Trust Your Voice

We're told to follow our heart, yet to use our head. That sounds like prudent advice and applicable in many situations. But too often rationality mums gut feelings and smothers our true self. Does your heart speak to you? Let its voice be heard. 

I'm telling myself the above as an 84,000-word manuscript beckons. This work in process, titled Forgiveness, awaits revision, editing, and being send into the world. Another month or so and I'll be looking for beta readers who'll give me feedback. More critical than your average reader or especially fans (such as a loving spouse or best friend) they'll offer me an honest review. Those who read like writers will comment on theme, premise, characters, plot, structure, style, grammar and voice.
This won't be the first time. During the writing and development of an earlier book, I shared sections with my critique group. I wrote and rewrote, edited, re-envisioned and edited once again. Only after I'd finished the sixth version did I deem the text worthy to be printed as a whole and read by trustworthy beta readers. I cradled each of my babies in a box and sent them off. How would my story be perceived? As a writer and artist I've learned that every single person will see something else in a creation.

We all have our own perspective, each and every one of us has a life experience that's unique and colors our perception. In critiquing one another's work and receiving critique, we have to remember that. What's true for us is not necessarily true for the other. With that in mind we focus on craft, not values.

cover art by J.v.P.

My five beta readers were brave to take on the hefty load I laid in their laps. Creative Acts of Healing: after a baby dies with its in your face subtitle, isn't poolside literature, although one of them did read most of the book while soaking in her bathtub. While they hadn't suffered a similar loss, Creative Acts of Healing made them remember their own, or others' sorrows. I was and am grateful for their conscientious approach. I understand how difficult it must have been to look at this material in an objective manner, to not let personal feelings take over. In going over her notes one of my readers said there was a certain instant where she didn't believe me (or the narrator, as we writers call the main character, even if we're writing a memoir). Now this is a big deal. You want your readers to trust you.
 
The phrase my reader objected to?

"She will not want us to become embittered."

"Too Buddha-like," she said, "Impossible."

My reader could not believe that I (the narrator) would be able to say such a thing to my husband while holding our lifeless Ariane Eira in my arms. At that very moment I made the mistake I still regret. I stifled the voice from within and deleted that line.

One of the biggest no-no's in writing fiction after life is to insist on the supposed truth, saying: "But that is how it happened." For what really happened usually doesn't have enough drama, or on the contrary is over the top. In writing non-fiction however, this may accentuate the essence of the experience. That we chose not to become embittered by our loss, has saved my husband and my relationship and in the long run our happiness. 

Looking at the manuscript of Forgiveness, I vow I will make sure I won't be seduced by another person's beliefs. I will let my heart speak.

How about you?

Trust Your Voice was previously published on January 22, 2012, on Katherine Jenkins' blog Lessons From The Monk I Married as part of her January 2012 extravaganza: 31 Writers, 31 Lessons.

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Wishing All of You A Scone 2012

Fill 'em up with all things good.

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Santa Ju at Metz & Co - Amsterdam

A long time ago, I worked at Metz & Co, a small department store in Amsterdam, as the assistant to Cok de Rooy (since 1992 co-owner of The Frozen Fountain a haven for designers and lovers of Design in Amsterdam. The following is my memory of Holiday Season 1977.

SANTA JU and DOCTORANDUS P

Nine sharp I enter the buyers' office. Technically I'm in time, but you could also argue that I'm late, after all, I still have to hang up my coat. To my surprise the office isn't empty as usual when I arrive. Mr. Henselein the general manager of Metz & Co, leans into the conference table in the middle of the room where designers and artisans eager to sell to Metz, get to display their creations. I've only seen Mr. H once or twice before.

