Reflections - Being Myself       

JW's Author Page for the Literary Coffeehouse

Had I misunderstood my friend? I reread her February email a third time.

Alas. I hadn’t misunderstood.

Ellen Byham, founder of Beautiful Balance Inspirations, asked if I . . . would be interested in presenting a short 15 minute class at the Literary Coffeehouse on Saturday, April 18^th on "Tips for Blogging." Would you also present one of your short stories?

I wanted to support Ellen. I could read one of my stories. But pose as a blogging expert? Though I’d blogged since September 2014, I only loaded content. Would the folks attending know more than me? Would I sound foolish? Would I disappoint Ellen? 

Hedging, I typed, I could probably do that. Let's talk details on Saturday if we have time.

After the Saturday Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters (MVP) meeting in the Saegertown Library, I said, “I’m not sure what I have to offer.”

Ellen waved her hand and her voice bubbled with excitement. “Oh, just give the basics. You’ll be great.”

Half convinced by Ellen’s optimism, I shelved her idea in the back of my mind. I had time.

 

But near the end of March, I dithered over which project to submit for the April 4^th MVP meeting. My subconscious dished up the blogging tips topic. Gulp. I only had the title. Settling at my desk, I typed facts and links into the computer. Since including photos was one tip, in the top left corner of the handout I pasted the photo from my first blog—our cat Emma lounging by a pot of mums.

The list overflowed the page, my limit for basic tips. Maybe I did learn something in twelve years. I cut and condensed.

Fact sheet assembled, I switched to paper and pen for brainstorming a talk. Fat tabby Ande snored on the bed. He had a point. Facts aren’t riveting. I didn’t want to read the handout for the talk. So I sprinkled facts into personal blogging stories.

 

I tuned into the MVP Zoom meeting April 4^th. Though the participants could only see my turtleneck and stringy hair around my face, I squirmed inside as if the video tile exposed me in my birthday suit. Would the personal approach, the way I blogged, come across flat instead of funny.

 

 Last year, I was preparing a blog about my adventures auditing our township’s finances. I asked one of the auditors if she would let me borrow her hat to take a picture for the blog. She said, “Sure. But . . . what is a blog?”

Her answer surprised me. It shouldn’t have.

When I moved to French Creek township, I joined MVP to receive help with my writing. One Saturday in 2014, Babs Mountjoy, who has published so many novels she’s lost count, said to the group, “What Janet needs is a blog.”

I had no idea what she meant. I went home and asked my husband.

Blogs are . . .

Across the Zoom screen heads straightened and faces brightened.

The six writers agreed. “The handout’s informative. Personal stories are great.”

And they offered pages of suggestions to improve both the handout and the talk.

*Expand why people blog—test ideas, market products, share hobbies, poems, stories, and photos.

*Add post on a regular schedule.

*Clarify the warning that a blog is published material and traditional publishers may not accept content posted on blogs.

I uploaded my 418^th blog post, “Reflections - Celebrating Harold,” the next day and took a screenshot for the back of the handout. Studying the Pennwriters’ comments, I tweaked my handout and workshop talk. Ready.

Literary Coffeehouse Flyer

Or so I hoped.

April 9^th, while standing in a calm yoga pose, a fiery stab pierced my lower back. I gasped and eased onto the mat to lessen the pain. Sharp throbs attacked. I rolled on my side, gritted my teeth, and grabbed a table to pull myself upright.

Spence was in Cleveland and our son Charlie was at work. Our biggest tabby, my yoga buddy Ande, stared at me with worried eyes. Had I shrieked? Maybe he didn’t expect this behavior for the yoga routine. “We’ll go downstairs now.”

Clinging to furniture, railings, and walls, I inched downstairs to the linen cabinet. I grabbed the heating pad, shuffled to the desk chair in the bedroom, and plugged in the medical device. Relief.

Ande paced by my feet and demanded pets.

After three days, I no longer held onto furniture and my gait improved to shuffling like a rusty robot. But I still switched on the heating pad whenever possible. I wrote my rheumatologist over the patient portal for advice. Am I suffering a pinched nerve? Am I experiencing a flare-up? Am I just deteriorating?

Her physician assistant answered. It should continue to improve. If it doesn’t in the next few days, try a steroid pack. Heat and gentle stretching would be good. Avoid bending over for a prolonged period.

Okay. Another arthritis flare-up. The assistant could have added don’t pick up anything heavy, like my yoga buddy Ande.

Every day the week before the Literary Coffeehouse, I settled at the desk with the heating pad toasting my back and read my story. Even though the writers had tweaked individual words, I jotted ten main points on a note card and rehearsed a casual talk for the workshop. Ande lounged on the desk and purred.

Around noon Saturday, April 18^th, Spence drove me to the Literary Coffeehouse, Ellen’s event to raise money for her youth writing contest at, where else, the Active Aging Meadville Center. Carrying my car seat cushion in one hand, he held my hand with his other to steady me for the walk inside. I shuffled like a stiff robot rather than with my previous rusty robot gait and glanced over my shoulder. I feared some staff person would approach me to sign up for services because I looked like a likely candidate.

