C L Gillmore - Novelist and Poet

Name: C L Gillmore - Novelist and Poet
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C L Gillmore - Novelist and Poet

Author @ www.clgillmore .com
"A Friend Request," romance novel
"Of Roots, Shoes and Rhymes," poetry book/CD But, one Friend Request changes everything.

A FRIEND REQUEST

Jake Richardson long ago abandoned his dream for a creative, professional life in the city and, instead, settled into a routine existence on his rural Illinois family farm. Though now in a dispassionate marriage, he does manage to find joy and purpose with his two teenaged sons, close-knit community, and friends. The name Rose Allison, popping up on his computer screen, fills hi

m with vivid memories of a powerful bond, forged amidst the heat of 1960s politics, culture, and music. Her simple message opens up a fresh world of opportunity for them both as technology shrinks their geographical and emotional distance. They regain a chance to heal individual and mutual demons, and potentially rekindle the passion and fulfillment so many people only dream about with their first love. "A Friend Request tells the story of Rose Allison and Jake Richardson’s coming-of-age in midwestern America during the late 1960s and early 1970s when free love, the Vietnam War, drugs, and rock and roll formed their lives. Forty years later, thru the cultural phenomenon of social media, Rose and Jake reunite through a simple Friend request on Facebook. Gillmore’s densely textured portrayal of their relationship flows between the hippie revolution and today’s social media connections, revitalizing the love and friendship they both suppressed for so many years."
—Jodie Wilson, publisher, discoverTheregion.com

"Anyone who’s ever wondered about rekindling a romance with their first love, will connect with A Friend Request. Gillmore’s attention to detail and visceral understanding of her characters make you feel like you’re eavesdropping on Jake and Rose’s online exploration of their relationship. Despite the passage of years and inevitable life changes, they work to heal and forge a new fairytale ending solely through words, not unlike the love-letter writers of old."
– Ann nArcisiAn videAn, AWArd-Winning ediTor,
And AuThor of rhyThms & muse And song of The ocArinA

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Friend-Request-C-L-Gillmore/dp/0692287655/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Of Roots, Shoes and Rhymes - Poetry in Emotion. "Gillmore has used the layers of her life experience to put into rhyme a blend of what it is like to love both in a romantic way and in a selfless way as a teacher of children with special needs. It is a nice companion book to her novel, UNCOMMON BOND. I read both of them and highly recommend them especially to women who came of age during the late 1960s and early 1970s. She has captured the tone of her generation very well." Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Of-Roots-Shoes-Rhymes-Gillmore/dp/1935636340/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

01/23/2017

AFTER A WHILE... you understand the way that things can go wrong in people's lives; you learn all the patterns and the temptations; you recognize the ways people use other people...You don't want to waste the energy, so instead you learn tolerance, and compassion and love - and distance.
~Douglas Coupland~

04/28/2016

Childhood Sanctuary: Memories from 512 Main Street (Excerpt Two by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

My Grandma and Grandpa Gillmore’s two-story, brown-shingled house sits atop a hill overlooking the Mississippi River. Grandpa fashioned the round, metal banister beside the steps from left over plumbing pipe. It’s still there, along with the rough, worn concrete steps and sidewalk, mixed, poured and worked by his hands, as well.

Whenever I return to Muscatine and visit their home, I run my hands over that banister, the steps, the sidewalk... and let Grandpa know I’m there. I feel his presence in the warmth of the sun on my head and my back, like the heat of another body against me, protecting me, holding me close... once again.

04/17/2016

Childhood Sanctuary: Memories from 512 Main Street (Excerpt 1 by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

In that ethereal place between dreams and wakefulness I often find myself strolling through my Grandma and Grandpa Gillmore’s yard—the one surrounding their big, two-story, brown-shingled house in my small hometown of Muscatine, Iowa.

