Jessica Ferguson

Author, Writing Coach, Speaker

IWSG: What Would Make You Quit Writing?

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Today, Wednesday, is Insecure Writers Support Group day.

Our Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds! Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

The awesome co-hosts for the July 7 posting of the IWSG are Pat Garcia, Victoria Marie Lees,and Louise – Fundy Blue!

Each month we have an optional question. This month it is: What would make you quit writing?

What would make me quit writing? Last month I would have said absolutely nothing. Discouragement hasn’t done it in forty plus years; and there has certainly been plenty of discouragement. With the popularity and acceptance of Indie publishing, rejection can’t crush me the way it once did.

If those two things can’t stop me, nothing can. At least, that’s what I thought. This week I know better.

I recently signed up for a webinar called The Pleasure of the Personal Essay, offered by Jane Freidman. Our instructor was Dinty W. Moore, one of my favorites. I have his excellent book, Crafting The Personal Essay.

Hearing Dinty speak about the essay stimulated my imagination, and encouraged me. I’ve always figured the essay is short and formal—not a relaxed observation with questions and answers, ponderings and research. I never realized an essay could be book-length. Have you ever heard of a book-length essay? The White Album by Joan Didion? Heavy by Roxane Gay? How did I miss the book-length essay? Is it something I’ve forgotten?

The seventy-five minutes of Dinty W. Moore’s voice was akin to pouring fuel on smoldering coals. My mind raced with all kinds of possibilities for writing essays about things that have touched me, scared me, confused me. Actions and observations that I’m still pondering from long ago and far away.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see my 97 year old mother who has round the clock sitters. Mom was a spit-fire in her day. A country girl from Arkansas, bright red hair and freckles, she was the oldest of ten kids. Her dad was an ordained, self-proclaimed Baptist minister. And Grandpa was totally illiterate. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t write. Often we couldn’t even understand the word he was trying to say.

Mom always said he was too mean to learn, but later, she amended that to too lazy. I suspect today we’d label him with a learning disability.

But my auditory processing Grandpa learned the Bible by making his eight daughters read to him. And from listening to an odd assortment of preachers on the radio. (His two youngest children—sons—became preachers too, though to their credit, they were educated.)

Mom was the first to leave home. After a failed marriage to her best friend’s brother, she hopped a bus and headed to Texas where she became a nurse. And while there is a much interesting story between leaving Arkansas and meeting Dad, I’ll save it for a later date.

Each time I go home to Texas from Louisiana, I wonder what I’ll encounter. Will she sleep during our entire visit? Will she know me? Will she bring up embarrassing childhood events as if they happened to someone else? She loves to tell stories about switching my little brother’s legs; she can’t quite remember popping me when I stuck my face out and backtalked her.

For seven years, I was an only child. My little brother came along when I was a first grader. Today, our mom fuzzily recognizes us.

This recent visit, she called me by name then wept, covering her face with her manicured hands. Thankfully, her sitters spoil her. She always wanted beautiful nails—she has them now.

When she looked up at me, she asked: “You’re my daughter? I’m a mother?” I couldn’t help wonder why that would surprise her.

My brother warned that she’d done the same with him. Over and over again, the ritual played out. She would cry, look at us with tears streaming down her face.

“Mom, why are you sad about that?” Even as I said the words, I wondered if I really wanted to hear her answer.

“You don’t understand,” she said in a small voice that wasn’t hers. (Mom had never owned a small voice.) “I’m different from most people. I cry when I’m happy.”

Her logic was impressive. It was the small, pitiful voice that was so disconcerting.

I’m just as disturbed by the disconnect in her mind. How can one forget children of sixty and seventy years? The intimate things shared and learned together. The fights and disagreements? How can one forget much loved shopping trips?

Oh, how I dreaded those shopping trips, just as much as I loved the new clothes. Mom touched and examined every garment, every price tag, and then went back to the beginning and touched, examined them all again, wondering, visualizing, making her decision about the wisest investment. The quality. During my growing up years, she owned two starched nurse’s uniforms, bright white, not a stain anywhere, and two dresses for church. My closet was full.

How could she forget those unique bell bottoms she bought for me, or those black leather pants? I had matching shoes for my skirts and dresses. Pointed toes. T-straps. She was a shoe lover; and I was the recipient of her love for shoes. No matter the size, if they were on sale, they were mine. My toes scrunched into six and a half narrows and I stuffed cotton and Kleenex into the eights.

