For Write or Wrong

Just Peachy

2010-06-09T12:56:00.000-07:00

*****

I love it when virtues collide and something good also happens to be good for me. Writing, for example, is one of those good things. When I don’t write, I feel anxious, depressed, often frustrated. Things bottle up with nowhere to go. But when I do write, my planets align in happy harmony. My life seems easier, my outlook more sunny. Over the years, I’ve discovered that even when the writing goes badly, it’s better than not writing at all.

Besides the writing, I’ve been investing time in improving our diets. Just like with writing, I’m amazed at how much general benevolence comes from this act of eating good, wholesome foods. After a painless transition, we’ve officially converted to a diet of lean meats, whole grains and fresh produce. Just the act of cooking virtuously seems to please my palate.

One of my favorites creations has been fresh peach oatmeal. I’ll share the recipe today. It’s microwavable and comes together in minutes. Best yet, it tastes heavenly, like a big bowl of summer sunshine.

Fresh Peach Oatmeal

1/2 cup old fashioned oats
1-1/4 cups water
pinch sea salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon (I use Vietnamese)
1 ripe peach, cut into 1/2” cubes*
1 tsp. peach or apricot spreadable fruit preserves
Drizzle maple syrup

Place oatmeal in a 4 cup microwavable bowl or measuring cup. Add water and salt. Microwave, uncovered, until oatmeal reaches desired consistency. (It takes 3 minutes in my microwave.)

Stir in cinnamon, peach, and preserves. Transfer to a serving bowl. Drizzle with maple syrup.

Makes 1 very generous serving.

* This is also excellent with diced strawberries and strawberry spreadable fruit.

A Season to Grow

2010-06-01T09:56:00.000-07:00

It's been a wonderful spring here, fecund and fruitful. Jamieson's Folly commences, slowly but surely. Preschool is done; I now have a mini-me to help dig in the garden. Our little corner of the world blooms with late spring splendor. The rhubarb begs to be picked. Seedlings have emerged from the sleeping soil in Andy's vegetable garden. Our raspberry bushes are crusted with tiny green berries.

Even the flower beds look particularly lush. Thanks to a gentle winter, all my perennials have returned. This is my purple and yellow season in the beds. It's been a long haul, getting these beds to this point. We started eight years ago with no real clue what we were doing. We've killed a lot of innocent plants on the way. But things have settled in and sent out roots and showers of seeds. Even my woodland bed looks happy for the very first time.

The process encourages me. What started out tentative has become something wonderful, a place to reflect, to be quiet, to be together. Our daughter has come to love gardening. Our happiest weekends are spent digging in our gardens, ferreting out weeds, pruning back shrubs, removing spent flowers. I'm hopeful the results here will be mirrored in my results with Jamieson's Folly, that what is worthwhile will thrive, that I'll know what to plant where and what to snip off.

Still Kicking, But Quietly

2010-04-12T13:41:00.001-07:00

*****

Buddy John Towler dropped me a note, gently reminding me I'd been among the missing. I've been around, for the most part, but just not very productive. Here's an update, for anyone interested.

WRITING: NOT

I admit it. I've been in a funk. Buddy Jane calls them doldrums. Whatever they are, I'm in that period where the tank has been depleted and I need to let it refill before turning on the tap and letting it flow again.

PUBLISHING: YES

I have a new story out at Eclectic Flash right now, titled "After the Rain." Some of you are all too familiar with it, having helped me redesign it from the ground up. It's available in both print and online form here.

SLACKING OFF: YOU BETCHA

I used my not-writing time to take a vacation with my family last week. We enjoyed a fast-paced tour of St. Louis and Hannibal, Missouri. Highlights of St. Louis included: freaking out over getting into the ridiculously tiny tram cart to climb the Arch (nope, I couldn't do it); visiting Cahokia Mounds, a giant archeological site that once was home to a city of 20,000 Native Americans; solving a mystery at The Magic House, St. Louis's uber cool kids' museum; tromping and train riding at the St. Louis Zoo; and my personal favorite, oohing and aaahing over the spring bulbs and flowering trees IN FULL BLOOM at the Missouri Botanical Garden. I could have spent the whole week just basking in the scent and color.

As for Hannibal? Let's just say I'm drained from all that Twain. But the boat ride was pretty darn cool.

NOW WHAT?

Well, that's the question of the hour. I suspect I'll be back into Jamieson's Folly soon. At buddy Stephen's suggestion, I'm reading James Scott Bell's Revision and Self-Editing. And I'm signed up for Jordan Rosenfeld's Revise for Publication class. So I'll need to write something or waste my tuition.

Perhaps putting some good instruction in will bring me out of these darned doldrums.

Self-Published and Self-Sufficient: An Interview With Margie Wirth

2010-02-20T07:23:00.000-08:00

The weak economy has brought about a few undeniable realities for authors. Budget cutbacks in publishing mean authors have to promote themselves. Platforms, web presences, self-funded book tours, and blog tours are de rigeur. Bottom line: even if you’re with a big house, you have to get out there and hawk your own wares.

Interestingly, these cutbacks have led to a renaissance in self-publishing. Whereas self-publishing used to carry an undesirable stigma, the current economy finds writers choosing to self-publish for financial profit. I’ve heard writers say that since they’re going to have to do the promotional legwork, they might as well self-publish and keep all the profit. I’ve also heard of writers choosing to self-publish to attract the attention of a big publishing house. And I’ve heard inspiring self-publishing success stories.

Clearly, publishing is changing.

I recently had chance to discuss self-publishing with a college pal, Margie Wirth. Margie is a librarian and yoga instructor living in NYC who just released her first self-published children’s book.

BF: The Carrot Monster was inspired by Margie’s real-life canine companion, Bettyford, a veggie-loving Westie/Poodle mix. In the book, Bettyford’s fictional counterpart grows a garden and lives a gluten-free lifestyle. The book was a collaboration with Margie’s sister, Julie Sherfinski, who created the illustrations. Margie and Julie chose to publish with Lulu.

Margie was gracious enough to answer my questions about her writing and the self-publishing process. I thought I’d share her answers with you.

GI: Describe your process in creating BF: The Carrot Monster. How long did the project take from inception to final copy?

MW: I thought of it. Then I wrote down the scenes that I wanted. I sent the scenes idea to my sister. For example, I said rooftop garden. She just did everything from there. I allowed her to use her artistic, creative mind. It took Julie about six months to draw and color 15 drawings. She did it all free hand.

GI: Why did you choose to self-publish? What benefits have you found in it? Any drawbacks?

MW: It is sort of expensive. You put up the money and there are no guarantees of success or ever earning back what you spent. The profit per book is quite low. I guess we could have peddled the idea to publishing houses, but I thought self-publishing would be the easiest route. If it does become a hit, then maybe some big house will offer us a deal.

GI: Why did you decide to publish with Lulu?

MW: My husband had a friend go through Lulu with good results.

GI: Was Lulu easy to work with?

MW: Yes, my contact was very good.

GI: How long was the turnaround time from your initial contact with Lulu to having books in your hands?

MW: Pretty fast, depends on how many edits you have. I believe you are allowed three free edits once submitting the work. I had some typos in first draft that we did not catch right away.

GI: What were your impressions of the finished product?

MW: I like it. but they [Lulu] really do not do much at all. They did the layout for the cover, but that is it. Everything we submitted was “as is” in the book. They just did the production using saddle stitch binding. They really do not do a lot.

GI: What support does Lulu offer to help you market your book?

MW: Not a lot. It will be on Amazon and Baker and Taylor. You select the package.

GI: What kinds of things are you doing on your own to market the book?

MW: Veggies and gardening with kids is very popular today thanks in part to Michelle Obama. We are sending one to the White House, to Oprah, Katie Couric, Elisabeth Hasselback (In the book, the dog is gluten free; I am gluten-free and so is Elisabeth Hasselback.) I am sending one to the Betty Ford Foundation. I am giving one to Mt. Mary [College], to a librarian I know at Milwaukee Public Library and probably a few [to other public and school libraries].

GI: What was the most satisfying part of the process for you?

MW: I would say either holding the first copy or, better yet, actually making some sales.

GI: What have you learned from the process? What would you do differently next time?

MW: I am not sure yet if I would do anything differently. I will have a better answer in six months.

GI: Speaking of next time, do you plan to write more books in the future?

MW: That all depends on the success of the first book.

GI: Last but not least, how does Bettyford like being a celebrity?

MW: She has always believed that she is a former first lady.

Anyone interested in purchasing a copy of BF: The Carrot Monster can order online from Lulu at:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/bf-the-carrot-monster/6320836

Plagiarized, but Triumphant!

2010-02-16T07:29:00.000-08:00

*****

Today, I'm posting an update from Jane Banning. Many of you will know her as "Carmen" from my recent post on plagiarism. Jane has done a tremendous job of battling her plagiarist. I thought we'd all benefit from seeing what she's done. Her story is full of valuable lessons to us all.

If you're interested in reading Jane's rightfully published work, you can find it across the internet. A Google search should help you find it. Jane also has several pieces published in the 30 Days, 30 Writes chapbook. Use the link at right to navigate to a pdf copy.

Now to Jane's update:

Since the last post, several things have happened.

-The person has agreed to try to find all the sites where the poem was sent and posted. This is a very good thing. He isn’t blocking me on it. To help this along, I have set a Google alert for his name and the title, so I get notified any time either appears. Then I make sure to follow up with the editor, forwarding the original email I sent to this person, which has my poem. Thank goodness for the brilliance of the ‘sent’ box. Thank goodness I keep all my correspondence about my writing.

-Every editor, all six of them, have agreed to take the poem down. Many of them have expressed disappointment, shame, or disbelief. A couple of them have added multiple exclamation marks to their replies.

-For my part, I’m much more cautious about sending work out. Several people have commented that while critique is always helpful, I should trust my instincts and my abilities. I’m listening.

-I do not believe that this episode is a form of flattery. I do believe it is – not ill will against me personally – but the result of cavalier indifference, inattention, laziness, and carelessness. I suppose I could go all out with a lawsuit or injunction. I could turn from trust to bitterness. But I’m not made that way. If this poem does need a lawsuit, I’ll get it one. In the meantime, I’m moving forward, writing, and keeping on.

Thank you to everyone who commented on the post; your support means more than you can know.

Honestly????

2010-02-15T11:50:00.000-08:00

I'm honored to announce that writing pal, Linda Simoni-Wastila, has graced me with the Honest Scrap award. Linda's a talented writer and gentle soul whom it's been my privelege to learn with and from these past few years. To claim my prize, I need to reveal ten things about myself. Here's a few random things that you may not know.

1. I’ve been writing since I was 6 years old, when I wrote my first short story.

2. I have no patience for people who constantly complain, but do nothing to change their circumstances.

3. I love to learn new things whenever I can.

4. I’m desperately math impaired.

5. I have a pot of Italian wedding soup on the stove RIGHT NOW.

6. I believe hard work is the key to success.

7. I have been blessed with the best husband and daughter a woman could hope for.

8. I adore oatmeal raisin cookies.

9. I’m tripping around the house as I try to get used to my new glasses with progressive lenses.

10. We have three cats who rule the roost. No pedigreed purebreds. I like mutts.

Now for the fun part: I get to pass this award on. Here are three great writers who really deserve to be recognized for their honesty, hard work and integrity.

JC TOWLER: You ALWAYS tells it like it is.

STEPHEN BOOK: Your honesty has helped me grow by leaps and bounds.

JANE BANNING: You approach everything from a place of honesty. Honest images, honest opinions, honest dealings.

One last note: speaking of honesty, check back tomorrow for a follow-up to my blog post on Carmen's work being stolen. Carmen, aka Jane, will be stop by tomorrow to share the latest on her battle with a plagiarist.

Stop! Thief!

2010-02-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

Last week, writing pal Carmen (not her real name) was surveying updates from her Facebook pals when she discovered a posting by a fellow writer she’d grown chummy with.

Let’s call him “Dirty Conniving Creep.”

Carmen was stunned to see that DCC had just published a poem that bore a startling similarity--key phrases and all--to a work she’d emailed to him for feedback not so long ago.

Horrified, Carmen followed DCC’s link and discovered that, yes indeed, DCC had plagiarized her work.

The next few days were a nightmare for Carmen. When she contacted DCC, he gave her the cockamamie excuse that, when surveying the elaborate web of his computer files, he couldn’t keep track of what was his work and what had been written by others. Not only that, but he could no longer recall all the publications to which he’d submitted Carmen’s poem.

Carmen got down to business. An internet search revealed DCC had published her poem in multiple publications. She emailed the editors to explain the situation. She included a trail of the emails she’d originally exchanged with DCC, proving her work had been pilfered.

The editors responded immediately, horrified and angry. They pulled the plagiarized work from their publications. Carmen felt better, but not healed. She was offended and hurt on many levels. As her friend, I was offended on her behalf. She still feels gun shy about sharing her work with other writers.

In honor of Carmen and all she’s been through, I decided to share with you the top 5 reasons I despise plagiarism. They are:

1) Plagiarism steals more than just a writer’s words.

Carmen’s poem was a lovely piece about a mother’s loss when her child grows up. DCC not only stole the words she’d used to express that, he stole the beautiful, universal and tender emotion Carmen felt for her grown son and called it his own. Since DCC is a parasite, I doubt he’d begin to understand such a noble feeling. He isn’t decent enough to claim it.

2) Plagiarism makes editors suspicious of innocent writers.

I’d bet money that the numerous editors Carmen contacted are embarrassed by publishing this fraud. No one likes being embarrassed. I’m sure they’ll be skeptical of work coming over their transom for a long time to come. That hurts hard working, honest writers like you and me.

3) Plagiarism robs authors of the right to publish their own work.

Now that Carmen’s work has been published, she can no longer viably publish it under her own byline. ‘Nuff said.

4) Plagiarism makes writers suspicious of one another.

As writers, we often operate in a fog of creative innocence. We never imagine something like this will happen. But Carmen is nervous now. So am I. I’ll be more cautious now about sharing my unpublished work. This saddens me. I always enjoyed putting my work out there for feedback. But I’m grateful for the trustworthy peers I’ve already found.

5) Plagiarism is the worst kind of grubby, back-stabbing behavior a writer can exhibit.

As far as I’m concerned, anyone stealing someone else’s work has no right to call themselves a writer. Writers create. Plagiarists steal. That’s not the same thing at all.

What the Sam Heck is Going On???

2010-01-21T06:28:00.000-08:00

*****

Last night, I sat down to read the latest novel in a mystery series I admire. I was excited. The release had been several months overdue. So I curled up in bed with my copy filled with lofty expectations, ready to be swept away and entertained once again.

I was promptly disappointed.

The first several pages limped through a longish stretch of brackish backstory about a secondary character, told (and I repeat TOLD) from the point of view of the detective. It wasn’t even compelling backstory. A few pages in, the story finally began to move forward.

Which, in my opinion, is where the narrative should have started in the first place.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been disappointed in a book lately. I asked myself: what’s with all the mediocre writing coming from well-established talents lately?

WB Stephen sent me an email on this just yesterday. He’d ordered a recent book written by a former-lawyer-turned-blockbuster-author. Stephen was appalled—and rightly so—because the first paragraph of said book used the verb WAS exclusively, something like a half-dozen times in almost as many sentences. And boy, do I agree. We’re talking about a principle from Writing 101 here. Good writing relies on vigorous verbs, not wimpy, uninspired forms of “to be.”

Which reminded me of a conversation I recently had with another friend. She’s an avid reader and library staffer annoyed with the wave of lousy books coming from her favorite A-listers. Most of her comments were proofreading related—misspelled words, missed punctuation, etc…. But even small mistakes stand out as glaring errors in published books.

Clearly, something’s going on here, something that makes good writers look inept. But I’m not sure the problem lies solely with the writers. Rather, I think this harkens back to recent slashes in editorial staff at the publishing houses. Our favorite writers don’t suddenly suck. They still write great stories. It’s just that I don’t think there are enough editors left to properly edit them.

Personally, I’m going to take this as an opportunity. This is my chance to see such writers’ work somewhat au naturel, rather like seeing celebrities without makeup. This new age of stories comes to us in a different pristine state—a state with many of the flaws still intact. In the past, when I read those beautiful books, I felt intimidated by writing that jumped off the page, effortless. Now I see I can adopt a different mindset. In some ways, these adolescent books are just as pimply and gauche as mine are. Which means there’s hope that success isn’t as far off as I feared.

The Slow Simmer

2010-01-06T10:19:00.000-08:00

*****

I’ve been in simmer mode lately. Lots of input and things to think about. Also, some good, creative output. This week, I finished draft one of The Blue Hills, my NaNoWriMo project for 2009. During November, I managed to complete my 50K words, making me an official winner, but my story arc wasn’t quite complete. As of Monday, the arc was closed and I wrote those magical words, THE END.

Ahhhh, the feeling is so bittersweet.

Now that Blue Hills ripens on my hard drive, my attention turns to other matters. While I was tied up in drafting, a few issues came my way. In no particular order, they include:

1) I’ve noticed a trend amongst authors to publish excerpts of their novels or even self-publish their novels as Kindle books, in an effort to land a contract and net readers. This intrigues me, since it seems to fly in the face of conventional wisdom that any kind of publishing, even on a writer’s personal blog, constitutes publication. Now, since the folks I know who are doing this are smart women who do their homework, I can only assume that some powerful force in the industry wobbles in a state of flux. And it’s very likely I’ve been too nose-to-the-grindstone to notice it. If you know something I don’t about this, please post it in the comments. I’d love to learn something new today.

2) Not for the first time, I find myself wondering just how important networking is. As many of you know, I was fortunate enough to build some terrific writing friendships via writing forums. I’m a big fan of forums. I think they’re great places to meet talented, emerging writers and also perfect places to toughen your editing pencil and your tender writerly hide. But in the past months, I’ve found the only way to move forward on my novel is to put my head down and ignore other distractions, which means jettisoning a lot of the more social aspects of writing.

Clearly, there’s a benefit to networking. By giving, you receive so much in return. I know lots of generous folks who spend a TON of time critiquing others’ work, surfing blogs, reading others’ published stories, tweeting, facebooking, and otherwise investing themselves in building relationships, all of which builds good writing juju and an encouraging support network full of warm fuzzies. But I’ve also seen writers take the networking too far and implode by hyperactively hyping their own work. Pretty obviously, there needs to be a balance.My main concern, as always, lies in the cost to benefit ratio. I still haven’t figured out the right formula. Critiquing, etc… all takes time, time that isn’t spent writing. And you can’t succeed as a writer if you don’t write. I’ll bastardize Descartes here: I’m a writer; therefore, I write.

There are others, but I’ll stop right there. Now that the flurry of drafting is finally complete, I find I’m enjoying the slow, winter simmer. It’s fun thinking about something besides what new miseries Monica will heap on Carrie. But I won’t be on simmer for long. Jamieson’s Folly beckons. I began mapping scene intentions for my next two chapters yesterday. I learned how to up the ante while working on Hills. I can’t wait to torture Nick, my Folly protag, with all I’ve learned.

And, as you would expect, I’m thinking about all this at the stove. It’s ridiculously cold here, which means soup and lots of it. I made a big batch of minestrone this week. I’ll share the recipe for your enjoyment. Don’t be put off by the long list of ingredients and the amount of chopping. It’s worth every minute spent at the cutting board.

Minestrone

2 lbs. cabbage, preferably savoy or napa
3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 lb. lean Italian sausage, crumbled (bulk or “links” with casing removed)
1 very large yellow onion (1 – lb.), chopped
3 – 14 oz. cans diced tomatoes, undrained
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. cracked or ground black pepper
2 tsp. sugar
1 Tbsp. crumbled dried basil (or 2 – 3 Tbsp. minced fresh basil)
1 lb. carrots, peeled and sliced
8 lg. ribs of celery, sliced
2 ½ quarts chicken broth
½ cup Arborio rice or ¾ cup small pasta shapes (orzo is nice)
1 – 20 oz. can cannelini beans (great northern), rinsed and drained
1 – 20 oz. can kidney beans, rinsed and drained

Freshly grated parmesan or romano cheese for serving

Discard any bruised outer leaves from cabbage. Wash cabbage and blot dry with paper toweling. Quarter cabbage and remove center core. Shred each quarter on the large holes of a grater of in a food processor fitted with a shredding disc. Set aside.

In an 8 – qt. stock pot, heat olive oil over medium hear until haze forms. Add crumbled sausage, reduce heat to medium-low and sauté just until sausage loses its pinkness, about 3 minutes. Add onion and sauté until soft, but not browned, about 5 minutes. Add tomatoes, salt, pepper, sugar and basil. Cook sauce uncovered, stirring frequently, for 15 minutes.

Add cabbage and cook, stirring frequently, until limp, about 5 minutes. Add carrots and celery. Continue to cook, stirring frequently, for an additional 5 minutes. Pour in chicken broth and bring to a boil over high heat. As soon as soup reaches a boil, reduce heat to low. Cover pot and simmer, stirring frequently, until all vegetables are cooked, about 35 - 45 minutes.

Stir in rice or pasta, cover pot and cook undisturbed over low heat for 10 minutes. Stir in both cans of beans; cook covered for an additional five minutes. Remove pot from heat and let soup rest at least 2 hours before serving so all flavors meld together.

