I’ve come across a new problem.

I started a new manuscript and I used a method I learned at a recent conference. It was designed to prevent writer’s block because you own the path the story is going. It sounded good to me, a panther at heart.

But I find my self writing a sentence, maybe a paragraph and having my brain go blank.

Is it the story, the scene, or me?

Have I developed ADD in my menopausal years? Or have my brain cells short-circuited? Do they spark and sputter and die?

Perhaps the story is just not that interesting…

You found the key to my secrets

Roadmap to my scars

You weren’t supposed to look

That close 

You found my scars on paper

My words bleeding on the page

You weren’t supposed to read

That close 

You asked me tell you the story

My laughter belies my crying inside

You weren’t supposed to listen

That close

Do you ever wonder like me where the time has gone?

Mentally I feel like that nasty number 60 couldn’t be creeping in my rearview mirror, but there are days, I do admit, that my bones complain a bit, or my memory isn’t as sharp on high school details as it used to be.

Well, coming soon, we have chance to remember and laugh away 40 years.

On August 18th, 19th and 20th, we will celebrate our fortieth reunion – together! East and West High Schools joining for one weekend of fun and friendship.

We are planning a Friday Night Mixer, a picnic on Saturday at Shelter A in Greenbelt Forest Preserve and some activity for Sunday afternoon.

The planning committee (I’ve named us Team Nitty Gritty) needs your help. You’ve been great at giving us ideas and we are chasing them down. But in order to get an idea of head count for these events, we need to hear from you.

Email me at waukeganhs77@gmail.com and let me know if you plan to attend any of these events.
As we are able to nail down the details, we will post them everywhere.

Thank you,
Mary Beth (Juppe) Bretzlauf

I never really understood

Why Mother Nature plays

The saddest joke to me

Through one eye squinted

Colors are alike

It’s hard to say if

Spring or Fall

Mixed greens with rust

Or berry red

But to give me soft blush anew

Front yard magnolia trees

Now pink tears on green grass

Why, Mother, why?

Time with long and happy pansies

But short with my tranquil blush

Why can’t I enjoy them

Just a bit longer…

Without the tears

Books with unreliable narrators like “Gone Girl”, “The Girl One the Train”, and other suspenseful delights keep coming across my “laptop desk” in the form of emails. I suspect this sub-genre will continue to grow due to dictating sales.

I discovered my own unreliable narrator. My mind.

It has been 40 years since high school and while a number of us have a Facebook page, many of us do not. My mind has been scrambling to remember which ones of my friends in my youth went to which high school.

There were two public high schools and two Catholic that kids had a choice of going to. The Catholic schools were separated by gender and miles.

Holy Child Catholic School for Girls, was located in town, but closed my junior year. I went there my freshman year, a treasured time indeed. Some on my friends crammed to graduate that year – to be able claim to a true and blue Holy Child girl in their hearts and on their diplomas. Carmel Catholic High School was 14 miles away in Mundelein and accepted both genders. Many of my grade school friends went there, mostly the boys.

The public high schools were divided by the map and called East and West.

In these past couple weeks of trying to narrow down the dates of our 40th reunion, I have been trying to remember who went where.

Yesterday, I hit the intimate low.

Me on FB: Julie, did you graduate from East with me in “77?

Julie on FB: Yeah, we had lunch together with Ellen.

Me in my head: Who’s Ellen?

I did eventually remember Ellen but there was a flutter of brain matter in the wind as I tried to regather the loose pieces of memories that fell from my gray matter like an overturned trash can.

Have I, in the course of writing and imaging, lost my long term memory? Or is it just other memories stronger than others? Perhaps i just need more people like Julie to remind of people like Ellen and why I miss her.

I’ve discovered that Enthusiasm is magical.

Like all magical things, it’s a Blessing and a Curse.

Many of you may laugh at how long it took me to come to this conclusion. But it isn’t just the pixie dust uncorked at our convenience that in turn makes us feel like eight year olds trapped in the bodies of much older people.

Enthusiasm takes on a more viscous state. It’s not the glowing green goop in Ghostbusters; instead, I like to think of it as the melted marshmallows and butter when you’re making rice crispy bars. The satiny white marshmallow and soft yellow of the butter creaming together to become one sweet color; yet this concoction has the consistency of another dimension, as a friend says.

This enthusiasm chokes you, makes you forget how old you really are as you steamroll over feelings like they were unseen precious plants and even as you look back at the aftermath, the glutinous coat of enthusiasm cloaks the destruction. You don’t see the hurt, the pain – even feel it – if it’s your own.

