I rolled into my driveway around 9:00 at night, greeted my family, and heated up some soup.

Then I pulled out my phone:

Texts from Charity Singleton Craig, my friend and coauthor. A phone call from her, too. A stream of emails, and on Facebook, an explosion of notifications. What happened?

SURPRISE! A virtual book release party!

Our mischievous, creative, unconventional publisher T. S. Poetry Press decided to try a mischievous, creative, unconventional approach to our book launch. Instead of sending books to the authors first and building anticipation leading up to the scheduled release date of December 1st, they quietly, secretly prepped it and made it available for purchase … without saying a word to us.

Meanwhile, as Charity and I busily moved ahead with plans for a December release, T. S. Poetry Press rounded up our friends online and invited them to a secret launch page on Facebook. I think they were waiting for a few days until either Charity or I figured out the book was available. As expected, at some point on Monday Charity found a link associated with our book and clicked through to Amazon.

There it was. Live. Available to purchase. “Our book is available right now!” Charity texted me while my phone was on mute.

Her inquiry to the publisher served as the mechanism to launch the surprise party—friends across the country and a few in other countries began congratulating us and celebrating with posts and photos that showed cupcakes and balloons! All day long, they inundated our Facebook stream with joy and affection.

“…lots of people are celebrating with us!” Charity texted.

All day long, this unfolded without my knowing it!

I almost missed my own surprise party! Thankfully, Charity kept up with all the notes on Twitter and Facebook and Google+.

Monday evening, after that long day of appointments, I opened my laptop and worked my way through the alerts, retweeting delightful tweets, clicking “like” on Facebook and thanking people and answering questions, laughing and feeling loved and celebrated in the swirl of surprise.

You got me, T. S. Poetry Press.

Thank you for the surprise. Thank you for the celebration. Thank you for making this book a reality. And thank you, Charity Singleton Craig, for sharing the pages of On Being a Writer.

Life is to be fortified by many friendships. To love and to be loved is the greatest happiness of existence.” (Sydney Smith, English clergyman from the 1800s)

Thank you everyone for fortifying my life and bringing me great “happiness of existence”!

The post On Being a Writer – Surprise! appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My writer mom worked as the editor of our local newspaper, covering news all over the county. If a reporter couldn’t make it to an event, Mom would grab her camera, reporter’s pad, and pen—and quite often her daughter—to capture the news herself.

This meant that whether I wanted to or not, I visited sporting events, live nativity scenes, church bazaars, festivals, fairs, horse pulls, pie-eating contests, and a lot of parades. Most kids would relish frequent outings to festivals and fairs, but apparently I grew tired of being dragged from town to town. Even though it was an era when the Girl Scouts and local celebrities riding in Model T cars or standing on floats would heave generous gobs of candy to the spectators, apparently I moaned one time, “Not another parade!” Ah, what a cross I had to bear!

All because my mother was a professional writer and editor; a committed, working journalist.

When she was a child, her dream never wavered: she wanted to write. Mom majored in journalism at university and worked for years at our metropolitan newspaper, The Indianapolis Star, as a writer, editor and columnist. Her work in the lifestyle department allowed her to meet and interview movie stars as they came through town for a show or event. I always enjoyed telling my friends, “My mom met the woman who plays Ethel on I Love Lucy.” Mom said Vivian Vance was gracious and charming—one of her favorite interviews. And one of the most challenging? Jack Palance.

But continuing to work full-time at the Star became a challenge when my brother was born. When I came along four years later, Mom adjusted her writing life to accommodate motherhood … to accommodate me.

She gave up her work at the Star to take that position at the county newspaper in order to be available to her children; she gave up being the journalist she wanted to be, in order to be the mom she wanted to be. She could have been interviewing movie stars. Instead, Mom stood all day on Mondays, scrambling to get the county paper ready, making editorial decisions about which photo of the fair queen should make the front page, trimming school lunch schedules with scissors and pasting down stories of council meetings and road construction.

But because Mom didn’t drive downtown to Indianapolis—because she was willing to work hard at a less prestigious job that was flexible and kept her close by—she was there to cheer me on at softball games and track meets. She could see my plays and band concerts.

She was around for school award ceremonies where I received some minor recognition—nothing newsworthy that would draw a reporter, but Mom would come … as a mom.

