Just start. Now.
‘Til next time, write what you love and you’ll love what you write.
Authors live for many things:
I’ve heard all of those and they made my day. But this week I heard a new one and it brought just as much joy.
Dave from KRVN radio called to interview me. That alone was thrilling. It’s one of the things I’m working on—more radio appearances. He had asked me to send him a copy of both Becoming Bestemor and This Precious Love so he would know what questions to ask me. When I answered he told me he’d had time to thumb through them, then his wife took them and he hadn’t seen them since.
I love it. I hope she loved them! People do. My job is to get the word out to more people. It’s not an easy job. I spend hours a day trying to learn how to do that. So if you’ve figured out any good ways, share them with us.
Travel is too expensive unless you sell a bunch of books or are going anyway. Between motels and eating out, it adds up quickly. So I think the way to go is the internet and the telephone. I’ll let you know what I learn and how it comes out.
Do something very special just for you today. You deserve it.
Love,
Dr. Jeanne
JUST START. There’s no right or wrong way. There’s no easy way sometimes. You just start. I was writing a murder mystery for young adults when I was in an auto accident. I was in a lot of pain. My husband, Jack, was on hospice an living with our daughter. I couldn’t even be at home. One morning Jack called and asked how I was.
“I’m depressed.” I answered.
“Are you writing?” he asked?
“No, I don’t have anything along that I’m working on.”
“It doesn’t matter. WRITE.”
And I began BECOMING BESTMOR. I got better, came home to the cabin in the Colorado Rockies, and I wrote about a third of it and my life changed. It got put on the back burner to write THIS PRECIOUS LOVE. It took five years to complete THIS PRECIOUS LOVE. One year to write it and four years to make it good. BECOMING BESTEMOR took only two years. I’d learned a lot.
It doesn’t matter where you start. Just start. You can always change your mind.
CREATE A SPOT TO WRITE
Getting to inspiration isn’t always easy. Yet until you do, you won’t really like what you read nor will you readers. Find the place where you write best. I write best in an easy chair with my favorite music playing. I wish I could write inspired at the computer. It would save my half my writing time and I really envy those who can. But I can’t. Try the computer (or typewriter), but if you aren’t happy with what’s coming out—get out the old-fashioned pen and paper. They work for me.
It takes some experimenting to find out where you write best. What helps inspire you. What gets your juices flowing. Experiment until you find what works best for you.
JOT DOWN THE STORIES YOU WANT TO TELL
If you are writing a story about real people (your memoirs or a family story), write down the stories you want to tell as they come to you. Just a word or few to jog your memory. If you’re writing a novel, scenes will still pop into your head at odd times. Write them down. I carry a little recorder so I can just speak them when I get an idea. I also keep a note pad by my bed because at least half my stories come up at night.
PICK A TIME TO WRITE
To finish a book, you’ll have to be committed and disciplined. All I read says we must write at least 5 times a week. At first it may be for just 5 minutes and that will increase as you write more.
That should give you a start. If you do all this in the next few days, you’re off to a great start.
Blessings,
I have the most wonderful volunteer assistant. She is a good friend and a great help. Monica called me last week to tell me KRVN in Lexington was interested in doing a radio interview.
That’s exciting for several reasons:
It will be aired in conjunction with Hay Days in Cozad and our Jensen family reunion. That’s Bestemor’s family. Last night I talked to one of my first cousins, Marilyn. She and I were close as kids and it’s always wonderful to talk with her. Sad though to think about how few of us are left. So I’m hoping they’ll all be at the reunion.
Want to know about this wonderful family of 21 children. Becoming Bestemor tells their story.
Monica called KRVN and told them that my book was set in their area. So call radio stations in the areas where your book is set. I’m still most comfortable with small stations. But with experience, I’ll start going for the big ones.
Every bit of publicity you can get will eventually pay off. So hang in. Don’t be afraid to make the phone calls and ask. Some will pay off.
Today, commit to doing something that will make this world a better place.
