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The Art of Journaling

When I was ten years old, my family took a trip to Nova Scotia. I decided to bring along my new diary. It had blue and orange stripes and the all-important lock on the outside. The pages were gold-tipped, and soon the sparkles were flaking onto me and the backseat of the car. When we stopped at a local restaurant to eat, my Mom spent the first part of the meal wiping the endless sparkles from my nose. 
The thing that I treasured the most about my new diary was all the empty pages waiting to be filled. Do you know that feeling? With the right pen, the sky was the limit. Pages were awaiting my brilliant thoughts and recorded memories. For three days, that dream was a reality. I wrote about the beauty of the Cabot Trail, the Bay of Fundy, a nice retired couple I’d befriended, and the cozy inn where we stayed. 
By Day Four, I decided to take a break. I’d start up again the next day. That was a promise but, by Day Five, that promise was broken.  I was only ten years old, after all, and covered in sparkles. Not to mention, I’d discovered something about diaries. There was a lot of pressure attached to this daily recording.  So, the rest of my diary remains empty to this day. Crisp, clean, boring.
Not until I became a writer did I realize the trick to the art of journaling: a journal is different than a diary. A diary is something that includes the date on each page. Some folks love this method. My Uncle Warren is a Civil Engineer. In meticulous fashion, he logs in every day, things like the weather, the barometric pressure, the day’s highlights. He would be the perfect witness at a trial. The problem is that many of us lose our drive to write when we are trapped by the “rules” of daily recordings. 
Journaling is a whole different experience. Journals can have various subjects or themes: a travel journal, a baby journal, a memory, an idea journal. The latter is what I do best. My journal entries aren’t chronological or neat or profound or earth-shattering. Well, at least not all the time. Sometimes I glue in a picture or a postcard. Sometimes I scribble an idea onto a receipt from the gas station (I have a lot of those) or a torn paper bag. Then I’ll tape or glue that idea into my journal. To me, a  journal captures moments and memories and ideas, all without guilt. Guilt-free.
It was my own love of journaling that compelled me to share this art with others. I’ve led many journaling workshops over the years, but I have one that I truly treasure. With a nudge from Pam Chubet at Norwood Housing Authority , I began to lead a journaling workshop at the Walsh Housing over a year ago. We meet on the second Tuesday of the month and we explore memories.  I bring a simple canning jar with a pop lid, and from the jar I pick out a few prompts for the day. It’s amazing where these questions take us. We write for several minutes and then we feel free to share. I’m blown away by the detailed memories that my participants recall: the ice man coming up the street for deliveries, the day President Kennedy was shot, the boy who greeted his neighbor every day while she was healing from an illness on her front porch. My prompts are simple, but the responses are always unique.                                                                                                                                                                       
As with any art, we can find ways to improve our technique with time. Over the years, I have found several sources to guide my journaling. My own desire to journal was fostered when I took a class with Alexandra Johnson. A teacher of memoir writing and creative nonfiction at Wellesley College and the Harvard Extension School, Johnson won the James E. Conway Award for her distinguished teaching .  Her book, Leaving a Trace: On Keeping a Journal, serves as a guide to enriching “your experience of recording your thoughts and impressions of the world around you.”  By examining the journals of famous writers, such as May Sarton and John Cheever, Johnson is able to coax others to try the same techniques.
For those journal keepers who prefer to mix art with words, there are two other useful sources.Visual Journaling: Going Deeper than Words by Barbara Ganim and Susan Fox demonstrates how this combination can be extremely powerful. Sometimes we can’t find the words to express ourselves, especially when we are younger. Visual journaling uses art to reduce stress, release anger and give voice to your soul, all within the confines of a journal. You don’t have to be an artist to record your memories in picture form. 
For those who are artistic, there is another book entitled Artist’s Journal Workshop: Creating Your Life in Words and Pictures. Cathy Johnson draws on her own insight, having used this process for structure and inspiration in her own life. However, she also shares pages and advice from 27 international artists and their journals. 
Of course, it is up to the journal keeper to decide who will read her words. Journaling may serve as a cathartic process and that may be enough. On the other hand, the journal keeper may discover a book waiting to be written after unearthing unique and captivating memories. Author Phyllis Theroux did just that with her memoir, The Journal Keeper. Well-known for her essays, Theroux takes her reader on a journey through six years of her life as a writer (from 2000 until 2006), revealing topics that occupy all of  us—love, finance, death, loneliness. 
And really, at its best, this is exactly what journaling should accomplish: your thoughts, your words, your memories, captured for time. Only you can record your story as you see it. As Holocaust survivor and author, Elie Wiesel said: “That is my major preoccupation –memory, the kingdom of memory. I want to protect and enrich that kingdom, glorify that kingdom and serve it.” After all, the human story is your story, too. Don’t be afraid to write it down.

