But neither are endings. The last page is just as important as the first, because it has to bring together all the disparate pieces of the work into a satisfying conclusion, while referring back to the issues raised on that scary first page. It’s a full-circle kind of thing, like the snake of eternity that coils around and devours its own tail. (Even the visuals take courage to face!)  Click here for more…

In the SLO NIghtWriters Short Story Contest, two of my under-500-word stories attained finalist status: Figment, a sci-fi story that explores the limits of reality (which also won first place two years ago in a literary journal contest), and Ab Initio, a strange, dark story that had its origins in a writing workshop and underwent only a few tweaks and a tense change in the polishing process.

I was also notified that my mystery story, Beef Killington, written for the San Joaquin Valley Sisters in Crime Contest (2009 theme was Death Dines Out, with the only caveat that the story had to take place in or near the valley) garnered third place, as well as Best Use of Setting. I consciously set out to make the setting a character of the story, and I guess I accomplished that task! Lots of research combined with imagination, since I’ve only been to the valley once – last year, to receive a first place award. All I saw was the restaurant and a lot of flat land as we drove in.

So, now I have four more winning certificates for my wall of success. My advice to you? Persevere. Rewrite. Attend workshops and conferences. Join a good critique group. That’s what pays off in the writing world.

“The end is always a beginning. If an end became an end, you are not only refuting the nature of man, but you are also subjecting man to be dominated by history, which has no right to be the domineering fact. Man can never be an end in himself, he must be the beginning for another person.” (Edward Latchford Tuttle, Jr., 1972)

Goodbye for a while, Mom. And rest in the assurance that we who remain will continue to be the beginning for everyone we meet. See you soon.

When I was little, my mother seemed infinitely strong and wise. She always knew everything, had all the answers. I can’t remember ever getting an “I don’t know” from her. I used to worry about what I would do when I had kids of my own, because I knew I didn’t have any of the answers. But when Aaron came along, Mom gave me a fabulous piece of advice. And I realized that she had flown through the skies of parenthood by the seat of her pants, just like everyone else. She told me I didn’t need to have all the answers, I just had to act like I did. And it worked!

This was one woman who should have had a houseful of children. She had so much love inside her, she couldn’t give it all away if she tried. And she did try. First to me, and then my brother, Ted, when she and Dad adopted us and made us their own. No bond of birth-parenthood was ever stronger than the bond she had with us. Then she gave to her friends’ children, and as her sisters and brothers slipped away, she included her nieces and nephews in her family circle. For someone who never physically bore children, she had the largest family I’ve ever seen.

Mom and Dad gathered friends around them the way honey attracts ants. Everywhere they went, every trip they took, added a few more to the ever-expanding circle. I always thought that was the way things were for everyone, until I grew up and left home and discovered that the rest of us have to work really hard at what came so naturally to Shirley and Ed. And how they loved to party! Everything was an excuse to gather the group and party hearty: Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, holidays, gin rummy nights, bowl games, horse races – you name it, they celebrated it. We’d barely have time to take down one set of backyard decorations before putting the next ones up.

There are so many Shirley stories. One of my favorites is about their honeymoon train trip down to Florida where Dad was stationed during World War II. They went into the train’s club car for dinner and sat down. When the waiter came over, Dad ordered a cocktail. Then the waiter asked, “And what would your daughter like?”

And how about the times when Ted or Dad or I would leave the house, and she’d open up a window and yell, “Whoopie!”? Often, when I would ask if I could do something or other, Mom’s whimsical side would come out when she’d answer, “Yes, you can, and you can even sit on the eggs.” And talk about whimsical – the first song she ever taught me was, “Underneath the Bamboo Tree.”

Mom and Dad never got out of the honeymoon stage of their marriage, which caused me no end of embarrassment. When I attended St. Joseph’s Elementary School, we were allowed to go home for the noon meal each day. But I could never invite a friend over for lunch, because I never knew when I walked in the door if I’d find Mom on Dad’s lap, smooching away. I think I went through grade school with a permanently red face.

Shirley was the quintessential nurturer. No one could walk through her door without being fed. And no one could walk back out the door without taking half the contents of her pantry with them. Whenever she’d bake a batch of brownies or a cake, she’d parcel it out into smaller shares and hang little goodie bags on doorknobs in her apartment building. And when it came to game prizes, Shirley was the Queen. A few times I even “won” back some little thing I’d given her for Chirstmas or Easter.

I’ve got a million stories about Mom, about what made her the kind, considerate and courageous woman that she was. I’ll be posting them to this page as I get them written. So, when you start missing her, come visit her vicariously and share a laugh or two. For that’s what she loved most, sharing laughter.

