Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Grandmothers

Today's blog is a copy of my writing on my Neff Road blog yesterday. So those who read both. I apologize. Tomorrow a new one.

I feel rather silly typing the title. Feel a little silly mentioning it. I still look the same. Still the same girl from Neff Road. Not much changed since yesterday, except, today the book came out with my little page and a half contribution. #99... A short story about a Sliver of Bed. In fact, I should maybe rename it to  'Sliver of Story'. Humbled? Heck yes.

I'm not sure why people who have the ability to express themselves should have the right to promote a book or a song or maybe even a piece of art. Those of us who do this type of artsy thing know that we couldn't stop doing it if we wanted to. We put down what insists on finding the paper. We draw what the eyes present to the fingers. We write songs that play over and over again in our heads until they are silenced when committed to paper. It's just what we do.

"Aren't you excited that you are published?"

"We are so happy for you."

"It's about time."

On and on the wonderful sentiments come, but don't they know that I had no choice? Don't they know that the words were destined to find their way to the written page? It's not something writers can control. The words are just insistent little things that prod, manipulate, drive the writer to place them on the page.

So why do writers send their copy in to be published? Beats me? I do some writing in order to make a little money. I do other writing because I challenge myself to write the best copy possible to see if it attracts a publisher. I sometimes feel that maybe my words can make a difference if I put them out there in my blogs.

I began by writing social dramas in coordination with the drug and alcohol program for the local school district. Much to my surprise, the plays became such a positive tool that they were used for the next 12 years. Words connected and made a difference in the lives of families. It wasn't about me. It was all about the words.

Words have a life of their own. Sometimes I think I am the keeper of words. I don't really know where they come from. They just appear. Often I write something and wonder how it all fell onto the page so eloquently. It surely was not by my hand. I think maybe I have been given words to give away. They aren't my words. I came with them already embedded in me. I am just a keeper of words.

Today Chicken Soup for the Soul: Grandmothers ( came out with my little story #99. There are only 101 stories in the book. I'm just lucky there weren't only 98 stories in the book. I might not have made the cut. It is a story of love between a grandma and her granddaughter. It is a story preserving a precious memory.

Today I was published. Hm. Don't feel any different than I did yesterday.