods.

Before long, the sun’s power grew, and the mist began to lighten. I left the road and walked into the woods, surrounded by mature hardwood trees, with the top of the hill due east. Tentative shafts of light began piercing the canopy of leaves, rapidly gaining strength and confidence. In a short period of time, the gentle misty grayness was only a memory, supplanted by vibrant greens and browns, set afire with life by the magical gold of full-strength sun rays.

As I sat down to write this blog, I was reminded of that morning. Ideas danced in my mind, but only as vague, misty shapes, not readily apparent. But I began writing, coaxing out elusive thoughts. Soon the fog began to part, and scattered ideas and memories coalesced into coherence.

Writing is like that. Sometimes a topic is in focus, full of energy and vigor, ready to burst into full bloom of its own accord. Other times, murky memories float in the a mental mist, not quite clear, but luminous and present. In the misty moments, I find it best to be gentle with myself, writing slowly, aimlessly, letting the ideas take shape as they will. And indeed they will. I can’t guarantee that every time you “write in the mist,” you’ll burst through to a stellar story. I can guarantee that if you persist, writing softly and gently, feeling your way through those vague, dark shapes, sooner or later the mist will lift, the sun will shine, and you’ll find a story.

For now, perhaps you’d like to write about your experiences on foggy days. Do they make you sad, glad, fearful? Do you celebrate them or bemoan them? Has anything special (good or bad) happened on a foggy day? What do they make you think of?

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Lulu Project Update

I arrived home yesterday from my great adventure in Austin to find The Albuquerque Years awaiting inspection. I’m pleased to report that it passes with flying colors.

The cover looks exactly as I expected — except — I got the title wrong on the spine! Can you believe it? This is why you should always order a preview copy of anything you do. I might not ever have noticed this fluke, and probably nobody else would either. I only noticed it when I inspected the spine to make sure it was exactly centered. I’m pleased to report that it is. The error is easy enough to fix, and I’ll simply upload the file again, so it will be correct for future volumes. I’ll also extract the stray comma from the middle of a sentence on the author bio page. Of course that's the first thing I noticed in there ... .

(Taking such pains to get the finished product as close to perfect as I can make it is a personal preference. We each set our own standard. You'd have to know the story of how my mother taught me to sew to fully understand what some may rightfully consider my nitpicky anality in this matter. I would not sneer at others who might choose to let them slide.)

At my urgent request, my husband opened the package to report on it while I was still gone. He was surprised at the size of the pages, which are larger than The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing, a standard trade paperback (6 x 9 in.). This one is Lulu’s Crown Quarto page size (7.44 x 9.68 in).

“Why did you make the pages so big and such an odd size?” he wondered. “Why didn’t you make it the same as your other one?”

“Two reasons. Mainly, I wanted the extra width to give me more flexibility for flowing text around pictures. But I also wanted to keep the printing cost down. The smaller size would have added at least sixteen more pages, and at 2¢ per page, that adds up.”

He garumphed a few times and I reminded him that if he looks on my bookshelf, he’ll find lots of odd-sized books. I quite like this page size. I think it looks distinguished.

Looking inside the book, I’m pleased with my choice of header font. I looked long and hard through several free font sites to find one that approximates the handwriting of a beginning writer. Several “kiddie” fonts were available, but most were smeary, ugly, and hard to read. I finally settled on one called I Did This!.

There is one thing I’m not delighted with. The photographs are dim looking, and rather grainy, some more so than others. Fortunately I did store the specific version of the photo files in a dedicated folder. I purposely used three different file formats, jpg, tif, and eps. According to Lulu, jpg is best. According to the printer for The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing, eps (encapsulated postscript) is best, and that’s the format that produced the exceptionally fine photo and graphics results in that book. In a few days I’ll go through and analyze each photo to see if I can identify a correlation, and let you know what I learn.

Even with this minor disappointment, I’m delighted with the book, and if this is as good as I can get the photos right now, they will do. Lulu receives 4.5 stars for product quality (I’m withholding half a star because of the photo quality), and about 2 stars for user-friendliness (I have no doubt this rating would be higher if you use their online pdf conversion and cover templates).

