writing

Let’s Get Creative

/ admin

I love being a writer.

Writing allows me to be creative in a way that requires very little in the way of supplies. Sure, I have a laptop with a good internet connection, but I can write with nothing more than pen and paper. Writing is also a solitary endeavor. I don’t have to form a team or coax others into joining in to make it productive. When I feel social, I engage with other writers in workshops or at write-ins. Writing is the best of both worlds for an introvert.

Like many other creative people, I enjoy being creative in more than one way. As a child, I recall my birthday and Christmas wish lists always included craft supplies. My creativity started innocently enough with tissue paper flowers. I suspect that was primarily because tissue paper was cheap but, no matter, I made hundreds upon hundreds of paper flowers.

When I tired of flowers I hit my candle-making phase. I made so many candles that my father insisted I try to sell them door to door (it was a more innocent time). I enjoyed the creating (especially after I learned how to add scent to them) but not so much the marketing.

Jewelry came next and I strung beads for a year or two before my creativity took a back seat to high school (and boys). Once I had my own apartment and my own kitchen, cooking and baking became my new passion.

Many, many, years of experience in the kitchen have taught me that I ENJOY baking but I’m better at cooking. Baking requires more precision; you can’t abuse your leavening agent by throwing whatever sounds good at the moment into the mix. I once considered baking as a profession (or at least a side gig) but I was an inconsistent decorator. You want 24 frosted cupcakes to look EXACTLY alike? You’ll get 18 identical ones, 4 wonky ones, and 2 that look like they should be featured on an episode of Nailed It!

Unlike writing, where I can utilize cut/paste or find/replace, baking is unforgiving.

Cooking, much like writing, allows for more slap-dash additions and improvisation. You want spices—I have spices. I make a turkey/sausage/sweet potato gumbo that will make your mouth do a happy dance. And then sometimes I serve chewy rice.

[While I make several substitutions based on my family’s palate – the original recipe for spicy turkey sweet potato gumbo can be found HERE.]

While I’m still writing and hope to be for quite some time, my newest creative urge requires a sewing machine. Never mind that I’ve never owned one, I took Home Economics back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Of course, now we have to move because I’m going to need a craft room.

How do you funnel creative urges into action?

Rollercoaster

/ diana-lloyd

Ever heard the advice “write what you know?”

Yeah, that’s garbage advice. Write what you want to know.

There’s a famously often misquoted bit of wisdom from Mark Twain that goes like this:

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t”

How it’s misquoted: Truth is stranger than fiction because fiction has to make sense.

rollercoaster

This picture represents real life. At least it represents my life. Let me fill you in:

Around July (my birthday) I started looking into getting a dog. I work from home, I have a fenced yard, my kids are older, and I really wanted a buddy for walkies and couch cuddles. I didn’t care much about the dog’s sex, size, age — I just wanted a good fit. I also wanted a rescue dog.

If you’ve ever tried to adopt a dog from a rescue agency, let me tell you those people don’t mess around. I had to fill out a ten-page questionnaire, list all pets I’d had since the beginning of time, give them the name & number of any vet I’d ever used, provide phone numbers for three references not related to me, and plop down a deposit. When I finally qualified as a prospective pet owner, I was informed that the agency would choose the best pet for me based on my profile.

Okay, I’m paying $250 for a dog I don’t get to pick out myself. Um. After choosing my dog, the agency would send someone out for a home visit to see if they approved of my living situation. Seems like a bit of power went to someone’s head but, okay, I’m still on board because I want a rescue dog. Finally, several weeks after I first applied, I was approved for a dog named “Russell,” a male dog of unknown mixed breeds. Super. By the time I worked out a good time for a home visit, Russell was gone. What?

Nevermind, the agency said, they had another dog that might be a good fit, a corgi mix named “Flash.” Cool, cool. I called the agency three times over the next week trying to schedule the required home visit for this dog. They never answered the phone (I left messages) and they never returned my calls. Weird.

Now I’m ready to kick ass and take names and send a “dude, what’s up?” email to which I get no reply. Hm.

And now the roller coaster of my life reaches the top of the incline heading into the first drop. Hubs informs me that we need to MOVE. SOON. His father is in failing health and we need to move next door to him (his dad owns that house too) so we can help out. Still cool, cool, right? Oh, dad doesn’t want any animals in the house. I put the dog on hold (they weren’t responding to my calls & emails anyway), put up my hands and ride the rails down into household moving logistics mode.

