This beautiful young woman is a talented, professional photographer and a successful artist in her own right. I have the deepest respect for her sense of style, creativity and ability to see the world differently than I do. Which brings me to my point. I realized that much of my life has been spent in the quest for perfection. Had I imposed this on her as she grew up? Being honest, chances are probably yes. She was kind enough not to comment on that.

Before more could be said on the topic, our conversation moved on to other things and we hugged good-bye without circling back to her tattoo. But over the next few days I began to think long and hard about perfection…or not.

My young years were spent in hours of ballet classes. Every night after school I was in front of a mirror with a corps of other girls, muscles quivering as we lifted a leg higher or fell to the floor in a pirouette that wasn’t perfectly centered. We shaped our bodies through grueling exercises and learned to leap through the air—light as a feather—with power and strength. Ballet is an art form that demands perfection. And it was all I knew for years as a dancer.

My current artistic endeavor is writing a novel. Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo. Its very essence and premise is to send one’s internal editor (that strict taskmaster who wants everything perfect) on vacation for a month and let the creative spirit flow. Really, now that I think about it, NaNoWriMo should use my daughter’s mantra: Perfection is not the goal. Creativity is. And that brings me full circle. I think that’s exactly what she’s striving for. So am I.

Love that girl. She’s such an inspiration.

Her favorite flower was deep, dark purple iris. As a tribute to her, I have a cluster of them that bloom every year at this time. There’s a gorgeous bouquet of them on my table today in her honor. They remind me of her beauty—both inside and out.

When I think about it, she inspired me to write. She loved to tell me stories every night before bed when I was a kid. She would make them up as she went along and always sent me off to sleep with a cliffhanger, leaving me desperate for the next night’s episode. Her stories were elaborate and often complicated, with many plot twists. I loved them.

They were about faeries and elves, princes and princesses. And I was always one of the characters, although I had many different names. Now that she’s gone, I wish she’d written them down so I could have shared them with my children.

My mom often read books to me too, encouraging a deep and abiding love for them. And for stories of all shapes and sizes. When I got older, I read to her and then graduated to reading on my own every night before bed. That pattern has never changed over the years. I continue to read every night before falling asleep. I truly believe reading makes for better writing.

Moms are a beautiful blessing in our lives. Mine left me too early. So often I wish I could pick up the phone and talk over something with her, ask her advice, get her perspective. She was my best cheerleader, always supportive of my various endeavors, especially the creative ones like writing, painting or dancing.

Here’s to you, Mom. I still love you more than words can convey. And I still adore stories about faeries. Look closely. I’m sure there’s one hidden in the iris, winking at us.

]]> http://annenorup.com/remembering-my-mom-on-memorial-day/feed/ 0 http://annenorup.com/recent-writers-conferences/ http://annenorup.com/recent-writers-conferences/#comments Sun, 06 May 2012 17:24:52 +0000 Anne http://annenorup.com/?p=95 Continue reading →]]> After spending the last two weekends at writers conferences (a different one on each weekend), I’m grateful for a weekend “off.”

So yesterday I plunged into my garden, waging war with the weeds that were about to engulf all those lovely spring flowers. After a morning of hacking and hoeing, dirt under my fingernails, and aching muscles where I didn’t know I had muscles, I claimed victory over lunch with The Music Man (aka my beloved husband who’d spent the morning alternating between playing the guitar and mowing).

“Done! I beat the weeds back. At least for today,” I exclaimed enthusiastically with my mouth full of chips. His response? Wait for it. “But Sweetie, if all the weeds are gone, where’s the conflict?” Now that’s a writer’s husband, isn’t it? Gotta love him. He listens.

Last night, I gathered my courage and read a four-minute piece of the second chapter of my YA novel to a group of writers. It was a first for me, but I figured it was good practice for the day I have my first book launch (positive thinking!). I think they liked it. They clapped. Good sign, right? We can only hope.

But I digress from the amazing writers conferences I attended. Over the weekend of April 20-22, I attended the Society of Children Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) Western WA conference in Redmond, WA. Wow! What an incredible and inspirational experience. They really know how to host a conference. I came away encouraged about my novel, with several of the agents encouraging me to query them. They liked the premise. It’s a good first step. The speakers fueled my soul and sparked my imagination. Theme for me? Write with deep emotion. Make my reader laugh and cry. Tug at their heart with my characters. Pull from my own emotional experiences and let my characters express it…raw, ugly or beautiful.

A balloon parade opened the SCBWI-WWA conference!

And how could you not love a conference that started with a balloon parade? That charmed me from the start! This conference confirmed my lifelong love of kid lit.

Last weekend, I participated in the NW Travel + Words Conference in Port Townsend. This was a smaller group of about 50 travel writers and destination marketing professionals. The speakers had great tips about freelancing, querying editors and how to make a living as a travel writer. Cool! Travel more. Be inspired. Write like crazy.

Mantra from both conferences? Don’t give up. Keep writing. Keep submitting. Stay open to what life throws at me and translate it into words evoking emotion. A good article inspires as much as a good novel.

Taking a break from writing for an invigorating walk on the beach in winter rain.

Over the past two years I’ve finally figured out what works for me. I need writing retreats. Time to get away from thinking about my daily business life, which can be intense and stressful at times, and begin to allow Creativity to take over my brain. It’s a beautiful thing when that happens.

My ultimate place for a writing retreat, and where I reboot the best, is at the beach. I have a couple of favorites.

First is on the Central Oregon Coast near a beach where I grew up. My mom had a second home at this beach, though she’s gone now. We go there regularly, staying in our Bambi Airstream travel trailer. Since my mom always encouraged me to write, I often sense her inspiration here. The photo of this magical beach is at the top of my blog and my Facebook page.

A sunny moment on a winter's day in Tofino

The other favorite location, not nearly as affordable as the first one, is on the West Coast of Vancouver Island in Tofino, British Columbia. I love coming to this beach in the winter when the storms are raging, the wind whipping through the trees and rain pelting down. We stay in a gorgeous lodge in a room with a fireplace and a view of Mother Nature at her best. It was here that I finished my first manuscript in January. This will also be the setting for my second novel.

There’s nothing quite like writing for a few hours and then taking a break with a brisk walk on the beach with the dogs. It refreshes my brain cells and jumpstarts Creativity again.

Since both of these beach locations are a hearty drive away, I’ve also made a little writing nook in my home office. It’s separate from the desk where I work at my day job, tricking my mind into thinking this is also a retreat space. I sit on my futon, prop my feet up with my laptop on my lap and have soft lighting to get me in the writing mood. A big picture window looks out into the forest of firs, pines and cedars—appropriate fodder for my novel. The only challenge with this scenario is that periodically one of the dogs thinks they should help by resting a head on my keyboard. (I’ve lost a few great sentences this way.)

I’ve heard some writers say they listen to specific music when they’re writing or they light candles with a scent that evokes the mood of the story they’re writing. Those work for me too, but they aren’t as essential as getting a little time apart from the rigors of my daily business.

Every writer has their own writing life. What works for you?

“Yonder sky, that has wept tears of compassion upon our fathers for centuries untold, and which to us looks eternal, may change. Today is fair; tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change.

“There was a time when our people covered the whole land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time has long since passed away, with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory.

“Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe.

“Even the rocks, which seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent sea shore in solemn grandeur, thrill with memories of past events connected with the lives of my people.

“The noble braves, fond mothers, glad, happy-hearted maidens, and even the little children, who lived and rejoiced her for a brief season, and whose very names are now forgotten, still love these somber solitudes and their deep fastnesses which, at even-tide, grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits.

“Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its sequestered vale, and they ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely-hearted living, and often return to visit, guide, and comfort them.”

More than any time of the year, we have unconditional love for one another. What a beautiful gift this truly is. Let this holiday season be one without expectations—no preconceived ideas about what would make a “perfect” Christmas.

My wish is for us all to let go of what we think our family and friends should be or do. That means our interactions with one another can flow organically, without an expectation of who should be at dinner, where one should be celebrating or what gift should be given.

Christmas and the holiday season simply is what it is and we let the love flow freely, landing as it will and filling one another with happiness. It sounds utopian, but truly, if we relinquish our expectations and judgments about what we think should transpire, we are free to enjoy every single moment in the beauty of this season.

A few days ago we celebrated the Winter Solstice, calling forth the light from the void of winter darkness—a time of rest and contemplation— and into the glowing promise of illumination. It’s a time of rejoicing, a time of shimmering in this newborn radiance and letting unconditional love prevail.

I wish you a very Happy Christmas, filled with Magic, Light and Love.

My most terrifying fear is strong, gale-force or—yikes!—hurricane-force winds. Right behind that is being on a boat in high seas with gargantuan waves. For years my husband has nick-named me “Sea Chicken” and aptly so. But in that odd, turn-around way of Life, I love being on the water in a boat. And going for a cruise is one of my favorite vacations. Rather than exploring the various ports of call, I’ve always preferred being out at sea.

So here we are, indulging my dreams, at sea for three days on a cruise ship between Vancouver, BC and San Diego, and the captain has just announced that hurricane-force winds will be upon us this afternoon. The North Pacific is preparing to host one of its first storms of the season and we get to be part of it! We were scheduled to go into the port of Astoria this afternoon, but the captain determined it wouldn’t be safe. Huh. He said it would “be best to weather the storm at sea”…yeah, just what I’ve always wanted to do. Not.

Eating lunch in the dining room was an odd sensation reminiscent of riding my horse full gallop over a huge jump. The ship would rise to the crest of the 25-foot wave, airborne, like arcing over the top of the riser, then roll downward into a trough with a shudder, like hooves striking the earth. And out the window it looked like rolling, snow-capped mountains, in motion to the rhythm of the wind.

With each passing hour the shiver and tremble of the ship reminds me of the immense power Mother Nature wields. We are a toy boat in her pool and watery playground. I know now where the term “shiver me timbers” came from and can only imagine the terror of being on a small wooden sailing ship back in the day. My prayer in this moment is that Mother Nature smiles kindly upon us. I’m looking forward to smoother seas and seeing her grace mirrored in calm waters soon.

                                                                                                September 25, 2011

I think about these ancestors at times when my life seems challenging. Then it’s all put in perspective. My stress comes from worrying about meeting a deadline, juggling too many projects at once, whether I can find wireless when I’m traveling.

My great-grandmother worried about whether the ship would make landfall, losing her parents, about survival, about where the food would come from to feed her brood of children.

I learned of her from my grandfather one day when I was little. I was about seven or eight, old enough to understand the story he was about to tell, old enough to remember the moment.

We sat on the steps leading to the attic of the barn’s hayloft. He—an ancient-old gentleman I loved with my whole heart—and I—young, curious about everything, with the world at my feet—made quite the pair. We had gone up to the loft together, him lifting stacked trunks one from another, pleased when he found the one he was looking for. Brushing off cobwebs and an inch of dust, he sorted through its contents and pulled out an old carved box.

“Come, Little One, let’s sit for a spell and I’ll tell you a story.” So we plunked down on the steps and he lifted the lid of the box resting on his lap. Its contents were sparse, a few yellowed papers, an old gold ring, a brooch and an old-fashioned photo of two young girls. They were posed for the camera with hair done in the fashion of the day, with high Victorian necklines on their blouses and one of them was wearing the brooch, now in my grandfather’s hand.

“This belonged to your great grandmother; my mother.” He handed me the piece of jewelry while he spoke. “That’s her in the photo. It was taken before they left the Old Country, just before they boarded the ship for New York. The other girl in the photo was her sister. Your great grandmother was about fifteen or sixteen. They had left their homes with their parents to come to America to find a new life.”

He held me close during the telling. He was the rock of my childhood world. Whenever I found myself wrapped in his giant arms, I knew all was well. He continued.

“But unexpectedly during the crossing of the North Atlantic, their parents took ill and both died before they arrived in the New Country.”

I remember being shocked to hear this and very saddened. I can picture looking into my grandfather’s crystal blue eyes, soft with compassion, and he continued.

“The girls were orphaned while at sea with no family on board. As it happened, the young captain of the ship took them under his wing, making sure they were comfortable and well-fed.

“But Cupid changed the course of fate and the Captain and my mother fell in love. During the voyage he carved this box from one of the beams in the ship. He added the sea serpents on its sides and carved her initials on the top of the box.”

I ran my small fingers over the top and followed the curve of the serpents.

“As you know, they safely landed in New York and homesteaded on the Coeur d’Alene Lake where I grew up with my 11 brothers and sisters. My mother gave me the box for safekeeping and told me the story when I was in my teens. I’m giving it to you now, also for safekeeping and to be sure the story is not forgotten.”

“I’ll never forget it. I promise” And crossed my heart.

“It’s a story of love, Little One. My parents loved one another with greatness and they wished that for me, my siblings and our offspring. Fifty years later, I’m as in love with your grandmother as I was the day I married her and I want that for you too when you grow up. So I give you this box to treasure and as a symbol of our family’s love for one another through the generations.”

The initials on the box are KN for Katie Norup. My grandfather’s middle name was Norup. I continue the legacy and write as Anne Norup, with Love always at the heart of it all.

                                                                                                     –Anne Norup, St. Valentine’s Day, 2010

thunder, crash on stillness, sand

turn to foam…retreat