Architecture

är'kĭ-tĕk'chər

As I sit here in Prague, by my new writing window, I am profoundly inspired by the architecture of this beautiful ….14^th century old city.  The skyline is absolutely magnificent. Prague has literally been a textbook of architectural styles throughout the centuries. 

So today the muse that has inspired my writing is “architecture”  a Latin word dating back to the 16^th century ….meaning ”the complex and carefully designed structure of something - a particular idea or project.”

Much of my professional career was working with Architects, where I witnessed the evolution of many beautifully designed buildings and the process of how their creative minds approached their work.

I consider myself an “architect” in my own space of writing… in designing the structures of my stories. 

Writers, like Architects, plan, design and review the construction of their story projects.  They create their story structure and use this creative process of organizing materials and components with consideration to mass, space, form, volume, and texture to achieve all layers of their construction – what is functional, practical and artistic.  Stories rely on carefully designed structures to help them function.

As a story architect, I think about the structure early and often.. As soon as I get my idea, I start by considering the best way to tell the story.. there are lots of choices in structure and no right or wrong in your design.  I believe the right structure depends on you and the story.

 

I often consider several alternatives and try different structural approaches.. There are so many structural approaches (to name a few) …Narrative Structure – Inverted Pyramid – Martini Glass – Conflict/Resolution – Circular Story.

 

As a writing Architect, my efforts are to understand the elements and patterns that determine the makeup of a story and how these elements are arranged and designed in actual narratives, fictional and nonfictional. 

Avant-garde / Carrier

Dancing House  Built during 1992-96 by Frank Gehry and Vladimir Mulunic, the Dancing Building is a piece of controversial Prague architecture, the delightful design of the building, nicknamed “Fred & Ginger” for the way the building mimics the forms of a dancing couple.  One would consider this an avant-garde movement….

 

Writing Architect - Bonnie J. Rough

When Modern Architecture was first practiced, it was an avant-garde movement and it gave rise to many new lines of thought and design.  Bonnie’s new book may be considered and avant-garde movement – “pushing of the boundaries” of what is expected of a memoir structure.

Recently I met Bonnie Rough, who has just published her first book – a memoir.

  

For me, memoirs can be complex and creatively challenging.. a powerful writing structure – it is the unique unfolding of a person’s life.  When I read a memoir, I want to walk in their shoes and feel the pulse of the story…

While there are enormous variations in designing the structure of memoirs, I believe you will enjoy Bonnie’s structural design in her book Carrier - she goes beyond craft and turns inward towards the heart of the matter.. 

In Kara Garbe’s blogspot (www.karagarbe.blogspot.com), she reviews Bonnie J. Rough’s new memoir Carrier …“She doesn’t completely follow the “rules” of memoir in her book, Rough’s book is pushing the boundaries of memoir, and I’ll be curious to see what other people think about it.  

I personally loved Rough’s Memoir – a beautiful piece of architecture. 

Colors Across The Page

Spilling Colors Across the Page

As the color orange was splashed across the Centrum today I realized the power of color, the profound effect it has on how we feel and the emotional association we tend to have to particular colors.

I love the color black. Which is really the absence of all color.  But for many of us it is our “color” of choice.  It is a color that speaks “notice me but do not intrude” and discreetly lends to a sense of mystery.   Black is also referred to as “Saturday’s color”.

The Dutch’s use of “orange” for Queen’s Day significantly created a celebratory mood and atmosphere for their holiday.  Orange is a social color that expresses energy, and today, it was a pulsating splash to landscape…

I try to be mindful as I walk through food and flea markets and flower gardens.  I am always searching for color descriptions that occupy my mind and surge my imagination. I spend time reflecting on the past, thinking of colors and shades that not only produce emotions, but bring back clear memories..

I attempt to use color in my writings to create the scene and mood.  I believe color adds life to a story: variety, depth and texture.  I enjoy providing a vivid visual journey – painting brilliant hued words across the page, deepening the reading experience. I am often skeptical of overdoing and sometimes struggle to remember that a passing hint of color is sometimes enough to stir the senses and imagination.

…It’s all about laying your palette on the page, and coloring your writings! 

May’s Color is Orange

Oranje

Color Oranje

Before the umbrellas took presence in the skies there was this bright vibrant orange landscape that was forbidding gloominess to appear.   On this last day of April, the morning skies were darkened with a solid layer of cumulous grey clouds and there was a fragrant smell of rain in the air... The warm moisture and low pressure heightened my sensitivity to smell… the tree-lined canals were fragrant with spring blossoms.

Today the Dutch celebrated Koninginnedag ("Queen's Day"), most widely celebrated holiday in the Netherlands.

Festivities spread like a wave through the city. Dam Square became a fair ground. We browsed the kennels’ flea markets and listened to live bands play outside bars. The barges were jam-packed with celebrators fully clad in orange. Music blasted from huge sound systems and a solid pack of beer-drinking merry-makers were the spectators on the bridges.

