#MyWritingProcess and why it works (for me)

When I first was asked to take part in the #MyWritingProcess blog hop, I laughed. Unlike other writers, I don’t have much of a formal process. I sit at a desk. I write. I get up and separate children and toys. I drink more coffee. I change a diaper. I write some more.

That’s not very inspiring. It’s definitely not a cabin in the woods, or a quiet coffee shop. But maybe that’s the thing. Writing for me isn’t about the perfect setting and the best computer and the quiet and the trendy music playing in the background. Writing is about clearing a space in the mess of normal living for something that’s important.

quoteStephanie from Uptownerupnorth knows all too well what that means. She and her husband and baby are on a 4th generation family farm – a real, functioning, machinery-filled farm – in Northern Minnesota. Farms take time. Farms take everything. But in the middle of all that, they give you the most amazing things to notice, and through her blog posts, I see Stephanie taking advantage of that. Stephanie, thanks for inviting me to take part in the hop, and for the words you too are making time to put down.

So. What am I working on?

I think this is supposed to be a “my next big project” sort of question, but who am I kidding. I have twins and a toddler. I’m working on making sure we have enough diapers to cover tiny butts and enough apples in the fridge to satisfy my daughter’s new three a day habit.

In the odd times I find myself at the computer, I hammer out a blog post, scramble to keep up with emails, and scour Craigslist for things like “medium-sized outdoor dogs that don’t eat chickens.”

Someday I’ll save enough cash to go back and finish my MFA in Creative Writing. In the meantime, I go back and edit my poems, save them in yellow electronic folders marked “done” or “in progress” or “what the.” Once in a while, I do this scary thing called submitting.

And every so often, when the warm little bodies of my girls are heavy and horizontal for the night, I find my way to the keyboard. I’m slowly circling around ideas of food and memory and fellowship, and of this strange word called hospitality. I don’t know where it’s going, and that’s ok. Sometimes it’s better that way.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Is this a trick question? My work is simply my own – my musings, my questions. If you wanted to put me in a bucket, I’d tell you I try to write in Midwestern plain speak. That I need my descriptions to be like mirrors. That I have a voice just as you have a voice. That we all deserve to hear one another in whatever medium we choose to speak through.

Why do I write what I do?

There is no escaping the routine of my daily life, but through writing, I make myself take the time to see my routines as rituals, and this makes me want to live differently.

I write about faith because Jesus is constantly shaping me. I write about grace because being shaped hurts. I write about parenting because it is the event that has changed me the most. I write about food because I love to eat. I write about the ideas and words that tail me through my days, hanging out in my rear-view mirror.

I write because I live in a world that deserves examination. Sometimes that’s in poetry, sometimes it’s in a blog post, sometimes it’s creative non-fiction. Sometimes it’s an email, a caption, a hash tag. But all of these things make me pay attention, and that’s what I need.

How does your writing process work?

People are posting great pictures of scrawly notebook pages and favorite places to write, but for me, it’s about efficiency. I don’t have a lot of time to write, so when I do get a moment, it’s serious business. Here are my unofficial rules:

  • Get something to drink. Anything. (Ok not anything. I never drink milk while I write.) Usually it’s either coffee or water. Call me a purist. Or call me cheap. That’s just usually what I have on hand.
  • Sit up straight. I have to pay attention to my words. I don’t write well if I’m slouched over, sprawled on the couch, or even leaning back in my chair. I always sit on the edge of my seat, like some sort of over-eager school girl.
  • Skip any music that has words. I need my mental playing field not to have any opponents. And yes, I did play sixth grade volleyball. How did you know? (My sports metaphors rock.)
  • Know when to break. You can only push so hard on an idea that’s not fully developed. If I’m not getting somewhere with a thought, I leave it and come back.
  • Come back. Preferably with another beverage. Make yourself come back even if you don’t want to. What happens can be amazing. Or it can stink, and then you just save it away as fodder for another idea later on. Either way, come back. Always come back.

The next three writers in the blog hop are crazy different, and crazy talented. Allow me to introduce them, and to encourage you to go visit them next Tuesday for their own thoughts on writing and process.

