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How Much of Myself Is In My Writing? #amwriting #mfrwauthor

Here we are in week 3 of the MFRW blog hop. All authors with blogs are welcome to participate. Each week, authors use MFRW’s writing prompt to create a meaningful blog post. Authors will post every Friday or as often as possible. Click here to check out other posts for this week.

Woman in the MirrorHow much of myself is in my writing and/or characters? That’s a good question. When I start to create my people, I already have a little kernel of knowledge of who they are in my mind.  As the process of getting to know them takes shape, the character asserts himself/herself and I find that, like with a new friend, there are habits or hobbies, jobs or locations that we share. Is it intentional on my part that we have these things or places in common? Maybe. Although I have been writing since I was fairly young, I’ve only been writing for a few years ‘professionally’ to one day publish a novel. So, I’ll leave it at maybe. Maybe I possibly, almost certainly, intentionally put me in my stories.

Tell me about your process in the comments. Do you appear anywhere in your writing?

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blog hop, memories

My Earliest Memory

It’s week 2 of the MFRW blog hop. Please be sure to check all of the other participants here.

I gave this topic plenty of thought. There are some memories that stand out, they may not be the earliest but are definitely remembered fondly. I asked my mom about some of my earliest times and this is what we came up with, my earliest memory was a snowy day. I was fairly young, maybe four years old when I saw it. I grew up in the southern part of the United States so we didn’t see a lot of snow, really none at all. My dad mentioned that snow was in the forecast for that night and that it might be a heavy fall. I must have asked what it was and how loud it would be when it fell but he told me to get ready for bed and I’d see in the morning. I went to bed wondering if the fall would wake me up during the night.

The next day, I ran to the window in the living room of our second-floor apartment, opened the curtains and there was all of this white stuff all over the ground, the cars, and trees. The day looked extra bright and shiny because the sunlight bounced off of the snow on the ground and it still floated down from the sky. There was no loud noise when it touched the ground. That stuff didn’t look heavy. I guess I was disappointed because, you know, when you’re four everything is supposed to be exciting and dramatic. It wasn’t. Dad bundled me in my coat, hat, and gloves. Me, dad and mom went outside to examine this phenomenon. Snow covered the stoop and steps. We stepped off the last step onto the ground.

snowman-1210018_1280

My feet sank into snow up to my ankles. It was cold and wet. Not sure I liked it. Mom picked up some snow, rounded it into a ball and handed it to me. It looked like the colored iced cones we would buy from Mr. Taylor’s truck in the summer only this one was white. I licked it but it didn’t taste like Mr. Taylor’s cones. Disappointed again. My parents decided to show me what we could do with snow. We made a snowman just like the poor little fellow pictured above. We then had a snowball fight and later took our frozen selves inside to warm up in front of the heater and drink hot cocoa.

In later years I grew to like and appreciate snow because as I said it doesn’t snow much in the south but when it does, businesses and schools closed and I like that!

So what about your earliest memory? Tell me in the comments.

 

Favorite Things, MFRW 52 Week Blog Hop, writing

Favorite Thing I’ve Written

2018 is here and I’ve joined in again with the MFRW 52 Week Blog Hop. Hello to returning authors and welcome to new authors.  I hope everyone had great holiday celebrations. This week’s topic is ‘Favorite Thing I’ve Written.’ You can check out other favorite stories here.

I have a few WIPs that I like. Nothing else is published yet other than this blog, but the first story I ever wrote will always be special to me. I ‘self-published’ it when I was 8 years old using cardboard cut in the shape of a hardcover book (it even had a spine), green construction paper to resemble a book jacket and a magazine photo of a young girl glued to the front. I stapled the story pages together and glued them inside my book.  I had dreams of being a writer at that age and had already written plays that family was duty bound to act in.  Back then I had no fears of bad grammar or story rejection because I made good grades in English class and considered myself brilliant. The story was based on Michael, my first crush and a classmate of mine, who was the most beautiful boy in the world. Both of our last names began with the letter C, so we sat near enough to each other for me to gaze at him all I wanted without me getting caught. I finally understood why my older cousins got all sappy over some of the boys at church.  I developeafrican-american-children-black-boy-and-illustration_csp45219222d plans for me and Michael that involved him noticing me, us smiling at each other, saying hi, passing that all-important note asking if I liked him, getting married and living happily ever after. See how simple life and love was when I was 8 years old.

Michael’s name became Charles in the story so he would never, ever know I wrote about him. My main character, Amanda, lived on a farm in the late 1800s with her parents and her cousin Abby.  Since Amanda had to be older than 8 years old to marry Charles, I placed her age at 18 years. The family had been invited to a dance in town. Everyone dressed in their Sunday best climbed into the wagon Amanda’s father used for hauling supplies and lumbered to town. The music was loud and lively at the livery stable where the dance was held. Charles stood at the door with his dad greeting people. He saw Amanda and promptly fell in love. He smiled at her, went over to her family, asked her dad could they dance. Her dad agreed. They danced, fell deeper in love and married a week later.  The end. That’s so dreamy and wonderful, right?

Five years later at our 8th grade Valentine Ball when we were 13 years old, Michael asked me to dance. We danced to three songs. *Sigh* Dreams do come true. We had a happy for now ending because, at the end of the school year, Michael’s family moved out of state. But our love will forever be immortalized in my very first romance story.

Tell me about the favorite things you’ve written.