We decide to rent out our current home (which is paid for) to our son and his friend and move just before Christmas. We buy furniture, curtains, kitchen stuff (because we’re generous parents and are leaving our old stuff for our son & his roommate to use), and start fixing up the house (hadn’t been lived in for years) so we could make the big move.

And then black mold happened. Yup. Entire upstairs bathroom of the house we’re supposed to move in to is moldy & it has to go. We call contractors and bathroom remodel specialists (yes, there is such a thing). First estimate comes in at $16,000. We can’t afford that and it isn’t even our house so father-in-law agrees to pay. Cool, cool. Except, he can’t agree on a contractor no matter how many we call. Bathroom remodel is stalled and I don’t want to live in a black mold swamp.

At family Christmas, it is confirmed that he wants us to move next door and he will pay for new bathroom. Excellent. Ten days later, he changed his mind. The move is now all off. Hubs and I’m now scrambling in damage control to find son and roommate a new place to live that they can afford and trying to figure out what to do with an entire new living room ensemble that doesn’t fit in our current house.

We work this out in a few days. Then my rollercoaster has one of those loop-the-loop features. Son #2 informs us that possible roommate got mad and moved in with someone else–and it is ALL our fault that he can’t afford to move out now. While hanging upside down on the first loop, Son #1 comes home and announces he’ll be moving back home (for reasons).

If I wrote this in a book you wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t either.

This life is what I know and I sure as hell don’t want to write a novel about it. I’m going to write what I WANT to know which is lovely gowns, gallant lords, and beautiful estates with no roller coasters.

rollercoaster crash

ZOONADO

/ diana-lloyd

If you ever see me at the Detroit Zoo, you may want to plan your escape route.

For my seventh birthday, my parents loaded up the station wagon for a fun-filled family trip to the Detroit Zoo. My grandmother, who lived with us at the time, piled in the car with the rest of us and off we went for the three-hour drive. Windows rolled down for au naturel air-conditioning, three of us kids just rolling around in the back baking in the sun with no seatbelts, no bottled water, and nothing to do but bicker and play endless rounds of “I Spy”.

The zoo’s water tower, rising majestically in the distance, beckoned like Xanadu. Excitement rippled through the Oldsmobile as Dad maneuvered it off the highway and we entered the parking labyrinth. Lips chapped, bladders full, and muscles cramped, we endured as Dad circled the lot looking for the perfect parking spot. Finally, my day of fun could begin.

We hit the ground running. Monkeys, bears, lions, we wanted to see it all. Sated with stale popcorn and lukewarm Pepsi, we made our way in a more or less orderly fashion from one exhibit to the next. Until we heard a siren in the distance. If there had been a “Weather Channel” back then, my grandmother would have watched it 24/7. She stopped in her tracks, grabbed my hand, and yelled “TORNADO!”

Everyone froze. People walking next to us froze. I’m pretty sure even the animals turned to stare. The siren blasted out another eerie moan just as a golf cart full of zoo employees slid to a stop on the path. Through a bullhorn, we were instructed to follow our guide “Mel” who would lead us to shelter. Mel jumped off the cart and we all obediently followed him to wide low-slung cinder block building. It wasn’t until we were all crammed inside that we realized we were in the ape house. Behind thick panes of glass, so were the apes.

The sound of wind and rain soon accompanied the siren, but we were dry and safe with the apes. Until my grandmother decided that the gorilla was going to escape. She was sure of it. The tornado would rend the building in half and the gorilla would be free to gobble up children and rape old women. Without warning, she grabbed the stroller holding my little sister and ran out of the building screaming.

So I spent my seventh birthday with my brother at the lost child station at the Detroit Zoo as my parents searched for my grandmother and my little sister. You’d think that would be enough to keep me away for a lifetime. But, really, what were the odds that it would ever happen again?

Fast forward twenty years or so, I’m married now and have children of my own. Two boys, 6 and 8. In a moment of madness, my husband and I decided that a trip to the Detroit Zoo would be just the thing for a dull summer’s day. Jokingly, as we walk along the exhibits, I tell my sons about my last visit. “You’re bad luck, mom,” my oldest declares. Ten minutes later, we hear the sirens.

I can hardly bring myself to believe it as we are being herded into a shelter. Keeping the boys close the hubs and I press our backs against the wall as more and more people file in. We are in the reptile house. Specifically, we are surrounded by venomous snakes behind glass.

With so many people inside, it’s difficult to actually see the exhibits and the boys quickly became bored of staring at elbows and backsides. We do our best to keep them distracted and entertained, but we can only hold off their impatience for so long. One look at my six-year-old and I know he’s about to blow. We are looking at full-on temper tantrum meltdown in a crowded confined space lined with snakes. Great. He flops down on the floor refusing to rise. Experience tells me to just let him lie there, but there are witnesses and judgmental eyes all around.