Kasey Jackson is a fellow twin mama I met in a Facebook group focused on twins born in 2013. Somehow when I was whining about diapers and mopping, she finished a book. I know. Overachiever. She’s also hilarious. There may or may not be a series of Instagram videos entitled “Kasey vs.” that make me snort laugh whenever they show up in my feed. Her blog is focused mainly on her book, Blue, so you should definitely head over and see what it’s about. You can even download a free preview of the first chapter, which means you’ve got something to read on the bus ride/couch/coffee shop chair tonight.

Anna Palmquist is one of the magical people in my life I wish I got to hang out with more. Luckily, she’s a part of my writing group, and sometimes, when she busts out an idea so full of wisdom and humor and reality, I’m floored I get to say I know her. Anna recently started grad school and is focusing on writing Young Adult Fiction, which is totally hip. She also recently started blogging at Writing Young Adult Fiction , which is exactly as is sounds. For those of you that love process and prose and the YA world, this is your new landing pad.

Courtney Fitzgerald possesses a wisdom that comes hard-earned. She writes poignantly real prose in her blog Our Small Moments and her work appears in the collection I Just Want to Be Alone (I Just Want to Pee Alone). She’s a fantastic photographer and busy mama of two, and may or may not have time to take part in the hop but either way, go read her stories, marvel at her pictures and be reminded about the importance of living in appreciation for the ones you love. Oh, and one more brag. She’s family. 🙂

Sharing my birth story today at Twin Talk Blog

twin talkHappy Friday!  Today I’m sharing my birth story interview-style over at Twin Talk, which is fast becoming one of my favorite resources for all things twin related. If you are a twin mama and haven’t bookmarked this page, do it. Do it now. And if you’re on Instagram, you can follow them at @twintalkblog. (You can find me on IG too now that I finally figured out how to hashtag. Yep. Follow me @rachelriebe. I’m cool.)

Ps. Did I mention they do giveaways? They do giveaways. As the mother of twins, I love giveaways.

Meanwhile, here in the rain-soaked mud sponge that has become our backyard, we’ll be trying to survive another round of teething. Gabby has two top teeth coming down, and Lucy has two bottom ones coming up. If breakfast was any indication of how this day is going to go, we’ll be packing everyone in the van after morning naps for a nonsense trip to somewhere at least an hour away.

Godspeed. And may your weekend look more scream-free than mine.

 

 

 

To raise a person

IMG_0326 (800x533)In the unmapped wilderness of raising children, it’s easy to grow short-sighted. I’m guessing it’s the “can’t see the forest for the trees” mentality. Basic needs come first. Snacks, playtime, naps. These become the rhythmic wheel rolling through our days.

Sometimes I forget, in the warm darkness of the twins’ nursery, or the quiet moments before I tuck my toddler into bed, that I’m raising people.

That my children are not going to be babies forever.

That they will continue to tack words into their vocabulary, and memorize skills with their tender hands and feet.

That they will, inevitably, need more lessons than I can teach and will go out into the world, eager to learn more.

***

I’m part of a Facebook group of twin mamas. This group posts their everyday questions, frustrations, and joys of raising twins so that by sharing our own experiences, we can create a collective of knowledge.

A week back, one of the mothers posted a story and prayer request. Her six-year-old son was involved in his first summer activity camp experience this week. Being the awesome mother that she is, she signed him in, pretended to leave, and then came back to observe how he did.

The story was hard. Her little boy bravely walked toward the group of kids already playing, and stood around the edges of the activity. After a while, he walked back over to the front gate and rested his chin on the top bar, waiting for the other three kids he knew to show up. Meanwhile, no one came up to him. No one invited him to play. After twenty minutes of knowing her son was unhappy, the mother quietly approached one of the group coordinators and asked him to introduce her son to some of the other kids his age. At that point her son saw her, so she knew she had to leave.

The mom ended her story with a brief reminder and plea. She told us that twins are special because they always have a built-in playmate – which means they have an extra measure of security in social situations. It also means we as parents should really encourage our twins to be inclusive, and to seek out kids on the outskirts and invite them in.

This all seems so far off. My main concerns of the day are whether or not my twins are ever going to learn how to drink from a sippy cup.

I forget the sippy cup is going to turn into a plastic cup, and eventually, a glass. I forget that the basic skill they need to learn now is going to inform their ability to move to the next.

***

As a parent, baby and toddlerhood are strange stages to navigate. My children don’t yet have the developmental capabilities to remember my lessons. This is frustrating. More than frustrating. Maddening.

