The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.

Write On Wednesday asks:

Do you consider yourself a writer? Do you think blogging is “real writing?” What does it take to be a “real writer”?

I write for a blog.

Actually, I write for four blogs.

But, like Becca says, I don’t tell people I do. When they ask what I like to do, I say “reading” or “photography,” but I never say “I like to write.”  I never say “I blog. A lot.”

I am torn in that respect. Why can’t I speak up? Chefdruck mentioned on her site a few weeks ago that she similarly had to “come out of the closet” in admitting that blogging is a large part of her life. I’m still in the closet.

In my mind, my blogging-writing isn’t “real writing.” It is a hobby that I take seriously. I spend much more time writing my book reviews. But when I get time, as I do this Saturday morning, I sit down to write and think about my writing process. As I’ve made clear on this blog, at some point in my life, I hope to make writing (anything) a priority. When will that be? I don’t know.

What would it take to make my writing “real”? Real writing, to me, is something that has been written and rewritten and polished. I’m sorry to say that while I do work hard on these blog entries, they are hardly “polished.”

Someday, I’ll write “for real.” Maybe I write a well-researched nonfiction book about something that interests me. Maybe I’ll write a novel. Maybe I’ll write a story. Maybe I’ll ghostwrite. At some point I’ll make my writing real.

I still consider myself a writer. For now, though, I’m just a “closet writer.” A “blogging writer.”

How do you cultivate creativity in your life?  Have you found the things that make you come alive? Are you doing them? Shouldn’t you be? (Write on Wednesday)

I started blogging for the public world in May — a book blog, this writing blog, a photography blog. All the sudden, there is a new creativity in my life, and it feels good.

Sometimes I get an idea for a writing sketch. Writing that makes me come alive.  I am not very good at fiction, but when I had time, I sat down and responded to some Fiction Friday prompts. I really felt alive as I created those characters. I’ve tried my hand at a novel that I have in mind. But time seems to stifle my creativity; I don’t have nearly enough time to spend nurturing those little children into being.

Every few weeks, I take some pictures, or I work with old photographs I’ve taken. I tweak them and upload them to my photography blog. I like working with my photographs, and I feel creative. But again, time stops me, and I get busy and forget.

Most often, I’ve been reading. When I finish reading something and stop to write a few passages about it, I feel I come alive. Analyzing what I read was what I did in college as an English major. I loved it then. I love it even more so now because I’m not spending days on each book: I’m finding the inspiring themes in less than 1,000 words and then I’m moving on to another inspiring book. Good literature is helping me cultivate my creativity.

Am I doing all I can to cultivate creativity? No; if so, I’d spend all day nurturing my fictional characters and the words and photographs that feel so good. Instead, I nurture my little boy, who is going to be walking soon and seems to eat constantly these days. Should I be doing more? No, my priorities are where they should be right now.

Sometimes, I wish I could spend eight hours a day writing and reading. Then my boy laughs as he stands up: he’s so proud of himself. I realize I don’t want to change anything.

So for now, I’ll focus on being a mom 24 hours a day. That keeps me alive. I’ll also keep reading inspiring literature: it adds an aspect of creativity that makes me feel alive, even when I’m too busy to sit and give life to the fictional characters and writing sketches residing in my mind.

The red glow dims and the movement stops. It is very dark now, and all is still. I like this time. It is time to move!

My arm moves slowly in the liquid around me. It hits the side. Bump bump bump! There is some movement, then all is still again. My hand finds my mouth. I suck the tiny fingers. I swallow. I swallow again.

It is too still. I twist, but it is too crowded: there is not enough space now. My feet kick the side. Bump! Bump! I hear a muffled noise and again feel movement. I stop kicking. The movement stops. Then I kick again. I like this game!

I stop moving and relax in the dark, curled up tightly. I like this dark! I am so safe, so warm, so complete.

I find my thumb and suck it again.

Response to Fiction Friday.

He does not want help. I surrender the mostly empty spoon to his prying fingers.