Going for Gold

Like many of you, I’ve been sitting on my couch each night, mesmerized by display after display of Olympic achievement. Whether watching Michael Phelps sweep the all-time Olympic gold record or Gabby Douglas wow the judges on bars, I have this distinct thought: there’s no way, given an eternity to train, that I could accomplish such feats. These Olympians are super-human —they venture beyond the beyond.

But then another thought edges its way into my brain: “Wait one minute! Isn’t this exactly what I’ve been doing, day in and out, for the past 13 years?”  I have been training like an Olympian. The difference? Like many of you, my training has been on a track of words.

And this is the thing….my goals and the prize keep changing. In 1999 when I submitted my first poem into the world, I swore I’d be satisfied with one tiny poem in print. Having one person out in the world appreciate my words would be enough. In my mind, that was gold. And then . . . it happened—the “wanting.”  I’m not sure what that wanting was exactly:  a winning feeling? a deep desire for my words to reach the wider world? But I liked it. I wanted to ride this wave some more.

The good thing is I don’t believe I’ve mastered this art. As Ellen Bryant Voigt advised one of her students: “Honey, it’s all draft until you die.”  I realize I’m not through learning. I continue to take workshops. I’ve formed critique groups. I revise and revise. But my goals took on a new form.

Maybe I’d publish a whole book of poems. Check. Maybe another prize? Check. Maybe the biggest prize? Check. But there’s more How about a whole new genre?! Why not write for children? Of course, I’d be satisfied with ONE picture book, right? That’s the new gold standard. Then I’d let my surf board glide into shore. But wait! There’s the Olympics.

That’s why, in some small way, I can relate to the athletics on my television screen. I, too, have set goals, I’ve mastered techniques. I’ve trained with the best.  In her article “Train like an Olympian [http://sportsmedicine.about.com/od/sampleworkouts/ss/OlympicTraining_10.htm],” Elizabeth Quinn discusses strategies for Olympian success. And as writers, we can apply these to our work.  One of the hardest strategies for me is the one Quinn calls “Rest and Recover the Right Way.” This is the stepping back period. I would add Reflection to this category, or a time to be grateful—to reflection all the successes, small, large, and nothing short of miraculous, along the way.

 Recently I reminded a friend of mine of this. He has authored and illustrated over 40 books in his career. When he received an unfavorable review of his latest book, he was in a funk. To be so close to touching that wall, touching that medal, and then to have it yanked away was devastating. But that’s when we have to ask ourselves: are all those ribbons and trophies and medals on the wall the real goal? Can they ever stack up to lives touched, hearts changed and, in the case of authors, those first readers who dared to put fingers to our pages and read our words out loud?  I don’t think so. To me, this is the Olympic-sized goal worthy of pursuit, even if NBC never captures it on tv.

Eternally Optimistic

Like many of you, I have children who are polar opposites. One daughter sees the world through a half-empty glass; the other sees her cup as overflowing. This doesn’t mean that rain can’t fall on her, but when it does, she’ll grab an umbrella and jump wildly through the puddles. I admire this about her. She wakes up and seizes the world with both hands. My desire is to emulate her. This applies to many aspects of my life, but often to writing. You see, what I’ve observed about this eternal optimism of hers is that she seeks and searches for joyful things–objects of hope and delight, security and beauty. See, this is the ceiling of her bedroom–cranes stretch across it, butterflies dance around her windows. 

