Wisdom From An Old Scribe

Just sharing another piece that I submitted to Tiny Lights. http://www.tiny-lights.com/ This piece answers the prompt "Who Controls Your Writing."  Enjoy

WISDOM FROM AN ANCIENT SCRIBE by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a land called Álfheimer, there once lived a young elfin scribe known as Olwȅ Nénharma.  Now it happened one day while walking through the Bodhi Woods that he came upon an old scribe. 

Lord Carnesȉr, some 90+ years old, sat feebly on the stump of an orange blossom tree.  The old scribe didn’t move—he sat with his head down staring at his hands.  Olwȅ sat down beside him, but the old scribe didn’t even acknowledge his presence. 

 

Although Olwȅ didn’t want to disturb the old scribe, he wondered if the old scribe was okay. So he asked, “Be you okay, Lord Carnesȉr?” 

Lord Carnesȉr raised his head, took a sip of lisyul, and smiled.  “I be fine young scribe.  Bless you for asking.”  

“I don’t mean to disturb you, sir.”  The young scribe leaned toward him.  “But I was wondering who controls my writing?  It’s a mystery to me.” 

“Now that’s a bit of a puzzle you see.  For the act of writing is left to you and me.”  Lord Carnesȉr rubbed his chin.  “But there’s really no mystery.  You simply have a responsibility.”  

 “But, sir, my family doesn’t understand.”  Olwȅ kicked a rock with his toe.  “They want me to take up the traditional Elfin ways.  And my friends—well, uh….they just want me to sing and dance.  I feel all alone.

“What you feel is not an uncommon scribal plight.  Do not fret over the ways of the Elfin World.”  Lord Carnesȉr patted Olwȅ’s leg.  “You’ve been given a gift—a talent so rare that you won’t fit in anywhere.”

“What about the villagers, my readers?” Olwȅ clutched his body.  “And what about the Sȇregon Council of Editors?” 

Lord Carnesȉr leaned back and looked Olwȅ straight in the eyes.  “Villagers will criticize you.   Yes, the leaders of the Sȇregon Council will editorialize you.” 

“But take heart.  Love your craft.  Learn how to tell stories.  Love the act of writing.  Don’t let others dissuade you from your path, young scribe.  Write because you want to write.”

So, according to Lord Carnesȉr who controls my writing?  I do.  Anon

Occasionally, you may find Sara Etgen-Baker talking with the wise Lord Carnesȉr while walking through the woods near her home.  If you don’t find her there, you may visit her at http://saraetgenbaker.blogspot.com/

The Magic Pen

I originally wrote this piece in response to one of the monthly prompts at Tiny-Lights--a monthly writer's exchange.  This was a fun piece that I wanted to share. 

THE MAGIC PEN—A FAIRY TALE FOR WRITERS by Sara Etgen-Baker

Once upon a time there lived a gifted princess named Rizan who wrote and spun stories into gold. Now it happened that she opened the mail one day and discovered a rejection letter; she sat at her computer and cried, fearing her gift was gone.

Then Rizan looked out the window of her condo and thought to herself, "The sunset is so beautiful; I think I'll take a stroll along the trails near the creek."

However, darkness quickly fell, and she suddenly found herself lost and alone—deep inside the dark, urban wilderness not knowing what to do. So, Rizan decided to follow the moonlight, hoping it would guide her safely back home. She crossed a small wooden bridge, but all at once an ugly hunchback gnome jumped over the edge, startling poor Rizan.

"Sorry me startled you," the gnome replied, "Yfel's me name. Who might ‘cha be?" he inquired.

"My name's Rizan," the princess answered.

"What brings you out alone into the cold on this wintery evening?" Yfel asked.

"I took a stroll to clear my head hoping to renew my gift of creativity. Now, I seem to have lost my way home."

"Ah, I see…well…tonight's your lucky night, for I have just the thing for you. It's a magic pen. It will bring back your gift. Would ‘cha like to see it?"

"Sure," the princess innocently responded.

Then Yfel handed Rizan the pen, and she ran back to her condo eager to try the new pen. All at once, the point pricked the palm of her hand releasing a paralyzing poison; Rizan fell to the floor where she slumbered until sunrise. The sunbeams woke her.  But, alas, she was still paralyzed.

Soon, a delicately-winged fairy named Gignere slid down a sunbeam onto Rizan's shoulder and said, "I see the evil Yfel tempted you with his magic pen and cast a spell on you."

Then, Gignere waved her magic wand saying, "Be gone paralyzing poison."