If sausage is not lean, skim off any fat that has accumulated on the surface. When ready to serve, reheat over low heat. Ladle into individual serving bowls and serve with freshly grated parmesan or romano cheese.

Soup is better the next (and subsequent) day(s). Soup freezes very well—just be sure not to overcook pasta or it will dissolve when frozen. Makes 7 quarts.

Still Kicking...and Baking!

2009-12-07T13:35:00.000-08:00

*****
I've been remiss. Here's the latest:

Last month, I successfully completed NaNoWriMo. I have a nearly completed first draft of a promising novel titled, The Blue Hills, which I'm itching to finish and revise. My goal for this month is to complete the story arc by writing a scene a day. If I stay on pace, I should be done well before Christmas, God willing and the creek don't rise.

My story "Free" was selected for The Best of Every Day Fiction 2. This story sparked a lot of controversy on the EDF site, enough that I was selected for the EDF author of the month interview last year. Many thanks to all who loved or hated it.

Other recent highlights include online classes with Jordan Rosenfeld. I recently completed Jordan's Image Building class and recommend it highly.

Now, I look forward to settling in for some Christmas cheer and a wallop of snow. We're expecting up to a foot here in Southeastern Wisconsin over the next two days. Perfect weather for holiday baking. I host a cookie exchange at my house every year. This past weekend, I worked on candies for the party. The recipe below is my personal favorite. I make several batches every year.

Potato Chip Clusters

9 - 1 oz squares white baking chocolate (or 1 - 12 oz bag white baking chips)
2 cups crushed potato chips (measure after crushing)
1/2 cup chopped pecans

In a large microwave safe bowl, melt white chocolate. Stir in chips and pecans. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto wax paper covered sheets. Refrigerate until set. Makes about 3 dozen totally addicting candies.

At Last!

2009-10-30T06:55:00.001-07:00

Drumroll, please...

30 Days, 30 Writes 2009 has been released for your reading enjoyment. This collection features short writing by Jane Banning, Stephen Book, JC Towler and myself.

You can pick up a free e-copy at www.30days30writes.blogspot.com. There's also a link to purchase a full-color, bound print copy, if you'd like a copy of your very own.

Please tell us what you think. We'd love to have your comment on the 30 Days blog. And keep in mind we're thinking of doing this again next year. We hope you'll consider joining us next April for 30 Days, 30 Writes, 2010. Stephen and I are already simmering a juicy batch of prompts to inspire you.

The Old Mixed Bag Bit

2009-10-27T06:57:00.000-07:00

*****

It's been a bit good news / bad news here lately. On the bad front, I've had the flu since October 16th. But the good news is I'm slowly getting better. Bad news: my daughter has had it, too. Really good news: she's getting better, too.

For all our battles with congestion and fevers, the writing front has been a source of much good news. In the spirit of glass-half-full, I share my bounty with you.

GREAT NEWS: The 3o Days, 30 Writes chapbook is on the brink of being released. Stephen and I are hammering out the final details. Expect to see it available at the end of the week.

UNEXPECTED GOOD NEWS: I had an email from Every Day Fiction this morning telling me my flash fiction, "Free," was selected for their annual anthology. I was part of last year's anthology and was so pleased with how the project came out. Plus, there's nothing like an acceptance for something you didn't even know you had out there.

GOOD NEWS ON THE HORIZON: NaNoWriMo is just a few days away. Already, I feel myself getting excited about it. The last NaNo I did (2007) brought me Jamieson's Folly. I believe this year's project, The Blue Hills, has every bit as much potential. I'm not as prepared as I'd like, but NaNoWriMo is about the leap of faith. The Blue Hills has bones enough to warrant that leap.

So, mainly good news, indeed. I'm losing the Vicks Vaporub and gaining a lot of ground. I can't wait to see what else waits on the horizon. Just no more flu, I hope. I'm ready to run. Or will be when I finally stop coughing.

Same Old -- #fridayflash

2009-10-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

*****

When Amanda was a baby, Carrie yearned for routine, for knowing when to wake and when to sleep. In the chaos of new motherhood, she longed for a slot to cook dinner, to exercise, to breathe, to make love.

The routine came all too soon, the daily activities that varied little from week to week: Mondays, the park; Tuesday, play at home; Wednesday, story hour; Thursday, lunch at Grandma’s; Friday, playdate. And in each of those days, their own aching subroutines, the three meals a day with the handful of tolerated menus, the same three movies, two books, one cry.

Mommy.

She returned: to her friends, her hobbies, her work, to some semblance of the girl she’d been before Amanda, but always with the understanding that everything must fit, no matter how large and unwieldy, inside the tight buckets of routine—a time to play blocks, a time to read books, and even a tiny golden sliver to remember her freedom.

*****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story appears in the 30 Days, 30 Writes 2009 chapbook, to be released at the end of October. The chapbook features more stories by Greta Igl, as well as stories by Jane Banning, Stephen Book and JC Towler. Please check the 30 Days, 30 Writes blog for more details and an invitation to participate in next year's writing challenge.

Almost done!

2009-10-18T15:24:00.000-07:00

*******

After much work, 30 Days, 30 Writes 2009 is nearly ready for publication. This anthology is a compilation of the 30 best stories written during the MySixWriMo event hosted here on this blog last April.

For those of you new to my blog, a little background:

MySixWriMo was a writing event where I posted two prompts here on my blog each day. Participating writers wrote a six (or more) sentence story based on one of them. Jane Banning, Stephen Book, and JC Towler all rose to the challenge.

After months of selecting, editing and laying the publication out, the chapbook is nearly ready. I've received much invaluable help from Stephen in creating a pdf version. We expect to launch it by the end of the month.

For more information on the project, please visit the 30 Days, 30 Writes blog. And plan to join us next April for the 2010 30 Days.

#fridayflash: Getting Ready

2009-09-18T06:03:00.000-07:00

*****

Monday, it had been the flat sheet with faded yellow cabbage roses, the old one washed until it felt like flannel.

At first, Ruth thought she’d forgotten to wash it. But then she remembered how it had hung up in the wringer. She’d shut the infernal old machine off and wriggled that sheet out like a reluctant calf.

On Wednesday, she knew something was afoot. Two raggedy bath towels went missing—towels she’d washed to get ready for Trixie’s puppies. The old hound’s belly was big as a watermelon, her time coming soon. The towels had hung in the middle of the stretched lines, between Virgil’s work pants, not on the end where they’d be easily grabbed. The discriminating thievery made Ruth stop and think.

This morning, she baited the trap, hanging an old tablecloth Virgil spilled ham gravy on. Even after washing, it still smelled meaty. She sat behind the sheers overlooking the clothesline, her day’s work done, but for the dinner that needed starting. The house bore the clean stamp of settled quiet, beds long made, dishes drying in the drainboard, kids long grown.

She sat in the filtered sun and soaked in the silence. It wasn’t long before the old thief showed up, belly swaying. She waddled ponderously, back swayed from so many litters. Gray hairs grizzled her snout as she tugged the tablecloth gently from the line.

Ruth ticked the curtain aside, watched Trix drag the tablecloth off between bowed legs. Ruth’s heart twisted remembering the hard work ahead. The old girl would struggle, but she knew what to do. Soon, they’d have one last wriggling batch of velvety puppies.

#FridayFlash: Recording

2009-09-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

*****

I press play and the past slides into the present, his voice light like a needle on a record. Hey sweet thing what’s it been--ten years? Then he clears his throat and laughs like I remember. I’ll be in town this weekend, yeah … something something …yeah, I’m getting married. And he jumps into chitchat about who’d have imagined, but it’s just static at the end of an old LP. My memory skips, hung up on all those nights we sat talking behind Meg’s house, the stars in multitudes like the years before us. Kids that we were, we didn’t plan. We didn’t act. We thought we had all the time in the world to find each other.

Into the Woods

2009-08-25T13:08:00.000-07:00

I have a rule when we go on our annual northwoods camping vacation: NO COOKING.

As you all know, I love to cook at home. But cooking in a pop-up is torturous. Let’s face it: cooking without running water, electricity, refrigeration, or an oven just ain’t fun. Bottom line: I’m on vacation. I shouldn’t have to work that hard.

Writing while camping, on the other hand, is a different story. Something about the smell of pines and breeze off the lake makes me desperate to write. This year, my husband chipped in to augment my writing proceeds from the year so I could buy one of those handy Neo word processors. And what a great investment it was. I found an empty campsite, dubbed it my office, and wrote for several happy, productive hours. I sneaked in hours of work on seemingly limitless AA batteries. I came home with a good idea for this year’s NaNoWriMo project and a solid idea for a flash.

This year’s camping trip was very good to me.

I did manage some cooking, but of the most perfunctory type. One morning, the neighbors stoked up their grill and it had me wondering: what breakfast food could you cook on a grill? Here’s what I came up with:

ANY TIME GRILL PACKETS

Per packet serving:

1/2 can diced potatoes, well drained
2 Tbsp. diced onion
2 Tbsp. diced green pepper
1 serving FULLY COOKED meat of choice: bacon bits, sliced breakfast sausages, cubed ham, smoked sausage (I used smoked sausage and it was YUMMY!)
Seasoned salt, to taste
Freshly cracked pepper, to taste
Nonstick cooking spray

Heat grill to high heat. For each serving, lay out a double layer of aluminum foil—12” lengths. Spray foil liberally with nonstick spray.

Place ingredients on foil. Fold foil over lengthwise, creating a durable seam. Fold in ends several times to make packets leak proof.

Place packets on grill. Cook 15 - 20 minutes, turning as needed, until heated through and veggies are tender. Open packets and dump on paper plates. After eating, discard mess and do something FUN.

#fridayflash -- For Love of Vater

2009-08-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

******

“This the place?” the cabbie grumbled over one shoulder.

Peter looked out the rain smeared window. The streaming water made the house seem to melt into the lawn. For Peter, it felt all too real.

“Yes.” Dread wove into Peter’s voice. He cleared his throat. “Yes. This is it.”

The cabbie fiddled with a clipboard like Peter hadn’t spoken.

Yes, it was the same place that burned in his memory. The lannon stone bungalow with the sloping entryway. The semicircle cement front stoop with the wrought iron railing. Back when he was a kid with a choppy home haircut, Peter used to bound down those steps two at a time. How many times had he taken a spill on that sidewalk and scraped his knee?

It was always Mother who came with the hugs and band aids.

Even in the rain, even now, he could see that Vater still kept the place the same; each blade of grass evenly trimmed, the edges of the lawn beveled to make a smooth angle toward the sidewalk. That lawn had been the pinnacle of Peter’s misery. Vater hadn’t trusted him to cut it unsupervised. The old man had sat on his old man lawn chair in his undershirt and baggy plaid shorts and watched Peter, his eyes following him back and forth as Peter pushed the mower. Every so often, he’d stand and wave his wiry, white arms to point out Peter’s numerous mistakes.

“You’re sloppy!” he’d say in his phlegmy German accent, a hand cupped around his mouth as he yelled over the mower. “Straight lines, Peter! Can’t you get anything right?”

Peter would look up at him and swallow the anger knotting his throat. It had never occurred to him to talk back. Even as a kid, he knew Vater was immutable. Fighting Vater was like fighting a wall.

“Well, go on!” Vater would say, eyebrows fierce.

Anger would burn like fire in Peter’s gut. Vater never seemed to notice. He’d put a hand to his lumbar and stretch back with a low grunt. Then he’d notice Peter still there, and scowl. “That lawn isn’t going to cut itself!”

Then Vater would creak into his chair and sip his beer.

All these years later, Peter still hated that lawn. He wouldn’t be here, but Mother had insisted.

“There’s so little time, Peter,” she’d said. “Please don’t let this chance slip away.”

But Peter knew chances had run out long ago, in all the times he’d looked to Vater for approval. How many hollow nights had he spent, curled in his bed under the eaves, wondering what it would be like to have one of those TV fathers? The kind who put arms around shoulders and called their boys “son.” The kind who tossed the ball or helped build model airplanes.

Mother held out hope long after Peter abandoned it.

“He loves you, Peter,” she’d tell him. “You must believe that. It’s not his way to let such feelings show.”

Now, their clock ticked toward an agonizing end.

The knowing about Vater didn’t make the past softer. His mother wanted him here, but Vater wouldn’t appreciate it. He’d hide the truth, pretend there was no grim diagnosis. The fact that it was a “private” cancer made it more unmentionable. Decent folk didn’t discuss such things.

Now Peter had to tell Vater he knew.

“You about done looking?” the cabbie asked.

Peter turned to see him still scribbling on the clipboard. Another stranger who didn’t care. Not that he should. But it got old, having the world populated by the dismissive.

Peter watched the rain and ached with the need to be real. To speak words and to have them heard. To have eyes land on him and see him standing there.

Not just any eyes, but Vater’s eyes.

“Yeah.” Peter grabbed the door handle, paused, then pushed the door open.

Maybe Mother was right; it was time. Time, while he had the chance. One day soon, the old man would be gone, his stinging words silenced with him. If he didn’t fight now, he’d be left alone, fighting himself. It was time to stand up, to tell Vater the truth: Vater was dying and Peter cared to the core of him. Vater would try to dismiss him, but Peter wouldn’t allow it. He was Vater’s son. He had something to say.

He stepped out of the cab, into the rain.

Hump Day Prompt #2

2009-08-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

******
Yesterday, my family took our annual trek to the Wisconsin State Fair. There's a lot to love about the fair: the cows, the bunnies, the food, the CREAM PUFFS and, most of all, the people. Nowhere else in Wisconsin can you see such a delightful melange of jean clad farmers and pierced Goths.

One particularly intriguing fellow caught my eye as he strolled past the porta-potties. I'll leave the particulars to you, but he sported the following ditty on his shirt:

WENCHGUARD ON DUTY

Yep, now that's a guy with a story. I'd imagine his wife could tell one, too.

Hump day prompt #1

2009-08-05T06:22:00.000-07:00

****

I thought it might be fun to try something new: a series of Wednesday prompts to keep the creative juices flowing.

As anyone who knows me will attest, I love to eavesdrop on strangers. Here’s something I overheard on my daily walk. Almost made me turn around and stalk the speaker.

“It wasn’t any planned deal, but we ended up spending the night together. And that opened up a whole new bunch of weird stuff.”

To the great, white page, friends. May the muse be with you.

#FridayFlash -- "To the Lake"

2009-07-30T16:40:00.001-07:00

*****
I follow Troy to the lake, just like every week. First, Troy and Mindy read the paper, then Troy says, “Come on, girl” and we go. Troy gets the box from the garage, the sweet smelling one with the hooks and doodads. He pulls the pole from the wall. The lake isn’t far, just on the other side of the yard, behind the pines Troy planted last summer to break the wind.

When we get there, Troy pulls a hook from the box. I lay in the grass and watch him. If it’s warm, I lay in the shade. If it’s cool, I lay in the sun. We just finished the cool time, the damp grass, way down in the earth time. Things are drier now. The sun has more presence, so I lay in the shade. Troy does something magic with his hands and the hook hangs from the string. It’s a shiny hook with a big feathery thing wrapped around it.

Once it’s on, Troy pats my head. I lean into it. His touch is firm and comforting, like my old blanket in front of the window doors when it snows.

“What do you think, girl? Are we going to get lucky?” he asks.

I like to stare at him. I like how he looks, the way he smells, like the sweet stuff from the box and his happy excitement. His voice resonates in my ears, not too high or too low, but just him.

He stands up from his crouch and arcs back an arm, the pole bending behind him with it. A string streams out with a whir, then the hook plops. Troy waits, then reels it in with a tick-tick-tick.

The grass feels good. It’s quiet this time of day, only Troy and I and the ducks with their babies. The houses around the shore are quiet, but for the black car pulling out of the driveway just across the lake. It’s a small lake, new, made just last summer. The men with the machines built it when they built the new houses. Troy says it’s just for show, but they put fish in it, big ones that glub at the surface. I can see in the houses across the way.

Troy arcs his arm back, sends the hook out again. “We should get a nibble soon, girl,” he tells me with a smile.

Just then Mindy leans out the window. “Troy? I’m leaving for class!”

Troy raises a hand and waves. Mindy disappears. A minute later, I hear the garage door open and her car back out. I roll over on my back, expose my belly, and wait. It’s just Troy and me now. I know what’s coming.

Just like always, the thing in his pocket sings.

Troy reels the line in quick and puts the pole on the grass. He pulls the thing from his pocket and looks at it. He presses something, then puts it to his ear.

“Hey.”

He turns his back to me. He always turns his back to me. I don’t mind. I wait. It will be worth it.

The duck family approaches, the mother closest to the shore. The father swims a body length ahead, the ducklings trailing behind. There are only four now. I wonder what happened to the fifth. Maybe that fish got it, the trophy one Troy says nibbles his line.

“Yeah, she just left. Let me put this stuff away. Say, five minutes?” He listens to the thing a minute, then says, his voice growly, “Yeah, me, too.” Then he presses something and puts the thing back in his pocket.

I wait.

He looks out at the lake, toward the house with the black car. Something moves behind the window. Troy watches, his hands still in his pockets.

He takes the hook off the line and puts it back in the box. Before he clips the box shut, he notices me.

“Sorry, girl,” he says. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry today.”

My tongue lolls out and flops against the grass. I look up at Troy and the white puff clouds and the sky behind him. He smiles down at me, then bends over and rubs my belly. He’s my everything. This is our moment.

Platform, Schmatform

2009-07-17T06:25:00.000-07:00

*****

I admit it: I bought into platform hype as much as the next struggling writer. I’ve blogged. I’ve facebooked. I’ve even considered tweeting. And with each new trend, I’ve sacrificed a smidge of my precious writing time. As mommy to a preschooler, quality writing time is as rare as a flawless pearl. There are times I’ve wondered if building a platform is really worth it.

Then I happened on Donald Maass’s Writing the Breakout Novel. I heard about the book from two writer friends, who raved enough to entice me into buying a copy. The book was published in 2001—practically prehistoric in the world of publishing-- but I think much of what it tells us is timeless. According to Maass, the best thing a writer can do to promote himself is to write a spectacular book. It’s not so much about promotion, advances and book tours that sends a book onto the top of the bestseller lists; it’s gushing word of mouth. One reader gets excited about a book and tells her friends. Her friends tell their friends, etc…Enthusiastic word of mouth can make a book’s sales skyrocket. And what brings this serendipitous, grass roots promotion? Maass beats no bushes; it’s great storytelling from writers who keep getting better, writers who take their work to the next level.

Publishing has changed dramatically since 2001, but I think what Maass says still holds true. Lately, it seems I’m reading more articles telling newbie writers to focus on craft, then worry about promotion. In other words, learn how to write, to tell great stories. It bears shades of the bipolar nutritional and parenting trends that have us spinning in circles. We eat eggs/eschew eggs/don’t use the word no to our kids/show them tough love/write/market/blog/tweet/stand on our heads.

I’m a writer. Bottom line, that means I should be writing.

On a final note, I do believe writers should promote their own work. After all, if you don’t toot your own horn, who will? But, I don’t think establishing platform should take precedence over time spent writing. First and foremost, writers write, then we sell.

An Ever-Changing Landscape

2009-07-07T06:40:00.000-07:00

*****

Last weekend, my daughter’s best friend slept over for the first time. We’d worried about how it would go. Lisa didn’t have much experience spending the night away from her parents. And the girls were so young—my daughter soon to be 4, Lisa just 4 1/2. We’d worked up to it, though, having Lisa come over to visit without her parents. I talked to my daughter about being sensitive to Lisa’s feelings.

When the big sleepover came, things went well. The girls spent the evening playing and watching Beauty and the Beast. We set up our tiny pup tent in the living room. The girls played inside and wrestled. At bedtime, Lisa told us she was afraid of the dark. We turned the end table lamp on low. The girls drifted off for a peaceful night’s sleep.

I thought we had this sleepover in the bag.

The next morning, the immensity of the change finally hit. As I made pancakes for breakfast, I could tell both girls were tired. They could no longer work out differences themselves. They both wanted to play quietly on their own. When I slid the pancakes onto their plates, Lisa didn’t like hers because they weren’t like the ones her dad makes. I wondered how I’d keep the peace until she went home. After breakfast, Lisa got her backpack and sat in the living room, where she promptly burst into tears. She missed her mom, she said, and she wanted to go home. She’d reached the edge of her four-year-old’s capacity for change. We packed her things and returned her to her parents.

Like Lisa, I’m facing my own battle with change. My writing has grown in the last year to the point it’s a whole new entity. I feel this inner unrest because I’m stretching beyond what’s painless. I need more: more connections, more training, more substance. I need different. I need better. I just need.

It hurts.

I visited with pal Jane on Sunday. She took me to a quiet, transcendental park where we walked amongst the wildflowers and talked. The sun draped over us in golden benevolence. My anxiety seeped out my pores. We climbed a winding path up a huge, rounded hill. Black eyed susans and daisies peeked over the top of the prairie grass. At one point, we could look both down over the fields and the stream or up to see the flowers brush the clouds. The landscape changed as we walked and talked. We traipsed through a damp, cool deciduous forest. We sat by a little pond teeming with minnows. We talked about change and growth and phases. It helped. I came home not wholly restored, but in a better place. Given the immensity of what’s going on with me right now, I’m content with standing in this better place.