And, on the rare day when she’s a little down, she’ll find something soft and warm and lovely, and envelop herself in it. It’s important to do this as writers too. 
Recently, a few of my writing friends have had to make a hard decision. They’ve decided to follow a different road. After several years of hard, hard work, along with waiting and hoping for a story to be published, they’ve decided to put away their pens for now. This makes me sad. They are beautiful writers, but the publishing market, like the economy, is tough. Many times I’ve thought of doing the same. That’s when I remember my “Hope Builders.” You see, my dirty little secret is that I keep funny little treasures to lift my spirits. They relate to my stories in some way. 
This is Sebastian Lee. My crit group jokes about this character. I was asked by a big publishing house to change him from a Chinese-American boy to a duck. Why not, I thought? It’s worth it. But Sebastian Lee was rejected in his duck-like form as well. His sidekick, Fiona, changed for a Latin-American girl to a hedgehog. In my story, they’re back to being human again, but these guys put a smile on my face and keep me hope for their future in print. 
And this is my Double Happiness Box. I found it in an antique shop in Essex. I keep it as a sign that my Double Happiness Box story will be published some day as well. It’s getting a little dusty, but the phoenix and dragon are faithful reminders.

 And lastly, I discovered this card in a gift shop in Fort Myers. I envision two of my characters, Champ and Scooter, to look just like this. And yes, these objects may be a silly pipe dream but, like my daughter, I’ve chosen to believe in their future. Perhaps these “Hope Builders” will come to life someday through their very words.            Just wait and see

 

Split Personality

Some days I am a librarian at the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood, Massachusetts. Some days I am an author who visits schools and attempts to pen a few words around midnight when the house is quiet. As a mother, wife, author, librarian, wannabe knitter, pathetic scrapbooker, amateur photographer (the attached photos don’t count…they were from my cell phone, for crying out loud), I am always tired. BUT, on rare days like today, my two hats blend.

Today I was at MLA’s (Massachusetts Library Association’s) Conference, and I was able to meet six fabulous authors from our fine state. We “Speed-Dated,” i.e. we had four minutes to talk with each author in rotating fashion.

I want you to meet them as well, because their books are Must-Reads selected by the Massachusetts Center for the Book (www.massbook.org).


Leonard Rosen

 This is the intriguing Leonard Rosen who lives in Brookline, MA. His debut thriller is All Cry Chaos and, as he told us, it’s as much a theological exploration as suspense novel. 


D.M. Gordon
D.M. Gordon is a poet I met several years ago at the Frost Place. Her book Nightly, at the Institute of the Possible is her second collection of poetry. I can’t wait to dive into my autographed copy tonight. 

I must add my fellow Fine Line Poet (www.finelinepoets.com), J. Lorraine Brown, also has a poetry collection entitled Skating on Bones that was on the Must-Read list as well. Her book was published by Finishing Line Press.

Jef Czekaj

Jef Czekaj is a force to be reckoned with. He is a cartoonist, children’s author/illustrator, and musician. Check out his Must-Read entitled New Alphabet. It is so fun! He also wrote Hip and Hop, Don’t Stop!, Cat Secrets, and the Circulatory Story.

L.M. Vincent
L.M. Vincent (Larry) waited a long time for his Motif No. 1: The History of a Fish Shack to be published, but it was well-worth the wait. You may recognize the historic red shack that sits on the pier in Rockport, but Vincent reveals its historic road to becoming an American icon.

And then there’s the lovely Kimberly Marcus whose novel, Exposed, explores the subject of sexual assault through the lens of a 16 year old girl, Liz. She must grapple with her best friend’s accusation against her own brother. Her novel is in free verse, one of my favorite styles to read.

Kimberly Marcus

Laura Harrington

If that’s not enough for fabulous choices, our last author was Laura Harrington whose award-winning plays, musicals, and operas have been widely produced in the U.S., Canada and abroad. Her first novel is Alica Bliss, and it crosses over from adult to young adult. It is a coming-of-age story about a young girl whose father is deployed to Iraq.

Yes, it seems a day when I can blend all my hats is the best day of all!

The May Days

What I needed was a little accountability–a wee bit of momentum to light my fire. All I asked for from my Facebook friends was for encouragement to write a page or two every day in May, with the intent of jump starting a middle grade novel. What I received was amazing–a new group. Our members are both established and newbie writers. In a matter of seconds, friends were piling on the band wagon. Soon someone suggested forming a group and, for momentary lack of creativity, we formed The May Days. Now thirty + members strong, we are working toward the same goal–word production and daily creativity. And, if it doesn’t work out now and then, we keep one another going. More than anything, I am amazed by the heart these writers. When a dear friend in our group learned of her mother’s passing last night, everyone immediately sent their sympathies. One thing we all know, solace and healing can be found in the word. Here’s to many new and fabulous creations coming from The May Days.

