Margaret Mitchell House

Repost from 8/5/2009

www.margaretmitchellhouse.com

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to tour the Margaret Mitchell house, cleverly marketed as the birthplace of Gone with the Wind. I’m not sure what I expected when I walked in there, but whatever it was, I was wrong.

We paid the twelve bucks each to take the tour. I did not read the brochure before, so I was unaware that although the building was three story highs we would be seeing three rooms on the first floor. The large gift shop was about the size of half the space that we would be touring. About six of us lined up while a magenta haired woman took center stage.

She begins the tour by telling us who saved the building, which was once apartment buildings, from destruction, about multiple fires, and how the tile floor is the original tile floor. I would quickly learn that would be one of the only things that was original. Well, except for a toilet, but don’t get excited, it wasn’t Margaret’s toilet. No chance of sitting down and channeling greatness. It belonged to an apartment on the third floor.

She then complained in great detail because the keys were not numbered while searching for the one that would open Apartment Number One. My mood quickly shifted for the worst. 

The tour was of the apartment where she lived while writing the book. The walls, I think were even new. A living room, bed room, kitchen (smaller than most closets), and a bathroom with the third floor toilet. All filled with antique furniture purchased to give the appearance of what it would have looked like. 

It wasn’t the short tour that aggravated me. It was the woman. I’m not sure that she has even read GWTW. She seemed so uneducated. She walked from room to room speculating and making weird comments about the photos. I was none too happy with my trusty tour guide.

When we excited, I finally went off on my own. I walked over to a plaque on the wall and began to read. And this was the place where everything changed. Margaret Mitchell’s first fiancé went to war, but never came home. Her first husband was a drunk and very abusive. She married a second time. She said that before she wrote GWTW, she read up everything she could get her hands on and feeling frustrated she started her own book. Her famous quote was “In a weak moment, I have written a book. “ (My closest friends will understand that.) And lastly, when she finished chapters she would put them in manila envelopes and send them to a friend who would read them. By the time I finished reading this plaque, my face was soaked. Tears involuntarily flowing down my face. 

My husband, who was reading along with me, says, “Wow, ya’ll have a lot in common.” And here, I thought I was nuts.

We walked over to the movie memorabilia part of the house. I turned to my husband and said, “If I ever make it big, let’s systematically burn and destroy every house we have ever lived in.” 

He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

But then Ann saved the day. I was standing in the gift shop holding a cookbook titled “Gone with the Grits” with complete disgust, when a southern woman’s twang filled the air. It was time for the 3:30 tour. Her humor and knowledge struck me. We took the tour again. She knew so much about the petite author, you would have thought they were old friends. She gave us gossip, and was full of laughs. A real tribute to the personality and quirkiness of Margaret Mitchell. By the end of the tour, I wanted to hug her neck. 

I then went home and smiled at my own pile of manila envelopes filled with chapters.

Thanks Tour Guide Ann!

Watcha Say Wednesdays: Location, Location, Location

Time and place is a huge part of a novel. There are books that are set in real places with great detail that closely matches the spot a the map. While others are created from scratch with elaborate made-up worlds and unique ecosystems. Then yet there are those examples where the story is set in Anytown, USA--where the setting is barely relevant to the story.

When you write, do you create worlds or do you pick a real place and try to stay true to it? How much time and energy do you spend in researching your setting?  Do you try to keep as close to a real map as possible or do you enjoy inventing new spaces?

When you are reading, what do you prefer --- realism or fantasy? Do you want to visit imaginary places that are created by the author or do you prefer to journey to places that already exist?  Have you read a book and decided you now need to visit this place to see if the real thing holds up to the picture the author drew? 

Whatcha Say Wednesdays are for you. It's a chance to voice your opinion, share your knowledge, and interact with one another. Answer what speaks to you, and ignore the rest. But do tell—I’m quite curious.

Meditation and the Writing

http://peacefulprosperity.com/

Life’s frustrations and issues are the biggest creativeblocks for me. I normally only write in the evening during the week, and by thetime I get home from the office—my brain is filled with blockage. The angryclient, the bizarre phone call, the search for the perfect babysitter are justexamples of the things that lodge themselves within the tunnel that allows theideas to flow to my keyboard. 