I’m going to share my mom’s recipe for those buttermilk pancakes, originally from kitchen diva Martha Stewart. Don’t let the little kid’s bad opinion of them discourage you. These are the lightest pancakes I’ve ever had. They practically float off your plate. We like them studded with mixed berries (this was what Lisa objected to) but they’re fantastic just plain with maple syrup.

Mom’s Buttermilk Pancakes

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
3 Tbsp. sugar
2 large eggs
3 cups lowfat buttermilk (worth the trip to the store to use the real thing)
1/4 cup melted butter
canola oil for pan or griddle

Sift together dry ingredients into a medium bowl. Set aside. In a small bowl, mix together eggs, buttermilk and butter. Make a well in the dry ingredients. Pour wet in and stir until just mixed, being careful not to overmix. (it’s okay if some lumps remain) Let batter stand 10 – 15 minutes before using.

Heat large pan or griddle to medium high heat. (I set griddle to 375 degrees). When griddle is hot, place a small amount of oil on surface. Pour 1/4 cupfuls of batter onto griddle* Fry until bubbles form on top of pancake and bottom is brown. Flip and cook until pancakes are browned on both sides and cooked through.

Makes 12 – 15 pancakes.

* If you want to add berries, place them on the pancakes now. I use frozen mixed berry blend. Just put them on frozen. They’ll thaw as the pancake cooks.

The Season for Kvetching…and Barbeque!

2009-06-28T11:52:00.000-07:00

*****

The Editor Unleashed/Smashwords Flash Fiction 40 contest closed to voting this weekend. I know I’m not alone when I say I’m glad. It was an emotional experience, watching my story ride the whimsical wave of voter favor. In the end, I finished a respectable 9th. I’m satisfied.

Except for the hollowness.

Turns out the ranking was more than just a process. It was a distraction. A source of euphoria and blistering outrage. It was something to email WB’s about while we kvetched over the voting. But now it’s gone and it’s time let go and write again.

Yep, the season for kvetching has ended.

Lucky for me, I have transition activities to help me switch gears. These days, I’m embracing grilling season on my glorious new gas grill. Some transitions are easy, like getting rid of the crusty old Char-grill, a fire hazard of a beast that breathed licking dragon tongues of flame. I lost more arm hair to that monster than I care to admit. The end of the Char-grill’s season couldn’t come soon enough for me.

With the new grill has come a new sense of adventure. And some misadventures, but mainly successes. For those who are interested, here’s my latest effort. This came out so juicy, it left a pool or beer-infused yumminess on my plate. We enjoyed it with lightly grilled bruschetta and a mixed greens salad.

BEER ME CHICKEN

Seasoning:

1 Tbsp seasoned salt (I use Lawry’s)
1 Tbsp poultry seasoning
1 Tbsp onion powder
1 Tbsp garlic powder
1 tsp. Hungarian paprika
1 tsp. smoked paprika
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

1 – 4# whole chicken
1 – 12 oz. can beer (use the cheap stuff)
4 Tbsp. butter, melted
4 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil (EVOO)

Mix seasonings in a small bowl. Loosen skin all over chicken, including legs, being careful not to tear skin. Rub 1/2 of seasoning mixture on meat under skin. Tuck wings for roasting. Place in a dish and refrigerate overnight.

When you’re ready to cook, preheat grill to medium-low heat.

Discard (or drink) 1/2 of beer. Add remaining seasonings, 2 Tbsp butter and 2 Tbsp EVOO to can. Spray can with non-stick spray. Place chicken over beer can. Stand the chicken and beer up on a disposable foil pan. (Use the legs to form a tripod.) Combine remaining EVOO and butter. Rub over surface of chicken.

Place foil pan on preheated grill. Grill 1 hour, or until chicken was cooked through. Remove chicken from can and place on serving platter. Cover with foil. Discard beer. Let chicken stand 10 minutes before carving.

Serves 4.

A Matter of Taste

2009-06-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

*****

I wasn’t thrilled when my husband told me he wanted Hamburger Helper for Father’s Day dinner. I’m not a big fan of chemicals and salty, prefab food. I like herbs and fresh vegetables, preferably stuff just picked from the garden. I like to shop a couple times a week. I avoid the middle aisles of the grocery store and build meals around the fresh foods at the perimeter. I believe in building layers of flavor and that good technique brings out the best in food.

But I also understand that everyone has different tastes. Even though I’m no fan of convenience foods, I respect that my husband likes them. In turn, he respects my predilection for homemade pesto using imported olive oil and garden-warm basil.

Just like with food, there are a million different style of writing. And I admit there are styles I just don’t like. Extreme minimalism doesn’t do it for me. I like writing with mystery and music in the language. I don’t like being spoon-fed stories. But (and I believe this is important) I still respect talented, hard-working writers who write stories outside my particular preferences.

Last week, I ran into someone who tore apart a piece of my writing because he didn’t like my style. I’ve been around the block enough that I’m not devastated when someone doesn’t like my stuff. I need the feedback. Growth comes from seeing what went wrong. I know I have a lot to learn.

But here’s what I don’t have to learn: to treat others with respect and to evaluate their writing gently even if the piece isn’t tailor fit to my interests. Everyone is different and that’s a good thing. If we were all the same, we’d never sell a story.

I won’t share the Hamburger Helper recipe. A monkey with the box and some hamburger could do that. But here’s what I’m simmering for dinner. It isn’t a favorite of my husband’s, but I adore it. It’s good served hot, cold, or room temperature. A little dishful, on the side, tastes great with a sandwich. I LOVE it spooned, cold, over a cheese omelet or scrambled eggs. It’s also great spooned on toasted pita bread or with grilled fish or chicken. And it's diet friendly and packed full of nutrition, so what's not to love?

BEST EVER RATATOUILLE

1 medium eggplant, peeled and sliced into 1/2” slices
2 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 tsp. sea salt, divided
1 large onion, chopped
1 large stalk celery, sliced
1/2 red bell pepper, chopped
1/2 green pepper, chopped
1 large clove garlic, pressed
1 medium zucchini, quartered lengthwise and sliced
1 – 28 oz can stewed tomatoes
1 Tbsp. fresh basil, minced (or 1 tsp.dried)
fresh cracked pepper, to taste

Sprinkle eggplant slices with salt and layer in a colander. Place a heavy plate and the can of tomatoes on top to add weight. Let sit 15 – 30 minutes. Rinse eggplant. (This removes the bitterness) Blot eggplant dry and cut into cubes.

While eggplant is in colander, heat olive oil in a Dutch oven over medium low heat. Add onion, celery and peppers. Sauté 10 minutes to lightly caramelize vegetables. Add garlic. Sauté 1 minute longer. Add remaining ingredients. Bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat. Simmer 30 – 40 minutes, until vegetables are tender, but not mushy. Add basil and salt and pepper to taste. Turn off heat and let pot sit on stove, covered, for 1 hour to let flavors blend. Serves 8.

.

Blind Ambition

2009-06-20T15:24:00.000-07:00

*****
I promised WB Stephen I'd post a picture of my TO READ pile. Here it is:

Ok, the Nancy Drew book is my daughter's. She thinks she's big guns because she likes to read novels like Mommy. But wait. I'm not done showing you my TO READ PILE.

This is my TO READ bookcase:

Ok, in all fairness, I have read some of these books. I just ran out of room on my ALREADY READ bookcase.

Finally, this is why I don't have any time to read:

Salad Days

2009-06-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

*****

This morning, as I was making celery seed dressing for tonight’s salad, it occurred to me that writing is a lot like salad. You can serve a good salad with no dressing at all. The unadulterated ingredients taste good all in their own right. But a little dressing can bring the whole thing together and make the dish shine.

This is the dilemma I’ve been facing with my Flash 40 contest entry. “Mirror, Mirror” was a departure for me because I wrote it without my usual bag of tricks. I tend to use setting as a character in my stories. In this case, the setting was barely addressed. It felt a lot like that undressed salad and I wondered if the story suffered without it. But, after a lot of thought, I wanted the story as bare bones as possible, feeling it was a better match for my narrator’s overwhelmed state of mind.

Since the ranking process began, I’ve been keeping close tabs on my entry. So far, “Mirror, Mirror” is faring well. I’m neck in neck with good friends, all of whom I’d be proud to lose to. It appears my gamble paid off.

As for the salad, I’m going to share the recipe. This one’s a summer favorite here. For the salad itself, use leafy greens of your choice. Something tender is usually best. Top them with sliced nectarines and blueberries or strawberries. A little thinly sliced red onion adds a pleasant punch.

Celery Seed Dressing

Whisk together in a microwave safe bowl:

1/4 cup sugar
2 Tbsp cider vinegar
2 Tbsp honey
1-1/4 tsp lemon juice
1/2 tsp Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp dry mustard
1 tsp finely grated onion
1/2 tsp celery seed
generous pinch of salt

Cook on high for 1-1/2 mins.

Whisk in:

1/3 cup canola oil

Chill until serving. Served with greens and fruit.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

2009-06-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

*****

Lately, my attention has been hijacked by the Editor Unleashed / Smashwords Flash Fiction 40 Contest. It’s a great contest with a simple premise: write a short story under 1000 words and post it in the Editor Unleashed Forum. Forum members will vote, the editors will make their choices, and the top 40 stories will be published in an e-book by Smashwords. Simple, right?

Well, not really.

Let me explain: This week, I posted my entry, “Mirror, Mirror.” I felt good about it and figured I had a strong chance of making it into the top 40. I’d been reading other entries in preparation for voting. My “no” list was miles long, my “yeses” and “maybes” tallied in the scraggly handfuls. Many of the stories were laden with fundamental errors. Starting the story in the wrong place, errors in syntax, weak or nonexistent character arcs, stilted dialogue, you name it.

During this first phase of reading, I’d describe my experience as enlightening and affirming. I was learning a lot about life with the slush pile. I felt positive about my work.

Lately, my feelings have shifted. I’ve been fortunate to read several truly exceptional entries. With each, I’ve seen my chances dwindle. I’ve been forced to look at my work honestly and I can see there’s need for growth.

I don’t know why exactly that bothers me. I already know I have lots to learn. I already know I’m the sort who makes progress through hard work rather than by possessing literary genius. And I know there are MANY non-geniuses who make six and seven figures as writers. They find their niche and they know how to work it.

But it still brings to mind many questions. Should I push myself as hard as I do? Am I being distracted by platform and market positioning? Where can I best fit into the publishing hierarchy? Am I doing a good job of balancing writing with my life? But the biggest question I don’t have an answer for: am I still having fun?

Big questions, and no easy answers. Seems to me there’s a fine line between getting somewhere and enjoying the journey. One little contest sure has given me a lot to think about.

Sharp as a Knife

2009-05-28T06:39:00.000-07:00

*****

Last night, as I stood at the counter chopping veggies for stuffed shells, I lamented how dull my knives are. I have a couple decent knives, but I'm not easy on them. I do make the occasional effort to sharpen them. But I use them naughtily, cutting apples on paper plates, using those plastic cutting boards that can go in the dishwasher. Even the knives go in the dishwasher. As I struggled with cutting a carrot into decent matchsticks, I knew I had no right to complain. It’s my own fault my knives are so dull.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with an artist friend awhile back. One morning, as our children played together, we got talking about how upsetting it is when we don’t have time to follow our respective muses. I told her that, not only does not writing give me an unsettled, cranky feeling, but I know my skills grow dull if I don’t write daily.

She surprised me by being surprised.

Maybe painting is different that way. You can clean the house and garden for a few months, then come back and pick up where you left off. But I can testify that writing requires regular practice. Otherwise my writing muscles grow lax and stiff, which is destined to show up in my writing. So I write. Every day. Even if it’s only a few lines.

Lately, things have been going well. I have several stories nearly ready to send out into the cosmos. Folly still molders, but I’m working on it. Chapter Three needs a complete revamp. I’m reshaping it on the back burner. I’m pleased with my progress. The ideas come fast and hard. I just need more time to execute.

Now back to the stuffed shells. They came out terrific, in spite of lousy knife edges. That’s encouraging, because it means we can get satisfying results, even when things aren’t perfectly sharp. But I have to admit, I noticed the clunky carrot strips. Time to sharpen the knives and make them even better.

Veggie Stuffed Shells

2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, chopped
1/2 cup shredded or diced carrots
1 cup mushrooms, chopped
1 medium zucchini, chopped
1 cup chopped broccoli
6 ozs. spinach
2 lg cloves garlic, minced
2 - 3 Tbsp minced fresh basil
sea salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste
1 egg
1 cup cottage or ricotta cheese (Drain in colander if using cottage)
1 - 1/2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
24 jumbo pasta shells, cooked and drained
1 - 26 oz jar marinara sauce (I use Prego Traditional)
1/3 cup fresh grated parmesan

Heat oil in large sauté pan over med-low heat. Add onion; sauté over low heat until onions begin to caramelize, about 10 minutes. Add carrots; sauté 2 – 3 minutes longer. Add mushrooms, zucchini and broccoli; sauté 3 minutes. Add spinach and garlic and sauté until garlic is tender and spinach wilts, about 2 minutes. Stir in fresh basil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Remove pan from heat and place vegetables on a plate lined with several layers of paper towel to drain excess moisture.

When drained and cooled, place vegetables in a large bowl with egg, cottage or ricotta cheese, and mozzarella cheese. Stir until combined.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray a 9 x 13” pan with non stick spray.

Pour 1 cup marinara sauce in bottom of pan. Stuff shells with veggie and cheese mixture. Lay in pan over sauce. Pour remaining sauce over shells. Cover pan with foil. Bake 45 minutes, or until sauce is bubbling and shells are heated through. Remove foil. Sprinkle parmesan over shells. Return to oven 5 minutes longer. Remove from oven. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

5 – 6 servings

Lunch and Lessons

2009-05-18T13:49:00.000-07:00

*****

Friend Jane came over for lunch and a visit on Saturday. Jane brought an amazing sun dried tomato and brie appetizer. I did up my usual down home – upscale fusion. As we slathered garlicky brie onto crackers and munched hot beef sandwiches, we chatted optimistically about our writing.

Let me say: it’s amazing how much we writers can learn from one another. Not just about our craft, but about how writing exists as part of our lives. As she always does, Jane gave me a lot to think about. About embracing our roots and using them as a creative force for the future. About finite time and how to be a responsible steward of it. About learning everything we can from the resources around us. And about moving on when we’ve grown beyond them.

After she left, I sat in the quiet space she left behind and considered my situation. It’s clear I have some choices to make. Up until now, I’ve done a rather scattered approach to my writing: throw seeds of myself at every opportunity and see if anything viable takes root. The problem is I now have seedlings growing everywhere. Some are dying. Some are neglected, some overgrown. I’m not doing anything well, because I’m trying to do it all.

Clearly, it’s time to prune.

I spent the rest of the weekend considering options. I have too many things that distract me from my writing, too many things that drain my energy. There are things I invest effort in, but receive only nominal return. And one or two things that are just plain more than I can handle. But they’re choices, which means I don’t have to keep saying yes to them.

So thanks, to Jane, for friendship and good advice. You didn’t know you were giving it, but I’d be smart to take it. And just for the fun of it, I’m going to post my hot beef recipe. Now you can have lunch and Jane's good advice, too :)

Shredded Roast Beef for Sandwiches

2 -1/2 - 3 lbs. boneless beef chuck roast
1 sweet onion, chopped
1/4 – 1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 cup water
1 tsp. beef base or 1 beef bouillon cube
1/2 tsp. dried thyme
1 bay leaf
fresh cracked black pepper, to taste
seasoned salt, to taste

Place roast in slow cooker with onion, garlic powder, water, beef base, thyme, bay leaf and pepper. Cook on high for 5- 6 hours, or until tender and meat pulls apart easily.

Remove meat from slow cooker and set aside to cool slightly. Leave juices in slow cooker. Pull meat apart with two forks. Remove any fat or gristle and discard it.

Return shredded meat to cooker with juices. Add seasoning salt to taste. If too juicy, sift 1 - 2 Tbsp. of flour over the meat and stir. Turn slow cooker to low until serving. Serve hot on rolls.

Serves 6 – 8.

A Shortbread Moment

2009-05-05T07:04:00.000-07:00

*****

This weekend, I had a shortbread moment.

Let me explain: I have this incredible recipe for shortbread that worried the hell out of me the first time I made it. It seemed too simple. Flour, butter, sugar. That’s it. How could a cookie shine with so few ingredients? Then, the dough seemed a little odd. When I put everything in the mixer, I watched the paddle churn away, but the dough didn’t hold together. All I had was a crumbly mess. I was about to toss it out. But then suddenly, the ingredients melded and I had dough. Half an hour later, I had pale golden cookies that coated my tongue with the satisfying taste of butter. Since then, I’ve baked them many times.

Now to this week’s shortbread moment.

As you know, we’ve just spent a month doing our very first MySixWriMo. I’ve had mixed feelings about it. A week ago, I wanted to throw the whole batch of my stories in the trash. I was sorry I’d even suggested MySixWriMo. Only my commitment to my fellow Sixers kept me going. MySixWriMo ate up all my daily writing time. Folly went from the back burner to stone cold and congealed.

On May 1, I sat down at the PC, grateful the posting was over. I was never going to do MySixWriMo again. But I figured I should get something tangible out of it. That morning, I sent off my last micro from the month, “Hands.”

By the time I came back after lunch, “Hands” had been accepted by Boston Literary Magazine.

The dough began to meld. BLM had accepted one of fellow sixer Jane’s micros already. Two days later, BLM accepted another MySixWriMo from sixing pal Stephen. As I read Stephen’s email, I savored a warm satisfaction I’d never expected when I started this. I’d suggested MySixWriMo on a whim. Now three writing buddies would share page space in Boston Lit Mag.

Cool stuff indeed. I plan to track all our successes born from MySixWriMo, so keep me posted on how our April babies are faring. I’ll post their status in the sidebar.

My feelings have changed about MySixWriMo. That one monumental success has convinced me this is something we should consider doing again. But I’m going to make a change. Come back next April and I’ll let you know what I’ve got planned.

And for anyone interested, here's the recipe for that shortbread. Trust me, they are AMAZING.

Simple Shortbread Cookies

2 ½ cups all purpose flour
½ cup sugar
1 cup butter, chilled and cut into chunks

Preheat oven to 300 degrees (low temp + longer baking time = tender cookies). Combine flour and sugar in a large mixing bowl. Using an electric mixer, work the butter into the flour mixture until all the ingredients hold together, about 5 minutes. (It looks like dry paste when it’s done)

Using hands, roll generous teaspoonfuls of dough into balls. Place about 1 ½ “ apart on ungreased cookie sheets. Using tines of a fork, flatten the cookies to ¼” thick by making crisscross pattern on the top.

Bake the cookies until they’re light golden in the center and a bit darker around the edges, about 30 minutes. Cool the cookies on the sheets, then store in an airtight container. Makes about 4 dozen.

Note: if using unsalted butter, add ½ tsp salt to this recipe. Do not use margarine or shortening in place of butter.

MySixWriMo Day 30

2009-04-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

*****

Well, kids. We made it. Woo hoo! Many thanks to all who have shared their stories this month. Now let’s finish this thing with a deafening bang.

To celebrate everything we’ve done this month, let’s take one last look at those prompts we passed by earlier. This is our final chance to collectively Take Two. Let’s make the most of this chance.

And, of course, we can’t forget this fitting prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a farewell poem (six). After all, we are saying farewell to another wonderful National Poetry Month. Say farewell to this month; say farewell to a vacation spot; say farewell to a bad relationship; say farewell to work; say farewell to school; say farewell to saying farewell even. Hopefully, I won't be saying farewell to you; please stay in touch and let me know of your successes as we keep poeming (sixing) toward the horizon.

It’s been a terrific month of stories. I can’t wait to see what you post in the comments. You guys rock.

MySixWriMo Day 29

2009-04-29T05:23:00.000-07:00

*****

Hump day. I don’t know about you, but I’m having a hard time getting over the hump today. To make things slide a little easier, I’m going to offer two prompts again today.

Here’s our offering from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to title your poems (sixes) "Never (blank)" with you filling in the blank with a word or phrase. Then, write a poem (six) based off your title, which could be "Never look both ways when crossing the street" or "Never blush in public" or "Never ever" or "Never write a poem (six) with the word never in the title." You get the idea, right?

And here are today’s selections from The Writer’s Book of Matches:

#1: A mail carrier begins to suspect that a customer on his route is engaged in something fishy.

#2: I lie awake at night thinking that marrying her was the wrong choice.

Give it your best shot and create a work of genius. See you in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 28

2009-04-28T06:24:00.000-07:00

*****

It’s Tuesday, which means two prompts from Robert Lee Brewer. Because his prompts today are poetry specific, I’ll throw in two to give us some extra choices.

Our duo from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a sestina. (Click here to find out the rules for sestinas.) So start figuring out your 6 end words and get writing.

But wait! Today is Tuesday, so you have one other option. You can write a poem about the sestina (your love, hate, frustration with, etc.).

And here’s two gems from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer's Digest Books):

#1: You see your brother, a recovering alcoholic, buying beer at a local store.

#2: A man and his wife stop to investigate a disabled vehicle on the side of the road.

