IWSG: Wednesday, May 1, 2019 ~ The Power of a Word

It's the first Wednesday of the month,
the day that members of the
Insecure Writer's Support Group
share their writing struggles
and writing successes
and offer their encouragement
and support to fellow writers.






To visit the IWSG website, click here.

To become a member of the IWSG, click here.

Our wonderful co-hosts who are volunteering today,
along with IWSG founder Alex Cavanaugh are:
Lee Lowery,  Juneta Key, Yvonne Ventresca, and T. Powell Coltrin

I hope you have a chance to visit today's hosts and thank them for co-hosting.
I'm sure they would appreciate a visit and an encouraging comment.

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Every month the IWSG that members can answer with advice, insight,
a personal experience, or a story in their IWSG posts.

Or, the question can inspire members
if they aren't sure what to write about on IWSG Day.

Remember the question is optional.
This month's featured question is:

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

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Happy IWSG Day, Everyone!

Last night my husband went to turn off an outside light
and spotted a package on the porch step:
My preordered copy of Masquerade Oddly Suited had arrived!

The Newest IWSG Anthology
Just Released
Insecure Writers Support Group

Terry's turning off lights meant that it was late in the evening,
and I could squeeze in only the first story before sleep claimed me:
L.G. Keltner's Masquerade Oddly Suited, 
from which the anthology derives its title and cover illustration.

This tale of a masquerade date in a high school production
of a game show is a funny and poignant love story,
alive with the angst and awkwardness of being thrust
into close proximity with someone you're crazy about,
but who views you, at best, as a good buddy.

I reluctantly closed the anthology last night,
and I can't wait to read more of it tonight.

The anthology arrived just in time, 
because the night before last I had finished 
Music Boxes by Tonja Drecker,
and I was ready for a new book.
Goodreads











Tonja is another talented and published IWSG member
whose  juvenile fiction book I thoroughly enjoyed.

Music Boxes begins with twelve-year-old Lindsey McKay
and her family moving into a Manhattan apartment
after leaving their farm in wide open, blue-skied Nebraska.
Lindsey's eight-year-old sister Bridget, a precocious violinist,
has been accepted to study at The Juilliard School,
and their parents have moved to New York 
so Bridget can pursue her musical dreams.

Lindsey has dreams of her own; she wants to be a ballerina.
However, her dreams have taken second place to Bridget's
and she will have to take ballet lessons at the local community center.

On her way to pick up pizza for the family, 
Lindsey encounters a small, yippy terrier tied to a post.
This seemingly chance meeting opens the door
to an opportunity for Lindsey to advance her ballet dreams.

Lindsey meets the dog's owner Madame Destinée,
who just happens to own and to teach at a top dance school.
Madame Destinée offers Lindsey an irresistible deal:
free dance lessons in exchange for performing in the school's midnight shows.

When something seems to be too good to be true, it usually is,
and Lindsey soon finds herself caught in a sinister mystery.
If she can't solve it in time, Lindsey will likely meet a horrific fate,
being trapped in a perpetual pose as a tiny ballerina in a music box.

Will Lindsey succeed or not?  
I recommend you read Music Boxes to find out.

This month's IWSG question immediately sent me back to the fall of 1955,
to my father's den in our Charlottetown apartment
and my newly-arrived-in-kindergarten self,
to the moment I was about to learn the power of language.

Yours Truly

Edward Street

Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island

Circa Fall, 1955

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

Yours Truly ~ Up Close

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved

My father was working under the light of his goose-necked lamp

at his cluttered desk in the corner of his den.

His desk stood below a large, framed photograph of University Hall

at Acadia University in Wolfville, Nova Scotia.

At five, I already knew that after kindergarten came school,

and when I graduated from school in the distant future,

I would go to university at Acadia.

I remember seeing my mother through the door to the kitchen

where she was drying the supper dishes.

When she finished, it would be time for my bath and my bedtime story.

I also knew that I shouldn't bother my father when he was busy at his desk,

but I was curious about the reading, writing, and typing

he often did late into the night,

so I sometimes watched from a respectful distance.

However, this evening we were chatting about my day at kindergarten
as he folded papers and stuck them in envelopes.

I don't remember what I was saying, 

but I do remember my father interrupting my prattle

with a startled, "What did you just say?"

I looked from my father to my mother

who had set down her dishtowel and hurried through the kitchen door.

"Nothing," I said, acutely aware that I must have said something very wrong.

"You said "f**king," my father answered for me.

"Where did you learn a word like that, Weesie?" 

said my mother, kneeling down beside me so she could look me in the eye.

"What's wrong with "f**king?" I asked in bewilderment through welling tears.  

"I learned it from one of the boys on the playground at recess."

"It.   Is.   A.   Very.   Bad.   Word!" explained my father.

"Nice people don't use that word," added my mother,

whom I later came to understand substituted "fiddlesticks"

for that very bad word when a situation called for a strong expression.

"Why is it bad?  What's wrong with it?"

"It's a swear word," said my father.

"And good girls don't swear," added my mother.  "Ever."

"And, if I ever hear you use that word again," said my father,

"I will wash your mouth out with a bar of soap!"

I didn't doubt that he would.  

I've never forgotten that experience:  the lamplight, University Hall,

the cluttered desk, the dishtowel, and the rack of dishes,

the power of a single word bringing my busy parents to a full stop.

I never had my mouth washed out with soap; 

although my brother did once when he forgot the power of words.

My father and mother taught me many lessons about the power of language

over the years, as my parents and my teachers; 

but surely this one has stood out above all others in my memory.  

Happy Writing in May!
I'm looking forward to visiting around!


Me and My Beloved Scottie MacBeath
Not Long After Graduating from Acadia

Westport, White Bay, Newfoundland 

March 26, 2019

Photo by Terry Barbour

© M. Louise (MacBeath) Barbour/Fundy Blue

All Rights Reserved