Category Archives: writing

July 26, 2012 · 4:00 am

One Jane for each day


I’m back on my Jane Austen kick. And I partially blame “Downton Abbey.”

Okay, the pair aren’t obviously connected on the surface — but it’s hard to deny that “Downton”‘s British charm evokes the class differences, family dynamics and romantic entanglements of Austen’s work set 100 years earlier. Spence got me season one of the popular TV show for my birthday last week, and we’ve already plowed our way through half the discs. It’s like salty, delicious Pringles; since I popped, I can’t stop. (Y’all were totally right — it’s awesome.)

My sister got me the journal above — Jane-A-Day, a journal that asks diarists to reflect upon 365 different Austen quotes each day for a five-year stretch. The idea is to see how your thoughts and reflections change in that half-decade, which is pretty cool. I’ve stumbled across similar projects and, since I gave up journaling a few years back, this seems like a good alternative to the long, rambling and exhaustive posts I used to write before bed.

I don’t know why I stopped. I guess because I began dividing so much of my writing time between my column and this blog. After discussing life’s events in two other mediums, my enthusiasm — and desire — to recap some things for a third time in my personal journal just sort of evaporated. It started to feel like work. Plus, my journals saw me through some emotionally difficult times in my life — bad break-ups; growing pains. Once I was finally happy and in a good place, it wasn’t the catharsis it used to be. I guess I’d moved on.

Sometimes I miss it, though. My life can feel very interior. Despite the fact that I “put myself out there” in a variety of ways, mostly through a computer, I tend to keep many of my worries to myself. It doesn’t seem useful or productive to bother others with my nonsense. And in the old days, my journal — that dear, nonjudgmental friend — would have been my confidante. I’ve changed so much over the years.

Maybe my Jane-A-Day can be a good in-between.


8 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , ,

March 29, 2012 · 4:00 am

‘Proud of you’


I got a note from my second grade teacher yesterday.

It’s funny how people emerge from the past like specters, and just a few sentences can transport you back to a different time. In my case, that would be 1992 — and I would be a boisterous 7-year-old with flowing curls just discovering books. I’d always loved being read to, and my parents’ penchant for storytime was a favorite pastime. Someone was always reading in my house.

Mrs. Brown was the first teacher to notice I loved to write — and to encourage that interest. I distinctly remember showing her a story I crafted about Carrot the bunny and his bunny family, and Mrs. Brown’s kind expression as she read my work and offered some helpful tips. “After someone is speaking, you don’t always have to say ‘he said,’” she explained, indicating a string of dialogue that probably went something like this:

“I’m going to the store,” Carrot said.
“Don’t go alone,” Mama said.
“I won’t — I’ll take Brother,” he said.
“Be back by dinner,” she said.

Pure poetry, I know. The greats reveal their genius early.

I have many memories from Mrs. Brown’s classroom, which was close to the “little kids’” recess spot on the far side of the school. That class of 25 or 30 kids was where I first met Daniel, the kid on whom I nursed a wicked crush and sent lovey-dovey Valentine cards. It was where I started to understand math and history, and when I realized I could write stories like the ones I found in books.

Mrs. Brown was the first teacher to encourage my writing, telling my parents that she thought I had talent. Twenty years after Carrot the bunny, she reads my biweekly columns in the local paper — and she wrote me a note to tell me so. The entire message is very sweet, but the best part comes at the end: “I am proud of you.”

How simple those words are.

How powerful those words are.

As a kid (and teen), I idolized my teachers. I can vividly recall every one of them, remembering their lessons and soothing voices and homework help. Each was special in their own way, and it’s so crazy to think of them now — these women (and a few men) I put on pedestals, more than mere mortals who could do no wrong through the bright lens of my childhood.

Knowing Mrs. Brown is reading the work of her former pupil — me — and remembering the kid I once was, the kid I still am inside, makes me extraordinarily happy. I’ve heard from my elementary school librarian (she was so awesome!), my first grade teacher, my beloved gym teacher. I smile uncontrollably every time, remembering the sunny days spent in their classrooms and on the playground. I had a really, really happy childhood — probably a better one than most. I was too young to realize that.

I’m glad I was too young to realize that.

