Thank You Dialogue

I started writing stories when I was about ten. In my teen years, I had two poems and ten short stories published in magazines. Nine of those short stories were published in DIALOGUE Magazine.

DIALOGUE has been running for 57 years. On the front cover, it says, “A world of ideas for visually impaired people of all ages.”

It contains personal stories from blind and visually impaired people, special equipment which might interest them, career information, news tips, recipes, and more and more.

In the 70s, they published fiction short stories, and that’s where I first was published.

Forty years later, I still remember one lesson I learned about writing from DIALOGUE.

When they returned one of my short stories, they told me that other people solved the main character’s problems, instead of her figuring out any of it on her own. That is a story technique I have always remembered and tried to use.

As I’ve said before, for 30 years, I almost never wrote, because of work, school and family. I also stopped reading braille magazines.

Seven years ago, since I stopped working for health reasons, I started reading and writing again, thank God.

I read Dialogue again, and they published eleven articles from me, about being a blind Mom and wife and employee; about being a more mature blind person than I used to be; about braille; about writing; about dealing with new disabilities after brain injury.

As of June of this year, DIALOGUE Magazine is suspending publication due to financial reasons. I will miss them. I thank God for them.

Fresh Start

I want to start writing again. I’ve been struggling with what to write.

A devotional? I recently had the opportunity to help with a book of devotions that will be published soon, and it triggered a desire in me to try to write more of those.

Something about the family? About Valentine’s Day? I live with such a fun group of people. Holidays are always interesting.

Look through our letters and memories about the kids, or pieces of my old writing, and put something together from there?

All Good ideas.

I decided just to write about my struggle with writing.

I wrote a lot as a teenager; I even had a few stories and poems published.

Then for over thirty years, I wrote very little. I was in school, worked, had a family. Good excuses? Maybe not, but thirty-some years went by anyway.

After my accident in 2012, I decided I had the perfect opportunity to start writing again.

I joined American Christian Fiction Writers, an on-line group with classes, critique groups, much more. What a blessing that has been. I feel like I’ve learned so much about writing better, and I hope to continue learning.

I wrote more short stories, some magazine articles, blog posts, five novellas and a children’s Christmas story.

All of a sudden last fall, I felt like I ran into a brick wall every time I tried to write. I had a hard time coming up with new ideas. I had an idea, and it fizzled.

Why did I think the stories I’d written were any good anyway? I lost the energy, the drive, to push myself to work at this whole writing business.

I told Murray I didn’t think I could write anymore. He was very sweet. He said he didn’t believe that. He said maybe I couldn’t right now, but that didn’t mean I never could again.

That gave me hope.

I’m still struggling. But I think about writing all the time. I think of myself as a writer.

When I read, I note the author’s skill and technique. Things that happen around me, conversations I hear, I imagine how I would put in a story.

If this desire, this skill, is a gift that God has given me, then I need to nourish it.

Lord, give me wisdom. Encourage me to work. Remind me to seek your will.

Mom and Me, a Story

Writing stories is my joy.

But I’ve been having a hard time making myself sit down and start one lately, and I feared I’d lost the skill, the thread, the mph. The other day I forced myself to sit down for an hour and grind this out. Rough though it is, I was glad I could still pound out the skeleton.

“Mom, we have to talk.”

“Talk.”

Mom stood at the kitchen sink, elbows pumping as she scrubbed pans.

“Can you stop for a minute and look at me?”

“I can hear you fine.”

I swallowed, then took a deep breath. “Mom, I’m sorry you’re upset.”

Water splashed out of the sink as she banged the pan up and down. Her arms moved faster.

I chewed my lip. “I’ve been talking for a long time about wanting something new. Moving to California, getting a better job. This isn’t new.”

Mom turned on the water and rinsed the pot.

I shifted on my feet. “When Sue mentioned this opening at her company—”

“Don’t blame your sister for this.” Mom grabbed a cookie sheet and slammed it into the water.

“Blaming … I’m not blaming her for anything.” I walked to the table and pulled out a chair. “I’m glad she thought about me when this job came up.”

Mom grabbed a pot scratcher and attacked the mess stuck to the pan. “Hmph.” She added warm water to the sink.

I moved away from the chair and circled the table. “Mom, this job is a real step up for me. It’s something I’m good at finally, something I really want to do.” I pushed the chair back in and continued to move around the table. “I’ll be making more money than I do now. And at least to start with, Sue and I will live together. I won’t be alone.”

The pan jerked, and more water sloshed onto the floor. “What about me?”

I stopped dead still. How many years had it been since I’d heard my mother scream?

“What about me being alone?”

She turned from the sink to face me. Her eyes were wide and streaming. She squeezed the dish cloth between her hands. “I’ll be alone.”

Mom moved to the table and sat down, laying her head in her arms and giving way to loud, shaking sobs.

My body shook too. I knelt by my mother wrapping my arms around her, pressing myself against her soaked self.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Mom gasped and managed to speak to me through the rough sobs. “I know you need to move. Just like Sue did. I know you need to do this for your life.” She took a deep ragged breath and made a jerking shake in my arms. “I know it, but it hurts me so.” She sputtered and coughed.

I rested my head against my mother’s trembling shoulder and let my own tears squeeze out. “I know. I’m sorry. I love you.”