All That Lying Paid Off

        When I was a teenager, I lied a lot.  About my activities.  About boyfriends. About where I was going when I left in the car.  I got very good at it, yet once I got out on my own, I had no reason to lie.

           Occasionally I lie to pull my students' legs. (Yesterday when one of my students saw me leave an out-of-the-way staff restroom upstairs,  they asked me what that door was to. I told them it led to a small hallway and some stairs, and downstairs was the staff swimming pool.  Then the music teacher got into it, and said there was a spa there as well.  Then I heaped on even more:  There was also a sundae bar down there.  The teachers get to make ice cream sundaes and choose their own toppings. They bought it--hook, line and sinker--so I had to tell them we were kidding them.) However, recently I lied, and will answer to a "higher power" for it...

          The dog rescue group I work with had a call a few weeks ago about a Golden Retriever that was tied outside all night and all day on a daily basis.  I was the one who got the call, so I had all these sad images in my head.  The heat has been unbearable; I could not imagine having no respite from the humidity and the sun. The caller said the dog howled constantly, and got yelled at because of the noise it made. Goldens are people-oriented dogs, so not having people giving them the affection and attention they thrive on made me determined to do what I could do to help out this dog.

          The town where this dog was is situated about 2 1/2 hours away.  I drove there, having no idea if the family would be home, or if they would agree to sell the dog to me.  (I had a small amount of money with me, hopefully enough to tempt them.)

          Thankfully, the owners were not too suspicious or smart or savvy, because the tale I told had lots of holes in it.  (Or perhaps my teenaged lies have honed my skills more than I thought?)  Anyway, after speaking to them for more than an hour, I drove home with the dog.  At every rest stop where we paused, for a potty break, I tried to convey to this gorgeous Golden that life was going to be different from now on...

       This gentle boy has not had an accident in our house yet, he is a "sponge" when it comes to human contact, and is learning how to play.

      

photo by laurent.brun31

          Unfortunately, he will not be able to play or be active for the next month and a half.  The vet found he is heartworm positive, which means after he is treated--after his neutering and after the treatment for heartworms--he will have to stay quiet in a crate for a month.  He might not make it, although our rescue has had great results with dogs plagued by heartworms. (We're getting more and more dogs from rural areas, and when dogs are kept outside all the time, and don't receive the needed monthly medication, they're susceptible.)

         If he survives the treatment, and if we don't fall hopelessly in love with him while we are fostering him, he will be up for adoption. At least one of those is a big if...

And It's Off...

         Earlier in the month, perhaps even in July, I wrote that I had a manuscript (a picture book) I had been sitting on.  It's been "finished" for at least two years.  I'd sent it to only one publisher, and after that, I just moaned and groaned over the fact that it had not been published. Well, duh!  It might have a chance if I was more persistent.

          I vowed it would be sent out before August ended, and since I'm the Procrastination Princess, it was sent out today. At 4:15 this afternoon.

          So, maybe I'll hear from Albert Whitman & Company tomorrow?  Or later in the week?  Place your bets on whether it will tomorrow, Thursday or Friday before a response is received.

          Seriously, if you think of yourself as a writer, you have to put your stuff out somehow.  That might mean you belong to group of writers, and you get feedback as you write and revise.  That might mean you scratch your poetry into the walls of a toilet stall.  Or that might mean that you keep submitting, and looking forward to rejection letters along with--hopefully, a letter of acceptance---because that means you're living the writer's life. 

photo by davidteter

       

Random Autobiographies

          A random autobiography is a great way to stretch yourself as a writer.  I am sure there are more thorough definitions and descriptions around, but this is the what I say about them:

       A random autobiographical poem is written in free verse, and is indeed "random," because it slips in and out when it comes to the timeline.  When drafting this, allow the events of your life to come to you in a stream of consciousness; some of them will be more "major" and some will be seemingly insignificant. However, don't dwell too long and overthink as you are writing about where things belong.  Just let them flow out...

           This is an example of a random autobiography poem.  You have to page down past a couple of ads to read it.

           A few years ago I wrote one at a writing retreat. It was truly an enjoyable experience.  It's too long to include here, but if you're interested, I'd be glad to email it to you.

photo by Photoma's World

           Try your hand at one. I'd love to see what you come up with...

Still Waters...

        The frequently-used saying, "Still waters run deep" sometimes hits me on the head like a sledgehammer.

          I recently was checking out a blog I follow.  This particular posting was about a source of supreme joy in their life.  However, tragedy also played a part.  It wasn't at the core of the happiness, or surrounding the joyousness like a thin, brittle coating, but it was there all the same and ever-present.  That was the problem:  I really wanted to respond, but how?

         I could not figure out how this individual could endure such a horrific event without having it emblazoned on their chest.  Why is this deep wound not visible to everyone they encounter?  How can they live their life looking "normal," keeping all the sadness unseen and under the surface?  How could pure joy shine through, without a hint of grief?

         No words would come.  Lots of words came to mind, but none that could convey the myriad of things I felt, and not wanting to offend or say the wrong thing, I made no comment.

          The childen I work with deal with all sorts of things that kids should never even see.  One of my former students broke up a fight between his mother and her boyfriend.  He was bitter and scarred over what he had seen (probably many times).  Some of the kids (8 and 9-years old) go home to empty apartments with no older siblings, and the apartment complex is a bit rough. Many have adult responsibilities to take care of---watching siblings that are toddlers---even though they not ready to shoulder that load.  Some of the kids have parents who work nights; I shudder when I wonder if anyone is there with them while they sleep...We might get aggravated when they don't have their homework, but if Mom is an unmedicated bi-polar, how much blame can you heap on a child?

photo by Studio Neko

        People you see walking down the street, propelling themselves to their next destination, may have a calm exterior.  But you never know...

If You Know Your Character, You Know...

         Something that's stuck in my brain for decades was a nugget that one writer said.  Something like, If you really know the character you've created, you know what they have in their pocket.

          I was thinking of a variation of that last night, when watching The Closer on television.

          The main character opened up her desk drawer and it was filled-to-the-brim with candy.  (She was rooting around for the last chocolate bar...Definitely a kindred spirit!)  She is a high-ranking police official; one of her detectives, when he saw the contents of the drawer, was visibly surprised.

          Nowadays, some of us are stuck at work for such long periods of time, our desk becomes our home away from home.  Perhaps what we keep in our desk is more "telling" than what we have in our pockets.  (And sometimes our desk at home is our place of work.  That would add another layer of meaning, if we examined the inside of the drawers.)

           What can you put in a drawer that would make for an intriguing character?  What drawer contents would reveal important character flaws?

           Please share.  Writers are wonderful thieves...

photo by Winnie_nevrothwen

Writer's Block

         Most writers get stuck in a rut.  The words don't flow.  There is no floodgate opening and the lines rushing out...not even a trickle.

         As writers we have to find out what works for us.  What gets us writing again?  What writerly habits can we develop that help combat writer's block?

        I once read one writer's way of making sure he wrote every day:  he did not go to the bathroom in the morning, upon waking, until he had written a whole page.

       Thinking of how urgent that need is, right after getting out of bed, I thought, ' I'll bet it is sometimes a fast page.'

       What are some things you have found that works for you as a writer?  How do you combat writer's block?

photo by Harriet Picturebug