Lots to pick from. Am I wrong to expect greatness? See you in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 27

2009-04-27T06:50:00.000-07:00

*****

The end is so close, I can taste it. Have you gotten better as the month progressed?

I’m not sure my technique has gotten better—in fact, I’d probably argue that it’s gotten sloppier--but my imagination can flare from spark to inferno in seconds now. And that’s something I’m very happy to take away from this.

Now down to business. Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something. Maybe a cat is longing to get outside the house. Maybe a teenager is longing to get away from his or her small town. And, of course, there's always the longing poem (six) of love.

If longing doesn't appeal to you, here’s today’s prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer's Digest Books):

I do not hate you.

This prompt was another originally offered as a line of dialogue, but I want you to use it however you wish.

Good writing so far. I expect more to come. See you in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 26

2009-04-26T06:51:00.000-07:00

*****

Can you believe this is our last Sunday of six-or-so’s?

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort. I will leave it up to you guys to deal with it however you want.

And here’s today’s prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer's Digest Books):

I pray every day that it will stop, but it keeps getting worse.

This prompt was originally given as a line of dialogue, but I thought it had possibilities beyond that. You use it however you see fit.

Hope to see you all later in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 25

2009-04-25T06:28:00.000-07:00

*****

We’re in the home stretch! Let's see if we can keep the momentum going.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt I want you to pick an event and make that event the title of your poem.

And here’s today’s goody from The Writer’s Book of Matches:

A ten year old boy suspects his neighbor is wanted by the police.

See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 24

2009-04-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

*****

The end draws near, but there’s unfinished business. Stones unturned, stories unwritten…You know what I’m getting at: Take Two.

To refresh your memories, Take Two lets us go back to those prompts we never got a chance to explore. Or even those ones we could have done better the first time. Think of Take Two as something we don’t get often in life; Take Two is a second chance.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B.

See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 23

2009-04-23T06:42:00.000-07:00

*****

After today, just seven more days. That makes me a little sad. Sure, I’m ready to get back into my usual routine, but I’ve had some shining moments this month that are hard to let go. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned this month, it’s how to keep moving, and that means moving on after this month.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six or so) of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem (six or so), though it's fine if you do.

Interestingly, the prompt I’d selected from The Writer’s Book of Matches is the antithesis of regret. Funny how things work synergistically like that, without any planning or intent. Here’s your second prompt:

I know it’s terrible, but I kind of like hurting people.

That one could leap genres without breaking a sweat. Can’t wait to see what you come up with later in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 22

2009-04-22T06:38:00.000-07:00

*****
It's straight to work today.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out.

We’re back to Lin’s Garden for one last eavesdropped prompt:

I refuse to let myself get emotional.

Use the prompts however the muse urges. See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 21

2009-04-21T06:27:00.000-07:00

*****
Hard to believe we’re more than two-thirds done. When we started, I never imagined how hard this would be. And I never imagined I’d find so many stories. As of this writing, I have fifteen stories with potential and only five I don’t plan to pursue. Not bad for twenty days’ work. I’d be happy even if the numbers had been reversed.

But there will be time enough to dwell on this on May 1. April is about moving forward.

Today’s prompts (Two for Tuesday) from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides deal specifically with poetic forms. Not necessarily right for writing sixes, but I’ll post them for those who want to challenge themselves:

1. Write a haiku. The haiku is not just a form but a genre of poetry. (Click here to read more about the haiku.) People sometimes go into writing a haiku and end up with a senryu or a faux-ku, but it's all good (and all poetry).

2. Write about the haiku. I know there are some poets (in this very group even) who are anti-form. So, I'm giving them the option to write their anti-haiku manifestos. Of course, if you pay attention to this 2nd prompt, it doesn't need to be anti-haiku; your poem could be questioning or even praising the haiku. Or something.

I offer the following homegrown prompt as an alternative:

Start with a stereotype, then turn it on its ear.

Good luck with day 21. We’re doing great. See you later in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 20

2009-04-20T06:19:00.000-07:00

*****

I feel like I’m on a roll. Let’s see what today will bring.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) of rebirth. There are many different types of rebirth available, including the changing of the seasons, the beginning of the day, religious or spiritual rebirth, a reconfirmation of good in people, re-learning how to love, etc.

For our homegrown prompt, I offer another eavesdropped beauty plucked from Lin’s Garden:

And I said to myself, “That is the last time.”

You can use it however you want: dialogue, narration, or otherwise. Use it in the beginning, middle or end. Then post your masterpiece in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 19

2009-04-19T06:43:00.000-07:00

*****

Hope you’re all having a good, productive weekend and that the words are flowing.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

…today's prompt is to write an angry poem (six). That is, a poem (six) about someone or something that gets angry. Could be a person, animal, or even them there angry clouds.

I’m still in the mood to mix things up, so rather than the usual offering from the Writer’s Book of Matches, I’m providing a prompt based on a snippet of conversation overheard at the Chinese buffet yesterday. Here it is, straight from Lin’s Garden (best Chinese food in southeast Wisconsin, IMO):

“You’re freaking me out.”

I have more gems from Lin’s (along with happy memories of their awesome steamed dumplings). Expect them to pepper the prompts over the next twelve days as we head toward the finish line.

Good luck and see you in the comments

MySixWriMo Day 18

2009-04-18T04:19:00.000-07:00

*****
Take Two was fun. Now it's back to business as usual.

Here’s today’s offering from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) with an interaction of some sort. The interaction does NOT have to be between people, though it can. For instance, you could write about the interaction between a bee and a flower; or an owl and a field mouse. Or just write about a traffic cop getting into an argument with a speeder. Just as long as there is some sort of interaction going on.

And here’s today’s offering from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writers’ Digest Books):

“I’d be surprised if their marriage lasts a year.”

The bitchy part of me finds that irresistible :) See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 17

2009-04-17T06:51:00.000-07:00

*****

I’ve decided to make today our first Take Two day.

Take Two lets us go back to those prompts we never got a chance to explore. We’ve been moving along at a fast pace. Now it’s time to go back and take a closer look.

I’ll post today’s Brewer prompt, but no new selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches. Your task is to either select today’s Brewer prompt or pick any prompt from the last 16 days of MySixWriMo and write your six sentence masterpiece.

Here’s today’s offering from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) with the following title: "All I want is (blank)," where you fill in the blank with a word or phrase of your choosing. Some example titles, then, could be: "All I want is to eat fried chicken"; "All I want is world peace"; "All I want is for everyone to tell me I'm beautiful"; or "All I want is a handful of quarters."

I like the idea of Take Two, so expect it to appear again in a week or so.

Good luck, have fun, and see you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 16

2009-04-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

*****

We’re over the hump! Today officially marks the start of the second half of MySixWriMo. How are you doing? Have you found anything fabulous?

Here’s the prompt du jour from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to pick a color, make that the title of your poem (six), and write a poem (six) that is inspired by that color.

And here’s what I hand-selected from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

A trash collector uncovers something extraordinary in the back of his truck.

Good luck, everyone! Hope those creative fires are burning. See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 15

2009-04-15T06:16:00.000-07:00

*****

Every day spent writing is a good day, so let’s not tarry.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem (story/six) you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem (six). An example would be to take William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" and change it to "The Red Volkswagon." Or take Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" and change it to "Why I Am Not a Penguin." You get the idea, right? (Note: Your altered poem (six) does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet (writer), though you can try if you wish.)

And our prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“Can you recommend a good book?”

Hope to see you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 14

2009-04-14T06:04:00.000-07:00

*****

Happy Tuesday! Today we get a two-fer from Robert Lee Brewer. Here’s what he’s posted at Poetic Asides:

First prompt: Write a love poem (six).

Second prompt: Write an anti-love poem (six).

Simple as that.

And here’s the enticing little gem I selected from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

After courting online for months, a couple finally meets face-to-face in a hotel bar. Neither looks anything like the pictures they exchanged.

Looks like we could have overlap, but that makes it even more fun. Good luck, everyone. See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 13

2009-04-13T05:34:00.000-07:00

*****

Welcome back to the work week, everyone. We had a great, but busy Easter here. It’s so nice to see family and (over)indulge in the feasting, but I’m ready to get back to work.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) that incorporates a hobby (either yours or someone else's). That's right: Now is the perfect opportunity to write about your comic collection or your scrapbooking activities. And for the purposes of this challenge, I also think activities such as fishing, running, bowling, photography, birding, and gardening count as hobbies.

And the prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

A nosy man eavesdrops on his co-workers and immediately regrets what he hears.

MySixWriMo Day 12

2009-04-12T04:56:00.000-07:00

*****

Happy Easter to all! For those of a Christian persuasion, this is the biggest day of the year. May the joy flow over into all we do, including our writing.

Here's the prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to take the phrase "So we decided to (blank)" and fill in the blank. Make that your title and write a poem. Some possibilities include "So we decided to plant a tree" or "So we decided to burn a hole in the sky."

And the prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

A child finds a magic ring inside a box of cereal.

Happy Easter and happy writing! Hope to see your sixes in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 11 (and sneak peek at Day 12)

2009-04-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

*****

Yesterday’s story came easily for me. A reward, I think, for pushing through. I would never have thought to write a story framed around Fridays if it hadn’t been for the prompt. But once I’d written it, I saw it was in me all the time.

But enough looking backward. Let’s get to today’s prompts.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) about an object (or objects). Though you don't have to confine yourself to straight up description, I do want you to focus on object and/or make it a central piece of your poem (six). One of the more famous poems of contemporary literature does this wonderfully in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow."

And the prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“Either you tell him or I will.”

Write your 6. Share it if you wish. As always, I’ll post mine in the comments.

Now for that sneak peek at Day 12.

I don’t know what the Brewer prompt will be, but here’s what I’m posting tomorrow from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

A child finds a magic ring inside a box of cereal.

MySixWriMo Day 10

2009-04-10T06:16:00.000-07:00

*****
I feel like I’m losing momentum. But I know enough about writing to know this is the time to keep pushing. Sometimes the pushing through brings the best results.

Now to today’s prompts.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

In some circles, today is known as Good Friday. In other circles, every Friday is good (mostly because the weekend has begun). For the rest, Fridays aren't anything special.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about Friday. Do you like Fridays? Despise Fridays? Of course, you can also write about something that happened on a Friday--or write an ode to Fridays. Or, as you know, I'm all for seeing you attack this from an angle I haven't thought of yet.

And the prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“The only thing I’ve got left is my pride.”

Let’s see what we can come up with. See you in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 9

2009-04-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

*****

Today’s a random extra inspiration day. For your reading pleasure, I submit:

SIX REASONS TO MYSIXWRIMO

1) To get the creative juices flowing. It’s hard to face that novel when you first sit down. Start with something small. Limber up, then tackle the tough stuff.

2) To have fun. What’s more fun than finishing a story? When the story is only six sentences long, you get to the fun part even quicker. Woo hoo! You’re done! Now crack that beer open.

3) To challenge yourself. It’s not easy to write a story in 6 sentences. Are you up for it? Just how much can you say and how well?

4) To take a break. We get in ruts sometimes on those long, marathon projects. Sixes are pauses that refresh us, but don’t hijack us from our main focus.

5) To unearth marketable work. Micros are hot. Join the party. Build your audience. Show them how brilliant and brief you can be.

6) To find that gem you never knew you had inside you. You never know what you’ll get. Could be a micro, could be a novel, but you never know until you start to write it down.

Also, a quick announcement: I know Easter is busy for everyone, so I’ll be posting Sunday’s Writer’s Book of Matches prompt on Saturday. I’ll post two to give you a choice.

Now to the prompts.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you write a poem (six) about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories. I suppose it could even be a memory that you're not sure you remember correctly. Take your time finding a good one (or good ones).

And the prompt du jour from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“A woman buys a copy of her high school yearbook through an eBay auction.”

There are so many reasons to write those sixes, so don’t tarry. See you in the comments.

MySixWriMo Day 8

2009-04-08T04:55:00.000-07:00

*****

Today marks the start of our second week. Are we still having fun or has this metamorphosed into work?

It’s a little bit of both for me, but I can’t complain over the results. I already have four winners and two with potential, if I rough them up a bit and make them step into line. Not bad for seven days worth of work.

As of this writing, the prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides wasn’t available yet. I’ll check on it after my morning outing. Here’s the link to the blog, if you want to follow up yourselves:

http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/

And here’s today’s selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“Well, he said he was pretty drunk at the time.”

Write your six sentences. I’ll do the same. See you in the comments later.

MySixWriMo Day 7

2009-04-07T06:08:00.000-07:00

*****

Three prompts today, two for Tuesday plus one. With such abundance, we have no recourse but staggering brilliance.

First the twofer from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

Prompt #1: I want you to write a clean poem (six). Take this however you wish. Clean language, clean subject matter, or cleaning the dishes. Of course, some twisted few will automatically link "cleaning" with hired hitmen. That's okay, as long as your poem (six) is somehow linked to clean.

Prompt #2: I want you to write a dirty poem (six). Take all that stuff I wrote in the first prompt and twist it upside down. The opposite of clean is dirty; so, do what ya gotta do to produce a dirty poem (six).

And one hand-selected by yours truly from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

After five years of admiring her around the office, Michael finally gets the chance to make his move.

So write and post. I’ll do the same. I look forward to the day’s riches.

MySixWriMo Day 6

2009-04-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

*****

A fresh week means fresh ideas. Here are the prompts to get your juices flowing.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's poem, I want you to write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can't put your finger on (like "love" or "the spirit of Christmas" or something).

Andy did such a great job picking yesterday, I gave him another crack at it. From The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

Seven people board a small boat for a tour around the islands; but when the boat returns to the dock, only six people remain on board.

You know the drill. Six sentences on the prompt of your choice. Share if you want. I’ll post mine later.

MySixWriMo Day 5

2009-04-05T06:35:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m saving today’s allotment of creativity for the writing, so let’s get straight to the prompts.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about a landmark. It can be a famous landmark (like Mount Rushmore or the Sphinx) or a little more subdued (like the town water tower or an interesting sign).

I decided to make Sunday hubby’s choice day. Here’s what my husband picked from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

Over the course of one week, a rural woman notices that several items have disappeared from her clothesline.

Write 6 sentences. Share if you want. I’ll post mine in the comments later. Have fun. Be brilliant. Be brief.

MySixWriMo Day 4

2009-04-04T05:21:00.000-07:00

*****

Ah, the weekend, with all its writing opportunities, obstacles and distractions...

So far, I’ve grown two worthy 6’s. One has blossomed into a nice microfiction. The other has a promising bud. I'm even telling myself that if I exercise some restraint, I might be able to prune the extended metaphor disaster of Day 2 into something worthwhile.

Now to today’s prompts:

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides :

For today’s prompt, I want you to pick an animal; make that animal the title of your poem (in our case, 6); then, write a poem (6). You could be very general with your animal title (“Bees” or “Lion”) or specific (“Flipper” or “Lassie”). You could even be very silly with something like “Tony, the Tiger,” I guess (that tiger on the cereal box).

Or, if you prefer, here’s today’s selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“It’s always the quiet ones, you know?”

Instructions are as usual. Share if you wish. I’ll post mine in the comments later. Let me know if you’ve unearthed any diamonds. I’ve got ideas about what we can do with them…

MySixWriMo Day 3

2009-04-03T05:55:00.000-07:00

We’re off to a great start. Let’s keep going.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer …

Take the phrase "The problem with (blank)" and replace the "(blank)" with a word or phrase. Make this the title of your poem and then write a poem to fit with or juxtapose against that title. For instance, you could have poems with the titles of "The problem with government," "The problem with advanced mathematics," or "The problem with bipolar penguins." You know the drill: have fun, be creative

Our selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books) celebrates the creative potential of the US economy:

“I’m sorry. Your position is being eliminated.”

I’ll post my six in the comments later. Post yours in the comments, email them to me, or hide them under your mattress. Happy writing, everyone!

MySixWriMo Day 2

2009-04-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

*****

The creative fun continues. Your mission: write a 6 sentence story based on one of the prompts below.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer …

Today, I want you to write an outsider poem. You can be the outsider; someone else can be the outsider; or it can even be an animal or inanimate object that's the outsider. As usual, get creative with the prompt and don't be afraid to stretch the limits.

And our selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books)…

You’re secretly in love with your best friend’s wife, and you suspect she feels the same way.

I’ll post my meager effort in the comments later. Post yours in the comments, email them to me, or keep your gold for yourself. Up to you. Good luck and good writing, one and all.

MySixWriMo Day 1

2009-04-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

Today marks the official start of MySixWriMo, an entirely unsubsidized, unauthorized event that I made up on a whim. MySixWriMo invites participants to write a 6 sentence story based on a daily prompt. Six Sentence stories are inspired by the form created by Rob McEvily at his blogzine, Six Sentences.

We'll use prompts provided by Robert Brewer, who hosts the April Poem a Day month event at his blog, Poetic Asides. (Poem a Day is an event sponsored by Writer's Digest.) In addition, I may also post another prompt from The Writer's Book of Matches, published by Writer's Digest Books.

You may email your finished 6s to me or post them in the comments section here if you want to be held accountable, but sharing isn't required. This is strictly for fun.

Today's prompt from Robert Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write an origin poem. It can be the origin of a word, person, plant, idea, etc. Have fun with it.

And the prompt taken from The Writer's Book of Matches:

"She checked out last night."

I'll be back later to share my own 6 sentence interpretation. Good luck, everyone!

MySixWriMo

2009-03-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m a sucker for NaNoWriMo. It’s how I brought Folly into the world. If I had it in me (and knew my husband wouldn’t divorce me), I’d do NaNoWriMo every month. So when I heard that Writer’s Digest was doing their April Poem a Day (PAD) marathon again, I felt the creative fires start to stir. I love a trumpet call to recklessly create. Just thinking of it made the words flow juicy in my mouth.

Then I remembered: I’m no poet.

Creative chick that I am, it occurred to me that I do write in a form that bears some resemblance to poetry. Yes, you know what I mean. The mighty Six.

Sixes are these amazing little micro stories, dense with image and metaphor and emotion. They’re the brain child of writing pioneer, Robert McEvily. Rob is a creative thinker and a true friend to struggling writers. You have something to say? Rob wants to hear it.

But in my opinion, the Six form itself is Rob’s greatest contribution. The form of the Six is so tight, the content can't help but burst free. The story lives outside and between the sentences. Sixes knit themselves together in the reader’s mind. The more understated, the better, just like haiku. To write a good Six, you need to invoke feelings and pictures. If you write a great one, it will read like a poem.

So, my challenge for April: to visit Robert Brewer’s PAD blog and use his prompt to write a Six every day. Out of the thirty, there’s bound to be some winners. I’ll post those worthy of public consumption here for you to enjoy/mock/tear to shreds.

One last bit of business: all journeys are more fun when shared. If you want to MySixWriMo with me, give a holler. I'd love to have the company.

A Star Is Born!

2009-03-28T12:01:00.001-07:00

Yep, we're already planning the next play :)

The Show MUST Go On!

2009-03-26T13:52:00.000-07:00

*****

It all began with a rainy Monday and The Kiddo’s bright idea to put on a play.

It went from there into full-fledged crazy.

First, I was up against some serious obstacles. My star is only three years old. She doesn’t read yet, which makes it tough to run lines. My other problem? The little diva wanted a role for her stuffed Stegosaurus, Dino.

I love a writing challenge. It wasn’t long before I had the problems solved. Insert myself as narrator, who could spoonfeed The Kiddo her lines. And as for Dino—I had her voice down pat. Creative juices were flowing. This was going to be fun.

I curled up in my favorite chair with my pen and a notebook. Fifteen minutes later: I had a working draft of “The Princess and the Dinosaur.”

Now here’s the thing about me: when things go well, I don’t know when to put on the brakes. Next thing I know, I’m on the phone, inviting Wonny and Papa (grandparents) to our fabulous play on Friday.

And of course my mom informed me she wanted refreshments. Shit.

Monday afternoon, we jumped into rehearsals with gusto. I read my lines with all the flourish I could muster. The Kiddo’s face collapsed and she bawled red-faced through both rehearsals. I thought, Crap! This is SO not good!

During her nap, I designed and printed programs and tickets, praying it would all work out. Good news: the programs looked better than the ones from our local professional children’s theatre. The bad news: the star still hated the play. Damn.

Tuesday morning, The Kiddo told me she didn’t want to do the yucky play. She informed me she thought the Black Moment was too black. The writer in me couldn’t give up. When things aren’t working, it’s clearly time to revise.

Tuesday afternoon, she approved the revisions and declared the new Black Moment to be just kinda gray. We drove off to the Salvation Army store to find sheets to paint for our backdrop. We enjoyed a frutiful creative meeting over lunch at the Greek restaurant.

Wednesday, rehearsals continued and we painted the backdrops. We got green paint on the floors and walls. I thought it might be fun to do dinner theatre, so I called Wonny and Papa and asked if they wanted potato pancakes or fries with their take-out church fish fry. I took orders and had a few laughs with Mom over how the play was going.

Wonny told me she wanted snacks during the play, too.

“What???” I told her, staring into the phone. “This thing’s only three freaking minutes long! How many snacks you think you’ll have time to eat?”