Many famous writers such as James Joyce, Edgar Allen Poe,and Ernest Hemingway are known for self-medicating with alcohol or othersubstances to help lubricate that flow of ideas. For many it is a way to shutoff the mundane chatter that goes on inside the head to allow the characters tobe heard.

“Do you drink?"
"Of course, I just said I was a writer.”
― Stephen King

“Write drunk; edit sober.”

-Ernest Hemingway

Though I am notaverse to drinking a glass of wine or two to shush out the day, I find that thebest way is to sit in a quiet place for ten minutes or so and just meditate.Meditation allows us to find those thoughts that are hiding beneath the pile ofproblems, excuses, and random brain chatter. Meditation can be much better thanalcohol for writing and for life in general due to the fact that meditation haszero calories, no side-effects, lack of a hangover, and it’s free. In fact,meditation is actually very good for your health and your spirituality.

Meditation is not a way of making your mind quiet.

It’s a way of entering into the quiet that’salready there –

buried under the 50,000 thoughts 

the average personthinks every day.

– Deepak Chopra

If you arehaving trouble accessing your creativity, give yourself a ten minute break inthe silence or with soothing music, focus on your breath, dismissing all theother thoughts that are stifling your prose. Let your body relax, soothe yournerves, and calm your thoughts. When you find yourself alone with your breath,then just listen. The characters are there waiting to tell their story. Yourjob is just to write it down.

Recycled: Can't Stop Reading

What makes a page turner? What about a book keeps you from sleeping?

At some point, each of us has come across a book that has grabbed us by both eyes and not let go. We’ve fought to put it down, and failed horribly. They’ve left us walking into work with dark circles under our eyes. Forced us to spend our lunch hours tearing through as many chapters as possible. Turned us into complete addicts.

Twilight did this to me, and though I loved them, it wasn’t the stellar writing – it was something else. Hunger Games is another that kept me up at night. Let’s go old school – Bridget Jones Diary. So what is it about these books? Are the pages lined with crack?

I went back and looked at some of the books that have done this to me to see what it was that made me cling to them, and choose reading versus a night out on the town.

Characters you genuinely care about – Becoming emotionally invested in a character, will keep you coming back with every spare minute you can muster. You know if it ends poorly—you will need to take a few days off to mourn. A character that you relate to and desperately want to see succeed.

Cliffhangers at the end of chapters – We naturally want to close a book at the end of a chapter versus the middle, but when the chapter ends with a car wreck—we HAVE to know who lives, who dies, and how the heck’s the Ferrari. So, we start the new chapter, and darn now we are back in the middle. Keep reading. Now, the body is missing. Well, where did it go? Next thing you know it’s 3:00 am, and you’re hiding in the closet with a flashlight trying not to wake the rest of the house.

Reverse Arc – A story has a natural arc. Each chapter is generally designed the same, building to the climax and then slowly bringing the reader back down. The reverse arc throws all that out the window- starting with action, covering slower parts in the middle of the chapter, and planting you back at the top of a climax at the end, propelling you into the next chapter.

Forget the drapes - Now, I personally have a tendency of skipping past the pages of beautifully written prose discussing the tiny butterfly pattern that is woven into the blue wallpaper. Couldn’t care less. I want to know where the heck did Hot Guy go, and is he the one holding the bloody knife? Maybe that’s just me, but a book that leaves a reader quivering for more is not doing so because of the mass amount of description. I couldn’t tell you what Bella’s room looked like, but I can tell you there was a vampire hanging out in there.

This can not end well – A storyline that appears to have a definitive ending, one that will crush your soul, but the writer gives you the tiniest inkling of hope--will pull you to the end. You may be reading it while peering through your fingers, but you are reading forward. I give it up to Stephanie Meyer on this one for sure. Breaking Dawn! Hello! ‘Nuff said.

Make ‘em laugh – A book that is just fun to read will make a reader cling to it, and heck, even come back for more. It’s not the same Zombie response of, “Must finish book, have to finish book, Boooook.” But the pages flick by just the same. You know the saying – time flies when you are having fun – well so do the chapters. Bridget Jones Diary was one of the first books that did this to me. I hoped things would work out for her, but laughing out loud alone in the dark is why I could not put that book down.