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Stories Help Us Cope With Tragedies

Telling stories seems to be one of the most natural ways to cope with tragedy. Mixed with the joy of our family's newest addition, is the grief my daughter and her husband are experiencing following a near-fatal accident involving a close friend, Jeff Byers. Jeff survived the accident, but only through the miracles of modern medical technology. He remains in a coma, though signs of healing are appearing, and his long-term prognosis is anyone’s guess.

I have never met Jeff, and I don’t remember hearing about him, but each day Chris Mack, my son-in-law, has been writing a blog entry comprised of a story based on memories of his experiences with Jeff, and I’m beginning to feel that he’s my friend too. Chris told me that he wrote the first story, “Because it felt like the right thing to do,” and he continues writing them for the same reason. He agrees that it helps him cope with his own grief and dismay, and hopes it may serve the same purpose for mutual friends who may read the stories. Of course there is always the hope that Jeff will recover to read these tributes.

These stories are short, sweet, and simple, and I invite you to read them, to show that you don’t have to write something long and flowery to have a great story.

Today’s entry is Jeff Stories #6. Chris plans to keep writing them “until I run out of stories, and then I may include some from others who know them.” Right now, you’ll find six earlier ones (including the unnumbered introductory one). If you read this message after September 17, 2007, you may find later ones also.

I’ll close by requesting prayers for Jeff from anyone so inclined.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

A Day of Infamy Recalled

Although I’m not tuned into the calendar just now, when I sat down to check e-mail, I realized that today is the anniversary of that Day of Infamy. Memories flooded back, and they deserve blog space.

Around 9:25 on Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001, I was driving to a Computer Club meeting at our Senior Citizen Center when I heard something about a plane flying into one of the Towers. Is this a replay of some historic happening? I wondered, but I couldn't recall a time when a plane flew into the World Trade Center. Maybe it's like War of the Worlds, I thought, though it was a bit early in the day for such shenanigans, and I was listening to NPR. It sounded awfully real.

“And now we'll switch to (??) for live coverage from the World Trade Center ...” Feeling strangely unsettled, I switched the car off and went inside. When I saw the crowd glued to the television in the lounge, I knew. This was real! Gasping for breath, I dashed down the hall to our meeting room and found early arrivals abuzz. (I get goosebumps just remembering.) Throughout the meeting, tardy members arrived with updates. “Second tower...” then, “The Pentagon!” The fourth pretty much freaked us out as we realized it had flown right overhead toward its ultimate rural PA resting point, less than seventy miles away as a plane would fly. The meeting ended in record time, and nobody dawdled.

I spent the next two or three days with one eye on my laptop, the other on the television, and a phone glued to my ear. I could not stop watching!

Just this morning, I realized this constant link to the Internet must be my personal mode for dealing with disasters. The memory of constant net watching reminded me of the week in May 2000 when the Cerro Grande fire destroyed so much of the spectacular panorama of ponderosa and aspen covered slopes around Los Alamos. I grew up in Los Alamos, but that horrendous event got little more than a mention in Pittsburgh newscasts. We still had dial-up, and I tied up the phone line for two solid days tracking events in northern New Mexico.

For me, the gut-level impact of these two events was similar. The only element lacking in the Cerro Grande fire was deliberate intention on the parts of the individual who authorized the fire and those who carried out the orders, so it wasn't quite terrorism, and not as many people died, but the impact on me was similar. The results of the fire are even more permanent. The earth was scarred for centuries to come, and unlike an urban landscape, the mountains can't be rebuilt or resurfaced.

I went to Los Alamos four months later, shedding buckets of tears as I surveyed the devastation. I viewed Ground Zero four months later, feeling too stunned to weep at the sight of a church cemetery shrouded in protective coverings, and the "Wall of Remembrance" created on plywood construction barriers near the site.

Today I mourn for the earth, and the people who inhabit her. I can only pray that the wildfires of hatred will burn themselves out, taking with them all the discord and ugliness, so our collective descendants can grow up in a world of love, peace and plenty.

