A Valentine for my Valentine

It doesn't sound terribly romantic, but as I was watching my husband hold back our 5-year-old daughter's hair while she emptied the meager contents of her stomach this morning I was taken back fifteen years to the day to our first date. That's right. Our first date was on Valentine's Day (no pressure, right?).  I think most couple would not want top start their relationships on Valentine's Day, but for us it wouldn't have mattered, because I think we knew right from the beginning that this is where we would be. We just sort of fell in to each other's rhythms and never really looked back. Now, nobody is perfect and I'm not saying it's all been smooth sailing. But no matter what the issue we usually work our way around to the same page and haven't gotten bored with each other. When either one of us needs to hear a voice of reason, the other is there. When my inner hermit is winning and I just want to shut myself away, he draws me out into the world. Now, with two ridiculously smart kids who surprise us almost daily with their views of the world life is always an adventure with the Stoddard family.

My husband learned early on that I'm a creative person, and he never fails to encourage that. He made it his goal to get us to a financial position where I could stay home with the kids and pursue those creative endeavors, and he did. He's also willing to lend a hand with those things when needed. He's my alpha reader, and gives me valuable feedback on everything I write before anyone else. His internet geekery is responsible for this website. And he gets that there are a bunch of crazy things going on inside my head at any given time, and if I seem a bit scattered or inattentive it's no reflection on my feelings for him.

So we might be spending Valentines Day taking care of a child with a stomach bug, but that doesn't make it any less wonderful.

One of the best storytellers I know

I was driving home today wondering what I would blog about and lo and behold in my Facebook feed was a video posted by the local museum in my Mom's hometown. It's a video of my grandmother being interviewed by an elementary school student about her life growing up in the mill village. It took me back to when I was a little girl listening to the same stories. My granny loves to tell them, and though you only see a little of it here, she's a pro at building dramatic suspense. She also give us some clues why she loves to tell stories. She didn't grow up with TV or even the radio. She says herself that they used to read and tell stories. Story telling is an art that a few people carry on today, but it's easy to forget in the age of abundant content that most people of her generation had to make their own. I am inordinately lucky to have grown up with her perspective and her skill. Someday I will write a book about her but for now, I'll let you see for yourself. I'm off to call Granny.

You should also note the wallpaper in this video. It's a little faded, but so intricate and stunning. It was there when my Grandparents bought the house 50 years ago.

Also of note there's a picture of me from way back on the table beside the couch.

Don't Fear the Rewrite

About ten years ago (yes really, that long ago) I got the idea for the novel that I'm currently working on. It came in the form of a prologue. I know prologues are out of vogue, but I've checked and rechecked my reasons for having one, and I'm definitely sure it's the way to go. I wrote the prologue and was pretty happy with it. In the intervening years, I have outlined and written about half the book, other short stories, researched, had a career in corporate training, had two children, bought a house, sold a house, and generally lived a life. All of those things have contributed to my maturing as a writer. So, last year when I picked the novel up again after a hiatus, I read the prologue and was thoroughly unhappy. It meandered through the heads of the characters involved without direction. The descriptions were overblown and some of the dialog was down right syrupy. In the years since I wrote the original prologue, the characters have become clearer in my mind. I have even outlined a whole series of books with these characters. Two of them in particular aren't alive, during the main story line, so the prologue is the first of just a few places that the reader will be able to get their perspectives. The prologue should focus on them, and its original edition did not.

My years of writing training materials as a corporate trainer have conditioned me to write to an outline. It also got me used to working to a deadline, which I always managed to by keeping to an "always moving forward" way of working. If I get stuck on something, I move to something else until my mental block clears itself, or I find the information I need to finish. That's also why I always have multiple projects going. I'm always moving forward on one of them. So with that in mind, I was loath to spend valuable time going back and completely rewriting something that I had checked off my novel writing to do list. I told myself that I just had to get the rest out before I could go back and rewrite the prologue.

The trouble is, I floundered somewhere around chapter 9. As I was writing the rest of the story, the characters and events included in the prologue solidified in my mind more and more. I seemed to lose my way with the rest of the plot. I couldn't stop thinking about that prologue and how important is was to tell that story well before I could get the rest of it right. I finally had to bite the bullet and rewrite the darned thing. That's just what I've spent my few hours of true writing time for the last week or so doing, and I couldn't be more pleased.

What was unfocused and immature, is now true to the characters whose stories need to be told there. It has depth and subtext and foreshadowing that suggests where the overall series in addition to that novel will go. It doesn't reveal too much, but gives the right amount of characterization and a tantalizing glimpse of the heroine's back story. And best of all the writing doesn't make me want to hurl my iPad across the room as the original version did. It also has the added benefit of making me feel so much more focused about moving forward. I know some things in my outline need to be changed, what needs to be added and taken out. Rewriting took extra time that I could used to advance the plot, but it's also helped me refocus. Now, when I advance the plot I know I'll be moving in the right direction.

I have a confession to make

And I hope you won't take this the wrong way. I'm only half listening to you. It's not that I don't care about you, in fact I probably care more than the next person. But the fact is that while you're talking to me about; the weather, your job or your toddler's propensity for sorting his toy cars according to color, in my head is a whole other world. There a broad cast of characters is falling in love, catching a serial killer, or searching for the Holy Grail. They have lives and loves and histories that rival any of ours. This goes far beyond mere daydreaming. So if I seem a bit distant or respond in an awkward way, it's only because I'm caught up in the epic struggles going on in my head.

It's been this way for as long as I can remember. My parents will tell you stories of the whole worlds that I would make up as a child before I ever learned to read and write. I could shut myself in my room for ages and live out sagas of my own making.  I was and still am perfectly happy being alone. In fact, sometimes I crave it.

My AP History teacher in high school, upon hearing another teacher complain about me not paying attention in class was heard to say, "Well, Meredith has her own agenda." Mr. Ridgeway got it. He knew that even though I was sitting in his class and part of my brain was listening another part was in another world. He could handle the fact that on my desk was one notebook for taking notes and another for writing. Fortunately, I have run into a few people in my life who do get it. I treasure those people and occasionally give them my full attention. The part that was in class, incidentally kicked ass on the AP exam and got college credit for American History. Likewise the part of me that was present in my college classes made the Dean's List. Still, there is always that part of me that is in a cabin in the mountains, on a ship crossing the ocean, in Scotland/Mexico/Peru.

So, it's not that I don't like you or that I'm not listening, it's just that the people in my head are talking too, and sometimes they drown you out.

My spinning wheel comes full circle

I showed my Granny my spinning wheel, last week. I should point out that it was once her spinning wheel, although she never did learn to use it.  No one else in my family is terribly interested in the hows and whats of hand spinning. Don't get me wrong, they think it's cool. You should see my husband's face when he tells people I spin my own yarn. But if I go much further than, "look how soft this angora is" their eyes start to glaze over. I don't hold it against them. I get that way when they talk about video games or computer parts. But , with Granny it was a real treat to show my wheel and skills off to someone who knows a little about it, and at least understands why I love it. I should start with a little information about Granny. She is a very spry 94 and the healthiest, sharpest 94 year old you could ever meet. She also loves her family more than just about anything in the world. She grew up in a mill village in a small town in North Carolina, but my Granny never worked in the spinning room like so many girls of her generation. That was due to the determination of my great grandmother (the Original Granny). When most of the other girls in the village were dropping out of school at the ripe old age of twelve to go work in the mill, my great grandmother made sure that her children finished high school including her girls. So, when Granny graduated and went to work in the mill it was in the office, not on the floor.  My grandfather on the other hand dropped out of school at twelve and began working to help support his family. He knew how to do just about every job in the mill.  So, thirty years ago when my grandmother wanted a spinning wheel to spruce up her parlor, he wasn't going to buy her one that didn't work.

Flash forward thirty years and I've been drooling over spinning wheels and resisting shelling out $400+ for one in spite of my husbands repeated attempts to get me to buy one. I had settled on an Ashford Traditional and was just a few weeks away from ordering one, when I discovered Granny's wheel behind the sofa in the parlor. What do you know, it was an Ashford Traditional.  It was also in need of some reconditioning and repairs. So at Granny's urging I brought it home and got myself an Ashford Maintenance Kit and some wood conditioner and went to work. It only took a couple of hours to recon the wood and replace some of the hardware. A few Youtube videos and spinning books later, I was in business.