After Dad died, Mom and I talked a lot about death. Mom always said she didn’t want tears and sorrow for her. She’d lived a wonderful life with her best friend and lover, and she wanted laughter, happiness and celebration to accompany her into the afterlife. And no sad, dirge-like funeral songs. She asked me a couple of years ago to write a song just for her, and when she heard it she asked me to sing it for her at her funeral.

So, Mom, this is for you…

I’VE GONE HOME*

I am a child of hope and peace, part of the Master Plan.
I was sent to earth to learn to love, and to share my heart and hand.
Now I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
Let the trumpet sound, call the victory
For God was waiting there for me.

God tested me throughout my life, some lessons hard to bear.
Still I walked the road in trust and faith, for I knew my God was there.
Saying, you’ll come home, someday you’ll come home,
There’ll be joy and praise and angel song,
For you’ll be back where you belong.

God gifted me with love and joy, and He danced on the night I was born,
Then He sent His angels to watch over me. There is nothing here to mourn.
For I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
Let the glory ring from place to place
For I am safe in His embrace.

Though it’s hard, I know, for you who stay upon this world of strife,
Take comfort in the love we shared, and celebrate my life.
You know that I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
And when the day has come that your journey’s through
I will be waiting there for you.

Yes, I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
And with my God I stand, hand in hand,
Waiting patiently for you.

I love you, Mom.

*Words and music by Susan Tuttle

I am a child of hope and peace,
Part of the Master Plan.
I was sent to earth to learn to love,
And to share my heart and hand.
Now I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
Let the trumpet sound, call the victory,
For God was waiting there for me.

Made in His image, body and sould
I lived and learned and grew.
Though I failed at times to follow His path,
Somehow I always knew
That I’d go home, I’d go home
Where my Father stands, radiantly,
Waiting patiently for me.

God tested me throughout my life,
Some lessons hard to bear,
Still I walked the road in trust and faith,
For I knew my God was there,
Saying, you’ll come home, someday you’ll come home
There’ll be joy and praise and angel song,
For you’ll be back where you belong.

God graced my soul with love and joy,
And He danced on the night I was born.
Then He sent His angels to watch over me;
There is nothing here to mourn.
For I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
Let the glory ring from place to place
For I am safe in His embrace.

Though it’s hard, I know, for you who stay
Upon this world of strife,
Take comfort in the love we shared,
And celebrate my life.
You know that I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
And when the day has come that your journey’s through
I will be waiting there for you.

Yes, I’ve gone home, I’ve gone home,
And with my God I stand, hand in hand,
Waiting patiently for you.

There are many ways to educate readers while still telling a fascinating and gripping story. One of the more overt is to make sure that your technical skills in the English language are, as the British would say, spot on. A so-so writer can tell a readable story even when unknowingly killing some of the basic rules of sentence structure and punctuation (though discerning readers might have some trouble getting all the way through the story). A good writer can do the same while adhering to all the rules, which makes it a better read. A great writer lifts the story to the next plateau by using some judicious and creative manipulation of the language; ie, still breaking a few rules, but at least knowing why they need to be broken. And inspired writers make their prose sing while still adhering to all the rules, actually using the rules to slingshot their work out into the stratosphere.

But one of my favorite ways to educate readers is to sprinkle a few “big words” into the body of my work, words that may not be familiar to most readers. I like to think I’m helping to stretch their vocabulary and add depth to their life experience. Maybe it’s my own little quirk—I am a self-professed word-monger with an extensive vocabulary of my own—but I love to come away from a wonderful story knowing I’ve gotten more than enjoyment from it, more even than a better understanding of people and life. I’ve learned a new word that someday I may be able to attach to an event or feeling in my own life. My experience of living has expanded. I feel broadened, more open. Heck, I feel smart! It’s absolutely exhilarating.

Often writers will be told not to use words readers don’t already know, but if a writer has a fairly comprehensive vocabulary why should he or she have to “dumb down” in order to write for the public? Huntington Beach, California, resident Elizabeth George, writes the very successful British Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley series. She has a vocabulary of awesome scope; I found thirteen words I didn’t know in Missing Joseph, that run the gamut from acclivity to tenebrous.

Part of the tingle I get when I read her well-crafted, expertly-written mystery novels comes from knowing I will need to have a dictionary at my side (and not an abridged one!). As I read I learn new ways of looking at people, places, things and events, because synonyms do not have identical meanings any more than all grapes taste the same. Each new synonym adds its own piquant nuance to the total essence of a description, a scene, a character’s outlook, the meaning of life itself. And Ms. George sprinkles these little iridescent nuggets into her narrative like priceless pearls, for the titillation and edification of the discerning reader. And, hopefully, to increase discernment in the average reader. To lift the reader a little higher.