Whether you are writing a family story, a memoir or a novel, the first thing we get is a snippet. In writing “This Precious Love” Ken or I would have a memory. Just a thought or two. A list of these stories would be boring. Not something anyone other than family would want to read. Yet, that’s the way I wrote my first attempt at telling my story. Even my first attempt at telling “This Precious Love.” The trick is to learn how to fluff out a story so it becomes interesting. Ken remembered that when I walked into the store at Yellowstone National Park, he thought I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. And he remembered that he’d bet the other guys that he’d have the first date with me. Romantic. Touching. But it would take a lot of those to have a full-length novel. First I pressed him for more memories. Not easy when you’re remembering back 50 years. But he could add that he’d never had a date. Never asked anyone for a date and had no idea how to go about it. From that I wrote the story. That and my scant memories of entering the store. This isn’t really something someone can teach you, but we can give you some hints. First, you have to get a picture of what the people and place look like. Then you have to feel what they were feeling. For it is feeling that drives the story. Of course, you have to decide whether you’re going to tell the story in first person or the all-knowing third person who knows everything that everyone is thinking and feeling. Then I write the story. It’s still usually pretty short and uninteresting, but I let my imagination lead me through the scene so that I begin to feel it. At that point I think it’s pretty good and that I’m probably done. Until someone else reads it. Now it’s time to put in dialog. Dialog drives a story. And more description. And more feeling. I do these one at a time. I look at where I can add dialog. Then I read it again and ask what description does the reader need to see the store. (I could already see it, so I have to stop and think that the reader only knows what I tell them." Then I reread it and see where it needs more passion—more excitement. Does it have tension that will keep the reader turning the pages? If not, it’s back to the drawing board. And last, you turn some phrases so that they aren’t like others would say them. So they are uniquely yours. From the one short paragraph, I have almost two chapters. This is the way books are built. Including them here makes this blog really long, but if you’re a writer look at how I’ve made it into a story. A story that gives you a very good idea of who Ken and Jeanne are—how young. How immature. And how on the brink of an adventure that would cement their love for the rest of their lives. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Whether you are writing a family story, a memoir or a novel, the first thing we get is a snippet. In writing “This Precious Love” Ken or I would have a memory. Just a thought or two. A list of these stories would be boring. Not something anyone other than family would want to read. Yet, that’s the way I wrote my first attempt at telling my story. Even my first attempt at telling “This Precious Love.”
The trick is to learn how to fluff out a story so it becomes interesting. Ken remembered that when I walked into the store at Yellowstone National Park, he thought I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. And he remembered that he’d bet the other guys that he’d have the first date with me.
Romantic. Touching. But it would take a lot of those to have a full-length novel. First I pressed him for more memories. Not easy when you’re remembering back 50 years. But he could add that he’d never had a date. Never asked anyone for a date and had no idea how to go about it.
From that I wrote the story. That and my scant memories of entering the store.
This isn’t really something someone can teach you, but we can give you some hints.
First, you have to get a picture of what the people and place look like. Then you have to feel what they were feeling. For it is feeling that drives the story. Of course, you have to decide whether you’re going to tell the story in first person or the all-knowing third person who knows everything that everyone is thinking and feeling.
Then I write the story. It’s still usually pretty short and uninteresting, but I let my imagination lead me through the scene so that I begin to feel it. At that point I think it’s pretty good and that I’m probably done. Until someone else reads it.
Now it’s time to put in dialog. Dialog drives a story. And more description. And more feeling. I do these one at a time. I look at where I can add dialog. Then I read it again and ask what description does the reader need to see the store. (I could already see it, so I have to stop and think that the reader only knows what I tell them." Then I reread it and see where it needs more passion—more excitement. Does it have tension that will keep the reader turning the pages? If not, it’s back to the drawing board.
And last, you turn some phrases so that they aren’t like others would say them. So they are uniquely yours. From the one short paragraph, I have almost two chapters. This is the way books are built.
Including them here makes this blog really long, but if you’re a writer look at how I’ve made it into a story. A story that gives you a very good idea of who Ken and Jeanne are—how young. How immature. And how on the brink of an adventure that would cement their love for the rest of their lives.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Off to the right, the guys who worked in the grocery department walked into the store from the warehouse to see what the commotion was about. When they saw the girls, they let out long, slow whistles. Startled by their open attention, Jeanne looked up into the most beautiful blue-green eyes she’d ever seen. There stood a tall, slender young man with brown hair that fell forward onto his forehead and a cocky grin spread across his face. He wore jeans and a light blue shirt that matched his eyes. He was deeply tanned above his shirt collar and his smile lit his eyes—sparkling as the sun makes diamonds on the ocean. Jeanne smiled back. Already she knew this was going to be one special summer. “Let me introduce you to our staff,” Fred drew Jeanne’s attention back. “This is Jerri. She works in the souvenir department. Jerri, this is Mary Jo Tinkham. She’ll be working here with you. “Hi,” Jerri smiled and held out her hand first to Mary Jo and then to Jeanne. “Hi,” they responded almost together. While Jerri talked with Mary Jo about her duties and work schedule, Jeanne looked back to see if the boy she’d noticed was still there. He stood watching her, and when he caught her glance, a smile touched his lips. Jeanne quickly looked away—embarrassed that she’d been caught looking for him. She looked around the store. One whole end held a blazing fireplace. The massive rocks making up the chimney towered all the way to the high ceiling. Her glance slid over a couple sitting there drinking coffee and soaking up the heat to a table of cedar boxes and whatnots. There seemed to be rows and rows of bears of every shape and size. Off to her right was a rack of Pendleton jackets. Jeanne recognized them immediately. As long as she could remember, every summer when it was still blazing hot, a Pendleton Woolen Mills salesman had come by. Mom ordered heavy jackets for Dad and snowsuits for Jeanne—heavy bibbed leggings and a jacket. She still wore the last jacket—pink and gray plaid in a Western style with fringe. Yes, she recognized that Pendleton rack immediately. At the back of the store was a jewelry case and a camera case and rows of film lined the wall behind. Fred led the girls toward the boys in the grocery department. “These guys have already welcomed you.” The boys grinned and whistled again. “They’ve been plotting since they heard you were here to apply for jobs, so watch out for them. They’re not to be trusted,” Fred told the girls good-naturedly. The dating dance was part of summers in Yellowstone, and Fred tended to take it all in stride. “Guys, this is Mary Jo and Jeanne. Now be on your good behavior. At least let them settle in before you start hustling them.” The tall boy who had caught Jeanne’s eye earlier stepped forward hoping to be introduced first. Fred obliged. “This is Ken. He’s the warehouse manager.” Jeanne never heard the other introductions. She looked up into Ken’s eyes and never wanted to look away. Today they were clear and more blue than green—like the sea on a calm clear day when the sun sparkled there. Eventually her gaze traveled down to his lips and stayed for a heart-stopping moment. Ken smiled. Jeanne thought it was the most enchanting smile she’d ever seen. It lit his whole face and crinkled his eyes, inviting her to share his joy and making her feel very special. Fred interrupted, “You girls go get your bags and I’ll show you the dorm so you can get settled in. You guys get back to work. It isn’t quitin’ time yet.” Mary Jo and Jeanne walked away with the smooth sure steps of country girls accustomed to walking long distances. They could have been sisters they looked so much alike—slender, tanned skin the color of honey, light brown hair cut short and permed. Mary Jo was a little taller—more rawboned and more outgoing. Jeanne was a little smaller and shyer, but she glowed with elation and the sheer pleasure of being alive. Both were radiant with the delight of a new adventure. This was even better than anything they’d hoped for. Mary Jo’s friendly smile was infectious, and her interest in everything around her left everyone wanting to know her better. Everyone but Ken, that is. He had eyes only for Jeanne. When she’d smiled at him, he’d thought, her smile lights the room. I could fall into her eyes and find heaven there. Her every thought and feeling were reflected there and it seemed he could see all the way into her soul through those eyes—a unique mixture of blue and green and gray. Today he saw excitement and, yes, interest in him. Fred led the girls up to the dorm where all the female employees slept in one large room—beds lined along both walls just inches apart. Mary Jo and Jeanne soon saw they’d have little privacy to talk here. But right now everyone else was at work so they had the dorm to themselves while they unpacked. “Imagine—$75.00 a month and board and room,” Mary Jo remarked. “I know. We didn’t ever think we’d really get jobs here.” “I think Ken really likes you,” Mary Jo teased. “Isn’t he cute?” “Do you think so? He’s so tall and those eyes. I love his eyes. But the other guys were all eyeing you, Mary Jo. Maybe we’ll have beaus and double date.” Although they’d talked for years about double dating, back then kids just didn’t have their own cars, so it hadn’t happened often. Chattering animatedly they headed down to eat dinner. They could hardly wait for their adventure to unfold. II: A WAGER The moment Ken first saw Jeanne, he’d thought, she’s the most beautiful girl here. Her laughter had found a home in his heart and when she’d looked into his eyes, it had sent his heart racing. He’d noticed her shyness and her walk that proclaimed the hours she spent in the saddle. When Fred left to show the girls the dorm, Ken had blurted out, “I’ll bet I get the first date with Jeanne.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He’d never even had a real date. “No way,” John answered. “You’ll never beat me!” “You’re both wrong! I’ll be the first.” This from Hal. “I’ll bet I do,” Ken repeated. “We’ll take you up on that!” The good-natured rivalry began. The employees had their own dining room and were served family style in shifts. Ken arrived early that night and sat waiting for Jeanne to come. When she walked in with Mary Jo, he didn’t know whether to look at Jeanne or keep his eyes on his plate. He did know every other boy there was looking at them and smiling—vying for their attention. Ken sat watching her, trying to appear nonchalant. He liked what he saw, and he somehow knew she was special. She seemed to glow—this girl with the honey-colored hair and tanned skin. He heard her laugh and knew he wanted to make her laugh often—wanted to laugh with her. Wanted to get to know her. Wanted to know who she was and why he was so drawn to her. So that’s why earlier he’d just blurted out that he’d date her first. He’d never even asked a girl out. Now he would have to ask her for a date. He’d wait for a time when he could talk to her alone. What if he did it all wrong? What if she said no? How had he gotten himself into this? He’d never be able to ask her in front of the other guys or Mary Jo. They’d probably just laugh at him. Jeanne might laugh at him. He looked up from his food and caught her looking at him—smiling at him. Again his heart quickened and his resolve strengthened. He’d watch for an opportunity to approach her. He wanted that first date enough to walk through his fear and ask her. Would she really go out with him, this vibrant lovely girl? Through supper he worried. It wouldn’t bother the other guys to just walk up and ask her in front of everyone. But Ken was only 16—the youngest of the crew. Tonight that seemed really important, and he wished he were older and more experienced because he sensed this was really important to him. When they’d finished eating, the early dinner shift got up to leave and go relieve the other workers so they could come eat. Ken watched Mary Jo and Jeanne walk to the huge fireplace. Evenings were cool at this high altitude, so the fire blazing there was welcome. The two slender friends walked down into the sunken area around it where customers and workers alike shared the warmth and camaraderie. They sat talking and giggling, tipping their heads toward each other. Their hair picked up gold highlights where the firelight caught it. Ken was afraid they’d leave together. They seemed to be like Siamese twins. He waited anxiously, and it seemed to him an eternity went by before the customers began to drift away. “I’m going up now,” Mary Jo told Jeanne. “Maybe some of the other girls will be there. Are you coming?” “I’ll be there soon,” Jeanne answered. “Dad and Mom will come over after they eat. I’ll wait for them.” Maybe she’d see the boy with those wonderful eyes again. She hoped so. Jeanne sat there alone dreaming—off somewhere in her own world. Ken saw his chance and hurried to where she sat. Jeanne’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him come toward her. He stopped in front of her, his long arms dangling by his side. “Hi. I’m Ken, Ken Hounshell. You probably can’t remember all our names.” The smile that had sprung to his face so easily came again—now slowly and shyly lighting it with an inner joy. Jeanne’s smile answered his, “I’m Jeanne Leach.” “I know. I’m the warehouse manager. You’ll be working in the fountain,” Ken replied trying to think what to say next. Enthusiasm lit Jeanne’s eyes. “Yes, I start tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work in a soda fountain. I think I’ll love it.” “Would you like to go for a walk?” Ken blurted. Thoughts raced through her quick mind. Is he asking me for a date? Walk where? I don’t know this place at all. I don’t know him. Is it safe? She caught one of those flying thoughts just as he turned to go, “Walk? Where?” “Just down to the lake. There’s a pier down there and I’ll show you the paint pots and the hot pools. I’ll just show you around Thumb.” He’d been at West Thumb several weeks and had explored every foot of the village. Already he knew that only tourists called it West Thumb. That wasn’t cool, and he wanted very much for Jeanne to see him as cool. Jeanne thought a moment—her eyes holding his. Yes, I can trust this tall gangling boy with the lovely eyes and smile that bubbles with merriment, she thought. “I’d like that. But it’s been a really long day, and Mom and Dad are leaving in the morning. They’ll be here soon to say goodbye. I get off early tomorrow. Could we do it then?” Ken didn’t know whether to shout for joy or cry in frustration. She’d said yes, at least yes to tomorrow. He’d just have to wait until then. “You bet we’ll go tomorrow. I’ll be outside the back door to your dorm at 7 o’clock if that’s OK with you.” “Oh, yes. I’ll see you then.” Jeanne looked up into his eyes and smiled at him. For a minute no one else in the world existed, just the two of them. Ken couldn’t believe his luck. He had a date, his first, and it was with this lovely girl. The smile hadn’t left her face since she’d walked in. She seemed to light up the whole room she was so happy and full of life. He sensed she was very special and he wanted to be with her. But if he’d stayed another moment he’d surely have embarrassed himself beyond words—by saying something stupid or who knows what. He didn’t intend to stay and find out. He walked away with just a little swagger. When he reached the grocery department where the other guys were, he couldn’t resist telling them. “I won my bet. I’ve got a date with her.” He would indeed have the first date with her. He’d never known life could be this wonderful. Then his heart crashed—thudded down, down until he could hardly breathe. What if someone else took her eye and she changed her mind? What if he said the wrong thing? What if she didn’t like him? The next 20 hours were torture. One moment he soared; the next he knew she’d never like him, and he’d be devastated. To follow Ken and Jeanne through this historical romance, click here.
Off to the right, the guys who worked in the grocery department walked into the store from the warehouse to see what the commotion was about. When they saw the girls, they let out long, slow whistles.
Startled by their open attention, Jeanne looked up into the most beautiful blue-green eyes she’d ever seen. There stood a tall, slender young man with brown hair that fell forward onto his forehead and a cocky grin spread across his face. He wore jeans and a light blue shirt that matched his eyes. He was deeply tanned above his shirt collar and his smile lit his eyes—sparkling as the sun makes diamonds on the ocean.
Jeanne smiled back. Already she knew this was going to be one special summer.
“Let me introduce you to our staff,” Fred drew Jeanne’s attention back. “This is Jerri. She works in the souvenir department. Jerri, this is Mary Jo Tinkham. She’ll be working here with you.
“Hi,” Jerri smiled and held out her hand first to Mary Jo and then to Jeanne.
“Hi,” they responded almost together.
While Jerri talked with Mary Jo about her duties and work schedule, Jeanne looked back to see if the boy she’d noticed was still there. He stood watching her, and when he caught her glance, a smile touched his lips.
Jeanne quickly looked away—embarrassed that she’d been caught looking for him. She looked around the store. One whole end held a blazing fireplace. The massive rocks making up the chimney towered all the way to the high ceiling. Her glance slid over a couple sitting there drinking coffee and soaking up the heat to a table of cedar boxes and whatnots. There seemed to be rows and rows of bears of every shape and size. Off to her right was a rack of Pendleton jackets. Jeanne recognized them immediately. As long as she could remember, every summer when it was still blazing hot, a Pendleton Woolen Mills salesman had come by. Mom ordered heavy jackets for Dad and snowsuits for Jeanne—heavy bibbed leggings and a jacket. She still wore the last jacket—pink and gray plaid in a Western style with fringe. Yes, she recognized that Pendleton rack immediately. At the back of the store was a jewelry case and a camera case and rows of film lined the wall behind.
Fred led the girls toward the boys in the grocery department.
“These guys have already welcomed you.” The boys grinned and whistled again. “They’ve been plotting since they heard you were here to apply for jobs, so watch out for them. They’re not to be trusted,” Fred told the girls good-naturedly. The dating dance was part of summers in Yellowstone, and Fred tended to take it all in stride.
“Guys, this is Mary Jo and Jeanne. Now be on your good behavior. At least let them settle in before you start hustling them.”
The tall boy who had caught Jeanne’s eye earlier stepped forward hoping to be introduced first.
Fred obliged. “This is Ken. He’s the warehouse manager.”
Jeanne never heard the other introductions. She looked up into Ken’s eyes and never wanted to look away. Today they were clear and more blue than green—like the sea on a calm clear day when the sun sparkled there. Eventually her gaze traveled down to his lips and stayed for a heart-stopping moment. Ken smiled. Jeanne thought it was the most enchanting smile she’d ever seen. It lit his whole face and crinkled his eyes, inviting her to share his joy and making her feel very special.
Fred interrupted, “You girls go get your bags and I’ll show you the dorm so you can get settled in. You guys get back to work. It isn’t quitin’ time yet.”
Mary Jo and Jeanne walked away with the smooth sure steps of country girls accustomed to walking long distances. They could have been sisters they looked so much alike—slender, tanned skin the color of honey, light brown hair cut short and permed. Mary Jo was a little taller—more rawboned and more outgoing. Jeanne was a little smaller and shyer, but she glowed with elation and the sheer pleasure of being alive. Both were radiant with the delight of a new adventure. This was even better than anything they’d hoped for. Mary Jo’s friendly smile was infectious, and her interest in everything around her left everyone wanting to know her better.
Everyone but Ken, that is. He had eyes only for Jeanne. When she’d smiled at him, he’d thought, her smile lights the room. I could fall into her eyes and find heaven there. Her every thought and feeling were reflected there and it seemed he could see all the way into her soul through those eyes—a unique mixture of blue and green and gray. Today he saw excitement and, yes, interest in him.
Fred led the girls up to the dorm where all the female employees slept in one large room—beds lined along both walls just inches apart. Mary Jo and Jeanne soon saw they’d have little privacy to talk here. But right now everyone else was at work so they had the dorm to themselves while they unpacked.
“Imagine—$75.00 a month and board and room,” Mary Jo remarked.
“I know. We didn’t ever think we’d really get jobs here.”
“I think Ken really likes you,” Mary Jo teased. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Do you think so? He’s so tall and those eyes. I love his eyes. But the other guys were all eyeing you, Mary Jo. Maybe we’ll have beaus and double date.”
Although they’d talked for years about double dating, back then kids just didn’t have their own cars, so it hadn’t happened often.
Chattering animatedly they headed down to eat dinner. They could hardly wait for their adventure to unfold.
II: A WAGER
The moment Ken first saw Jeanne, he’d thought, she’s the most beautiful girl here. Her laughter had found a home in his heart and when she’d looked into his eyes, it had sent his heart racing. He’d noticed her shyness and her walk that proclaimed the hours she spent in the saddle.
When Fred left to show the girls the dorm, Ken had blurted out, “I’ll bet I get the first date with Jeanne.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He’d never even had a real date.
“No way,” John answered. “You’ll never beat me!”
“You’re both wrong! I’ll be the first.” This from Hal.
“I’ll bet I do,” Ken repeated.
“We’ll take you up on that!” The good-natured rivalry began.
The employees had their own dining room and were served family style in shifts. Ken arrived early that night and sat waiting for Jeanne to come. When she walked in with Mary Jo, he didn’t know whether to look at Jeanne or keep his eyes on his plate. He did know every other boy there was looking at them and smiling—vying for their attention.
Ken sat watching her, trying to appear nonchalant. He liked what he saw, and he somehow knew she was special. She seemed to glow—this girl with the honey-colored hair and tanned skin. He heard her laugh and knew he wanted to make her laugh often—wanted to laugh with her. Wanted to get to know her. Wanted to know who she was and why he was so drawn to her. So that’s why earlier he’d just blurted out that he’d date her first. He’d never even asked a girl out.
Now he would have to ask her for a date. He’d wait for a time when he could talk to her alone. What if he did it all wrong? What if she said no? How had he gotten himself into this? He’d never be able to ask her in front of the other guys or Mary Jo. They’d probably just laugh at him. Jeanne might laugh at him. He looked up from his food and caught her looking at him—smiling at him. Again his heart quickened and his resolve strengthened. He’d watch for an opportunity to approach her. He wanted that first date enough to walk through his fear and ask her.
Would she really go out with him, this vibrant lovely girl? Through supper he worried. It wouldn’t bother the other guys to just walk up and ask her in front of everyone. But Ken was only 16—the youngest of the crew. Tonight that seemed really important, and he wished he were older and more experienced because he sensed this was really important to him.
When they’d finished eating, the early dinner shift got up to leave and go relieve the other workers so they could come eat. Ken watched Mary Jo and Jeanne walk to the huge fireplace. Evenings were cool at this high altitude, so the fire blazing there was welcome. The two slender friends walked down into the sunken area around it where customers and workers alike shared the warmth and camaraderie. They sat talking and giggling, tipping their heads toward each other. Their hair picked up gold highlights where the firelight caught it. Ken was afraid they’d leave together. They seemed to be like Siamese twins.
He waited anxiously, and it seemed to him an eternity went by before the customers began to drift away.
“I’m going up now,” Mary Jo told Jeanne. “Maybe some of the other girls will be there. Are you coming?”
“I’ll be there soon,” Jeanne answered. “Dad and Mom will come over after they eat. I’ll wait for them.” Maybe she’d see the boy with those wonderful eyes again. She hoped so.
Jeanne sat there alone dreaming—off somewhere in her own world. Ken saw his chance and hurried to where she sat. Jeanne’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him come toward her. He stopped in front of her, his long arms dangling by his side.
“Hi. I’m Ken, Ken Hounshell. You probably can’t remember all our names.” The smile that had sprung to his face so easily came again—now slowly and shyly lighting it with an inner joy.
Jeanne’s smile answered his, “I’m Jeanne Leach.”
“I know. I’m the warehouse manager. You’ll be working in the fountain,” Ken replied trying to think what to say next.
Enthusiasm lit Jeanne’s eyes. “Yes, I start tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work in a soda fountain. I think I’ll love it.”
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Ken blurted.
Thoughts raced through her quick mind. Is he asking me for a date? Walk where? I don’t know this place at all. I don’t know him. Is it safe? She caught one of those flying thoughts just as he turned to go, “Walk? Where?”
“Just down to the lake. There’s a pier down there and I’ll show you the paint pots and the hot pools. I’ll just show you around Thumb.” He’d been at West Thumb several weeks and had explored every foot of the village. Already he knew that only tourists called it West Thumb. That wasn’t cool, and he wanted very much for Jeanne to see him as cool.
Jeanne thought a moment—her eyes holding his. Yes, I can trust this tall gangling boy with the lovely eyes and smile that bubbles with merriment, she thought.
“I’d like that. But it’s been a really long day, and Mom and Dad are leaving in the morning. They’ll be here soon to say goodbye. I get off early tomorrow. Could we do it then?”
Ken didn’t know whether to shout for joy or cry in frustration. She’d said yes, at least yes to tomorrow. He’d just have to wait until then. “You bet we’ll go tomorrow. I’ll be outside the back door to your dorm at 7 o’clock if that’s OK with you.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll see you then.” Jeanne looked up into his eyes and smiled at him. For a minute no one else in the world existed, just the two of them.
Ken couldn’t believe his luck. He had a date, his first, and it was with this lovely girl. The smile hadn’t left her face since she’d walked in. She seemed to light up the whole room she was so happy and full of life. He sensed she was very special and he wanted to be with her. But if he’d stayed another moment he’d surely have embarrassed himself beyond words—by saying something stupid or who knows what. He didn’t intend to stay and find out.
He walked away with just a little swagger. When he reached the grocery department where the other guys were, he couldn’t resist telling them. “I won my bet. I’ve got a date with her.” He would indeed have the first date with her. He’d never known life could be this wonderful. Then his heart crashed—thudded down, down until he could hardly breathe. What if someone else took her eye and she changed her mind? What if he said the wrong thing? What if she didn’t like him?
The next 20 hours were torture. One moment he soared; the next he knew she’d never like him, and he’d be devastated.
To follow Ken and Jeanne through this historical romance, click here.
I realized that in my first blog, I didn’t tell you what my qualifications are to write this blog. I’ll be short because you can find my bio on our web site and learn more about me: http://windmillcreativepublighing.com I’ve written poetry for years, have two published books and another to come out this fall, am a retired Doctor of Chiropractic, taught for about 15 years, owned and operated a KOA Kampground, and am a licensed counselor. And I have a lot of learnin’ from the school of hard knocks. So you’re getting it right from the horses mouth. TODAY WE’RE TALKING WRITING Writing is the most exciting, exhilarating, frustrating, heartbreaking and rewarding thing you can do! Much of this blog is going to be about writing, publishing and marketing your work. But it won’t help you if I can’t inspire you to get started. If in the years that I write this blog, I could give you one gift, it would be to set a fire. A fire that would never let you go. A fire that would keep pushing you until you Unwrap Your Story and give it to the world. For you have a story. And writing it is your gift to the world, to your family and to yourself. If you haven’t started it, start it today. If you have, get back to it. For. . . . Let me tell you a story. There was a lady in her late 50’s who looked for the purpose for the rest of her life. She looked within. And the answer was always the same. “You are to write”. She had no idea where to start or what she was to write. Years went by and she dreamed. But she wrote only some poetry. She loved the poetry, but something within kept pushing her to write a book. More years went by. And still she dreamed. Sometimes she could imagine holding a book in her hands. But she didn’t write. Until at 65 she took her first creative writing class. She found she was truly talented. And she began to write. But she wasn’t happy with what she wrote. Until she learned that when she wrote to beautiful music, her writing began to sing with the music. A story worth telling came into her life. And she began to write her book. At the end of one year, she thought it was done. At the end of two years, she knew she was not a good enough writer and quit writing anything but poetry. Scathing criticism can be paralyzing. She had yet to learn that overcoming criticism is something every writer must do. She had to learn to examine the criticism, take what was helpful and throw the rest away. Often criticism is a problem within the person giving it. It an be jealousy or simply their style is different. But the call was within her and eventually she set aside her discouragement and went back to rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting. Making all the changes that made her book better. She added description. She added dialogue. She added feeling. She told the stories with all her heart. She made decisions about her book cover and about publishing. Then one day, a truck pulled up in front of her house. She raced out and watched as boxes of books were delivered. Her book. Five years of her life was coming off that truck. One was opened and she pulled out a package of 5 books. There was the bright red cover she had fought for. The picture of the young couple who had loved, parted and found each other. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she cut open the wrap around those five books and pulled one out. Her hopes and dreams lay in her hands. Her past and her future. Oh yes, she had dreamed of writing a book. Of being a published author. She had worked tirelessly. But not until this moment did she really believe it would come to pass. It was a moment to treasure. A moment of great pride and equally great humility. It was a feeling like absolutely nothing else. A feeling that every aspiring author dreams of. It was the beginning of a whole new life. She was no longer a writer. No longer one of millions struggling to write their story. She was a published author. And her life would never be the same. You’ve undoubtedly guessed that the dreamer I’ve told you about was me. And it was a moment that has carried me through the hard times of marketing it, of writing the next book. Has sung as people raved about my books. It is worth every minute, every heartache, every hope. It is worth whatever it takes. Just do it. Right now. No one else can tell the stories you have within you. You must. If you haven’t already, subscribe to my free email newsletter, Unwrap Your Story, teaching writing, publishing and marketing. Click here to subscribe. It is very different than the blog. The blog will be far more personal and probably more fun. The newsletter is more like a textbook to help you from first to end I plan to post a blog at least twice a week so come back often.
I realized that in my first blog, I didn’t tell you what my qualifications are to write this blog. I’ll be short because you can find my bio on our web site and learn more about me: http://windmillcreativepublighing.com
I’ve written poetry for years, have two published books and another to come out this fall, am a retired Doctor of Chiropractic, taught for about 15 years, owned and operated a KOA Kampground, and am a licensed counselor. And I have a lot of learnin’ from the school of hard knocks. So you’re getting it right from the horses mouth.
TODAY WE’RE TALKING WRITING
Writing is the most exciting, exhilarating, frustrating, heartbreaking and rewarding thing you can do! Much of this blog is going to be about writing, publishing and marketing your work. But it won’t help you if I can’t inspire you to get started.
If in the years that I write this blog, I could give you one gift, it would be to set a fire. A fire that would never let you go. A fire that would keep pushing you until you Unwrap Your Story and give it to the world. For you have a story. And writing it is your gift to the world, to your family and to yourself. If you haven’t started it, start it today. If you have, get back to it. For. . . .
Let me tell you a story. There was a lady in her late 50’s who looked for the purpose for the rest of her life. She looked within. And the answer was always the same. “You are to write”.
She had no idea where to start or what she was to write. Years went by and she dreamed. But she wrote only some poetry. She loved the poetry, but something within kept pushing her to write a book.
More years went by. And still she dreamed. Sometimes she could imagine holding a book in her hands. But she didn’t write. Until at 65 she took her first creative writing class. She found she was truly talented. And she began to write. But she wasn’t happy with what she wrote. Until she learned that when she wrote to beautiful music, her writing began to sing with the music.
A story worth telling came into her life. And she began to write her book. At the end of one year, she thought it was done. At the end of two years, she knew she was not a good enough writer and quit writing anything but poetry. Scathing criticism can be paralyzing.
She had yet to learn that overcoming criticism is something every writer must do. She had to learn to examine the criticism, take what was helpful and throw the rest away. Often criticism is a problem within the person giving it. It an be jealousy or simply their style is different. But the call was within her and eventually she set aside her discouragement and went back to rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting. Making all the changes that made her book better. She added description. She added dialogue. She added feeling. She told the stories with all her heart.
She made decisions about her book cover and about publishing.
Then one day, a truck pulled up in front of her house. She raced out and watched as boxes of books were delivered. Her book. Five years of her life was coming off that truck. One was opened and she pulled out a package of 5 books. There was the bright red cover she had fought for. The picture of the young couple who had loved, parted and found each other. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she cut open the wrap around those five books and pulled one out.
Her hopes and dreams lay in her hands. Her past and her future. Oh yes, she had dreamed of writing a book. Of being a published author. She had worked tirelessly. But not until this moment did she really believe it would come to pass. It was a moment to treasure. A moment of great pride and equally great humility. It was a feeling like absolutely nothing else. A feeling that every aspiring author dreams of. It was the beginning of a whole new life. She was no longer a writer. No longer one of millions struggling to write their story. She was a published author. And her life would never be the same.
You’ve undoubtedly guessed that the dreamer I’ve told you about was me. And it was a moment that has carried me through the hard times of marketing it, of writing the next book. Has sung as people raved about my books. It is worth every minute, every heartache, every hope. It is worth whatever it takes. Just do it. Right now. No one else can tell the stories you have within you. You must.
If you haven’t already, subscribe to my free email newsletter, Unwrap Your Story, teaching writing, publishing and marketing. Click here to subscribe. It is very different than the blog. The blog will be far more personal and probably more fun. The newsletter is more like a textbook to help you from first to end I plan to post a blog at least twice a week so come back often.
VACATION OF MY DREAMS
By Dr. Jeanne Hounshell
Ask me where I want to go for a vacation any day of the week and you’ll always get the same answer—to the ocean.
I don’t want to stay a mile from the ocean—or even a block. I want to stay right beside it where I can live with it in all it’s moods. I want to watch the high waves blown by a storm and to hear the fog horns when I can’t see through the mist.
I want to see the sunsets in all their glory. When I wake up at night, I want to open the door to watch the moon dance with the waves and be filled with the song of the surf. To wish on the stars—too many to count.
I want to walk just steps and feel the sand under my feet and then walk by the side of the sea immersed in the roar and the sparkle of the sun touching the tip of each wave. I want to weave around children who have come here to play and to watch the surfers dance with the waves.
I want to pick up sand dollars to take home and treasure—reminding me of the days I spent right here in the spot I love most.
I want to sit on the patio sipping coffee and watching the parade of sail boats as they come back to harbor every night and maybe catch a glimpse of dolphins at play.
This is the vacation of my dreams. I cherish in each sunset, then sigh because another day has slipped by and too soon I must leave.
But for these days here by the ocean, my heart sings and I am home.
There is an old song which says it perfectly when I paraphrase it only a little:
If there is going to be a life hereafter
And somehow I am sure there’s going to be
I shall ask my God to let me make my heaven
In this dear land
By my beloved sea.
(Galway Bay)