"Morning," he smiles at me without showing his teeth. "Like I said de Rooy, it means extra attention for our Christmas Market."
"Judith," Cok raises his eyebrows as a greeting.
I feel caught.
"Don't tell me, your mother called?"
Mr. H looks puzzled from Cok to me and back again.
If he weren't present, I'd tell Cok I'm in time because Mama didn't call me. Without her interference I can be in and out of the shower, dressed and on my bicycle to work in twenty-five minutes, add ten minutes of shortcuts through alleys and pedestrian areas, avoiding all traffic lights, and I'm at the Keizersgracht, locking my bike three minutes to nine. Cok must have left early to beat traffic himself, he usually arrives after I've sat down at my desk, but why is Mr. H. so early and what's he so exited about? I'll have to ask Cok.
Mister H answers my question himself. "Heinz Polzer is popular. Man he may have his Master's in Economics, he's the best known singing poet in the country. We'll get all kinds of good exposure by having him present that book of antique postcards to the Press here, at Metz."
Who's a singing poet with a Master's in Economics?
Seeing the question mark on my face Cok says, "You surely know Doctorandus P? That's the pseudonym of this Polzer fellow."
"Oh, Doctorandus P of course I know about him. He's that absentminded professor-type with a really bad voice that sings all those funny songs. I just heard his, "Troika here, troika there", on the radio. But he's also known for higgledy piggledy."
"Higgledy Piggledy? Oh, you mean Ollekebolleke," Mr. H grins, "That's it, you see Cok, even your assistant knows Doctorandus P."
"That doesn't mean a thing. Judith knows everybody. Anyway, that’s beside the point." He turns to me, "Tiebosch has published Doctorandus P's collection of antique postcards. You can tear the cards out of the book and send them like regular postcards. That it's a gift article rather than just a book justifies us selling copies in the store."
"We're going to have Santa Claus present Doctorandus P's book to the press here at Metz," H says.
"Why Santa Claus? Dutch children believe in Sinterklaas not in Santa," I say.
"Smart girl. You've got a point there. But using Santa will bring extra attention to our Christmas Market." Mr. H rises and slaps his hand on Cok's desk, "It just occurs to me we don't need an extra budget for a model, your assistant here, will make a wonderful Santa. I'll say it once more, and I won't say it again, it'll be great advertising for the holiday season."
Santa? Me? He sure knows how to compliment a girl.
"She's got enough work as is," Cok says.
 "Didn't you re-write the job description? I'm sure you'll work it out together," Mr. H winks at me.

How does the boss know?
I thought that arrangement was something between Cok and me. The moment he saw the photo he took of me, bent over paperwork, he felt sorry that I had to do all the invoice administration, and so on, by myself. He decided that we'd split the paperwork so that I could take on some of the more creative responsibilities.

"Piece of cake for you Judith. You can walk over to the costume rental place, it's just a few houses down the canal. They'll get you fitted for the costume, the wig and the beard. With those rosy cheeks you'll hardly need any make-up."
"All right then. It's up to Judith," Cok taps his pencil on his calendar. "Like I said, she's got plenty to do as is." He clearly isn't that crazy about the idea. But if it's really up to me, I'll do anything that'll take me away from my desk. Besides, meeting Doctorandus P is a real opportunity.

Cyclists who encounter me in the street, the short distance from the costume rental to Metz & Co smile at me, but the sales women inside the store look at me like I'm an intruder or a bum.
"What?" I want to grumble, "Do you think I'll pull out a flask?" But I don't. On my way to the 6th floor I say nothing but "Ho, ho, ho," each time a customer steps into the elevator.

"Must have come in from Liberty's of London," someone says.
I pat my character's thick waist. I'm wearing my own clothes underneath the flannel suit and the rolled up excess material of the men's size pants makes me look extra chubby.

Cok and Mr. H meet me in the Rietveld cupola, they introduce me to the photographer and a stylist. The latter has me get on my knees between the Christmas display tables, to wrap a copy of Drs. P's book in Christmas paper. I'm a professional wrapper. That's what got me started working for Bullock's in Westwood in 1974, so I know it's looking good. 

Doctorandus P arrives, and he and I step onto the flat roof beside the cupola. I give it my best, want to be noticed by this man, but to him I'm Santa, not a young woman waiting to be recognized for her acting talents. He doesn't even look me in the eye. But Mr. H is pleased.

Within an hour of leaving the costume rental place as a Santa, I'm sitting in the window at Berkhoff's the bakery/ tearoom across the canal, in my regular clothes, sucking whipped cream off my hot cocoa, and digging into the flaky pastry surrounding the baked apple, not a worry about my waist.

