Why I Write

July 27, 2015June 25, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 13 Comments

Chuck Wendig’s FLASH FICTION WRITING CHALLENGE: WHY I WRITE

Photo Courtesy of humintell.com

As long as I can remember, I loved putting words to paper, expanding on the great mysteries or the miseries of my young life. It was a way to get my point across without being shushed.

Introduction to the magic of words came early for me, as my mother was a voracious reader. She belonged to more than one book-of-the-month-club and even as young children, we were fortunate she passed the books to us, without censorship.

In between those many pages, I met a world of different people. Their words painted vivid pictures and gave breath to the hopes, fears, and dreams of a girl. In spite of her love of the written word, my mom repeatedly warned me, “Don’t ever put anything in writing; you don’t want others to see.” Perhaps mom’s voice was the words from her books.

It would come later as a young, naïve girl before I understood the damage others could do when words are misconstrued, distorted, taken out of context or endure the deep cut of betrayal. I learned the hard way and after that hid my words away.

I’m an average woman, professional in background, a mother, grandmother, wife, friend, and a writer. I write now because I have a voice, and I can.

I write for catharsis, a purging of past sins, regrets, hopes, and dreams.
I write to share what knowledge and experiences I’ve acquired with those I love, hopeful they’ll be spared a wrong turn or learn the joy of sunny days.
I write to voice my opinion, my values, the very things I believe make the world, and us better people.
I write not that, in the end, my singular voice matters more than others do, or will move mountains, but perhaps, it will become one of many and create a chorus of positive change.
I write to expand my imagination and free my demons; we all have them.
I write to bring pleasure and encourage others to stretch their word wings, tell stories, real or imagined.
I write to leave a legacy to those I leave behind. Egotistical perhaps, but I want to surprise them. “That was mom? Sheila? She did that?” I don’t want to be forgotten or remembered only in faded photos or as the name on a bronze marker.

I write because I believe words have power. The power to move people, change them and change the world. After years of writing by a stream in a cow pasture, hiding my words from the world, between the pages of a worn-down journal, I have found my voice, and so I write.

Scarred Innocence

July 17, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

Photo courtesy of: writemyessayonline.com & Goggle

My 500Word Challenge: Write about ignorance. Tap that part in all of us that remembers what it was like to be innocent.

You don’t have many places to hide when you’re crammed into a three-bedroom house filled with six kids, one hyper-emotional mother, and an obnoxious stepfather. It takes creativity to find your own secret garden, so to speak.

At eleven, full of imagination and an innocent view of the world, I found mine in the cow pasture a quarter-mile from my house. The sloping hills, dotted black, and white, beckoned me like candy on Halloween. The barbed wire fence became a minor obstacle to scale.

Finding time alone to explore was the tricky part. I had to deal with younger siblings wanting to be the center of attention, homework, and chores, then dodging mom. At the first opportunity, I’d slip out the back door, run over the hill, and climb the barbed wire fence into another world.

The cows, covered in splotches, were fascinating. They had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. It was as if they could see into my soul. Intrigued with this interloper, they paused, chewing cud and waited for me to scale the barrier and join them on the other side. Talking to the cows came easy and boy did I talk.

I told them about my first crush and getting caught shooting spit balls at my teacher. I complained about mom. She seemed blind most of the time. And I gave them all the details about becoming a woman (that’s what my sisters told me happened). To me, it all seemed a bit messy and inconvenient, even if, for reasons known only to God, I felt the swell of pride.

I received the scar, one day, in the middle of my visit. Deep within the pasture, I sat underneath the shade of tall oak trees, the trickle of water as our background symphony, and read to my spotted friends from my journal.

I didn’t hear his footfalls in the tall weeds, but the skittering of nervous feet and snorting, as if in protest, raised my awareness and I turned. He stood a few feet from the tree line staring at me. I knew him by name, only. He was older than I and lived in a shack not far from our house.

The wind stilled and the water’s symphony faded into the background as the sound of my pounding heart took its place. I was in trouble; not for being in the pasture, but for being alone with him and the way, he looked at me. Far down in the field, I was out of sight and earshot from everyone. No one would hear me scream.

The cows, uneasy, stood a short distance from me. My heart beat faster against my ribs as he walked closer. When the cows shuffled their feet, he stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and watched as I sidestepped into the middle of my four-legged friends.

“Mom’s calling me,” I said, turning my back and running. I scrambled up the hill, through the thick grass, dropping my pencil as I leapt onto the fence. My shorts caught on the barbs cutting into my leg as I pulled free and ran toward the safety of home, blood streaking my leg.

It was my last excursion into the cow pasture. I understood the risks I had taken, but the danger of climbing the fence had never been from my four-legged friends. The barbed wire may have scarred my leg, but discovering my tiny space in the world wasn’t safe robbed me of my friends and scarred my innocence.

Fried Chicken and Sweet Tea Memories to Savor

July 1, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 8 Comments

Day 14

Day 14 of the My 500 Words Challenge. “Tell us about food: what you ate today, your perfect meal, your favorite seasonal foods.”