The yard—cool, quiet and peaceful—smelled of green, of springtime. A place of beauty where delightful colors and scents enveloped me and allowed my emerging imagination to sprout and flourish. A place of refuge where I felt loved and safe from everything beyond my understanding and control as a child.

And after all these years—nearly an entire lifetime—this tucked away place of remembrance continues to overwhelm me with details, events, and emotions... blurring the boundaries between past and present in my world as a writer.

In memories, I still climb the concrete steps, stroll the green, grassy yard, breathe in the fragrant flowers, and feel the presence of my grandparents. I feel their loving arms around me... and once again I feel safe.

Safe within my childhood sanctuary on 512 Main Street.

04/10/2016

Happy Birthday to my sister, Martha Walker!

As a writer, I draw from personal experience... from people I've known, places I've lived, notable events in my life. All of these elements breathe life into the story line and allow the reader to experience relatable feelings and emotions. The following excerpt from my last book, A FRIEND REQUEST, is based on early childhood experiences between my sister and me while living in the house on 1002 Reed Street, Muscatine, Iowa.

"The only real home I remember as a young child was the light-green house trimmed in white on East Carroll Street. My mom, older sister Carla, and I settled there after moving from one tiny Illinois town, Weldon, to another, Macomb, sometime during the summer of 1955 after my dad died. We lived there four years.

The street address and phone number there—1002 East Carroll Street, Amherst 2-7222—remain memorized.

My sister Carla, nine years older than I, knew a lot more about our life than I did at five and six. I learned from her, years later, that Mom spent months in bed—depressed—after my dad died. We lived in several apartments before the green house on East Carroll. I don’t recall the other places well. I just remember the green house.

I recall the front porch swing, suspended on chains. On hot, muggy Midwest evenings, my sister and I swung there, listening to the buzzing of the cicadas, and the rhythmic clanking and creaking of those rusty chains.

The small, five-room house included a kitchen, living room, a dining room that served as my bedroom, two other bedrooms, and a bathroom.

The living room’s two southern-facing windows overlooked a graveled alley. My mom grew pink and purple lacy violets in clay pots on the southern-facing windowsills. I can still envision the brilliant yellow stamens in those violets popping against their velvety purple petals.

The narrow alley separated our single-story house from the brick, two-story directly across from us. I learned over the s the two-story served as a slaughterhouse and meat market, grocery store and finally, an apartment building, catering mostly to single men.

Carla and I used to scour the alley between our house and the apartment building on Saturday and Sunday mornings looking for money dropped by the drunks as they exited cabs late at night. We always managed to find something, mostly loose change, but sometimes dollar bills.

We took our newfound wealth, walked two blocks to a little neighborhood market and spent it all on things never allowed at home—Seven-Up candy bars, Topps baseball cards with gum, Hostess Cupcakes and Snowballs, giant dill pickles, slices of boiled ham, ice cream Drumsticks, and Dr. Pepper—depending on how much we found. We sometimes stuffed it all down as we walked back home, often making ourselves sick.

We never told anyone. It was our secret. A secret between sisters."

03/29/2016

Excerpt from "Childhood Sanctuary: Memories from 514 Main Street,” by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

Next to the sweet peas, a bright orange trumpet vine winds up and over the old, clothesline pole. The thick, coarse vine, twisted and gnarled, reminds me of the Jack and the Beanstalk picture from my second grade reader.

At the end of each trailing vine hang clumps of orange, trumpet-shaped flowers. Here ruby-throated humming birds wage 'hummer warz,' as they guard the precious flowers against all intruders.

Carefully, one-by-one, I pluck and place an orange trumpet blossom over each of my fingertips. Then spread my blossom-covered fingers wide, and wave my hands in the air in front of me.

Loudly I proclaim, “I am the good witch who frightens away all bad people who dare take the princess from her castle! Be gone with you!”

Slowly, carefully, I circle all the way around... peering in every direction. Today there are no bad people in my sanctuary.