Now he thrusts out his jaw and grasps the spoon in his chubby hand, his knuckles near the bowl of the spoon. Swinging his arm from the elbow, he clicks the spoon, by chance, against the plastic bowl of pumpkin mash before him. Two clicks, then three. He grins and looks up.

“See!” his eyes dance. “I can do it myself.”

I congratulate him. He stops swinging his arm and brings the spoon to his face. It hits his right cheek, strings of pumpkin resting under his eye. Then the spoon finds his mouth. He chews: nothing.

He frowns, his brow wrinkles, and he lets out a high-pitched wail.

“No fair!” his eyes whine. “I’m hungry.”

He won’t to relinquish the spoon when I reach to help, but he stops crying: he wants to feed himself. He thrusts out his jaw, and tries again.

To my very determined nine-month-old son

“The light of genius expressed in literature does not fail with the death of the author. His galleries are still displayed for our instruction and enjoyment. But the magic key which could have opened new ones to our eager desire has gone forever. Let us, then, guard the treasures which he has bequeathed.”

Sir Winston Churchill, tribute to Rudyard Kipling, 17 November 1937, quoted in Never Give In! The Best Winston Churchill Speeches.

Continuation of L.A. with Dred. Read that first!

It was just my luck (my bad luck) that Jason was at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s house when I arrived. I’ve always hated that guy!

Dred had just left for L.A. that morning and I still hadn’t been able to reach him to figure out what Plan B was. How was I going to get there when Dred had all the money for our trip? There I was, knocking at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s front door on the day I was supposed to be heading to L.A. with Dred, when who should answer but Jason.

“Hey there!” He was wearing blue coveralls with these big stains, a brown stain was on right leg and a white smear on left shoulder. There was a splotch of white paint on his forehead and his mousy hair was all a mess. He looked so dumb, as usual. Did he have any idea? He didn’t invite me in or anything, he just stared at me, holding the door with his right arm and holding a dirty rag in the other.

“Didn’t you move out?” He scratched his head, like a monkey would, of course. But then he stepped aside as I charged in. As he should. It was my step-aunt’s house, not his. Even if I don’t have a key anymore.

I almost said, “Duh, why else would I knock?” Instead, I took the disdainful approach that always worked when we were in high school. “Why’re you here?”

It’s just my luck that Jason would see me on a day when I overslept and spent hours walking in the Chicago snow. I admit, I’d even cried a little bit. Just my luck that I hadn’t seen a mirror in hours. I’ll bet my mascara had smeared. That would be just my luck.

“I’m painting the kitchen,” Jason said, nodding toward the room. “Gotta get back.” He started walking away from me. “Your aunt and uncle are out of town, so you won’t catch ‘em.”

I almost corrected him, as usual: step-aunt. I want to make sure he remembers that she is not a blood relative. But I didn’t.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” I followed him, dropping my backpack on the ground in the front hall on the way. The kitchen was a mess: the cupboards were edged with masking tape, the table was pushed away from the wall, and newspapers were everywhere. Jason grunted, as usual, and didn’t respond. He picked up his paint brush and crouched by the wall next to the pantry.

I opened the fridge, but it was just my luck that it was as empty as my own had been.

“I missed my bus to L.A.” I explained, grabbing the half-eaten jar of dill pickles. Jason didn’t answer. I pulled a chair from the hall and sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table.

“Dred must’ve gone without me.” I fished for a pickle. Jason looked up at me and grunted again, as usual. Just my luck that he won’t even talk to me on a day I needed it. Isn’t that what neighbors are for?

When Jason still hadn’t said anything and I’d already finished the second pickle, I started telling him all about Dred anyway: how he laughed at just about everything I say, how he always listened to me, how he had this great plan for us in L.A., how his eyes danced when he laughs - really, it was so cute, it shouldn’t be allowed. It was when I was telling Jason about Dred’s curl around his ear that I saw the illustration on the scrap of newspaper in front of me. The hair was just like Dred’s.

“Like this,” I said. I lifted the newspaper and, pointing to the curly hair on the page, I turned it toward Jason, but he kept painting. He’d moved on to another part of the wall. I turned the paper around again and stopped talking for a moment while I fished for the last two pickles in the jar. The sketch really looked like Dred.

