Tag: writing

When Inspiration Struck

On By SimonneBradenLeave a comment

I was barely fifteen the first time it happened. It came out of seemingly no where, but it hit me so hard I couldn’t do anything else until I got the words on paper. I liken this to throwing up – I didn’t get a choice. It was happening and it was happening now.

It still happens to me.

It was the inspiration to write. The words and sentences were congealing in my head, like an epic poem as I walked into my World History class, almost disorientated by all the words. I opened my notebook and let the words flow out through my pen. The words were streaming faster than I could write, my cursive barely legible, except to me. I intuitively put an asterisks by words to look up in a thesaurus later – a practice I still use in pre-writing and first drafts. The words were coming too fast to stop and edit. I spent the full forty-ish minutes of class pouring out the lines of poetry.

Once all the words were safely on paper, they were a bit tangled, but at least I could calmly edit them now, with the torrent ceasing. Once inked, I felt relieved, calm, and satisfied. I can only describe it as an afterglow.

Naturally, it was about a boy. He was unlike anyone I had ever met before; we were carved out of the same stone. I had successfully located another outsider, an old soul trapped in a teenage body with eyes that radiated a cyan light.

Our attraction in the romantic sense was short lived, all things considered, yet it would reverberate in the years to come. The undisclosed moments we shared were proof that locks don’t keep our kind out and we both had the uncanny ability to disappear into thin air unnoticed. It was great for making out. We took on personas like Christine Daeé and The Phantom with the Opera House all to ourselves.

This muse and I lost contact over the years. I wish I could have gotten his take on these days of so long ago. All that remains are some blurred memories and this poem, edited 25 years after it was penned.

The poem I wrote is as follows:*

My World of Darkness, Covered in Light
The raining of the soft seasonal drought has cast its shadows again
The dimness unknown to the naked eye
Only a controlled vision in the snow
White as the clouds on a rainy day
Or so was thought

Has the deep unseen wind started blowing?
Only the sands of time will tell

Deep within the blackness
Of the light of day
Has the rain stopped?
Once the rain flooded the meadow
Does it move away?
A season of complete dryness
Time has repeated itself once more through the heavens

Running like a child throughout the fields of a serene setting
Running without end
Running without purpose
Smiling at the sun that shown up above
All seems peaceful
Even the lone tree, standing tall
Roaming over the plains
Avoiding the darkness
Baptized in the light of the nighttime
The sun still shines on this world of darkness, covered in light
How long will it last?
Only the waves of time will tell

The path has brightened the silver lakes on the land
Silver lakes of mercury
Churning away at the crisp air
Living on the highest mountain
In the lowest valley
Crawling on the flooded land
Searching for water
Dying a wonderful death
In a world of darkness, covered in light

The abyss of togetherness gushing out from under the sea
Crossing back out from the sun
On the side of the ocean floor
Wondering and wandering under a quiet starless sky
To the gentle beat of his heart
Like the waves of a summer storm
A calm gust of wind
Connected by the straits of separate seas
To sail the land once more

The light and the darkness merge into one
As the leaves scatter about
Like the night chases the day
In a continuous circle
A circuit without end
Knowing nothing of what lie ahead

Crying out into the opaqueness of the midnight
And the moon cannot hear
For it is too far away
Bolting from nothing, going no where
Looking up to the sky
Delirious with confusion
The comfort of the land is more than can be endured
Uncertainty hangs in the air
Like a foggy morning in this world of mine
A world of darkness, covered in light

* Yes I am aware some of the rhetorical devices do not make sense and the trail this poem goes down is more of a deer path than a groomed one. But such is the life of a teenager in love.

Writing Retreat, Day 2

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14 March 2020

I woke up to sunlight streaming through my window and drinking coffee out of can. It’s not my preferred way to enjoy a cuppa, as the cute indy cafe down the street called my name before all the virus stuff hit, but it was certainly better than what the hotel provided.