People step over him. Other kids try talking to him, one offers him some candy. He won’t budge. I’m about ready to break ranks, gather him up and run outside when my hubs put his hand on my arm and reminds me that it isn’t the end of the world. Then, that amazing, wonderful, clever man told a joke. A bad one. Didn’t matter, our eight-year-old laughed and so did some other kids. Then another dad told a joke. More laughs. Suddenly, there is an impromptu Dad Joke riff-off in the reptile house.

A few jokes later, my six-year-old got up and started talking to some other kids as if he hadn’t spent the last 15 minutes lying face down on the dirty floor. The all-clear eventually sounded and we saw the rest of the zoo without incident. Years later the boys still tease me about being a tornado magnet.

So, while my second visit to the Detroit Zoo turned out better than the first, I don’t think I’ll be pushing my luck by trying a third time. But, as my husband reminds me, we might have grandchildren to entertain one day. What are the odds?

DETROIT ZOO

Talent is Tin, Opportunity is Gold

/ diana-lloyd

When people hear that I’m a writer, they all ask the same question. A variation of why/how do you write? I will answer, “I write because I have to,” and “One word at a time.” Those answers are the simplest form of the truth and yet still meaningless to someone who’s never felt the urge to fill a blank page with words.

My writing comes from a desire to create, live in, and enjoy a world outside the realm of the limited opportunities of my existence. Writing is my way of working around the old conundrum that while talent is tin, opportunity is gold. Writing creates opportunity. Opportunity to discover, learn, research and investigate things that were otherwise beyond my reach both physically and economically.

Reading is essential to writing. Reading is mining tin and storing up the raw material to later make art. I started as a reader. And I read everything; cookbooks, dictionaries, instruction manuals. I consumed words as if I had a literary tape worm. Somewhere between my Anne Rice phase and my all things Stephen King phase, I started reading biographies. I borrowed them from the library or bought them for a quarter at rummage sales and read them to learn about other lives, other ways of being.

Biographies led me to history and history led me down the path to historical romance. I can hear people sputtering now, but… but… Romance? Historical romance, to me, represents the triumph of heroines over biased social constructs, economic restrictions, and stifling patriarchy. Writing of these victories, one story at a time, is a balm to my own struggles with independence and authority.

Like so many others, I had to find the magic alchemy that would turn what little tin I had into gold. I was born into the sort of large, poor, small town family that rarely gets noticed for anything other than their run-down house or shabby clothes. Like my siblings, I started working while still in high school. I typed up forms at one job before walking down the road to flip burgers at the other job. I cleaned bathrooms, filed thousands of pieces of paper, and answered phones. Still, I had not saved enough to attend even the local community college.

So out I went into the world to greedily collect experiences while reading about lives much more glamorous than mine. The more I worked the less I had time to write but the love of reading never left me. Going to college got pushed further and further out of reach as marriage and then children took up my time. Until one day, a small notice in one of those shopper’s circulars that usually gets thrown in the trash after the good coupons are clipped out, a notice about the meeting of a local writer’s group caught my attention.

I didn’t know anyone there, I had never before been to the place where they met.  I remember sitting in the parking lot staring at the building, watching the other women walk in the doors and wondering if they’d think me odd and untalented. I went in anyway. At the end of the meeting they sat around the table, each reading a page or two of their current work. When my turn came I took the folded sheets from my purse, the scraps from where I pulled them out of the spiral notebook littered the table like confetti as I read. They hated it and told me so.

And yet I went back the next month. Because, while they hadn’t liked it, they had taken it seriously enough to discuss it. That crumb of encouragement was all I needed. Writing was no longer just the secret project hiding in a box under the bed, it was real. Turned out that little group of like-minded women were a chapter of the Romance Writers of America. Joining that group made all the difference in how much opportunity gold I was exposed to.

My reading tastes have changed over the years but historical romance will always hold a place in my heart. Stories of women with little autonomy, straining against rules put in place to keep them firmly within their social class and butting their heads against barriers constructed to keep them low and small, will always call to me. The characters in these books have to be quick and clever to overcome and survive. I read those stories for the triumph and satisfaction of the happy ending.

And that’s exactly why I write them.

I still belong to RWA and still see many of the women from that first table reading. The writing community is like the ocean in that you never want to turn your back on it for too long. RWA, however, will always welcome you home and toast your successes with you.