Slipping the blossoms from my fingertips, they settle onto the damp, green grass around my bare feet. Dusty, yellow nectar clings to my fingertips. Tentatively, I touch my tongue to one yellow fingertip and taste. Delicious. I quickly and thoroughly lick every trace from both hands.

Honey. It tastes like sweet honey.

03/08/2016

Excerpt from the novel, A PROMISE TO LILY, by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

Donnie Hanson moved in with Mama and me after Denny moved out. And Denny moved in after Bob moved out. I don’t remember their last names. But I remembered Bob wore a leather jacket with a pink, naked lady on the back and drove a red motorcycle. Once he took me for a ride down the graveled alley beside our house. I liked Bob. Mama liked him for a while, too. But one morning she threw all of his clothes in the front yard and called him a freeloader, instead of Bob. I never saw him again. I guess he rode away on his red motorcycle.

03/06/2016

Excerpt from, A PROMISE TO LILY by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

After wiping her hands on the red and white-checkered apron, Mama brushed a stray, red curl from her freckled face, then proceeded to stack three full, dinner plates along her extended, left arm. Like planes on a runway. No matter how many times I watched her, both at home and the restaurants she worked, I thought it amazing. Probably good enough to be on The Ed Sullivan Show. Pretty enough, for sure.

Mama looked beautiful to me. Once a lady in the grocery store said I was the spittin’ image of her. Green eyes, freckles, and red hair. And not just any red hair—rosy, copper, blonde red hair—according to Mama. She said we were the same on the inside, too, but never said why. I figured she meant smart.

Yep, me and Mama... beautiful and smart and special... inside and out.

02/07/2016

Excerpt from A PROMISE TO LILY, a novel by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

“I took a day to search for God, and found Him not; but as I trod, by rocky ledge, through woods untamed, just where one lily flamed, I saw His footprint in the sod.”~ William Bliss Carman

* * * * *

Creamed peas over toast.

That’s how the night began. Mama cooked creamed peas over toast for her new boyfriend, Donnie, so he’d be nice ... so he wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t grab, wouldn’t hit.

I watched him scoop peas onto his knife and tear the toast with his fingers. His lips smacked. White gravy seeped between his yellow teeth as he chewed. And every once in awhile a slimy, green pea rolled out the side of his mouth on a dribble of gravy. He loved creamed peas over toast and gobbled it up like birthday cake and ice cream.

Icky. The only word for Donnie Hanson. Icky.

Carefully I continued singling out one or two peas and rolled them over the edge with my fork, stacking them into neat, orderly rows under the rim of the big, white dinner plate. Each time one or two dropped, I held my breath and looked over at Donny hoping he couldn’t see the ever-growing stockpile of peas from across the table where he sat.

After I’d rolled all the peas over the edge, I used my fork, and then my fingers, to tear a piece of the now cold, gravy-soaked toast, and slip it in and out of my mouth as quickly as possible. I pretended to chew, then cough, then spit the wad of food into the paper towel, while returning my hands to my lap. Sometimes I coughed with one hand, sometimes with two. Thought it better to change things up. So far so good. Only a few pieces left.

Mama and I exchanged nervous glances. The more peas I stashed around my plate, the more mouthfuls I spit into my napkin... the more glances we exchanged. I knew I should eat my dinner and be grateful for it. I knew six-year-old kids like me were starving in China. But I couldn’t.

01/19/2016

Here is the final version of "Star Wishes" for my friend, Sandi and her family. Thanks to my friend, Alana E. Roberts, at Amazingly Virtual for the graphics.

01/16/2016

Star Wishes

Star light, star bright, amid the twinkling stars in sight,
I wish I may, I wish I might, see beyond the veil tonight.

Far beyond the boundaries of logic or time
Problems subside by chanting a rhyme,
Star wishes float toward heaven on high,
To the place loved ones dwell and angels fly.

Kindred souls, hovering at a distance.
Time travelers... aware of our existence.

