Betty Writes a Book

2011-09-21T05:27:00.000-07:00

Ok, ok, I'm writing again. Not working on the book, but writing massive amounts of original work from my recent life experiences. That's ok, right?

2011-08-30T05:28:00.001-07:00

Stuck, stuck, stuck.

Will write a story in a few minutes about my last evening with ERG, but I NEED to work on the book. Today is out, have to help Greg move. Tomorrow morning will work, but the rest of the day is gone. Same with Thursday. Friday....all day. Book. Yes.

2011-08-26T06:05:00.000-07:00

Block broken yesterday by ERG's suggestion of a topic. Ally McBeal will be over today. Time to move on with the book.

2011-08-22T05:50:00.000-07:00

I wrote nothing yesterday and probably nothing today, as it is chock full of kid activities. I'm pulling weeds today, with the help of my sons. Yeah! After which I will no longer be red faced with embarrassment at the prospect of having friends over to visit, and I want to have friends over more often.

So, no writing today. Definitely tomorrow. Wednesday school starts and the real business of the writing profession begins.

2011-08-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

I wrote just a short post yesterday, did no editing. However, I had two artists dates with people I love, that I will write about, although perhaps not today. Maybe today. Eventually.

Today, I will spent a few hours working on the book. I will, I will, I will.

And pulling weeds.

I think the two are somehow tied.

2011-08-19T06:29:00.001-07:00

Another day today, with no appointments on the calendar; a day to spend writing. Will report back later as to how much I accomplished.

2011-08-18T06:53:00.001-07:00

Struggling to get to the page. Too many other activitities, people to see, old television shows to watch and remember a different time in my life.

Over the next three days, I will make the time. I will do what needs to be done.

2011-08-16T06:11:00.000-07:00

I wrote and cried yesterday. Wrote and cried. I wrote new stuff, didn't do any editing for Diary of a Middle Aged Sex Goddess. I wrote three pieces, and all three made me cry, but I'm proud, very proud, of all three pieces. After sleeping on it, I decided not to post one of them, at least, not right now. Not this week. Maybe next week.

I'm struggling a bit when I get to the page, put off doing the work, get a little afraid that I can't tell the story, but I can! When I let my fingers hit the keyboard, exactly what I wanted came out. I can do this. I just have to keep at it.

2011-08-15T08:01:00.000-07:00

I am struggling to get to the page for the only reason that I am living life so fully. I spent Friday in the arms of someone I love, then left to spend the rest of the day in the arms of others I love, and all day Saturday nestled in the warm and loving bosom of my family. Saturday evening, I purposefully had dinner with Sound Guy to experience the epilogue for one of my stories. Yesterday was spent in the company of a friend, creating a new writing experience, visiting my mother, grocery shopping with my son, all of which is the stuff of life.

My beautiful, wonderful life.

Today, I write.

Starting now.

2011-08-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

Not much writing yesterday, but lunch with Wayne will give me something to write about today. I am cleaning up some of the loose ends of my life, and that is also a necessary step towards living the life of a writer.

2011-08-09T07:59:00.000-07:00

I had such a good writing day on Sunday. Wrote a blog post about Friday's date and did a first edit for a good 20 pages of the book, as well as getting the chronology synced and generally moving the book forward.

Yesterday was not so productive. I left my computer at the office and let that justify watching tv with my sons all day yesterday. Between the computer and the fall from Sunday night, leaving my body and face battered and bruised, I felt fully justified.

My face is still scary...but I'm ok with that.

2011-08-07T08:08:00.001-07:00

I got very little writing done yesterday, although the thoughts swirled in my head like a thousand tornados. I will write today. I know that yesterday was Saturday, but this is not a 9-5 endeavor. I need to be focused every day.

2011-08-06T05:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a great writing day. I worked on the book, nonstop, for three hours, editing, editing, editing. Then, I went on the worst first date of my life, which gave me yet another chapter for my book. And I thought beautiful thoughts, cried beautiful tears, all essentials for this new profession of mine.

I finished the agent's book, and now I'm reading a book by one of the published authors at the writer's conference from last weekend. I'm a better writer than either of them, I think. It gives me confidence to read the works of others because I know, I KNOW I have the talent and the discipline to make this happen.

2011-08-05T06:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was not as good a writing day as I had hoped. Too many meetings and interruptions, and I was simply not focused. Today I will get something accomplished.

Yesterday, I picked a few more stories, read a little more, discovered that some of the stories, when I was writing most voraciously, don't show up on the blog. I missed them when I was first selecting stories, so I went back and rechecked some of them. I want to show them chronologically. I'll do more of that today, and am hoping to get another ten pages edited.

Yesterday, I also fixed the font on the remainder of the book. Big deal.

2011-08-03T15:19:00.000-07:00

I've decided to use the space to blog about my writing life. I will post writing accomplishments every day. I may write about difficulties I'm having and successes I find along the way.

This is what I accomplished today:

Sent three query letters to agents I met at the conference
Wrote a blog entry
Worked on picking the next several stories to include in the book

Winters' Triumph-Second Attempt

2008-10-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

I press my foot on the ridge of the spade, the blade slides easily into the soil. I pull back on the smooth wooden handle, gloved hands gliding down to grip the pole, lifting with a grunt, the rich black soil from the garden floor. I am transported back to teenage years, watching disdainfully as my mother, (younger then than I am now) performed a similar task, a bucket of garbage scraps waiting to sleep and disintegrate under the weight of the dirt. She embarrasses me, at times, with her country ways, her lack of concern for her appearance, her narcoleptic naps in her chair. Yet, one would be hard pressed to find a mother and a daughter with easier camaraderie than myself and my mother, at least in my teenage years. We waltzed around each other’s lives in the cramped, prefab house on Buffalo Street in North Manchester, Indiana. We never criticized; rarely argued, genuinely enjoyed each other’s company in short, sweet bursts.

As an adult, dealing with a multitude of mental gymnastics relating to addressing an eating disorder and a heartache addiction, most of what I read points an accusing finger at the personage of one’s parents. They are not mistaken, those experts, a scary thought being the mother of three children myself. But the crooked finger of accusation is focused not on my mother, but on my father and it is time I told a little of that story.

I was born on May 22, 1959 at Abbott Hospital in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the youngest of five children born to Carolyn Knowlton and Robert Winters. Waiting for me at home was a seven year old sister, Roberta, a five year old sister, Kathy, a three year old brother, Roger and a sweet, distracted 20 month old sister, Evelyn. My mother got her tubes tied after she had me.

Some of what I describe in the next few paragraphs comes from stories told to me. My memories started early, at age 2 and where I can find clear recall, I will use only what I remember. I do not portend to portray my childhood as my siblings or my mother may recall, but only through the eyes of the little girl who cannot forget. I ask my siblings patience and understanding in advance. These are my memories, told as intact as I can.

I remember washing dishes when I was two, standing on a chair in front of the sink, by hands buried in soap suds, the dishcloth caressing milk green coffee cups, fiesta ware plates, metal cereal bowls sporting a film of milk and sticky rice krispies. Evie and I worked side by side, and from that early age forward, I remember doing the dishes together with her. I remember sisters assisting with other culinary tasks, and my brother laboring over the lawn mower but dishes were the domain of my sister and I.

We lived in a second story apartment at 2200 Garfield Avenue South. Dirty red carpet covered the stairs leading from out of the door to the apartment down to the street. I remember the scent of burning plastics, antics of the rough boys who lived nearby who loved to torture our dolls.

The living room was a dirty beige, housing a broken down couch and a food stained green chair, which my brother set on fire when I was three. The kitchen had no windows, a mirror stood over the sink, secured by plastic daisies in all four corners as well as a few others at the edges for good measure. Two bedrooms hid in the back, although I have virtually no memories of either room except for my crib which sat just inside the door to my parent’s room. It was in that room that my father began his incestuous assault on my two older sisters, ages 6 and 8 at the time.

I have almost exclusively happy memories of that time, my siblings serving as playmates and parents because my mother worked all the time and my father was not charmed by the company of young children. We did our best to stay out of his way. My siblings squired me about, giving piggy back rides, reading me stories, teaching me the intricacies of hand jive games, playing pick up sticks and tiddly winks. They warned me of my father’s temper, sheltered me as much as they could from the wrath of his anger. I see the sparse collection of photographs from that time and I see scrawny, grimy children in ill fitting clothes, grinning stupidly at the camera if my mother held the lens, cowering a bit with nervous smiles if Dad held the camera.

We were a tight knit group of little kids, using prior transgressions as manipulative tools in our negotiations with each other for coins and bubblegum and assistance with chores, but not once, in my entire childhood, do I remember anyone ever following through on a threat to “tell Dad”.