This list is not complete, but I think it’s a good start. So you tell me ...

What are some other things that glue you to the writing? Do you use any of these page turning techniques in your writing? What’s a book that grabbed you and wouldn’t let you go?

Freestyle Friday: The Berimbau

The berimbau has had a major influence on my life for the past year. As I have mentioned, I found and fell in love with capoeira. Fortoday’s Freestyle Friday, I want to pay tribute to this magical instrument.

What is a berimbau?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Berimbau_parts.svg

“The berimbau consists of a wooden bow (verga –traditionally made from biribá wood, which grows in Brazil), about 4 to5 feet long (1.2 to 1.5 m), with a steel string (arame – oftenpulled from the inside of an automobile tire) tightly strungand secured from one end of the verga to the other. A gourd (cabaça),dried, opened and hollowed-out, attached to the lower portion of the Verga by aloop of tough string, acts as a resonator.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berimbau

How is it played?

Here is a fun berimbau video!

Berimbau solo

How is it related to capoeira?

The berimbau is the main instrument in capoeira. It leadsthe rhythm of the game and guides the player’s speed, style, and intensity.Capoeira is one of the only martial arts that incorporates music.

Here are some samples from http://www.capoeiranyc.com/berimbau.html:

Angola - Slow beat, close to the ground game, withslyness movements.

Benguela - Closed game, medium beat with lots of swings and stealthymoves.

São Bento Grande - A fast beat with more aerial and fast movements.

What is Capoeira?

Capoeira is a Brazilian martial art that incorporates music and an element of dance. It is known for both its low ground moves as well as its flips, headstands, and other acrobatics. I wrote a little bit about capoeira ,HERE and HERE.

Here are a few fun videos about capoeira.

I was in Brazil during the filming of this video.

This video wouldn't embed
http://youtu.be/6H0D8VaIli0

A Day in Paris: Planning and Pantsing

A few years ago, I went on a study abroad trip to London and Paris. It was my first time out of the country. It was a whirlwind of a trip, only lasting a week, but filled to the brim with adventure as well as education on how business is done overseas.

The last three days were to be in Paris, and our next to last day we had entirely on our own. I stayed up late the night before, planning and plotting my adventure. I was going to take the double decker bus tour with a friend,visit Montmarte, and take my friend back to the hotel and split ways. Afterwards, I would be viewing things that were fascinating to me, but a bit too macabre for my friend such as the Catacombs and Père Lachaise Cemetery,where Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried. I folded up the highlighted and ink-circled maps and placed them into my purse. My backpack was prepped with water, sunscreen, and snacks.

We woke early, the sun peering through the thin drapes of the hotel window.We dressed quickly, stopped for pastries and expresso, and then continued our journey into the Parisian sun. It was quite overbearing as we tried to snap pictures from the top of the tour bus. The ride was putting us behind schedule,but I tried not to let it fluster me. I am in Paris, one shouldn't be frustrated. 

We arrived at the foot of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. We popped in a few stores, ate macaroons, and tasted a truffle that was so good that I realized that I had never actually had a truffle before.  We gazed at the most colorful mime, and then stood at the foot of the stairs. The hours were running away. I needed to be at the hotel right now to be on schedule,and we still had more than 300 steps to climb. Take the funicular? Ha! We weren’t wimps. 

We stepped into the cathedral. Nuns were singing, and I believe that I had a spiritual encounter as I watched the many that had come to see this magnificent place. My eyes were blurred by tears as I toured the inside and the outside. I peered out over Paris. I was here. In that moment. 

We hiked back, yes, taking the stairs once more. When we reached the bottom, my friend asks, “Want to grab lunch?”

As much as the ticking clock said “no”, my grumbly tummy answered, “Yea, that would be great.”

It was nearly two hours later, when we arrived back to the hotel. I tossed my plans of using the free tour bus (we had all weekend to make use of the tickets we had bought) and decided to take a taxi. 