The other problem with it in this state, is it needs constant stirring. Like our granddog Wrigley, it’s an attention whore. It needs the burner set on low. It needs the silicone spatula to keep it moving. Without it, it bubbles and boils over. And then you really have a mess.

So, I propose you add the rice crispies and treat yourself: Life’s too short to be stuck holding the spatula for needy Enthusiasm.

Snow blackest before crocuses appear

Green leaves make way for red and gold

Cobalt nights yield periwinkle mornings

For Beauty is wasted without the other

Starkness gapes through broken windows

Burnt bricks purge violence

Children play amidst the urban rubble

Glass pebbles rain on hopscotch squares

Ugliness transforms own beauty

Eyes are jaded as they age

Or do we open them further

Sunlight to filter or blind

How can the world hold all its shame?

Wondrous beauty hold staggering injustice

Without growth life wilts mournfully

Droughts the mind and soul

Has the balance tipped?

My colors fading unattractive

Sorrowful death weeps for beauty

Splendor cries for release

Hold tight the blighted

Caress the telltale disease

Nature cures in balance, time

Embrace the bleakness around you

When had life moved me

Beyond my modest youth

Black and white photos

Chronicled the years

Family vacations of vast expanse                

Yellowed polaroids measure time

 The years just move faster, I’m older

 Like early days of space exploration

Stickballs and bicycles

Marbles and hoops

Open fields laid waiting for

Our imaginations to play

 When bikes gave way

 To cars and tinker

 Malt shops and friends

 Life slipped into second gear

  Adulthood beckoned me

 Leading a lengthy chase

Such a natural progression

In that era of kodachrome

Third gear moved into fourth

Windows down, wind whipping

Graying hair back with speed

A freedom never old to me

Slower gait brings simple joys,

A stogie at sunset, happy brood

Memories and laughter

My pictures of the past

 A gift to my Dad – June 2011

Sun rises, love shines

Today their journey begins

Two paths transform one

One garden starts to seed

Leaving Mother’s Love

Carry two restless souls

Plans made, One Dream

The new voyage onward

Ahead the wider path

Room enough for more

Families alongside travel

Oak arms reaching broad

Lilies     Crocuses

Azaleas    Daffodils

Pansies    Hydrangeas

Foxgloves too

Greens edge to follow

Old friends spring new

Arbors shading climbing vines

Intersecting time with time

Memories of dreams flourish

Ahead some hills, some turns

Mountain steep, valley low

Tenacious weeds, beautiful blooms

Thorns prick or tear, mostly roses

This garden, two souls

Grow to share sun and shade

And Love’s shining presence

Keeps journey new

Keeps garden growing

Keeps two souls together.

Any given night, when I lay down, I can have six to eight characters vying for my attention to think of their story lines as I try to fall asleep. It’s only a queen size bed. With the dog, it’s crowded place on the average night.

My head doesn’t stand a chance.

Now, before I went to The Writers Institute last month, I simply thought that’s how my brain works for the plot – creating scenes with my characters. I had no idea they now have a name for it – blueprinting. All this time I thought I was a pantser (plotting by the seat of my pants).

Blueprinting is going into a trance-like state to have your plot come to you scenes at a time until you have about 150 scenes that may or may not work. You write each scene down on an index card after each trance, and organize them, eliminate the ones that don’t work – which means save them for that other book – and voila, you have a plot.

Now, to be fair, as the presenter said, blueprinting should take six months before you even begin writing the manuscript. So from this workshop I left realizing I am a hybrid – a blueprinting/pantser.

I also learned about beat lines. Interesting. I’m sure I’d like to spend a month writing lines before I write the manuscript. The author promoting this style of plotting says it prevents writers block. You know your destination and the route you’re taking.

I like the idea, but my characters have always come first. They are formed in my head. I then I develop the inciting incident, which usually brings the characters together, or at least setting them on their path.

Maybe in Pollyanna in me (I’m sure my psychotherapist friend Jim would have lots to say about this) wants my characters to determine what troubles and adventures they will have. I prefer to think of them as setting themselves up for their own lives – kind of like we do. We say ‘I’m going to be an accountant’ and we wind up being a teacher for thirty years – Life stepped in and said, “Not so fast!” Because pushing a pencil and reading numbers wouldn’t nearly be as rewarding as molding the minds of children for thirty years, Life had other ideas.

Yesterday at Writers Guild, three – three! new members arrived!We are SO excited! One young writer brought his hand written novel to read from, and the others had stuff. We are excited to read their works as well. We hope they return.

One of the new writers, without reading his work, just with his ideas, my mind is already buzzing with what he’s written. He’d like to get published, and we’ll be here to support him.