Pride is such a powerful emotion. All I’ve ever wanted was to make my family proud, my teachers proud. My sister. My boyfriend. My friends. And someday, some shiny day, my children.

Hearing from Mrs. Brown gave me an opportunity to do what we rarely think to do: thank her. Remembering the pride I felt when she read my Carrot story aloud still fills me with warmth. She’s the first teacher to put books in my hand; she’s the one who encouraged me to write crazy stories, then rewarded that creativity with kindness instead of dismissal. I’ve never thought to reach out to her. But now I have.

It takes just a moment to say a kind word, to forge or reform a connection. The simplest word from you can change the trajectory of someone’s day, of someone’s week. Maybe someone’s life. If you have a moment, thank someone who has helped you along the way. I’ve never regretted it.


12 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

November 3, 2011 · 6:00 am

The stories we have to tell — NaNoWriMo ’11

So here’s the thing. During National Novel Writing Month last year, I had this great idea for a story. I worked on it for a while, cobbling together pieces here and there, but I ultimately “lost” NaNoWriMo by not even getting halfway toward the 50,000 word goal. The year before that? Total failure. Though it was amazing time, my week-long trip to California completely derailed my attempts to write a book in a month.

I’ve gotten gun shy.

But I know it’s possible. This is my fifth year participating in NaNoWriMo. In 2007 and 2008, I cranked out books like nobody’s business, putting fingers to keyboard and flying through stories with breathless speed. I was super psyched to be a novelist, you see, and ecstatic that I had the capacity to create entire worlds. It was like playing God. And after years of writing poems and papers in college, just writing for writing’s sake was exhilarating.

But those projects were all abandoned, locked up tight on flash drives. Gathering metaphoric dust. Looking back on them now, I see how much my writing style has evolved — and those early projects? They’re . . . well, they’re just not good. Without redemption. A bit embarrassing, if I’m being honest.

As of Oct. 31, the night before NaNo was due to start, I hadn’t decided if I was committing to another year of writing debauchery. Did I have it in me to try again — and risk failing? How embarrassed would I be if I tried for the third year in a row to craft a book, then wound up with some piece of garbage I would bury deep on my hard drive?

But I’ve been thinking and thinking, plotting and scheming. And I’ve realized that, even if this latest attempt sucks — and even if I never finish at all — the greatest gift NaNo can give a writer is discipline, which is what pep talker Maureen Johnson is telling us. I’m used to writing on deadline at work, cranking out 500-word columns, but that’s nothing compared to the stamina writing a full-length novel requires.

I’ve changed and evolved and improved as a writer, and I know I have great paths yet to wander. I’m not at my peak. I’m still young and quick and maybe a little arrogant, as my hate-mail-writers are quick to point out, but that’s okay. Everything is, in fact, a learning experiment.

So I’m trying. I’m writing again. I’m vowing to myself that I will try to finish a novel — and that is enough.

I’m more than 12,000 words in and loving it. I’m scared and this book may be terrible, but that’s not what’s important at the moment. It’s just about getting the story out. I’ve begun scratching notes on slips of paper, keeping characters straight and developing their personalities. I’ve thought about conflicts and resolutions and all the things I love about the books I’ve read and cherished. I’ve thought about what makes a great heroine — and a great villain. I’ve thought about love lost and found. Most importantly, I’ve thought about the story I have to tell — the one that’s uniquely mine — and the pieces of it I can weave into something bigger.

We all have a story to tell. I believe that absolutely, unequivocally. I know with all my heart that is true.

I don’t know what I’m going to come up with — but it’ll be something.

And I hope someday I’ll get to share it with you.

EDIT: If anyone would like an extra writing buddy on the NaNo site, I’m megan_lynn. Looking forward to this grand adventure!

12 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , , ,

June 10, 2011 · 4:00 am

I will be 10


I’m fortunate to live and work close to my grandparents, two of the most influential people in my life. Growing up, I went to an elementary school just blocks from their house and spent entire summers in my mother’s childhood home, doing crafts with Grandma and being completed spoiled rotten by her cooking. (My Maw Maw, Dad’s mom, is also an excellent cook — and baker. I could dedicate an entire post to Maw Maw’s tomato sandwiches, cookies and peanut butter cups, but that will have to tantalize you another day.)

