Where is SOAS When I Need Her?

        This weekend I went to New Orleans to present at a national conference. When I got there, I found out Barry Lane was going to be there. Barry Lane! Squeal! Squeal! Shriek in such a high-pitched fashion, only bats can hear. I know--Barry Lane! 

         If you're not a teacher of writing (and probably if you're not specifically a teacher of elementary or middle-school writing), then you might not know who he is, but trust me--to lots of teachers, he is a god.

         Here's a bit of what Barry Lane is like...

      Now, I should have learned from Cathy Hall. Whenever I go to any workshop or conference, I should take Sioux-on-a-Stick, because a person never knows when they're going to be reduced to a drooling groupie and they desperately want their picture with the god/goddess and they never have a good hair day but they have no choice... unless they have their alter ego on a stick.

      Of course, Cathy-on-a-Stick looks lovely. Hair perfectly in place. A blazing-white smile. COAS is attractive, just like the real-life Cathy. And Sioux-on-a-Stick looks very much like the real life Sioux. Except not so lovely as the lovely COAS.

Here is SOAS when she went on Val's tour.
SOAS made a surprise appearance at Val's gas-station chicken spot.

       So, when I found out Barry Lane was going to be part of the program in New Orleans, I felt fortunate I at least had my ipad packed and charged up. No SOAS tucked away in my suitcase, so I had no choice. I'd have to take a selfie to prove to all my writing friends that I got to schmooze a bit with Barry Lane.

I know. I'm blurry. I have a couple more where I'm in focus, but I kind of like
being a blur. And guess who took each of the selfies that I have?  Barry Lane.

      So, when I saw this leprechaun-like man walking ahead of me (leprechaun because he's magical), I pounced. (Thankfully it wasn't the Lucky Charms guy, it was Lane.) Since I just recently figured out how to reverse the camera to take a selfie, Barry Lane ended up taking the pictures. (Most likely he would have done anything to get rid of me, so taking a few photos was easier than chewing his own leg off...)

       Take Cathy Hall's advice so you don't end up like I did. Take your stick version with you to conferences and workshops and concerts. In fact, take your stick version with you no matter where you go. 

      'Cause you never know who you'll run into...

     
 

TMI

       Oh, have no fear. This post is not about what people normally think of when TMI is mentioned. I'm not going to paint a picture of what I looked like when I got my head stuck in the sink, too cheap to pay $5 for a shampoo at the stylist...I'm not going to describe what my evening "attire" is, after a long day of herding third graders...I am going to spare you the psychological scarring you'd suffer if I made you visualize what happens when a fifty-something woman's body meets gravity head-on...

      No, this TMI lesson has to do with writing. And I learned it in my twice-monthly critique night. The teachers? Linda O'Connell, Lynn Obermoeller, T'Mara Goodsell and Beth M. Wood. They're better than nuns at rapping my knuckles when I do wrong...

      At our last class meeting of the WWWP (Wild Women Wielding Pens), I shared a hockey story. Chicken Soup had a call-out for hockey stories (the deadline is tomorrow) and even sent out a reminder, which--to my way of thinking--meant they didn't have very many submissions. Since I had no real hockey stories, I thought even I might have a chance. Because I had two "near" stories.

     I brought both, thinking I could beg them to read the other story sometime in the next week and send it back to me, all marked-up. (I even had stamped envelopes at the ready, in case anyone agreed.) The problem was, the deadline would come before we had the chance to meet again. Two piles of crap had a better chance than only one, I thought. 

       And the lesson I learned is this: sometimes part of the story is TMI. It may be part of the story that you get down, in the initial draft, and in your mind, it's really a part of it. However, if it doesn't move the story along, if the story can stand without it, cut it loose.

       In one of the stories, I was in the locker room with a bunch of teachers and one hunky hockey player (true). There was quite a scandal because the hunk flirted shamelessly with me a crime scheme was being hatched (true). And although most of the giggling, fawning teachers were women, there were a few men.

       Since that was true, I thought it important to include. Of course, the WWWP's went after me with a meter stick. The fact that some men were in the group was unimportant. Delete. Immediately.

        The other story (in  the end, they looked at both, after moaning and groaning about this one) got some major slash-and-burn work done. Half the story was spent explaining how I got some tickets to a semi-pro hockey game. Was it important that teachers sometimes got the chance to get free tickets to a comedy club or a semi-pro baseball or hockey game? No. So, a 1,200 word story ended up 37 words long (just a slight exaggeration).

        Barry Lane talks about three drafts. The Down Draft is when you get the story down. Just let the words flow, and banish your inner critic during this phase. Then, there is the Up Draft. This is where you fix it up. Revise. I should have cut those dead limbs then. Finally, there is the Dental Draft. That's where you look at every nook and cranny, checking for anything loose, anything that's out of place...the editing part, and the final touches of revision.

       Do you have any stories about having a part of a story or poem that you thought was integral but later saw the light?