Wonny wanted snacks. Ok, The Princess and the Dinosaur? I put dinosaur fruit snacks on my grocery list. Before bed, The Kiddo told me she wanted to add a dance number after the curtain call. To Brown Eyed Girl, by Van Morrison.

Sure, whatever.

Thursday, The Kiddo didn’t want to rehearse. She wanted to play with her fairy princess set. I told her Dino was unsure of her lines and needed another rehearsal.

We held a dress rehearsal, during which the cats wreaked havoc. Baxter played with the string I’d rigged to give Dino a more artful entrance. Simon tossed around the plastic baguette we used as a prop.

“BAXTER YOU GET OUT OF HERE!!!!” The Kiddo screamed.

“Just ignore them,” I told her. “They’ll probably be in the middle of things tomorrow anyway.”

Baxter gave me a dirty look. But we all knew it was true.

After lunch, I drove to Karl’s Market to buy The Kiddo’s favorite ranger cookies for after-play refreshments and macerated a pint of frozen raspberries from last year’s garden for sundaes.

Now, the big day looms before us. Props are tucked away where cats can’t get at them. The castle and forest backdrops are waiting to be hung from the entertainment center with masking tape. The costumes hang in the closet, ready. We know our lines and if we forget, who cares? I’m hoping for the best, but things have gotten kind of crazy. (okay, totally)

But no matter what, no matter if the backdrops fall and the damned cats tear everything to shreds, I have to say it’s been an awesome project. We overcame challenges. We had fun. We created. And we did it together and that’s all that really matters.

Sisterhood of the Pen

2009-03-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

*****

WB Linda Wastila tapped me, and a great honor it is. She's a talented writer who makes it seem effortless, but I know she works her butt off to make it happen. Her insightful reading keeps me on my toes.

In the spirit of sisterhood, I pass the tap on. For friendship, encouragement, great advice, and commiseration, I'm lucky to count these fine writers as friends:

Brenda
Linda B
Gail
Daphne
Jane B

Most of you don’t blog, but you deserve the kudos anyway. You’re great friends, generous with your knowledge and companionship. It's a joy to share my journey with you.

Stretch

2009-03-20T13:31:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m going to share a secret about myself. I’m a little shy around people I don’t know. So the idea of getting out there and marketing my work face-to-face scares the crap out of me. I imagine myself at an empty book signing, fidgeting and running off to pee every ten minutes. Even worse, making chit chat at a conference! I’m not a networker. Schmoozing isn’t my thing. I’m more likely to put my foot in it than be brilliant.

Funny thing is, I haven’t always been so painfully shy. Back in the day, working in retail and hairdressing, I had no problems talking to people I didn’t know, sometimes for a couple of hours at a crack. But there was a difference. In those situations, I was performing some function, so I didn’t feel so self-conscious. I had a job to do. Chitchat was part of it.

Recently, I’ve been contemplating my membership in WRWA. (Wisconsin Regional Writers Association) I joined a few months ago for the express purpose of networking with other Wisconsin writers. I haven’t done much with my membership yet. I joined the online forum, but it’s new and is visited only sporadically. I eavesdrop on the daily conversation threads. I considered going to the spring conference, but it’s an unrealistic 7 hour drive from home. So I set my sights on the fall conference instead.

Fall. How many months away is that? And coincidentally, fall is when my annual membership expires. Needless to say, I’m not making the most of my membership.

Yesterday, the WRWA president sent out an email, asking for someone to serve as fall conference registrar. Right away, it seemed like a good idea. But--another little secret--I sometimes bite off more than I can chew, so I thought about it overnight and talked it over with my husband. After reflection, registrar didn’t seem like the right fit for a writer with a little kid and two writing groups to keep up with. It’s unrealistic to expect I can serve such an important role when I’ve never been to even one WRWA conference.

But, as I saw the email in my inbox, I couldn’t let it slide. I emailed Robin back before I could chicken out. I told him I wasn’t able to serve as registrar, but I’d like to help in some other way. He seemed pleased at my offer of help. He forwarded my message to other officers, who are currently figuring out where I might fit.

So I wait to hear what opportunities lay ahead. And I worry about feeling shy and awkward. But I’m a together chick with a lot of heart and an unwavering love of writing. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I’m excited to find out. I’m sure I’ll be glad I sent that email.

All Around Us

2009-03-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

*****

Good news: the Best of Boston Literary Market Chapbook came out yesterday and my drabble, “Twenty Years Later” is in there. Also included is the work of writing friend, Linda Simoni-Wastila. I’ve seen the proofs, but not the finished product. I submitted my order immediately. I can’t wait to see how it feels in my hands.

Linda and I exchanged excited emails. A comment she made got me thinking. She said something to the effect that the further she gets into it, the smaller and more intimate the writing world feels. And she’s right. Two years ago, the writing world seemed like a massive fortress I just couldn’t breach. I had no contacts. I had no publishing credits. Two years ago, I was an outsider. I didn’t like that, so I committed to changing my circumstance. Today, I’m far from the inner circle, but I’m blessed to find myself in the company of friends.

In many ways, the writing world is with us everywhere we go. An example: the other night, I went to my bimonthly Stitch and Bitch group. I’m the only writer in the group. That night, I had knitting on my mind. But friend Debbie shared a story that got my writerly wheels turning. She was recounting a story about an acquaintance of ours, a man whose mental health we often debated. And I reacted to it with a glowing rainbow of emotions. Horror, pity, fear, disgust. Most interesting: at the heart of the story was love. What writer could leave such treasure untouched? I started drafting first thing the next morning.

My point, and there is one: the writing world surrounds us in many ways. But only when we commit to immersion. Connecting with other writers, seeking the seeds of stories, carving out time to create. It’s not easy. There are sacrifices. Sometimes big ones. But the experience of immersion is worth it.

Monologue in Cyberspace

2009-03-06T13:20:00.000-08:00

*****

I Googled myself today. I know, it’s kinda weird, but I find it interesting to see how cyberspace reports me. I found out I’m a writer and chick with a lot of published recipes. Already knew that. But today, I discovered something new. I’m also a reviewed writer. I was so tickled, I had to share.

Here’s what Molly Tolsky had to say about “In Limbo” in her report on Word Riot magazine:

"In Limbo by Greta Igl is a plainspoken, realistic story in a domestic setting. Nora has been a waitress at Jimmy's Corner Café for 17 years. One day, she waits on a nicely dressed couple, and though they are being perfectly friendly to her, she can't help but get frustrated with these kinds of people—the kind that are much [better] off than her. When the couple notices the for-sale sign in front of the diner, the woman asks Nora where she'll go once the place is gone. While she doesn't say it, Nora knows she'll probably go to a place that's just like this one and keep doing the same thing over and over again.

The pace of this story is very slow and steady, which immediately wraps you up into the atmosphere of this “piece of crap diner,” where people move slowly and nothing ever happens. The only problem is that nothing ever happens in the story, either, so as a reader, I was less than engaged. There are some nice gestures here and there, such as,“Nora picks a fleck of dried egg yolk from one of the chrome jelly stackers,” but for the most part, all we get is Nora's internal monologue about her frustrations with going nowhere in life. This created too much internal, not enough external."

Cool, hey? Now, I have no idea who Molly Tolsky is. My guess is she’s a writer like me, struggling to get her footing. But isn’t it interesting to think that, during the time she read “In Limbo” and wrote her school report on it, our lives were somehow intersecting. I put an idea out there; she built on it to create her own interpretation. That fact intrigues me so much that I’m not even bugged that she was “less than engaged” by my story.

I like that. Less than engaged. Molly doesn’t know it, but I’ve had fun unpacking that enigmatic statement. Did she mean bored shitless? Or perhaps mildly entertained? She wrote about my story; I’m returning the favor and writing about her report. Perhaps one day she'll Google herself and trip across this post. Then she can write about me writing about her writing about me. Freaky.

It just goes to show: all this writing we do is merely a monologue into cyberspace. We write and never know who might be reading. Our words can take on their own life. Perhaps they'll germinate, root, and bloom into something else. I'm humbled by the beautiful divinity in never knowing where my words might land.

Prompt Me!

2009-02-22T08:24:00.000-08:00

*****

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again: I love prompts. A good prompt is a jolt to my creativity. It gets me thinking of stories I wouldn’t have imagined otherwise. I look for prompts everywhere. In snippets of overheard conversation. In writer’s magazines and websites. In the Theme Calendar on Duotrope’s Digest.

One of my favorite sources for prompts is the Writer’s Digest Your Story contest. WD provides a prompt, then asks readers to submit a 750 word story based on the prompt. Some are silly, some are serious, but they’re almost always thought-provoking.

With the last issue, it finally registered that WD culled their prompts from a book: The Writer’s Book of Matches: 1001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction. I decided to buy a copy. And I’ve become rather annoying with it. I’ve sent prompts, unsolicited, to my nearest and dearest writing buddies. And I’ve taken the book to share at my writer’s workshop. Plain and simple, this is a great book. I can’t wait to get the most from it.

So far, I’ve just browsed it and admired the creativity driving them. But I’ve decided to go one step further. Starting today, I’m going to do a prompt-a-day freewrite. I plan to go through the prompts in order, one at a time. And I’m going to find a way to approach each that stretches my creativity, yet remains true to myself as a writer.

For anyone who wishes to join me, here’s prompt #1. Good luck and good writing. May the muse shine on you.

“Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him.” (From The Writer’s Book of Matches: 1001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction. Writer’s Digest Books, 2005.)

Take it Slow

2009-02-13T13:34:00.000-08:00

*****

It’s been a rough couple weeks here. (Hence, no posts.) First, darling daughter came down with some strange virus. Within days, my husband and I had it, too. I won’t bore you with the details. But suffice to say we’re still recuperating. We’re moving slowly here. But then, I’ve never thought slow was bad.

The older I get, the more I like slow. There’s beauty in slow, a kind of gentle reverence. Like taking long walks with my husband under the waning autumn sun. Or spaghetti sauce that bubbles noisily on the stove all day. I like how daffodils are slow to uncurl their fists in spring. I like the unhurried way snowflakes drift to the ground.

But perhaps the nicest thing about how slowly we’re moving lately is the time it’s given me to savor some recent successes. This week, for all its frustrations, has brought exciting news.

“Twenty Years Later” has been selected for The Best of Boston Literary Magazine chapbook. That news makes me happy. The story, a drabble, was originally published by BLM last summer. Now, like so many of my works, it seems to be finding a second chance at life. I like second chances, with its connotation of both past and present. A chance at redemption for those of us who don’t always get things right the first time.

Just as exciting, I had good news from On the Premises. “The Market” has been awarded an Honorable Mention in their recent Again-themed short fiction contest. I win on multiple levels here: a cash prize and the publication of a story that cuts close to my heart. I’m not sure when it will be published, but safe to say, you’ll see the news posted here.

So I sniffle and celebrate, sip tea and ruminate. (illness has left me tritely poetic) Things are good now, even if they aren’t perfect. But the sniffles will pass and the successes remain. For now I bask in them and watch for what’s next.

The Middle of Nowhere

2009-01-29T14:48:00.000-08:00

*****

I’ve turned my attention to a little nonfiction project. My workshop instructor, Gail, is encouraging us to enter The Sun’s Readers Write contests. So I’m plugging away at the March 1 deadline theme: The Middle of Nowhere.

This theme screams to me for so many reasons. The middle of nowhere is my childhood encapsulated. I am an only child. I grew up on a farm that had been allowed to return to prairie. I spent my ‘tween years making long, lonely bike rides into town, my bike whizzing through the middle of nowhere. And there’s an avalanche of sharp emotional stuff that’s hard to share.

A favorite memory is walking home from the middle school I attended. On nice days, I’d get this wild need in me to be free the moment the final bell rang. The buses sat parked, waiting in front of the building. All the kids streamed like lemmings toward them. But I’d sneak out the back and hike across the playground, across the baseball diamond and the long expanse of purposeless grass. I’d feel that yoke of peer pressure and school garbage melt off me as the schoolyard melted into the woods. I’d walk along the edge of the woods, forest on one side, tall grass on the other, for a mile or more until the woods faded away into a patchwork quilt of muddy corn fields. In Spring I was careful to stick to the rutted tractor path, picking my way across the matted bleached grass. Eventually, the path led to a small brook. There were a few well placed stones that even I (never graceful, no matter how I tried) could cross without getting my feet wet. A little further along the cornfield and I’d clamber up the ditch onto the road in front of my house. Sometimes the bus whooshed past me in a gush of gray exhaust as I stood on the tractor path, waiting to cross to home.

For the most part, it’s nice revisiting those memories. As for my contest entry, I don’t have any cohesive thesis. My plan is to write and write and write. Eventually, I suspect I’ll find a focus. I guess the middle of nowhere is where I am right now, wandering through my memories, trying to find my way.

Not So Terrible

2009-01-23T14:22:00.001-08:00

*****

This week, I took my recent Your Story entry to my weekly writing workshop. Since it didn’t make the cut with WD, I thought I’d work the piece over a bit to turn it into a saleable story. I explained the prompt and guidelines: Write 750 words max on Three boys go to a local swimming hole. Shortly after they arrive, something terrible happens.

Some of the responses I received got me thinking.

From one critic:

“…I don’t really think this meets the requirement of ‘something terrible’.”

From another:

“Not a ‘terrible’ event as the prompt had maybe wanted…”

On reexamination, I think they were right, to a certain extent. When I approached the prompt, I decided to take a creative approach to it, rather than falling into the trap of the predictable. I elected to rely on point of view. The events of the story—a young boy is thwarted when he attempts to kiss a girl he has a crush on – aren’t technically terrible. No one dies. No one is maimed. No flesh-eating zombies burst from the woods to eat the amorous young pair. But this thwarting of his blossoming youthful love feels terrible to Danny, the protagonist. He’s admired Beth from afar for a long time. He finally has a chance to overcome his social inadequacies and seize the moment and the girl. But he’s interrupted before he can clinch the deal. In my eyes, a teenager would see that as terrible.

It made me think of melancholy Prince Hamlet:

For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. (Act II, Scene 2)

Shakespeare knew it and all self-respecting writers know it: good and terrible are entirely relative. It’s called point of view.

Still, the critics got me thinking. In the end, here’s what I conclude:

My critics failure to see the terribleness of this event was not a failure of imagination on their part. But instead I think it marks a failure on my part as the author to paint the event in all its emotional drama.

So back to the drawing board to paint Danny’s heartbreak more darkly. I have a good idea how to do it. And now that the manacles of word count are off, I have no excuse for not getting it right.

No Go? Oh, Good!

2009-01-20T15:20:00.000-08:00

*******

I found out today my story “Vanilla” didn’t make the cut for the latest Writer’s Digest Your Story contest.

A bit of backstory: not making the Your Story cut used to make me crazy. I’d read the finalists and bitch and moan. I’d boil over every trite phrasing the finalists got away with. I’d fume over every cheap ploy. It wasn’t fair! I’d labored over my entry. Couldn’t they see my genius, for God's sake??????

A year later, I couldn’t care less.

I’m actually rather relieved that my story wasn’t selected. This time, I’d felt my hands were tied by the 750 word limit. Vanilla is a story with a gigantic heart. But it was stifled by a restrictive word limit. Now, the sky’s the limit.

But there’s more than that to my change of heart.

Fact One: All I really want is a good story. And Vanilla could be very good. Had it made the cut, it would have been as half-developed adolescent. Now that the gloves are off, I can bring it to adulthood.

Fact Two: The whole story was born from the Your Story prompt. The story never would have come to life without it. A good prompt is like a gift from the writing gods. So, I didn’t win in the traditional sense, but really, I won.

Fact Three: Past losses have led to bigger, better wins. Burning Black was a Your Story reject from last year. I sold it to Every Day Fiction and it made their annual anthology. Now a copy of that anthology is sitting in a coffeehouse gathering me more readers (I hope) The ante is upped when you consider that even if Burning Black had been picked as a finalist in Your Story, it would have been put out anonymously until a final winner was selected. If it didn’t win, no one would ever know it was my story. And anonymity doesn’t net new readers.

How many times our losses turn out to be wins.

So what’s your story? When did you lose, then win? Give a holler. I like a good Cinderella story.

Just Because I Can, Doesn’t Mean I Should

2009-01-14T09:55:00.000-08:00

*****

I have a recurring problem with my writing. I fall into these long passages of glorious description, when I should be moving on with my story.

Take, for example, this paragraph from an early draft of my short story, “The Getaway”:

The day of the outing dawned too beautiful for Mark’s liking. Blue sky, a fresh dusting of snow on the branches, but the roads clear and wet as they drove along the shore of Lake Michigan. The beach was a gallery of contorted ice sculptures, crystalline white blocks tumbled against one another by the waves, spires and hollows where the water had carved and dripped. Beyond the ice field, the water gleamed frozen green, the color of old Coke bottles capped with choppy white frost. It was beautiful in a way that hurt his eyes, unblemished, too pristine, too perfect.

Ugh. Too much, clearly. In the revised version, after much prompting by writing friends, I pared this back considerably and also fixed the glaring structural errors. But it was a bear to let even one image go, although I knew the story cried for it.

I think this disease comes from an honest place: my longstanding adoration of F. Scott Fitzgerald. There are passages in Gatsby that make me weep, even after a dozen or more readings. I’ve never been able to read about the billowing curtains at Daisy Buchanan’s house without floating away with them. On a recent reread of “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” I was astonished at the lightness of his prose, of how masterfully he used it to make the inevitable emotional crash at the end of the story more devastating. When it comes to wringing potential from language, Fitzgerald was a master.

I need to master restraint.

This issue loomed hugely on my recent reread of Folly. I suspected there was far too much artful clutter, but I was loathe to clip a single word. In retrospect, I see I need to surgically excise at least a third of the description slogging down the pace.

It brings to mind a favorite analogy, from Gary Provost’s Beyond Style: Mastering the Finer Points of Writing. In it, Provost compares a story to a race car and excess words to penny nails. One or two nails won’t slow down a story, but sacks and sacks loaded in the backseat will. The message is clear: jettison the junk.

I think all writers stand at the edge of this trap. We’re so in love (and hate, but that’s another post) with what we write, we can’t imagine our stories being trimmed. It’s hard to step aside, to let the story stand alone, rather than prop it up with authorial help. We describe things to death, say the same thing over and over. We beat our readers over the heads with our intrusive presence. Sure they get it, but do they really want or need to? Just because we can doesn’t mean we should.

And yes, I should take a hacksaw to this post, too.

Can You Get There From Here?

2009-01-12T09:18:00.000-08:00

*****

I’ve been trying to get back into Folly. Problem is, I’m all hung up. I reread chapter one, getting ready to tackle chapter two, only to realize chapter one needs work. So now I have a quandary: do I go back and rework chapter one? Or do I plow ahead with chapter two? How do I ever finish something as big as a novel if I never like what I wrote?

Anyone who knows me can guess what I decided to do. Yep, I wrote a short story. When in doubt, I tend to avoid the problem by tackling small bits I feel are within my grasp.

But that isn’t getting the novel done, is it?

I’ve justified this behavior a million ways. I’m just too busy right now to concentrate on something so long. The kiddo’s too little for me to get anywhere on big projects. I can’t decide which novel is best to pursue. I’ll just finish this/these quick short story/ies, then I’ll get back to work on my novel/s. I’ll clean the house/go camping/polish my toenails/weed the garden first. I need to lose weight. I need more rest. I have a cold.

It’s pissing me off. The problem is me, and I know what at least part of it is. I need the gratification of getting something done. And writing a novel is a damned long haul. I love seeing my growing list of short story credits. I love checking my email, hoping for another acceptance. But I want to hold a book with my name on the cover in my hand. When people ask what I write, I want to offer the title of a novel and tell them to trek over to the bookstore and buy it.

So how do I get there from here?

Yes, I know the answer: one scraped out word at a time. But it’s not as easy as it seems. This writing life has set me out on an odyssey of personal growth equal only to the demands of parenting. Clearly, I have one more monster I need to slay.

What kind of obstacles have you faced in your writing? How did you overcome them? Or are you still slogging around like me?

Progress, Kinda

2009-01-05T12:56:00.000-08:00

*****

I finally finished “The End of Day.” For those who don’t know, I’ve been fighting this story since I scratched out the first draft in Rhinelander in July. From the start, it felt like a special piece, even in its earliest forms. But it needed work. (Ok, an overhaul.) And, like all doting mamas, I couldn’t see its faults.

At the same time, I couldn’t let it go.

I can’t count how many times I worked End of Day over. Usually, just changing a few words and lamenting that inner tension that comes from being onto something that could be really good, yet knowing I still didn’t have it right. It reminded me of when my daughter was born; I labored for almost four days, but it was all work without any progress.

I think what bothered me most was how hung up I became in it. Toiling over adjectives that really didn’t matter. Agonizing over trivialities like dialogue tags. I told myself I needed to get End of Day out the door so I could get back to work on Folly. From Thanksgiving on, I puttered and puttered and puttered, while Folly grew cold on the back burner.

Then, with the new year, providence: WB Stephen identified the missing key to the puzzle. He even offered a suggestion how to fix it. And it was a good suggestion. A really, really, really good suggestion. The kind where you read it and that “Oh, yeah,” feeling washes over you. After all those months of tinkering, puttering, putzing, within an hour, End of Day was fixed. I submitted it to Flashquake this morning.

