Nicole Sharp

Writes

Tag: Idaho (page 1 of 2)

The idea of home…

When the holiday’s come around, be it Christmas or Birthdays, I get a little put out. Not that it affects the whole day, well, sometimes it does, but sometimes it just turns my guts a bit. Why? Because I miss my family.

My hippie parents instilled such big wings on their children, myself, my brother and my sister that we took to flight and landed so far from where we were raised. One in Italy, one in Denver, and me in my Northwestern corner of the world.

And it’s good we did that. We had courage and strength enough to do that. And there is an added bonus of always having somewhere to go visit. Only, there are holidays and nephew’s baseball games and dance recitals and camping trips and birthdays I miss my damn family.

I read an article a few days ago that finally seemed to capture what it was I felt for the life I live between two places. It comes down to this idea: Idaho is where I live. California is home.

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Romancing the Ranch…

I was digging in the dirt yesterday. And when I dig in the dirt, I think of my great grandma Annabelle. I wasn’t born and raised in this little corner of the world. I traveled a bit before I got here. But my great-grandmother, she was born and raised in this corner of the world.

January 1940 Annabelle Smith

I didn’t know her very well; I was five when she passed away. But that isn’t the end of someone, is it? Passing away doesn’t erase them from the hearts of their loved ones. Stories continue to be told about her by family and friends. A dinner with family will produce a story of Annabelle’s mischievous ways and how she loved it when someone asked her to pass the butter. She would do so with a twist that sent the receiver’s thumb right into the butter as they tried to take the dish. She’d laugh and laugh at that one.

by Annabelle Smith

She was an instigator of great fun. She was caring and kind. She was hard-working and she loved her garden. So when I finally put down some roots here in Boise and began to show an aptitude for growing things; it was often commented that I had Annabelle’s green thumb.

So when I dig in the dirt, and when my heavy breathing becomes the rhythm in which I shovel, my mind clears and I think about my great grandma digging in this same dirt. Plotting her own garden. Getting excited at the first signs of spring. And there is a connection to the past there. I have a sort of “telephone line through time” (as the Indigo Girls put it so eloquently). Digging in the dirt, I’m lost in a mediation of connection with those that came before me. Continue reading

Into the madness…

LC-DIG-ppmsca-01697 "SP.M.0911" / Angela de Rosette.

There are clashes and rumblings. The noise is deafening. The silence is threatening. I feel like I’m trapped on Willy Wonka’s boat, toward the end of the tour. Where violent images flash and scream. When everything the man is crumbles and become shadows of goodness that once might have been. The moment when everything is tilted.

And nothing will ever seem as it was once before.

The disruptive noise taunts; a shadow of arid despair sucks the watery blood from life.

The tornado of vocal destruction swirls and whirls inside my self. Each energy receptive nerve flushes the noise outward. Only to become trapped in a different area of this human’s body. And it builds up. Bubbles up. And I whisper the pondering wonder, are we going mad? Am I going mad?

And the noise grows.

Splashes of paint on canvas, a hurried sculpture or two, some spliced pictures pasted together. A poorly thought out poem. A rushed fictional hand job. The guts of artistic endeavors bleed out. Into the world. Into the void. In an effort to silence the mounting racket.

And I can’t figure out if I’m going mad or if it’s the rest of them or if it’s a little of both and if the madness is part of a symbiotic something and if it matters and if anyone can stop it.

Or should it be split open wide? Should it be ripped open wide? Should containment be wadded up into a ball and thrown in the trash?

We’re are all mad here…worked for the Hatter. A little.

To Bemoan….

I have been known to bemoan the writing process. Well not all the parts of the process. I love the writing. Sitting in my own space, creating strangeness. Creating characters. Creating extensions of myself. Getting lost in the story. Love it.

Now, the editing. I can deal with that. It’s not always easy. But getting to the editing is the hardest part. Once I begin, I can see the forest a bit more clearly and have a better understanding of what can remain and what most go; all in the name of conflict and story arc and stuff like that.

Outside the scope of sitting down to a pen a paper, a computer…the business side of it…that shit I bemoan.

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Hopefully…

Hope is an interesting thing these days, isn’t it? I am stuck in a harsh wash cycle of hoping things work out and hoping I can fight the good fight for the long haul and hoping things will just somehow ‘work out’ over the next few years. The waxing, waning mess is akin to a gaggle of teenage hormones. Screaming and crying one minute; happy go lucky with a plan of action for their future the next.

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As a writer, I write to make myself feel better. Yes, my fingers have been flying across the keyboard this past week! II love when writing, short stories come out of nowhere and I follow them to their ends. I thought you’d like a little something different today! Continue reading

No place like home

 

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View of Boise from the Depot

I forget the gem of a state I have here in my little corner of the world. And I’m thankful for my trips this summer that have reminded me why I’ve made this place my home.

