spring tradition

The Greeks, Chinese and Persians exchanged eggs at spring festivals long before the Christian festival of Easter. Eggs were considered symbolic of the first sign of spring, and of fertility. They were also associated with magic because of the inexplicable birth of a living creature from such a strange object. To harness the eggs’ special powers, people would bury them beneath the foundations of buildings to ward off evil, and they’d be placed on thresholds for newlyweds to step over when they entered their homes for the first time.

the message is in the egg

Eggs have also been used to smuggle secret messages. During the Spanish Inquisition, Italian scholar, polymath and playwright Giambattista della Porta found a way to write secret messages on the inside of the unbroken shell. Seemingly intact, they were the only thing not checked at the gate of the prison where some of his friends were being held.
How did he do it? First, della Porta wrote on the egg shell using a mixture of plant pigments and alum. The ink penetrated the shell, and once it had dried, he boiled the egg in hot water and the ink on the outside washed away. The recipient in prison peeled off the shell to reveal the message on the egg white.

egg face

Like the prison guards, it never occurred to us to write on the inside of eggs, but growing up, we used to scoop out and eat our boiled eggs carefully so we didn’t break the shell. Then we’d turn the shell upside down in the egg cup and draw faces on the outside. Inevitably, we’d tell mum we weren’t hungry so we weren’t going to eat our eggs today. Of course, she never fell for it. My sister Vanessa always drew the best faces. Look at the ones we drew this Easter. We might not be eggstraordinarily gifted artists, but it’s all good fun. Which one do you like best? Vote in  the comments, and while you’re here, share your egg stories.


egg art

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When life gives you stories

a matter of perspective

A few weeks ago, we had the pleasure of going on a boat trip on Lake Erie. The colors were stunning—a patriotic parasailor, the blues of water and sky, colored rides at Cedar Point, but it was the lovely breeze on my face that fully grounded me into the moment.

There’s something about using more than one sense at a time, it’s a quicker, firmer way to slow things down and experience the present, which I talk about in Going Slow. And I’m continuing my explorations of senses in my new book.

The breeze made me think about the importance of details in a story, how they can add a richness that helps the reader to experience what the character is experiencing. (See the irony, from mindfulness to daydreaming?) I looked for words to describe this breeze so I could put it in my story. Only the character I’m developing right now is blind, and though people presume her life is dull, she actually has a better vision than most of what’s happening, and a pleasant breeze would add nothing to her story. Besides, she felt the breeze on her cheeks sounds a bit cliché, and who wants to read cliché? Which doesn’t seem fair because it really was a pleasant breeze.

You might have noticed, I’m still stubbornly stuck on the breeze. It was vivid, like one of those Old Man Winter faces you see on maps, only with spearmint fresh breath. Even if it doesn’t work for my blind woman, I can store it in my notebook for future use, or use it to create an entirely new character.

life inspires fiction

Like real life, a fictional character has a unique perspective. A unique set of experiences, physical abilities, even age will make her react a particular way. We can delve deep here to develop meaningful and diverse characters.

How about a fisherman who goes out on the lake every day? The wind might become so familiar it becomes invisible to him. But what if he starts every morning “listening” with his cheeks to feel the power of the wind, and the direction it’s coming from, like a personal weather forecast for the day?

What if my character has been a prisoner, incarcerated in a dank, sun-less cell. This his first time out—or his hundredth, and he’ll never take a breeze for granted again. Or a scientist who’d been stationed in Antarctica for six months, it would feel blissfully gentle. A women who survived a hurricane, but lost a loved one—it might feel like cruel mockery.

A multitude of experiences and factors defines how we as people and by extension fictional characters experience the world. Education, social class, special interests and the work we do.

fiction inspires life

Of course, sometimes it’s just a case of being 4 years old, or simply loving the color blue. But use details, portray a character in depth, and whether your reader loves or detests your character, they’ll know them so well they feel real. And it’s not all a one-way street. Just as real life can enhance our writing, fiction can enhance our experience of the real world, characters can open our eyes to a new perception of the world. And if fiction can broaden our perspective, it can foster understanding.

a challenge

Whether you’re a writer or a reader, I challenge you to try out life through someone else’s eyes. Imagine you’ve just been released from unlawful imprisonment halfway across the world and take a walk through town, seeing it for the first time after believing you would never see it again. Imagine being marooned on an island eating raw roots and sea urchins for the past six months, and eat your dinner as though it’s your first meal back in civilization.

Does it alter your perception of the familiar? Does your imagination ground you in the present, and gift you a moment of mindfulness? Did you get an idea for a story?

Please share in the comments. Let’s start a conversation, I’d love to hear what happened.

Preacher Gull
Preacher Gull
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a dear friend, gratitude, and joy

As leaves unfurl, buds swell, tulips stand tall in full regalia, later up here in the hills than the lowlands, I’m reminded how time continues to march forward, whether we’re ready or not. This perpetual rhythm is something that inspires Pietro in my book, From Ashes The Song, leading him to the realization that if nature can recover from the frozen lifelessness of winter, so Assunta can recover from her grief.

The story is inspired by the true story of two Italian immigrants, Pietro and Assunta, as told to me by their daughter, Irene Smylnycky.

Sadly, Irene passed away last week. Until a few short weeks ago, she lived independently at 90 years old, with all her faculties. The day she suffered a stroke she’d intended to make perogies for the annual Easter feast she cooked for her family, because family was the most important thing in her life.

Gathering everyone around the table meant more to her than anything else, nourishing them was a way to express her love. But then she found a multitude of ways to make the people in her life feel important. I, too, was a beneficiary on our visits, which always ended with tea and whatever cake she’d made that week, and on our trip to Italy in 2009 to trace a world her parents had left behind a hundred years earlier.

Irene voiced her gratitude every day. And she knew how to touch the lives of the people around her just as her parents did. Her father, Pietro, did it through his music, her mother, Assunta, through her joy of being with others.

I will miss her greatly. And I will continue to be inspired by her example. I will be eternally grateful for her friendship, for her stories, and for the song. Rest in peace, my dear friend, Irene.

Pietro's childhood home
Susan, Teresina, Irene
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I watch the hands that tell you—I cannot hold you
you’ll let none stop you until the end.
I’m fond of you and a half,
love it when you’re on my side
though I’d rather never serve you.
Some days I can’t help but waste you beat you kill you,
other days I gain you keep you
give or take you fix or buy you.
In the end you will tell.
There is a you for everything
yet you outsmart the likes of Aristotle, Homer,
I get stuck in you
I would be frozen without you.
You measure my heartbeat
like you measure the earth and stars
turning turning turning.
You pass, you slip more into place
your perpetual linear
marching marching marching.
Your name was spoken before mine
when I was born.
Why is it, then,
I forget you?
Let you slip by, unnoticed
fleeting toward the inevitable
day I run out
of you.










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Going slow

Everyone seems to be noticing that life is racing faster than ever. It makes me wonder whether I was onto something with the first book I was going to write. In it, a circle of gnome-like men in the heavens, manipulated the human race like an intricate yet global game, causing all the crazy things that happen in this world, people mere pawns. Perhaps it wasn’t fiction, perhaps the truth Continue reading “Going slow”

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