And I didn’t appreciate her sacrifice one bit when I was young.

When I was little, I woke up early to watch morning kids’ shows, which would have been limited to Captain Kangaroo, Sesame Street, and a few cartoons. Mom says one morning I slipped into her bedroom in my jammies and asked, “Mommy, can you watch car-coons with me?”

Touched that I requested her presence, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on a robe, shuffled into the living room, and eased herself onto the green vinyl chair as I snuggled down on her lap.

After a few minutes, I chirped, “That’s good, Mommy. You can go back to bed. The chair’s all warmed up now.”

For a lot of women, it takes becoming a mother to appreciate their mothers. It takes a humbling vinyl chair moment to realize everything our moms put up with.

For me, I think that the tension and pull between motherhood and writing has opened my eyes to my mom’s sacrifices. Mom sought to balance work and motherhood, respecting and honoring both.

Now I’m attempting the same thing.

I’ve grown to appreciate the challenges she faced to make her life work. Mom knows all about “imperfect conditions.” I think I finally feel the pang of those compromises she made, of her grief at the loss of a position that really fit who she was as a writer in order to choose a life that allowed her to be there.

For me.

And my writer mom has celebrated the life I’ve chosen, which is also the life of a writer-mom, seeking a both/and instead of an either/or life.

Thanks for modeling how to write in the midst of motherhood, Mom. Thanks for being there. Thanks for supporting and celebrating my work while carrying on your own. You deserve a bigger tribute than this, but it’s a start. And it’s…

For you.

This bouquet of memories honors my writer mom, who creates a kind of virtual bouquet these days with her camera, shooting the glorious flora (and fauna) of the Low Country.

For more mom-inspired memory bouquets, visit Laura Lynn Brown, author of Everything That Makes You Mom: A Bouquet of Memories and follow her #mombouquet tour (now through Mother’s Day) via social media channels.

(Post modified from the archives)

The post For My Writer-Mom: A Bouquet of Memories appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

On Wednesday my phone alerted me to an appointment. I glanced at the time: 2:00 p.m. What did I schedule at two o’clock on the day before Thanksgiving?

I swiped the screen to check my calendar.

Ah. It thought I was supposed to be sitting at my computer for what had been known for the past 12 weeks as “office hours.” I forgot to tell my phone that “office hours” are over.

For these past three months, I’ve facilitated (along with Charity Singleton Craig) a Tweetspeak online workshop comprised of a vibrant group of writers who, in community, explored 12 essential elements of their writing lives.

Over the weeks, we read and responded to writing submissions, developing deep respect and affection for every person in the group as creatives, writers, and friends. Each Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock Eastern Time, those of us who were available would gather online in our private workshop space to interact (via message threads), about writing, about life, about struggles and questions or ideas and solutions, or about all of the above.

People would come and go as their schedules allowed. Some members couldn’t break away to join that discussion time due to work or obligations, so they dropped in later at their convenience to continue the conversation with more questions, more ideas.

We’ve drawn inspiration and energy from each other. We’ve experimented and made discoveries. We’ve dreamed big and taken risks. We’ve built trust.

After enjoying each other so much for so long, it’s hard to step away from the online space where we developed these relationships, but I look forward to what’s next for each person. After all, the end of one thing is the beginning of another. In the blocks of time that have opened up now that the workshop has ended, we can begin projects that we’d been toying with but didn’t have time for. We can actively pursue goals and finish manuscripts. We can start living the writing life not just hypothetically in workshop discussions, but in earnest.

As we begin new things, we’ll keep tabs on each other, celebrating someone’s byline and waving at each other through social media.

I’m delighted to have helped facilitate this rich, playful, productive time together.

I’m honored to have traveled alongside these writers on this leg of their journey.

And I’m thankful, so thankful, for each one of them.

_______________________

The Writing Life workshop was made possible through Tweetspeak Poetry. Though this workshop has ended, Tweetspeak offers a variety of workshops throughout the year, so check in from time to time or follow them on Facebook to see what’s planned. And Tweetspeak is committed to helping writers become who they really are by creating ongoing opportunities for writers to learn, play, and grow. so jump in and try a writing prompt or take a virtual literary tour. Explore this literary community for inspiration to start living your own writing life right now. 