The city transformed itself into one vast orange sea of people: Fashioned in orange caps, hats, feather boas, jackets, clogs, socks and face paint. Orange balloons floated in the air and tied around the lantern-style street lamps. Orange-themed window provided creative play for their displays. Pastries smothered in orange cream icing were begging to be eaten.

The color orange has royal roots in the Netherlands dating back to Willem van Oranje, today it symbolizes a broader pride in the country and in being Dutch.

Umbrellas were folded away, the sun warmed up the festivities and the orange took on a golden hue through out the Centrum… Night fell upon the city, the techno music grew louder, dancing continued in the streets and there was a glow of the “safety orange” in movement.

Long lives the Queen!

Notebooks

Writer’s Notebooks

“A notebook is a place to gather what inspires you.”

Today a cloud cover blankets the city and those getting ready for Amsterdam’s Queen’s Day.. The canal dredgers are searching their way through the canals recovering drowned bikes. The crowds are growing in enormous numbers; up to one million will occupy the Centrum. So much activity is spinning around me; everywhere I go I want to remember the scene, the senses, the story – I have this fixation to jot down all the important little details - that is what makes my writings come alive for me. I need to write my inspirations and thoughts before they leave me. I reach for my camera, my Rhodia notebook and I begin my script…. crunching loud racket - splashing murky waves swelling with boats in these 10 fee deep canals – waterways sealed from the North Sea more than one hundred kilometers of canals, 90 islands and over 1300 bridges- bridges lined with horrified tourist shocked at the 6 to 8 foot high pile of rusted dark slim coated steel bikes – tires flattened, twisted, missing, crunched, big bionic orange steel arm plunging unmercifully into the dark waters, the claws open and closing, smells of gasoline, switch of the wind ……details details filling my pages..

A French Treasure

Rhodia

I am a blank book collector.

Shyly, I admit to my extravagant little secret of collecting blank books. Of late, I learned that Jimmy Buffett collected blank books, and like mine, they too remain blank. Somehow this validates my compilation of all my beautifully hand stitched blank books. There is something mystifying about a blank book that drives my obsession.

But my Rhodia notebooks are quite different. My family of Rhodia notebooks are my “incubators”; they are a safe place to keep the birth of my ideas and a warm place where the seeds of my stories are germinated… where ideas gather and inspire me.

My Rhodia gives me a place to live like a writer, a place to share what moves me.

I fill my 5 x7 graphed-ruled notebooks with flavorful dialogue. I am learning to listen purposefully wherever I go and I am training myself to notice the sensory details around me.

I use my Rhodia notebook, not as a diary, but a notebook to hold what I have noticed and don’t want to forget: they hold ideas for all sorts of writing projects, my muses, quotes and my most favorite, unusual, new and remarkable words... I love words!

I leave the Netherlands after three months where I have filled seven Amsterdam-orange-colored Rhodia notebooks – they will safely travel in my carry-on.

Yes this is my French treasure - a Rhodia notebook: The Rhodia name comes from Rhone, a river flowing by Lyon, that separates the Alps from the Massif Central. The Rhodia logo trees symbolize the two founding brothers of 1932. To this very day, members of the family are working at the company; next year marks their 80^th birth of these notebooks.. Thank you Rhodia!

When something stirs inside of you, take out your notebook and write!

Life Letters

Life Letter

“The history of the world is not complete until your story is told. Your life is a legacy, a gift that only you can give. Like the campfires of old, stories light our way, stir our spirits, and warm our hearts.”

It is nearing the end of our stay here in Amsterdam; today we sat canal side enjoying the fragrance of spring and the warmth of the mid-day sun. This canal corner is one of the busiest of the Centrum, it being the entranceway for the river traffic – the entrance into the floating maze of the four main - 1280 bridged - canals. Bikes and vehicles are constantly mingling their ways through one another; makes me anxious.. It is chaos of movement and people watching at its best.

The accordion player was my muse today. While he serenaded us, my mind drifted back to my father; I closed my eyes and envisioned that it was his fingers moving across the accordion keyboard like he did when I was a child.

“Today, I hold close what memories I have of him and those I don’t have.”

I was born the last child of an already raised family; I have a different set of memories and a limited knowledge of my family’s legacy.

As I am passing through a time in my life that I crave to know more, I crave for that conversation I never had or the letter that was never written. I possess a few 3x3 black & white childhood photos but I have no words, nothing that describes what was in my parents’ or grandparents’ hearts.

A post-marked manila envelope arrived early February and I was curious as what was concealed inside. It was my birthday and this just seemed too oversized for a traditional birthday greeting.

Clipped together were several typed pages.. My eyes immediately glanced at the first words….

