Why I Write Author Barb Franzen

Why I Like to Write

     I can’t remember a time when stories weren't a part of me. I remember writing a story about a farm when my mother asked me to read it to the people she was visiting with. I was eight years old and wish I had the story. She told the people that I would grow up to be a writer. A career in writing was postponed by my work as both a teacher and later a mental health therapist although I used making up stories as a means of touching attachment disordered children. I wrote stories in the form of metaphors to help them get better. I also drew pictures to go with these—a means of utilizing my minor in children’s art.

     Earlier before getting my masters as a counselor, I wrote a fair amount of poetry. I spent an entire summer down at the Platte River writing poems about life and nature. I fell in love with the process and had two of my poems published. This summer I have returned to poetry and have enough poems for a book which I intend to call Flying High With Poetry. These are both free verse and rhyming. I have been encouraged and helped by some great poets.

     In addition to poetry, I like short stories and vignettes about situations in life. I publish with Living Better at Over Fifty Plus a lovely on-line magazine and also placed third in Nebraska’s Bess Streeter Aldrich contest. My short stories are based on true life events of interest. I normally have a twist at the end—O Henry Style. Much of what I write deals with small town life and people. Having grown up in Brady Nebraska- which had 370 some people, I know the rural life.

     This year my first book, The Rag Princess came out. It is the story of a Nebraska farm girl who winds up living with an abusive aunt. In the course of her four years with this aunt, she is emotionally and sexually abused. Later she reclaims herself when she falls in love with a rancher from her past. The book is a tough read. I have had praise, but everyone who has mentioned reading the book had laid it down before finishing it. One of my goals was to portray abuse as the monster it is and at the same time show that healing is possible. The book can be bought at Amazon.com.

     In conclusion, I write to record the thoughts that come to me in unique ways and through creative eyes. Writing is a means of recording and sharing my perspectives on life and the many adventures.  As most writers would tell you, “I can’t not write.”

     To sample my poetry go to http://prairiechildhooldnebr.blogspot.com/2014/08/

     I was invited to do this blog by Kimberly Carol. Poet, writer, blogger, and dreamer, revisit her at

http://kimberlycarol.com/ Enjoy her poetry and read about her book.

I want to introduce you to our next blogger.

     Glenda Fralin dedicates her blog wordsprings.blogspot.com initially to interviews of Nebraska writers. This past year she expanded to the national and international literary world. She insists the interview may promote the author, but for her it is a constant learning process. “It’s as if the people I interview are my instructors.” Glenda is mostly home bound because of lung disease, but her love of research and memories of her Kansas and Nebraska roots in the Flint Hills along the Big Blue River feed her imagination with mental pictures and character driven stories. She is a former nurse and holds a bachelor’s degree in business with certification in writing for publication. Glenda, who writes as G. K. Fralin, is currently writing a series of novellas set in the early twentieth century. 

     Author Glenda Fralin The SEARCH print edition  

  http://www.amazon.com/Search-1-G-K-Fralin/dp/0615689442/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1347940292&sr=1-1&keywords=the+search+by+g.+k.+fralin

THE SEARCH kindle books

www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=%28ASIN%3A+B005FCIQKO%29

SIX STRANGE SHORT STORIES

Kindle

http://www.amazon.com/Six-Short-Strange-Stories-ebook/dp/B0095BDIAE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347940537&sr=1-1&keywords=six+strange+short+stories

Smashwords

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/212395

Blogs

http://www.wordsprings.blogspot.com

http://www.gkfralinbooks.blogspot.com

Inner Joy: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen

Inner Joy: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen : Why I Like to Write I can’t remember a time when stories weren’t a part of me. I remem...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Life South of the Platte

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Life South of the Platte:     It is said that age two has a significant amount of psychological significance. I put a great deal of faith in this belief. I was two wh...

Life South of the Platte

    It is said that age two has a significant amount of psychological significance. I put a great deal of faith in this belief. I was two when my parents built a new home and moved off the ranch-Though Dad continued to ranch, I was left with only a pocketful of memories: the hired hand picked me up out of  red ant pile, the rooster that attacked me, tumbling down the basement steps, my father's plane crash-I guess it is also true that we remember the traumatic events at a very young age.
     Moving left me with a  hollow spot. While I heard about the country happenings, I didn't get to experience them. For example, there was the rural women's Union Aid Society. These women served at the North Platte Canteen during the war. They served angel food cake to the soldiers coming through on the train. They contributed to polio by earning money at their ice cream socials held in  July. They used the milk train to take canned produce to Omaha for the orphans at the Nebraska Children's home. They also had summer picnics, showers for new brides, and did quilting together. How homey. They even held a bizarre, selling homemade goodies and crafts once a year.
    Then too, the country school was just down the road a mile with the south hills and fields surrounding the playgrounds. At Christmastime, they had a stage for plays and during the spring, played hop scotch and jumped rope. An Oregon Trail marker sat out front. Cars went past at regular intervals with people they knew waving. I can picture the kids walking home in the rain and picking up frogs and earthworms and snow as high as the big red barns.When the school wasn't having classes, there were socials-decorated box lunches where a guy bought the lunch and ate with the girl. How romantic and nostalgic
   The other link was Banner, the country church-surrounded by the same tall hills and corn fields. I remember riding there in our car-It had blinds for the windows, and I recall sitting in a musty basement room eating cheerios.I can hear the songs they sang. Moreover,I see the people on Sunday afternoons during the war. They used the school and church for neighborhood get together s. 
   Not one to let life pass me by, I so longed to live these experiences, that I spent four years writing a book about a family that lived on our place. I got to be in the minds of my characters, thereby reliving the past that I missed. Those four years were so wonderful that now I'm doing a second book. Trauma causes terrible feelings, but in my case,  the ending is marvelous. I'm back on the farm. "The Rag Princess" is a never ending series of stories. I will live each event to the fullest. Join the ride and read along with me as I write.

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Pastor Gooming Twelve Year Old-The Rag Princess-More Scenes

The Rag Princess-Out February by Barb Franzen-Child abused-Grows up and meet rancher  Will Temple from the past. From vicious abuse to tender love story. By child therapist Barb Franzen

 For winning he had a surprise. A red hearts necklace just happened to be in his desk. He would like to put it on her if she would like to have it. "Oh yes, she would love it!" she said finding this unbelievable. Would there be more things to come. Sylvie hadn't given her anything since she'd arrived and it was special to have something form a man that everyone was in love with. Slipping it around her neck, his hands caressed her upper arms. It felt oddly wonderful however fatherly he meant the caress. bending so that she could feel his warm breath on her neck, she reared back embarrassed, shocked. What could she do but giggle. It was just a gesture he was used to, but it had felt surprisingly good. He was saying that everything in here had to be their secret. 'oh yes, she said, that would be fine. It would e just the way she and Ginny Temple ahd done it. He reached over with a bowl of candy then set it down and took one which he placed in the palm of her hand. What a nice soft hand she ahd and maybe he would lotion it for her if she was good, That was it for tonight. He would see her next week when they would talk about her friendships and how she was feeling. Wasn't it nice of Sylvie to want this for her? And wasn't Sylvie a wonderful person. He had talked with Sylvie about all of the things they did in here. Good bye and goodnight. As she was slipping out the door he said, "hey let’s do some mentoring on a country picnic. It will be warm enough time after next."
 The second week he had a second gift. This one was awaiting her but when she reached for it, he said, "No I was just kidding." You have to prove yourself Miss. It's very expensive and the kind that Sonny told me to get for you.
  "Why" she asked. “I didn't do anything for a gift.”
    He smiled sort of looking her over--a look that make her happy and uneasy both. It seemed a little sexy or as if he was thinking of her like that. "Let's talk, “he said. 

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: What Nebraska Means to Me

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 I sit thinking about what Nebraska means to me. Does the meaning come from being at the cabin and watching a deep red cardinal sit on the rail today, the prettiest bird I've ever seen? Is it the tress and water that surround me in all their hidden serenity? Or could it be the woman who helped me carry my purchases out of the store, because I looked tired and was spacey? Was it finding an Anne Tyler book in at Good Will, where I also found a first printing of Willa Cather's  "Oh Pioneers" 1940 paperback and a magazine on Nebraska Birds? Maybe it's my granddaughters here in Crete or the Pony Express Park and Methodist Church where our other home is. Some questions are hard put, but from the time when I was two and flew in my father's plane, until I was eight and found  jewelry in the knoll at the family dump and went down town and sold it, I loved Nebraska. It didn't stop there and it won't stop here. This is where I will one day be buried, my ashes scattered to the winds  on the plains. What Nebraska means, to me, and why I love it will remain a mystery-like secrets in the breeze and owls hiding in trees...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Pedophile Pastor Grooming Twelve Year Old in the R...

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Pastor Evans in the process of grooming twelve year old Celeste Dusty in the Rag Princess. Celeste a farm girl has lost her parents and is living with an abusive aunt, Sylvie.

     Pastor reminded her that he was her only friend and that Sylvie would be furious if she didn’t please him. “You aren’t scared of me, are you, sweetheart? I would never do anything against God, and scaring you would make God very angry. Why are you afraid to sit in my lap?”

     She choked. How would she tell him?

    “Honey, we’ll talk about your fear of being hurt.” Right away, his arm was around her.

     She wanted to scream for him to sit in his chair and talk to her. She was too overwhelmed and shocked to be properly scared. Suddenly, she remembered how often he’d touched her. She guessed he was just touchy as a means of affection.

    “Now, now,” Pastor said. “It’s all right. Give me your hand, honey. Yes, that’s it. Let me soothe you.”

She cried, and he told her sweet things he’d noticed about her. At one point, she realized that her hand was on his thigh and was unsure of how it got there. He saw her looking and removed it, only to put his hand on her thigh. Surely, he was just being kind and wanting to father her …

      Thank goodness, it was time to go.

      Then he was asking her about the doll she had mentioned the second time they’d met. She’d described it. Surely, he wouldn’t. Would he? If so, he must really see her as being his little girl, which wasn’t so bad. Here she was, twelve and going to school with girls who’d have a fit if given a doll, but she craved her old doll.

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