THE THREE MONKEYS

     The Three Monkeys see, hear and say nothing but writers? We use all our senses to absorb everything and anything that would add
 to our stories and articles. Traditionally, we have five senses—See. Hear, Taste, Smell, Touch, that stimulate memories and spark our
 ability to compose a piece of non-fiction or tell a tale. Wherever we go a small notebook is tucked in a pocket or purse, another rests on the night-table next to our bed. The notebook at the ready for a description of the leaves you watched flutter and fall as a sharp breeze blew. We all see things differently and objects change with the light. One person may see leaves tremble, another believes the the leaves are dancing their way towards earth. Sometimes when we sleep, dream, walk, wash the dishes or brush our teeth, our brain remains busy gathering fragments of information formed by our senses that lead us to tell our story.

     We hear many sounds that occur at the same time, but how many do we listen too? It’s thought to be one or two at a time. A sound offers delight to one person, concern to another. A skinny limb from a nearby tree falls and startles. Sprightly music on your smart phone lifts your spirit. The crunch of a cucumber refreshes and that leads to the purple tomato, and the thought of its tartness awakens an appetite and you think of the pungent tang of sour pickles, the aroma of rich Colombian coffee.

     The day turns cold and sends shivers racing up and down your bare arm. You rise from the bench and hear a sound—could it be a strange bird you had never heard before—drops of rain wet your face, you look up; the sound comes from a baby squirrel, perched on the skinny limb of an oak tree. You hear the music and but you no longer listen; your concentration is now on the squirrel. Is it hungry, lonely, afraid? The light changes as the sky darkens, you can smell the damp and it begins to drizzle.

     Nerve endings that enable us to feel hot and cold, textures or pain are complex. The rain grows stronger; soon it begins to pour. Your sweater is soaked and you race for the exit, slip into a pool of stagnant water that steeps your sneakers, your socks, your feet in cold, wet, dank liquid and all you think about is standing under a hot shower.   

     Home—you step into the shower stall and under the water’s warmth, you day dream and begin to think of all the sensations that bring the right line, the new facet of a character, the time and place where the story must happen.      

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DIFFERENT HATS

    

     Brand—a mark indicating identity or ownership burned on the hide of an animal with a hot iron. A trademark or distinctive name identifying a product or a manufacturer. These are two of the definitions of brand to be found in the dictionary. 

     I am a manufacturer because I produce words, form sentences, tell a story but I believe in reinvention of self and enjoy wearing different hats—I don’t have a distinctive brand.

     I feel fulfilled when I write non-fiction—engrossed in reality’s fascination and the revelations that research brings to a topic. The surprise of finding the unexpected, amusing, unknown. 

     I’ve read mysteries since childhood—beginning with Nancy Drew; growing up I began to write them. Sometimes my tales change when a character chooses to take his or her action. The cozy mystery I wrote with a little help from the characters was published by Carina Press and now I’m about to send another on its journey to seek a future in a world of readers.

     At times, I feel a play will reflect what I want to say. It calls for actors to step on-stage and bring the dialogue and the plot to life. My ideas come from everywhere. Eavesdropping, a storied past mentioned by an acquaintance, someone in the family—all tell me something I have to fictionalize. and write about while writing non-fiction brings the past to life. I can’t choose between them.

     Do you have a brand? 

     Bests,

     Elise

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TIME TRAVEL

     When it’s time to write, I pack my mental suitcase and embark on a journey to another time, another place, another world—sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century. Characters introduce me to their friends, family, lovers, and enemies. The place sometimes reminds me of somewhere else—perhaps somewhere I lived in the past. A place I dreamed about or passed along the way to somewhere else. Perhaps a spot on a map I studied or a figment of my imagination.

     The way to discovery can be hard. Obstacles loom when and where you least expect them. I wonder if I will make it—if writing The End at the end of a story or novel is worth the struggle. A contrary protagonist often insists on going her own way—we argue a lot. The antagonist isn’t the mean character I intended; I find he’s managed to unearth my admiration for his cleverness, his charm. A lot needs to change and I have to change it.

     “I’ll help you,” he whispers in my ear.

     “Don’t listen,” she says.

     “Quiet. Both of you. I’m the writer, I’m in charge and I have to do some serious thinking.” Do I really believe I’m in charge?

     I begin again. Where are we? Where did the journey take me? Is the place rich or barren? The people complacent or miserable or reasonably content? What period of history are we in and how does it affect my characters, my people? Who are my characters? Rich, poor, somewhere in the middle? Are they in want or do they want more? What do they need? What do they seek? And why? Why? Why do they do the good, the bad, the unintended? What are they looking for and what am I looking for?

     I take a long walk and try to clear my head—no cobwebs allowed. I decide to read but all that thinking had tired me; the book drops from my hand. The table-lamp is still on when I wake the next morning. I reach for the pen and pad next to the bed and begin writing.

Bests,

Elise

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