But it doesn’t mean I get to stop gently picking the cup back up off the floor, or repeating “wash your hands” after every bathroom session.

Sometimes I look into my daughter’s stubbornness, and see God looking back at me, wanting me to see the same lesson I’m trying to teach her. Love is patient. Love is kind. It is not proud. It is not rude. It is not self-seeking. It keeps no record of wrong.

It seems we are all sculptures in various stages of molding.

One day soon, something will click.  The cup will stay on the tray. The faucet will turn without anyone’s prompting. They will be ready for the next challenge, which after a few years, will move past physical skills and into social and emotional territory.

They will be faced with the playground. The classroom. The group setting. And I will be the parent behind the corner, observing my children not as children, but as the people they’ve become.

Does this mean drinking from a cup turns into eating from a plate? Does eating from a plate make one notice food, and does noticing food turn into helping in the kitchen, learning to cook, making meals, opening the door, feeding the family, serving the hungry, or understanding the complexity of the word nourishment?

I don’t know. But I’m willing to hope.

First review of raised bed gardening

IMG_4104 (800x518)June 13. We planted the garden about three weeks ago. And mystery of all mysteries, life has sprouted.

I don’t know why that always strikes me. There’s something about seeds and water and dirt. It all seems so improbable.  Then suddenly, green stems. Buds. Flowers. Vegetables.

If you’ve never planted a seed and watched it unfurl, you’re probably laughing. But if you have, you might know what I’m talking about it. Nature is magic when you let yourself get caught up in it.

Early risers in the garden include a mesclun lettuce, a baby butter lettuce, easter egg radishes, and all the squash plants. I think the green beans and sugar snap peas are doing well too. The plants still in question include rainbow swiss chard, spinach, and carrots. Oh, and potatoes. Mainly because I haven’t put them in the ground yet.

IMG_4110 (800x533)Tomatoes are rocking – we did 6 plants: heirloom yellow bells, two romas, heirloom brandywine, a supersweet 100 cherry, and one classic variety that I can’t remember the name of. I’m probably getting myself into some sort of salsa canning operation later.

Now if you remember, the goal was to be weeding less in this raised bed situation. So far, that’s fairly accurate. Having the fabric between the beds keeps big weeds to a minimum, but we do still find plenty of little volunteer starters in the vegetable rows. Luckily they are easy to pluck out, so I haven’t been frustrated too much by them. But just in case you’re thinking this is a weed free operation, it’s not.

Aesthetically, we are still working on the final plan for the garden. This week I finished doing the landscape fabric in the walkways. Most of this effort was accompanied by Ellis sticking her own landscape staples in the ground at various intervals. I’m sure that compromises the effectiveness of fabric, but that’s fine. Toddlers are ever curious, and ever copy cats.

Next step – pea gravel. If anyone has a good pea gravel hook up around the Twin Cities metro area, let me know.

Sigh. I just asked for a pea gravel hook up.

 

Why writers need groups…and voices in our heads

Hey guys, today my writing group compatriot and dear friend Jackie Sommers is breaking down the necessity of writer’s groups. She should know. Her new book Truest will be published by Harper Collins and out on the shelves in 2015 – much of which saw its first reading in our group discussions.

I’d love for you to head over to her blog and see just why it is that writers like me to do the group thing.

Here’s the intro to get you started.

My Writing Group’s cropped-orangeheaderThoughts on Writing Groups

Today, I’m going to introduce you to a few of the women from my writing critique group here in the Twin Cities. We meet once a month to catch up with one another, to provide feedback on each others projects, and to be a sounding board for any writing-related headaches we’re experiencing. That, in fact, is one of the things I love most about my writing group– that it is full of talented, whip-smart women who are flexible enough to be whatever I need them to be: sometimes I need brutal critics, sometimes I need shoulders to cry on. They do it all.

Keep Reading…

 

writers-toolboxAnd if writing is your thing, but you want a few new ideas and voices to kick you in gear, go check out my friend Addie’s post about her favorite tools of the trade – aka the books she keeps in her writer’s toolbox.

Here’s her intro…

10 Books in my Writer’s Toolbox

Because I spend a good deal of my time writing or thinking about writing or avoiding writing, it’s only natural that I’d have a stack of books on the subject. I thought I’d take a minute to introduce you to some of my favorites.