Don’t ever be afraid to ask your reading audience to scale the mountain with you. Most of them will come along for the ride, as long as you tell a compelling, inspiring story that takes hold and won’t let go. And if they learn a few new words along the way, they’ll be all the better for it.

When I moved out here to California, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I’ve never been an especially brave person, but somehow packing up my possessions, hopping in the car and driving to an unknown destination had the feel of urgency about it. I called my mother and asked her if she’d like to venture across the country with me. We had a wonderful two weeks of following where our hearts led, stopping wherever the road widened, and re-establishing our relationship. We hit the Central Coast in late June, with nowhere for me to stay, no job and no prospects. An act of faith.

It occurs to me now that most of the things we do in life, whether we know it or not, are acts of faith. The big, really scary ones we recognize. But the little everyday risks we often don’t acknowledge as true acts of faith. They’re just something that we do because, for some reason or another, we must.

Think about writing, for example. The entire process, from inception to completion, is a series of small acts of faith that culminate in a product that is larger than its component parts. What else but an act of faith would convince anyone that a tiny seed of an idea could sprout and grow into an article, a story, a novel, a memoir or non-fiction volume? What other than acts of faith that build one upon another could sustain a writer through the torturous process of ideating, writing, revising, researching and rewriting again and again?

In my experience, the freshness and the wonder in any literary work is directly related to the amount of faith needed to underpin the writing. The newer the territory, the more unfamiliar the genre or subject matter, the more inspiring is the act of faith. It takes less faith to re-create the known past than to step out into the unknown future. That’s why the first in a series of anything, fiction or nonfiction, is often the most compelling to the reader. The joy of discovery, the awe of a newly unfolding process, the wonder of learning permeates every sentence, phrase and word, and carries the reader along on the journey.

So, I challenge you all. Make this your autumn of faith. Step out into the unknown; trust your insight, your skill and your talent to take you to a place you’ve never before visited. Seek the wonder and expand your horizons. Listen to your inner spirit, to the soft whisper urging new exploration. Dare to dream. Spread your wings and fly to new territory, see where the muse leads you. Then write it down. Listen to your inner spirit. It will be scary, and at first you may stumble and fall more often than you soar. But it’s worth it. You’ll be initiating an act of faith that will start a chain reaction within you. It could lift your writing to another level altogether. Or you might discover a talent for an area you’ve never before explored. At the very least you’ll go back to familiar territory with renewed confidence and a sense of pride for taking a risk.

All your dreams for the future begin here, now, with a writing act of faith. It’s the wellspring from which all literary miracles flow.

Step out and write.

Here I go again, talking about change. I guess that’s because it’s such a constant in my life right now. Everywhere I turn, I’m faced with change of some sort: the economy has cut my work hours drastically; my church is re-organizing its service groups, just when I’ve gotten comfortable with the status quo; and circumstances are forcing me into finding a new place to live.

ereHChange is never easy, especially when it’s thrust on us without warning or our consent. That can make us not only frustrated and angry, but also resistant. But change can also be the best – and at times the only – way to keep moving forward toward our goals, be they professional, spiritual or personal.

When I moved out here from the East Coast, I had to pare down. Let’s face it, I’m the quintessential pack rat. My unquenchable imagination allows me to see that yes, I may indeed someday soon – in the next 10 years or so – need that article I haven’t touched in last 10 years. And given the fact that I get bored easily, I do tend to rotate my hobbies ; a year or two on, a year or two off. And now I’m forced to do it again, pare down into a place a quarter the size of the one in which I presently reside.

But a funny thing happened (after I groused and anguished for a few days). I somehow found myself looking forward to solving the problem; how can I pare down and still retain what I need to fulfill myself? How much of me can I fit into that room I will soon call my own? What actually defines the real me? It’s a challenge that’s starting to feel doable, and even a bit exciting.

I’m finding it spilling over into my writing life, too – or perhaps it’s my writing life that’s spilling into my regular life. However it works, I’m finding myself “paring down” when it comes to words: How many words do I really need? How many can I cut and still say what I want to say? Still retain my unique voice? Still capture the reader’s attention, and imagination? Where does the border of “bare essentials” meet the expanse of “more than enough”? That’s where I want my writing to dwell, in the narrow space where I truly come alive.

Where are you in your own “paring down” process? Are your word closets still too cluttered to see exactly what hangs in there? Are your kitchen cabinets so crammed full that willy-nilly words leap out when you open them? Do phrases, similes, clauses and sentences liter the floors and trip you up on your journey to realizing your lettered vision? Perhaps it’s time to open your windows and let the fresh breeze of change blow away the chaff, winnow down your burgeoning supply of literate canned goods to the bare essentials that define you as a writer.