So just last week, I was finally able to show my Granny what I had learned.  So, I took the wheel up to my parents house where Granny was staying for the holiday and sat down to do two of my favorite things; spin and talk to Granny. I explained how the wheel worked and what parts I had replaced and then set to spinning. Granny was thrilled to see what I was able to do and naturally it sparked a lot of memories. She told me about how her mother used to load the warp for the looms, her aunt used to work in the spinning room and how my Grandad knew how to do almost every job in the mill. I told her about the different fibers and how each one spins differently.

I treasure those few hours in the mornings when I'm child free and able to do whatever I want. I usually reserve that time for writing. But that morning was one of the best I've had in a long time. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The Inspiration for "The White House"

Years ago on our first trip to Beaufort, NC my husband and I were sitting atop the rather conspicuous doubledecker bus that provided tours of the beautiful historic town. It was a hot July afternoon, and I'm sure we would have been more comfortable in the shade of the first level, but I'm a sucker for historic architecture and was willing to endure the heat to have an unobstructed view. At the edge of the historic district stands a 2 1/2 story white house with a 2 story porch on a slightly raised plot of ground, it's view from the street slightly obscured by trees. The vernacular architecture enthusiast in me identified the "hall and parlor" layout of the first story. It was also clear that this is one of the oldest houses we had seen on the tour. The tour guide called this the "Hammock House" for the slight rise on which it was built.  She also told us some of the many legends attached to the house that had been at that location almost longer than the town. The story that stuck with me the most was also the story that also was the murkiest without many supporting facts or specifics. The Hammock House first appears in a 1789 map of the coast and is prominently identified as The White House. However, it is believed to have been an old establishment by the time that map was made possibly dating back as early as 1713 when the town was first being planned. It is believed to have been an inn or ordinary. According to the earliest of the legends. Blackbeard was a regular guest, as the inn's location and Beaufort's deep natural harbor offered strategic advantages. On one occasion he is said to have brought his "wife" there on a visit. After staying at the inn for a few days, the pirate is said to have left and left his "wife" hanging from a tree in the back yard.

Of the many stories that I heard that day, this is one that sparked my imagination. I immediately began imagining scenarios that would have led to such cruelty, not that a notorious pirate would need much inducement to be cruel. What kind of woman must she have been? How had she come to be with Blackbeard? The story sparked so many questions that I had to learn more about the pirate, the town and the house.

In my research I discovered a couple more stories that further inspired me. Blackbeard's ship, the Queen Anne's Revenge, ran aground near Beaufort inlet in 1718. In 1996, marine archaeologists discovered a shipwreck near Beaufort Inlet that they are almost certain is the Queen Anne's Revenge. Some believe that Blackbeard grounded the ship on purpose as a sort of downsizing of his crew. I was fascinated by the idea of the pirate intentionally abandoning the ship that had served him so well and on the idea of pirate layoffs. What strategy would drive the pirate whose career seemed to be at it's height to jettison one of his most useful tools?

Another character that I came across in researching was Israel Hands, a person that not much is known about. As a writer that gave me a bit of freedom with which to flesh that character out. I also found intriguing, a story from Daniel Defoe's "General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates". During a card game, Blackbeard is said to have attempted to shoot another crew member, but hit Hands in the leg instead. When asked why he had done it, the pirate is said to have responded that “if he did not now and then kill one of them, they would forget who he was.” which is to say "the BOSS". This sent my mind down the line of questions about how a man maintained rule over a crew that at it's zenith numbered around 300 cut-throats. By all accounts, Blackbeard was notoriously ruthless, not just with the people of the ships and towns he terrorized but also with his own crew. We can only speculate that it was that kind of behavior that inspired loyalty out of fear, but also inspired the kind of pragmatism that cause Israel Hands to testify against the corrupt officials along the North Carolina coast who helped Blackbeard elude the colonial authorities for so long.

All of these different aspects of the Blackbeard and Hammock House legends went into the creation of my story "The White House". I have tried to weave these loose bits of legend into characters and a narrative that attempts to answer some of those questions inspired by what we know of Blackbeard, his crew and this one of his many wives.  Although the story is set in 1718, the questions that it attempts to answer about power, love and humanity are timeless.

The White House is now available via: Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Noble

Passionate Stitches

The striking young woman in this photo is my great great aunt Mattie Verb Minga. That's right her middle name was Verb, and it fit. Aunt Matt was a woman of action, a woman of passion. Sometimes it lead her in the wrong direction like marrying and divorcing the same man twice. Sometimes it lead her to great joy. When Mattie was in her forties and single she adopted the infant child of a cousin who had died in childbirth. Everyone thought she was crazy, thought the boy would need a father, wondered how a single woman working in the mill could support a child. But she did it anyway, and my cousin Gene grew up to be a well respected policeman, veteran and a great father himself.

Our family was large and tight-knit, as families that spend several generations in the same small town usually are. Still Aunt Matt was at every family function. Christmas, summer trips to the beach, anytime we all got together, someone went over to the little house next to the old company store to fetch Aunt Matt. For some folks we might do that out of a sense of duty. My great grandmother, Mattie's sister, did ask my grandmother to take care of Mattie before she died. But the truth is it was because we loved having her around. She's been gone 23 years now, but I can still hear her gregarious laugh. She always had a way of finding things to laugh about, be happy about, even in her late eighties when she rarely left the house. I remember going with my grandmother to visit Aunt Matt in her little house in the mill village and sitting on the ottoman next to her chair and watching her crochet. She was so practiced that she sped through the stitches and rarely had to look down at her work. Even late in life when her health was waning, she never stopped making things.

Aunt Matt's hands were never idle. My grandmother's house is full of things that she made from a plarn (yes, 1960's plarn from bread bags) rug on the threshold in the kitchen to a lace canopy and bedspread on the double canopy bed upstairs. Every Christmas the stairs are lined with crocheted snowmen, and Santa Clause dolls and the tree is hung with lace snowflakes and angels that she made. When my children were born I was gifted with jackets and blankets and hats that I had worn as a child that were made by Aunt Matt and that I am keeping for my grandchildren. She didn't just crochet. Here is a photo of her working on a quilt that spent years on my parent's bed and that I'm sure my mother still has. Aunt Matt was always making something, and everything she made was a beautiful expression of the love that she had for the people around her and of her passion for life.

I've made a lot of really beautiful things in my years as a crafter, but I don't think I've ever been more proud of the work that I've done than I was at Aunt Matt's 90th birthday party, an event so big that we held it at the church. I had made a pillow out of yarn that my grandfather had brought home from his job at the NC State Textile Engineering dept. It was just a big white granny square tacked to a big white pillow, but it meant everything to me as a crocheter and it still does. Now, whenever I finish a project, I can almost feel Aunt Matt patting my hand and laughing with joy the way she always did when we did something she liked.

Sadly, my cousin Gene passed away last November and his bright beautiful daughter years before that. The little house by the company store belongs to someone else now as the mill village is becoming gentrified. There aren't very many of us who remember Aunt Matt, but the beauty of the things she made and the abundance of her work will show for generations.

*This is a re-post of an article I wrote for a now defunct blog about my craft business.

Fiber in the Blood

This grainy photo is one of the few that I have of my grandfather smiling. It's kind of odd, because with his grandchildren he was often joking and laughing. But he didn't care for having his picture taken. He wasn't much for crowds or meeting new people. What he was was a good hearted, incredibly strong and smart individual but he didn't broadcast it. He just was all of those things and more.

My grandad was a weaver. He started working in the Glen Royal textile mill at the ripe old age of 12, and worked in textiles most of his life. He worked his way up to being a weaver at the Royal mill and when the mill closed he found jobs at other mills and eventually worked in the Textiles School at NC State. He found a home there and worked there even part-time after his retirement. Having worked to support his mother and younger siblings through much of the depression, he was always thrifty and as the textile students experimented with spinning yarns of different materials and textures, Grandad salvaged most of that yarn the would otherwise have been tossed and brought it back to my Aunt Matt and others who would find uses for it. To this day my grandmother, mother and I have cones and cones of yarn that was saved in crazy colors or unexpected textures.

I am not a weaver, but I have always been fascinated by the workings of large looms, their speed and complexity. There can be something hypnotic and fascinating in a well woven fabric. That's something that I'm sure I come by honestly. I was lucky enough to have my Grandad until I was an adult, and I wish every day that my husband and children could know him. The many photos of him unsmiling or looking away from the camera just don't show the kind of open-hearted goodness that he spread to those of us who knew him. I still feel it every time I feel thread slide through my fingers.