My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category The Writing Life

The Family Tapestry: Weaving Stories That Endure

by on ·Family, The Writing Life
I took this snapshot of the family homestead in the days following my beloved grandmother’s passing. (Her friend, Miss Lou, is seated on the porch near the mourning wreath, with a hat covering her face.) Seeking to honor my grandma’s memory and keep her close, I transformed this image into a 30″ x 20″ poster shortly after making the photo. It is a window to happier times.

Some months ago, while rereading Legacy, I recognized opportunities for improvement. Although most of my research-based information was accurate, I identified some omissions that would have clarified more on specific points. This realization prompted me to request that Amazon reduce the initial price of the book. My hurried completion of that manuscript was primarily motivated by a desire to publish the book before my mother passed from a terminal illness. Unfortunately, time ran out, and though mother read portions of the draft, she never saw the finished work.

I’ve been considering writing Legacy II: The Next Generation for some time. Sadly, I regret the missed opportunities to gather meaningful oral histories from elders on both sides of my family. (However, given that my cousin, Velda, has extensively documented our paternal lineage, I will continue to concentrate on exploring my maternal ancestry.)

Now that I’ve rapidly aged into the “senior discount” demographic (How fast time travels!), I’ve developed an almost obsessive fascination with preserving our family’s history. The anecdotes and tidbits I’ve saved throughout the years might be the genealogical gold mine that turns some future great-great-grandkid into the Alex (or Alexa) Haley of our family tree.

Even if it serves only to clarify family connections or provide entertainment at reunions or other gatherings, preserving family narratives and capturing fragments of our shared past feels worthy of bridging the gap between generations and keeping our family’s legacy alive.

As I write this, memories of past interactions involving some of my aunts and uncles resurface in my mind.

Aunt Anne’s Slot Strategy – Ah, the glittering world of slot machines – where dreams are made, and wallets are emptied faster than you can say “jackpot”! Some decades ago, I (a reformed slot machine enthusiast) was tagging along with my Aunt Anne in the casino (probably in Atlantic City).

Aunt Anne wasn’t just winning; she was making it rain so hard that I half expected to see Noah’s ark float into the lobby. Naturally, I had to know her secret. Was it a lucky rabbit’s foot? A deal with Lady Luck herself? Nope. Aunt Anne’s wisdom was more straightforward than pulling the lever on a one-armed bandit.

Her sage advice? “Go big kid or go home!” Okay, she didn’t say it quite that way, but she suggested simultaneously putting the maximum number of coins in the slot instead of playing it safe by inserting one or two coins per play as I had been doing. “If there are five coin slots, then play all five.” She said. (That was before buttons and touchscreens phased out handles, and the machines took cash instead of tickets.)

Now, my wallet usually screamed in terror at the thought of playing max coins instead of the minimum. I needed to make my “play” money last until it was time to go home, not blow it all in the first 30 minutes. But on those rare occasions when I had a little extra play money, I channeled my inner Aunt Anne, went all in, and sometimes got lucky. Boy oh boy, did those coins sing a sweeter tune! It was like upgrading from a French horn to a full orchestra.

Aunt Precious’ Skincare Wisdom – Aunt Precious and I were both visiting at Grandma Hattie’s and were about to head off to who-knows-where when I whined to Aunt Precious about my skin doing a complete 180 from teenage oil slick to desert landscape dry with age. Her advice? Nivea Creme. Talk about a miracle in a little blue tin! Not only did my parched skin drink it up like a cactus in a rainstorm, but throughout the years, strangers were stopping me to compliment my glow – probably wondering if I’d discovered the fountain of youth or just really good lighting.

Aunt Sarah (aka Sain) and Aunt Ida, my dynamic duo of favorite aunts! These ladies weren’t just relatives; they were my partners in crime, my go-to confidantes for all drama, and keepers of secrets (Okay, some secrets. We’ve all heard the gossip line warning, “You ain’t heard it from me. If it gets back to me, I’ll know who told. I’ll just say that sometimes my “secret” got back to me.)

But back to the sweet memories. Let’s start with Aunt Ida. She knew I enjoyed fishing and when I visited her, she would reel me in for the occasional fishing trip, usually at a nearby creek.

But her real talent? Being my personal New Year’s Eve alarm clock. Without fail, she’d ring my phone annually around midnight to wish me a Happy New Year. If I weren’t at home, her “Happy New Year, Lo!” greeting would be waiting on my answering machine. And did I say that she was the best hugger ever? Aunt Ida didn’t give a half-a** or side hug; she hugged so warmly you didn’t want her to let go.

Now, onto Aunt Sarah. Aside from being a beautiful soul inside and out, Sain was my makeup guru. While my mom was stuck in the “lipstick-only” era, Sain introduced the teenaged me to the wild world of mascara. Soon, I was applying eyeliner and lipstick like a pro.

For my Sweet 16 birthday, Sain gifted me a gold-plated chain-link bracelet with my name on it. Oh, how I adored that bracelet. Sadly, a few years ago, that bracelet pulled the ultimate disappearing act. It’s probably hiding somewhere with all those missing socks from the dryer.

Aunt Doris was no ordinary seamstress—she was a fabric virtuoso with an enchanted sewing machine! As a wide-eyed preteen, I spent a few nights with Aunt Doris and Uncle Earl, alongside my cousins Michael and Rhonda during summer break. The recollection of the breathtaking apricot swing dress adorned with intricate printed patterns my aunt made for me during that visit remains forever etched in my mind. (If memory serves, it was the same weekend their puppy tragically met its end after leaving the yard and wandering onto the country roadway, leaving us children devastated.) But returning to the brighter recollection, Aunt Doris could sew creations like no other.

A few years ago, I wrote a letter to Aunt Doris, reminiscing about the dress and reiterating how much joy it brought me while it fit. Her puzzling reply? “What dress?” While Aunt Doris’ recollection may be hazy, in my mind’s eye, I can still see that exquisite dress and myself twirling in it until I outgrew it.

Uncle Wheeler (Buddy)—I could write so many wonderful things about my beloved uncle, but I’ve already exceeded my word count, so I will have to save that for a future post.

Memories resemble those cherished family recipes the older women knew but never wrote down or passed on. I’m sure all my cousins have their treasure trove of “remember when” to share, but these particular gems are mine. They are etched permanently in my brain and might find their way into Legacy II.

To my frustration, several writing projects have been simmering for some time, but any author will confirm that composing a blog post is far less daunting than crafting a book. It’s comparable to threading a needle or delivering a ten-pound infant after hours of labor.

“We are shaped first by family and then by the rest of the world.” – Anna von Gogh

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From Doorbells to Deadlines: A Personal Reflection on This Writer’s Life

by on ·Blogging, The Writing Life

The life of a writer! It sounds glamorous, doesn’t it? But I don’t fool myself. I completely understand why I—and many authors—need to escape to a secluded place when we want to write something noteworthy, whether it’s a book or a blog.

Seclusion – it’s the only way to achieve that elusive state of peace. In my home, I’m constantly interrupted by the sirens of emergency vehicles racing down the street, the constant ringing of the phone, the doorbell that seems to have a personal vendetta against my productivity, or the loudmouth neighbors who gather just outside my open windows to chat, like an unwelcome committee. Thank goodness using the air conditioner in the summer means I can keep the windows closed.

It’s nearly impossible to write anything coherent when surrounded by people who think “quiet” is a type of fabric. I once read about Maya Angelou’s writing method, which involved renting a hotel room, stripping it of distractions like telephones and televisions, and hanging a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. I admit I was envious. But inspired, I gave it a shot, too. Let’s just say my version was more “budget-friendly.” I stayed home and printed a sign in the 48-point font that read, “I am taking an online class. Please do not disturb.” (I found it necessary to be a bit crafty because I know my neighbors. They are persistent.) Then, I taped it to my door just beneath the doorbell. Either the sign worked wonders, or my neighbors finally found something else to do besides disturb me.

Now, don’t get me wrong; my neighbors mean well. They often ring my doorbell to deliver a package that the Amazon courier left on the porch to prevent the porch pirates from getting it first. But sometimes, they phone me out of sheer boredom, as if my life is a soap opera they can tune into. Most of them are retired, just like me, and we’ve all been living in this complex long enough to know each other’s life stories better than we know our own. Back in the day, we were busy with jobs, raising our children, and the chaos of life. Now, the day’s highlight seems to be finding out who has the juiciest gossip.

I suspect my neighbors think I’m anti-social. After all, I’m not one to hang outside or sit on the porch and engage in idle chit-chat. I prefer the company of my numerous books (reading) and my computer (writing). When working at the computer, I usually have the TV on in the background, tuned to the all-news station. The volume is generally lower than a whisper, or it’s muted.

When the phone rings, I glance at the screen to see if I want to answer. Thanks to my bundled cable service, I have what I call “TV caller ID.” It’s a brilliant way to dodge telemarketers and those friends who think a conversation should last longer than a Netflix binge.

Since retiring, I’ve embraced a reclusive lifestyle. It’s my time now—me time. For years, my time was consumed by work, children, and the daily grind. I have always loved my kids, but I can’t count how many times while they were little that I silently wished they would grow up and get a place of their own. And then, just like that song, “Turn Around,” says, they did—faster than I could say “empty nest.”

So now, liberated from a job and dependent children, I finally have time to write a blog and work on penning the great American novel. Unfortunately, I can only do my best writing without interruptions after midnight or during that predawn period in the morning when the world is blissfully quiet, and my quasi-spouse is sleeping like the dead.

It’s incredible how creativity flourishes when you’re free from distractions. Just this morning, I woke up at 5:30 AM, and in shortly less than a miraculous hour, I managed to finish this post without a single disturbance. The post-midnight hours are my secret weapon, my sanctuary. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to rent a cabin in the woods or reserve an extended stay at a hotel every time I want to write, and I have at least two “in-progress” books trapped in my head, begging for completion. They’re prisoners of my own making, waiting for the day I can escape to a quiet place to complete them.

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Being Unapologetically Me

by on ·Journaling/Writing, Opinion, The Writing Life

The thing about expressing thoughts in a public journal instead of a private one is that the public journal exposes otherwise insulated thoughts to everyone and leaves me vulnerable.

As I learned from at least a half-dozen family members and a couple of non-related readers, my last journal entry ruffled some feathers. Specifically, my comments about toxic kin struck a nerve. Truth be told, the truth hurts, but I won’t dwell on that topic.

I learned long ago that anything written for the public, whether a silly poem, an opinion piece in a newspaper, or a blog post, is susceptible to criticism. I also learned that’s why a writer must develop a thick skin. Since, by nature, I‘ve always been an easy-going, compassionate person, it took a while for me to grow that extra layer of epidermis. That doesn’t mean things my critics say don’t bother me; I’ve just learned to keep it in perspective. I know that, just like me, other people have their opinions. So, I’m not apologizing for having the audacity to express myself in a way many people might not.

Although I’ve been writing since childhood, my first published piece was an article in The Washington Post in March 1985, followed by a poem in an Anthology of Poetry in 1988. Since then, I’ve been in writer’s bliss. I find writing to be a cathartic and therapeutic experience. I write a public journal to express my feelings to others and get feedback from my readers who may want to share their opinions on the same or other subjects. Often, I will disclose details about past or present events in my life, reveal new goals, reflect on my anxieties, or express gratitude. (To God, I always give glory.) But whatever I write about, my intention remains to be honest and open.

One of the most challenging things I had to overcome when accepting the suggestion to create this blog was the fear of what people might think about something I wrote until I learned that the fear of saying or writing the wrong thing, making mistakes, or being criticized stifles my creativity. Since discarding that asphyxiating security blanket, I have become stronger and more self-confident.

For too many years, I was a go-along-to-get-along person. To avoid being seen as illiberal, I felt inclined to support issues I disagreed with or believed were morally wrong. Now, I refuse to be one of those people who pretend that the emperor is wearing clothes when it is perfectly evident that he is butt naked. I am and plan to always be unapologetically me.

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Thought-to-Text Software, You’re Lying!

by on ·Food for Thought, Technology, The Writing Life

Last night, during one of my occasional insomnia episodes, I wrote an entire novel in about 20 minutes. Anyone who has struggled to write anything worth reading will tell you that sometimes composing a single concise paragraph can cause brain strain. So imagine writing an entire novel while lying in bed. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I did that last night. I was proud of my creation. I imagined a best seller. Okay, maybe a best seller is a stretch. I’d settle for making the shortlist for the First Novel Award.

Before the naysayers start shaking their heads, let me clarify.

Some people count sheep to try and force themselves to doze off; I write stories. The novel I created last night was in my head. I considered jumping out of bed, rushing to the computer, and trying to recreate the tale, but I knew from experience that the masterpiece would vanish before I could pull the chair to the desk and sit down. I’m sure of this because it has happened to me more times than I can remember.

Like Tony Morrison and other noted authors I’ve studied, I do my most productive writing in the middle of the night. So, sometimes I climb out of bed around 3 AM, go to the computer, and begin pecking on the keyboard like a mad woman. The goal is to get my thoughts saved before they vanish because I know I’d be fooling myself if I waited until morning, thinking I would remember every detail.

So last night, I got an idea as my conceived novel was dissipating into my subconsciousness. It was more like wishful thinking. What if – I thought, considering all of the fancy technological devices that do everything from responding to voice commands, “Alexa, play Mozart,” to robotic vacuuming our floors – there was a device that responded to thought commands? For instance, take last night, when that remarkable story created itself in my head; how nice would it have been if I could have used telepathy to send that novel to a device on the nightstand that would record my thoughts? Then, in the morning, I could set the gadget next to my computer, push transcribe, and have those thoughts reproduced onto my computer screen.

It would work similarly to voice-to-text software that is already available. So why not thought-to-text (TTT software, or better yet, let’s call it Ms. T software)? What a help that would be for writers. We would merely need to compose in our heads whatever we want to write, be it a poem, article, or novel, and send those thoughts to Ms. T. When we are ready, Ms. T will transcribe those thoughts into language, send them to a computer file, and Walla!

Instead of manually typing the words dictated by the device, we would issue a voice command, “Transcribe.” Initially, folks like me who are fascinated by technology might want to sit in front of the monitor and watch as our story transcribes word-by-word, line-by-line onto the screen, giving us a finished manuscript in minutes instead of hours or years. Then, of course, we might have to go back and clean up the document, proofread and edit it just like we do with voice-to-text software. Voice-to-text or speech recognition software turns spoken words into written words. It’s pretty neat. I use it occasionally, especially if I’m in a hurry to produce a typed document because, like the average Jill, I speak faster than I type.

Maybe, my concept of thought-to-voice software is far-fetched. But, if nothing else, it is a strong plot for a sci-fi novel.

I am a never-say-never, nothing is impossible kind of person. And considering the speed and innovativeness of today’s tech geniuses, I would not be surprised if, during my lifetime, someone didn’t invent a thought-to-text device. Think about it; law enforcement officers might be able to do away with lie detectors. But, unfortunately, like every other well-intended invention, Ms. T could spell trouble in the wrong hands. However, for honorable people, what a boon it would be!

Who knows, perhaps a brilliant and beautiful mind is already working on a TTT program.

“Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is more interesting.” – William Randolph Hearst

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The Writing Life: Demons and Muses

by on ·The Writing Life

As much as I enjoy writing, I like reading about writers. I am always curious to learn about similarities and concerns we novices share with authors who have earned acclaim in the literary world.

Last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine featured an article about Akhil Sharma, a writer in residence at Hollens, a small university outside Roanoke, Virginia. He did something that I have been longing to do and, if I live long enough, plan to do, albeit an anomaly. He revised and rewrote his first book. Unlike mine, a small 130-page memoir about my maternal family genealogy, his book – An Obedient Father – was an award-winning novel.

According to the NY Times article, Sharma was disappointed with his first effort (likewise). The 17 years it took him to earn back the advance he received from the publisher wasn’t his only source of angst. Even the literary awards the first-time novelist received, including the PEN/Hemingway Award, did not ease his feeling of dissatisfaction with his original book. So, 22 years after his first book was published, he rewrote and republished it. The revised version is due out this month. Way to go, Sharma!

I am far from being a writer on the level of Sharma, Angelo, Morrison, Baldwin, and numerous other notables. Still, I deeply understand and share his desire to rewrite his book. I feel the same way about my first (and so far, my only) book, Legacy.

It is the perfectionist in me that finds some of my paragraphs annoying. Clarification wasn’t the issue and I think I did well reporting precisely what my research revealed. Still, I made some boo-boos. That occurred because of my decision not to have my copyeditor review the book a second time after I made revisions. (Mistake!) The other reason for the rushed publication was that I was trying to hasten it before my mother succumbed to her terminal illness. Although mother got to read some of the early chapters, she died before I finished writing the book.

I’ve been writing another book for over a year. It is now the priority, and since it is far from completion, only heaven knows when I’ll get the opportunity to revise Legacy.

As passionate as I am about writing, sometimes when I feel that it is wearing me down, I’m inclined to agree with George Orwell. The author of 1984, Animal Farm, Why I Write, and numerous other books opined, “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon who one can neither resist nor understand.” Ditto!

I wrote Legacy to provide my mother with an answer to a question that she often told me she had pondered for years. Even if I don’t get to rewrite the book, since books outlive their authors, perhaps the published volume will provide a starting point for some other descendant of the Station/Williams clan who may want to delve further into our family history.

“Every family has untold stories buried in the fog of the past.” – Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

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