A decade after I started high school and stopped going to Grandma and Grandpa’s daily, I’m still close with my grandparents and try to meet Grandma for lunch every few weeks. She usually has a collection of things to give me — old newspaper announcements from when I made honor roll or the dean’s list; handwritten recipes; photos of my sister and me as little girls. I’ve come to look forward — and almost expect — these small treasures to land in my hands, laughing with Gram at a shared memory from when I was a wild-haired toddler or sullen teen.

I’ve always been a writer. I penned my first book in second grade, about a bunny named Carrot; my teacher was so impressed that she read it to the class. By fifth grade, I’d written an entire family drama about a girl named Viola and her unruly twin brothers, then moved on to writing sequels to “Star Wars,” a middle school obsession, when I finally finished the original trilogy of films and didn’t think the plot headed in the right direction. (At 11, I was a Luke-and-Leia shipper. I just couldn’t get over that they were — gasp – brother and sister. There was love in their eyes, I tell you. Love.)

And in that time? Well, I started penning my memoirs. I’m not sure what a 9-year-old really had to say about life and love, but darn if I didn’t attempt it. Gram had a typewriter and she would often indulge me by setting it up with a few sheets of feather-light paper. It was so delicate, unmarred. A fast typer but never really an accurate one, I would often get frustrated by my typos and give up on the whole typewriter thing. I just didn’t want to mess up that perfect paper.

Plus, then the computer came along. So I started typing on that.

And now I feel old.

But it turns out typing wasn’t as fun as hand writing my stories, so I went back to honing my literary sentiments with markers and sheets of loose-leaf paper. That’s what you find above — one of my early attempts at introducing myself to the world (please note the “Hi!”, as if someone were peeking over my shoulder and anxious to read my thoughts.)

I’ve grown up quite a bit since my “I will be 10″ days, but I still feel like that little girl sometimes. Full of a zest for life and eager to tell everyone about the things she loves: pink; Power Rangers; the piano. Though I didn’t turn out to be a scientist or archeologist (where did that come from?), I’m still curious about life and always ready to tell a story.

But now I get to do it on a slightly larger scale.

And for that? I’m eternally thankful. And hopeful for what’s to come.

Not quite as cool as archeology, but I still think 9-year-old Meg would be impressed. You know, if she could tear herself away from “Power Rangers.”

16 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , , ,

January 28, 2011 · 1:25 pm

On putting my business in the streets

When Facebook first began to spread across college campuses, I was a sophomore headed to the University of Maryland. In 2004, it seemed like an overnight (hostile) takeover — by the time I could process what something like “Facebook” was, everyone in class was buzzing about it . . . and their faces were all over my computer screen. I joined when a friend — a rather out-of-touch, ambivalent friend — told me that even he was on the networking site.

But that was before we even thought about it as “networking.”

Now, of course, it’s taken on a life of its own. Facebook was once my way of posting funny photos with buddies, chatting about school pressures and exchanging ideas about projects due in my history and English classes. It was a way for me to communicate with classmates and laugh about professors. I updated my status all the time with all sorts of nonsense but, in a pre-Twitter world, I figured everyone would care about what it was I was doing right that second.

Remember when your “status” was limited to saying something like “I’m at work” or “I’m at school” — or, when things really evolved, you could write your own text? It was the modern-day version of the AIM profile. We could post thinly-veiled song lyrics alluding to our exes and craft passive-aggressive statements about what recent slight our friends had committed.

Oh, wait. People still do that. And Facebook doesn’t always make us happy.

Now I’m 25. I’ve graduated from college. Everyone and their brother is on Facebook — literally — but this isn’t some random rant about how FB was “better before anyone could join.” I’m not some snobby elitist. And, quite frankly, I’m glad my grandmothers (both!) are on the site; it lets me share photos and other links to what I’m up to and, by proxy, makes me feel closer to everyone. And I don’t have anything to hide.

I’m just more careful about what I share.