When I ask to feel your presence,
Quiet my thoughts and await your essence,
Lost things are found, without rhythm or reason.
A purple flower blooms, months out of season.
Objects topple over, phone lines go dead.
And your sweet spirit's at the edge of my bed.

Kindred soul, hovering at a distance.
Time traveler... aware of my existence.

Star light, star bright, amid the twinkling stars in sight,
I wish I may, I wish I might, see beyond the veil tonight.

~ C L Gillmore - Novelist and Poet

For Sandi in remembrance of her sweet daughter, Kim.

01/05/2016

"I made up stories and poems for as long as I could remember. I recited them to myself, or to imaginary friends, late at night when I was supposed to be asleep.

A second-grade teacher encouraged me to actually put things down on paper. I excelled at it because of my vivid imagination. I frequently wandered off to places in my mind, and writing gave me the tools to bring the meanderings to life on paper. I wrote stories for my teacher." C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

01/04/2016

Emptiness. Loneliness. Anger. Depression. Emotions I kept in check, washed over me in waves. Some days I floated, other days, whitecaps lapped over me and sucked me under. I thought of my life... floating pieces of wreckage. I didn't care.

Soul, Save Me One More Time

Waves of sadness
And I am drowning.
Cannot catch my breath.
Soul, save me one more time.

Tears and brine at once
And I am slipping at sea.
Cannot see the crest anymore.

Life floats in pieces of wreckage above
And I watch with stinging eyes.
Cannot reach for a savior.

Beacon from shore is dark now.
And I am ready to give.
Cannot hold on to the breath of a dream.
Soul, save me one more time.

~ Excerpt from A FRIEND REQUEST by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

12/29/2015

I hear voices whispering in the daily, quiet isolation of my office. I hear them late at night, in my bed, when sleep won't come. I've heard these same voices since a young child. They are familiar friends, a comfort. And I continue listening and writing their whisperings. Am I mad or am I just a writer? Perhaps, a combination of both. ~ C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

clgillmore.com/blog

12/22/2015

A few days ago, after posting my poem, "Lost in Thoughts This Christmas," a few former classmates asked about a poem for our 1967 MHS Class. Here it is along with a few favorite pics. Enjoy!

12/20/2015

Lost in Thoughts This Christmas

Lost in thoughts this Christmas Day
Tender memories drift my way
Riding the winds of childhood joys
When we were the little girls and boys.

Christmas trees, tinsel and lights
New Pjs and the longest of nights
Cookies for Santa and whispered wishes
Farm sets, trucks, dollies and dishes

Away in a manger, Jesus and a star
Shepherds and wise men traveling afar
Ruffled dresses, white shirts and ties
Love’s pure light through children’s eyes

Lost in thoughts this Christmas Eve
I pray that we may still believe
In all that’s tender, good and right
Within our hearts this Christmas night.
~ C L Gillmore ~

12/20/2015

"Exceptional cookies—like exceptional songs, poems, stories, and books—become exceptional from the ingredients blended inside." ~ C L Gillmore Cheryl Gillmore Kobel

http://www.clgillmore.com/whats-inside-matters/

12/14/2015

I think it's only fair, don't you?

12/12/2015

REMEMBER ALL OF THIS... WRITE ABOUT IT SOMEDAY IN A BOOK.
__________________
I talked. He listened.

I talked about my childhood—my dad, my sister, my mom, the moves—about my chaotic life, about all the broken rules.

Now and then, he commented, but mostly, he listened.

I told him about my love of writing—about my poetry, my stories, my journals—and how I dreamed of being an author someday.

“You can do that. You know that, don’t you? Go after that
dream, Rose.”

“Maybe I will someday.”

“Remember all of this... write about it someday in a book. I’ll look for it.”

“Okay... yes... look for it.”

~Excerpt from A FRIEND REQUEST by C L Gillmore

12/08/2015

A WRITER IS A WRITER...

"I carried my life around with me... in notebooks.

Writing my thoughts and feelings was something I’d done from a very young age. I needed to write, and I needed to read what I wrote. I could hardly explain it, even to myself.

Writing provided two outlets for me. One allowed me to fantasize and escape the realities of life. The other kept me in touch with the person deep inside... the person who knew the difference between fantasy and reality.

It helped me to stay in touch with me, with Rose. It helped me to stay in touch with reality.

Fantasy and reality. A constant battle I waged with myself."

Excerpt from A FRIEND REQUEST by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

11/27/2015

"They knew they were pilgrims." William Bradford

"Out of small beginnings great things have been produced, by His hand that made all things out of nothing; and as one small candle will light a thousand, so the light here kindled hath shone to many, yea, to our whole nation." William Bradford

William Bradford (1590-1657), one of the Pilgrim Fathers, was the leader of the Plymouth Colony in America. His extraordinary history, "Of Plymouth Plantation, " was not published until 1856.

11/25/2015

I wrote this blog about year ago and though it centers around Christmas, I thought it appropriate to post this morning, the day before Thanksgiving, when so many are busy baking and cooking, or simply dreaming of the wonderful meal tomorrow...

"Early one morning before Christmas—with the soft glow of the tree lights and holiday music filtering in from the family room—I gathered all the needed ingredients to continue a beloved tradition passed down from my grandmother and mother to me. Baking Christmas cookies.

On the kitchen counter—nestled among flea market, garage sale, and my own personal cookbooks—are several of my mother and grandmother’s. Treasured, vintage books with personalized notations written to the side of favorite recipes. Next to the cookbooks, an old, wooden recipe box—a garage sale find from years ago in Missouri—filled with tried and true, family favorites. Interspersed among the recipe cards are my mom’s and grandma’s hand-written ones… fragile, dog-eared, and faded from years of use."

Follow the link to read more! http://www.clgillmore.com/whats-inside-matters/

11/24/2015

I held that huge book in my small hands. I opened the cover, read the words on the first page, and marveled a writer dreamed all of this inside his head—the places, the characters, the storyline. Imagination flowed into words. The words formed images. The images framed a movie. A movie that transported me to another place and time.

I understood words and the power they held to transport me, but now, I understood how words could transport others, as well.
~Excerpt from A Friend Request by C L Gillmore (Cheryl Gillmore Kobel)

11/17/2015

"[Writing is] being able to take something whole and fiercely alive that exists inside you in some unknowable combination of thought, feeling, physicality, and spirit, and to then store it like a genie in tense, tiny black symbols on a calm white page." ~ Mary Gaitskill

11/15/2015

She Said, He Said... Writing From the Male Perspective. “Bits and Pieces," A Behind the Scenes Writing Perspective from Award-Winning Author, C. L. Gillmore

Unaware of rules, guidelines, or methods when I first began writing, I simply followed my instincts and wrote from my head... my heart. I wove colorful strands of imaginative narrative, through the mottled, textured threads of true-life experience.

Right or wrong... each day I wrote more. I couldn’t NOT write.

I never thought much about writing from different points of view (POV), male and female. For me, the perspectives flowed easily as the characters emerged and the story line evolved. Ideas for both, characters and storyline, came from people and places I remembered... from me, from my past.

Before I began writing the companion novels, Uncommon Bond and A Friend Request, I’d already established a mental picture of the characters, Rose Allison and Jake Richardson. I pictured them in my mind... their physical appearance, how they dressed, their mannerisms, and sense of humor. I heard their voices inside my head, long before I wrote their dialogue. I knew their strengths and vulnerabilities, and the conflict within each of them.

Rose and Jake’s personas originated within a group of friends from Iowa City, Iowa, during the late 1960s—including members of a local rock band. Within a core group of eight young men and women... and a peripheral group of ten to fifteen more, I fashioned Rose Allison and Jake Richardson from bits and pieces of these friends.

I chose the name, Rose, from one of the peripheral girls, named Rose. I remembered her as pretty, soft-spoken, about 5’4” tall, with long, brownish blonde, sun-streaked hair. She dressed fashionably hippie and looked stunning in a two-piece bathing suit. Exactly how I pictured Rose Allison. Her humor, strengths, vulnerabilities, and conflict... mine.

I always liked the name, Jake. And I especially liked the connection of the two names, Jake and Rose. This character came from a combination of three friends... two from the Iowa City group, one from my hometown of Muscatine, Iowa. None were named Jake. But together, those three merged into the Jake Richardson I described in this excerpt from A Friend Request:

"He reached Cash’s height, about 5’7", with straight sandy-brown hair skimming his ears. He wore a tight black T-shirt accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular well-tanned arms. He tucked that tight T-shirt inside tight bell-bottom jeans with tapered orange, white and navy blue paisley inserts running up each side just below his knee. And sandals. Even in October, he still wore sandals on his golden-brown feet. He had a good build... and a really nice butt."

And later on in the story line:

"Tonight, I finally met the lighting and sound guy, Jake Richardson. I barely know him and yet I feel comfortable with him. He’s a farm boy... cute, witty, funny, and gentle... prone to answering questions with “yep” and “nope.” Yet, he’s smart, easy to talk to, and a good listener.

What is it about him? When I look into his eyes, I see something different. I can’t explain it. I just know something extraordinary happened tonight. It’s like a connection with someone I already knew. But that can’t be, can it? I just want him to hold me. I want to listen to his voice forever. When I look at his lips I want him to kiss me. He makes me ache inside. I can’t wait to see him again."

There’s an advantage to writing novels when you’re fifty or sixty. Along with a plethora of memories, comes the accumulation of experiences—good and bad—in diverse areas. I’m a generalist, knowing a little bit about a lot of things. But I've found over the years, those things all talk to each other behind my back.

I read somewhere girls look through 'rose-colored' glasses and boys through 'sky-blue' ones. A writer figures out a way to convey this. I remembered and kept in mind a few, key differences between the two s*xes when I wrote as Jake, from the male perspective.

Women talk more than men. Statistics say women say 20,000 words per day compared to men speaking only 7,000 per day. Having said that, just because a man is silent on the outside, doesn’t mean he’s silent inside. Men think what women say. I wrote Jake’s thoughts regarding a lot of things. And sometimes, from his silence, came the most incredible utterances. Words that endeared him to her... and any other female reading along.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:

“You look beautiful.” He brushed another kiss along the side of my cheek. “I knew you were special the first night I saw you at rehearsal... the first time I heard your voice.”

Dear Jesus, did all men use words the way he did? Lovely words I knew would stay in my heart... replay in my mind... forever?

Men are visual, much more sight driven, than most women. What they see sticks inside their brain and replays. When I wrote from Jake’s POV, I saw everything and was stimulated by what I saw... and still capable of thoughts and feelings and words spilling out at the same time.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:
We stood facing one another, holding hands like little children. I watched Jake’s eyes travel slowly up and down my body. I found myself doing the same. I couldn’t stop looking. His body was beautiful... muscular, lean, and tan.

“You’re so beautiful, so soft, Rose. You take my breath away.”

Men, as a general rule, are not detail-oriented. They tend to look at the big picture, the end game. She might have worn a short, designer gown in emerald green, but all he remembers... her long, s*xy legs under a very, short dress. Color? Doesn’t matter.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:
Damn. How could she still look the same after all the years? Pretty, petite, blonde... round in all the right places. Sweet, Jesus. She wore the black-knit dress with the buttons down the front. Were the pink, lacy bra and panties underneath? The thought alone excited me... made me hard. Great.

