Category Archives: Personal Storytelling

Places Replenish Our Writer Souls

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Places Replenish our Writer Souls. Reading stories aloud was a big deal when our grandchildren were growing up. Some of my favorite storyteller moments happened under the storytelling tree.

Our front yard featured a particularly family-friendly place. A yellow Adirondack chair fitted into a notch at a fence corner between two trees. I would sit in that chair with one grandchild at my side and another at my feet, and I would tell stories.

The way those two trees grew made me think of them as one. At ground level, they were far enough apart to accommodate a seat and small table. Further up, at about towhead height, they began to grow toward each other.

One day my grandson asked me about that. “What’s the story with the trees, Grandma.” He was staring at the place where the trees came almost together over my head, and he’d asked for a story. I gave him a story. Because that’s what grandmas and writers do.

“These trees were born close to each other under the ground, and they fell in love. When they grew above the ground and saw each other’s beauty, they fell in love even more. So much so that they couldn’t stand being apart and grew toward each other. Until they were side-by-side, with their branches entwined, reaching for the sky.”

The grandkids appreciated a good yarn and let me think they believed my tale. As for me, I believed every word with all my heart. Especially the feeling of it, which perfectly suited my yellow chair and that enchanting place. Because Places Replenish Our Writer Souls, and I definitely have one of those.

Stories have power. They lift and transport us out of real-life time and space into another universe, separate and apart. John Gardner called that universe “the dream of the story.” I believe in this lifting and transporting, but I also believe in places like the storytelling tree.

Places have power. Wherever we may be, we can picture ourselves somewhere else, like that notch in the fence at the corner of our front yard. We can take ourselves there, into the feel of it. The green branches overhead, the smell of grass and a child’s hair, the sound of birdsong on the soft air of late spring. The taste of contentment on the tongue. A feast for all of our senses as Places Replenish Our Writer Souls.

At bedtime in those days, I sat in another storytelling chair. Bright red, with a comfortable back cushion to ease me after delightful, exhausting hours surrounded by youthful energy. This chair stood between the dormers of the children’s bedroom, where the angles of the ceiling leaned toward one another, like the trees in the fence corner.

When I need a spirit boost, I take myself back to Christmas Eve in that red chair. There is a  stack of books at my side. My deliberate singsong tone has droned two excited children almost to sleep. I reach the last book on the pile and begin. “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…” To this day, that line transports me to the red chair under the dormers. Places Replenish Our Writer Souls.

You must tell your re-spiriting stories as well. Stories of places that lift you out of the moment. Places that come alive for you in every detail, if only in your imagination. Your heart is opened there. You are moved to bring us there as well. Because Places Replenish Our Writer Souls, and we deserve to be replenished.

Alice Orr – https://www.aliceorrbooks.com.

Speaking of Christmas, A Vacancy at the Inn is Book 3 of Alice’s Riverton Road Romantic Suspense Series, and it is a holiday story. Find A Vacancy at the Inn HERE.  Find all of Alice’s books HERE.

Alice Orr A Vacancy at the Inn

What Readers Say: “Alice Orr is the queen of ramped-up stakes and page-turning suspense.” “Warning. Don’t read before bed. You won’t want to sleep.” “The tension in this novel is through the roof.” “Budding romance sizzles in the background until it ignites with passion.”  “I never want an Alice Orr book to end.”

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Who’s Cooking in Your Covid Story Kitchen

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Who’s Cooking in Your Covid Story Kitchen? Someone once said that watching me cook in my kitchen was like watching a captain on her ship. Sure of every move I make, piloting with confidence however agitated the sea may be. Don’t you love that feeling?

Or, you might prefer a dance metaphor. Cooking up a story comes with its own choreography. When all is well, we glide from counter to cupboard, sentence to sentence, light on our feet. Each gesture has purpose. Each word has its place. We take charge.

No need for a long mirror to watch ourselves. We know how we look in this familiar place. More important, we know how we feel. At home in our natural habitat. Free to deviate from the recipe, a pinch of plot experiment here, a dollop of quirky dialog there, without counsel or critique from anyone.

Who’s Cooking In Your Usual Story Kitchen? You are. Occasionally you may invite collaborators in, but generally trust your own judgement first. Prefer your own fingerprints on the spice jars of your imagination. You perform with comfort on this stage, and soloing here gives you peace.

I pause now to focus on those sensations in my personal experience. Luxuriating, mid-pirouette, toes grazing tile, fingers flying over keys, commanding whatever my creative corner of the world might be. All are, for the moment at least, part of my past.

My Covid era story kitchen is another place entirely. I no longer flow freely from one inspiration to the next. No longer relax in my familiar creative place. I am no longer a captain on the bridge of my ship. Because I am no longer alone.

My husband is here. He simply showed up one day, buffeted by circumstance onto my private preserve. I might have been less taken aback if he possessed more aptitude or affinity for the practical tasks at hand. But maybe not.

His choreography is clumsy at best. He wants to be here about as enthusiastically as I am eager to admit him. He is out of his element and imperfectly replanted in mine. We attempt a compromise amidst our mutual discomfort. Try our best not to blunder into each other’s path.

All the same, he taxes my parameters. Asks endless questions, makes furtive moves, displays little inclination for blending into his new, accidental environment. He captained his own ship in another place, at another time, but that ship is on covid drydock now.