When I remember the life we shared, the laughter, the tears, the anger, the disagreements, the hostility, the sacrifice … I wonder where it is in her mind? What corner of her deteriorating brain protects those memories, because she is … was … a hoarder, of sorts. She has to be saving memories somewhere, doesn’t she?

She saved tiny chunks of Dial soap in bags—just in case. Not sandwich bags, but large plastic grocery bags filled full. Just in case we became a world without Dial.

Where are her memories? Maybe we aren’t in her mind anymore, but stuffed deep down in her heart. With her love for nursing. I always thought Mom loved nursing so much more than she loved us. But in hindsight …

The second day I saw my mother, she still knew my name, but when I told her I was her daughter, she laughed. An unrecognizable giggle, not the belly laugh I grew up with. My mother never giggled in her life—at least, not during my lifetime.

“Why are you laughing, Mom?” I asked.

“Because I’m so proud of you.”

Proud of me?

She doesn’t remember the hateful words, the times I disappointed her. She doesn’t recall her continuous sacrifice that couldn’t possibly have been fun. Sacrifice was something she did without thinking, for her family. Her second nature.

“I’m so proud of my children.”

Just like in the old days, through tears and laughter, we love each other.

For four days, we entertained each other with foreign dialogue that neither of us understood, and I came away knowing more about myself, my own life. Asking myself hard questions that may or may not have decent answers. I know one thing for certain: When asked what can make me quit writing, the answer will be … will always be …

I’ll write forever, until my children sit beside me and I look at them in dismay and ask: “You’re my children and … I’m a writer?”

 

F is for Fun, Family and Finances

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FWe just got back from church a little while ago. Now it’s 9:05 and I’m sitting down to blog. I look at my husband and say, “Okay, give me an F word.”

“Fun,” he said.

“No, it has to do with writing—oh, yeah, writing is fun,” I answer.

“Family,” Hubby says.

“Writing!” I repeat.

“Writing affects the family. Okay, Finances,” he says, before I can respond to family.

“Okay—quit with the F-words.”

I’m sitting on the sofa, typing like crazy because those are good words, and they all relate to writing. At least, in our household they do.

When I began my writing career, I had so much fun. I was learning—chasing poetry and filler markets, writing shorts as fast as I could, drinking coffee and hanging out with other new writers, talking the talk and dreaming the dream.

When I married, I didn’t want that to end. I’m sure most husbands (in the beginning) think, “This too shall pass” and sometimes it does. But if we truly have writing in our heart—it won’t. It’s ingrained in our soul; it’s a gift. And there’s nothing more satisfying except maybe being a parent.

The expense of writing sort of slips up on us, doesn’t it? After all, we purchased all those how-to books over a period of time. We have to have Internet, special programs for that new laptop. The dent in our finances really shows up once we discover conferences and contests. Those fees get pretty steep.

Suddenly, hubby wants to know what’s going on. Aren’t writers supposed to make money?  Kiddos want to know why we aren’t listening to them anymore and why we’re writing in a notebook at their soccer games/dance recitals/science fair. We can say writing is our job—even before we sell that first novel, but how can our family really understand?

Hubby and I went to conferences together before daughter was born. We read John D. MacDonald and Ed McBain, plotted stories Jim_devotogether, and talked ideas. From the number of rejections that hit our mailbox, he learned that publishing wasn’t easy. Eventually, Hubby sent out his own submission–a devotional that was accepted in Gary Chapman’s Love is a Verb. Well, maybe publishing was easy for him!

When daughter came along, we plopped a typewriter on her high high chairchair and let her write her own stories. It worked. As a junior in high school she won first place in a writer’s conference contest—YA category. When she was 26 she became my editor; we wrote for a local magazine.

I realize all families are different, but if you don’t have support from hubby and kids, it may be that they feel they’re competing for your attention. Try making them a part of your writing life.  Let them name the characters in your short stories, or suggest titles for your book. Have a plotting party with them. Create a fictional murder and ask them to make a list of clues that will solve the crime. You’ll be surprised at the fun you’ll have… and your hubby might better understand what conference fees are all about if he’s invited to that  conference with you.

My writing is fun because my family is part of it. They understand that writing is who I am because, well… I’m pretty fanatical about it, and about them. 

How about you? What do you think of getting your family involved in your writing life? Would it work for you? How? Why not?

Z is for Zing

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Today is the last day of the A to Z Challenge. This year’s challenge was really laced with ZING! Zing means a lively, zestful quality; zest, vigor, animation, force, vitality, etc.  Every blogsite I visited had zing.