There are lots of amazing books on writing out there, and the ones that are precious to me are influenced by the kind of work I do. Because I am a Christian, and because I am forever trying to figure out my faith, books that explore that strange and stunning intersection between faith and art are important to me. Because I’m interested in the careful mining my own memories and experiences in the form of memoir or creative nonfiction, a lot of my favorites explore the power and potential of that genre.

Keep reading…

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMeanwhile, here on the farm… it’s Jason and my 10 year anniversary today. Yep. Ten years. Here’s us on our honeymoon, rocking a little mountain laundromat with our coolness and dirty hiking socks.

I’m so glad I married my best friend. Enough said.

Ten years is a big deal, so tonight we are headed out  sans kiddos (thanks grandma and grandpa) to wander and eat our way through some new downtown Minneapolis spots we’ve had our eyes on.

Butcher and the Boar, we’re looking at you…

 

The Story of a Pie

The story of a pie

 Once upon a time, there was a sale on strawberries.

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The Almelund Mercantile had fresh, local rhubarb in the cooler.

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And I had a memory of the best spring pie in the world – Strawberry Rhubarb

But alas. None of my cookbooks had the recipe. I couldn’t find my phone. And the internet was slow to go. So I figured it couldn’t be that hard. I’d wing it.

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Ellis was all over helping. It meant she had easy access to the pie dough.

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America’s Test Kitchen’s Basic Pie Crust served us well. We sampled it plentifully to make sure.

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The leftover dough became snail balls. Think mini pie crust cinnamon rolls. Drool a little. It’s okay.

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Here’s where it went a little off track. I remembered the pie having a crumble topping. You know. Like apple crisp. Except that my crumble topping was too wet. And then someone started crying. And I changed a few diapers. Fixed a pony tail. Got thoroughly distracted. Never added more flour.

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It looked fine uncooked. It tasted fine uncooked. (No shame. I taste test everything.) I had high hopes that Martha was going to come banging down my door for the glory that was sure to be this pie.

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I peeked in the oven half way, and then realized my mistake. Not enough flour in the crumble.

SIGH.

No picture perfect pie. No Martha.

But that won’t stop us from eating every last inch of this gloriously messy, mixed up pie.

Every mistake has salvage potential.

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The End.

PS – I took advantage of an extended nap time and did a redesign on the blog. What do you think? Cleaner? Easier to navigate? I hope so. I’m digging it. But I’d love to hear your thoughts. And if you have a kick butt recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie, I’d love to hear that too.

Letter to my little girls

IMG_3920 (800x533)Dear daughters,

You are the chocolate in my cake and the butter on my bread.

You are a month away from turning 1 and 3, constantly changing, growing, moving, speaking, thinking.

Your milestones are built on routine and care.

You are full of glory, made in the image of God.

You are full of wind and frustration.

You reach and still can’t get things. You speak and we correct your speech. You climb and we pull you down.

You are still figuring out where the boundary lines are drawn.

You scream your desires into our days, always wanting, wanting, wanting, not always understanding when we say no.

You want to taste the batter and lick the spoon. Your eyes light up when sweetness hits your tongue.

You think mangoes are heaven.

You know that the world is broken every time something hurts, and this we can’t explain until you’re older.

Your toddlerhood is part wonder, part terror. It is like loving a tornado.

Your babyhood is stretching, growing muscle and grace, approaching girlhood. You watch the way things work. You learn seemingly without effort.

You are not a job. Or a skill we can become good at. Some days everyone fails.

Raising you is like raising up a house from an endless pile of boards and nails, windows and doors. It requires tools we don’t always know how to use, skills we don’t yet have. It is repetition, repetition, repetition.

Sometimes things fall and break.

Sometimes we all have to start over, gathering up the pieces from the sawdusted floor.

And some days we hang a door on the first try, wondering at the ease.

You are gracious with our efforts. You grow. Take shape. Learn how to open and close things on your own. Learn how to occupy yourself, live within the frame of your body.

Still, we want you to be more than a body, a structure, pretty lashes and a roof.

We want you to become the definition of home.

Haven to those around you.

So we keep building. Hammering. Hollering. Trading tools.

You are labor and love, and we learn that these two things must coexist.

That love without labor has no depth.

That labor without love cannot produce beautiful things.

That cake needs chocolate, and bread needs butter,

and we need you

to round off all the sharpness in the world.