With that, the numbness slowly left Rizan's body; she stood up and said, "Thank you, gentle Gignere, for rescuing me from Yfel's evil spell! What about my gift? Is there nothing you can do to rescue it?" Rizan blurted.

Gignere answered, "There's nothing more I can do. Do not let an evil, outside source take it away from you.   Remember writing is your gift and always dwells inside of you."

With that, Gignere smiled and flitted away climbing upon a sunbeam as it floated into the sunrise.

And from that day on, Rizan wrote happily ever after never doubting her gift of creativity.

Pink Pearls of Wisdom

I originally wrote this story the summer that I began writing.  Since then I've learned so much about dialogue and detail, that I decided to re-write this story.  I'm posting it here so I can share it.  Enjoy

PINK PEARLS OF WISDOM

 

     The luxurious, time-worn building located at Sixteen Eighteen Main Street was like a majestic Paramount Movies studio set.  Mesmerized, I lingered at Neiman Marcus’ front doors and pretended that perhaps Gina Lollabrigida, Ann Margaret, or even Rock Hudson would emerge from the set onto the street where I stood.

            “Are you coming?” My grandmother tugged on my shirt sleeve.  “We can’t be late!” 

            “Welcome to Neiman Marcus.”  A white-gloved man opened the door.  “Neiman’s is the perfect store for women.” 

     As we walked through the picturesque lobby, I gasped for breath and gawked like a tourist at the exquisite crystal chandelier above me.  I closed my eyes and imagined Grace Kelly wearing a glamorous floor-length gown, mink stole, and elbow-length gloves slowly descending the signature double staircase. 

     When I opened my eyes, a woman carrying a perfume tray was standing right in front of me.  “Little Lady, would you like to sample some perfume?”

     “Yes ma’am.”  My eyes skimmed over the tray.

      “Neimans offers some of the most popular fragrances—Shalimar, Chanel No. 5, and Evening in Paris.  Let me see.  You look like a Shalimar gal to me.”  She removed the dark blue cap and sprayed both of my wrists.  “Take a whiff.   Isn’t it just delicious?”

     I sniffed my wrists.  They smelled kind of like a fruit salad.  “Yes ma’am.”  I nodded politely then rushed toward the elevator. 

      “Where have you been?”  My grandmother let out a heavy sigh.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!  Stop your dawdling!”  She grabbed my hand.  “Come!  I simply must stop at the jewelry department before we go upstairs for lunch.” 

            We scurried toward the jewelry department.  Like Holly Golightly browsing through Tiffany’s, my grandmother loved peering through Neiman’s glass jewelry cases.  She eyed several necklaces, but eventually settled on a 12-inch string of delicate pink pearls with matching earrings.    

            “May I take a look at that set of pink pearls?” asked my grandmother.

            “Yes certainly Madam.”  The sales clerk unlocked the display case and draped the pink pearls over a piece of dark blue velvet and handed them to my grandmother.  

            My grandmother’s fingers stroked the pearls.   “Oh, those are impeccable!”

            “Here, let me help you try them on.”  The sales clerk came from behind the display case; hung the pearls around my grandmother’s slender neck; and handed her a mirror.  “Those pearls are as cultivated and classy as you are.  They simply define you!”

            My grandmother held up the mirror and carefully examined the pearls.  “Indeed!  They do.”

            Then without even looking at the price tag, she blurted, “I’ll take them!  No need to box them up.  I’ll wear them now.”

            While the clerk rang up the sale, my grandmother turned to me.  “I’m just so embarrassed.  I left the house this morning without putting on my jewelry.  You understand, don’t you?  I had to buy them before we have lunch.”

            My eyes widened and I stuttered.  “I…I…I don’t uh…understand.” 

       “Let me tell you something.  Remember!  A lady never leaves the house without putting on her jewelry!  Never!”  She wrinkled her nose and raised one dainty eyebrow.  “It’s uncouth!”

     My grandmother placed the matching earrings on her ears and took one last glance in the mirror and smiled.  She tilted her head back then eased my hand in hers.  “Come.  I must make one more stop before we have lunch.”

     I walked with her as she wove her way back to the perfume and cosmetic counter where she pulled out a counter-height chair.  “Have a seat.”  I plopped myself down on the satiny cushion and noticed that the air around me smelled velvety soft and feminine like a bar of luxurious white soap. 

     “Good afternoon!”  A cheerful voice startled me.  “My name’s Rose.”  A slender, brunette woman stepped from behind the cosmetic counter.  “How may I help you ladies today?”

      “I was wondering if you could suggest some make up that would be age appropriate for my granddaughter.”