“Several memories are still very vivid and I will attempt to share them with you with this writing”

I felt clamminess in my hands and the fast pulse of my heart.. The words were traditionally aligned on the stark white typing paper. I hesitated to begin. I had the same anticipation a reader gets with a new book….

I held in my hand a Legacy Letter from my oldest sibling… beyond all my material wealth and possessions, this might be one of the most valuable gifts I have ever received.

…”These now have become the treasured memories that I didn’t experience but I hold closely… a true gift from the heart”…

Memories

Memories

Passage:

As I reflect on my early childhood, several memories are still very vivid and I will attempt to share them with you with this writing.

We lived in quite a large home in the little town of Balta. Five bedrooms on the upper level, the lower level consisting of formal dining, living rooms, master bedroom, Dad’s office, kitchen, etc. A detached double garage was across from one of the two lawns in our yard. The house no longer stands as it was destroyed by fire several years ago.

The public school was located about three or four blocks from home. We had Catholic Nuns for teachers, how they were able to teach in a public school remains a puzzle to me. Dad served on the school board for several years.

I remember my first bicycle, about five years old, and rode it to Church every summer morning for daily Mass on gravel roads,. Grandpa and Grandma (mom’s parents) lived across the street from the Church, which afforded us the opportunity to visit them on a daily basis. Grandpa at one time was the Mayor of the town of Balta. He was a very respected man in the town and the outlying communities. He was the Standard Oil Company distributor for gasoline and oil, the business which he subsequently sold to Dad.

When Mom and Dad got married, Grandpa (dad’s father) gave them a farm just south of the original homestead. After a couple of years or so, Dad sold the farm and purchased a bar and dance hall in Balta. He sold the business to his brother-in-law and he then went into the oil business. Dad’s business provided all the necessities even during the days of WWII. Dad was very generous not only to our family but to others in need.

The family farm, where Grandpa and Grandma lived was about sixteen miles northwest of Balta, which offered us the opportunity to visit them often. As a very young boy probably nine or ten, I would drive a team of horses to and from the harvesting area loaded with grain. Grandpa would be sitting on his favorite chair next to the grain elevators awaiting every trip. When I reached the age of eleven or twelve I drove a tractor pulling the combine. Grandpa had retired and Uncle Nat was doing the farming at that time. Grandpa was not only a successful farmer but also a carpenter by trade. Grandma was kept busy raising all the children and in the summertime tending to her large garden. I enjoyed my visits to the farm where we were able to ride the horses and enjoy Grandma’s delicious dinners…..

Eye Prefer

Eye Prefer

Eye prefer sitting here window side in an Amsterdam Kennel writing…

In the moonless hour of the morning I made my way through the dimly lighted Portland Oregon neighborhood to my favorite coffee house. The morning chilliness called for being wrapped up in an oversized wool scarf and wearing my sheep skinned boots. As I entered this antique decorated small sized establishment, my home away from home, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods and the warmth from the ovens wrapped around me like a soft winter blanket. Coffee awakened my senses and my cravings ….

I found my place window side; the table lamp provided a soft glow that warmed up the space and this is where I settled in. I love this space.

On this particular day I was to create a narrative, a character-profile of myself using the two-worded muse “ I prefer”.

My writing became simplistic and rhythmic - my fingers performed across the keyboard, like a guitarist fingers his guitar strings. The assignment pulled me inward – my challenge was to find the preferences that described who I was – what was my greater taste for one thing over another…

I gained great insight to my “preference”, my character. This assignment was an inspiration and a challenge. I appreciated the stretch.

I Prefer The Dragon Fly

Dragonfly

I prefer “Blues”.

I prefer black.

I prefer the snarls of long curls.

I prefer the fit of pants to the looseness of a dress.

I prefer the height of stilettos to the soles of running shoes.

I prefer the chaos of the city to the normalcy of suburban dwelling.

I prefer the nakedness of a minimalist to a blanket of clutter.

I prefer a convertible to hard tops.

I prefer a new sense of consciousness.

I prefer opportunity to luck.

I prefer lattes to the drip.

I prefer creative non-fiction to novels of mystery.

I prefer the power of a meditative bath.

I prefer creative and quiet spaces.

I prefer a still camera to cinematography.

I prefer the art of long hand to stroking of keys.

I prefer being behind the camera to being in front.

I prefer the existence of two as one in longevity.

I prefer the company of family to commitments to friends.

I prefer calm to drama.

I prefer integrity without compromise.

I prefer big skies and field of grain.

I prefer the light of morning to the night’s darkness.

I prefer to have no expectations to being disappointed.

I prefer peace and rebuilding to the tortures of war.

I prefer traveling to undeveloped countries.

I prefer humanitarians and spiritual journeys.

I prefer the sanctuary of the Dragonfly.

February 2008 - PNCA Writing With The Muse