I headed out to the beach for a run. There were a decent amount of people out there, but I managed to avoid them all. I promised myself 20 minutes out and 20 minutes back. It was a perfect morning on the strand with bright sun and cool temps. I savored ever moment, as I knew this could be the last time I’d get to do this for awhile. My husband was almost certain we’d be under quarantine orders soon. I returned nearly an hour later, showered, and got myself settled with a glass of wine at the wobbly desk with that sliver view of the ocean, ready to write the first chapter.

A friend popped up in my inbox with an urgent edit for a newsletter for a non-profit, so I did that. I wasn’t as quick as I thought I would be, but as it turned out, it was the perfect exercise to get into writing mode.

The good Lord knows what you need.

Like starting all things, it took a moment to get going, as I had to research my opening line. I didn’t get started on the book until 1pm, much later than I anticipated – two chapters wasn’t going to happen, so I only focused on one. The story I had to tell was very linear, and I had the details – although they jumped around, as my interviewee’s ADD kicked in. My pre-writing was the notes from the interview, I probably should have organized the thoughts in a true pre-writing fashion, but by taking them organically, it all came together.

A few hours later, I was in need of more wine and food after I got about half way through. Word count was rising and I felt good about the content. I took a break to watch the world burn on cable news and checked in on my husband back home. I picked up the story where I left off and the words kept coming. It flowed like a brook over stones. I finally stopped a little after midnight, the story wrapped up in a bow, the chapter complete.

In 11 hours, I had pushed out 3,700 words.

As I snuggled into sleep, another idea popped up, so I quickly scribbled that down. I had to force myself to go to sleep and stop thinking about the chapter. I turned off the laptop so I wouldn’t be tempted to copy edit.

Outside of downloading the writing program Scrivener, locking myself in a hotel room to write was one of the best things I’ve ever done as a writer.

I can’t wait to do it again.

Writing Retreat, Day 1

On By SimonneBraden1 Comment

13 March 2020

I’m holed up in a hotel in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with a partial ocean view. I can see a sliver of the ocean from the corner of the room where I write, but it was a cheap hotel. I’ve stayed in worse, I’ve stayed in better – but for what it is, it’ll work. Between the ocean waves, the loud cars on the strip, and the drunken tourists, it’s everything I thought it would be.

I turned off the AC unit and opened the sliding glass door to my balcony and it’s made all the difference. Cityscape noise is a great background to writing for me.

My goodness, I need to be in Paris!

I almost cancelled this trip because of the coronaviruus. I had my cafes, restaurants, and bars planned out – but I scrapped all that for meals I can make in a microwave to avoid the public and a bottle of wine. Still, I don’t think anyone got the memo there is a pandemic of epic proportions underway.

I’m basically self-quarantining in a hotel, after wiping down every surface in here with bleach wipes.

I’m surprised there are so many people here. My favorite so far were the twenty year old couple from a college in Michigan who didn’t realize the hotel had age restrictions when booking for spring break. I think they got it all sorted out with the help of parents.

I received some unexpected good news my first night: my first ever book proposal was submitted to a publishing world person to read – and it came back to me copy edited! COPY EDITED! I thought I was going to get the “No publishing company would ever read this drivel” or “It’s okay for a start, but….” and instead it came back with copy edits. I want to cry I am so happy! I’m doing my best not to get a fat head over it.

Tonight was a warm up with some wine and light writing. Tomorrow the real stuff begins – writingthe first two chapters. I have all my pre-writing research done, it’s just a matter of spinning the words into chapters.

But I’ll do all that after coffee, breakfast, and a beach run.

Spending 2019 with Gilbert & George

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All of this began as literary methadone to come off of the BBC production of Sherlock. I wasn’t ready to for the series to end (series 5 isn’t even filming) and so I turned to Arthur Conan Doyle’s original works by downloading the entire Sherlock Holmes collection. It pacified my cravings and I feel reading the older works by one of the best helps me as a writer by expanding my horizons. I also got to experience London in the late 1800s from someone who was there.