      “Neimans offers the latest mod trends in makeup for young teens.”  Rose reached over and touched my face.  “She has beautiful skin—a little oily.  But that’s normal at her age.  I’d suggest Revlon’s Natural Wonders foundation.”  She pulled a sample bottle from a drawer behind the counter and dabbed a little on my neckline.  “Ah!  That’s the perfect color.”  Rose turned toward my grandmother.  “If you like, I’d be happy to make up her face and give her some pointers.”

     “Well, what do you think?”  My grandmother looked straight at me.  “Are you ready to be a lady?”

     “Yes ma’am.”  I blushed ever so slightly and hugged her. 

     “Alright, Rose.”  Go ahead.”  My grandmother winked at Rose then disappeared.

     Rose dabbed some foundation on my face.  “Always use a sponge and gently smooth the foundation over your face—like this.”  She handed me a makeup mirror.  “See.  Your skin looks flawless but natural.” 

     “Remember the 60’s is about keeping your look simple.  So, you’ll want a neutral blush.” Rose riffled through another drawer.  “Ah, here’s a subtle pink.  You’ll gently brush it onto the apples of your cheeks—like so.” 

     Rose then opened an oblong pink tin that contained lip and eye shadow palettes.  “Brush the iridescent white over your entire eyelid; then add one of the other pastel colors on the lower portion of your eyelid.  Then follow with two applications of mascara.”  Rose pointed to the silken pink lip palette.  “Lastly, remember to apply a subtle pink lipstick like this one.”    

     After Rose completed my makeover, she spun me around in the chair then handed me a pink and white striped bag bearing the Neiman Marcus logo.  “This bag contains all the products I showed you today. Your grandmother wanted you to have them.”   

     “But…but….” I stammered. 

     “Ah.  Here’s your grandmother now.  Enjoy the makeup!” 

     I hugged my grandmother and struggled with what to say.  “Are you sure?” were the only words that popped out of my mouth.

     “Yes, I’m sure.  But always remember—a lady never leaves her house without putting on her face.   Now let’s go to lunch.” 

     We strutted toward the elevator; and when the golden doors opened, another white-gloved man greeted us.  “Which floor madam?” 

     “The Sixth Floor—the Zodiac Room, please,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

When the elevator doors re-opened, my grandmother straightened her back; adjusted her pearls; and pranced toward a gray-haired man wearing a black tuxedo.  The maître d' greeted us and said, “Hi Myrtle!  Your usual table?”

      “Yes, my usual, Adam.”  She stroked her pearls and blushed.  “Thank you.”

     “Right this way then.”  He bowed ever so slightly and whisked us to our table.  Adam pulled out my grandmother’s chair; removed the white brocade napkin from the drinking glass; snapped it open; then placed it on her lap.  “You’re looking elegant today.”  He then pulled out my chair; snapped open my napkin; and placed it on my lap.  “Who is this pretty young lady with you?”

     “She’s my granddaughter.  Today is her 13^th birthday.”

     “Congratulations, pretty lady.”  Adam handed us menus.  “Glad you could join us for your birthday lunch.  Your server will be here shortly with your popovers, strawberry butter, and cup of soup.  In the meantime, enjoy today’s fashion show.”

     I placed my hands in my lap and noticed the room was teeming with fashionable women wearing pill box hats, white gloves, tight-waisted dresses, and high heels.  I watched models sashay from table to table presenting the latest Vogue-like fashions.  I closed my eyes and inhaled the restaurant’s hypnotizing aroma.   It smelled like delicately scented lace and expensive French sachets.  I opened my eyes and glanced across the room.  And in that instant, I thought I saw Audrey Hepburn and Sophia Loren sipping tea at a table adjacent to ours.   

     “You haven’t touched your soup yet.”  My grandmother tapped my hand.  “Don’t let it get cold!”   

     I turned my head just as a pencil-thin model strolled by our table wearing a pair of tightly-fitted Capri pants and a sleeveless, polka-dotted blouse. 

     “What a delightful spring outfit!” my grandmother sighed.  “I’m too old to wear something that flashy.  Besides at my age, my arms are flabby.”  She jiggled the loose skin on her arm.  “See.  An old lady’s arm jiggles.  So always remember!  A lady over 50 never wears anything sleeveless.  It’s simply inelegant!”  She slowly sipped her tea and nibbled on her popover.  “Besides, my stomach pooches out.”

      “I…uh…uh…don’t understand.”

       “Just remember!  A lady never wears pants if her stomach pooches out.  Never!”  She grimaced.  “It’s graceless!”

