Dark Thoughts and Devious Schemes and Dogs, Oh My!

         What do you get when you take four women with only an ounce of deviousness between them, a trip to the Dollar Store gone soooo wrong, and you add Linda O'Connell's birthday to the mix? You get last night's WWWP writing critique night.

       Because Linda's birthday fell on one of our meeting nights, and because Lynn has a steeljaw trap of a memory, we all conspired to surprise her. 

       Unfortunately, when Lynn went to the Dollar Store to find something to decorate the birthday cheesecake with, she was arrested for overly "handling" the merchandise. (Relax--we pooled our resources together and bailed her out in time.)

         And as is always the case, we learned a great deal as we worked on honing our writing skills...

• Tammy learned of a high-calorie liquid diet she might consider trying sometime (when it comes back into style). She found out about it from Beth who is a maniac when it comes to exercise and physical fitness, to the point she even has her own personal trainer...
• Getting outside of your writing box and working in a different genre is sometimes scary, but it can also be quite rewarding. I'm working on a story about Big Foot for a High Hill Press collection. (3,000 word limit, deadline is August 15, can be fiction or nonfiction...and no, you cannot write a funny story about your big hairy feet. I already pitched that idea...my size 11's cannot be the star of the story. Sasquatch needs to be the highlight of the tale.)  My story did not put anyone to sleep (although we were hopped up on Lynn's cheesecake) so that's a good sign.
• Laughter is good for the soul. The experts say it's more powerful than some medicines and if that's the case, the five us will never be plagued by a serious disease. Our twice-monthly "therapy" sessions will keep us healthy...I'm sure of it.

       This week I got notice that two of my dog stories have made it through the initial round of judges for the Publishing Syndicate's NYMB. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that these two memoirs don't come slinking back home with their "tales" between their legs...I'm hoping they make it through all the rounds with the judges.

         One of these stories being considered tells about the time I stole a dog. Yes, well-behaved, always-serious me. Aren't you intrigued? You'll have to buy the book to find out what happens...  

         There are several deadlines for future Not Your Mother's Book collections coming up this summer--but dozens more that are still looking for submissions and don't even have a deadline yet.  Check them out--it could be another (or another several) publishing credits under your belt...  

A Magical Pig

          A couple of weeks ago, Love a Golden Rescue worked an event at Purina Farms about an hour outside of St. Louis.  As I was working the booth---it was then late in the day---I spied someone carrying a large metal pig.

         Racing over to them, I discovered where they had purchased it.  Telling my boothmates that I would be back, I grabbed my purse and headed toward The Pigman. (Paul Zindel--where are you when I need you?)

         Did I need a pig?
         Do I collect pigs?
         Would this make a great gift for someone I knew?

         No, no and no.  But still my feet propelled me toward the booth with the pigs.

photo by Laughing Squid

         There was only one large pig left. Like the other one, it had wings attached. Blue body. Orange feet. Red ears. Yellow wings. And rusty scratches and weld-marks all over, adding to the "character" of the pig.

        I cannot explain it, but that pig spoke to me. And to make my desire even more inexplicable, our house is tiny.  We have two small bedrooms, one bathroom, (I would kill for a second bathroom!) a kitchen too small to eat in, and our "greatroom."  I laughingly call it that because it is definitely not huge, but serves as our livingroom/familyroom/diningroom (with TV trays)/recreation room (wrestling with the dogs for a spot on the couch)/entertainment room (that's where the TV is).

        And I told the welder-artist that: it doesn't "go" with any of our "decor," I don't really have room for it, but it spoke to me. And the artist--wisely--did not argue with my crazy impulse.

         The pig hid in my car for several days, until I could bring it into the house, cloaked in darkness, along with my coat thrown over it, so I could find a spot for it before my husband caught onto another piece of junk being in the house.  (He sees a thrift store and floors it, while I attempt to catch a glimpse of the goodies I'm missing as we fly by at 93 mph.)

         There are many things that will probably only happen when pigs fly.  Getting back down to 150 pounds.  Finding some technology that will hoist up my breasts so they hover above the two-feet-off-the-ground mark.  Being able to tear Viggo Mortensen/Johnny Depp/Mark Harmon/Benecio Del Toro away from any skanky girlfriend/wife they have settled for.   Another "when pigs fly" accomplishment: getting a book published...

         Three days after I bought the pig, I heard from Louella Turner of High Hill Press.  She says her publishing company might be interested in a picture book manuscript of mine.

          Is this possible success due to years of writing and revising and response groups?  Is this glimmer of hope the result of a modicum of writing talent?  Is this dream coming true due to hard work and persistence?

        Or is it the work of the Magic Pig? 

         My money is on the pig...

My Magic Pig

Mine!  All mine!  If you want to rent him,
please contact me for the details.

If you want to buy your own pig, I don't know if John Everett has the materials in stock to create another one, but you can contact him at irondecornmore@yahoo.com.  His website is http://www.irondecornmore.com/.  He's located in Grafton, Illinois, not too far outside of St. Louis, Missouri.  His cell phone is 314-607-0407.

Pinch Me, Please!

photo by lens&needle

          In case you missed the earlier whining, along with the backstory, here goes: girl writes story.  Girl sits on her butt for several years, not sending it out yet continuing to whine, all the while certain it's a decent story.  But on her butt she sits nonetheless.

         Enter Barb Hodges and the Saturday Writers.  Girl is motivated to send her picture book manuscript---finally---to a publisher.  Girl sits on her hands for almost four months (so she can't bite her nails in nervousness).

       Girl gets rejected (of course) but she has a Plan B in mind.  Riding in on a majestic horse is Louella Turner, of High Hill Press.  Because Lou is sitting on the saddle behind John Wayne, she has to lean out to see Girl, but manages to tell Girl that High Hill might indeed be interested in the manuscript...

       Pinch me...Is this a dream?

Rejected!

        Today I got the mail, and carrying it into the house, I glanced at the holiday cards, and the "junk" flyers, not even noticing what lurked in the midst of the stack.  Folded around part of the mail was a familiar-looking jumbo envelope.  It looked familiar because I had addressed it back to myself, and of course, since I had not gotten a business-sized envelope back, it was bad news.

photo by almostgotit3

      Albert Whitman & Company passed on my manuscript.  I'm disappointed, but I have a next step already in place.

photo by Allan Sanders

     Lou Turner, be ready!  High Hill Press, tell me what I need to do...Send you a query?  Type up a letter of acceptance so all you have to do is sign it?  Let me know... 

What Happened With That Crowbar?

         Someone that I met at the Saturday Writers group is Becky Povich.  She is writing a series of slice-of-life stories; it will be out sometime this fall, published by High Hill Press.

        The title intrigues me:  That Crowbar Changed Everything.  I've asked Becky about the title, and mum's the word.  She's like a vault. Sealed shut and won't open, no matter how much cajoling ot threatening takes place. I have stalked her.  I have hired a team of private detectives.  I have tortured her with bamboo shoots under her fingernails. Nothing has worked...

      I'd like to invite writers to write a short synopsis for the title story.  What kind of story revolves around a crowbar?  (And no fair if you have read the collection and know what the crowbar story is really about.  You have to make something up that is different from the actual story.)

photo by Davescunningplan's photostream