“Composite Sketch of Fast Food Chain Robber,” said the caption. Wow, just my luck that my boy friend looks just like a robber! I thought. I didn’t say this aloud, of course, because I didn’t want Jason to get the wrong idea about Dred.

I was finished with the pickles, so I actually read the article that went with the sketch. Just my luck that the end of every line was cut off because the page had been ripped.

This robber had hit a few times, and every fast food joint he’d hit was near my old apartment. The longer I looked at the sketch, the more I knew: that was Dred.

I rubbed my arms to try to warm them from the sudden chill that went over my body.

I glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was two weeks old, the day he’d told me we should go to L.A. Just my luck, I thought: Dred, my boyfriend, was a robber.

“You’re actually reading?” said Jason from over my shoulder. I jumped and tried to hide the scrap of newspaper.

“Um, no…” I said. I swallowed. The pickle aftertaste was now disgusting.

“What’s up?” The taunting edge had disappeared from Jason’s voice; it was now smooth and gentle. I looked up at him. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were a California-sky blue. They seemed to whisper “It’ll be alright.” I knew it would be. Just my luck, my new good luck, that I didn’t have to worry: I hadn’t gone to L.A. with Dred!

Fictional response to Fiction Friday prompt.

My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.

“What’s a superhero?”

“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.

“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”

By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.

We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?

Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner - a “real” dinner - for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.

With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.

My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.

One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.

I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.

Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.

• It’s still bland: how much salt?
• The sauce is too thin: what did I forget?
• The sauce is too acidic: what can I add to balance the flavor?

Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.

My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.

I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.

Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.

To my husband, my culinary inspiration

True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit

I’d thought I needed the motivation of a blog to write, respond to prompts, etc. But there are so many prompts out there, and they don’t inspire me so much. Much of what I want to write is intensely personal; how do I find it within me?

Recently, I decided to follow the example of other writing bloggers and read an inspiring writing book. That would be a good way to get a “jump start” into my writing, right?

I decided to start with a book most writers quote, Stephen King’s On Writing.

So I read it.

I hated it so much I couldn’t come back to this blog for a week. I couldn’t bring myself to even think about writing. Read my review on my book blog to read my thoughts on it.

How did I get the desire to come back to writing, to this site? Well, I’m still pretty disgusted, but I’m healing. The healing process continued as I read again.

I was reading Never Give In: The Best Winston Churchill’s Speeches. These are political speeches, written by the Nobel Prize in Literature winner, Sir Winston Churchill. And as I read these political speeches, I came across the most beautiful explanation of why I want to write. I posted it on this site.

Write on Wednesday asks: Do you ever feel the need to jump start your writing? What drains the energy from your “writing mind”? What do you do when your creative battery dies?

What drains the energy from my writing mind is poor writing. I’ve decided that when I need a jump start on my writing, it won’t be by reading other writing blogs. It won’t be reading the memoirs of “best-selling” authors. It will be by reading inspiring, well-written words of good writers. Quality, not quantity.

I’ll still read blogs; I’ll still read “best-sellers” (sometimes). But I won’t find the inspiration I need from those sources.

That leads me to the question, “Why do I have this writing blog, a collection of mediocrity?” I don’t know anymore. I may be back and write something here again. But it’s not really what I need.

Whether a man writes well or ill, has much to say or little, if he cares about writing at all, he will appreciate the pleasures of composition. To sit at one’s table on a sunny morning, with four clear hours of uninterruptible security, plenty of white paper, and a Squeezer pen - that is true happiness. The complete absorption of the mind upon an agreeable occupation - what more is there than that to desire? What does it matter what happens outside? … Never mind, for four hours, at any rate, we will withdraw ourselves from a common, ill-governed and disorderly world, and with the key of fancy unlock that cupboard where all the good things of the infinite are put away.

Sir Winston Churchill, from speech entitled “The Pen: Liberator of Man and of Nations” given 17 February 1908, Author’s Club, London (quoted in Never Give In: The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches, selected and edited by Winston S. Churchill, page 29-30)