It’s taken me ages but I’m nearly finished with it. Now, my addiction has transferred to English writers from 100 years ago. Luckily, there are many options to feed my Anglophile literature problem. Keeping with the theme of compilations, I’ve turned to Gilbert and George. I haven’t met them yet or read any of their writings, but I think we’ll be on a first name basis before too long.

Gilbert, or G.K. Chesterton as his name appears on the cover of his books, has been on my mind since my other favorite BBC program of a character he created, Father Brown. I’m excited to read the original Father Brown stories and branch out into his other nonfiction works like, “What I Saw in America.” He is a Christian writer and I can’t wait to get his slant on life by comparing and contrasting it with today’s world. The book contains plays, nonfiction, fiction, and essays – at a little over 6,000 pages, it should hold me for awhile.

George, known better as George Orwell, is the other. 1984 has been on my list for ages, and with the way America’s government has decided to off-road in a minivan in recent times, I am looking forward to his thoughts from the past. His other titles also intrigued me – “Down and Out in Paris and London” sounds like something directly up my alley.

I plan to comsume vast amounts of tea as I jump feet first into the past with these two English blokes and their perspectives. 

I wouldn’t wait up if I were you, but I’ll leave a light on.

The First Time

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“I think you’ll really like this one,” my high school boyfriend said to me as he handed me an old tattered copy of The Black Shrike by Alister MacLean, a Scottish author, published in 1961. My family was leaving for our yearly retreat at the cottage on Lake Huron and I was in need of a novel. He assured me it was an adventure book and a real page turner. I had no idea what a shrike was, let alone any color variations of it, yet I trusted his recommendation. 

I would be in my thirties before I found out a shrike was a bird. It had nothing to do with the title. Then again, maybe it did?

I remember sitting on the beach, sun tanning in a bikini on a towel when I began reading. A few paragraphs in, I had to stop for air.

Oh. My. 

I was only 17, but astute enough to be completely blown away by MacLean’s writing style. As someone who had not yet experienced alcohol or sex, this was the literary equivalent to both of my vices. His words hit me like a shot of expensive high quality vodka and washed over me like the first touch of a lover’s naked skin against my own.

I was hooked.

I tore through the book as if someone else was paying my bar tab and it was a passionate one night stand that would end with the sunrise.

The story is told by John Bentall, a scientist who was also a secret agent for British Intelligence. He got pulled to a top secret mission with a co-agent, Marie, who was to pose as his wife, much to John’s chagrin. The duo get sucked into a treacherous web of lies and double crossings, complete with a bait and switch minefield. The ending has so much of a twist that you’ll find yourself upside down on the last page, wondering what on earth just happened.

John was a loner, like myself, and his bluntness combined with a parched British sense of humor, need for the truth, flawed logic, cunning intellect, and ability to push through anything by sheer determination melted my heart. If he were real, I’d have dated him.

I got serious about writing in 2016 and looked to authors who came before me for inspiration: Alister MacLean was at the top of my list. I read Where Eagles Dare – my German came in handy for deciphering the play on words in the title – the flawlessly executed banter between the two main characters delighted me as both a reader and a writer. The Blake Shrike never left my beach bag this summer, as I re-read it for the third time – this time through the eyes of an author. I’m still amazed at his ability to craft words and scenes. I wish I could share a drink with Alister, picking his brain about life and writing. I’d love to know his inspiration for this story, but he died when I was in elementary school.

I may never hold a candle to my writing hero Alister, but I’d certainly love to try.

An excerpt from the second chapter:


But there’s no perfection in a very imperfect world: the locks on the bedroom doors of the Grand Pacific Hotel were just no good at all. 

My first intimation of this came when I woke up in the middle of the night in response to someone prodding my shoulder. But my first thought was not of the door-locks but of the finger prodding me. It was the hardest finger I’d ever felt. It felt like a piece of steel. It was a dully-gleaming .38 Colt automatic and, just in case I should have made any mistake in identification, whoever was holding it shifted the gun as soon as he saw me stir so that my right eye could stare down the centre of the barrel. It was a gun alright. My gaze travelled up past the gun, the hairy brown wrist, the white coated arm to the brown cold still face with the battered yachting cap above, then back to the automatic again.

“O.K., friend,” I said. I meant it to sound cool and casual but it came out more like the raven–the hoarse one–croaking on the battlements of Macbeth’s castle. “I can see it’s a gun. Cleaned and oiled and everything. But take it away, please. Guns are dangerous things.”

“A wise guy, eh?” he said coldly. “Showing the little wife what a hero he is. But you wouldn’t really like to be a hero, would you, Bentall? You wouldn’t really like to start something?”

I would have loved to have started something. I would have loved to take his gun away and beat him over the head with it. Having guns pointed at my eye gives me a nasty dry mouth, makes my heart work overtime and uses up a great deal of adrenalin. I was just starting out to think what else I would like to do to him when he nodded across the bed.

The Black Shrike, by Alister MacLean



A Different Kind of Card for Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is always hard for me, as a woman who can’t have children. 

Picking out a mother’s day card for my mom and mother-in-law is bad enough. I always feel uncomfortable in that card section and the sticky sweet sentiments make me gag. It’s like happy Christian pop rock to my shaded rock ‘n roll soul. It’s not me.

After watching friends have kids – and listening to their sordid stories – I realize that motherhood is not this idyllic 1950’s ad campaign concept. It’s my understanding that although there are precious moments, there are far more vomit/poop/tantrums/utter chaos/cringe worthy moments. It feels weird to gloss over all this with a flowery mother’s day card. The day is to celebrate moms, no? 

I decided to do something different a few years ago. I sent my mom and mother-in-law emails in lieu of cards, with a short blurb. The sentiment? Happy Mother’s Day and thank you. 

For my mom, I thanked her for being strong. She raised us without any extended family support, without a church family, and had no help from my father in terms of child rearing. She really went at it alone. I thanked her for all she did in those early years that I didn’t notice then.

I thanked my mother-in-law for raising such an amazing son. With his dad constantly traveling for work, she too raised her kids alone. I told her that I know my husband turned out so well because of her influence on him – his kindness, love for animals, and amazing cooking abilities.

I got replays back, both of them thanks in return. My mom said she got teary eyed. I heard from my sister-in-law that whatever it was that I wrote, really made an impression on my mother-in-law.

I challenge you to write a thank you card rather than a Mother’s Day card this year, especially if Mother’s Day is difficult for you. And if you are a mom, you know how much a simple thank you goes to such a thankless job.

Take a moment to thank them for their beautiful sacrifice and acknowledge their impact in your life.

Birthdays of 2018

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November has officially arrived in my world and brought the chilly air with it. A mere few days ago, I was sweating on my lunch walk, basking in the warm sunlight, thankful for the last sweet days of summer. It’s a reminder that winter is near and a new year will begin soon.

I spent 2017 being introspective with my project of picking a theme each month to focus on, and with the roller coaster ride that was my year, it gave me an anchor for my restless soul. By keeping my focus on the Lord, I was insulated by the current and sparks 2017 created: I am still standing.

With 2018 not far away, I wanted to do something else as a year long project, but with less focus on myself. I wanted to take the lessons, trials, and encouragement from this crazy year and apply it to others. I also wanted to focus more on my writing to benefit others. How could I accomplish that?

The idea had been rolling around in my head for awhile, but in 2018, I am going to put pen to paper and make it happen. I will send a birthday card, snail mail, to those in my world. The card will be a blank cardstock with a personalized message to the receiver. Store bought birthday cards are super expensive, blandly impersonal, and are usually thrown away. I hate those. The ones I buy are from Hobby Lobby, 48 for $10, which comes out to 21¢ a card. In some cases, I also plan to send a postcard – another perk of living at the beach. If it’s thrown away, so be it. If it’s kept, I hope it will bring a smile, a comfort, and a tangible reminder that someone was thinking of them on their special day.