I live a public life. Along with write meg!, I write a twice-weekly personal newspaper column. And when I’m not doing either of those two things, I tweet about my goings-on, put my personal photos up on Flickr, share what I’m reading and who I’m talking to and what we’re up to. I don’t hide my face in any of these places and, in the past, have been approached by strangers who “know” me.

Here’s something else about me: despite all this — despite all of this — I still consider myself a private person.

It’s hard to believe, I know. I mean, as my dad would say, I put my business in the streets. But you know? Really, I don’t. Over the course of almost a decade of sharing my personal life on the Internet in some fashion, I’ve realized what it is to censor, delete, edit and present everything in a way that is, I hope, both sincere but not embarrassing.

Just like Facebook.

That’s not to say that I’m dishonest. I don’t consider myself disingenuous, and I certainly don’t lie about what I’m up to. But do I choose to share mostly the details that make me look smart, funny, intelligent, good? Sure. Do I post only flattering photos — the ones where I’m not sporting a whopping double chin and maniacal smile? Absolutely.

Do the people in my life insist I do the same?

Yes.

I used to write in a journal every night. Before bed, without fail, you’d find me tucked by my pillow with a pen and spiral notebook in hand. Within the pages of more than 20 diaries, you’ll find my reactions, feelings and perceptions of life between the tender ages of 14 and 24.



Then last spring, I stopped writing.

There’s no real reason for it. For years I’d been tormenting myself by rehashing nonsense about love and perpetuating this idea that I would never be happy until I’d accomplished A, B or C. I used my journal as a way to unburden myself — and that’s just what I did. For a decade.

But then I met Spencer and my head was full of . . . well, you know: hearts; stars; fireworks. I started writing my column, where I often chronicle my adventures and share musings on topics as diverse as cupcakes, dogs, the Olympics and sock monkeys. When I’m not writing that, I’m here — talking about books, love, food, life. And I type a whole lot faster than I write.

When it came down to it, I felt like I was running out of words. Writing in my journal became a chore, and it showed; where once I would fill pages about a single day, I began to write only a paragraph.

I share so much of myself in the public arena that, at the end of the day, I sometimes wonder what’s left for me. When I began to get personal letters and e-mails at the paper — notes about things I’d divulged in my columns — I got a little anxious. I chose to share those stories, yes.  And I chose to let people into my life in that way. Everyone has been very kind and supportive, and those letters make my day. But realizing that this personal information is out there — about my fears, hopes, apprehensions — makes me . . . well, it makes me a little scared.

So I’m thinking about what I put out into the universe.

Not because I want people to think I’m perfect. Or infallible. Or always, always kind. But because, at the end of the day, I still need things for me. I still need thoughts that are mine and mine alone; fears, goals and stories that I don’t share with anyone but myself or loved ones. When I try to sort through the catacombs of what I’m feeling, there’s a pressing need to retreat inward. To talk it over with me.

I’m not perfect. I smile and laugh and I mean what I say, but I’m prone to introspection. Writing my blog and column is a huge thrill, and nothing means more to me than getting a note or call from someone saying how much they enjoy my writing — but I can’t give everything away.

Some of it is for me.

And my diary — my old friend.

18 Comments

Filed under musings, writing

Tagged as , , , , ,

January 21, 2011 · 2:00 am

Etsy Find Fridays: Writerly inspiration

The first thing I can ever remember writing was a poem about rain. I was 6, in the first grade, and I’d just begun to make the connection that letters formed words . . . and words? Well, words formed everything. In the living room on a rainy day, I took a small pink (pink!) notebook and scribbled down a few phrases. Then I proudly showed my handiwork off to my baby sister and parents.

I don’t remember their reactions, but I’m sure they were struck dumb by my brilliance. I mean, rain? Who has ever written a poem about nature’s beauty — or that wet stuff falling from the sky? I was a prodigy. A revolutionary. I was changing the world!

Ahem.

Aside from a stint in the creative writing program in college, I haven’t crafted many poems — but have diversified my subject matter. Twice a week, I write about my life and adventures for the newspapers where I work. Only 450 words and focused on whatever pops into my brain, the columns come easily. It’s like blogging . . . just in print. Where 50,000 people read it.

Sometimes that scares me.

But that’s another blog post.