So no more excuses. No more distractions. No putzing. Come naptime today, I reopen Folly. I’ve neglected it and I expect it will fight me for that. But I’ll ease in, make my peace, nudge it gently. A series of tiny steps taken in the same direction eventually leads somewhere. Folly and I will get there, come distractions and high water.

And as for you, Stephen. Buddy. I owe you a beer. Thanks for helping me knock off my biggest excuse. Now I’m just left with the ones too personal to reveal here. So I’d better get my butt in gear.

Hot Six for 2009

2009-01-01T12:26:00.000-08:00

*****

Since last year's resolutions went so well, I'm posting my list for 2009. Here are my goals for the year:

Finish revisions on Jamieson’s Folly.
Write 10 short stories.
Of those, publish at least 5.
Keep up this blog.
Implement at least one other way of effectively promoting my writing.
Complete NaNoWriMo.

It's a short list, but it should keep me busy. I look forward to ticking each of these off in the gleaming, fresh months ahead.

May all of you have a wonderful year, filled with growth, fulfillment and realized potential. Whatever you do, keep writing!

The End is Near

2008-12-29T14:58:00.000-08:00

*****

Just when I got used to 2008, 2009 decided to close in fast. In the spirit of reflection and the hope for continued growth, I’d like to reexamine 2008’s goals and see how well I met them.

#1 ~ Design and implement an effective blog.

Done.

#2 ~ Get 4 more publishing credits.

Done.

Not only did I meet this one, I did way better, publishing 10 stories in 2008.

#3 ~ Get paid for a piece of writing.

Done.

I didn’t make millions, but I was offered a few honorariums for my work. It felt good and I'm pleased it happened.

#4 ~ 1 publishing credit in a semi-prestigious market.

Done.

Between The Burning Black being selected for EDF’s 2008 Best of Anthology and my author interview with EDF in early December, this was a great year for having my work acknowledged.

#5 ~ Finish a novel. Any novel.

Not done. But, I’m working on Folly and have finally selected a novel to commit to. What’s more, I’m extremely pleased with what I’ve accomplished thus far in the second draft. Folly’s a winner and I’m very proud of it.

I’m starting a new novel workshop in January. That should move Folly forward. I expect by this time 2009. I’ll tick this one off my list.

#6 ~ Successful 2008 NaNoWriMo.

Also not done.

This one was intentionally left undone. With the first drafts of two novels wrapping themselves around my ankles, drafting a third was risking breaking my authorial neck. November was hard. I yearned to write a crappy novel. But I’m committed to Folly, so I watched the days tick by and dreamed of writing recklessly next year.

Now for a few unexpected successes from 2008.

1) The great week at Rhinelander School of the Arts.

By far, this was the best thing I ever did for my writing. I’ve never been so energized, inspired, excited and exhausted by my own work. I’ll go back, as soon as family fortunes permit it.

2) Being reunited with some old online writing buddies.

I swore I wouldn’t get involved in another online critique group. I was wrong and this is one time I’m happy to admit it.

3) New writing buddy Jane.

Jane’s been a great source of support. I’ve loved sharing what little I know with her. She’s a tremendous talent and I’m so happy to have her as a writing pal. I look forward to our learning more from each other.

And finally, a few setbacks:

1) While I’m pleased with Folly, I wish I was moving faster on revisions. I seem to get bogged down with the tweaking and honing. Clearly, this is something I need to get better at.

2) I had to walk away from Somewhere on the Road to Me, at least for now. I love that story. I love those girls. But until I earn my revision chops, I need to let it rest in peace.

Looking back, the successes far outweighed the setbacks. It's been an amazing year for me as a writer, full of growth, opportunity, inspiration, friendship and joy. As we march forward, I wish all of you these same blessings and the satisfaction that invariably comes with them.

Vast, Black Empties

2008-12-19T13:35:00.000-08:00

*****

I’m on the brink of doing some writing. I’ve skirted the edge of a few ideas. I’ve had good intentions, then abandoned them. I’ve wanted to revise a novel, whip out a few 6s, write a play and draft a few quick flashes. I’ve even thought about revisiting “The End of Day,” a flash I got great feedback on from some fellow writers. But what have I actually done this month? A whole lot of nothing. If Santa awarded gifts based on productivity, I’d end up owing him.

I go through this every December. The worst part is how unbalanced I feel. I’m one of those people who gets snarky when she doesn’t write. A whole lot of uneasiness wells up inside me. I don’t like myself. I want to peel off my identity. I sizzle with energy that has no safe outlet. During December, I put that energy into holiday preparations. I bake cookies. I meet friends for dinner. I cook for the hungry masses. This year, I ventured into something new and unhappy, namely some exhausting girlfriend dramas. Clearly, I’m not the only one who suffers holiday insanity. And still, in the midst of wrapping presents and angsty reconciliations, there’s the awful feeling of emptiness. The waiting.

I’m a big believer in the God-shaped hole in our hearts. I’ve lived with it. I’ve seen it consume the lives of others. I’ve seen people throw drugs, alcohol, shopping, sex, bad relationships, anything they can find into the void of their vast, black empties. My writing is what helps fill mine. I think that’s why God gave it to me and why I miss it so much when it’s gone. It’s my balance, how I make sense of His world. Without it, life seems like so much clanging noise.

At the bottom of it all, we need peace. Peace that surpasses all understanding, the kind that bubbles unexpectedly from the stormy heart. And I know it’s there, hiding in the empties. So I count the days until Christmas, hungry for peace, knowing God comes to us in so many ways.

Dilemma Time

2008-12-10T13:51:00.000-08:00

*****

Apparently, December is dilemma time. I’m currently embroiled in the classic: “Do I write or revel?” Writing is hard and it’s easy to let it get inched out by shopping, entertaining, party going, card writing, and decorating. If normal Christmas madness isn’t enough, I’ll be hosting three parties between now and Christmas Eve. Everywhere I turn, I seem to trip over a dilemma. Do I serve cocktail wienies or meatballs in chili sauce for the cookie party? Should I serve heavy hors d’oeuvres for Christmas Eve or a traditional ham dinner? And what the heck do we give Grandpa?!?!

It’s not even mid-month and I’m decision-ed out.

The writing front hasn’t given me a holiday break, either. There’s always the ongoing decisions to make while revising Folly. What’s the best way to ease into the next chapter? What exactly does Nate reveal during that first meeting with Nick? But my most pressing dilemmas seem to revolve around marketing. They’re the choices I need to make now, but I feel the least confident about.

The anthology: The EDF Best of 2008 anthology is out and it’s time to order my copies. So here I am with a wonderful opportunity, wrapped in a thorny dilemma: how do I best use this opportunity to promote my work? Andy and I have been hammering out possibilities: donating a copy to our local library and asking my buddies there to catalogue it for the collection; donating a copy to our cats’ vet for his waiting area; buying extra copies and hawking them to interested acquaintances; donating a copy to my alma mater. The possibilities are endless, but we need to use our promotion dollars wisely. There’s no use giving away books that will gather dust. I still haven’t come to any solid decisions.

And then there’s “The Market.” Some of you may remember this story—a piece from my ongoing Mark/Leslie/David series. I sent this out to Publication A several months ago, where it’s been waiting and moldering while they published a special themed issue. I usually have a slim to none chance with A; it’s a high profile, prestige publication whose normal acceptance rate is just over 1%. With a backlog of submissions due to the themed issue, I figure my chances are nonexistent. So, a few months later, I sent Market off to Publication B, which has an aversion to simultaneous submissions. In my thinking, A would never take the story. B is a long shot, but I thought I’d give it a try. I expect a rejection from B in February.

In the meantime, I’ve tripped across a lucrative contest that I believe would be a perfect fit for Market. The deadline, January 31. So now the dilemma: do I enter Market even though it could possibly burn bridges with B? Karma makes this tiny world go round, and I hate to foster bad ju-ju. But my job is to find the best home for my fictional babies and to make the most of possible opportunities to advance my work. Sometimes that means taking a gamble.

Have you ever faced dilemmas like this in your writing? What did you do? I’d love to hear from you.

Change Is Good

2008-11-29T14:37:00.000-08:00

*****

Change is in the air.

Some changes I expected. I initiated the largest one myself. I’m changing from the writing workshop I’ve been in for the last two years to a smaller, more intensive writing group. It’s not that I don’t like the old group. I do, and I plan to stick with it. But the group has grown and the critiques have become less insightful. Many of the writers, though talented, aren’t as interested in writing as a career as I am, so they (understandably) don’t devote the time to their writing I do. I, on the other hand, need to dig in and commit, to have writing buddies who will be there, deeply assessing each inch of the story arc. So a new group to meet that ever-growing need.

Other changes have taken me by surprise. Old writing friends reappeared a few weeks ago to invite me to join them on a new writer's forum. After I left the Writer’s Digest forum, I never thought I’d participate in an online forum again. (Not anything against the forum; it was primarily a time issue that tugged me away.) But, now that I’m back in with these fine, generous writers, I find myself enjoying it. Time is still a major issue. I try to do one well-considered critique a day. It isn’t much, but I do my best.

But perhaps the biggest change has been the new phase my writing has entered. Prior to now, getting my writing out for public consumption had been an uphill battle. I’ve earned every acceptance I had by enduring fistfuls of discouraging rejections. One story, recently accepted, was rejected five times before it finally found a home.

Somehow, I’ve crossed a magical threshold where my work has developed a life of its own and is creating its own opportunities. Two such marvels have come my way this month:

* My short story, “The Burning Black,” has been selected for Every Day Fiction’s Best of 2008 anthology.

* My short story, “Free,” was the most read story on Every Day Fiction for September, amassing a mind-boggling 1400 reads. Every Day Fiction has graciously requested an interview with me (yes, of course, I accepted). So my first official author interview is scheduled to be published December 1.

Wow. It’s been a long haul getting here. And I can’t believe where I stand. I have a long way to go. The same day I got the interview request, EDF also sent me a rejection. And Jamieson’s Folly is far from finished. But I feel like I’m getting somewhere and I’m damn grateful for it.

I’d like to add one final note: I’ve always been a person who dreads change. I live and die by my daily routine. God help anyone who messes with it. But for the first time in my life, I see change as an organic and beneficial force in my life. I see change can be good. Perhaps that’s what I should celebrate the most.

Et Tu, Brute? (Or the Danger and Joy of Writing Buddies)

2008-11-13T12:19:00.000-08:00

*****

This week, I’ve had the privilege of observing (from a safe distance) a brouhaha on a new writing forum. I’ve seen it before: one person decides to push his or her weight around and offer dictatorial, snide, nasty critiques. In return, the rest of the community bands against the offender with a pack mentality until the offender flees.

In this case, buddy Stephen offered up a slice of story that used third person present tense. To the critic, this POV choice was simply intolerable and required an aggressive offensive determined to MAKE STEPHEN CHANGE THAT STORY.

Personally, I feel sorry for everyone involved. For my buddy, because he’s a damn fine writer and a helluva nice guy who doesn’t deserve to be ragged on so viciously. For the critic (who shall go unnamed), because she’s one of those people who always have to be right. Right can be a lonely place and lonely places aren’t the best for us writers.

Stephen’s bad experience got me thinking about my own experiences with writing buddies. I’ve been a buddy to many. I’ve had many buddies myself. And I’ve had some real nightmares, people like our critic above who insist you write your story their way or you’ll never achieve an ounce of success. (Or they call names and run away. Bullies are the same whether you’re twelve or forty.) But, after sifting through the duds, I find myself graced with a handful of particularly fruitful writing friendships.

So here are my thoughts about what makes a good writing buddy.

1) Honesty

A good writing buddy wants you to succeed, so he’ll give you his honest opinion, even if it hurts.

2) Kindness

A good writing buddy tempers his honesty with kindness. My playwriting teacher in Rhinelander this year, Liz Fentress, phrased the nature of constructive critique perfectly: DO NO HARM.

3) Ability to communicate

A good writing buddy knows how to put his thoughts into words. He can identify what he sees and name it. He can offer suggestions to help you improve.

4) Vision—both literary and career

A good writing buddy knows about literature and good writing. He reads books. He has his eye on literary trends, past, present and future. He also has an eye toward career track. He knows your strategy for reaching your goals. He watches for articles that may help you fine tune your plans. He wouldn’t insist you try something you aren’t comfortable with. He keeps you on the straight and narrow.

5) Commitment and an earnest desire to helping a buddy succeed

A good writing buddy makes time to read your stuff. He reads it with an eye toward making your writing its very best. He takes his time when critiquing your work. He thinks it over while he’s in the shower or on the freeway. He isn’t distracted by petty jealousy. He cheers you on when you hit a roadblock. He believes in your work as strongly as you do. He tells other people how talented you are. He reads your stuff again when it’s published.

6) Ability to offer both constructive criticism and praise.

A good writing buddy points out what works and what doesn’t. He helps you learn to work to your strengths and either eliminate or circumvent your weaknesses.

7) Respect

A good writing buddy treats you like he wants to be treated himself. He acknowledges graciously that you’re the author of your work and he doesn’t try to bully or intimidate you. I saved respect for last because I believe it’s the most important. It’s the fuel that drives the friendship forward.

Viva Las Vegas!

2008-11-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

*****

I’m back from Vegas, tired, but inspired. Crossing two time zones, enduring brutally early flights, and contending with another seasonal time change when I got home have wreaked havoc on my energy level. And, of course, let's not forget all those miles of walking and gawking on the Strip. I think I put on five miles in Caesar’s Palace alone. (For the uninitiated, don’t go there without a map.)

But it was a good trip, full of writing and personal revelations. Here’s the short-list of what got me thinking:

1) Inspiration can come anywhere.

What should have been a relaxing massage generated a story idea when my masseuse chose to unload to me about his marital problems. I’ve never had a massage before, but even I know the massage therapist isn’t supposed to talk for the entire hour. And, believe me, we covered the gamut of topics, everything from following God’s will to impotence to defunct marital communications. As I lay there with my face buried in that sheet covered little donut, I remember wondering if Ed would ever shut up. Later, as my friend Mary and I soaked in the Jacuzzi, I had this vision of the spa as a Christian cleansing ritual. I would have never thought it, but Blathering Ed and my day at the spa got the wheels turning for a new short story. I’m not ready to write it yet, but the seeds are there. And I have a theme: finding God in Vegas.

2) Details, details, details.

I was pleased to see how faithfully I’d recreated aspects of Vegas in Jamieson’s Folly. But the tawdriness of Vegas loomed larger for me this trip. For the first time ever, I noticed the hookers on the Strip. The guys handing out hooker trading cards seemed more grubbily ubiquitous. I felt like a kid who just realized she’d made a horrible, public mistake. The nasty aspect of Vegas is lacking in the revised parts of Folly. For a bit, I saw myself rewriting the whole bollixed first chapter. But a good night’s sleep made me see it with fresh eyes. When Nick arrives in Vegas, he sees it with the eyes of youth. The grubbiness of the city doesn’t really register. He’s too caught up in the glamour and glitz. It will be better to add the grungy side as Nick’s illusions are stripped away. His altered view of the city will make a great parallel for his disillusionment.

3) Seasons are as fluid as martinis.

While we were there, Vegas experienced unseasonably high temperatures—mid to upper 80s during the day and 60s at night. It was beautiful, even to someone who thought she was ready for the cool, crisp temperatures of fall. I enjoyed slipping back into the sultriness of summer, feeling the warm sun on my face. It was like one last fling with my sandals and summer before both went away for too long.

Just as I enjoyed slipping back into summer, so I enjoyed seeing Tom Jones perform at the MGM Grand. Tom’s fully into the autumn of life, but he still embraces performing like a kid bursting forth out of spring. And he still emanates that smoldering sexuality that made him a star in the 60s. Nicest of all is that he still enjoys the magic that music has brought to his life. He experiments with new styles. He tries new things, even as he hangs on to what’s worked for him all along. In spite of all the obvious plastic surgery, his wizened journey through the seasons has inspired me. Yes, seasons change and we should embrace them, but the core of who we are remains unwavering and strong.

Toes, Fabulous; Writing, Crap

2008-10-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m in a funk lately. None of my writing projects seems to be going quite right. The last scene of Folly’s chapter one needs work. The flash piece I started in Rhinelander over the summer is…not quite right. I’ve shared it with writing buddy Jane and she says she likes it. But something about it just…isn’t right.

It has me wondering: why can’t there be some universal rule about writing that, when things aren’t right, we know to check a certain thing and—VOILA!—we arrive at the answer. Or why can’t someone invent the Revise-O-Matic? We plop in the rough draft, press a button, and –WHAMMO!— out spits a polished manuscript. But I guess that’s the thorniest bitch about writing: it’s never easy. If it is, I know better than to trust it.

Personally, I think it’s the pressure that’s getting to me. I’m a one-track thinker and having two projects really messes with me. And deadlines are doing me in. I need to get both these pieces done before I go to Vegas next week. But I sit down and don’t know where to begin. I’m on overload.

I have no answers. Vegas is looming and I’m excited. In the meanwhile, I need to clear the decks. After the two projects, my top priority should be spending this week thinking of what I want to research while I’m in Vegas. Instead, I spent the morning giving myself a pedicure. My toes look great, but my writing is in shambles. It makes no sense, but the whole writing process rarely does. The biggest mystery: why we do it at all.

The Beauty in Rejection

2008-10-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

*****

A week or so ago, a writer friend emailed to ask what was new with my writing. I filled her in on the highlights: small forward progress on Jamieson’s Folly. Two rejections on short stories I’d submitted.

She emailed me back how badly it sucked that I’d had my stories rejected, how awful she felt for me. As I read her response, I remember shrugging my shoulders and thinking, “Gee, it’s not that big of a deal.” I appreciated her commiserating with me—that’s what friends are for—but what interested me most was that I’d crossed an important threshold in my writing career. I’d learned rejection is part of the process.

It got me thinking. Back a year or so ago, I was sick at heart over every single rejection I got. I remember whining (and I mean WHINING) to my writing workshop buddies over the endless rejections I’d gathered. I was angry, too. How could these editors not think my work was gold? Were they just too stupid to get it?

They weren’t. But I was. Back in those days I didn’t see rejection for what it is: opportunity and conditioning for publishing.

As for opportunities, I think rejections offer a few:

One, rejections opened the door for me to view my work with fresh eyes and see where I could grow and develop. Any time I get better at my craft, that’s a very good thing.

Two, the opportunity to mature. My stack of rejections fueled my hunger to publish and to do that, I needed to improve. To improve, I needed to get past my fragile ego. To do any of this, I needed to work hard and persist. I think rejections serve to separate the wheat from the chaff. Quitters get rejections and give up. Those who persist grow and develop into better writers. Writers who persist and work hard eventually get published.

Now conditioning: It’s hard when an editor responds to a hopeful submission by saying he thinks my story sucks. But it’s harder to have my work published for all the world to see and have people flagellate me publicly. Rejection taught me: some people say rotten, mean things about my stories just because they’re rotten, mean people. And some people just don’t like my style. But those early rejections helped me toughen up. To learn we’re all different and we all like different things. To not to take people’s opinions too seriously. Rejection taught me to be tough and discerning. I listen to everyone, then sift through for what’s useful.

Back to my friend: she’s an extremely talented writer with lots of potential. She’s new to submitting, so I think those rejections have more sting. She received her first acceptance a few weeks ago and I confess, I was a little jealous. Everything seems so easy for her. Her acceptance came on say her third or fourth-ish submission. As for me, I’d gotten something like 15 rejections before I ever had anything accepted. (To make things worse, that magazine failed before my story got published, and I persisted through another long dry spell.) But in retrospect, I’m grateful for the beauty that came from the rejections. I hope she gets to endure them, too. Her potential will only be met if she faces a little adversity. Like in life, it’s the way we grow.

A Matter of Voice

2008-09-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m back into Jamieson’s Folly again, after a rocky start.

I started reworking the beginning last Friday and, from the start, it was an uphill climb. First, beginnings are just damn hard for me. But it was more than that. I felt pressured to produce something respectable for my Tuesday night workshop. So I spent a whopping one day analyzing themes and picking one to focus the opening on. By Saturday, I was running with it.

Running at the mouth is more like it.

See, the problem is that I need downtime. I’m a slow thinker. Not that I’m dumb. I’m just a person who needs time to reflect. And a four day deadline to rewrite the beginning of a novel doesn’t cut it for a slow thinker. So I did what the most desperate writers do—I overwrote. I threw in descriptions, adjectives, adverbs and similes. Writer padding that makes us look like we know what we’re doing.

I didn’t.

I rushed the piece, printed it off (even the printing gods tried to thwart me by running out of ink) and took it to class on Tuesday. I apologized, handed out copies and read it. And the class shocked the hell out of me by raving over how fantastic it was. Vivid, beautiful, poetic, amazing. One of my fellow writers even called it brilliant.

You think I’d be satisfied with that kind of praise, but it left me empty. Something still stuck in my craw. The piece wasn’t right. I knew it was off. I sifted through the copies everyone had marked, looking for some kind of clue. I got miscellaneous nits that all seemed to point in different directions—someone thought the pacing felt a little slow, another didn’t feel clued in to the narrator. One person didn’t realize my narrator was a man until halfway through the first page, someone else commented on the beautiful but overly-abundant descriptions. I tried to make sense of the remarks, but no one seemed to echo the same sentiments. It was a hodge podge that I could have dismissed.

