I Feel a Story Coming On

This morning I awoke with a story coming on. I could feel that itch in my brain starting to build, but I tried to shove it away. I lay in my bed, all cozy under the comforter, thinking how nice it would be to drift back to sleep, but that thought was shoved aside by thoughts of crayons; not just any crayons, but specifically Crayola™ crayons, the kind I used to get each year when it was time to buy school supplies.

Giving in to the inevitable, I lay there thinking about Crayolas™, and the first sensation that came to mind was smell. Every time I think of crayons, or colors as I generally referred to them when I was a kid, I can literally smell the petrochemical scent of paraffin and pigment. No matter how old or used the box of crayons, that scent remained as strong as the day they were made. I remembered the thrill of opening a brand new box and the delight of drawing fine, crisp outlines with the sharp tip of a new crayon with its entire  paper wrapping intact. I thought of bearing down hard with a rounded, worn tip to get rich, intense color, and how that heavy coating of wax would flake off and stain my hands, making them feel funny. I thought of the waxy feel of the worn sticks and the colors on the paper. I thought of the glee of pouring those worn stubs into an old shoe box when I got new ones.

I thought about other aspects of crayons, along with coloring books, realizing in third grade that I couldn’t draw as beautifully as a couple of the other girls, and related memories. That took me to making inkblots between workbook pages when we graduated to fountain pens in third grade, and art class and poster paints, and fifth grade with lantern slides and….

Then my mind drifted to the matter of composing my story. How would I write about Crayolas™? Scent, colors, box, waxy feel, things I did with them, memories of using them, my feelings about drawing, story structure, how to begin, how to end . . . . Glancing at the clock I realized I’d been pondering Crayolas nearly half an hour. My pulse had risen, my mind was racing, and clearly I was not going to drift back to sleep. This story bug was virulent and too developed to ignore. The only cure was to sit down at my computer and do a brain dump. What you are reading is that dump, and now I can move on to other matters.

Do you ever feel a story coming on? What do you do about that? And how do you write about scents and the feel of waxy sticks in your fingers, and colors, subtle or screaming?

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Thank You

Thank you to all my loyal subscribers who have not been notifed of the last few new posts. I'm still learning all this blogging stuff, and finally thought to look in the right place. Now I've found the setting on bloglet.com that had inadvertently clicked off, and everything should work again. I hope you'll come back, catch up, and bring your friends.

For the rest of you, if you would like to receive an e-mail with a link to the latest blog post, just enter your e-mail address in the field in the sidebar. I'm a privacy freak myself, and Bloglet's privacy policies satisfy me. Your identity will never go further.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Laughing and Learning

Every now and then lifestory writers need a humor break. The following lines have all been published, as written, in local newspapers. The unintentionally awkward phrasing in each is guaranteed to get at least a snicker. Perhaps you can think of ways to reword them for improved clarity and precision. The best way to avoid similar sources of hilarity in your own stories is to let them age for at least two or three weeks before your final edit, or to have someone else proof read them for you.

• Lost: small apricot poodle. Reward. Neutered. Like one of the family.


• For sale: an antique desk suitable for lady with thick legs and large drawers.


• Four-poster bed, 101 years old. Perfect for antique lover.


• Now is your chance to have your ears pierced and get an extra pair to take home, too.


• We do not tear your clothing with machinery. We do it carefully by hand.


• Dog for sale: eats anything and is fond of children.


• The hotel has bowling alleys, tennis courts, comfortable beds, and other athletic facilities.


• Sheer stockings. Designed for fancy dress, but so serviceable that lots of women wear nothing else.


• Man, honest. Will take anything.


• Man wanted to work in dynamite factory. Must be willing to travel.


• Used Cars: Why go elsewhere to be cheated? Come here first!


• Christmas tag-sale. Handmade gifts for the hard-to-find person.


• Wanted. Man to take care of cow that does not smoke or drink.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

It Takes a Village

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for a distant relative. The service was of the sort where people spontaneously offer stories and tributes, and I learned a lot this woman about from the collective stories told. I had no idea she was a candidate for sainthood. Those who spoke gave glowing testimony to her strength, wisdom, loving nature, helpfulness and dedication. They spoke of the powerful impact she had on their lives. One woman referred to her as a crone (a sage older woman capable of exerting powerful influence).

The tributes showed a side of her I’d occasionally glimpsed, but I never personally witnessed that public side of her. I saw the private, sit at breakfast in your bathrobe and chat over tea side of her. I saw the side of her that railed at ill health, the side of her that grieved over the fact that her sons so seldom visited, the side that despaired over the state of the world. My perception was of a melancholy person and our roles were somewhat reversed from those the others spoke of. She was their confidant, I was hers.

I chose not to speak, unsure how to celebrate that very human side of her alongside her public greatness. In the overall scheme of things, it seemed that her strengths and contributions were what deserve to be memorialized and remembered. At the moment I felt the need to respect the privacy of the moments. Perhaps I did her and the others a disservice by my failure to anchor her feet to the ground, but I think on some level they all knew this.

I could not have seen such a full picture of this woman on my own. It took a village to describe her many dimensions.

We can collect the input of the village of family members to prepare memorial or family history stories of those who came before us. We can also provide a similar sort of village in the stories of our own lives by writing of our relationships with a variety of different people.