In the south, where I grew up, everything we ate would be considered comfort food rather than healthy. My mom cooked three meals a day and always had a homemade pie or cake for dessert. But let me tell you, once in a while I’ll catch a whiff of something and I’m transported back in time. My mouth waters as I remember waking up to the aroma of mom’s biscuits and gravy on cold school mornings. Add a fresh slice of cantaloupe and I went to school with a smile on my face. To think of sweet melon draped in a cloak of salty, spicy warmth is a memory worth savoring. Cantaloupe to this day remains a favorite fruit of mine, although now it’s paired with fat-free cottage cheese instead gray. What a shame.

I don’t eat fried foods anymore, save one, fried chicken and not just any fried chicken. I want the southern style with a golden crunchy, crispy crust on the outside seasoned with just the right amount of salt, pepper and spices and a moist center. Man oh man, the Colonel had it right, it is “finger licking good.”

Certain foods evoke strong memories for me to this day. If asked for a last meal request, it would be the same meal I grew up eating every Sunday at my grandmas. I’d want to go out tasting fried chicken, fried okra, cornbread, fresh tomatoes, corn, and cantaloupe. And whatever you do, don’t forget my southern gold, sweet tea. I can go without food before I’d give up my tea. And yes, I put a lemon slice in every glass. I like my tea, sweet, tart and ice-cold.

And no, I’m not overweight (see my profile). But I know a good, satisfying meal when I see one and you have to hand it to us southerners, we know how to cook (ok, most know how to cook). I admit it, cooking isn’t one of my strong points. I tried for years to reproduce mom’s melt in your mouth biscuits and all I accomplished for my efforts was creating a white powdery missile I could throw at my husband.

I’d watch her mix a batch nearly every night for dinner, and let me tell you her method was a work of art. She never measured anything, threw the ingredients together in a stainless steel bowl and her hands worked magic. Her biscuits put Hardee’s to shame. Mom had the knack for cooking and baking and I never found it.

Indulging in my favorite foods isn’t as fun as it used to be. Somewhere between twenty and now, my taste buds quit budding, my appetite waned, and my gut started screaming. I’m more health conscious now and am pretty much a fish, chicken and vegetable kind of woman, but once in a while the smell of fluffy white biscuits call my name. When it does, get out of my way.

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story. And as always, you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

Stay Calm and Read On

June 30, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / Leave a comment

Day 13

Day 13 of the My 500 Words Challenge. “A journal entry, but with a twist: make your day sound interesting.”

Yesterday, day12 of the my500 word challenge, was so much fun. To refresh your memory, here’s the prompt:

“It’s true that honesty is the best policy. It’s just fun to fib now and again. Not in a dirty and deceptive way, but in a way that invokes imagination. Just for today’s challenge, it’s okay to stretch the truth a little. Rewrite history, imagine an alternate reality, or just plain lie.”

I had no desire to “rewrite history,” from my viewpoint, we’ve had enough of rewriting history. Alternate realities are not my thing, although, sometimes I feel as if we’re all living in an alternate reality. But, the last part of the prompt caught my attention, ” just plain lie.”

I have to admit the thought brought a mischievous smile to my face. As Jeff said, “It’s just fun to fib now and again.”

As writer’s we all have plenty of experience with rejections and I’ll admit I turn green with envy when I read of some author achieving instant fame with their very first book. Hearing those stories make me want to toilet paper their house. How in Sam’s hill did they accomplish that? Who did they have to do? Give me a name I’ll call. (Just kidding).

We all want to be recognized, win a contest, or have our work discovered. But, as you know, achieving instant fame is like finding a needle in a haystack or an act of divine Providence.

I don’t want to reveal any spoilers; you can read my prompt by clicking here. The responses I received surprised and delighted me. My sister and fellow writer-in-crime came out of the gate first and called me.

“Omg! That’s wonderful. You have to tell me, who is it?”

Similar responses followed and I dutifully responded to each one. I got a taste, albeit a tiny taste, of what being discovered might feel like, and it was amazing.

Throughout the day, each time my phone pinged, I would find another congrats or “Like” and spent most of the day giggling as if I were a school age girl playing a prank on the teacher. I even received a note from WordPress, “Cow Pasture Chronicles received record Likes today.”

As much fun as I had yesterday, I couldn’t help but wonder. What made my post so credible? I’d given all kinds of clues, the biggest being the title and secondly, I restated the prompt at the top of the post. Yet, it went unregistered.

No one questioned the probability of such an occurrence; they accepted my story as truth. I like to think it was the writing. I wrote it so well, so convincingly, you had to believe it to be true (Please, don’t burst my bubble). The truth is, most people skim when they read, and there are numerous studies to support this, “When you add more verbiage to a page, people will only read 18% of it.” You can read more of these studies, here.

I am a stickler for truth and accuracy, but I had a great deal of fun not only fibbing, but experiencing a hint of what I hope is to come. I mean, Mr. King could get wind of my post and call. Stranger things have happened.

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story. And as always, you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.