When I read the definition, I wondered about other things in my life that have ZING so I made a list and thought I’d share with you.

My marriage, my daughter and–believe it or not, after delving into my so-called memoirs, my family.

Sometimes, my cooking–even when it falls flat!

My driving–especially when I’m thinking about writing–just ask my husband.

My pastor, my SS teacher … wait, my entire church!

My dreams have zing. Just ask my husband!

When we went home this past weekend, I noticed my cactus flower was blooming. Definitely some Zing!

I conclude … I’m surrounded by ZING!

Now that A to Z Challenge is over, I hope to concentrate on putting more ZING into my writing. More description, visual setting, stronger conflict and characterization … and ACTIVE verbs.

What have you learned from A to Z — as a participant or as a reader? Share. How can we put more ZING in our writing and in our lives?

Q is for Quotes (and family tales)

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As you know, I love quotes and post them on my blog often. What you don’t know—and might think a little odd—is that I collect quotes and funny stories from the lips of my family. I wish I had my little notebook of family quotes but since my dad’s death and my mom going into a nursing home, I’ve been a little lax with organized recording. Now I jot things down on slips of paper that float around my purse and eventually get lost.

But I have some favorite tales I want to share:

Once my entire family went to the cemetery to put Christmas flowers on my grandparent’s graves. My mother was always very dedicated about doing that and she’d shop for hours to find just the right ornament. On this occasion, she’d selected white crosses. Because the earth was so hard, she’d brought a hammer to pound each cross into the ground. Now, you’d have to know my mom: she’s a perfectionist—a fine-tuner. Once she gets something ‘finished’ she inspects everything around it—regardless of what it is—then fine-tunes her own project one last time. This time when she finished arranging flowers and cleaning up other gravesites, she came back to the white cross, hit it with the hammer and broke it.

“You just had to hit it one more time, didn’t you?” said my dad.

All of us broke into uncontrollable laughter because he’d nailed it with his comment. She was and always had been the hit it one more time mama. She used to go over my homework papers—crossing my Ts and closing the circles of my Os, Bs, Ps and making my periods a little darker. Hitting my paper one more time.

Yes, it drove me crazy.

The quote, “Just had to hit it one more time,” is a favorite and we use it often when one of us tries to over-do.

Of course, my mom has several quotes she uses consistently: She’s fond of saying, Ignorance gone to seed, Nuts gone to seed, There’s nothing crazier than people, and Can’t get away from those genes.

She loved telling everyone that if my brother said, “Let’s hang Mama,” my dad would go get a rope.

My young nephews were always fun to listen to. Once, a young Russell (the one in the red cap)climbed into the car after a grocery shopping trip. He was so glad to be going home after spending an hour in the food store that he was jumping up and down, and running across the back seat while the young sacker helped my mother with groceries. The sacker asked Russell, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” to which my nephew responded, “No, why, do you smell something?”

A hilarious exchange and I think of it often, especially when someone asks if we need a bathroom. I suspect the young sacker called himself reprimanding Russell, but I love Russell’s quick, naïve reply.

One summer day, while the cable TV man was adjusting my dad’s television, my nephew Kyle (white cap) charged through the front door yelling, “We found a dead skunk back in the woods. You want to go smell him?” Needless to say, the cable guy declined.

My daughter (purple sweatshirt) was sitting in the back seat while I drove one day. Daughter was always a chatty little girl—asking questions and often supplying her own answers. On this day, I was telling her how her dad and I had prayed for a healthy little girl and that God had blessed us with her.
She replied, “Good. I always wondered who my family would be.” Yikes!


 

I’m sure you have favorite quotes and quirky sayings and stories from your family too. Want to share some of them?

J is for James

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I feel very behind in my A to Z postings. I know I’m not, and that the feeling comes because I’m writing my posts the morning of instead of the night before. Pressure! Early on, I wrote each one the evening before but I’m reaching a point where I have to think, think, think. And then I sprint forward with great energy. That’s how I do a lot of things. That’s why I’m not a very fast fiction writer—I have to think too much and too long.

The letter J could be for any number of my family members: my grandfather John Henry, my dad Jesse, my mom Jerry, me or my cousin Jerry Lynn, or my uncle—James.

I’ve chosen James, my dad’s brother and Jerry Lynn’s dad. James was the youngest of my grandparent’s thirteen kids. You know what that means. Spare the rod, spoil the child?

