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‘Life Stories’ Category

  1. How to Eat an Elephant: A Rare Glimpse of an Artist’s Success

    April 23, 2013 by admin

     

    Today I received an email from a writer whose novel will soon be published by the Pronghorn Press, which last year published my Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood.

    To share in this writer’s raw excitement and arrival in hard-earned book publication is nothing short of exhilarating.Spring Mill 035

    Dawn Wink shares her journey to publication with an openness that is entirely beautiful – beautiful because in her tremendous accomplishment she exposes the hard and messy process of writing and her own jagged edges that, in effect, forced her to turn to her craft.

    She is human. She wrestles and tugs to create beautiful art in the midst of an upended life. And when she succeeds at it, she wants her whole world to know.

    How can that not be inspiring?

    “Meadowlark was the book that should never have been written,” she writes. “Too much happened in my life as I wrote. Too much upheaval, too much transition, too much pain. And yet, I couldn’t stop writing. Like Gretel following the bread crumbs, I stumbled through the forest of my life, focusing on that next bread crumb …”

    In Dawn’s journey I am reminded of three things:

    1)      Writing is and can be such an act of discovery.

    2)      A life story can hold tremendous, mind-boggling power. If you have a strong story to tell – be it yours or someone else’s – the words must find their way out. Even when you don’t think you can go on, even when the noise of life is so loud you can hardly think straight, the story wriggles itself free. And, as Wink learned, the power of story can be a writer’s biggest ally during times of personal hardship. “I believed in Grace and her story,” she writes, “when I had lost all faith in my own.”

    3)      Times change, and circumstances change. We are tested by many hardships in this thing called life, moments of intense heat in which we, like hot iron, are bended and shaped. We won’t be in the furnace forever. But those trying times are the nuggets that test our true character. Writers count these times as gold for their craft – moments and emotions that provide foundations for creating riveting stories.

     

    Now, as Wink finds herself “in a place of family, stability and home … a place where I can at last settle in deeply to love, live and write,” she is able to reflect back with a sense of celebration.

    During a recent upheaval of my own – a new book out right alongside my second child being born – I clung to my mom’s persistent wisdom. How do you eat an elephant? she’d say. One bite at a time.

    As writers, we have to keep on keeping on. There will always be too much. Too much going on. Too much to worry about. Too many balls in the air. But we have to put our heads down and charge ahead in the business of artmaking, one bite (or one sentence) at a time.

    At its base, Dawn Wink’s journey is a story of beautiful persistence. If you’re a true writer, you can’t ever give up. You have to want your words to succeed so bad you can’t take your eyes off the prize. You have to obsess over it and sweat over it and cry and pound your fists. And when you break through into the light of a hard-won success, you have to wholly and entirely celebrate it.

    Well done, Dawn. And best of luck as Meadowlark soon finds its way into the hands of readers.

     

     


  2. The Biggest Investment You Can Make

    April 4, 2013 by admin

    Lately I’ve been zeroing in on the power of investing in relationships.

    Investing in people is something I feel called to do, as a writer, as a Christian, and simply as a person. I count myself lucky that my life as a full time writer and mom allow me so many opportunities to connect with people – both people I know well and people I don’t.leaves on missouri.omaha.oct09 007

    As humans, we are relational beings. Communication is key to understanding ourselves and understanding others. You’ve heard me say it before, that at its very base, writing is about communication. But another way of looking at communication? It’s simply an act of reaching out.

    When I started writing my book, Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood, this is what I knew: 1) I wanted to write for a living; 2) I had a few stories about my childhood that I had to get out on paper; and 3) Maybe someone would find the stories interesting.

    But what was I doing? I had no idea, really. I didn’t exactly set out to write a book. I did want to compile the stories in my head into some sort of order – and I wanted the stories to be artfully written – but why? Back then, I couldn’t have told you.

    But now (albeit a little late), I am starting to get it. Now, I realize that both the acts of writing and publishing Tough Love had a far broader purpose. My book is a way to connect with people (readers, writers, only children, Wyomingites, pick your label) who may have experienced even a sliver of what I did or wanted to understand something entirely new. In other words, by writing my story I set out to communicate and develop trusting relationships with those who would care about it.

    “Sharing goes to the core of what you do, and why it’s worth doing in the first place,” a fellow writer and friend of mine once observed.

    Hence my motto as a writer: “Bridging people through stories and expression.”Spring Mill 026

    “You want to find the people whose lives will be impacted by your work, your art,” writes social media consultant Dan Blank. And, he points out, it takes time to develop meaningful relationships and trust with others.

    What is your dream, really? I suppose it’s true that some writers simply aim for getting their name in print. But Blank nails the bigger dream of most artists:  “not just having a book with their name on it, but a true connection to readers whose lives you have shaped.”

    That’s it, right there. And whether I am developing a true connection via the written word or the spoken word – a phone call, a “How are you?” at the local library – I know that as a person, I am living out my true calling: to genuinely connect with others.

    Caring about other people will always matter, no matter what you do with your life.

     


  3. Stories in the Super Storm

    November 29, 2012 by admin

    We write to move.

    We read to be moved.

    How many of you have followed the stories coming out of Super Storm Sandy?

    Credit: Phil Plait, www.flickr.com

    The heartache:

    2 boys wrenched from their mothers’ arms.

    A father and son who drowned together in their home, their bodies found clutching each other, the father’s hand over the son’s head, as if trying to protect him.

    It aches to even type the letters.

    But then, the heart warmth:

    The 50-year-old neighbor man who brought a newborn to safety by placing the baby on his shoulders and wading through rising waters to higher ground.

    The man who showed up to a neighborhood with a stocked food truck, one day after losing his job at a soup kitchen.

    I can only imagine how stories of both heartache and heart warmth continue to come out of the wood work, one month after the monster storm delivered its enormous lashing.

    Reading the few stories listed here, I was in tune with my emotions. Why do these stories matter? What pulls people to read them?

    The answer I find: Each of these stories represents a thread of human experience. Loss. Adrenaline. Selfless giving. If we can’t empathize, we can sympathize. We grieve, and how much better to grieve together. We celebrate the kindness of strangers, and how much better to celebrate together.

    Somehow, all of us are in the tapestry of this story making and story telling. Even if you were not personally affected by Sandy’s devastation, chances are you tried to imagine yourself in someone’s shoes who was, or thanked God for those things we so easily take for granted: electricity, dinner plates, heat.

    Chances are that, in some way, you were moved.

    What will come of these stories of extreme heartache and heart warmth? Will they somehow be captured and bound and memorialized? Or will they be lost along the Jersey shore, swept away by time?

    Somehow, I want to cement these stories. I want to see them speak to the world. I don’t know how to do that directly, but I can start here with a conversation.

    We write to move.

    We read to be moved.

    What stories are coming your way? And what are they doing to you?

    *For every new follow and new like on my Facebook page through Dec. 15, I will donate $1 to Sandy cleanup efforts. Thanks for your support!

     


  4. Seeking Story in Tradition

    November 21, 2012 by admin

    Tradition.

    It’s an idea we all find ourselves coming back to this time of year. Be it falling into the comfort and warmth of old traditions or seeking joy in starting new ones, we all crave the same thing: something to celebrate.

    I find it intriguing the way years come and go, how some holidays are busy and exuberant and bouncing with life while, in other years, they are quiet and mellow, low-key. One only has to map the ups and downs of life through a single holiday to see how time works: how people come and go, how places transform, how we, ourselves, grow up.

    My strongest Thanksgiving memories will always center around my Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Wyoming, the place where, for so long, Thanksgiving took place with no questions asked. I write about it in Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood, this way:

    “Thanksgiving has happened at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s every year for as long as I can remember. The tradition runs so long and deep that no one questions it, even with the family tensions that ripple quietly just beneath the surface: Grandpa’s reckless ways and Grandma’s bitterness – driven, I think, by loneliness – the way he and she seem to like each other less every year, the fact that neither one of them has ever shown up for a school play or a band concert.

    Grandma and Grandpa sit at opposite ends of the table, paying no attention to one another, while my parents and I and my great uncle John fill the spaces between them. I scoop up big helpings of my mom’s turkey and her Swedish corn pudding. I pass on Grandma’s mashed potatoes and gravy because the gravy is an awful brown, and like every other year, I fear she has salted it with a rabbit carcass. She served fried rabbit on the first Thanksgiving my mom spent with them – no turkey. Mom, a wholesome girl from the Midwest, cried.”

    The memories are rich, but so, too, is the story.

    This is a story of tradition. What is yours?

    Later on in this piece, I share what still hangs on as one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories:

    “A cozy quiet hangs in the Thanksgiving afternoon: the ancient dishwasher hums through its cycle, the coffee percolator brews weak Folgers coffee for my mom. Soon, my grandmother will call for a game of hearts and we will gather around the Formica table, pie in hand, for a long game of steering clear of the Old Biddy.”

    I want people to see themselves here. I want them to resonate: with the tension, with the details of tradition, with the desire to bring the familiar to life.

    This Thanksgiving, we will celebrate in a new way, with a family that is not ours in a state where our roots are only temporary. It will be my oldest son’s fourth Thanksgiving, my youngest son’s first. Still, I will make Mom’s Swedish corn pudding in the CorningWare dish. I will bring it to the house we have visited only a few times, an act of both sharing an old tradition with new friends and hanging on to something familiar for the holiday. Will we eat cranberries out of the can? Will there be sweet potatoes? A card game after the meal?

    I don’t know. But I do know there is plenty to celebrate, from the warm memories of the past and the people who are no longer with us to the new friends we’ve made, the new life we’ve created and the new traditions that will blossom from it.

    This holiday season, I encourage you to seek the story in tradition, whatever that means for you.

     


  5. Cans and Can’ts

    November 8, 2012 by admin

    I probably shouldn’t admit it here, but promotional efforts for my new book, Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood have more or less come to a standstill since I returned to California from my home state of Wyoming last month.

    For two solid weeks in Wyoming, I was out, reading and putting on writing workshops, engaging people in glorious conversation about the significance of telling our life stories. I met people of all ages with raw, captivating life experiences to share. I shared bits of my own life experience, exposing the wonderful, the challenging and the pivotal moments of growing up as an only child in rural Wyoming. Strangers and acquaintances came to know the strong and unforgettable characters who shaped my childhood: Great Uncle John, Grandpa Bucky, Mountain Man Chuck and that lady up in the Hoback who once danced naked. For two weeks, I was in author heaven.

    Then I returned with my family to California, and the realities of being a full time mom quickly settled back in. This is certainly not a bad thing – it is simply fact. My husband, an engineer who diligently worked while his wife and two sons were away in Wyoming, transitioned from a day shift to a night shift while we were gone. And that meant that upon our return to California, we had some major adjusting to do.

    For a while, all rhythm in our household was lost. Family dinner time was out the door, replaced with family time mid-morning and, if we were lucky, lunch together around the kitchen table.

    Settling back in to life as mom and wife proved harder than I’d expected, coming off of an exhilarating two weeks in my home state where Grandma and Grandpa were always around to help with the boys and where I had plenty of time to wear my writer’s hat. I felt like life as a writer had no choice but to take a backseat for a while. I fought it. I cried. I wondered what the fate of my first published book would ultimately be, if I was not out in the world pushing it for all I was worth.

    I am both a mother and a writer. This means that very often, something’s gotta give.

    The writer Hope Edelman acknowledged her realities as a writer and mother in a blog post on Brevity, sharing a list of what she can and cannot do as a wearer of multiple hats. The advantages? She is really good at budgeting time, and says she has experienced a whole range of emotions that have enhanced her writing. The disadvantages? In her own words, she can’t “spend three months at a writer’s colony … stay at literary events past 9:15 on a weeknight … shower every day … be a foreign correspondent.”

    Because I am a mother and a writer, I can snatch quiet moments as they come. I can multi-task – say, make an important phone call while I’m nursing my three-month-old, jot down an idea for a new essay on the back of a receipt in my three-year-old son’s preschool parking lot, confirm a book sale via email while kids catch five more minutes of TV. I can make two solid, blessed hours of work time pass in the blink of an eye. And, like Edelman, I can garnish loads of heartfelt material from the range of emotions that come with being a mom. Believe me, I have stories to tell.

    And because I am a mother and a writer, I can’t give readings or host writing workshops every day of the week. I can’t tackle my list of marketing ideas fast enough. I can’t blog as much as I want to nor be in conversation with fellow writers and readers as much as I’d like.

    For now, I just have to trust that, as mom and as writer, I am right where I need to be. My book is out. People are reading it, and the feedback is just heartwarming. I am so grateful and so humbled to all of those who have picked up a copy and have taken the time to read it. I hope there will be many more readers to come.

    Seasons come and go in our lives, and I think to some degree a level of chaos is always present. Finally, I feel like I am working my way back into a rhythm where I can wear the hats of both mother and writer, as family woman and book promoter. There’s a lot of work to do. But then again, there always is.

     

     


  6. Why Conversation is the Bread and Butter

    October 3, 2012 by admin

    Tough. It’s a word I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, as I find myself in conversation after conversation with wonderful, inspiring people over what it means to be tough.

    Wyoming leaves, Copyright 2012 Kate Meadows.

    The past two weeks in Wyoming have been an awesome hurricane of readings, book selling, interviews and writing workshops. Coming up against those Sublette County mountains – my mountains, I am proud to claim – is nothing short of spectacular. Experiencing a Wyoming fall in all its glory was a blessing unmatched – it’s only fair to say I get homesick when the quivering leaves of a yellowing quaking aspen put tears in my eyes.

    Selling a book, this piece of art that has been so close to me for the past four years, is a tremendous and rewarding feeling, it is. But the best part? The best part has been being in conversation with people, real people with dynamic lives and hearts tuned into what really matters. Real people with lives much different than mine. Real people with unique perspectives of what it means to be tough.

    I think of Ashta, the 69-year-old woman from West Virginia who I met in a Jackson Hole bookstore. One day away from her 70th birthday, she told me how she planned to celebrate her special day in the Tetons, her sister and son by her side. She likened “tough” to “strong,” thinking on the term from the perspective of a woman, a mother. That we draw strength from the most unexpected places sometimes.

    And there’s Paul, who walks with a cane now and recalled his days driving cattle with my grandfather before sunrise on an old local ranch. He’s lived in Sublette County his whole life, save for one month, the month he was born so many decades ago.

    And there are the two women I met at the Rock Springs library who own property up near Sublette County’s Warren Bridge. One of them was taking her grandson bowling the afternoon I gave a reading. Still, she made time to stop in and buy a book. The slight woman who has lived in Rock Springs since 1946 and loves to collect as much information, hear as many stories as she can about the region where Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood takes place.

    These people, these conversations, are the bread and butter of what I do. I write, yes, but writing would be meaningless without people to share it with.

    At its base, writing is about communication. My reward for writing is the communication that gets returned, those individuals who stick around long enough to go a bit deeper, who take the time to share with me their own perspectives.

    Part of life’s beauty is the way we meet each other at our various points along life’s path, the opportunities to share our unique views with one another.

    The book sales have been outstanding. Exciting, rewarding, completely worth smiling about. But those conversations? They are the real icing on the cake.

    So? What’s your perspective? How has the concept of “tough” played out in your life?


  7. What is Your Life’s Theme?

    September 13, 2012 by katemeadows

    If you could pull one theme out of your life, what would it be?

    For me, that theme is “tough.” As in, “What does it mean to be tough?”

    I didn’t know this when I first set out to write a series of essays profiling the colorful characters of rural western Wyoming around whom I grew up. That series of essays now comprises my first book, Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood, published this month by Pronghorn Press.

    The essays were, at first, quaint and almost fluffy, mere sketches of people and experiences in my life that I found interesting. One piece did not necessarily relate to another; they just sort of fell out of me, one by one, like stones. I knew I had to write them – but I didn’t exactly know why.

    It was a long time before a pattern started to emerge, some sort of thread or echo that started resonating within each piece. I realized I wanted to know how these people – people like big-bellied bachelor Uncle John, the rancher-turned-writer woman named Chris, and my wild and impulsive Grandpa Bucky– helped to shape my upbringing and, consequently, shape the woman I am today.

    The resounding thread? Each of the characters I wrote about exhibited some form of tough. And moreover, they displayed senses of toughness I never felt I had. Having to homestead on a desolate landscape so barren that nothing grew? Not me. Driving cattle home at four in the morning? Not me. Spending lonely winters alone in a boxy cabin miles off a main road? Not me.

    Through writing, I started to look hard at this theme of “tough” and ask myself, “What does it mean to be tough?”

    All of these things, yes. But wasn’t there more to the meaning of that word? If not, I realized, I wasn’t tough at all.

    Except I know I am tough. Just not necessarily in the ways a rural Wyoming life demands. Through writing, I realized that my notion of “tough” was narrow. By holding myself up so sharply against these people who had truly lived hard and noble lives, I had for far too long denied that “tough” badge for myself.

    Looking back on the essays prompted me to examine my life via other questions as well.

    If you could re-do any moment of your life, what would it be?

    If you could live one sweet and precious moment of your past, what would it be?

    Thinking about our lives from a variety of angles can help give us a better grasp on ourselves, who we really are. Peeking through multiple lenses can help us to better understand ourselves – who we have been, who we are, who we hope to become.

    The former New York Times and Newsweek columnist Anna Quindlen writes: “It’s odd when I think of the arc of my life, from child to young woman to aging adult. First I was who I was. Then I didn’t know who I was. Then I invented someone and became her. Then I began to like what I’d invented. And finally I was what I was again. It turned out I wasn’t alone in that particular progression.”

    I am not yet 30 years old. As someone once told me, “You’re not old enough to write a memoir.”

    But in writing about my younger self, I discovered a powerful theme at work. It’s a theme that, piggybacked with a theme of confidence, I take with me into the wilds now of motherhood. It’s a theme that is molding me now, and a theme I believe will continue to shape me in the future.

    And all because once, I wanted to write about and therefore recall some colorful and strangely admirable characters of my past.

    Look at how these “tough” people defined me. Because of them – and because of the writing process – I am now tougher and more beautiful, a more complete person.

    You can receive a signed copy of Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood here.

    So? What about you? What is your theme?

     

     


  8. Book Publication and Birth: A Tale of Two Converging Loves

    September 4, 2012 by katemeadows

    I never meant for it to happen this way.

    I couldn’t have planned it if I tried.

    Indeed, truth is often stranger than fiction.

    Here I am, though, with a new baby and two books being published this month. Yes, two.

    How? I don’t quite know, except that life happens.

    Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood, published this month by Pronghorn Press, recounts my experience as an only child growing up among the raw and grisly characters in rural western Wyoming. It began in 2008 as a collection of essays for my Master’s thesis in creative nonfiction writing. I knew from the get-go I would go all the way with it, writing the pieces one at a time, piecing them together with a thread of a theme (what does it mean to be tough?), and eventually pursuing publication, sending out query after query until a “yes” finally came.

    The “yes” did come – but, unexpectedly, so did a positive pregnancy test, three days later.

    That “yes,” along with the blue “+” sign on the stick, came while I was knee-deep in work on my family’s small business history. Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, commemorates the grit and determination of a small-town service, repair and retail shop doing whatever it took to survive off of a quiet western main street. I began the project while Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood grinded its way through the query mill, back before a pregnancy was even on the horizon. The business history was a grand effort in helping my family carve out its well-deserved legacy. It was to be for me a venture in self-publishing, my intention to learn the ropes of the trade to be better informed and equipped as a writer during this tumultuous time in the publishing industry. I planned to publish the “Bucky’s book,” as it affectionately came to be called, in June 2012.

    Then the nod came for Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood.

    Then I got pregnant.

    In other words, life happened.

    And here I am, with a baby who was born the end of July, a book of essays to be published on schedule by a traditional publisher, and a self-published small business history that, due to life circumstances, was postponed for release until September – the month of the business’ annual grand open house.

    So we leave next week, traveling from California to Wyoming, where for the better part of the month I will be promoting my work. September will be a crazy month. But I can’t wait.