The post The 2013 Writing Life Workshop appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My mom worked as the editor of our local newspaper, covering news all over the county. If a reporter couldn’t make it to an event, Mom would grab her camera, reporter’s pad, and pen—and quite often her daughter—to capture the news herself.

This meant that whether I wanted to or not, I visited sporting events, live nativity scenes, church bazaars, festivals, fairs, horse pulls, pie-eating contests, and a lot of parades. Most kids would relish frequent outings to festivals and fairs, but apparently I grew tired of being dragged from town to town. Even though it was an era when the Girl Scouts and local celebrities riding in Model T cars or standing on floats would heave generous gobs of candy to the spectators, apparently I moaned one time, “Not another parade!” Ah, what a cross I had to bear!

All because my mother was a professional writer and editor; a committed, working journalist.

When she was a child, her dream never wavered: she wanted to write. Mom majored in journalism at university and worked for years at our metropolitan newspaper, The Indianapolis Star, as a writer, editor and columnist. Her work in the lifestyle department allowed her to meet and interview movie stars as they came through town for a show or event. I always enjoyed telling my friends, “My mom met the woman who plays Ethel on ‘I Love Lucy.'” Mom said Vivian Vance was gracious and charming—one of her favorite interviews. And one of the most challenging? Jack Palance.

But continuing to work full-time at the Star became a challenge when my brother was born. When I came along four years later, Mom adjusted her writing life to accommodate motherhood … to accommodate me.

She gave up her work at the Star to take that position at the county newspaper in order to be available to her children; she gave up being the journalist she wanted to be, in order to be the mom she wanted to be. She could have been interviewing movie stars. Instead, Mom stood all day on Mondays, scrambling to get the paper ready, making editorial decisions about which photo of the county fair queen should make the front page, trimming school lunch schedules with scissors and pasting down stories of council meetings and road construction. But because Mom didn’t drive downtown to Indianapolis—because she was willing to work hard at a less prestigious job that was flexible and kept her close by—she was there to cheer me on at softball games and track meets. She could see my plays and band concerts.

She was around for school award ceremonies where I received some minor recognition—nothing newsworthy that would draw a reporter, but Mom would come … as a mom.

And I didn’t appreciate her sacrifice one bit when I was young.

When I was little, I woke up early to watch morning kids’ shows, which would have been limited to Captain Kangaroo, Sesame Street, and a few cartoons. Mom says one morning I slipped into her bedroom in my jammies and asked, “Mommy, can you watch car-coons with me?”

Touched that I requested her presence, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on a robe, shuffled into the living room, and eased herself onto the green vinyl chair as I snuggled down on her lap.

After a few minutes, I chirped, “That’s good, Mommy. You can go back to bed. The chair’s all warmed up now.”

For a lot of women, it takes becoming a mother to appreciate their mothers. It takes a humbling vinyl chair moment to realize everything our moms put up with.

For me, I think that the tension and pull between motherhood and writing has opened my eyes to my mom’s sacrifices. Mom sought to balance work and motherhood, respecting and honoring both.

Now I’m attempting the same thing.

I’ve grown to appreciate the challenges she faced to make her life work. Mom knows all about “imperfect conditions.” I think I finally feel the pang of those compromises she made, of her grief at the loss of a position that really fit who she was as a writer in order to choose a life that allowed her to be there.

For me.

And my writer-mom has celebrated the life I’ve chosen, as well; also the life of a writer-mom, seeking a both/and instead of an either/or life.

Thanks for modeling how to write in the midst of motherhood, Mom. Thanks for being there.

Thanks for supporting and celebrating my work while carrying on your own. And thanks for loving my biological babies … and appreciating my word-babies.

Happy (early) Mother’s Day!

Visit HighCallingBlogs today for an early Mother’s Day celebration, where you can read a collection of mom-themed vignettes and poems.

The post Celebrating My Writer-Mom appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

If I waited for the perfect conditions to develop my writing life, I’d still be waiting.

Back in the early 1990s, I did manage to explore writing as my work, as a way of life. I wrote and submitted a few magazine articles and met with businesses to launch a career in corporate freelance writing. Then we started our family. Our first three children were born within four years of each other (the fourth came along a few years later).