James was married to my mother’s sister, Charlene. That means Jerry Lynn and his younger brother Neil were my double-first cousins. Jerry Lynn was named after my mom. Eventually, James and my Aunt Charlene divorced. I can remember going to their little house to play (just up the road from ours) and my aunt would be in bed. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. I was always fascinated by the sight of it because our house was spotless. My mom—even though she worked nights and slept days—was meticulous in every way. Remember—the perfectionist. Later on, after James and Charlene divorced, I realized she’d been depressed because she really came ‘alive’ once he was out of her life.

James was a huge part of my life.(See the pic at right.) He was probably the son that looked most like my grandfather—tall and lanky. He drank goat’s milk. Odd that I should remember that. And he was a smooth talker too. That’s what I remember most.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things—anything paper. Post cards, letters, articles from the newspaper. You name it. I’m borderline hoarder.

Even as a kid, I cut out models from catalogs and used them as paper dolls. And I loved movie stars—especially Marilyn Monroe. I thought MM was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. So when I saw a post card of her on the beach in a two piece swimsuit, I had to have it. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to write movie stars and ask for their pictures. I had a pretty good collection of them. While this post card wasn’t autographed, it made a nice addition to my movie star stash.

I showed it to my Uncle James. I vaguely remember having a “don’t want to” feeling down inside when James talked me into giving him the post card. I can’t remember what he said, how he talked me into turning it over to him. Told you he was a smooth talker. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I found my post card torn to pieces beneath a tree near my grandmother’s house. Can you imagine how I felt? Why did he do it? Since this happened before his divorce, I’ve wondered if my Aunt Charlene shredded Marilyn in a fit of anger or jealousy. One of the mysteries of my early teen years. And it seems cruel that when I think of my Uncle James, this is what I remember.

My uncle had a drinking problem and checked himself into Rusk State Hospital to avoid going to jail for a DWI. I was in my 20s then. I remember my parents asking if I’d take him a carton of cigarettes. Many years later, he died in a fire at age 56. He’d been drinking and fell asleep while smoking.

I’m sure we all have memories of this sort. We look back and see how loved ones wasted their lives and talents. Stories like this make us sad, but they can make us stronger. We just need to figure out how. Sadly, this entire family is gone: James, Charlene, Jerry Lynn and Neil. My two cousins left children behind who face their own demons and challenges.
But then, don’t we all?

Do you have any memories that fill you with sorrow? How do they make you stronger? Want to share?

F is for Family

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F is for Family, of course.

I thought I’d leave you with some quotes that have to do with family.  They were taken from the Brainy Quote site. If you aren’t familiar with Brainy Quote, check it out here.  

People are pretty forgiving when it comes to other people’s families. The only family that ever horrifies you is your own. ~Doug Coupland

 Share something about your family. And have a great weekend!

C is for Chaney (and ISWG)

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My grandmother’s maiden name was Chaney. I’ve always loved that name. In fact, that’s what we named our daughter. When my romantic comedy was contracted by Silhouette Romance, I had to choose a pen name. I chose Jessica Chaney. I thought it sounded romantic, fun, and memorable. Much to my disappointment, the editors vetoed my choice, insisting it sounded like the name of a horror writer because of you-know-who: Lon Chaney

 
Leonidas Frank Chaney was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to Frank H. Chaney and Emma Alice Kennedy; his father had mostly English and some French ancestry, and his mother was of Scottish, English, and Irish descent. Her father, Jonathan Ralston Kennedy, founded the “Colorado School for the Education of Mutes” (now, Colorado School for the Deaf and Blind) in 1874, and Chaney’s parents met there.  Both of Chaney’s parents were deaf, and as a child of deaf adults Chaney became skilled in pantomime. He entered a stage career in 1902, and began traveling with popular Vaudeville and theater acts. In 1905, he met and married 16-year-old singer Cleva Creighton (Frances Cleveland Creighton) and in 1906, their first child and only son, Creighton Chaney (later known as Lon Chaney, Jr.) was born. The Chaneys continued touring, settling in California in 1910.  (taken from Wikipedia)

I wish I could discover a family connection to Lon Chaney.

Are you related to anyone famous? If you are, who? If you could choose a famous relative, who would it be and why?

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I totally forgot that today is IWSG day.
The purpose of IWSG is to share and encourage and it was started by Alex J. Cavanaugh. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Because I love IWSG and take it seriously, I’m tacking on a couple of great quotes to encourage you. Wish I knew this guy or gal named … Unknown.

When you feel like giving up, remember why you held on for so long in the first place.
~ Unknown

Instead of giving myself reasons why I can’t, I give myself reasons why I can.

~ Unknown