No, the columns don’t cause me any trouble, friends. Sometimes the stress of trying to be consistently witty is a little daunting, but that’s totally a #firstworldproblem and not something I would ever complain about. (You know, not in public.) I know how lucky I am.

It’s everything else that’s tricky.

The short format of my articles and these here blog posts have ruined me. After failing to complete a novel for National Novel Writing Month for the second year in a row, I’m beginning to worry that I don’t have the stamina to sustain a single plotline over the course of a 200-page manuscript. Am I now only capable of writing short non-fiction? Am I — gasp — A SHORTY?

Well, yes; I’m short (5’2″). But I don’t want to be known only for the little thoughts I scribble down. I do want to finish another novel, and I do want to seek publication for my works. So unless I’m scooped up and asked to pen a hilarious memoir about cupcakes, online dating and pumpkin spice lattes, I need to get my act together. I’d love to be the next Laurie Notaro or Jen Lancaster, but I have to be realistic. I have yet to be informed that someone soiled themselves while reading something I’ve shared, so I have plenty of work to do. And have to get back to pluggin’ away on ye old book.

But first? I need a little inspiration. And leave it to Etsy to deliver it.


30 Comments

Filed under Etsy find Fridays, writing

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

December 7, 2010 · 4:00 am

Losing NaNoWriMo — but winning a solid start to a novel

The bad news: for the second consecutive year, I failed at NaNoWriMo.

The good news: I actually love the book I’m writing.

Okay — maybe not love. Love is a serious word. Love develops after putting in some serious hard work with some(one)(thing) and succumbing to a sensation beyond our control.

Let’s say I’m heavily in like with my book.

So what went wrong in 2010? Unlike last year, I didn’t have the ready-made excuse of a mid-NaNo vacation to fall back on. There were no trips to California, no incredibly taxing projects at work — just little old me sitting at my desk, staring at a calendar that was quickly filling up and losing my motivation to keep cranking out the words.

To be fair (or to further bury myself?), I did quite a bit of writing in November — just not on my as-yet-untitled novel. I cranked out columns at work and reached out with my audience, asking them to send me their holiday traditions in the weeks leading up to Christmas. I’ve loved reading everyone’s letters and replied to all of them — not to mention the 40+ handwritten Christmas cards I sent to you, my lovely friends, and friends and family.

I’ve written lists and addresses, letters and book reviews. Emails, rebuttals and love notes. Hundreds of tweets.

But books? No books.

My final word count for NaNoWriMo ’10 stands at 22,277 words. In the days since the project officially ended, I’ve added a few thousand words and left Josie, the travel writer with a bruised heart (and ego), in the hands of a new editor at the paper where she’s taken a part-time position. Thinking she’ll avoid having to travel to New York and catch up with her snobbish ex-boyfriend, Josie channels her energy into helping the floundering Sentinel outside Washington, D.C.

And everything is peachy until the reporter’s notebook is suddenly turned around on her. When her ex-boyfriend’s nude painting is accepted into a prominent New York art gallery, the whole world wants to know the name of the seductive-yet-innocent nymph captured on his canvas — and Nathan, bitter and angry at Josie for ending their melting relationship, is all too happy to tell them.

And then Josie’s behind is all over the art scene.

And she’s none too happy about it.

I’m not entirely sure where this is going — plus, I need a love interest in here . . . and STAT. A women’s fiction novel without a love interest? Let’s be serious. It’s not that the romance needs to be the central focus of the story, but it certainly needs to be there. And since I’ve pretty well burned the bridge between Nate and Josie (or did they burn it themselves?), there’s no going back there. I will have to have some resolution between them, though; everyone deserves closure. But I’ll focus on that after I’ve actually reached the denouement!

In short, I’m not giving up on my project — not at all. I just didn’t have it in me to crank out a book in record time, though I heartily congratulate all those who did! I do plan on participating in future NaNos — and maybe tasting sweet victory once again. If nothing else, I love that NaNoWriMo gets me writing daily and thinking about a major project . . . something beyond my short blog posts and 450-word columns. I like plotting and delving deep into a character’s psyche — and having the r0om to really do that. I like space.

Now let’s just see if I can fill it up with another 27,000+ words.

11 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , ,