(What is Something?) What Do You Owe Your Audience?

Here's the link to one of my more creative essays as it appeared in Tiny Lights or you may read it at this blog.  Here's the link:   http://tiny-lights.com/searchlights.php?id=1435#1431 and here's the essay:

What is Something by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a city called Valinor, there once was a beautiful and gifted elfin scribe known as Linwë Anwarünya. Now it happened one day that Linwë ventured into the Scribal Hall of Gimlé where she and other future scribes often gathered to practice their writing craft and listen to advice from the elder scribes.

Linwë pushed her way through the crowd and noticed a great whispering noise filled the hall. But when Lord Felagund flung open the huge wooden doors, silence descended upon the room.

Lord Felagund stepped up to the podium and cast his eyes out upon the crowd. "You there, young scribe." He pointed his twisted, bony index finger directly at Linwë. "What's your name and what advice do you seek from me today?"

"My name's Linwë Anwarünya." She gathered her thoughts. "Lord Felagund, what does a scribe owe its audience?"

"Well, ummm," he cleared his throat. "The moment a scribe decides, ‘I want others to read this,' he owes those others something."

Linwë stared at him with a blank look. "Exactly what is something?"

"It's simple," he said. "You owe them a story with them in mind." Lord Felagund peered over his glasses.

"Knowing that others will be reading your story, you owe it to them to be entertaining. You owe it to them to make sure there are no plot holes." He raised one eyebrow and gave Linwë a glassy stare. "You know what plot holes are, right?"

She nodded her head and stared back at him.

"You must care about the characters. You must care about the setting and time." He slammed his fist on the podium with authority. "You owe them an authentic story that will keep them turning the pages long after the cave crickets begin chirping at night."

"But, sir…." Linwë fought back the tears. "What if they still don't like my story?"

"Take heart, young scribe, not every reader will like every story. That's how it should be. Don't be upset about that, for it maintains balance and order in the scribal universe."

With that, Lord Felagund removed his glasses, stepped away from the podium, and said to the cheering crowd, "Now go forth and scribe."

Sara Etgen-Baker recently met Lord Felagund’s modern-day counterpart at a writer’s workshop.

 an elfin scribe

 

ME AND MAJESTIC

THE COUNTRY PRINCESS

 

Since we moved to Anna, I’ve missed the tree-lined trails in Allen along which I ran every morning. I’ve missed the crunching of the leaves under my feet and the morning dew glistening on the grass and leaves of the trees.    I’ve yearned for the inhabitants I often encountered while running along the shady trails—the squirrels, the rabbits, and the variety of birds singing their morning serenades.   But our new neighborhood is so new that the trees are small and provide little shade and, therefore, don’t attract the host of creatures I’m accustomed to seeing. 

Although I’ve looked, I’ve yet to see a single squirrel or rabbit—only the occasional unleashed dog or the meandering skunk as it makes its way down the county road.  I usually jog down my street; make a slight left; and then a right turn onto County Road 1106.  There are few trees along this concrete path, but each day I trudge forward hoping I’ll find what I’m looking for.  Eventually, I arrive at the junction of County Roads 1106 and 426—a great place to catch my breath before turning around and heading west back down the county road. 

Each morning I’ve stopped here and admired the horses grazing in the pasture adjacent to a small trailer home.  One horse in particular has caught my attention; when I stop, she raises her head; our eyes met; and we eyeball one another briefly.  Then a few days ago, I began a one-way conversation with this horse and dubbed her Majestic—simply because she looks so regal.  She’s a brown beauty with a white triangular crown that extends from her nose up to her ears; her hooves are white; and she prances through the pasture with a certain air about her.  Every morning hence I’ve paused; called her by name; and ventured a bit closer to the fence that separates the two of us. 

Today when I arrived at the junction, Majestic was only about 30 yards from the fence; I lingered at the fence and called her by name.  “Good morning, Miss Majestic.  How’s the country princess today?” 

She raised her head and tousled her mane as if to say “Hello.  Do you have an apple for me?”  I inched closer to the fence. 

“Aren’t you a regal lady, Miss Majestic!”  She advanced cautiously; I stood in awe at the beauty of the animal approaching me.  I moved a couple of steps closer; Majestic came right up to the fence!  I slowly reached my hand through the opening; she stared into my eyes.  I gingerly stroked her nose and neck first on the right side then on the left.   I stroked her several times until she told me it was time to go.

“Okay, Majestic.  Thanks for letting me visit.”  I backed away slowly.  “Tomorrow, Majestic, I’ll bring you an apple from home.”  For an instant I thought I saw her wink at me.    Time stood still; and at that moment I understood what serendipity is—stumbling upon something truly wonderful while looking for something entirely different. 

 

Chicken Soup for the Soul

I sat down in my office just a few moments ago and decided to open my email before revising a manuscript for a June 30 deadline.....there to my surprise was an email from Chicken Soup for the Soul. The editor for the book Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reboot Your Life informed me that one of my stories made it to the final selection process. I sat here stunned for a few moments and now have so much adrenalin pumping through my system that I can hardly sit still. I've literally submitted a manuscript to Chicken Soup every quarter since I began writing in 2010. Persistence does pay off! I don't know the exact deadlines, details about when the book will be published, and when it will hit the stores. But I just had to share the fantastic news.

Remembering Pop

            From the beginning, my father was always there. He spilt tears of happiness whenever he held me in his arms.  He carried me on his back and sometimes tossed me in the air.  He caught me when I took my first steps and stumbled.  He helped me color inside the lines and told me stories about Indians and the passage of time.  He was the master chef who taught me how to make grilled cheese and spam sandwiches.  He taught me how to put a minnow on a fishing line, toss it in Lake Lavon, and wait until the bobber sank under the surface of the water.    He taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike.  He sat with me by a campfire, told me stories, and set my spirit and imagination free.  

         On the first day of school, he held my hand and walked me to front door.  With tears in his eyes, he hugged me and gave me courage by saying, “You are my brave daughter.  I love you.” When mother told me to ask for his permission, he would always say, “Go ask your mother.”  He was there to sometimes lecture me and to prepare me for the unchartered waters called junior high.  He put up with my teenage moods and my co-ed relationships.  He approved, disapproved, accepted, and forgave.  When I graduated from high school and college he gave me a big bundle of flowers.  And when my name was called he stood proud, yelled, and clapped.   He embraced me and kissed me when I moved a thousand miles away knowing that once again he would have to let me go.   He saw me become a working woman, and later walked me down the aisle.  Throughout the years, he watched me grow and deepen as did the lines on his face.  He always welcomed me home and let me hug him and smell the smell I remembered from childhood—the warm, protecting, comforting smell of dad. He gave me a loving spirit and forged with his stubbornness, tenacity, patience, and integrity—all of which are an integral part of me still.  But most of all, he was always there to love me.   His spirit is with me now, and I hope to glean some wisdom from his memory.  I love and miss you, Pop!

Life begins at ...?

It is a mistake to think that life begins at any particular age for everyone . . . ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, or even eighty years old.

• Life begins for you when you begin to live it.
• The earlier you begin to truly live, the longer your real life will be.
• Life begins when you become aware of life and when you open yourself to the wonder, beauty, and joy of life.
• Life begins when you begin each day to discover the infinite possibilities in each magical moment.
• Life begins when you find richness in simplicity--when ordinary things take on an extraordinary glow.
• Life begins when you begin to unfold yourself into the person you have it in you to be.
• Life begins when you begin to think creatively!
• Life begins when you are born again into an expanded consciousness of the goodness of God.
• Life begins when you learn to lose yourself in serving others.
• Life begins when you challenge the flight of time and determine to make the most of it now.
• Life begins when you revere the gift of life and strive to live it with greater depth, meaning, and dedication.
• Life begins when you develop a philosophy for living each day triumphantly.
• Life begins when you come to know the power of love.
• Life begins when you realize life never ends.

Remembering Mother...

Although all the pictures of my mother are packed away on this Mother’s Day, I wanted to pause and reflect upon the woman who singularly was the most influential person in my life. 

My mother was loving but stern; eccentric but passionate; kind but firm; and gentle but strong.  I truly never saw her act vengeful or mean.  Despite the mistakes I made, she was not prone to enacting feelings of guilt.  In so doing I never had to carry a lot of emotional baggage.  When she took me to the library and let me loose to peruse the aisles of books, she unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly) set my spirit free.  She knew when to watch over me and when to let me go—giving wings to my thoughts and imagination.  She believed words  and weaving them correctly into sentences was way more powerful than any fist.  She taught me to think before acting, so I learned to embrace mindfulness and compassion for life itself.  She modeled how to be an observer and in so doing I learned not to overreact. 

So, here’s to you, Winifred Christine Stainbrook Etgen, the quintessential mother.  You were and continue to be the perfect mother for me. 

About beginnings and endings

THE END OF SOMETHING by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a village called Aerendyl there once lived an inexperienced but talented elfin scribe named Lessien Nénharma.  Now it happened one day that Lessien came upon an email message from an editor at one of the major scribal presses. 

With bated breath, Lessien opened the email. 

“Dearest Scribe:  I’ve received your synopsis and the first two chapters of your novel.  Although your scribings and story line show great promise, your characters are flat and lack humanity.  Your subplots are intriguing but seem disconnected from the major plot.  The narrative arc is weak, and your story has no clear ending.  So, I can’t accept your manuscript at this time. Sincerely, Amroth Súron, Senior Editor Drannor Press”

Lessien threw down her scribal quill and Skyped her instructor, Lady Telemmaitë.

“Lady Telemmaitë, whatever am I to do?”  Lessien fought back the tears.  “Tell me.  Is this the end of my scribal career?”

“No, my fellow scribe.  Rejection doesn’t mark the end of your career.  Rather, rejection heralds a new beginning.”

“You speak in riddles, Lady Telemmaitë.  I don’t understand!”

“Tis quite simple, my accomplished apprentice.  Toss out your old manuscript.”  Lady Telemmaitë leaned forward.  “This time begin with the ending in mind.” 

“So I focus on how the plot ends, right?”

“No, scribe, no!  Focus on your characters; for your characters, their motives, and their development drive their actions and set the plot in motion—not the other way around.  Begin with where they will end up.”

“I understand, Lady Telemmaitë, but I feel so overwhelmed and am afraid to begin again.”

“Begin one chapter at a time.  Its end will determine the next one’s beginning.”  Lady Telemmaitë smiled.  “Take heart.  Chapters begin and end, but fear thee not thine own endings, for they are but beginnings in disguise.  Now grab thy quill and begin your next chapter!”

Sara Etgen-Baker is learning to embrace the beginnings and endings in her own life.