    I go into it with heart racing and eyes bright with excitement. Here are the moments where the hard, dogged work will be worth it. Finally, I will meet the finished products.  Works of art into which I put my whole self. I will get to talk about this craft I love so much. I get to share words, encourage others to share theirs, and talk about the value of preserving life stories and leaving legacies.

    This is work that I love. I am packing my bags now.

    Please, join me if you can. Click here for a list of events.  Stay tuned for upcoming readings and get-togethers in California. And, if you’re interested in using Tough Love: A Wyoming Childhood as a pick for a book group, ordering copies of either book, or learning more about the crafts of creative nonfiction writing and/or telling your own life story, please get in touch.

    Writing, at its very core, is about communication. If I can reach people, if I can inspire and encourage, only then can I smile and say to myself, “Job well done.”


  9. How to Leave a Legacy

    August 28, 2012 by katemeadows

    The other night, I was talking to some friends of mine in our living room. My college roommate and her husband were visiting from Albuquerque, and the late evening had finally cooled off enough to that the house felt good and airy, not stifling of the day’s summer heat.

    Copyright 2011, Kate Meadows, Joshua Tree National Park.

    It was strange, the topic we had stumbled onto. We found ourselves in a conversation about dying doing what you loved.

    A brother of my friend’s co-worker had recently met this fate, drowning on one of the Great Lakes during a sailing outing. A wind had come up and tossed the life vests overboard. Not wanting to be out $25 – the cost of the life vests – he turned the boat around in the increasingly bad weather to retrieve them.

    That was the move that cost him his life.

    The irony is terrible, but that man is now lauded – celebrated in his death for dying doing what he loved. He will always be remembered for his passion: sailing.

    Weren’t that we all could be remembered that way, for claiming our life’s passion and running it out with abandon.

    And I ask: Why can’t we?

    It’s not that we will all die doing what we love.

    But we can, each of us, be remembered for our fierce love of something.

    That “something,” of course, is different for everyone. But that’s what makes the world such an intriguing study. It takes loves of many things to make the world go ‘round.

    For my friend’s co-worker’s brother, that fierce love was sailing.

    For my dad, it is snowmobiling.

    For me, it is writing.

    What love will you be remembered for? How are you living out that love today?


  10. Imperfect Books

    August 21, 2012 by katemeadows

    I have a confession to make.

    I published an imperfect book.

    Why do I tell you this?

    Because, if I’m honest, it’s a bit of a jubilant thing for me.

    I am so much a perfectionist that I miss sometimes the whimsy, the messy and out-of-place pieces of life for what they really are: reflections of reality. I am known to take things too seriously, not laugh enough, not cut myself any slack.

    I had a vision when I set out to piece together the history of my family’s small business. That vision, after a year and a half, is nearly realized. Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, is finished. Soon a box of what I hope to be beautifully crafted books will arrive. The moment of truth awaits on the doorstep.

    Will this book be loved by those who have a stake in it? Will it be treasured by those who have already purchased a copy?

    Even with its surefire blemishes – certainly there is a comma missing here, a missed paragraph indent here – I am daring enough to think so. I am also daring enough to say there is no such thing as a perfect book – because there is no such thing as a perfect human or a perfect life – and that, in the end, it doesn’t matter.

    You know why?

    Because the readers of this book will focus on the meat of the thing – the language and the real-life stories that have stitched together a half-century of awe and struggle in a slice of small town America.

    The readers will see past the missed commas and indents and any other small slight to what really matters: lasting stories that are communicated on the page, a shared dialogue.

    A writer can work and work and work on a book and still, it will never be fully ready to enter the world. It’s a bit like having kids: you’re never truly ready to become a parent.

    But at some point, you set aside your fear and insecurities, the need for everything to be just so, and you say a prayer and you jump.

    If you can look beyond the missing comma, the stray hair – or, staying with the parent metaphor, the kitchen floor that is sticky with spilled orange juice – you will see a bigger, messier and more beautiful picture that is entirely worth embracing.

    You might smile to yourself, allow yourself a sweet deep breath and think, “Yes. This, this is worth it.”