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

A Dream Revisited

I came across this dream fragment in an old journal, and find it more relevant now than it was when I recorded it a dozen years ago:

… I was sitting in a room with people who were setting out to do stuff I used to do (working with Girl Scouts, I think). I seemed to be there to teach them something. I definitely wasn't an integral part of the group. I was surprised to notice that they were digging through a box of old books that I had bought and read ten or fifteen years ago and later donated to the library book sale. These people were avidly reading those old books with great excitement. I was embarrassed that I didn't remember a word in them, and that they were sort of battered and out-of-date. But I was pleased by the new interest, and I felt confident I could answer the questions I knew they'd ask….

My immediate understanding of the dream when I woke up and remembered it was that we each learn lessons when we are ready to learn them, not a minute sooner. A book that contained the precise messages I needed to hear a dozen years ago would be stale to me, but it may be perfect for someone else today.

I also heard another message explaining why the old books seemed stale to me. Quite often, when I first discover new ideas or viewpoints, I feel as if I just split the atom. I mull over the new ideas, exploring all the angles, and twisting them to fit into the context of the world as I have understood it. At some point, something happens much like clicking the last piece into an online jigsaw puzzle in the Shockwave player. The borders of individual pieces remain embossed into the picture image as you work. Upon completion, the borders vanish, and a perfectly smooth image emerges. When my understanding of the new concept is complete, the borders around the new information disappear. It is fully incorporated into my working body of knowledge. At that point I’m hard-pressed to assess how much of my understanding derives from the original material, and how much is my own adaptation. I still remember reading the source material, and being excited about it, but the specifics blur.

Most memories work in a similar way. Our experiences blur together and form an integrated memory. Even vividly unique memories that don’t blend in with others take on new hues through time. Each time we replay them, they are minutely altered by the act of remembering, the circumstances of the moment, and our emotions at the time.

Just as this dream has developed additional value from exploring its meaning, memories we share in our stories derive additional value when we include our reflections on the meanings that come to surround the memory.

Dreams can be powerful additions to your written life story if you remember them, or keep a dream journal. What dreams might you remember that you could use in your stories?

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Food Writing

In looking through my recipe box earlier today, I found a recipe for Date Nut Loaf, a sinfully rich and decadent concoction my mother made every year at Christmas time. Of course that recipe sent me back several decades to the days when my major involvement with dinner was setting the table and eating it. I began thinking of family recipes in general. For many different reasons, we eat rather differently today, and memories of those foods are both nostalgic and comforting.

I’ve already begun writing about recipes. I have one story, Crunchy Frosting, that I wrote about the time I used granulated sugar instead of powdered sugar to ice a cake. I thought it was fine, but nobody else in the family liked it. That story includes the cake recipe as well as describing my thoughts and actions while baking the cake. I’ve also gathered a collection of recipes for all the Christmas candy Mother used to make. Those recipes include brief paragraphs of memories of helping make the candy, and tips for ensuring that it turns out right.

When I finish this post, I’m going to make a list of dinners I remember from childhood, like fried chicken, baked Spam, macaroni and cheese, and pan-fried trout, fresh from a mountain stream. None of those are foods I ever fix anymore, and they deserve to be memorialized. I’ll also include foods I used to fix in the early years of our marriage like Glop, Recycled Chicken, and Honey Granola Peanut Butter Chocolate Stuff. I’m an impulsive right-brain cook, so those foods didn’t have formal recipes, but they also deserve to be recorded for posterity. I can tell about the disastrous Chocolate Stew, and the $.50 dinner special of breaded oysters and discovering the delectable economy of pork loin roasts.

If I write one recipe and context story a week, I can have that collection done in time for Christmas gifts, maybe this year, maybe next. This volume won’t be competition for Ruth Reichl’s scrumptious food-based memoirs, Tender at the Bone, Comfort Me With Apples, and Garlic and Sapphires, but my life doesn’t center around food the way hers does, and mine will be written strictly for family.

How about you? What foods do you remember growing up with? What foods did you learn to fix when you were young? Realizing that many readers are likely to be men, who probably didn’t grow up cooking and may still not, it’s okay to just write about the food and not include recipes or instructions. But how could a lifestory be complete without mention of food? You may also want to write about memorable meals away from home, dorm food, or other food experiences

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal

Objects as Memory Links to People

Did you notice the new logo at the top of the page? This logo is part of my own lifestory. The tiny image hangs on the wall above my desk and reminds me of the beauty of the human heart, in all its various moods. I may have been staring at the picture when I came up with the name for this blog. It’s a legacy from my mother, a talented painter, craftsman and art collector. This wee little piece spoke to me when it was time to disperse her collection. I’ve had it hanging one place or another for over ten years now, and it has inspired messages in many e-mails, several essays, and now this blog entry. I always feel uplifted when I look at it.

I don’t know why Mother bought it. I like to think that she also found it uplifting. I like to think that it’s something she would have painted herself, had she thought of it. She uplifted and inspired others most effectively through her art. The painting triggers memories for me of Mother at her best, when she was painting in her studio, or sitting at the workbench where she crafted innovative stained glass objects and similar things, or working in her sewing room where she produced exotic fiber arts creations. She was a gifted multi-media artist in a time when multi-media was still thought of primarily as a description of multiple art forms.

I’ve never felt inspired to pick up a paint brush, and the time I used to spend at my sewing machine is now spent at my computer, but I did inherit her versatility. I just apply it in different ways, with words and digital graphics. I love to experiment with different forms of writing and ways of enhancing the writing with layout and graphics.

This painting serves as a touchstone for examining my relationship with my mother, and relationships form a key part of our lifestories. Do you display pictures or other items acquired from your predecessors that you can weave into your lifestory? What memories do they bring back to you. Try sitting for a few minutes with a blank piece of paper and write about one item. How does that item connect you to the other person?

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal