Pennies

I think one of the qualities of a writer is the ability to step outside his own skin and see things from a different perspective--to turn events into stories.

Many years ago, I remember reading a story about a woman who remembered her father every time she saw a penny on the ground.  The reason is a little more shrouded in mystery; I think he probably gave her pennies for candy or some such thing.  Whatever it was, making that connection turned a mundane and easily overlooked event into a connection with memory.  Ever since then, when I encounter a stray penny, I think of my own dad, not because of pennies but because of a storyteller.  it warms my heart and there are a lot of stray pennies out there.

By way of contrast, I once tried to read The Red Dragon and gave it up early on (but not early enough) because it was so graphic and connected too closely with the ME world I worked in.  Sometimes, unbidden, those images surface even now and I shudder--a story once told cannot be un-told and the images it raises are forever in the mind.

The power of story teller is to shape the world, one heart and one relationship at a time, for better or for worse.

Making Jelly

The entire cohort of Harty sibs (my family) were fortunate enough to grow up with parents whose life on the farm imparted to us certain rapidly disappearing skills, among them making jelly.  On his last visit here, my brother raided a neighbor's blueberry patch and left us two jars of his best jam (pictured)

The side of Little Cone, outside of Telluride, is covered with wild rose bushes that, in the fall, yield a bumper crop of rose hips.  Unlike their robust cousins from the East, these hips are small and hard to pick, buried as they are amidst thorns that have not been tamed for commercial purposes.  It takes hours to pick enough hips to make jelly and because I never remember gloved, my hands are left scratched an bleeding.

But what a joy to spend an autumn morning picking and the afternoon, especially if the mountains grace me with the gift of a storm, cooking up rose colored jelly to pass on to family and friends.    Here's a recipe if you want to give it a try:

4 quarts rose hips
5 quarts water (add more if needed to fully cover the fruit)

Wash and stem the rose hips, then boil until soft.  Mash (or process) the rose hips and strain through cloth to produce rose hip water.

1 granny smith apple, peeled, cored and finely diced
1 cup golden raisins


Add the apples and raisins to the water and cook on reduced heat until the apples are tender and the raisins are plump

6 cups (or thereabouts) of sugar)
1/2 c chopped walnuts
Pectin according to box directions (1-2 pouches, depending on the acidity of the fruit.  Too little pectin will result in loose jelly)


Add sugar to the mixture and bring to a rolling boil and continue to cook for several minutes until mixture thickens a bit.  Add nuts and pectin and continue on heat for another minute.  Put into clean, sterile jars, close with lids and process in a hot water bath.

Storytellers

Among my nick-nacs are several storyteller dolls.  These are traditional Pueblo motifs, open-mouthed adults with children gathered around to listen.  It's an image of passing on the wisdom of the elders, cultural literacy in clay.

It strikes me that, as a culture, we've lost control of our storytellers.  

All of us have stories to tell and those stories either build up or they tear down.  Either they bring community or they tear it apart.  There's very little middle ground.

What stories do you listen to?  What stories do you read? What stories do you tell?  

It makes a difference in where you are going.

In the Company of Friends

I've just returned from Catholic Writers' Conference Live!--the Catholic Writers' Guild meeting in Schaumburg, IL.  Great fun!  I had the chance to give a couple of interviews and schedule another. High cotton indeed for a first time novelist.

Dying for Revenge actually began its journey at a similar meeting a few years ago.  I went, along with my literary agent, to pitch the book to several publishers who were holding court.  I remember the butterflies--I was as twitchy as a drop of water on a hot skillet.  But the folks I talked to were kind and interested and it was the start of the road to publication.  Interestingly, my publisher was the president of the CWG that year.  (She doesn't remember me from that meeting, but I remember her..particularly when she took the podium and asked whether we could see her behind it.)

Writing is such a solitary occupation, just a person and a computer.  It's really the perfect occupation for an introvert, but even introverts need to get together with like minded folks once in a while.

Like minded we may be, but not at all alike in our work.  At the books signings, everything from children's books to well-researched references were on display.   And the authors, all there to meet and greet:  Here a priest, there a friar, a mother who lost a child, another who's a dynamo and prayer warrior, a teenager, a surfing champion, a successful businessman, a television personality--it would be hard to find a more diverse group, but one drawn together by their love of writing and their faith.  And next year I will remember to bring a rolling cart for the books I bring home.  I have my reading list for some weeks to come.

I'm not well enough recognized for anyone to ask me advice about writing, but just in case someone does, here's my first suggestion:  Find a writer's conference and go! There's something exciting about being among other writers, sharing stories.  It's what writers do, after all.