I asked my husband. He read the piece.

“I don’t know. It just feels off,” he told me.

I thought about it overnight and the next day. I let it sit, let my thoughts germinate. At four this morning (I wake up and think about my writing a lot, as you may have noticed.), it came to me in a predawn flash:

Voice.

I’d overwritten the crap out of the thing and it felt like that for a reason. Twenty-two year old guys don’t spend a paragraph contriving gorgeous verbal pictures of dusk in a canyon. They don’t. My husband’s thirty-something, “I don’t know. It just feels off” says it all. Guys are brief. They say stuff. They shut up.

I wrote the same thing with Nick’s new voice. His real voice. And it really works.

I’ve given the problem thought since and come up with some type of explanation. Usually I write from character as a starting point. Voice is natural then, inherent to the inspiration. But because I wrote Folly during NaNoWriMo and move far forward every day, I chose instead to write from a loosely outlined plot. Nick as a character had never fully developed in my mind and it showed in every word.

I’m taking the new piece to class next Tuesday. I’m anxious to hear the reactions to the massive change. I expect some won’t like, at least the devotees of poetry, but I’m thrilled with it and that’s what really matters.

The Good, the Bad and the Over/Underwritten

2008-09-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

*****

I’m about halfway through my reread of Folly’s first draft. I started out with a bang last Wednesday and Thursday, then progress fizzled over the long holiday weekend. (Although, on a positive note, I did see two excellent plays at American Players Theatre over the weekend, so that has to count for something.)

It’s been interesting thus far, to reread the manuscript with fresh eyes. The flaws stand out a little taller, as if they’d leapt into gawkish adolescence during my absence. Jamieson’s character quirks clearly needs some explanation. There’s way too much telling. And most of the scenes seem scanty and underdeveloped. It’s a daunting list and, at first, I felt like I was in the same boat as I had been with Somewhere. But as I read on, the flaws seem clearer and the fixes more apparent.

But just as the flaws seem to glare, so the strengths glow. If I say so myself, there are some stunning visuals in the first draft. The setting glows with the magic and glamour of Las Vegas. Nick’s character is likeable and sympathetic (for the most part) And the storyline is cohesive and interesting. It wasn't long before I was actively caught up in the story and resented having to set it aside to make dinner.

So it’s once more to the drawing board. A few more pages to read, then a whole darn book to revise. I's be intimidated if it weren't for the most encouraging sign: I woke up around 3 Friday morning and fumbled in the dark for my nightstand notebook. I know I'm on to something when my subconscious is vested and churning.

Somewhere on the Road to Folly

2008-08-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

*****

I’ve been in a slump lately. Not writer’s block. My burner’s on and ideas are simmering. But more like I’m stuck on what to write.

My problem is that I’m at a crossroads. I’ve had some success with short fiction. I’ve even begun the transition from non-paying to paying markets. Now it’s time to take the next step.

Yep, it’s time to finish a novel.

Here’s where my dilemma comes in. For months, I’ve been torn over which project to finish first. Somewhere on the Road to Me and Jamieson’s Folly are both finished in first draft form. And I’ve even taken a beginning whack at revisions on Somewhere.

Logically, Somewhere should be my first finished novel. I wrote it first. And in many ways, it’s the novel that lives nearest to my heart. But the problem lies in the sheer amount of work needed to get it into saleable shape. I wrote it without any cohesive plan and meandered my way through the entire sprawling first draft. As much heart and soul as the story has, technically and artistically, it’s a train wreck. To get it into shape, I’d have to toss out 60% or more of the existing text and completely rewrite it from scratch.

Folly is much better, from a first draft standpoint. I wrote it during last year's NaNoWriMo and, knowing I was working under tight time constraints, I approached the story with a well-conceived story arc. In spite of my haste, the overall writing is more sound. I know with a little review, a little research, I could step right in and run with it.

The answer came to me over the weekend. While at a party, I got talking about my writing with a friend of mine. (surprise, surprise) She asked me what my novels were about and, after my horrified, deer in the headlights response, I did my best to give her brief summaries. Her response settled the issue somewhat. She was interested when I told her about Somewhere. It’s the kind of story I know she likes to read. But when I told her about Folly, her eyes lit up and she said, “Wow, that sounds really good!”

I’ve given her response a lot of thought.

I don’t think her interest means that Folly is so much better than Somewhere. Instead, I think it’s just that I’m clearer on Folly and, subsequently, able to communicate it better. I’m closer to doing that elevator pitch agents talk about, where I corner a prospective agent in an elevator and summarize my novel in a sentence or two. And as any writer knows, clearer in the head means clearer on the page. Clarity should always be the writer's touchstone.

So I talked it over with my husband, who added more fuel to the Folly fire. He gave me his blessing to go to Vegas for a few days in November to do the necessary research on Folly.

I guess I have no choice but to go.

So I set aside Somewhere, though it breaks my heart, and pick up my first draft of Jamieson’s Folly. I have hard work ahead of me, that’s for certain. But I feel like I can do this. The signs are there. The time is right. It’s time to step into the world of Nick and Nathan Jamieson and his marvelous seven natural wonders.

What a journey I have ahead of me...

What I’ve Learned About Writing…So Far.

2008-08-05T11:07:00.000-07:00

******

My friend Jane asked for some writing advice the other day and, in my usual style, I thought why use a spade when I can dish it with a shovel? So here are a few things I’ve learned thus far on my journey as a writer. Most of these were learned the hard way. And this list is by no means exhaustive. But this is what came to mind as I tried to answer Jane’s questions. I offer them from my humble perch, one rung up from rock bottom on the ladder. Enjoy.

1) Don’t give up.

Persistence plays a large role in reaching your goals. Keep moving forward, even when things look glum. The people who make it are the ones who keep trying. You learn something when you try, even when you fail. Wear your lessons like a cloak and just keep going.

2) Writing is both a process and an end product.

Trust the process, that you’ll get there if you jump on board. Sit down and write every day. Trust your imagination to take you somewhere. Everyone has something unique and interesting to say.

3) Writing is 10% talent and 90% commitment.

Potential without action equals a big fat zero. Give up TV. Enlist the help of friends and family. Write when it’s easy and when it’s hard. Just write.

4) Sit your butt down and write.

You can’t be a writer if you don’t actually write. Stop talking about it and do the work. Don’t wait around for inspiration, that lazy ne’er-do-well. Inspiration only shows up when you reach for it.

5) Be open to new ideas.

Try writing a poem if you usually write fiction. Write a play. Talk to other writers and listen to their experiences. Go to the mall or the airport and watch the crazy people around you. Everyone has a story. Watch someone and find it. Then, write it down.

6) You can learn from anyone.

Even non-writers can help us get better. Emulate your spouse’s professionalism, your grandmother’s patience. Being a successful writer takes more than just writing talent. It’s a package of affirming attitudes and qualities.

7) Sift through all feedback carefully, looking for hidden gems.

Even the stuff that seems way off base may make sense on closer examination. Try to understand where your critics are coming from. Mull it over a few days. Reread and try to see their point of view. Then use what works for you and forget the rest. Don’t change your style to please a critic.

8) Understand the rules before you break them.

Learn what conventions are, then break them with purpose. Only break a rule when it adds to your work, never when it detracts.

9) Humility goes a long way.

Don’t fall in love with your own voice. Authorial self-indulgence makes readers feel unnecessary. Step out of the way and let your writing be about your characters. If you must write about yourself, get a blog or do something interesting enough to sustain an autobiography.

10) Read everything you can get your hands on.

Learn what’s been done already, dream of ways to do it better. Learn from other people’s triumphs and mistakes. Read authors who inspire you to write. Avoid those who make you feel inadequate.

11) Write the stories only you can tell.

Write from your life experience, your unique point of view. Don’t be like anyone else. Above all, do your stories justice. Be honest, unapologetic and unflinching.

12) Revision is your friend.

The best writers are re-writers. Sharpen your sentences, tighten your dialogue. Remove as many adjectives and adverbs as possible.

13) When the going gets tough, get tougher.

The world is full of nay-sayers who want to see you fail. Prove them wrong. Keep at it no matter what. Believe you can learn. Steamroll through the tough stuff.

14) Develop a thick skin.

When you get hurtful feedback or a painful rejection, bitch about it to a friend you trust, then forget about it and keep moving forward. Don’t get hung up on what other people say, good or bad. Just keep your eyes on your writing and keep working.

15) Put yourself out there. Don’t be afraid.

Pass your work around to friends. Take a writing class. Join a workshop or online writing group. Enter contests. Submit your work. If you only want to write for yourself, then keep your writing hidden. But if you want to improve, solicit feedback.

16) Take yourself seriously and others will, too.

Tell people proudly that you’re a writer. Then write. Let them see how hard you work at it. Show everyone that you don’t give up. Make them respect your dedication.

17) Adopt only the best people for your writing friends.

A network of supportive friends and fellow writers is worth its weight in gold. Treat others like you want to be treated. Respect others’ voices. Be encouraging, kind, and honest. Set aside small-mindedness and petty jealousies. Be part of the solution, not part of the problem. Most importantly, do no harm.

And don’t be afraid to cast negative writing relationships adrift. As you move forward, let these slackers drift, bobbing in your wake. Don’t drag them along and let them drain your energy. Anyone who weighs you down doesn’t want you to succeed.

18) Learn to give quality feedback.

Analyzing writing makes us better writers. Frame your thoughts in concise language. Offer suggestions and opinions designed to help. Respect an author’s voice and his or her authority over her story. Don’t issue mandates or edicts.

19) Know when to step away.

Be honest with yourself. Walk away when a project doesn’t work. Think it over, then fix the fixable. Let the fundamentally flawed rest in peace on your hard drive. Don’t let undeserving stories drain your creative energy.

20) Writing is tough. Be tougher.

Don’t give up on a good concept. Recharge, then come back to it. Send it off to a different agent or publisher. Fight your way through sluggish middles. Learn to be ruthless in revision.

21) Trust your creative subconscious.

Push yourself harder. Trust your creativity to rise to the challenge. Step out of your creative comfort zone. Commit to NaNoWriMo. Don’t hold ideas in your ruthless control; let the best ideas assume their own unique shape.

22) Harvest stories at the proper time.

Let ideas ripen in the depths of your subconscious. Don’t force ideas like potted hyacinth bulbs. If something isn’t working, go weed the garden or read a book, then come back to try again later and even later again, if you have to. Keep a story ideas file. Pick through it when you’re looking for new projects. Realize half-finished projects aren’t failures, but are stories waiting for their season to bloom.

23) Always keep paper nearby.

Keep a notebook in your purse, in your nightstand, on the table next to your favorite chair. Write down every crazy idea, every stroke of creative genius, then add them to your story ideas file. Write down snippets of dialogue while they’re fresh and beguiling. You won’t remember them after you dry off from the shower.

24) No matter how much you know, it’s never enough.

Be a lifelong learner. Take a class. Attend a conference. Read a book on writing. Don’t become complacent. Don’t slip into the trap of thinking you know it all. Always strive to be better.

25) Don’t ever give up.

It bears saying again. Quitters don’t make it. Don’t be a quitter. A life of striving is more interesting than a life wallowing in regret. Plodding steps in a consistent direction eventually reach their destination.

This Present Moment

2008-07-29T12:36:00.000-07:00

*****

Last week, I was sitting in the sunshine at the picnic table outside our cottage. The lake sparked diamonds, sharp to the eyes, the bright sun catching the tips of the ripples. Out in the middle of the lake, a wave runner buzzed across the surface of the water, then disappeared around the green, densely forested bend into the next bay. For whatever reason, no one else was around other than a few ducks looking for a handout. I had the lake to myself. And I needed its peace. It had been a busy week, my classes and homework more demanding than I’d anticipated. Every morning and evening were spent glued to the laptop, in between making meals and trying to be an entertaining wife/mother/travel companion. By Thursday, fatigue oozed from my pores. It was nice to sit in the sun and watch the water, to set aside my writing and just enjoy the moment.

After awhile, I pulled out The Senator’s Wife by Sue Miller, a book I’d been reading before we left home, but had barely touched since we’d arrived in Rhinelander. The book felt good and right in my hands, full of that pleasurable feeling I get when I’m about to step into a compelling narrative. As much as I enjoy staring at lakes, I also enjoy reading by them. In moments, I was re-immersed in the story.

I was perhaps five or six pages in when something astonishing happened. From overhead, I heard the loud rush of air being displaced, a whoosh-whoosh that dragged me from the story. And there he was, before my eyes, a bald eagle, massive and majestic, taking flight from the top of the pine tree no more than fifteen feet from where I sat.

He hovered a moment, then his wings flapped again, powerful strokes so wide and so deep, I couldn’t fathom his wingspan. His tail feathers spread white against the blue sky, his chocolate brown body and wings so rich and regal by contrast. Before I could commit every aspect of him to my memory, he’d flown away. With three strokes of those wings, he was halfway across the lake and I, at my table on the shore, book forgotten, was left behind, awed and heartbroken.

In the afterecho, all I could think was that I’d done the unthinkable. I'd committed the writer’s cardinal sin. Somehow in my fatigue and lake-induced lethargy, I’d missed being in the present moment.

I thought about him all day. I’d seen bald eagles before, but always in captivity or, in the wild, only from a distance. Several years ago, my buddy Randy and I saw an eagle atop a dead tree across the bay. Even from that distance, he dwarfed the tree. We’d tried, but couldn’t get closer before he’d flown off. This eagle, my eagle, had been so close. How I would have loved to watch him, to sense his keen intelligence. I’d looked in the eyes of a bald eagle before and been humbled, had been made aware of my minion status. And that had been an eagle in captivity. I could only imagine how lordly and majestic he must have appeared, his gold eyes peering down at his dominion on Lake George. At the tired lady reading the book at a picnic table, unaware she was in the presence of royalty.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the present moment.

The best writing brings a present moment to us. We feel it, we smell it, we taste it on our tongues. Our skin prickles from the sense of being immersed in it, in this other place someone has created on the page. I’d had an opportunity. To see something unique and frame it in language, to bring it to life for another human being. And I missed it. I’ve fixed the lesson firmly in my heart. Be in the moment, taste and feel it, rub myself across its textures, because the moment may never come again.

Denmark's a Prison

2008-07-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

*****

(I’m at the School of the Arts this week, so this post is a prewrite. I’ll be back next week, hopefully burgeoning with new knowledge and renewed zeal.)

I was doing some internet research on a hotel this morning when something caught my eye. The reviews were all over the place, some almost gushing, while others were viciously scathing. Here are a couple gushers from Trip Advisor that caught my eye:

"I've stayed at the **** in the past and then again recently with my family, and I must say I love it. This hotel has so much character, and provides a one of a kind experience. …The rooms have a rustic atmosphere and a charming country feel. The location is stunningly beautiful..."

Wow. And how about the next one:

"The ***** is quirky. The ***** is unique. If you want a place where everything is spotless and new, don't come. If you want an experience you will never forget, try the *****. I have stayed there at least 5 times and each was fantastic… "

I don’t know about you, but I love quirky and unique. So imagine my surprise when I found this on Yahoo Travel:

"Disgusting, Dirty, Disrepair, Rude Should have known something was wrong when I received rude service when I booked the room. It got worse from there. Lobby/hallways freezing, you had to wear your coat. "Shotgun" suite dark,in disrepair and had a 300 gallon concave tank tub with no way in or out, very unsafe. decided on the "Float" Fantsy Suite. Tub,heart shaped, dirty and cracked. The boat that encompassed the bed was dusty and dirty, light fixture was rusted. The heater didn't work our own blankets only warmth all night. Whirlpool had disgusting stuff floating on top, bathroom dirty. Told girl next morning she didn't care. Beware!!! "

Or what about this dismal report:

"truly horrible

My husband and I stayed at the ***** just last weekend-it was so not what we had hoped for. We stayed in one of the Fanta Suite rooms(very creative) and were realy let down with the whole experience. The exercise room has broken parts on their equipment(still lying on the floor) ,the game room was equally blessed with all broken equipment. The underground tunnel attaching the hotel to their restaurant is poorly lit(broken light bulbs) smelled like sewer (as did the fanta suite rooms off that floor-our room being one of them ) the tunnel also had green mold growing off a good percentage of the walls. The customer service was equaly poor-apon checking in the attendants couldn't give us the respect to stand up and come over to the counter until we'd stood there for at least 10 minutes(they were too busy gossiping) We checked out of the hotel before it had even gotten dark. "

I’m still shaking my head. These people are talking about the same place, right? For a minute, I had a hard time understanding how people at the same hotel could have such diametrically opposed experiences.

Then I remembered. Perception. It’s the same reason five people at a crime scene can offer five completely different accounts of what happened. And it’s what makes a story sing or sink. Point of view and all the mysteries of the human psyche it encompasses. Motivation. Background. Psychology. Shakespeare put it beautifully (doesn’t he always?) in Hamlet: “…for there is nothing good nor bad but thinking makes it so.”

In this scene (Act II, Scene ii), Hamlet is expressing his frustration over being trapped in Denmark with all its miseries--the loss of his father, being haunted by his father’s ghost, being forced to see his mother marry his uncle, who he knows to be his father’s murderer. To Hamlet, Denmark is a wretched prison, even though he acknowledges it is not one for others.

This reminded me of a trip my husband and I took to Jamaica a few years back. We knew some other people staying at the property and, to hear us talk, you’d think we were staying at two different resorts. My husband and I thought our room was clean and comfortable if a tad spartan, the activities varied and entertaining, and the food tasty and plentiful. That’s how we look at life. We’re good sports. We believe it’s up to us to make life fun. And we think of our glass as half full.

Our acquaintances, however, were miserable. The room wasn’t to their liking, they had nothing to do, and they thought the food was disgusting. Next time, Sue told me, they were staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Montego Bay. I shrugged my shoulders and figured Sue was just a pain in the ass. I felt sorry for her, not being open enough to life and its opportunities to have fun in a place like Jamaica.

Good sport that I am, I booked the questionable hotel. Come Labor Day, we’ll see what happens. I know what eyes I’m traveling with, though, and I expect that will make the difference. I’m hoping for kitsch. I’m hoping for quirky. If nothing else, I’ll get fodder for a story.

One more thing: I did not correct grammar or spelling in the reviews I pasted above. Note whose reviews were riddled with lousy grammar. Yep, the bitchers. Credibility. It figured into my decision.

The Usefulness of Camaraderie

2008-07-15T12:15:00.000-07:00

*****

I read a great interview with Joel Willans this morning on Every Day Fiction. I’d read Joel’s story, “One Bright Moment” in May and it was exceptional. The story was sympathetic, without being overly sentimental. The characters seemed accessible and real. The language was visual and resonant.

So I read the interview with high hopes. And I got one of the most useful author interviews I’ve read in a long time. So often, such interviews are discouraging for writers looking for ways to break through the paper ceiling. It’s hard, reading how someone got where they are by a random lucky break, or how they make millions writing two measly hours every morning. Joel’s interview made me believe there was hope for my writing aspirations. Here are a few things that encouraged me:

First, Joel is a regular guy with some useful things to share. Sure, as a writer he’s a few rungs ahead of me on the ladder. But he isn’t a giant. He’s just a guy who’s figured a few things out, but still thinks he has a lot to learn. He’s publishing frequently and he’s done well in several contests. I can relate to where he is, where he’s been and where he hopes to go.

Second, Joel reminded me of something I hadn’t done in years, namely timed writing. He insisted it was helpful to him since he does better writing under pressure. I’m the same way, so I was glad to rediscover it. I tend to use the same routine when I write, but while routine is important to my writing, sometimes it needs shaking up. I have two projects I’d like to try timed writing on—the ever-elusive beginning to “The Great Divide” and a new micro still in the sprouting seed stage.

I think what got me thinking most, though, was seeing, yet again, how useful it is to be in contact with other writers. There are so many ways we influence one another, through our work, through our camaraderie, through our feedback, through our encouragement. Even through things like online interviews. Whenever and however I spend time with another writer, I find something useful to take on my journey.

If you haven’t read this interview yet, here’s a link. There’s a lot more to be mined than the tiny nuggets I mentioned.

Tangled Destinies

2008-07-08T14:53:00.000-07:00

*****

I didn’t sleep well last night. A front moved through, triggering wave after wave of thunderstorms. Nothing overly threatening, but loud enough to keep me awake. And as so often happens when I can’t sleep, my thoughts turned to writing.

For whatever reason, I started thinking about my legacy of bad writing. I’ve been on this topic a lot lately, for some reason I can’t quite pin down. But last night, I found myself going back further than ever, to stories I’d written 20 or more years ago.

One story in particular came to mind. It was a dreadful piece I’d written for Redbook’s annual short fiction contest, a trite bit of crap titled “Tangled Destinies.” Lord, I’d had high hopes for that thing, in spite of the fact that I was entering one of the toughest contests out there, tantamount to climbing the Mount Everest of literature.

Not only was this a literary marathon, it was a test of technical endurance. This was back in the days of the electric typewriter, and I was about as good a typist as a writer, so I had to retype each page over and over, agonizing over creating a perfect copy. I can’t tell you how many sheets of paper I discarded, how many cuss words I uttered over my suddenly uncoordinated, clublike fingers. I must have worn out a whole ribbon on 19 lousy pages.

