Our 1st Challenge

Since each of our work
will be posted on a page,
I think we should start off with something
that tells a little bit about ourselves.
Keep in mind,
it can take any form and does not have to be a poem.







The Photograph

The picture was from 1956: black and white,
with deckled edges reminiscent of a time gone by,
the kind of old photograph that you tore out of
the yellow Kodak booklets. Depicted upon its mottled
surface was a small child in a snow suit of gray wool,
a white angora hat atop smooth, blonde hair.
I touched the picture gently.
“What a sweet little thing I was,” I mused.
And then, “I don’t understand!”

My heart clenched as I gazed into the face of
the me of so long ago. I had never been able to come
to terms with the fate of the little girl in the photograph.
So sweet, so loving: God’s most precious gift,
treated like so much garbage.

I look sad in the picture.
Traces of tears are faintly visible.
Most of my childhood pictures look like that:
forlorn, saddened, emotionally abandoned.
But there it is.
These are the facts of my life and they cannot be changed.
What happened, happened.
The experiences of my childhood cannot be denied.

Was I really ever a child?
The eldest of three, I was the “outlander”
as my younger two siblings were by
my mother’s second marriage.
Nothing was good enough for them -- somehow,
I was simply not good enough.

I remember Christmases where my brother and sister
would receive many toys and gifts of watches, clothing, candy.
I would receive one pair of underwear, or maybe a robe.
I was not allowed to complain as it was not in
“the spirit of the day.”
If I did, I was sent to my room.
If I tried to explain that my feelings were hurt,
I was pushed away.

This continued until my eleventh year where I descended
from an emotional desert into hell.
My stepfather’s drinking had escalated to the point
where he spent as many nights in jail, or on a curb, as home.
My mother was gone for days at a time with her “boyfriend,”
and there we were, three children,
alone in a vermin-infested house which usually had no heat,
electricity, hot water or food.
I became care-giver to my brother and sister.
I struggled to keep us together, collecting pop bottles
which I would sell for two cents a piece to buy bread, milk,
an occasional jar of spaghetti sauce and spaghetti.

When I was twelve, I found a job washing dishes
in a nearby restaurant earning six dollars a week.
My job was to stand on an orange crate and wash dishes
from 3:30 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. It was grueling work,
but the money helped to provide more than bread and milk
to my brother and sister. Since, by hiring me,
the owners were breaking the Child Labor Law
which stated a child had to be 15 and have a permit,
I would have to hide beneath the sink if
the health inspector came in.
I was warned that if I told anyone about my job,
I would be fired.

So when asked by our next door neighbors
why I was out so late,
I would say that I had been at a friend’s.
I lied to them when they asked where my parents were.
I was too ashamed to tell them the truth, too worried about
losing my brother and sister, too afraid to admit
that we were basically abandoned, that our parents didn’t care,
that I was afraid, that I was lonely, so desperately lonely,
that I hungered for love more than I did for food!

Eventually my step grandmother came and took
my brother and sister into her home,
leaving me alone in that mouse ridden,
emotionally and physically barren house.
It was then I made the decision to never allow anyone
to treat me like that again.
In my adult years, if someone hurt me or betrayed me,
I would express my feelings about it.
I would say “You can’t do that to me!
I am Debra!
I am worthy of love!”

I am 53 now.
Many years have passed, some good, some bad.
I have spoken out when I felt that I was wronged,
but also when I have felt loved.
My child tells me everything and he,
without a doubt, knows that he is not garbage.
He will not be abandoned.
He knows that he is deeply, deeply loved.

And so, the adult I am,
has been able to “mother” the child I once was.
Through loving my son
I have been able to heal so many wounds and,
the little girl in the woolen snow suit
and angora hat knows - she is loved.

© Debra Shiveley Welch







Challenge Prompt - The WHERE I'M FROM


I am from the vineyards of Alsace,
from the forests of Britain and
the tee pees of North America.

I am from a white farm house atop a hill,
rolling pastures, deep woods, the smell of hay and manure.

I am from Snapdragon, Tiger Lilly and tall leafy trees.

I am from farmers wise in the ways of the earth.

I am from Countremans, Shiveleys and Gaffins
who believed in hard work, God and rain.

I am from generations of men and women who
tilled the earth and asked no man for aid.

I am from "He who will not work, neither shall he eat”
said with stern face framing sparkling, loving eyes.

I am from Baptists and Quakers:
“Thou shalt not kill, covet, lie, steal.”

I am from a small steepled church
nestled within the hills of Sourthern Ohio.

I am from pastures, lowing cattle and salt licks.

I am from fields shooting forth tobacco plants,
tall corn, alfalfa.

I am from hay filled barns, three legged stools and tall,
shiny cans redolent with the scent of fresh, warm milk.

I am from the garden: ripe tomatoes and corn,
green beans and onions.

I am from the spring house,
cool and refreshing on a hot summer day,
filled with cured hams and bacon.

I am from a mother who walked away
in search of a better life and found heartache instead.

I am from the south end, rag tag houses falling down,
gaunt children staring from sagging front porches.

I am from a catholic church built tall:
gilded and marbled, smelling of incense.

I am from rosaries and chalices.