Our pandemic pas de deux may improve with practice. Lately, we are less at odds, but I doubt he will ever slide smoothly between storage cabinet and stove, or that his bumpy ballet will become a beauty to behold. And this is only in the cooking kitchen.

In other rooms, something more troubling pervades. I have lost my private creative space. Writing has always been a solitary occupation for me. I am challenged to maintain motivation in a shared environment. Are you in a similar circumstance, struggling to contend with the same question? Who’s Cooking in Your Covid Story Kitchen?

Meanwhile, an even deeper discomfort lurks  beneath our displacement dissonance. The absence of supper guests who never arrive. We yearn for company worth unearthing our most lovely table linens to pamper and please, so sadly absent now.

We are in lockdown, staying at home, staying safe, whatever. No feet other than our own tread the deck of whosever ship this may end up to be. Which, we find with regret, is the least tolerable intrusion of all.

Who occupies your Coronial creative place? Who samples the kettle and adjusts the seasonings just so? What characters concoct your story stew and contrive the plots in your pots? Who’s Cooking in Your Covid Story Kitchen?

Alice Orr – www.aliceorrbooks.com.

A Wrong Way Home

Aunt Dee cooks to heal the heart in Alice’s novel The Wrong Way Home – the ladle-licking-luscious first book in her Riverton Road Romantic Suspense Series. Sample this delish dish for free HERE. After that appetizer, dig into the four Riverton Road story courses that follow. Find those, and the rest of Alice’s books, HERE.

What Readers Say: “Alice Orr is the queen of ramped-up stakes and page-turning suspense.” “Warning. Don’t read before bed. You won’t want to sleep.” “The tension in this novel is through the roof.” “Budding romance sizzles in the background until it ignites with passion.”  “I never want an Alice Orr book to end.”

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Write Thru Crisis – Muffled Cries

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Write Thru Crisis – Muffled Cries. My son was three when this first scene occurred. I had entrusted him to the care of another mother, while I went to the laundry room. We lived in a suburban apartment complex at the time, and I anticipated no danger.

When I returned, my son was nowhere in sight. My friend had turned away – for a single moment – to tend to her own child. I saw my son then, past the wide green grass of the play area, across the asphalt sidewalk and a border of more green grass. He was rocking back and forth on a curbstone at the edge of a busy highway.

I dropped my laundry basket and ran. I didn’t stop to wonder how his small-boy legs had carried him so quickly into peril. I didn’t stop to ask anyone if they had seen him take that perilous path. And, I did not cry out. If I startled him, he might topple into traffic, so I muffled the cries that terror had catapulted into my throat.

He was almost twenty when he caused me to do that again. He was back from college and staying with us for the summer. He’d gone out with friends into a formidable city and, though it was hours past midnight, had not yet returned home. I couldn’t run after him this time, and cell phones were years short of invention.

I sat on the couch, muffling my cries once more. I didn’t turn on the lamp. A lone streetlight outside the window illuminated my fears. Nightmare scenarios raced through my mind, though I didn’t once envision my son being locked into a cell, or a police club bashing him. Years later, female offspring would take my imagination to that horror show.

First, it was my granddaughter, in another large, possibly ominous city. She was there to march and shout in protest against the injustice of poverty and oppression. My son, of age by then to be her father, was near enough to find her at the precinct, if arrests should occur. Still, on that bright fall afternoon, I muffled my urge to cry out my worry and fear.

Not long ago, my daughter brought me similar alarm. She was demonstrating in support of her own strong beliefs, as she often does. On this occasion, armed police and members of the military lurked what I considered uncomfortably closeby. My daughter and her compatriots were herded into a roped-off area, but I guessed accurately that she would press close to the barrier and shout to be heard, while I muffled my cries.

Such stories grip the heart. Mike Nichols, an expert on how to create that gripping effect, once said, “We only care about the humanity.” That is because our own humanity resonates with the tale. Almost all of us have suffered through terror in our own lives, especially when we fear for someone we love. We know how it feels to clap our hands over our faces to shut out fearsome visions, and shut in muffled cries. I hope you will write about your muffled-cry moments, too.

My last story happened decades ago, during my own street activist days. I was in the midst of an angry crowd with a friend, when a policeman on a large horse reached down from his high perch and sprayed mace in the face of my friend’s young son. I didn’t clap my hands over my mouth that day. Instead – for a single moment – shock and disbelief muffled my cries.

Each of these stories deserves an ending. I reached my toddler son before he could fall into traffic. Years later, he came home at dawn and was soundly scolded. Phone calls, followed by profound relief, assured me my granddaughter and daughter in turn were safe and unharmed.

The ending of the mounty-and-the-mace story is hardly as satisfying. That afternoon ended my years of street activism. I walked away, into the safety of my whiteness.  Because of their blackness, neither my friend, nor George Floyd’s mother, had that choice. I am haunted by their cries, too soul deep and wracked with grief for muffling.

Alice Orr – www.aliceorrbooks.com.

Alice has spent most of her post-activist work life in publishing, as book editor, literary agent, workshop leader, and author. She’s published 16 novels, 3 novellas, a memoir, and No More Rejections: 50 Secrets to Writing a Manuscript That Sells. Her current work in progress includes Hero in the Mirror: How to Write Your Best Story of You. Find her books HERE.

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