We can’t escape change. We can’t ignore it and continue to grow. The best we can do is help direct it, and enjoy what it reveals to us about ourselves.

                                                                    Destiny

            Keening, high-pitched, the sound grows in intensity, wakes J’npaire – again.

            “Shut up, Drea!”

            He glares at the stone shelves holding his Encasement Collection, twenty-three in all. The golden filigree ball holding Drea’s essence spirals in the deep niche. Once, that pleased J’npaire. During the glorious Encasement fight, he’d feared she might defeat him. He’d not known a woman’s will could be so strong. Would Drea’s body prove the same? The others had lived only six lightcycles. She’ll last eight, he had guessed, amused as her spirit fought on.

            No pleasure left, now. Twenty-nine lightcycles and still Drea shreds his nerves with needlesharp wails.

            J’npaire rises, stalks to the shelf. Takes Drea into alabaster-pale hands, holds her at eye level. Sparks glint from gold; aurora energy swirls within the ball. Staccato anger erupts.

            “Stop, Drea. This is your destiny. Be still!”

            The ball twists out of his hand, onto the floor. J’npaire narrows his eyes. Immutable law; the fight ends when the body erases. Therefore, even after twenty-nine lightcycles, she still lives. He will have to erase her himself.

            He powers up his air-raft, floats from the bluelit room, slips through the concealing drift filter. The colorless rocklight of Below has brightened to wakecycle, but these old tunnels are deserted. At Drea’s entombment niche he grabs his Excavator, erases just enough rock to crawl through. His face twists, senses rebelling at the odor hissing into the tunnel.      

J’npaire crawls into the tomb, lights a torch. All is as he left it: Drea’s raft canted against the far wall, her meager possessions spread below like altar offerings; Drea motionless, one arm folded upon her breast, the other flung onto a halo of white hair. No longer beautiful, this Drea: pale face bloated, blackened; flesh slipping from delicate bones; oozing liquids forming a slick pool beneath her. Erased. Very much erased.

            J’npaire’s heart pounds. Horror scritches his scalp. This cannot be. No one can fight for life where none remains. Shuddering, he steps back toward the entrance, lifts the excavator, points it at Drea.

            Her head turns. Ruined eyes open, probe deep to touch his buried essence. Her keening wail crescendos, rides the necrotic air. J’npaire cringes, curls his arms over his head. The Excavator accidentally fires, sweeping the stone ceiling. Fissures widen; stone rumbles, breaks apart. J’npaire screams into the roar of avalanching rock, throws himself toward the back wall.

Silence resettles. Massive stone overseals the tomb. Wailing himself, J’npaire bloodies his fingers, struggling to shift immovable rock. The Excavator, his only escape, lies crushed beneath the boulders. Finally he sits, empty inside. Destiny: starvation, suffocation, erasure. His and Drea’s. She has defeated him. J’npaire turns his head, looks at her. Beneath closed eyes, a faint smile curves Drea’s melting lips.

            In J’npaire’s sanctuary, the filigree ball spirals in ever decreasing circles. The keening wail winds down into a sigh. In deep silence, bluelight glimmers off lacy gold as, at long last, Drea lies inert.

RUDLEY’S RAGE

Keening, high-pitched, the sound grows in intensity. Rudley’s wail catches Kamma’s attention. She walks onto the balcony and looks up, shielding her eyes with a cerise-gloved hand. He clings to the flagpole tip like a Popsicle to its stick, fair skin frying in white-hot incandescence. Given his bare-and-buck state, she’s grateful that solid shadow fattens his rebar limbs into a concealing barrier. Or perhaps she’s simply been lucky enough to stop at just the right angle.

“Rudley! Are you coming down from there?”

The hairy head rises, eyes screwed shut against piercing sun-glare.

“Not until Missa leaves.”

“She’s not, and you know it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“That’s my constitutional right.”

The disembodied reply rings in the dense, hot air, but Kamma doesn’t hear. Movement catches her eye; she swivels her head to watch an eagle ride the thermals around Rudley’s perch. Damn, but they’re high up now. With so many applicants, Domicile keeps shifting floors and adding units, boosting First-Comers closer to the stratosphere. Pretty soon, as Missa claims, they’ll need oxygen masks just to enjoy the view.

She glances over the railing and down, her fingers clutching the scardey-handle.

“You’re drawing a crowd,” she tells Rudley. “I can see cameras down there, and telescopes. Want a robe?”

Silence. She looks back up. Rudley’s eyes are still closed; white bird-juice drips off his nose. The eagle has landed.