I have already written extensively about my thoughts and feelings about the events of September 11, 2001 as part of my written legacy. The writing helped me come to personal peace with these events. What about you? Perhaps the record of our collective words and thoughts can help future generations find their way through their own times of turmoil. Write about this, and about other disasters you've survived. Your record matters, to you and the future.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

A(nother) Child Is Born

Anna Sophia, our newest granddaughter, arrived safe, sound, and healthy on September 7. She and her mommy are doing great. Dad is proud as a peacock, and big sister is fascinated, at least so far.

Grandmama is swamped. Keeping up with a two-year-old is more work than it seemed thirty-several years ago. Also more fun. Today the two of us went to the weekly Free Kids' Show at Ruta Maya, a coffee house in Austin. This is the place to take tots on Sundays in Austin. The place was SRO. The show featured a juggler who specializes in juggling machetes — heady stuff for wee ones and beyond comprehension for grannies.

Although my own list of story ideas is growing by the hour, it's time to take a Grandmother Break. I shall resume blogging in two or three weeks. Until then, keep those fingers flying across the keys or pages.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Deja Vu

I’d like to thank Bhaswati for reminding me of one of my favorite Natalie Goldberg quotes:

“Writers live twice. They go along with their regular life ... But there’s another part of them that they have been training. The one that lives everything a second time. That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it. Looks at the texture and details.” — Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

I’m starting to think that we may even squeeze more lives out. As I worked intensely on writing, editing and polishing The Albuquerque Years, I essentially relived my preschool years, experiencing more richness and meaning than I did the first time through

Right now, I’m in Austin, visiting our daughter, whose second daughter will be born tomorrow. In an unexpected way, I’m reliving those Albuquerque years in yet another way. This afternoon I spent some time in the backyard with soon-to-be big sister Sarah, who turned two in July. Sarah spent about half an hour arranging small rocks in various patterns, tumbling them down a small statue, showing them to me, tossing them around, and talking continuously about what she was doing. “I put rocks in circle ... This rock is brown ... This rock is gray ... Now I do circle here ... You make circle too.”

As I watched her, I had a tremendous sense of deja vu that I may not have experienced if I hadn't been writing so recently of my own memories, which kicked in about the age Sarah is now. Her intense involvement with that simple pile of stones, and the way she used these natural objects to entertain herself and practice all her mushrooming skills (i.e., counting, colors, shapes, conversation) for such a long time was contagious. I delighted in those rocks as fully as she did. I was transported back to a time when toys were whatever one had at hand, and none had batteries or made contrived noise.

Yes, I can go home again, for at least a few hours or days, and I’m squeezing extra joy out of what would be a captivating experience in any event, by comparing these moments with Sarah with my own memories, freshly reawakened by my writing.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

If You Don't Tell Them, Who Will?

In The Albuquerque Years, I write of visits to Aunt Phoebe. She wasn't a biological aunt, but she and Uncle Wayne more or less adopted my mother's father, giving him a job and a place to live when he was a vagabond (aka homeless) teenager in southern New Mexico. My grandfather worked for Uncle Wayne for many years, and even after he and my grandmother were married, they lived on the Crowder's property for a few years. So, in truth, they were more family than most of the relatives.

Anyway, as a small child, I wasn't terribly aware of ages, except for Aunt Phoebe's mother, Ma Plowman, who lived with them. To me as a preschooler, Ma was a scary old hag who chewed tobacco and used a spittoon, wobbled on her cane when she walked, only had a few teeth, and ... you get the picture. I did not want to be around Ma!

As I wrote The Albuquerque Years and began thinking more deeply about the Crowder family's relationship to mine, I realized that Aunt Phoebe was probably old enough to be my mother's grandmother, and my perception that Ma was “about a hundred years old” may not be too far from the truth.

Given all of today's instant research tools that live at my very fingertips, I checked it out. I quickly found Aunt Phoebe's genealogy data, and learned that she was, in fact, seventeen years older than my grandmother, so she was around sixty when I knew her (my maternal generations were quite short). Although she didn't smoke a pipe, she did generally have a cigarette hanging from her lip, and the cartoon character of Mammy Yokum (are you old enough to remember Al Capp's L'il Abner comic strip?) comes to mind. Aunt Phoebe was tough, wiry, sort of feisty, and always busy doing something.

Ma was not quite as old as I thought. She was only in her mid-eighties. She ultimately lived to be ninety-six. I also learned another stunning fact: Ma had a name! Her name was Alice. What a difference that makes in my mind. Alice is a name I can relate to. It's real. People named Alice have minds, and personalities, and stories to tell. I had never, even until now, thought about that.

Names and stories. How important they are. I don't think Ma ever told her story, and if she did, I never heard it. If my mother had known Ma's story and told it to me, she could have turned Ma into a genuine person for me (perhaps even for herself), and I might have appreciated the old crone. I might have learned something. Even a name would have helped.

We must tell our own stories, and we must tell the stories of others. If you don't tell your own story, who will? Of course you know I advocate writing your story, but if you can't write it, or won't, then for sure tell it. Tell it often, so people don't forget. It could matter.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

The Project that Just Wouldn't Quit, part 2

I’m pleased to report that I was finally able to upload my finished files to Lulu.com, and place an order for one copy. Perhaps this project will be the exception, but there are always flukes that show up in the first copy. When I’m satisfied that all is as it should be, I’ll post a link to the file on Lulu.

To my surprise, the process has been far more complicated than I anticipated. It sounds so simple to get your manuscript laid out just the way you want it, “print” it to a pdf file, and upload that to Lulu. Indeed it was that simple for the Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing manuscript (that was working with a traditional publisher, not Lulu). The challenge there was getting Word to behave with all the graphics I used.

This time, Word behaved surprisingly well, but getting the pdf right was another matter, and I even used Acrobat to “distill” it. I won’t elaborate on the details here, though I may post them to the Lulu user forums and elsewhere. Unless you are a serious Power User (I’m ready to claim that designation now), with a vast reserve of patience, I suggest uploading your document file to Lulu and letting them do the pdf conversion. There is no charge for that service, and you can download the pdf file to check details before finalizing your project.

Then there was the cover. I’m also a Photoshop fanatic, and opted to create my own wrap-around cover rather than using the online wizard. I discovered more gremlins here, and none lived in Photoshop. The Lulu spec page for document dimensions lists measurements in pixels, inches, and centimeters, and it specifies 300 dpi resolution. The stated number of inches and centimenters does not correspond with the designated number of pixels at that ratio, nor are the inch and centimeter measurements equivalent with each other. “Go with the pixels,” advised an expert on the Lulu user forum. The explanation for the inconsistencies was balderdash.

As if that weren’t enough confusion, when I uploaded my finished cover file, the size requirement was stated in points. Both Acrobat and Photoshop told me my file was the specified size, but the Lulu interface claimed it had other dimensions, and they were not right. I finally worked through that challenge and clicked on order. I’m about to leave for a couple of weeks to help out with the birth of grandchild number six, and presumably my finished book will be waiting when I get home. You will most certainly hear my thoughts on the quality of the printed product (of course the quality of the contents is impeccable . . . ).

At this point, I’m still recommending Lulu for personal, short-run printings, primarily because I know of no viable alternative, and you can’t beat Lulu’s price. Hopefully the inconsistencies and confusion will diminish over time. For now, I do recommend sticking with their converters. Perhaps I’ll tinker with the cover wizard next month.

I’m especially pleased with the picture I used for the cover. I have only three color pictures of myself between the ages of two and six, and they were not suitable for a cover shot. So I improvised, and used Photoshop to “hand tint” my favorite. It took way longer than I intended, but I’m elated about the final result:

Original photo

Final result

I’ll be sharing further observations regarding the personal value I derived from writing about this simple, sublimely happy time. You already heard about my foray into the deserted barracks. I also found a couple of family history surprises, and encourage everyone to dig around in their past, be it happy or less so.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal