GHOST WRITING
I've taken on a new project, meant to be of value to someone else. It may be but I'm finding it an excellent learning opportunity for me.

I agreed to help a woman living with severe macular degeneration write her life story. I meet with her weekly, set up my tape recorder and try to guide her with talking points and questions. I take basic outline notes while she talks.

Back at the home computer, I play the tape and try to catch the essence of her story in her own words. The process has turned into the most informative lesson on developing a character's dialog possible. A chance to listen and listen again to the language, flow patterns, and traces of dialect as my lead character talks. Then to use what I'm hearing to tell her story in her words without the pauses, fill ins, and repetition we all use in our daily speech. The elements that would distract from her story and cause her embarrassment.

The attention I'm giving her dialog is more intense than I've given the characters in my fiction. It's an exercise that will change my attitude toward dialog in my own writing.

Barnes and Noble.com to the rescue. I've been squeezed! Like many other authors published by small or non traditional presses, I'm caught in the strong arm twist by Amazon.com. They still list my books, rank them, and carry the reviews, but they don't sell them. There is no buy button. Not because of my books, my writing, or me but because they are now owners of a publishing company and want my books redone by their company.
When I protested, I received a lengthy letter of explanation, saying in essence, that the new policy is to speed up the process and better satisfy the customers. A story I'll believe when they begin remaking all the toys, clothing, and appliances they also sell.
On the upside, Barnes and Noble.com does the same job at the same price and just as quickly. www.barnesandnoble.com

My Oregon, the Valentine state, celebrates it's one hundred fiftieth birthday on February 14, next year. A place of great diversity, in the land itself, in the people who were here and those who have come after, there is richness in it's history and in it's growth.

The Oregon 150 organization, led by our Governor and Senate, is planning a year of cultural celebration that should call out to the writer in all of us. There are stories to be told. For more information, go to www.Oregon150.org

As a child, I visited the beautiful brick school my grandfather was helping build as a WPA carpenter. As an adult I've visited incredible lodges in our national parks, built by WPA workers. I've also read political cartoons making fun of the program and studied the concept in history classes. It wasn't until another writer turned me on to a different part of the program that I discovered many authors were also employed by the WPA. One of their projects was to interview and record the lifestyles, culture and history of people from all over the country from 1936 to 1940 Those records are in the Smithsonian but are available on line, arranged by state. The address is www/rs6.loc.gov/anmem/wpaintro/wpahome.html
I've been reading the stories told by the people of Oregon in their own words and discovered they are fascinating and rich with history not taught in the classroom.

After weeks of Oregon rain, freezing rain and a mix of rain and snow with no birds in sight, I made a drive north in a morning drizzle. The country road I chose passed through grassy fields that have been soaked for weeks and now have standing water in large puddles.

I knew my choice of road was right as soon as the Canada Geese flew over, headed toward the river, not one wedge but many. I could count ten in the short time I was under them.

My next reward was passing by a large flock of Tundra Swans settled in a field close enough to let me watch as one or two changed locations like children at recess. Not much farther, a sheep pasture alive with hundreds of gulls mixed with the sheep caught my attention. Not usual since our gulls typically prefer parking lots near a food source over soggy fields. In that same field, a pair of wood ducks had found a temporary large puddle attractive for a swim.

Of course, I could spot the usual hawk in a bare tree or sometimes a fence post, and once in a awhile a pair of crows along side the road.

Before I got to an urban area, I'd also spotted one field hosting a huge flock of starlings, probally gathered for a general meeting before they divided and headed out in smaller groups to search for food. Those big flocks always make me wonder just who is in charge and if there are sub captains.

My last spotting, the one I always think of as lucky, was a Great Blue Heron in a sheep pasture bordering the river. A satisfying morning drive for me. The winter dearth of birds hasn't meant we're deserted.

For Oregon Readers
Join Jane Kirkpatrick, esteemed Oregon author, for Brunch at 10:00 on March 8, 2008 as she does a special presentation honoring Women in History at the Eugene Hilton, 66 E. 6th Ave. Eugene, Oregon. For reservations, send a check made out to AAUW to A. Hinman, 236 Greenvale Dr., Springfield, OR 97477 by March 1. The cost is $18.00. This special event is sponsored by the Eugene-Lane Branch of the American Association of University Women.

To Start The Day
Trying to gird myself to tackle the needed changes to make for the beginning of a new year, I picked up my January edition of the Willamette Writer Monthly Newsletter. Contemplating the dreary end of year chores on another grey morning, the article, Keeping Hope Alive, by Jessica Morrell turned out to be the spur I needed.
Above all else, the steps she suggested, ideas she put forth, and her way of looking at the Writer's Life reminded me that my mind set and what I do about it are up to me. It's not the housekeeping gods, the filing inspectors, or even the IRS in charge. It's me who decides my attitude if not my activities. One more time I have to make the decision to stand up and take charge. My day will be what I decide it can be.

At the Eugene Library's Author and Art Fair last weekend, the artist sitting next to me introduced me to a local literary magazine I hadn't discovered on my own, Groundwaters. The description provided in the introduction includes, "Groundwaters is a grassroots, community-oriented literary quarterly which serves the West Lane area and all it's connections."

I read the copy handed me by editor Judy Hays-Eberts from cover to cover. Every contribution was exceptional. What a gift to contributing writers and artists in all genres and of all ages and what a monumental treasure for the communities in West Lane County.
www.Jo-Brew.com www.something-brewing.com http://Groundwaters.org

An abolute treat and potent inspiraion, I've just enjoyed a video interview with Velda Brotherton, fellow member of Women Writing The West. Velda reminds us of the importance of our past in understanding our own lives as she interviews older residents of the Ozark communities that were the center of life and are now disappearing.
Velda's ability to make us feel like we're sitting next to her in a porch chair to visit makes the presentation spellbinding. Her newest book of essays and the basis for the interview is "Wandering In The Shadows of Time: An Ozarks Odyssey." To see the video interview, go to http://vimeo.com/354804 or to learn more about Velda and her other work, visit www.veldabrotherton.com/ http://veldabrotherton.blogspot.com womenwritingthewest.blogspot.com

Living With Football Fever
On a sunshiny fall Saturday, I'm free to choose any activity I'd like. It's football season and I've passed my ticket to a grandson as passionate about the game as his grandfather. Those two will spend most of the day on crowded and noisy bleachers while I'm open to the world.
My choices, or at least the ones I consider, aren't earthshaking options but unobligated time doesn't often present itself. This beautiful day, I chose to spend time in the yard, removing spent plants and raking leaves. The neighborhood was quieter than usual. I imagine the few neighbors who were home were inside, watching the game or relaxing in some fashion. A few bicyclists rode by and several couples walking toward the nearby coffee shop. A weekend break that let me find a peaceful place in myself.
When the chill began, I moved in to read awhile, then work on the novel I have underway with a freshened viewpoint. I don't mind the frenzy of football season at all.

After a cold, rainy week of paperwork and business, I needed rejuvenation and found a willing co- escapee in my husband.

On a three day trip that began on my birthday, we spent one day in the central, southern part of our state. We rode our bikes on the banks of the Rogue River and listened to it's song. We lounged in warm sunshine and watched the tiny birds flit in and through the trees. The drive down had been through tan grasses with hay already cut and green pastures with sheep or cattle grazing. We could see snow capped Mt. Mc Loughlin in the distance but only blue skies above us. A breath of summer still.

The second day, a drive through the farm country and through the fir forests, past Crater Lake and into the pine forests of central Oregon took us into another world. The ground covered with pine needles and cones gave a brown floor to this world. Even the shrubs were leafless. A different kind of beauty. We hiked along the Deschutes River and through a burned forest barely coming back to life with young trees not yet knee high. The scampering chipmunks ignored us as we passed.

A third day in Sisters, an old mountain town turned tourist attraction, a collection of fascinating shops and galleries kept us wandering the streets. The song of the town was the birds bringing fruited apple trees to life. The cold moved in, brought by wind and sent us to shelter by late afternoon. That was a wind that huffed and puffed most of the night, making sure we knew it's force.

In the still quiet of morning, we headed down the mountain to a home that would be welcoming even after so short a time away. This drive was through a wonderland of pink, red, and wine vine maple nestled among the pine trees. Above the trees the snow capped trio of mountains, the Three Sisters, drew our eyes and we caught glimpses of lakes through the trees. As we crossed the summit of the pass, the trees became the dark green of fir, the bright yellow of birches splattered here and there and the tan of the spent ferns covering the forest floor. The laughing river we followed down the mountain was the Mc Kenzie, the prettiest we'd seen on our brief escape. The rain began, shining the orange and russet of the roadside shrubbery at the lower altitude.

With last weeks worries and pressures erased by all I'd seen, heard, and experienced, I came back to my life dazed by love for this incredibly beautiful place I live.

Something Brewing and "Marge, Back On Track"

This week I'm launching the new website for my monthly Something Brewing newsletter and announcing the release of my newest novel, "Marge, Back On Track."
Marge is the second of the series about contemporary women at retirement as they find their own paths to move forward. For more information, visit my website at www.Jo-Brew.com
Until now the full Something Brewing newsletter has only been available in print so this is a big leap forward. Drop by and take a look. http://www.something-brewing.com/

Jo@Jo-Brew.com

Shortcuts Aren't The Whole Answer-- Reality Check
One of those little fill in articles in a national newspaper caught my attention on an afternoon away from the computer. The subject of the piece was text messaging between teen age and tween age students and how it is carrying over into classroom work. The point of discussion was that the simple sentences and phrases of the shortcut text don't let the message sender express the deeper thoughts they will need on the job or in college.

My interest didn't focus on agreement or disagreement. I zeroed in on the list of meanings for the texts I seem to get in e mail messages, even from fellow authors.

What a wake up call. The simple LOL I thought meant Lots of Love, that left me feeling warm and fuzzy, really means Laugh Out Loud. I guess I have a few messages I'll review and maybe take off my good friends list.

Two special project I'm supposed to be working on have me stumped. It's as close as I've come to the mysterious "writers block" I've heard so much about. I have no idea what I want to write.

I'm into the third day of trying to fix the problem and I've tried all the usual tricks to clear my thoughts, spent hours in the garden and read half the books in my summer stack. The first was Child of Light by Diane Bentley Baker, a fascinating journed of a time traveler on the ancient silk road. I loved the two novels by Jennie Shortridge: Riding With The Queen and Eating Heaven. I sat on pins and needles while I read the Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and now I'm involved in non fiction, The Wicked West--Boozers, Cruisers, Gamblers, and More by Sherry Monahan.

Only the barest twinkling of light on my writing dilemma but I'm having a lot of pleasure getting there.
www.Jo-Brew.com www.womenwritingthewest www.thecreswellchronicle womenwritingthewest.blogspot.com

From the belief that family stories can help us understand who we are and that the understanding improves our writing, I decided to try writng the few family stories that were passed down to me.

One grandma, on my mother's side of the family, was of Danish descent. A woman who carried herself with pride, wore well ironed dresses and aprons with a ruffle trimmed in rick rack. She smelled good, seldom gave hugs and rarely smiled. I'm sure she believed in the adage, children should be seen and not heard, because she seldom actually talked to us.

Still we knew she was fond of us. She was available for baby sitting when we were young and always sent a Christmas box filled with all sorts of small treats and treasures wrapped in tissue paper. Sometimes she sewed for me so I might also have a new dress, or one remade from a cousin's contribution.

I never saw her in an emotional outburst myself. About the time I was in first grade, my brother and myself went to Colorado on the train to spend the summer with her and grandpa since my mother, in California,was working. During the visit, I slipped her good sewing scissors outside without her knowledge. Before long I experimented by trying to peel one of the potatoes I found stored in the separate garage. One slip and a blade went through my thumb. When I went in the back door for help with the bleeding, she turned and saw me, "Stay right there. Don't get blood all over the floor." I stopped and she came to help but her calm was the biggest help of all.

Once, when I was older and riding across town with my parents after a Sunday visit, I overheard my mother tell my father that grandma had gotten so angry at grandpa and his fascination with their new television, she'd gone in the bedroom, shut the door and thrown her shoes at the door. I was surprised and shocked. I hadn't known adults could get that angry.

I was particularly fond of my grandfather. He seemed to like us and would take us for walks or sit on the porch and sing for us. "Hello Central, Give me Heaven,"Two Little Girls in Blue," and "It Ain't Gonna Rain No More," were favorites. Once in awhile he could be persuaded to play his harmonica. A man full of music he seldom got to express.

As I grew older and began to think romantic thoughts, I asked Grandma about their meeting. She told me she had been raised on a farm where she had to help with the heavy labor as there weren't any boys to do it. She was determined not to marry a farmer so she went into the city, Pueblo, and found a job working as a household helper for a well-to- do family. That family was fond of her and taught her about manners and ladylike behavior.

When an acquaintance introduced her to a handsome young railroad man, she was interested and welcomed his courtship. Later, he was sent across the border into New Mexico as foreman on a crew, the contact continued by mail. The time came when she had to choose between making the journey to visit Europe with the family she worked for or her beau. They decided to marry.

Her father took her to the train station in Pueblo to make the trip south to join her future husband. The train was late. When she arrived in Raton, it was too late for a wedding. Grandpa had to pay for a hotel room for her and find a place to bunk for himself. They married the next day and set up housekeeping in Railroad housing on the outskirts of town.

Although they moved frequently, their life seemed fairly stable until the railroad workers went on strike. Grandpa wouldn't have needed to go out but he sympathized
with the strikers and went anyhow. That choice went against grandma's wishes since she had two daughters to care for and would lose the railroad housing in addition to the income from the job. They did find a place in Pueblo but eventually had to put groceries on the book, a credit account.

When Grandpa did get work in a lesser position at a different railroad, Grandma skrimped and saved until the grocery bill was paid off. Later, even that job was lost as the country moved into the depression. Grandma baby sat for me until my parents moved to California and Grandpa got on with the WPA.

When the project he was working on, a beautiful brick school, was finished, they too moved to California. He and my father combined all their resources and bought a truck, begining a furniture delivery business that serviced both the Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Wards stores. The start of World War Two finished that effort but the railroads were in desperate need of workers. Even though Grandpa was older than they usually hired, he was able to get a job and finished the requirments to earn his retirement.

The next part of the story is from grandma and undoubtably true. She claimed that she thought he was a gum chewer until they were married and was shocked and furious to find he chewed tobacco.

When she told me, the dislike of the coffee can spitoons hidden under the couch, disgust at the smell, and anger that he'd never quit were still there. She'd warned him not to hug his daughters or us, never to get close. His habit made him repulsive.

It wasn't until years later, when she'd passed away and he'd been alone and lonely for more than ten years, that I really thought a lot about their story and all it implied. They had been married more than fifty years, been through strikes and the depression, raised two children, cared about three grandchildren, and met three of their great grandchildren all while she was still furious with him for chewing and he'd never quit. It's hard for me to imagine; her, living with all that cold anger, and him, a man starved for affection and joy who didn't give up the tobacco. A waste for both.
www.Jo-Brew.com www.thecreswellchronicle.com www.womenwriting the west.com
http//womenwritingthewest.blogspot.com

My Place

With rationed time, I limit the blog spots I visit but several comments by other authors drew my attention to the Love of Place blog. As I read the essays and notes about the influence of place on our lives and writing, I knew I needed to give more attention to the place I call home.

For all the years I can remember, I've been a restless sort, pacing up and down the west coast of our country, never straying too far from the middle.

Time has fine tuned my comfort level to the point where my center of gravity is limited to an area about a hundred miles in diameter, right in the middle of Oregon. To the north are the business centers and cities, to the south, the farms, forests, mountains, lakes and mountain towns of southern Oregon and northern California. With the Pacific Ocean an hour to the west of my home and the Cascade Mountains an hour to the east, I live in a valley with a moderated climate. Perfect for an active life style and outdoor activities. Life here doesn't stop for the winter and we don't need to leave in search of a comfortable summer temperature. The morning exercise walk and bike rides happen all year, only the wraps change.

Calls of the crows, blue jays and the scolding chatter of a squirrel wake me in the morning but the low voiced gossiping of the junkos hidden in the shrubs goes on all day. Any time I drive to the mall, or in any direction but to the city center, I count the day as lost if I don't spot a great blue heron, or two.

In my soul, the truly special feature of my place is the rushing river that passes through the town. I drive over it to go anywhere east of my home, again if I visit grandchildren to the north of us. I park where I can see the river when I go in or out of the mall to shop and I walk or ride my bike on the path beside the river as often as I can. If I'm upset or angry, a visit to the river bank calms me enough to let me function.

From a place lacking violent storms, deep freezes or baking heat, it's clear to me why my written thoughts are not based on fantasy or high drama. They are not experiences of the hero or the villian. Extremes of human behavior seldom happen in an environment of calm. My writings are the stuff of life in the middle, where most of us live, work, grow, love, and die.
http//www.Jo-Brew.com

A week ago, on a cloudy and chilly day that was one of a long series, we headed south in search of sunshine and an interesting break in our routine. We planned to head toward San Francisco in a circle including the wine country of northern California and the smaller towns along the coast.

This visit to the fabled city turned out to be one of our most interesting in spite of fog and a cool breeze. We took a lengthy tour with a knowledgeable guide, a brave and confident driver, and saw parts of San Francisco we'd only read about as well as sampling the usual tourist treats. Between the visit to Nob Hill and Golden Gate Park for tea at the Japanese Garden, we drove through the Presedio to admire the renovations,visited the Lincoln Park Municipal Golf Course (formerly the Chinese Cemetary), the Cliff House, the remains of the Sutro Gardens and took a walking tour through the alleys of China Town. The step into a different world at the Fortune Cookie Factory gave me the only San Francisco souvenir I brought home.

We located our favorite sourdough bakery for lunch with dessert at Ghirardelli but skipped the Sea Lion viewing, we have our own share of problems with those robber barons. This was our first time to walk on the Golden Gate Bridge and feel the vibration. I didn't go very far, that's not a sensation I like a lot, even on our local overpass.

We came home with a lot of new memories to absorb, reassured that the Oregon Coast is more user friendly than the northern California coast, and a list of things to see and do the next time we drive over the Golden Gate.

Last Night, as a member of Willamette Writers, I had an opportunity to be one of many in a short workshop on Marketing Your Creative Work with Melissa Reardon, author and artist. The presentation appealed because Ms. Reardon covered the nitty gritty elements of planning and marketing in a gentile way. No circus performance required. I came home with several new ideas I can put to use and a copy of her workbook, Marketing Your Creative Work. The workbook is available on her website www.earthdharma.com.

www.Jo-Brew.com

My reading of my latest novel, What Next, Ms Elliott?, this week went wonderfully well. The listeners were involved in the snippet of the story I presented and eager to go on. The turn out filled the small room, some attendees had read my books and made complementary remarks. My hostess was pleased and I was thrilled at the response. A project well worth doing.
www.Jo-Brew.com

At noon on Tuesday, April 24, I will be reading from What Next, Ms. Elliott?, at the Solvang Retirement Center, 1202 Jacobs Dr., just off Hwy 99 in North Eugene.
I will be the first speaker in their Brown Bag Lunch Series. The event is free and includes lunch. To register, call Elizabeth at 541 641 0490
www.Jo-Brew.com