I have this knack for remembering dates, I love writing, and this may be a great way to reach out to others. It also keeps me on a deadline.

I’m excited to do this, and if all goes well, I may make this an every year thing.

My Writing Routine

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As a writer, unless I have a pressing deadline or project – or become spontaneously inspired – I don't have much of a routine. I know. I'm working on changing that.

I read this book that revolutionized my writing approach. Free writing and pomodoro timing was a brand new concept to me that I quickly worked into my writing habits. Free writing made the first chapter of my book possible, as I had all these stories and research to sort through – I was able to organize and write simultaneously.

Pomodoro time was essential to my technical writing course with all the reading and essays to write. It gave me a sharper focus, running against the clock knowing I could take a break soon. Without these skills, I would be struggling.

My sitting room is where my iMac lives and all of my writing takes place there. It's decorated in minimalistic Ikea furniture and stays uncluttered. The walls are cyan, my favorite color, and it has a calming effect on me. Pictures of my ancestors are everywhere you look.

For blogs, I write in a WordPress window. My book, and other large projects such as proposals, are conceived in the best word processing program of all time, Scrivener. While I feel that I have barely scratched the surface of all its bells and whistles, it continues to amaze me at what can do. The composition mode is my favorite: a beautiful background of a field in Germany with my writing overlayed on a page – nothing else to distract from the words at hand. It gives such clarity and focus. I'm not sure what I would do without it.

As for the routine, I simply need to write more and on a regular basis, not allowing weeks to slip by with no words on a page. My new job has helped to give me space to explore this, luckily, as time is at a premium in this season of life.

Writing Challenge Day 26: Things You’d Say to an Ex

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When I was younger, I’d have written a soliloquy about this, covering the chasms of emotion and trying to hurt them with my words as much as they hurt me. Having grown up a bit and moved on, that is no longer the case. I know exactly what I’d say:

“How are you?”

I mean this not as the common American greeting; I’d want to know where they were in life. What people, events, and experiences shaped them since we last spoke over a decade ago? I’d want to know how they really are; without the facade of social media or a monotone “Fine” which is what I got the one time I asked an ex how they were. I would want to dig deep into the condition of their soul, and yet stay detached as an outside observer.

I don’t believe I’ll ever get the chance to ask, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I could. Chances are, their memory of me is so dim, it may not even register anymore.

April in Review

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April proved to be a month that was loaded with opportunities for confidence. We bought another house and plunged further into debt. The confidence to carry that took quite a bit of gumption to pull off, especially as we closed on our new house and the reality of how much I owe literally hit home. But here I am, still going strong. Even more so that we have a buyer under contract.

The money situation really bothered me, so instead of fretting over it and waiting for disaster to hit, I proactively sought a part time job. This job is one I held previously and left because the stress was too much with the panic attacks that followed. But the money is really, really good and the management deck is reshuffled; I’ve been reassured by a trusted supervisor things are better than what they were back when I was there. I don’t have a sunset date on this gig, but I know in my heart it is only for a season. While it looks like our house will sell, I am still taking the job. The money coming in will fund my upcoming adventures, investments (stocks and house projects), and above all, used to further the kingdom of God. That will be determined as the Holy Spirit dictates.

I lacked confidence in a couple of areas: our new garage floor was in a sorry state of grime and dirt. The cleaner I bought was complicated to use, and my test patch only frustrated me further. And so I stopped. Not so much confidence there.

I did find myself consistently praying to God for provisions, a buyer, and friends who are struggling against unfair odds. My relationship deepened with the Lord this month for sure. I completely relied on Him. I pray this does not go away when things get easier.

With all the big life stuff that hit me this month, I feel I did pretty well with confidence. I hope this carries over into the months that come.