Men are more logically driven and can compartmentalize things much better than woman. They want to cut to the chase and solve the problem... and then not think or talk about it anymore. Men move on and usually don’t hold a grudge.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:
"Yep. Win or lose... give me the boys’ bus every time. I can deal with the swearing, boasting, bragging, and a few fists hitting the side of the bus, because I know they will soon follow it all up with silence. Guys get over things and move on. Guys are spent. They need sleep, and the rocking movement of the bus works like a charm every time... all the way home.

Guys. Simple. Predictable. Easily satisfied.

God, I was thankful to have sons. Every once in a while you get lucky. If Beth had given birth to girls, I’m sure I would have drowned in a raging sea of heated, hyper-active hormones by now. Yep, damn lucky."

And s*x? Well, it’s a touch-ey, feel-ey, see-ey thing... but can be totally non-emotional for a guy. Not connected with love at all. But if you write romance novels, your leading man has all of these in hearts—not spades—gets emotionally involved, and falls in love.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:
With Rose... I learned the difference between s*x and love. Up until then—having s*x, balling, fu***ng, screwing—were all interchangeable man terms for what most women referred to as making love. Simple semantics.
After that—having s*x, making love—I knew the difference. I felt the difference. I never forgot the difference.

A writer can use the differences in men and women to contrast different relationships between characters in a storyline. When I wrote from Jake’s POV, I illustrated how the same characteristics that endeared him to Rose... alienated him from his wife, Beth.

Excerpt from A Friend Request:
Beth stood, looked at me briefly, and delivered one last parting shot.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll do whatever you want anyway. That’s how it’s always been. You’ve always done whatever you wanted, gotten whatever you wanted.”

She picked up her cup from the table and walked into the living room. A few seconds later, I heard the din of the television.

I refocused my attention out the kitchen window... toward the lake.
I’d made my choices long ago and I lived with them... every single day. Whatever burdens or sorrows I carried, I would, most likely, carry until all my days were used up.

Quietly, I responded to no one in particular, “You’re wrong. I never got anything I really wanted, except my sons.”

Finally, after factoring in all those point of view elements, I closed my eyes and imagined I’m the one hearing his romantic words, feeling the tender emotions from his gentle touch, and experiencing all those erotic acts of love he can dream up. That’s why we read romance novels. That’s why I write romance novels. I love romance. When I need a reality check, I’ll grab a copy of U. S. News and World Report.

Every writer must find what works for him or her... find their particular method or style of writing. Writing from my head and heart, weaving fact and fiction, and going with my instincts, worked for me. By using all of these, I learned to develop story lines, settings, and characters. I learned to write from both male and female point of view.

There is a secret to finding your method, your style of writing. It took me awhile of thinking and talking before I finally figured it out. It’s a sure thing, too. If you do this one thing, over and over, you’ll develop everything needed to become a great writer.

Sh-h-h-h-h. Do you want to know the secret?

WRITE.

10/04/2015

For Ben. Excerpt from A FRIEND REQUEST by C L Gillmore.

Listen, Look, and Remember

Weep not, cry not, do not grieve for me—my soul at last runs free.
My immortal spirit, unbound soul, forever young will be.

Scattered, wind-blown ashes now faded and unseen
Gently dance across well-worn paths and mark where I have been.
Imprints faintly left in place that help recall to heart and mind
A lifetime of hopes, dreams and clutter now stilled and left behind.

Listen for me on quiet early mornings when soft ripples fall
Upon the shore where hawks glide and soar gracefully over all.
Look for me in the whispered glow of a sultry summer night
As the waning light of a brilliant sunset fades quietly out of sight.
Remember me as winter’s laced, gray fingers secret away the sun
And sprinkle icy snowflakes on an eager, outstretched tongue.

As ageless winds gently sweep the passing of time and season,
You’ll feel my touch upon your face and know beyond all reason
That every life, yours and mine, becomes a unique, entwined endeavor.
Leaving precious memories as eternal reminders that life goes on forever.

Weep not, cry not, do not grieve for me—my soul at last runs free.
My immortal spirit, unbound soul, forever young will be.

Address

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http://www.clgillmore.com/

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