There is something very beneficial for a writer to go back to older books and do a rewrite. The first benefit is realizing how much you’ve improved as a writer when you start making adjustments and fixing mistakes.
There is also a bit of a pat-on-your back feeling to be able to see how much your craft has improved over many years. I’ve always been a proponent of the belief that we learn as we do things. Practice, practice, practice pays off, whether that’s writing or any other endeavor. The amount of words I’ve put on paper, or on a computer, has been beyond counting in the years since I started penning stories, and now since I’ve also been an editor for many years, I can see how that has helped me, too.
I’ve developed a critical eye that I can now bring to my own work.
Sometimes it’s to say, “Gaa! How could I have written such a poorly crafted sentence.” Other times it’s stumbling across a sentence with phraseology so delightful it would be something I’d highlight in another author’s book – a turn of phrase to reread and maybe share with other readers on social media.
Recently, I’ve looked at two of my older books. Play It Again, Sam, which is now with a new publisher, and A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, a humorous memoir of family and parenting, that I self published and decided needed a rewrite and a more professional-looking cover.
That experience has brought equal measures of “Gaa” moments and those of delight.
Last week I posted an excerpt from the Dead Tomato Plant book, asking for feedback on whether I should keep a section that wasn’t focused purely on humor. My thinking then was that if it was a rare diversion from the humor in the rest of the pieces, it should go. Since then, as the rewrite has progressed, I’ve discovered a few more sections that are more thoughtful than funny, so I’m thinking that piece should stay, along with the following:
When our first grandchild was born, I realized that I could hardly let one of the most significant moments of life pass without some comment. After all, one does not become a Grandma every day. So, this is what I wrote those many years ago:
Grandma. It has a certain ring to it.
Grandma Miller. It still sounds more comfortable to apply the title to my mother-in-law, but maybe I’ll get used to it. At least I hope so since I can’t unbecome one. But I’m still not sure how to fully become one. Being a grandmother may begin as a genetic connection that starts at a moment in time, but being a grandma is much more than one simple act.
The day he was born, I looked at my grandson, red-faced and angry at this rude ending to his previously cushy existence and thought about how symbolic his passage from before to now is for all of us. My daughter, who is no longer just a daughter, went through her own rite of passage, and so did the rest of us. The whole family has become instant aunt and uncles, grandpa and grandma, and while it only took an instant to make that transformation, it will take a lifetime to live up to it.
The biggest question in my mind is, what kind of grandma will I be? Sometimes people write poetry about grandmas, and knowing that, I feel a tremendous challenge. What will Bryan, my first grandson, say and think about me in the years to come? Will he have special feelings the way I cherish memories of my grandmas? Will I have the same impact on the formation of his character as my grandmas did on mine? Will there be poetry in our lives?
Questions, questions, and only the future has the answers. If only I felt more qualified, more prepared. I spent the last nine months trying to psyche myself into this, but I still find myself wondering what to do. Perhaps my mother, who is a wonderful grandmother, could impart some wisdom.
At first, she thought my question was a joke.
Then she denied being such a good grandmother, and I told her my kids don’t lie. When she got around to the advice, she suggested that I learn to make little things. This is an inside joke since we both acknowledge that she is much better at that type of creativity than I am. But she laughed and said I could learn.
I suspect, however, the secret lies not in the little things, or even the quality of little things, but the care that goes into the little things. The loving hours spent giving a gift of hands and heart is definitely the beginning of the bonding process.
Maybe I’ll write him a story.
Now, these many years later, I am happy to write that most of my hopes and wishes for our relationship did come true. We bonded over going creek-walking, dinners at grandma’s, and our love for soccer, dogs, and family.
And I did write him a story about the walks we used to take when he was little and stayed at my house some afternoons. He always seemed to want to take a walk when I was busy, and the practical side of me wanted to stay in and finish some bit of housework or maybe sneak some time to work on my book. But who can be practical with the eagerness of a three-year-old tugging at your sleeve and your heart?
And, of course, the dogs had to go with us. No walk is complete without them, and Bryan got to hold the one that didn’t collapse halfway down the block and become a rug.
As we walked along, enjoying all the marvels of the neighborhood, I noticed we were pacing ourselves to the rhythm of the questions Bryan asked.
Hup, two, three, “Why?”
Hup, two, three, “What?”
Hup, two, three, “Where?”
“Grandma, why is…?”
By the time we’d finished our normal circuit and I had answered all the questions about the grass, the trees, the dogs, and the universe, Bryan wanted to walk a little bit more. “Just up to that pole, Grandma. I really want to see that pole.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s make a deal. You don’t ask any more questions and we’ll walk to that pole.”
He appeared to consider that for a moment, then nodded and we walked on. I had to smother a smile as I watched him struggle to keep from bursting out with questions.
Then he lost the battle.
“Grandma?” He said it hesitantly, with one eye on how close we were to the pole. “How come I can’t ask no more questions?”
The role of a grandparent is unique in a child’s life. Free from the burden of responsibility held by the parent, it’s easier for us to take those walks and answer those questions. This forms a different bond of love and respect that has traditionally been a stabilizing force in a child’s life.
In years past, grandparents were also an easily accessible source of love, support, and comfort of a different sort from the parents. Most of us who grew up with Sunday Dinner at Grandma’s house can recall with great fondness the role our grandparents played in our lives. We remember sitting on Grandpa’s lap or getting a piece of cake from Grandma even if we didn’t eat our peas. The sum total of our grandparents’ influence can’t be attributed to one significant occasion, rather an accumulation of all those times we spent together.
My kids grew up without that close proximity, as do many kids today when health or job situations call for a move across the country. But I don’t think they missed something they really weren’t aware of. Although there were times when a grandparent visited that the kids would wish they could stay longer, which was a testament as to what even a short time together could mean to a child.
Which shows the importance of making the most of the opportunities we get.
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That’s all from me for today folks. I hope you’re enjoying these pieces from my book. It’s been fun going back through it and reliving some of the nonsense that ruled our household when the kids were young. If you’d like to leave any feedback, it would be most welcome.
Whatever your weekend plans are, be safe. Be happy. Be kind.