      The years since—like my youth—have disappeared from my immediate view leaving me to wonder whatever happened to my grandmother’s precious pink pearls.  Shortly after my grandmother’s passing,

 

     Then shortly after my grandmother’s passing, my aunt delivered a mysterious package.  On the outside, my name appeared—written in my grandmother’s penmanship—the same penmanship, I’d seen so many times on the letters, cards, and notes she’d sent me.

     I opened the box and noticed the contents were wrapped in my grandmother’s vintage Chantilly lace shawl.  When I sniffed the lace, a heartwarming aroma filled my nostrils.  It smelled a bit like an expensive French sachet with hint of lavender, lemongrass, and rosemary.  I gingerly unfolded the shawl, and there to my surprise was my grandmother’s pink pearls and matching earrings.  Taped to the lid of the box was her handwritten note.  “I hope you enjoy wearing these as much as I did.  Remember, always be a lady!” 

     I sniffed back the tears as I realized her words—those pink pearls of wisdom—were still with me, for I’m uneasy wearing sleeveless dresses; I never leave the house without wearing jewelry; I all but cringe when I leave the house without makeup; and without thinking, I always double-check when I wear pants making sure that my stomach doesn’t pouch out. 

The Swashbuckler

What follows is my narrative in response to the monthly prompt at Tiny-Lights.com  The prompt was "What Keeps You Honest?" 

The Swashbuckler

by Sara Etgen-Baker

Being an honest writer is a double-edged sword. One side of the blade makes me vulnerable to criticism, rejection, and hurt, while the other side refines my writing skill and enhances my credibility.

Nobody forces me to submit my work to editors and readers. Even though rejection letters sometimes cut, leaving me bloody and tearful, nobody makes me vulnerable. I am my own swashbuckler when it comes to submissions, and I must be willing to submit. Otherwise, I'll never be a writer.
Nobody forces me to pick up my sword to slice through dialogue tags and learn how to use a semicolon. Nobody makes me do a second-pass edit or a third—or even a fourth and fifth. I am my own swashbuckler when it comes to my writing, and I must be honest with myself. Otherwise, I'll never improve as a writer.

Like any swashbuckler, I must be heroic in my pursuit of the truth. Without honesty, there simply is no truth. Likewise, I must honor my responsibility to explain the world truthfully; to provide insight into life; and, yes, to entertain.

Regardless of the structure, genre, style, voice, or market I choose, I must pursue and write my own truth. I must write about what bothers me; about the pain I feel; about the joys of my past; about what nags me to sleeplessness; about my longings; about my confusion; about my rage; and about my ambivalence.

So, what keeps me honest? I'm a writer and simply must be honest. Otherwise, what I do just becomes meaningless. Touché! 

Sara Etgen-Baker is a swashbuckling writer who writes at a small laptop in a small corner of her condo surrounded by piles of papers; she snacks on too much chocolate and dotes on her husband who dotes on her. Together they get through her sleepless nights and rough writing times. He keeps her honest-—honestly!

Flying Sand and Swirling Dust

These are the opening paragraphs of a story I’d like to write based upon the years I taught in a small, border town in the Chihuahuan Desert.  Perhaps I could create a series of short stories or a novella based upon my life in the desert. 

 

FLYING SAND AND SWIRLING DUST by Sara Etgen-Baker

I glanced in the side view mirror of the U-Haul truck.  One mile forward, one more, and then another.  With each mile forward everything familiar was slipping further and further away.  Lush, tree-covered  green hills slowly gave way to parched, bland land covered in sage brush and low-lying mesquite trees.  By late afternoon there was absolutely nothing in front of me except miles of Chihuahan Desert.  Flat was the land—yellow, ochre, and brown. 

By dusk, a gnawing wind blew tumbleweeds across the interstate.  Just this side of the border, the sun was setting through the yellow, howling wind. “Time for dinner,” my husband said.  So, we exited the interstate and stopped to eat in an old trailer converted to a diner.  Once inside, I heard the sand patter like rain against the trailer’s metal walls and brush across the windowpanes. A fine silt accumulated beneath the door and on the window ledge. I breathed in and choked; the desert tasted brown and bitter on my tongue. 

I looked out the window; the only thing between the diner and the interstate was a battered barrel cactus, a couple of yucca plants, a few cinder block houses, and a ramshackle motel aptly named The Desert View Motel.  Eighteen-wheelers roared past the diner leaving clouds of dust in the dry desert air.  The hot wind carried the dust across the parking lot of the diner and deeper into town where all the dirt roads seemed to lead nowhere in particular.  I’d given anything for a glimpse of a single blade of grass.

“You’re not from around here, are you, honey?”The waitress asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“I can always recognize newcomers to the desert.  The emptiness and harshness are shocking at first.”   The waitress handed me a menu.  “But you’ll get used to life here in the desert.  It’s free of confusion.  It is brutally honest and harsh.  But it’s also kind and fragile.  Give it a chance.”