Happy Holiday Season to You All! A Season to Share Memories - Care to Share Yours? Leave a comment!

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Triggers of Imagination for Writer

What's my favorite photo?

That's hard to say, the answer changes from moment to moment. I had prepped a certain picture to write about, but I look up, and there's my father in a relaxed pose, his weight on his left leg, he is leaning against a door post, his shirttails out, hands in pants' pockets, pipe in his mouth. This must be a photo of him I've studied the least. I've got to get up from my desk and take the garrrish framed picture (why on earth did my mother chose such an ornate molded metal design?) from "Papa's Chest" —most of the inherited furniture I've shipped across the ocean has similar possessive descriptions— to take a closer look.

No, I was wrong, no hanging shirttails, he's wearing a light colored, 3/4 unzipped jacket on a white tee-shirt and dark slacks. From the sheen and cut, I take it the jacket material could be a lightweight suede, but it could also be a gabardine. The trousers still have the high waistband, the buckle of his belt is positioned under his midrif. I like his shoes, are they suede? He looks trim and tan, he has a short moustache, and his hair is short, but growing out.

At first glance it seems he's standing just outside the door of a shop, behind the store's window you can see frames, is it a frame shop? The brick wall brings to the surface another photograph though, one where he's seated on a chair of a rustic terrace set, he used on the porch of his beach front house in Zandvoort. No, no, no. Stay with the first picture!

There's a small plaque on the door jamb, underneath that a simple white on black push bell. this could be a store or a home, I don't know and most likely will never know. My father was born in 1898 and died in 1969, his contemporaries are all dead. Still, I try to fit the pieces of his life together, bit by bit an image of a man I only new for a short time, appears. This framed photograph is the one my mother chose to have out in the open. Illness, old age and death took that man away from her, and yet, what remains is the memory. This may be how my father looked when my mother first set eyes on him. And so my story starts ...

Writers are often told to write what they know, but don't we really write to discover what we don't know? I for one am always searching for the hidden message, whether it's truth or just a figment of my imagination.

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Remembering Photos From Lost Album

My friend Anastasia Ashman has made use of Storify to deconstruct the logo of Global Niche. Great idea, I write to her, I'm going to do the same for the cover of my book Creative Acts of Healing. I head for the shelf in my husband's music room, where I know our photo albums and boxes filled with slides. I've got to find the photos Milka Henriques de Castro shot, a whole series of me drinking coffee from forest green, gold rimmed cups.

In 1993 I photo copied and blew up one of those photos for a collage in which I combined the echoscopy of our unborn child, the only live picture we would have of our baby daughter. I can't find the album. For days I'm in distress. I wake up twice thinking about the album, I wake up seeing the cover, a graphic design in shocking pink, turquoise and yellow, and vividly remember some of the pictures, images of my past.

The missing album was the first I filled with photographs made with the first camera I could call my own, a Ricoh 500 GX. I'm thinking of the photos that are lost with the album, and try to remember them. To my surprise many exist in my memory.

• My friend Anita Löwenhardt at Terrace of Scheltema or de Swart in Amsterdam.
• More pictures of Amsterdam street life.
• The 500-year-old Huguenots "mas" of Annie de Rot Hazard's in Les Baux, and her dogs, water reservoir on the roof, unimagined luxury behind centuries old walls of what looks like humble dwelling, the rest is hacked out into the rocks of the hill. Walls of natural rock, all windows barred, the faucets in the bathroom gilded.
• The dark haired smiling olive seller, who flirted with Annie and me at market in St. Remy, de Provence.
• A metal bowl the seller filled with vegetables I chose at his stall.
• The juggler in red leggings, and long sleeved tee shirt, decorated with stars, a cap on his head, at a market in Arles.
• Man on stilts
• Woman with chicken in crates.
• The park steps leading to street on higher level.
• Plaque about Van Gogh.
• Poster on ancient stone wall patched with cement, about the bull fights.
• Picture of the arena (I visited again with Gary in 2002).
• Interior of Mas at Les Baux
• Narrow and winding steep streets, more corridors between rows of buildings, of Les Baux
• The courtyard of Annie's L'Herbier de Province store, in St. Remy, de Provence, picture perfect with the table, chairs and baskets filled with hand-milled soaps.
• The mute boy in the house of Pat Pringle's mistress on Fomenter (from slide?)=
• The olive grove I slept in, near Ingie Pringle's summer dwelling (from slide?)
• Ingie and friends and children plus me in the woods, hippie chicks (from slide?)
• Parasols on beach in Majorca (from slide)
• Railing of (empty) cruise ship Mediterranean, I was the only traveler.
• Exhibitionist on bluff (no photo, just memory)
• Majorca stormy weather, hotel room, sunstroke