Hidden Treasures

Yes, I know. Most people head to Cape Cod or Florida for Spring Break. What did we do? A road trip. All we needed was a Winnebago, but we didn’t have that. We had a minivan packed full with two parents, two grandparents, two kids and a loaf of bread and peanut butter. Still, what we discovered was mind-blowing. Everyone needs to drop what they’re doing and visit these amazing sites. They will make you proud to be an American, and you will go home with fluorescent rocks in your pocket.
The first is the Mariner’s Museum in Newport News, Virginia. Has anyone else been here? When we entered, we had only one enthusiastic member of our party, my dad, the retired Naval Commander. When we left, we gave it a “Top Ten” ranking for museums in the U.S. History comes to life there. I had learned about the famous Civil War Battle of the Ironclads in my history classes, but I didn’t understand the magnitude of this event until the hands-on exhibits at the Mariner’s Museum. I felt part of the battle at sea while watching a movie on this famous clash between the North and South. The Monitor’s revolving gun turret is housed here, raised during a 2002 expedition off of Cape Hatteras. See, amazing: http://www.marinersmuseum.org/uss-monitor-center/conservation-uss-monitors-turret-webcam. While exploring the museums many corridors, my daughters learned how to tie sailor’s knots, and lift cannon balls like those used by Admiral Nelson.
 I had a whole new appreciation of the amazing characters who have graced my history books of old. 
 And if you haven’t heard of The Miniature Ships of Winnifred and August F. Crabtree, check this out. This minature took him years to make.
All I can say is, good thing his wife was “onboard” with his project. All this for the low cost of $12 for Adults ($11 for Seniors/Military/AAA, $7 for Children Ages 6-12, and Children 5 and Under are free.
And, while I’m on the topic of hidden treasures, the Sterling Hill Mining Museum in Ogdensburg, New Jersey is another. http://sterlinghillminingmuseum.org. As they say, “There’s No Other Place on Earth,” and I am witness to that. I am learning all about mines for a “some day” novel I’m working on. Boy, was this the place to go. Bill K was our expert tour guide. A geologist, civil engineer and all-around educator, Bill taught us all about the life of the miners and, in this case, the “glow-in-the-dark” fluorescent minerals they were mining. Would you want to work down here? It was like taking a roller coaster ride to work.
While it was back-breaking and hazardous at times, it was nothing compared to the dirty, dusty job of a coal miner. At least zinc mining is relatively clean. Plus, we learned fascinating tidbits. 

Look, this is how the miners kept their clothes.

See all these beauties. 
And just to add frosting to the cake, everyone selects a rock to take home. Priceless!

Library Secrets: Part 1

I have decided to blog about some library secrets (i.e. helpful tips for your research as a writer, sleuth, wannabe trivia master, and more). To start, I am including my essay about the future of the public library. This is probably not a big secret, or is it? You be the judge.
Geckos and the Future of Libraries
A library is not a luxury but one of the necessities of life.
                                     — Henry Ward BEECHER
You may have forgotten his name—Martin. You may have a hard time deciding which one of his ads is your favorite:  the one where he’s dancing in Texas, or his journey out of the parking lot.  But there’s hardly a soul out there who wouldn’t recognize that tiny, British-accented gecko who is the mascot for Geico Auto Insurance.  Not only is Martin a gecko, he IS Geico. Without a doubt, Geico has increased their sales and notoriety with consumers through Martin. 
The future of our libraries depends on the same—a clear, concise marketing style.  In the past, libraries have made the mistake of thinking they are separate from this business of marketing. We’ve argued, people should value us for what we are. Or, we’ve always existed, therefore we should be forever appreciated. Unfortunately, this is a harmful assumption. As much as any business out there, the library needs to make its value to the community known—consistently and constantly.  Marketing is the key to our future.
So how do we do this? More than the number of books we provide on OverDrive, more than the variety   of programs we offer children and seniors alike, it is the people behind the library’s name who serve as our best asset. As Rivkah Sass wrote in Library Journal (6/2002), “As highly touted, purely electronic tools like Questia fade into history, we should remember to market the value of what is the largest percentage of most library budgets—the staff.” Librarians bring indepth knowledge, experience, and a relationship to our patrons. We do this daily in the Outreach Department at the Morrill Memorial Library. We reach out to the community. We are in the business of touching people’s lives and making a lasting impression. This is what we do best, and this is something worthy of the patron’s attention.
In my parents’ Massachusetts town, there is a hardware store called Cataldo’s. This family- run store is a beloved fixture on Main Street. However, the day that Loews moved in everyone was worried. How could this small business survive the big competition? Turns out, it wasn’t a problem. Why? The reason for its success relates to librarians as well. Not only does Cataldo’s provide the goods. Not only do they provide the know-how. They provide the personal touch. They are there for you when ice dams crash through you ceiling. They know your children and your children’s children as they grow up. 
Just as the famous jingle from Cheers goes, we all want to go where “everybody knows your name.” The library is that kind of place. We are essential to our communities—the great equalizers of society. We need to send out this message loud and clear. Librarians are valuable. You can bet your future on it.

