What Writing Friends Really Do For Each Other

        I was working on a pitch for my just-a-couple-of-thousand-more-words-and-it'll-be-finished manuscript. 
        Last night a writing friend Kathy Cureton (the artist formerly known as Val) gave me some feedback. It's now a little better than it was before. 
         Today I'm going to a writing critique meeting where several people are perfecting their pitch. I'll get to pitch to the group as well--before the big game on Saturday (a writing conference). Hopefully I won't be booed out of the room or sent back to the dugout in shame.
          On most Wednesdays it's WWWP night, where we critique each other's writing.
          On Saturday I'm riding with Kathy Cureton and The Pony to the conference.
           Sometimes my blogging friends give me encouragement. Or a swift kick in the tookus (when I need it).

         Writing is so much better when you're surrounded by friends...

         What have you done for a friend (or a writing friend) lately?

Still Into It

(Beware. This topic/title was chosen so I would have a reason to include my favorite Paramore song. Sorry.)

     Okay, these are the things I am still "into":

• Sons of Anarchy (a show on FX that I love and is in its final season...it will take its final breaths this summer or fall, I believe. Think "The Sopranos" on motorcycles.)
• teaching (I still enjoy my job.)
• Crocs (however, one of my pairs--"Blackie"--is going to be autopsied soon, on April 24. Bring your own flower petals.)
• honesty (I got some initial feedback on my NaNo/manu, and even though no one has gotten to the end yet, they are suggesting segues. Are those really necessary?  They also say I probably need to change my point of view, which will result in more snark. No one has ever asked for more snark from me. I love it.)
• a great writing critique group  (Just about every piece of writing I submit has been critiqued by four gifted writers. They each bring a different perspective, they each have their unique strengths, but they're all strong and fierce.)

     What are you "into" these days?  (And now what I've been waiting for. I'm sorry if it's not what you have been waiting for...)

A Positive Spin On Poop

         When can a pile of poop be something valuable? When can a bunch of waste material be considered worthwhile? When can something that would normally be flushed away become something that is elevated into the realm of precious?

     Check out my guest post on The Muffin to find out...  

The Power of Ad-Libbing

          This morning I saw the story of George Raveling on the "CBS Sunday Morning News" show. Decades ago, Raveling showed up--at the last minute--to the march on Washington, volunteered to help with security (there were lots of celebrities, like Marian Anderson and Sammy Davis, Jr. in the front rows) and when Dr. King stepped away from the podium and was beginning to ball up the copy of his I Have a Dream speech, Raveling asked if he could have it. At that moment, a rabbi stepped up to introduce himself, and King handed George Raveling the three typewritten pages and the moment was over.

         For several decades, the copy of the historic speech stayed where it had been stashed--tucked in the middle of an Eisenhower biography...until someone asked him how it felt to be the first black basketball coach of something-or-other (my eyes glaze over when it comes to sports) and the interviewer asked him if he had gotten involved in the Civil Rights movement. Raveling mentioned he'd heard King's famous speech, and had the copy. Ever since he realized its importance, it's been framed and is protected. He's offered it to museums, stipulating that they sign papers stating the speech belongs to him...They've refused. He's been offered 3.5 million for it. He's refused. He's since given the speech to his son, with the stipulation that it never be sold.

         Sorry. I've spent a lot of words telling the "back story" and now I'm finally to what blew me away.

      The words "I have a dream" are nowhere in those three typed pages. Nowhere.


       There are, however, several spots where an asterisk was penciled in. And those were where King took off, adlibbing, making a four-minute speech into a sixteen-minute speech...transforming a powerful piece into an unforgettable moment.


         If your story is moving along, in a certain direction, but then veers off in another...perhaps it's a good thing. Embrace the spontaneous moments. Make use of the ideas that suddenly and unexpectedly burst in your brain.


       After all, it might transform your tale into something even better...  


          By the way, I just got word that my stories in two upcoming Chicken Soup books---Think Positive For Kids and Just Us Girls--have made it to the final round and will be included in those collections. Without my critique group, the felonious (at least in our daydreams) WWWPs, these slice-of-life stories would not have had a chance of getting published, so not only do I believe in the power of spontaneity, I also believe in the power of critique...

Have Some Coffee or Tea...and a Muffin

        I've been called many things. However, a "pest" is not one of them, and I don't want that to be added to my repertoire...(Ask the WWWPs--my writing critique group. They could spew out many colorful terms that I answer to.)

photo by henry

        I've done a guest post at The Muffin.  Brew up a beverage. Sit down a spell. And if you drink too much and your bladder get's full, don't worry.

         'Cause my post is all about "p"....

With a Little Hindrance From My Friends

          This week we had our writing critique meeting. The meeting of five wild women wielding pens. The WWWPs.