Black and white photos I developed myself:

• Olav in flat on Ferdinand Bol str. with broken leg
• My black cat Spooky Tooth at Olav's home, in easy chair (upholstered in pink velvet in my memory)
• Judith in Olav's kitchen behind stove in Guernsey sweater holding Dutch oven.

 Again color prints:

• Christmas at Jeannette's with children, Simone, Niels, Han + my collapsed coffee soufflé
• St. Nicolas at Jeannette's with Robert van der Hoop
• John Leerdam playing chess with Niel's friends

Black and white photos made by photographer Marjan Schelvis

• The Turkish actor and me, modeling for Marjan Schelvis on the roof terrace at 3rd  Wittenburgerdwarsstraat in Amsterdam. So young, so fun, me in shopping cart, dressed in sweat pants and tee-shirt, my hair a mop. The PROOST sign of the paper factory in the background.

Days go by and I'm still thinking of the album, more images and memories in black and white surface.

• Mamado in door opening between kitchen and dining/living room, with soup cup on saucer, Papa's wood carved chests in sight.
• Sophie at a bus stop somewhere, dressed in her leather 3/4 coat
• Judith in vieux rose, padded winter jacket without a hood, at the same bus stop.

It occurs to me that I have the same look of concentration on my face in regards to the Dutch oven in the kitchen at Olav's home, as my mother carrying that cup of soup to the dinner table.
Me, My mother, myself, I, a memory mixture of a book by Nancy Friday I recognized myself in, and a song by Joan Armatrading I listened to over and over.

The best photo I've ever taken may be lost with the album, it exists in my memory.

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Remembering 9/11

Still Life September 9, 2001

Second week of  September 2001, I'm painting sunflowers from my P-Patch at the top of Queen Anne Hill, in my studio at the Work Lofts on Western Avenue in Seattle.

Still Life September 10, 2001

Flowers age in vase
seed heads heavy with promise

Still Life September 11, 2001

Nature's hopeful signs.

Still Life Remembering 9/11

Paint, imagery —my tears 

on paper. And yet, hope for the 

future lies in the seeds.

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Learning about Addison's

Sometimes you hurt someone's feelings without being aware of it. Often you never know you did. Thankfully some people do tell you where you went in the wrong. 

Someone I follow on Twitter appeared to have a new portrait picture. I didn't remember seeing the sunny tan before. Since this person tweeted about an upgrade, I complimented in return: upgrade = extra tan?

Mind you, it may be winter on the other side of the globe, it's high summer in the western hemisphere, so how wrong could that remark have been? Quite wrong. A rare disease called Addison's makes a person's skin turn a reddish brown, and that's not all, as I found out Online. Addison's is not something to joke about. Thanks to the Tweep's response I now know a little bit about the disease.

The incident made me think of grief and how mourners are sadly the ones who have to educate the others. Thanks to the TV series "House MD" viewers are introduced more and more to hitherto barely known diseases. I've read that members of patients' support groups have written letters to the producers of "House MD" to thank them for educating viewers about diseases that are often unknown and not understood. As far as I know they haven't covered Addison's.

The next time I see a person with an unseasonable tan, I'll be reminded of what I found out today.

Knowledge may result in compassion. 

HealthScouter Addison's Disease: Addison Disease Symptoms and Addison's Disease Treatment

2009 Conquering Addison's Disease - The Empowered Patient's Complete Reference - Diagnosis, Treatment Options, Prognosis (Two CD-ROM Set)

This work by Judith van Praag is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License