Awakenings Again

It’s spring again. What can I say? Most winters we wonder if it will ever come. When those first daffodils unfold, something stirs in all of us. Even the most curmudgeonly can’t help it; they have a lighter heart and step.

For those of us who have experienced the hard winter of our souls, we dip our toes cautiously into the spring waters. Maybe we don’t trust those cold swirling ripples quite yet. As writers it may be that we’ve been waiting so long for a bite from some editor out there; we’re certain our manuscripts will never be reeled in again.

That is, of course, why we cherish those stories of the long-awakenings. Authors who waited, not months, but years, to be found by an editor and readers alike. Kate DiCamillo is one of those authors, and one of my favorites. She collected 400 rejection letters for her now famous Because of Winn Dixie. It’s hard to believe there were that many publishers out there to reject her manuscript. She must have resubmitted to the same editors several times. And yet, she persisted. Her tenacity carried her through the snow drifts and blinding hail, into the sweetness of spring.

As for my own stacks of rejections, I will have a hard time calculating them. When I first submitted my poetry to the outside world, I kept a pin cushion to measure my successes. Actually I measured my “failures” first.  I would push red tacks into it every time I got a rejection. Soon the tiny Chinese men huddled around the cushion looked like they were holding up an ocean of red. Then one day in January 1999, a green tack arrived. Gradually, it became a pasture of green, with a few stray red sheep in the middle of it all.

But that was poetry. God knows, maybe I should have stuck with that genre. But here I am in a mountain of red tacks again, struggling for the next picture book manuscript to find a home. Agents and editors alike ask me, “Have you tried writing longer stories? They sell better.” And yes, I am trying that too (more on that someday), but my heart lies in the poetic picture book. [Oh, I’ve mentioned heart twice…big No-No in the halls of critics].

So here we are, you and I, waiting for spring to happen again to our writing. How to answer this cry? With words of course, words of Awakenings. It is through these words that I know, I’m a winter survivor, a lover of spring.

AWAKENINGS
I am that stone
at your water’s edge,
granite flush against
a silvered brook.
Once I churned
under these woods,
a relentless fervent fire,
a magmatic torrent.
Then came the cooling,
the precise hardening,
a shifting of land and life.
I await first droplets now,
sun on snow,
snow into water,
first steamy risings
loosenings,
flow.

(NancyTupper Ling’s Coming Unfrozen, Blue Light Press)

Fallen



Yes. It’s been a while again. I think this is my monthly blog. I had to share about the strange fall we’ve had. Warm now in December. A snow storm before Halloween. All the trees that had fallen are still being trimmed and gathered by the roadsides. It reminded me of a poem with the same title that appears in my chapbook, Coming Unfrozen.

Past
the old
wood pile
and white
pine path,
heavy ice
stretches
birch trees—
crystal arches—
dancers frozen
in arabesque.
No one
to bind
their sullen
branches
before
the storm,
no one
to bury their

 surrendered
souls. Surely,
spring harbors
such cruel spells.
Here and
there poplar
leaves flicker—
crinoline in
April’s wind;
they remain
among the fallen
without option
or regret.