The premise of “Tangled Destinies” was simple. It was a romance set in Colonial America, just before the revolution. My protagonist, Miranda, is a spy named Rebel who ends up deceiving and falling in love with the Nicholas, a cousin she’s been engaged to since her birth. There’s enough romance, misdirects and adventure to choke on--a regular cavalcade of unbridled sauciness, clandestine meetings, and cascades of riotous auburn curls. There’s also quite a bit of spirited flouncing and flirtatious, snappy repartee. Ambitious miss that I was, I even included a prologue and an epilogue, because God knows every 19 page story needs those anchors weighing down the storyline. I remember sending it off with hope singing in my heart. It was a masterpiece and I was damn sure I’d win.

Obviously, I didn’t win. And the heartbreak of losing almost discouraged me from writing again. I’d been convinced I was so naturally gifted as a writer, I was sure to be a Nobel prize winner by age 21.

Last night, all these years later, with the sound of rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning silvering the walls of my bedroom, I found myself wondering: what if I’d given up back then? The thought was sobering. It would have been so easy to give up, to tell myself I didn’t have what it takes, to avoid the heartbreak that inevitably comes when we writers put our work out there for evaluation.

Needless to say, I’m glad I didn’t. As bad as “Tangled Destinies” was, it represented a landmark on my journey as a writer. It was the first piece I ever submitted, so I learned something about the process. Most importantly, I learned about disappointment and how to bounce back from it. I still have a long way to go, but I’m a lot better writer now, with much tougher skin and a better attitude about working my way up the ladder. It’s been hard work, but it’s been worth it. And most encouraging, if I’m this much better now in my 40’s, imagine how good I’ll be in my 50’s and 60’s. There’s something innately encouraging in finally grasping that I’m a work in progress, not an aging old hack who missed her window.

I dug out “Tangled Destinies” this morning, all 19 yellowed pages held together with a rusted paperclip. One of the benefits of being a paper packrat and rather accomplished filer is that I have such things at my fingertips. It was every bit as dreadful as I remember, but still, I think there was hope for that young writer with the big dreams. I've recreated it in electronic form for my personal archives and submit it here for your amusement. Get a tissue. Empty your bladder. And get ready for the parade of jaunty adverbs, hysterical historical errors and glaring plot inconsistencies.

Oh, and one additional disclaimer: absolutely no meticulous research went into the creation of this literary masterpiece. My source was only what I remembered from a high school history class, where I spent more time writing notes to my girlfriends than listening to my teacher. I don’t even remember who he was, so that should tell you something.

On Courage

2008-07-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

*****

A month or two ago, I dragged out an old photo album from a 1991 trip to Vail. I was beginning Nick’s story and I wanted to remember exactly what Colorado looked like, the color of the mountains in October, the clarity of the sky, the exact shade of a hot spring new friend, Baxter, had brought us to.

I found much more. Pictures of my younger, faster-running self. Captions written in her stranger’s voice. The look in my eyes and the voice bothered me most. It was like seeing a stranger in my body.

I read them over and over, heard the sarcasm, the immaturity, the brittle, affected cynicism. Who was this creature, teetering over disillusionment, but still clinging to notions of romance? By that Vail trip, I’d thrown myself at life hard enough to cause a few serious fractures. I was toxic back then and this album proved it. I wanted to throw the evidence in the garbage.

As writers, we face this kind of thing all the time. Our early work, our early selves as writers, are so rustically unskilled, sophomoric and boastfully posturing that it can be hard to face them in retrospect. Around the time of the Vail trip, I remember being thrilled with myself because I’d finished writing a dreadful category romance, tantalizingly titled Legacy of Deceit. It’s an eye-roller, not because it’s a romance, but because my heroine was such a tantrum throwing little snot and because my writing was painfully bad. I couldn’t balance the basic elements of narration without tripping; it was like watching Frankenstein’s monster lurch haltingly along.

I run into this now with recent projects. I expect I’ll run into it down the line with the drivel I’m grinding out now. Somewhere on the Road to Me is considerably better than Legacy was, but the initial draft needs such substantial revision, I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. And my first short story published, “Beautiful,” makes apologies leap unbidden to my tongue. It’s embarrassing. (I swear, I’m a lot better now.)

So what do we do? Hold our writing close on our hard drives until we reach the lofty pinnacle of skillfulness? That’s like waiting for the polar ice caps to melt—they say it will happen, but who the hell knows exactly when? And that kind of insularity is counter-productive. Our writing should be read so we can glean useful feedback, which in turn leads to further growth.

But that takes guts.

I had an email from a friend yesterday. Let’s call him Bob. He was kicking himself over a blog entry he’d posted. Riddled with errors, Bob claimed. He said he never should have posted it. I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I’d read his blog and gushed over it in my comments. I really felt I’d learned something valuable. I couldn’t believe it was actually crap.

Well, I did what any good friend does: I told him he was full of shit (in a nice way) and that I really liked the post. I mentioned this concept of being embarrassed by our own past work. Email back: Bob wasn’t buying it.

I’ll spare you the ins and outs of our e-dialogue. But I’d like to leave you with this: for all its isolation, writing is a public act. We put ourselves out there when we share what we write. And once it’s out there, we can’t take it back. Just like we can’t take back the words we speak, we can’t erase our published writing. And published writing is worse, because it lives on as written, unlike spoken words which can fade in our memories. It takes a tremendous act of courage to put any piece of writing out there for another human being to read. Courage to face whatever criticism we may be given. Courage to face who we are in this moment in time, knowing we may look back and cringe.

At times, each of us doubts our nerve.

The great writer EB White captured this idea best, so I leave the last word to him:

A writer’s courage can easily fail him . . . I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.

Way Out Water Towers!

2008-06-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

*****

My daughter is obsessed with water towers. There’s a big one at the top of the hill on our regular walking route. Ever since The Miss discovered it, she’s been fascinated by every water tower we encounter. Plain ones. Fancy ones. Doesn’t matter. On our recent camping trip, she pointed out every water tower between home and Two Rivers, Wisconsin. And there are a lot more than you’d imagine. We’ve become so accustomed to looking for water towers that I find myself calling out, “Water tower!” when she isn’t even in the car. (I recently took a photo of the water tower in Arena because Julia wasn’t there to see it with me.) So it seemed natural to suggest we go to the library and check out some books on water towers. She jumped around the kitchen, yelling “Wat-oo tow-oos! Wat-oo tow-oos!” arms flapping like a baby condor. She was excited; I was excited for coming up with an idea that made her so unabashedly ecstatic. I could hardly drive there fast enough.

Then we hit a bump in the road. Who’d have thunk it, but water tower books are a rare breed.

I won’t bore you with everything I went through, from dealing with a really disappointed little kid to trying to find another source for a water tower book. Let’s just say my efforts were both exhaustive and exhausting. Finally, it occurred to me, after all hope seemed extinguished. Why not write one myself?

Now, let me clarify something before I go a single step further: I have no desire to write for children. Sorry. My work can’t stand up to an audience that sharp. But I can write for the most important kid in my life. I’d written a book for her earlier this year—Little Girl in the Woods, a board book about my sweetie’s passion for camping. So I figured slapping this puppy together this should be a snap, right?

Not necessarily. I’ve learned a few interesting things thus far and thought I’d share them here.

1) MAKING TECHNICAL STUFF EASY ENOUGH FOR KIDS IS A BITCH. Yep, kids are smart little stinkers, but sentence length and vocabulary are an issue. Plus, kids have a limited set of experiences you can refer to in analogies. How to explain hydrostatic pressure to a little kid? Hell, I don’t get it myself! The best thing I can liken it to that she (and I) might understand is the feeling you get when you have to pee. Classy, I know. But I’m at a loss here.

2) YOU CAN BE LAZY AND LARCENOUS WHEN YOU’RE WRITING FOR YOUR OWN KID. I’m talking about pesky little legal landmines like cross-checking information, listing source credits, and obtaining publishing rights to photos. As far as I’m concerned, an initial search on Wikipedia and a cross check with howstuffworks.com is verification enough for me. But I doubt a publisher would think so. And what about all those photos I helped myself to on various websites? Let’s face it, getting rights to all that stuff would be a bear. Not to mention prohibitively expensive.

3) THERE’S NO SLAPPING TOGETHER ANY KIND OF PROJECT FOR CHILDREN. I spent two hours on the introduction yesterday. Yep, two hours to write 93 words. And that’s after the three hours I spent researching and outlining the day before. Had I operated that slowly in college, I’d still be sitting in College Comp. The discouraging part is I still have many sections to write and I haven’t even begun to think about page design. The way this thing is going, I figure she’ll either have lost interest in the entire topic or graduated high school by the time I’m halfway though.

4) I MUST BE INSANE. I add this as the only logical conclusion, considering I’m moving forward on this in spite of the aforementioned points. And I won’t even get into the lack-of-time rant again. My only defense is I love my kid. I guess that’s reason enough.

So Way Out Water Towers moves forward, God help me. It won’t be at a store near you, so don’t look for it. And don’t look for anything else I write, either. I’ll be so busy inventing non-bodily function analogies for hydrostatic pressure that I doubt I’ll have time to work on anything else.

To Submit or Not to Submit

2008-06-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

*****

I’ve been encountering an uncomfortable phenomenon lately. It’s called Why the Hell Did I Submit That (WTHDIST) Syndrome. Basically, WTHDIST is a condition where I pray for a rejection on a submitted story because I’ve figured out that it actually sucks.

I experienced WTHDIST just this morning. I’d been waiting on a response from my story, “The Game,” from Espresso Fiction for a few months. And this morning, the response arrived. I can’t describe for you the feeling of dread I had as I looked at the innocent Thank you for your submission to Espresso Fiction subject line. Usually, this is because I love a story and don’t want to see it rejected. But with “The Game,” it was a definite case of WTHDIST. Frankly, “The Game” is a damned stupid story. I’d be embarrassed to see it get published.

I filed away my rejection on Duotrope Digest’s handy-dandy Response Tracker, but a feeling of dread still hung on me. I wandered over to my remaining list of pending responses. And there, in all it’s hideousness, it was: a 118 day pending response entry for a little ditty titled “Nighttime Daddy.” I’d submitted the story to LitBits in a fit of pique after the story didn’t make the cut in a Writer’s Digest’s Your Story contest. 118 days later, this thing was haunting me like the lamb kebabs from my favorite Afghan restaurant. I found myself praying: please don’t let this thing get accepted. Or wishing it was lost in cyberspace.

The whole thing got me thinking: how do we decide what to submit and what not to submit? I’d like to think I can tell good from bad. But, usually, until I get a rejection, I often believe with naive earnestness that even my homeliest, gap-toothed, drooling babies are exquisite and graceful swans. Clearly, my internal editor has a bad wire.

But I think the real problem comes earlier in the process, long before I seek out a market, write my cover letter and send my darlings on their way. Bad stories are born of bad ideas. And bad ideas should be nipped before they sprout. I should dump duds early rather than waste time finishing and editing it. Then I could spend my time on the good stuff.

Easier said than done. Maybe it’s a matter of experience. Or of refining my literary palate. I wish I knew. Time is precious. I don’t want to waste it. And I don’t want to live with any WTHDIST’s haunting me by, somehow, making it into print.

The Flood

2008-06-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

*****

Things aren’t great here in Southeastern Wisconsin. We’ve been inundated with torrential rains. Our rivers are swollen beyond capacity and have overflowed their banks. In Racine, Waukesha, and South Milwaukee, cars float in the streets and people have been evacuated from their homes. West of us in Lake Delton (a popular tourist area), the lake swelled over its earthen dam to come home to the Wisconsin River. I saw the video and it scared the heck out of me, how fast our world can slip away. In moments, the lake drained and roads and homes (whole homes!) were suddenly, irrevocably lost.

Here at home, we’ve had our own weather disasters, but nothing on the same scale. We were away for the worst of the storms here, enjoying a quiet weekend camping on Lake Michigan. It poured the last night and morning of our trip. My daughter and I sat in the car while I watched my poor husband take down the sopping wet camper. Halfway home, I called our house and my friend Pam told me the sewer had backed up in our basement. My heart sank at the news. My husband had spent three years remodeling down there. The carpet, installed in January, was the capstone on a beautifully executed project. I still remember how proud and pleased he was as he showed off his handiwork at Easter. Now everything was saturated with yucky black sewer sludge. We rode home quiet, lost in our own sense of helplessness.

Since I got home, I’ve longed for the sense of normalcy, the routine that keeps my days sane. We live and die by routine around here. Husband to work, then breakfast. Walk, play/errand/library/park time, lunch, TV, read, then down for a nap. Most days, I’m ready for a nap myself by then, but I can’t bear to give up my precious Mommy time. The afternoons are when I write.

With all the chaos, we’re completely off-kilter. My husband stayed home from work to mop up the sludge. I’ve been wringing out the dripping camping gear. It needs to be done, but it’s created a hole in my life and it happened in it’s own kind of flood. A few changes led to a shift in the sense of balance. A camping trip, a husband home from work. Before I knew it, order was swept away.

For me, not writing creates its own flood. A day or two off and I start to get antsy. As the days slip away, a backlog of thoughts clogs my brain. Before long, I start to turn, sniping at my daughter, bitchily ragging at my husband. But mainly, I turn on myself. I’m a waste of space. I need to get my act together. How do I ever expect to make it if I don’t write? Pretty soon everything feels off, like my body chemistry’s out of whack or my planets have spun out of alignment. My sense of self and purpose crumbles and washes away. I lose myself, one facet at a time.

I’m on day six here. Last Thursday morning before we hooked up the camper, I did a little scribbling as ideas for a revised start to Nick’s story came. I meant to get to them while we were gone, but the days slid away over the bump in our routine. Then the mess at home consumed my energy. At this point, I just hope I can find my crumpled page of scribbles. I’m fidgety and nervous. My list is too long. Without the routine to structure and the writing to provide an outlet, I’m caught up in a weird kind of flood. The chaos without mirrors the chaos within. I need a dam and I need it damn quick.

Over-tweakers Anonymous

2008-06-03T13:05:00.000-07:00

*****

I had something discouraging happen twice in the last week. Just when I thought I’d finished something, I reread and discovered I was far from done. One was the beginning to the Nick short story, “The Great Divide.” The other was a somewhat unimportant scene in Somewhere on The Road to Me. Both had been cooling for a week or so while I stepped away for a dose of perspective.

I can’t tell you how disheartened I was when I came back and saw my own drivel. In the case of “The Great Divide,” I’d been sure I was ready to submit. But really, I’d created a mess. I’d crafted paragraphs of weighty, poetic description, had fully developed themes before my story even started. I’d written one entire page of a guy looking at telephone lines while sitting in a hot spring. What the hell was I thinking? I’d clearly overwritten.

I don’t know about you, but I could tinker a sentence into complete oblivion. Tweak a little here, reword a bit there, maybe shorten, or re-punctuate, break it into two, jam two together with a conjunction or a comma splice, throw in another snazzy image. Maybe do all of the above until the revision bears no resemblance to the original. Unless you’re Hemingway and you write nothing but unalloyed gold, there’s always the option of mixing things up a bit. But with that possibility comes the chance of overwriting. Damn. I clung when I should have let go.

I think this is what’s killing me with Beth’s story. (okay, I know) I’m so doggedly determined to get every phrasing just right that I belabor even the shortest scenes. Why do I do that? I’m driving myself nuts. Not to mention I’m getting so damn sick of Beth, I’m starting to understand why her mother gets so pissed at her.

But the real shame is that I’m losing Beth’s freshness. Too many similes, too many artful phrasings. Too much writing when I should just shut up. My overly stylized sentences are taking attention away from the story and placing it smack dab on me. And this story isn’t about me. Or it shouldn’t be. I could kick myself for being a pompous ass.

So, once more back to the drawing board with another fine line I need to identify. And as usual, I have more questions than answers. How do I stop annoying my manuscripts with petty revisions? How do I take myself out of a process that’s so entirely personal? I want to just say no to annoying revision, but I’m addicted without a support group in sight.

Precious Time

2008-05-28T06:18:00.000-07:00

*****

I woke this morning to the dreadful realization that I’d forgotten to write yesterday’s blog post.

It was Memorial Day’s fault, of course. While long holiday weekends are right up there with cookies in my book, I admit they wreak havoc on my sense of time. It’s only Wednesday and I’m already wondering how I’m going to fit my weekly household chores, library visits and play dates into the few remaining days left this week. While relaxation is good for the soul, it’s obvious slowing down comes at a price. I scramble to recover the lost ground.

This concept affects every area of life. It seems like only yesterday I brought Julia home from the hospital, but somehow she’s just a month from turning three. In the same vein, I realize my novel has been waiting patiently for me to finish revisions for six long years. Six years! How did time get away from me like that?

I understand the lesson: slow down for a moment and time rockets by. Yet, as writers, our truth is often found in those things that we see only when we slow down. As writers, we must look closely and then reflect. These carefully crafted details, the artful connections, are where writing transcends from mediocre to well-wrought. Skillful construction creates a work that readers connect with and remember. (I know I, for one, will always remember E.B. White’s outstanding essay, “Once More to the Lake.”) So how do we balance observation, reflection and productivity to create a work that lives in the hearts of readers?

I don’t know. Clearly. I’ve been plugging away at Somewhere for seven long years (a year to draft, six years of sluggishly picking it apart). More than anything, I want to finish this thing, answer the call of Jamieson’s Folly, my next novel project. But I get caught up in wanting to do Beth and Shel justice. I take breaks to write short fiction, to brush the cat, to bake a batch of cookies. So I fumble along in fits and starts, only making progress one lonely chapter at a time.

Some would argue this is still progress. But I’m not so sure. It takes a long time to get back into the groove after one of my short fiction/cat brushing/cookie baking hiatuses. I lose the feel for Beth. Her voice becomes an echo rather than a shout. I have to rummage through the junk in my brain to reconnect. All of that takes precious time.

Time. Slow down for a moment and time rockets by. It’s daunting, perhaps too daunting after this holiday weekend. Perhaps I’ll worry about catching up tomorrow. For today, perhaps I’ll just bake some desperation cookies.

Desperation Cookies*

1 cup butter
1 ½ cups white sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
2 beaten eggs
2 ½ cups flour
1 ½ cups chips **
2 cups nuts ***

** use any combination of regular chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, white chocolate chips, milk chocolate chips, vanilla, cherry, or strawberry chips, or peanut butter chips—whatever you think will taste good. (I use semisweet chocolate.)

*** use any nuts you like, including walnuts, pecans, cashews, almonds, even peanuts. If you don’t have enough nuts, fill in with crushed cornflakes, rice krispies, coconut, raisins or other dried fruit. (I use 1 cup cranberries and 3/4 cup chopped pecans, plus a handful of rice krispies for crunch)

Melt the butter. Mix in sugars and stir. Add vanilla, baking soda, and salt; stir. Then add half the flour, the chips and the nuts. Stir well to incorporate, then add remaining flour and mix thoroughly.

Drop by teaspoons onto greased or parchment lined baking sheets, 12 cookies to a standard sheet. Bake in 350 degree preheated oven for 10 – 12 minutes, or until nicely browned.

Let cool 2 minutes, then remove cookies from sheet and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Makes 5 dozen.

* recipe originally from Joanne Fluke’s Peach Cobbler Murder, a Hannah Swensen mystery. (Note: this is a fantastic mystery series for those who like a good, old fashioned, cozy murder mystery. And these cookies are amazing.)

A Good Day, Indeed

2008-05-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

*****

Saturday stands in the annals as a very good day, indeed.

The day hadn’t started out promising. I’d gotten up late. The house was a mess, the kitchen counters cluttered, dishes in the sink, my husband and daughter milling about, looking for me to whip up breakfast. I was less than 30 minutes from opening our weekend garage sale and I still hadn’t found time to shower. I was about as flustered as I can get without going into full-scale meltdown. So what did I do? What I always do when I’m flustered and don’t know what to do first.

I sat down and checked my email.

I tripped into fantastic news. My flash, “The Burning Black,” had been published as Every Day Fiction’s story of the day.

Regular readers (Stephen) may remember: my acceptance from EDF marked my first foray into a paying market, something I believe is a significant step in my career. Granted, I made more selling a bundle of homegrown rhubarb at our garage sale, but being paid was a good feeling nonetheless. There’s something satisfying about being offered even the smallest honorarium for my work.

Even more gratifying were the comments and generous ratings Burning Black received. It’s good to know people are reading my work. And it’s good to know they’re enjoying it. For the most part, we writers work in isolation. It’s easy to find reasons to give up. Small successes like publication credits and kind comments carry a weary writer far, serving as rejuvenating protein drinks for the lagging soul, as balm for the oft-rejected heart.

As I clicked close my email, I thought things couldn’t get better. Then I sold loads of baby stuff and fattened my daughter’s college fund with a whopping $250. I met the nicest lady in the whole wide world, who gave me a fistful of bookmarks she’d made from old greeting cards. Her mission: to remind people how much Jesus loves them.

Yes, a good day on so many levels. I stand rejuvenated, soothed, vindicated, my beleaguered heart and soul ready to write.

One last bit of business, if you haven’t read Burning Black yet, here’s a link. Comment if you feel inclined, either here or on EDF. I welcome and appreciate the feedback.