What Writing Letters Taught Me

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My mother hated writing letters, but she had three sisters who loved to communicate with her via writing. Mom was. however, an excellent problem-solver; using her exceptional negotiation skills, she convinced me to write letters to her sisters on her behalf.

For someone who didn’t like to write, she was a pretty good writing coach. From her coaching, I developed a passion for writing. This is what she taught me.

Brainstorming is Useful

When Mom asked me to write a letter, I first said, “I don’t know what to write.” Mom asked me to make a list of things I could write about, and she gave me some ideas: the weather, the garden, church, school. After a while, I started coming up with some of my own ideas in addition to these. My list included making cookies, going to the snow, and having my friends over to spend the night.

I still make lists before I write. Sometimes, I get ideas for a blog, like this one, while I’m sleeping. I get out of bed, go to the other room where I keep an arm chair and a pad of paper, and write down the ideas before I forget them.

If I get a dose of writer’s block, I jot down impressions that I want to include in a blog or chapter. I list as much information as I can and then leave it alone for a day or two. The notes help me get into the mood to write, and soon my writing juices are flowing.

How to Warm Up

“I don’t know how to start the letter,” was another refrain I often used. Mom said to start with “How are you? I am fine,” and then move onto another topic.

Asking about someone’s health seemed to be such a gracious opening, and it made me feel like a polite niece. Believe it or not, this introduction helped me warm up for the next subject.

How do I warm up for writing today? I have several methods that I’ve created to get me into the mood.

The first one is to take a walk in my garden where I have dozens of rose bushes that I’ve planted. Sometimes, I prune, other times I fertilize, but I always at least enjoy how beautiful they are. In my garden, I express my creativity, and enjoying it stimulates my creativity for writing.

Another thing I do to warm up is to read one of the affirmations that I’ve posted on my bulletin board to the right of my desk. Currently, I have three affirmations typed on 8 ½ by 11-inch paper to inspire me.

The first one says, “I lead with grace and ease.” When I read this, I see my writing as a way to lead the world to a better place. Thinking about being a leader dispels fear and encourages me to stand tall and feel calm.

The second one says, “I possess perfect self-expression.” I developed this affirmation when I started writing my first novel three years ago. I didn’t want writer’s block to inhibit my progress, so I thought of how I wanted to feel when I sat down to write.

The third affirmation on my bulletin board is, “The Midas Touch.” A few months ago, I was discussing my writing with a friend, and she said, “You possess The Midas Touch.” What she meant was that I was a brilliant and prolific writer. This gave my confidence such a boost that I decided to make it another affirmation for daily motivation.

Sentence Clarity

The letters I wrote on behalf of my mother taught me how to write clear sentences. As any serious writer knows, practice is the key to improvement. My mother had faith in my ability, so I was writing letters to her sisters at least once a month, and I started when I was six years old. Due to my mother’s coaching, my writing career and my writing practice started early in life. I’m sure, by now, I’ve written at least as much as The Beatles sang during their band years.

Paragraphing

Even though mother didn’t like to write or read, she was organized; therefore, she coached me to start a new paragraph every time I started to write about a new topic.

For example, I started each letter with “How are you. I am fine.” If the next topic was the weather, I’d start a new paragraph, which often turned into an interesting slice of my life. Here’s an example:

Today, the weather was sunny. We played outside all afternoon, and the bees were buzzing around the plums that had dropped to the ground. Since I was barefoot, I stepped on three bees and got stung three times. Luckily, Mom took out the stingers and I was fine.

Revising is Okay

If I made mistakes on my letters, my mother coached me to cross them out and to write the corrections after them. If I made too many mistakes, she convinced me to reprint the whole letter.

Maybe I was going to be a writer anyway, but knowing that I could make mistakes and fix them took off the pressure of being perfect the first time. For me, this was an important process to learn since, deep down, I hate making mistakes.

