Angie Pedersen's The Blog of ME

Writers' Group Prompt: When it was nice outside...

This prompt was to begin writing with the phrase, "When it was nice outside...", and to free-write for 10 minutes.

My results:

When it was nice outside, I would walk home with my friend Vanessa. Sometimes her mom would drive us, in their aging station wagon with the wood panels and the rear-facing back seat. But since her mom never let us sit back there anyway, we figured we might as well walk. That way we could tell our stories -- the stories that just kept building on each other. Our brains just worked good together, I guess, each feeding on the imaginings of the other. Our feet knew the walk so well that our minds were left free to leap and create -- the most wonderful stories. Where there were dragons and damsels and absolutely NO little brothers.

There wasn't any fighting either, unless it was a grand hero with a jeweled sword. Nessa had enough fighting at home, that we were careful to avoid it, though not by any spoken agreement.

Most often, we didn't even pay attention to our surroundings - the way from PS 192 to our apartment building was straight enough, you could stick your arms out like a zombie, shut your eyes and just walk and you'd get there. (We knew that cuz we tried it once. Till old Mr McNeely at the butcher shop yelled at us to watch where he was spraying the sidewalk.)

So we kept our eyes open, but our heads down, as we continued in story mode. Our story that day took us to the dunes of an African desert, where it was so hot, we imagined our feet were singed by the sand. It was while we were hopping around in our imagined torture that we first saw it. Everything was always so the same on our walks, so that same that we almost missed it. 

It was an ordinary thing. We must have seen 50 of them that day, at least, maybe 100. Fat, thin, tall, short, covered, naked, you just don't think anything of it. Till you trip over one on your way through a scorching desert. As Nessa did. And when she did, she stumbled, and whirled around to give the offender an earful. But her words died a little in her throat, her deeply in-drawn breath puffing up in her chest, then choking up against the words.

Her hand rose to her mouth just as I jumped up behind, ready to rib her for her fall. She turned to me, her face the strangest color I've ever seen, even stranger than when she had the chicken pox and a 4-day fever. She opened her mouth to tell me, to warn me, to somehow share the burden of her discovery, but nothing came out. Nessa, my friend with the golden storytelling tongue, was struck dumb.

For how do you tell a story that isn't yours to tell? Certainly there was a story here. Just as certainly it wasn't of our making.

Writers' Group Prompt: The Alley

PROMPT: Describe an alley. Write for 5 minutes.

My results:

It was dark - the kind of dark that you just knew was unfriendly and unwelcoming. Hardly a place to linger if your business led you somewhere else. A streetlight across the street shone indistinct light across its mouth, casting shadowy teeth over the moist walls. Crumpled bits of newspaper blew down the passage, then disappeared in the dank darkness that seemed to swallow up all sound - sucking in everything near, like a black hole. Even the street people walked past quickly, seemingly afraid to even hazard a sideways glance. A couple of bony mutts trotted down the sidewalk, sniffing at doorways and passersby, but quickened their pace as they skittered past the dark alley.

Photo credit: Bertron8

Writers' Group Prompt: Images

This Writers' Group Prompt was interesting - it wasn't a single prompt, but rather a selection of words from which to choose to form a piece.  Here's the list we used, then did free-writing for 10 minutes:

• overalls
• silk
• High School Prom
• a scream from the next apartment
• wedding
• house slippers
• clothes drying on the line
• a crib
• 3rd grade
• honey

Here are my results:

He wore overalls every day of his life, from the very day he first wore clothes. It's what they all did. It was better that way - you always knew what to wear, you looked like everyone else, and you always knew where to find your hammer and gloves. No tellin' when you might need one or t'other. Fences worked loose and calves got stuck in the mud. Shoot - don't even think about tryin' to pull a calf out of the mud without your gloves. That's just pure stupid. Might as well try to catch a pig loose in a pit of honey.