I am from Ave Maria.

I am from God.

Debra







Prompt & Response - August 2007

What piece of advice would you offer to other writers,
especially those afraid to put their feelings into words?

What do you consider to be your greatest asset as a writer?
Your greatest liability?

Who do you admire the most in the world of writing?

How does, or did, this person inspire you?


----------


Once upon a morning dreary,
As I pounded my keyboard, weary
Over some poem with which I was bored,
While I sipped my coffee cooling,
Thinking to end a stanza unruly,
I dropped a participial upon the floor.
Oh, 'tis nothing, sugar rushing,
'Tis a mistake and nothing more.

Still, I continued with my tapping,
Unceasingly typing, my work unraveling,
Using comma after comma evermore.
Now my brain whirling with my writing,
Adjectives dazzling, so inviting,
Tapping tapping at my keyboard,
My editor crying "Nevermore!"

The sun now moved upon my window,
Silhouetting a stately willow,
Creating in my fevered brow,
A lust for wordiness galore.
Still I was tapping, my mind unscrambling,
Quelling spelling evermore.
Quoth my editor "Nevermore!"

Unmoved I continued with my tapping,
Tapping until my fingers sore,
Thrilled me with their swift endeavors,
Using clichés evermore.
Faster, faster, typing now,
Sweat upon my fevered brow,
Ending sentences with prepositions evermore,
Quoth my editor, "Nevermore!"

And my editor, never flinching,
Sits at her computer convincing,
That I am doomed in grammar evermore.
As I tap tap out my sentences,
Semicolons and commas inventive,
My editor shall trust me nevermore.

© 2007 Debra Shiveley Welch


----------


Excerpt from "Creating Your First Book"

Learn to take criticism

It's nice to hear someone say, "Oh, I just love your work!" But does this help you?
Maybe a little, but honest constructive criticism is your best tool
for improving your writing skills. Sometimes, the people closest to you,
are the worst ones to listen to about your work.
They will either tell you that you are brilliant, when you are not,
or not talented - when you are! Some may even tell you to give up.
Only you can decide if you want to go on,
and if the need within you to write is great, then go for it.

Write, write and then write

Write every day.
If you are blocked on your current project, write a practice exercise.
Keep the juices flowing and your creativity active.
Writing is not like riding a bike....if you get lazy and don't practice,
you will lose a lot of your skills. The more you practice,
the better you will get, but if you don't use it, you will lose it.

Practice - indulge yourself in writing exercises.

For instance, pick up a piece of fruit.
Smell it, feel it, taste it. Now write about it.

Make your reader smell, feel and taste that piece of fruit.

Step outside. What do you see, hear?
Describe what you see, hear and smell,
so that a reader will feel like they are there.

***

My greatest asset as a writer is my ability to write in vivid, living sentences.
You can see what I see, smell what I smell, taste what I taste.
My characters are believable and well-defined,
allowing the reader to believe that they exist.

My greatest weakness lies in my understanding of punctuation and verb tense agreement.
I tend to write the way I speak, and this often gets me into trouble.
I have to pay proof readers and an editor to save me from myself. :-)

I truly admire Taylor Caldwell.
Born in Manchester, England in 1907, she was a prolific writer until a stroke in 1980.
She died in 1985.

I began to read Ms. Caldwell's works as young as age twelve.
I found a book called "Melissa" at a rummage sale for 25 cents.
I loved her writing and began to search for more of her works.

Taylor Caldwell had the ability to take me out of my life
and into whatever world she had created.
She was a visual writer and could write scenes that were vivid and alive.
It was from her writing that I honed my skills
and it was Ms. Caldwell who instilled in me the desire to write.


My favorites of her works are:

The Earth is the Lord's: A Tale of the Rise of Genghis Khan (1940)
The Strong City (1942)
The Arm and the Darkness (1943)
The Turnbulls (1943)
The Final Hour (1944)
Melissa (1948)
The Devil's Advocate (1952) -
speculative fiction about a near-future totalitarian America
Maggie - Her Marriage (1953)
Never Victorious, Never Defeated (1954)
Tender Victory (1956)
Dear and Glorious Physician (1958) - life of Luke the Evangelist
The Listener (1960)
A Prologue to Love (1961)
Man Who Listens (1961)
To See the Glory (1963)
The Late Clara Beame (1963)
Grandmother and the Priests (1963)
A Pillar of Iron (1965) - life of Marcus Tullius Cicero
Wicked Angel (1965)
No One Hears But Him (1966)
Dialogues with the Devil (1967)
Testimony of Two Men (1968)
Great Lion of God (1970) - life of Paul of Tarsus
Captains and the Kings (1972)
Glory and the Lightning (1974) - life of Aspasia, mistress of Pericles
Romance of Atlantis (1975) (with Jess Stearn)
Ceremony of the Innocent (1976)
I, Judas (1977) - life of Judas Iscariot (with Jess Stearn)
Bright Flows the River (1978)
Answer As A Man (1980)

I still have every book of hers that I've purchased and continue to re-read them.

© Debra Shiveley Welch







Click HERE
to visit my WWAUW Writings page.

Click HERE
to visit Debra's personal website.













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