I also learned about revising from the letters I received from my Aunt Mary Ann. Today, Aunt Mary Ann is over 90 years old and still writes letters. If she makes a mistake, she crosses it out and rewrites what she meant to say. She demonstrates the perfect example of the writing process.

The Courage to Write

The other day, I told my five-year-old granddaughter that she could be a writer. Using one of her books, I showed her where her name would appear on the title page. She smiled at that, but then said, “I can’t write a story.”

For many people, writing is a daunting task. I know this since I taught writing at the college level for fifteen years.

Fortunately for me, I had a mother who didn’t take “no” for an answer. She had confidence that I could write.

Even now, when writer’s block stops my creative flow, I write letters: to Aunt Maryann, Aunt Dorothy, my friend in New Mexico, my sister-in-law in Florida.

Where did I get the courage to write? From a non-writer who believed in me.

Character Study: Bel

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I was still tired from my business trip to New York. Two weeks in the city. Homelessness on every block and a bitter wind.

I didn’t expect such cold weather, so I had only taken my raincoat which wasn’t warm enough. I froze walking the two blocks from my hotel to the publisher. By the time I reached the editor’s office, my nose and fingers were numb and red. Miserable.

But my trip had been a successful one. The publisher had given me a contract for my novel and requested that I write two more books in the next three years for them. Bel Balfour was finally on the map as an author.

My flight home got in around 7 last night, so Daryl had picked me up at the San Francisco Airport, and we drove into the city for dinner. I was in the mood for a steak, and John’s Grill makes great ones. It’s a few blocks off Union Square, an old-style restaurant with dark wood and photographs of celebrities and politicians lining the walls. At Christmas, every nook and cranny are hung with garlands of pine and hanging bunches of red ornaments.

Daryl ordered a pinot noir from Anderson Valley to celebrate my new contract. The bright red vintage glistened in the light from tiny spot lights in the ceiling. The wine was delicious with the goat cheese and toast appetizer.

For my entre, I ordered a filet mignon, which came with a mound of mashed potatoes and grilled asparagus. The filet was delectable. I can’t make steak that good at home. Restaurants just have better grills.

Daryl ordered grilled salmon stuffed with crab. It was accompanied by rice pilaf and grilled asparagus. He must have loved it since his plate was clean after about only fifteen minutes.

Daryl mentioned that our daughter, Katie, had been hired by a company that was headquartered in Oakland. Her last company had laid her off two months ago, even though they said she was doing an outstanding job. This new company promoted “green” practices within the business industry. Katie would be working in brand marketing, and she’d be going to a conference in Chicago in February.

“Does she like it?” I asked.

“I think so,” said Daryl. “She’s only been working there for a week, though.”

“Will she be able to work at home or have to go into the office?” I asked.

“She can work at home,” Daryl said, “but she wants to go into the office as well. It is a dog-friendly company, so she can take Sandy with her. Also, the garage is secured with a locked gate, so her car won’t be broken into while she’s working.”

Daryl and I had been married for thirty years. Katie was our only child. I had wanted another one, but I never got pregnant again. Katie was 27 years old, not married, so grandchildren were not on the way. I tried not to bug her about it.

It was Saturday. Daryl had left at 8 a.m. to play golf with his three regulars. The house was quiet, and I had already stripped the king-size bed of its sheets and pillowcases and laundered them. I bent down to the dryer to pull them out, smelling the lavender sachet that I had tossed in with them. Holding the warm bedding in my arms, I paced through the family room, up the stairs into the master bedroom. I dropped the bedding on top of the window seat at the far end of the room near the armoire. Then, I untangled the sheets to find the fitted one.

As I bent over and tucked one end of the sheet over a corner at the bottom of the mattress, I noticed something red sticking out from under the bed. I knelt down on the carpet to take a better look. The only thing that I ever put under our bed was my shoe storage box. I didn’t like clutter and even vacuumed regularly under the bed with the vacuum extension.

A pair of panties?

They weren’t mine. I had given up wearing lacy panties years ago because they were too itchy.

But whose were these? Why were they there?

Daryl?

Daryl!