A man knew where he stood when he wore overalls - knew what was expected of him. Knew it was time to be about your work, long as the sun was up, and sometimes a bit after it went down. A man knew his family counted on him to get up and get the work done and to do it again the next day. It was just the way things were and it worked just fine for him.

But this. This was not working for him. Partly because he wasn't working - he was waiting. And he didn't wait so good. Not when there was work to be done. Which there always was. But not today, Thelma had told him. Today was the wedding and they were all going. It rubbed him raw, much like the collar currently chafing his neck. He didn't see why his niece couldn't just wait for the preacher to come through town, have him over for coffee and to say a few words and be done with it all. Just like everyone else.

Photo credit: mshutch Michael Hutchinson

Writers' Group Prompt: The Box

Here's another piece from a recent writing group session. 

The prompt: Free write about "The Box", as a symbol, for 10 minutes.

My results:

She knew better than to open the Box. Hadn't she seen for herself what it could do? Hadn't her mother told her their family's sacred duty and trust? The power that only the women of her line could hold and contain? And only within the walls of the Box?

It was such an ordinary looking box, with its rough-hewn seams and coarse cuts made by tools from another time. The Box alone was not enticing, or even remarkable. It sat quite unassuming on the mantle. But the weight of its presence was so very heavy -- it seemed to draw all the energy from the room -- sucking the very will to move from its occupants. She was always, always, aware of its presence, could always see it out of the corner of her eye. Though that was to be expected, as she was rarely out of this main room in the simple house. They took their meals here, repaired ripped clothing, and told stories in front of the fire. And of course someone always had to stay -- it wasn't like the Box could be left unattended. The one time it has been - the one time in all those long, lonely, dutiful years...well, she couldn't think about that.

The memories of that night still shrouded her thoughts, looking for any opportunity or excuse to crowd in, to surge against her carefully constructed walls, bringing with them waves of grief and shame and guilt. Because of that night, and all that they had lost - that all of them had lost - she should have known better than to open the Box.

But she was yet young, and there was still hope in her heart. Hope that she would be the One that could reign it in and wield the Power.

Photo credit: bballchico

Writers' Group Prompt: The Wicker Love Seat

Earlier this year, I was invited to join a writers' group that meets monthly. Feeling neglectful of writing for myself, I dove right in. I've attended several meetings, and have really enjoyed it. We chat about writing related activities, give impromptu reviews of events and books, and write to several prompts. I've been really pleased with nearly all of the writing generated from the prompts, so I thought I would start sharing some here.

For this first piece, we were supposed to start with the following sentence, and free-write for 10 minutes:

"We saw it on Friday on the road to Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the center line."

Here are my results:

We saw it on Friday on the road to Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the center line. It seemed so odd to see it sitting there, in the middle of a dead town, where leaves scuttled down the empty boardwalks and any sounds were drowned out by the endless scream of the cicadas in the trees bracketing the street. We stopped out car in front of the love seat and just looked at it. It was worn, the white overwash flaking off on the arms, obviously a well-loved piece of furniture at one time.

Who could count the number of hands to have caressed the arms, to have found a moment's rest and the peace of comfort in visiting a friend? The seat belongs on a wrap-around porch somewhere, or maybe a screened-in sunroom.

The fabrics were cheery once upon a time, too - a red bandana print on the cushions, now fraying at the seams and piping. The yellow polka-dot pillows were still plump, if faded from too many hours in the sun.

The seat was obviously home to countless stories, though we only wondered about the one. How did it come to rest here, in the middle of Main Street, at the crossroads of Nowhere and Not-Yet-There? We weren't even really shure where we were going ourselves, only that we needed to not be where we were.

New Series: Things to Be Thankful For

I recently read a post by GeekDad at Wired.com on 10 Geeky Things to Be Thankful For. I thought I would 'blog-lift' the idea, and put together my own list(s), but on a variety of topics, with the goal of a post on a different topic each day this week, in honor of Thanksgiving on Thursday (here in the US, anyway). 