The dark skinned man only had a few words of English, and I had only a few more of French. It was going to be a long ride, and we were both the inquisitive type. He was concerned that I was going to the catacombs, as an impressionable female, alone.  He typed questions into his iPhone and translated them into English. It started with just trying to figure out how to say a word or two and by the end of the ride,we were typing full paragraphs. We discussed my writing, his hometown in Africa, my curiosity of how he viewed Americans, and his political beliefs.Truly, one of the best conversations of the trip. 

He dropped me off at the cross street next to the catacombs and offered one more, “Be safe. Hope you not be too afraid.”

I smiled and thanked him, wishing him well.

I walked across the street. I found the entrance, but was slapped in the face by a closed building. Last tickets sold thirty minutes ago. I cursed the silent curse. 

My next adventure was to be a walk to Père Lachaise Cemetery. I consulted the map and plotted my path. I had walked nearly a mile, when I started realizing that things weren’t lining up. I found a park bench and sat down, trying to makesense of it. 

Dammit.I turned the wrong way this (------------) long ago on my tiny map. I tried tojust make it work, but I needed to turn around, walk through a park, and then Iwould be back on the right path. 

I closed the map and behind it was a wall calling for a revolution. It made me smile. I snapped a few pictures and continued on my journey. 

I came up on a huge circle. Music was playing, a crowd was cheering, and curiosity got the better of me. I walked up on a dance troupe. I stood and watched the b-boys swirl on their heads on the streets of Paris. 

The song ended, and I continued on my path. The park that I needed to walk through had been converted into a marketplace. I hadn’t had a chance to buy souvenirs. I thanked the universe and ducked inside the lined up white tents and tables. I talked to an Indian man about chakras, smelled every handmade French soap, felt tapestries, tasted jams, and checked everyone off of my gift list. 

I reached the end and turned up the last street that would bring me to the final resting place of Morrison and Wilde. The impenetrable stone wall stretched around the 110 acres of graves. I walked and walked, trying to reach the entrance. I was crushed when I found it, and it was locked tight. Closed nearly an hour ago. I couldn’t help but cry a little, frustrated at my failure. First the catacombs, and now this. I mean, if you compared my original plan with what was checked off my list, I was a failure. 

I walked around the last corner and saw a line of tables, volunteers standing behind them, and ladles being filled with soup and poured into the bowls of what appeared to be the hungry. The humanity filled me with warmth. I smiled and walked aimlessly up the next street. 

At the corner was a café with tables and chairs pointing at the street. Time to knock another thing off my wish list. I sat and ordered wine and cheese, and I just  watched, listened, and absorbed. 

The wine was loosening my lips, and I started up a conversation with the waiter. He sat down and talked about his home village. The table next to me joined in. It was the young girl’s birthday, 18, now legal to drink. She wanted to move to America and become an actress. 

As a recovered smoker, the smell mixed with the alcohol was getting to me. Ah, when in Paris… I asked the waiter for a smoke. 

An older man, a picture perfect mental image of a Parisian, hat and all, joined in the conversation. We all laughed and drank .The older man wrote out all the things I needed to see in Paris, and then posed with a basket of baguettes to humor me—his idea. 

When I plotted my day, I built a path of A leads to B leads to C.  Although it could be deemed a failure because I arrived entirely too late to points B and C, I would call my adventure a smashing success. I had an outline for my story, but beautiful prose filled it with long lasting memories and experiences, inspired by the moment, the scenery, and the possibilities.   The end result was a lovely day in Paris.

Whatcha Say Wednesday: Blank pages

Blinking cursors can be curses. They sit there, mocking you, staring you down. They tick and they tock, like the passing of the clock, relentlessly awaiting your brain to pull words from the air. How long do you stare at the flashing line before cracking open a browser and running off to find cute kitty pictures or articles on organizing pocket lint?

It has happened to all of us at some point. What do you do when you want to write and the words do not come?  Do you continue to stare? Do you have a time limit? Do you shut your computer and come back later? Do you chain yourself to the desk until you've made your word count quota for the day?

Whatcha Say Wednesdays are for you. It's a chance to voice your opinion, share your knowledge, and interact with one another. Answer what speaks to you, and ignore the rest. But do tell—I’m quite curious.