Rumi said “It may be that the satisfaction I need depends on my going away, so that when I’ve gone and come back, I’ll find it at home.

My idol, Madeline L’Engle said “Maybe that’s the best part of going away for a vacation – coming home again.”

And sure that’s what I’m feeling.

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Quick plug…

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I’ve got a new writing gig.

I was hired by Trip101, a travel blog written by travel writers. (As well as the occasional fiction writer.)

If you get a chance, stop by for a gander. I’m trying to write at least 3-4 articles a month, so check back often.

Trip101

Why I call my blog the Writing Moose…

20150616_092416Why writing moose?  Have we talked about this yet?

First off, the ‘writing’ part is pretty straight forward. I’m a writer.

Second, the moose.  This is easy and at the same time kind of a long story.

So.

Moose are my spirit guide.

Now you don’t have to buy into spirit guides, I mean, I do because I’m 1/234 Cherokee, on my mother’s side.  Actually, I’ve never given spirit guides much thought beyond Native American Folklore.

And when I was 18, a spirit guide was the farthest thought from my mind.  At that time, I was busy buying into being lost and not sure what I wanted to do with my life.
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I am…

downloadI am a forty year old writer who has been sitting in my ‘cave’ writing stories and pretending to be a writer for as long as I can remember. Those of you who know me might ask why are you putting yourself down? because as far as you’re concerned, I am a ‘writer’.

You see, I haven’t owned it. Owned my ‘writer-ness’. I have always had a very difficult time introducing myself as a writer.

“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer?”
“Oh really? Have you ever been published?”
“Why yes, I have been.”
“Would I have read any of your work?”

This is where things get sticky. I have been published in several magazine I write for, but it’s not fiction. I put my little shine on my articles, but the editors tend to rub the shine off a bit. I have had several short stories published in literary journals. I have had one short story published in an anthology. I have a blog I try to update once a week, but often times I only get to once a month. So where would they have read my work?

It’s such a strange moment and I never know how to deal with it, so I sweep my identity away with a wave of my arm and a shrug. At my twenty year high school reunion, I was asked the dreaded question, “what do you do these days?” I replied, “I’m a stay at home mom.”

Thank God for good friends who know my heart and soul and intervened and announced, “Um, no. She’s a writer.”

It is a difficult thing, to call myself a writer. An author. A storyteller. A novelist. A wordsmith.  Maybe it’s easier for others, but for me, it’s difficult.

I attended my first writing convention this past weekend. I have never done this before because I never had the funds, though, had I wanted to, I’m sure I could have scrapped them up. I have never done this before because I was scared to.  I was scared of what others might think of me, what I might learn about being a writer, or find, when all was said and done, I didn’t have it in me.

Registration day came, and there I was, a grown woman, scared as if it was my first day at a new school. But with my shoulders back, I walked through the front door because it’s time to do something new with my writing.

I can write all I want in my house, I can blog my random thoughts, and I can enter a few submissions once a year, but if I ever want to do something more with my writing, if I ever want to show more people my writing, I have to do something different and go out in the world. I set up a meeting with a professional editor and I set up a meeting to pitch one of my books to an agent.

I am a new woman this morning.

I am a writer.

The agent was reserved, which I think is her personality, but after talking about my book and pitching it, she wants to see a synopsis and the first fifty pages. So okay, cool. That’s an open door.

Then I met with the editor. Talk about someone you connect with right away. She blew me away when she told me that my writing was strong, my voice fresh, and my talent amazing. She called me ‘Rock Star’ and I laughed and tried to hide my tears because I haven’t had too many professionals who live in the writing world gush about me in person.
She told me that I was a writer, and she understood how difficult that was to embrace, but the more I embraced that idea, the more I would begin to act like a writer and the more I would do things that a writer would do. It is that whole ‘fake it til you make it’ idea. But her words rang true in my chest.

Then, to wrap up an overwhelmingly positive weekend, the short story I had entered in the short story contest hosted by the conference won second place.
I heard esteemed writers talk about their craft and share their secrets. I heard their stories, and they all had the same message, just keep writing, if you believe in it, if you work at honing your craft, you will get published.

The final speaker of the evening was a gentleman by the name of Ron Powers, he is the definitive expert on Mark Twain. He had a long list of credentials that included a Pulitzer Prize among other things.

He spoke eloquently about writers, he spoke about us as a group of men and women who have given up on traditional dreams and who had knowingly chosen to live our lives creating imaginary friends, filling blank pages with our souls, and tried to hold fast to the dream of holding a book in our hands for the first time. He spoke about that patron saint of writers, Mark Twain. About how that man changed the vernacular of the story and invented The American Story; American literature. He gave a nation its voice. He insisted that we writers were the continuation of that tradition.  His voice was strong and true and I fear I am not doing Mr. Power’s words justice.

The end of the evening came and I walked home with my head held high and an amazing feeling of direction fill me.

Because after all; I am a writer.

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