Here are the topics I've chosen:

1. Sunday: Scrapbooking/Crafty Goodness
2. Monday: Geeky
3. Tuesday: Kansas City
4. Wednesday: mom
5. Thursday: Family
6. Friday: blogs/social media
7. Saturday: books

Anyone care to join the challenge of creating a different topical gratitude list post every day this week? An ambitious goal for a holiday week, to be sure, but just the thing to get those blogging juices going!

Teaching Legacy Book Classes at a Senior Center

Kim Branson recently left me a Comment with the following request for advice:

...I was wondering if you have any tips or input on getting the elderly to talk about their pasts?

I have been given the opportunity to lead a crafting class twice a month at our local Senior Center. One of the projects I would love to work with them on is a mini-legacy album. My own Dad (who is almost 72) will often share some fascinating tidbits from his childhood or the early years of his marriage to my Mom, brought about by seeing an old photo or hearing a phrase from long ago.

It's easy to get my own father to open up, but I am wondering how to do this with strangers? I realize that many of your journaling prompts from the Book of Me and the Book of Us would be useful, but was also hoping you might have some other tips for me?

Good question, Kim!  If I were in the same situation, I would probably pick a theme for each class, like Childhood, Young Adult Years, Jobs, Friends, or Travels.  I would open the session by discussing the theme, and try to encourage some discussion to get the "memory juices" flowing.  Ask leading questions -- start with, "Does anyone have any stories to share about a trip you took?  What was your favorite vacation?  Where is the most exotic place you've visited?" 

You might notice these "leading questions" are basically journaling prompts.  Look through The Book of Me or The Book of Us for appropriate prompts before each session, so you'll have some idea where to lead the discussion.  You can also just brainstorm your own conversation-starters, just by focusing on the theme, and seeing what questions pop up in your mind. 

Often when people start sharing stories and memories, other people in the class will get a vicarious jumpstart to their own memories.  So, if no one feels like sharing right away, you should consider having a few of your own stories to share to get things started.

After you've discussed the theme of the session, describe various craft applications (layouts, framed art, altered memory boxes, etc), and show some examples.  Then set them loose.

As they work on their projects, walk among them.  If someone seems to be struggling to tell a story, sit with them for a few minutes.  Ask them to show you their photos.  Ask questions to lead them through telling you the story.

• Who are these people?
• Why are they all here?
• What happened after that?
• What was it like when it happened?
• What did you think about that?

You might also try playing some Oldies music before the class starts.  Ask what scents, sights, sounds, and textures come to mind when the students think of that day's themes.  Sensory descriptions are very effective for bringing scrapbook journaling to life.

I hope these thoughts and tips have helped a bit, Kim.  If not, just comment here, and we'll try to get you the resources you need!  Anyone else have any suggestions for teaching Senior Center scrapbooking/journaling classes?

Still time to Get Started Quickly with Scrapbook Journaling!

My next Writers Online Workshop, "Getting Started (Quickly) in Scrapbook Journaling" starts tomorrow, and I just found out there's still time to register.  Through midnight (Eastern) tonight you can sign up online at WritersOnlineWorkshops.com, or through Friday at 5:00 by calling 1-800-759-0963.

The class is based on One Minute Journaling, by Joanna Campbell Slan, who also wrote that article I posted a couple of days ago, "Journal the Hurts, Scrapbook the Highs".  Quality stuff.

ANNNNNND, if you use coupon code AP2006, you get 15% off registration.  Sweet.

My thoughts on "Journal the Hurts; Scrapbook the Highs"

I just posted an article by Joanna Campbell Slan titled, "Journal the Hurts; Scrapbook the Highs".  It's an article that has stayed with me for years now -- if you'll notice the copyright at the end of the piece, it reads 2001.  (That's practically a lifetime in scrapbook industry years!) 

In my classes, I continue to reference this article.  It expressed succinctly a key point I try to stress -- that scrapbooking about challenges can be rewarding and healing, but it doesn't have to include every last sordid detail of each experience.  When I first read it, I immediately appreciated how Joanna was able to put those thoughts into words.

Unfortunately, even though I mentioned the concept in my classes, I had no where to point students so they could read the article on their own.  The article was originally (and exclusively, I believe) posted at Graceful Bee, a now-defunct online scrapbooking magazine (may she rest in peace -- GB was a pioneer in online scrapbooking magazines, truly innovative and groundbreaking).  Since the GB archives are gone, so too was Joanna's article.

So I recently bucked up my courage to email her and ask if I could reprint it here on my blog, so I could use the permalink in my class handouts.  Joanna graciously agreed.  Yea!

As I said, the article sums up most of my thoughts on scrapbooking and journaling about challenging topics, whether sad times, regretable times, bitter times, hateful times, traumatic times, times of betrayal, times of deep loss, or a multitude of other "negative" emotions or situations.  Poor health, death, school bullies, depression, natural disasters, divorce, the loss of a close friendship -- none of us are immune to these kinds of life events.  The question often comes to me (and Joanna, obviously) -- how do I scrapbook the 'hard times'?  Should I even scrapbook them?

Both Joanna and I seem to agree -- yes, you can definitely scrapbook about life's challenges.  Do you have to?  No.  Can you?  Yes.  It's a personal decision.

For example, divorces (or just past relationships) are often hard to handle in scrapbooks, but still valuable...

Scrapbook Journaling: Journal the Hurts; Scrapbook the Highs

By Joanna Campbell Slan, www.scrapbookstorytelling.com
First North American Rights for publication in e-mail serial form
First published on Graceful Bee online scrapbooking magazine

Allow me to introduce my new mantra. Many of you have written to ask how do you scrapbook a rough patch in your life. Whether that rough patch is a child's problematic year in school, a spiteful in-law, a soured romance or a lamentable first marriage, the place to explore your feelings is in a journal.

Life's disappointments are like sewage. It has to be processed before it can be non-toxic. That anger you feel toward your mother-in-law may change one day, when you understand how it feels to watch your darling son walk off into the sunset with another woman. The pain of a bad school year pales when your child is linked with a teacher who finds the good in every child and nurtures your child to a peak performance.

Trust me, kiddos. I'm older than I could once imagine. Each week I am forced -- and I do mean forced -- to re-evaluate a tidbit of life that I would have sworn is true. While looking for a blank journal, I pulled down a journal I'd written in sparsely. How different I am. How much I've grown. How thankful I am that those experiences led me to this place.

Will I ever scrapbook any of this? Oh, sure. But I'll scrap them now with hindsight. Now if I do a page on my son's horrible school year, I'll include the song we sang called the CDS Blues. Now I'll think about that jerky boyfriend, and remember he introduced me to lobster and fried clams. That spiteful in-law? Last week he learned he'd held a misconception about me for 17 years. That page will wait. The first marriage? It led me here. Without that misstep I would not have appreciated the man I'm married to now…and forever. I can scrap the old by celebrating the new. Enough said.

But all of that, dear ones, is hindsight. Worked out in a journal. Processed through prayer. And not necessarily what I'd pay homage to on a scrapbook page. Life's too short to waste creative energy on bad times. Instead, I'll devote my pages to the good and the uplifting. Let my journal shelter my growing pains, and let my memory album showcase my best self.

Copyright Joanna Slan, 2001. All Rights Reserved

[Editor's Note: Joanna Campbell Slan is one of the earliest pioneers of scrapbooking journaling -- I would in fact call her the "Mother of Scrapbook Journaling" as we know it.  She has written 6 books for scrapbookers including her original book, Scrapbook Storytelling, which has sold more than 35,000 copies. You can sign up for Joanna's journaling newsletter at www.scrapbookstorytelling.com.]

technorati tags: scrapbooking, scrapbook journaling, book of me, Joanna Slan