Consumed by the demands and intensity of young motherhood, I could have shoved my computer screen, pen and notebook into a closet for about twelve years and waited until the conditions were right. I could have waited until my oldest two girls were old enough to babysit the younger two. I could have waited until I had a little office or study or library or nook to call my own. I could have waited until I had long chunks of uninterrupted time.

Instead, I wrote.

I wrote when the kids were napping. I wrote late at night. I wrote in my head when I took them for a walk to the park and scribbled down my ideas when they were eating a snack.

I stole time.

Sometimes I wrote well, but most of what I wrote served as compost, breaking down in my mind, heart, and spirit to feed new and potentially better ideas. Regardless of the quality of what I produced, I wrote. I practiced. I learned.

And I read. With a book tucked in my diaper bag or purse, I could steal a moment now and then to consume some new thought written by authors I respected, whose information I craved, whose ideas would feed the glowing coals of creativity that glimmered softly inside of me as I changed diapers, swept Cheerios and scraped hunks of banana from the high chair tray.

I kept the energy of writing alive during those hectic years, and when the flame flashed, I’d try to grab something on which to write, even if it meant borrowing a crayon and scribble pad that the kids were using for stick-people adventure stories.

This made for a spontaneous, messy writing life. Scraps of paper strewn on the kitchen table or nightstand represented that flash of insight I managed to scratch onto the back of an envelope. Life with newborns and toddlers required tremendous focus and energy, leaving little chance for a regular schedule. I grabbed opportunities when I could, leaving a trail of pens and paper throughout the house and shoved into cup holders in the car.

I identified with other writer-moms, such as Barbara Kingsolver. She would read about rituals of other authors who had seemingly endless time to create the writing mood—hours of photography or flower arranging before sitting at the desk to compose one word. She quoted one author who described his muse at length. Kingsolver, a busy mom with no time for flower-arranging, had to write with the time she was given. She described her own muse:

My muse wears a baseball cap, backward. The minute my daughter is on the school bus, he saunters up behind me with a bat slung over his shoulder and says oh so directly, “Okay, author lady, you’ve got six hours till that bus rolls back up the drive. You can sit down and write, now, or you can think about looking for a day job.” (p. 96, High Tide in Tucson, Barbara Kingsolver)

Kingsolver understands the limitations of motherhood and the challenge of writing in the midst of it. She quotes Lucille Clifton responding to the question “Why are your poems always short?” Ms. Clifton replied, “I have six children, and a memory that can hold about twenty lines until the end of the day.”

Clifton encouraged me to plan out my work mentally while I’m on-the-go, storing up thoughts until the end of the day, when the kids were in bed and the words could spill out.

My kids are much older now; my conditions remain imperfect but are much more conducive to writing. My children are more independent—my oldest has her driver’s permit. But it seems I still have to steal time.

Apparently the conditions for writing will never be perfect.

I need to be reminded of this again and again. Julia Cameron, in The Right to Write says:

The ‘if-I-had-time’ lie is a convenient way to ignore the fact that novels require being written and that writing happens a sentence at a time. Sentences can happen in a moment. Enough stolen moments, enough stolen sentences, and a novel is born–without the luxury of time…

Yes, it is daunting to think of finding time to write an entire novel, but it is not so daunting to think of finding time to write a paragraph, even a sentence. And paragraphs, made of sentences, are what novels are really made of. (p. 14, 15, The Right to Write, Julia Cameron)

This reminds me of a quote I heard at the Festival of Faith & Writing in 2010. Author Parker Palmer said:

If you can’t write a book, write a bunch of essays. If you can’t write a bunch of essays, write a bunch of paragraphs. If you can’t write a bunch of paragraphs, write lines. If you can’t write lines, write some words. And if you can’t write some words, write your truth with your own life, which is far more important than any book. (Parker Palmer at the Festival of Faith & Writing 2010)

Poets, bloggers, novelists, creative nonfiction writers, essayists, letter writers, journalists, composers; we must all get to work. Write a book, essays, paragraphs, lines, or just write a few words, but for heaven’s sake—be sure to write with your life.

No matter what complicates schedules—whether you have a full-time job or you’re a full-time caregiver—write what you can, when you can. Because the conditions are never perfect. 

___________________________________

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The post Imperfect Conditions appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.