I stared out the window.  Dust and sand were everywhere.  I wondered how I’d ever flourish here. 

This is a story I wrote about my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson.  I remember so clearly the day I saw her ugly ballerina feet.  I was young and had no idea that dancing en pointe in those beautiful shoes actually damages a ballerina's feet. 

TURNING POINTE by Sara Etgen-Baker

“Point your feet!  Rotate!  Don’t stick your butts out!  Stay out of your heels.”  I looked up from where I was sitting.    There was no music—only the thump-thud sound of the dancers en pointe and the ballet master shouting.  “Dance to the tips of your fingers and toes!  Plié!  Spot!” 

Ann obeyed; sweat ran down her face.  “Tours chaînés déboulés,” he barked.  She struggled as her sleek muscles quivered with exhaustion.  I’d never seen my aunt rehearsing.  So, the contrast between seeing her stage performance—where she glided effortlessly on the tips of her pointe shoes—and seeing her studio rehearsal baffled me. 

 “Rond de Jambe en l’air and Frappé.”  The master paused; the dancers gathered at the barre.  “Fifth position, preparation sur le cou de pied.  Single frappe en croix each position getting two counts.”  He strolled around the dance studio. 

 “Close Fifth position front.”  Ann panted for breath.  “Single rond de jambe en l’air en dehors twice at 45°.”  Her corded tendons stood out like insulated cable.  “…Now close to sous-sus front.”

But when the curtain rose later that winter evening, there stood my aunt—her feathery light body rose en pointe spinning like the wind across Swan Lake.  Her tutu fluttered like the wings of a bird at dawn.  Each pirouette and leap mesmerized me as her body told the story of Odette, the Swan Queen, and her love for Prince Siegfried.

Backstage afterwards, I cringed when Ann removed her pointe shoes revealing calluses, misshapen toes, black nails and reddish-purple flesh.  The contrast between her beautiful pointe shoes and her battered, ugly feet startled me.  Ann noticed my reaction and handed me her pointe shoes.  “Take these.  Remember life, like dance, is a beautiful art form.  It’s hard work.  It’s painful.  It’s ugly.  You sweat.  You fail.  You succeed.  You try again.  You push.  You fight.  But always remain graceful.”

My aunt’s gift that winter were not her pointe shoes; rather it was her words that served as a turning pointe when I learned that life, like ballet, is a battle between beauty and pain. 



 

Here's a story based upon the Christmas when my Grandmother Stainbrook made me my Sunbonnet Sue Quilt.  Although she died when I was quite young, I have some truly special memories about her.  Enjoy the story! 

 

SUNBONNET SUE

She lowered her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose peering at me with those warm, brown eyes.  “Why’s my little Miss Sunshine so down tonight?”

Indeed I was moody that Christmas clinging to my grandmother’s side and dogging her every step. 

“My new dolly is lonely and cold,” I muttered. 

“Maybe she needs a blanket and some hot cocoa.”

“Uh, huh,” I nodded.

 “Fetch your doll teacups; I’ll make cocoa for you and your doll.” 

I complied returning to her kitchen where she gingerly filled each teacup with steaming, rich hot cocoa.  She then turned to my mother and me proclaiming, “Let’s make a doll quilt; we’ll have our own quilting bee—the three of us—like in the old farm days.”

With that, we scurried to my grandmother’s sewing room where she retrieved the Sunbonnet Sue pattern and a box of scrap material; she carefully pinned different parts of the pattern to material.  Then, she wrapped her hands over mine guiding them through the thick fabric.  “This is how you cut out the fabric using the pattern.  Now, here’s the scissors; you’re on your own…get started little lady!”

 After carefully cutting out six bonnets, skirts, arms, and feet, my grandmother propped me up on a stool as I watched her and my mother sew the pieces together.  Her sewing machine hummed and evidently slowly sang me to sleep.  

So, the next morning I awoke with my doll lying next to me wrapped in a cherished memory—a Sunbonnet Sue quilt of pinks, yellows, reds, and calicos.  A few months later, my dear grandmother died unexpectedly of a massive coronary.  Although her death saddened me, both my doll and I remained covered by her quilt of joy and love that warmed us like no other.  Even now—50+ years later—I still feel my grandmother’s eyes watching me and her spirit guiding me.  Sometimes when the house is silent, I even hear her voice—golden threads of wisdom and encouragement—and am reminded that our lives are like quilts—bits and pieces, joys and sorrows—stitched together with love.