Imagine....

On our vacation travels this summer, my kids and I discovered this really interesting Starbucks. Looking for some way to cool off from the unseasonably hot temperatures of Pennsylvania, (of course it wasn't too bad since we're from Phoenix but for the locals....) we wandered into the store. Okay, so nothing unusual there. What made me stand up and take notice was the place was built in 1758. That's right. It's older than our country. We just had to take a look inside.

As we sat at our table admiring the fireplaces, the floor, and just about every other detail, my writer's mind started percolating. I thought about the similarities between the centuries. William Doyle (the founder of Doylestown) built it as a tavern back in 1758. In 2013 we were sitting enjoying another kind of beverage. Of course, the clothing, the speech patterns, and topics of discussion, were different, but the tavern was built as a gathering place for locals and travelers alike.

Imagine the what it was like back then. What did the people see when they looked out the same window we did? What did they hear? What did they think about? Did William Doyle ever think his building would still be standing and remain a gathering place?

Now imagine 250 years from now. Hard, isn't it? Especially when I have trouble keeping dates straight on the calendar, but still.....What does the future hold?

As a writer, I can control the outcome and future in my books. But as people, we play a key in controlling what we do to our planet for our future generations. I don't know about you, but in 2263, I think it would be really neat for another writer to sit inside the old tavern, staring at the hovercrafts driving by, thinking about the past and the future as they create their next story.

I did it.

Kim Watters here. Well, I did it. Something I thought I'd never do. I climbed out on the clear platform of the Willis (Sears) Tower on the 103rd floor during our recent vacation to Chicago. Okay, so I was practically hyperventilating....and freaked out but I couldn't let my kids get the best of me. Unfortunately I don't have a picture that I can post to prove it because my camera died. I did shell out $32 for the pictures they took but I don't have a scanner so you'll have to use your imagination.

Here's a photo courtesy of the Willis Tower website though to give you an idea. It's giving me the shivers just looking at it.

How did I do it?

I didn't look down!

But I did it. So next time you're in Chicago, you've got to try it. If you dare. Trust me. If this chicken can do it, so can you. Closing your eyes also works as well.

The Perfect Shell

My daughter’s favorite activity during our recent vacation was collecting seashells along the shore. A true beachcomber like her mom, she was up at the crack of dawn because that’s when the best shells are available. Also like her mom, she also doesn’t realize that vacations are meant for sleeping in, hanging out by the sea or pool and not doing much of anything.

Another perfect morning dawned as the tide ebbed in and the sun’s rays stretched across horizon, staining the sky a bright blue. We had the beach pretty much to ourselves, except for the lone jogger playing tag with the sea. Strolling through the rocks and sand, we found all kinds of fascinating shells. Some whole, most not because of years of the pounding surf. Some still had creatures inside that we had to take back and toss into the sea when they stuck their black legs out and took a stroll along our condo balcony. My personal favorites were the corkscrew shells, but most of them were still occupied and had to be left behind. My daughter’s favorite was pretty much all of them.

“Look, Mommy. I found one.” My daughter holds up half a clamshell covered with some sort of black growth.

“No, Emily. That shell is broken. Let’s throw it back.”

“But I like it. I want to keep it.” Into the bucket it goes.

“Really, darling, we can’t keep all of them. See? It’s broken and not very pretty.” I pick up a shell, shake my head and for affect, look it over, show her the flaw and throw it back into the tide pool.

“Why not? We found them.”

Good point. Score one for the seven year old.

“Because its not perfect. We need to pick and chose the best ones.”

Good point, Score one for mom.

“I don’t care. I like them all.” She picks it back up and drops it into the bucket.

Okay, maybe I’ll find a use for it after all.

This conversation with my daughter got me to thinking about the perfect shell—and the perfect word. How many times have I struggled to find the right word? Said could be written as growled, or whispered, or muttered. It all depends on what feeling I’m trying to convey. I toss around a few more options and throw the ones back that don’t seem to fit, just like the shells that don’t fit my criteria for going into the bucket.

Picking the perfect word is as important as making sure I don’t find an unexpected guest on my patio later. I have to look inside and all around, hold the shell up to the light and run my fingers around the edges. In my manuscript I have to test out the word, and see how it flows in the context of the sentence. Does it convey what I really want to say? Is it pretty? Is it the perfect word to compliment my manuscript or the perfect shell to grace my bucket?

My daughter wants to be a writer when she grows up. I sincerely hope she figures out some day that there are differences in words and shells and that not all of them are as perfect as we sometimes think they are. Sometimes it might take a few tries to get it right, but in the end we will find the perfect word and the perfect shell.

What will I do with all the shells we collected? I plan on gluing them to a picture frame and putting a family photo from our vacation inside. What will I do with all the words that simply can’t be used? Throw them back for now and let the sea of sand and time mold them into something that can be used at a later date.

Save The Octopus

Kim Watters here. We're on vacation at the beach a few weeks ago, in Rocky Point, Mexico. That in itself is another story, and not for the feint of heart. So, my daughter and I are out early in the morning hunting for seashells, minding our own business when we hear a scream.

Being curious souls and realizing there is no one else on the beach except us and two other ladies, my young daughter and I go to investigate what the ladies are pointing at on the sand. At first we didn’t see the two gelatinous globs of brown speckled things with eight arms until we were almost on top of them. I immediately conjured up images of fried calamari and had a hard time reconciling the two. Not that I for a minute thought about the possibilities of dinner that night.

Anyway, these poor creatures got washed up with the rough tide the night before and were at least twenty yards from sea. Hmmm. We can’t just leave them there, so one the other ladies took her hat off and was trying to douse them with water. Each time she did, their heads would enlarge and the blow hole would go off. Really creepy.

So now there are four of us standing around pointing at these octopuses trying to figure out how to get them back into water. I certainly wasn’t going to touch the squishy, filmy, slimy things. The hat wasn’t really working at holding much water so I *gasp* sacrificed my coffee so we’d have a cup and a much better way to keep them hydrated while we put our heads together. Finally I realized I was holding a bucket full of shells.

Tada. I dumped my shells into my daughter’s bucket and scooped up the poor fellow and ran with him to the sea. I waded into the surf, put the bucket in the water and turned it over.

I’m sure by now you’re shaking your heads. That’s right. Everything but the octopus spilled out of the bucket. Our hapless friend has suctioned himself to the bottom. Great. I already broke a glass the night before, now I’m going to have to e-mail the condo owner that his bright, red bucket has been sacrificed to Poseidon to save the sea life. (Of course we still have the other one to deal with, too.)

Fast forward to the security guard at the resort. I’m sure the last thing he wanted to do before he got off his shift was get his shoes wet prying an octopus loose, but Luis was a real “hero” about it. He finally managed to convince our friend that he was safer in the tide pool than with a big stick poking him in the head.

Number two went without a much of a fight at all.

So what does this have to do with writing? Aside from a story scene? Double hmmm.

How many of you have felt like our poor octopuses, trapped in unfamiliar territory and in limbo? You can see the ocean or the publishing contract, you just can’t figure out how to get there. How many of you have felt paralyzed with fear about submitting or finishing the book, or even decided to start writing, and suctioned yourself to the bottom of a bucket? You’re safe for now, but outside it’s a big people eat octopus world.

Relax, there are always people willing to help you along the way, be it us beach combers or God, or your writing friends, critique partners, family, agents or editors. We’re all in this sea of life together. We’re all God’s children, whether we have two legs or eight. So what are you waiting for? Get out of the bucket and live. What’s the worse that could happen?