          Three of us had submitted to the same anthology. Two of us had not heard (or so I thought) . Privately, a couple of weeks ago, I had told the more brazen of the other two of the submitters that I had already heard. I heard the next day--the day after I had submitted my story. Seeing the name of the anthology on an email that quickly was definitely surprising.

photo by mbgrigby

         The other writer-friend I didn't tell, until I knew she had sent hers in, as she is sometimes of the thinking, 'Well, they'll take yours and hers...why would they want mine?' But on Wednesday I discovered that my shy friend had indeed sent in her piece.

         It was then that I admitted that I had already heard. "They emailed me the next day. 'No,' they said. It stunk so bad, they had to burn rubber getting away from the stench--that's why they answered so quickly."

        When the shy submitter said she hadn't heard, I replied, "Well, that's a good sign, because apparently if they don't like it they move fast." Then I looked at the other one, and she had her hand over her mouth and had her head ducked down...like she was trying to hide from me.

          She had heard as well. They were considering her story. She said, "I didn't want to say anything because I knew you'd be mad."

          I wasn't mad, although I did shout out my favorite phrase in mock ticked-offness. But that was all a façade. I wasn't angry with her. Instead, I felt bad.

          Talking wryly about my rejections is something I do, right along with celebrating the times I get a "yes." And when my friends get their work accepted, I'm thrilled. If it's a publisher/editor that I failed at, I might throw a colorful phrase at the friend, but I'm never serious about it. Rarely am I emotionally invested in a piece to the point that I get furious when I hear "no" because I know that at some point, I'll change the piece and regurgitate it and then submit it to another publisher.

         So if you have any shouting-from-the-rooftop to do, let me know. My writing friends help me so much--either in person or via the blogosphere--and I never want to hinder or inhibit any of them.

         Ever.  

Revealing Tidbits About the WWWPs

       Many people are clamoring about details about the twice-monthly meetings of the infamous writing critique group, the WWWPs.

       Oh, some of you try to namedrop, saying, "Well, I know Linda O'Connell," because Linda does lots of book talks, book signings, workshops and so on. When Chicken Soup clucks, there are at least a few feathers left fluttering around from Linda's backside plumage. She's co-authoring a Not Your Mother's Book for Publishing Syndicate. She's been around...

       And others will claim, "Lynn? I know her," because Lynn Obermoeller is a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild.  She was one of the writers whose work was featured in the anthology Storm Country, and was one of the talented twelve who made it into the Fifty Shades of Santa collection. She also is out there.

      But two of our group's members are elusive creatures. They are like those albino blind newts that live in caves. They were rarely sighted. Rumors are whispered about them, but no one is quite sure--what is fact and what is fiction?

     Here is what people are all frothing-at-the-mouth about. An expose' on Beth M. Wood, a founding member of the WWWPs.

      To put her into perspective, I am going to compare her to me (and everybody knows me):

      Beth                          Me

*  uses My Fitness Pal to remember         *  used My Fitness Pal for three  
    to eat enough                                        hours to try not to eat too much;
                                                                no instant weight loss meant I
                                                                tossed it aside

*  when she's really amused, she            * when I snort-laugh, people wonder
    snorts, and it's endearing                      what farm animal has broken out
                                                               of the barn

*  wears clothes that are in the               *  wears clothes that no longer have
    single digits--the LOW single                   numbers on the label--instead,
    single digits                                           clever euphemisms like "Queenly"
                                                                and "Cruise Ship" indicate the size

*  is 5'11'' in her bare feet                      *  is 5'5" in her Crocs

*  wears stylish belts around her              * wears tummy-control pantyhose
    tiny waist                                              like they're a boa constrictor

*  has long, dark-blonde hair                     * well, I do have hair...The color?
                                                                Let me find that box I just threw
                                                                away.

*  was excited when--on the                     * was excited when I found a box of
    eve of a horrible snowstorm--                  brownie mix in the cupboard
    she found out they WERE having
    exercise boot camp the next
    morning

* has boobs, and both of them                   *  has boobs--they're now
   are where they're supposed to                    divining rods
   be

*  is full after eating a tiny portion               * is full of **it when she says,
    of Lynn's lasagna                                      No more, thanks. I'm full,"
                                                                   when in reality she'd like to
                                                                   eat all six servings and then
                                                                   lick the plate clean

Beth M. Wood, at a book signing in December 2012
She has been published in several Chicken Soup for the Soul collections, in Sasee
along with many other publications

        The next time you see a tall, thin blonde writer, with a smile like Julia Roberts, you now can--with confidence--go up and say, "Hi, Beth." 

         But don't count on it happening too soon. After all, Beth hides in her lair, taking care of her young'uns and in her precious free time, is busy sending off writing submissions. The sightings of Beth are rare. But at least you know a few things about her now.

        (And Tammy, as you probably already suspect, you're the topic of my next expose.)