“Does Grandpa always wear the same clothes?” my 7-year-old granddaughter recently asked my daughter.More here, my latest on Fathers for Good.
Just keep writing.
The numbers don’t lie, but they can offer a false sense of security.
If I’m “only” 50, then I’m middle-aged, right? Yes and, probably, no.
Yes, that’s the common term for anyone that age; but no, it’s not likely you’re at the halfway point in your life. That’s in your rearview mirror.
These days, “young” can slide all the way up to 40, and it’s commonly accepted that “middle-aged” is 40 to 60. But 60-plus is ...
Some say 60 to 80 is “young old.” And 80 and up is “old old.” That makes sense, and not just because those in their 80s consider those in their 60s “pups.”
But the truth is, those of us who don’t die young or middle-aged will, at some point, begin to realize — and grudgingly accept — that the curtain has opened on our personal Act III.
And there we are: center stage.You can find the rest here. (And speaking of rest, I believe I'll go take a little nap.)
But when I think back to Sunday dinner with Grandma . . . When my children speak of Sunday dinner with Mom and Dad . . . There’s a feeling, a tenderness that colors everything. A love was shared between the youngest and oldest generations. The food and drink satisfied the body, but it was that loving relationship that filled the heart and soul. We all need that love at every stage of our lives.
Simply put, the first and second corporal works of mercy can be a lot more than corporal.
When a Character Refuses to Obey You
This may not have happened to you yet but I wanted to put it near the beginning of this book so that you’ll recognize it when it does happen. If it happens. Don’t be frightened but there may come a time when one of your characters—even a reliable one, one you really like—will say or do something on his or her own.
It’s . . . aliiiiiiive!
I’ll give an example. In my novel Pope Bob, two recovering alcoholic priests are talking about how their drinking influenced their lives and their ministry. The older of the two, the one who’s helping the younger, says:
“During that particular blackout, I missed my mother’s rosary on Tuesday night and funeral on Wednesday morning. I was to be the celebrant. I was going to say the Mass. One of my sisters never forgave me and I never held that against her. She was right. Three years later she was killed in an automobile accident and hadn’t set foot in a church since Mom’s funeral. Wanted nothing to do with a religion that had a priest like me. And still I drank.”
I, the author and creator of that character, was astounded! I had, and have, no idea where that came from. Yes, it came from me but . . . . What he shared was so sad! There’s been nothing in my life like that. Nothing I recall reading about that’s similar to it.
But there it was.
In some ways, writing a novel is nothing more, and nothing less, than putting some people into a situation and watching them try to get out of it. And eavesdropping on them as they do it.