Is no easy feat, dear ones. It is not as simple as writing a post card from your last vacation. Although a labor of love, how to tell a story is hard work.
This is a good time to discuss the major plans I had until technology and gremlins decided to wreak havoc in my world.
One of those plans was to begin a feature from my first series of short stories.
I don’t know if all writers remember their “first,” or if like love or the onset of insanity, we all remember exactly what we were doing at the exact moment we knew … this will be my first book.
Story-telling flows through my blood, it is engrained in my genes and embedded in my brain. I could not more escape the compulsive need to chatter and entertain, to tell tales and fabricate all manner of mayhem and mischief, than I could deny I am a woman.
I was late entering the world of higher education at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. I packed the kids into a blue sedan, moved back to Brooklyn from New Jersey, filed for divorce, and enrolled in college.
This was also the first and only time I agreed to go into therapy. Naturally, I was amused by one of her first questions. Traditionally, some shrinks ask you to describe yourself with three words.
“Quickly,” she instructed. “I don’t want you to think about it. Just tell me in three words. Who are you?”
“A woman, a writer, a mother.”
She laughed. “I’m sure the kids will be thrilled they came in last.”
I remember with great clarity, often to my own dismay, every single first in my life. The first kiss, the first car, the first time I knew I was in love. The first child, the first time I made something for someone … my first baked cake.
To spare you … and because I am not much for dismal depression … I will only relate the best firsts. I don’t think you’d want to read about my first failed business … although my first eviction was an adventure that took place during a famous blizzard.
No, I’d rather share my first book.
The first time I put a pencil to a yellow legal pad and scribbled in my God-awful handwriting … the first time I unearthed an old Underwood manual typewriter and pounded on its God-awful heavy keys … the first time I knew I was actually writing a book.
Not a journal or prosaic prose … not the ramblings that would find their way to my blog … not the soap opera I wrote in my head as I traveled to and from work …
Instead, I will share with you my first and perhaps never to see the light of day novel … Sunset Park.
I fancy myself a magazine editor, and as such, I’ve made an executive decision to create new features for this magazine … the blog of it all … soon to become my first and only web page.
My publication features will, of course, include City Scapes, Random Thoughts (those weeks when I can’t think of anything and just babble on about whatever), my newest feature Finds of The City, and Sunset Park.
It all started in Sunset Park, Brooklyn with the four people who raised me … a mother, a father and two older brothers. It started with me as a left-handed, pigeon-toed street urchin, running the streets, roaming the docks, and wandering the hills.
NOTE: I had planned that each Friday I would give you a second day of posting, and on this day I would discuss My Other Life. And just for fun … each week I’ll feature one item from my shop.
However, I don’t like posting twice a week. One … it cuts into my time way too much. Two … it cuts into your time way too much. Three … I don’t want to.
Instead, Finds of The City will have to take turns with all my other featured posts and come to you on odd Wednesdays … actually I might even be brave and do some of my three part series for each feature … but only on consecutive Wednesdays.
Join me in February, the month for lovers, the month I married, the month Lincoln freed the slaves and Mr. Cronin thought I became his … the month for my first Etsy.com news from Finds In The City … the month to once again roam through the sites of New York.
Do you remember the first time you knew you were going to write a book?
Is that book something you published
or something that will languish in a dark file drawer?
Writers are a nosy bunch … so tell me all.
fOIS In The City
Featured item from Finds of The City …