Instead my friend Christa greeted me with a hug. Her face wrinkled in concern when Spence explained the arthritis flare-up. “I can be her runner.” Her rosy cheeks glowed.

Next, Spence explained my back issue to Ellen. Ever flexible she said, “We can pull out one of those easy chairs from the corner for you. Whatever is comfortable.”

Comfortable for me would be not to stick out. “I’d like the Pennwriters display pushed into the circle of writer’s tables. I’ll sit behind it and talk with people who have questions.”

Spence and Ellen pushed the smaller Pennwriters’ display table into the circle of writer’s. I set the car seat cushion on a straight back chair and observed the group.

Spence put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be back by two.”

“I won’t be done then.” I straightened in the chair to ease my lower back pain. “I read at two twenty-five and will present the workshop at three.”

“I know. I’ll be here if you need me.” Pulling keys out of his pocket, he headed off to recycle his motor oil.

Guests trickled into the event. Several gathered at tables in the middle of the room and sipped coffee or nibbled yummy desserts. Most people flowed around the room and talked with writers.

JW at Pennwriters' Table - Photo by Spence

A few stopped to talk about Pennwriters, including a grandmother and her eight-year-old granddaughter. “Oh, the group is for adults.” The grandma frowned. “Not for you.”

“What kind of stories do you write,” I asked the little girl.

She blushed and twisted away.

“She draws more than writes.” The grandma opened a cloth bound journal revealing sketches and captions.

“Ooh, you write graphic novels. Do you read Dav Pilkey?”

The girl beamed at me. “I read Dog Man.”

“She thought she might see Dav here today. She thought he was from around here.” The grandma closed the journal.

“No, he’s from Cleveland. I met him there once and he’s really nice.” I don’t like to disappoint children, but the girl raised her head and looked me straight in the eyes. Maybe hearing about her favorite author consoled her. “Keep writing. Graphic novels are popular.”

The young writer exchanged smiles with her grandma.

By the time I needed to hobble down the hall for my reading, Spence had returned and was tapping computer keys at one of the guest tables. I shuffled off to the blue room. He could catch up.

Spreading a copy of my story, “Red-Tail Mystery,” across the lectern, I peered at the audience of between ten and twenty. Too nervous to count, I read. “The red-tailed hawk provided clues, but I didn’t connect them.”

Spence grinned at me from the back row. People remained quiet.

“Red’s hooked beak and curved talons—all ending in sharp points—reminded me that Red was a bird of prey. I halted. He may not have minded if I got closer, but my churning stomach did.”

The audience didn’t laugh at jokes the way Pennwriters do.

The loud voice of the reader in the green room—a thin sliding-wall away—distracted me. Figuring it might distract my audience too, I raised my voice to an I-mean-it teacher level.

In front of me, a woman sagged with head bent and eyes closed. Had my story put her to sleep? When I read the climax, "Red's dead," however, her eyes opened wide and she jerked upright. I stifled a laugh and continued reading to the last sentence.

“In nature, death renews life.”

The group clapped politely. Spence gave a thumbs up. As I left the room, a man leaning against the wall reached out and touched my arm. “I thought your story was great.”

Fifteen minutes later, wobbling and aching, I carried my car seat cushion and folder with workshop materials down the hall to the kitchen classroom. Setting the cushion onto a metal chair, I plopped and gritted my teeth. Aching back or not, I would do this.

Three ambled in and chose seats across the table from me—a ten-year-old girl with long blond hair, the twenty-something illustrator of books named Abigail, and her fiance. He only attended to keep Abigail company. The other two wanted to create their own blogs. The girls observed me as if they were lip reading. After two stories—and this trio chuckled at my jokes—I spied the clock. Five minutes left. Yikes. I set the note card on the table. They could read the handout. “What do you want to blog about?”

The ten-year-old hunched forward and hid her face behind her long hair. “I’ll post bible verses and write about them.”

“Do you have an adult to help you? A teacher or someone?” I didn’t want this sweet youngster on the world wide web without supervision.

After a long pause, the girl pulled her hair away from her face. “My mother can help. She’s on the internet all the time.”

“Terrific.” Her mom would keep her safe. “Have fun with your project.”

Abigail said, “I’ll probably post the recipes I’ve adapted and my wedding plans. I’m getting married in September.” She gazed into her fiance’s eyes.

My romantic heart melted with the warmth radiating from the young couple.

“But I want to keep my blog private.” The skin on her forehead scrunched. “Just for a few friends and relatives.”

Dread of a technical question disappeared. “Post on Facebook or chose a free Google website. People need a link to view free Google sites.”

I didn’t need to pose as a blogging expert. I didn’t sound foolish. I didn’t disappoint Ellen.

I was enough. I could be myself.

JW Reading "Red-Tail Mystery" - Photo by Ellen