Predator Editors

photo by Colorfly Studio

         In truth, I like to run a line through something rather than erase it because once you erase it, it's gone. Forever.

             And when I went to flickr I was looking for a photo of a red pen,  but since I won't be able to find this (the above picture) again because I'm hormonally challenged forgetful, I slipped it in here.

        But a red pen would have been a better choice. Because this post is about gifted editors.

      During the summer, I have some flexibility to my schedule, and I'm taking advantage of it; I've joined a group of writers who meet every Tuesday morning for "Coffee and Critique." We bring things to share, and get suggestions on how to improve the pieces.

      Everybody at this table has good eyes and ears. Each one has their own little niche when it comes to editing. But yesterday, I sat next to one of the writers with the fastest pen in the west. And not only is she fast, she's dead-on when it comes to her aim.  

       As soon as I started reading my short story, I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Circling. Crossing out. Drawing arrows and writing comments.

     And I loved it. Because that's what I need help with. I won't say I was ever a brilliant writer, but between August and May, I write for nine-year olds. So I need loads of help discerning what words can be left out, what is cliche, where I'm getting off track.

     So, thanks for being a predator-editor. Thanks for circling around my weak verbs and adjectives. Thanks for attacking my writing with a keen eye.

     Thanks, Alice. (And Donna and Doyle and Bea and Becky and Bill and Marcia and Lou.)

       

        

Go!

         I love Doug Savage's blog posts. The cartoons are always quirky, they're drawn on post-its (amazing in itself!) and often, they're responsible for me beginning my day with a chuckle. (He posts them early in the morning, at "the crack of chicken," so along with C. Hope Clark's middle-of-the-night meanderings, they're the first new posts to greet me when I wake up.)

      Today's cartoon is marvelous advice for writers. (It's a rare one. Most of his cartoons are about chickens.)

       Go. Go for the submission. Go out of your comfort zone and try a different genre. Go to a writing group. Go to the post office and send off your story. Go up to a fellow writer and ask for advice. Go to a workshop. Just go.

     Because if you stay, you're a weanie.

Bad Reviews

photo by Amazon.com

                                                              
        Yesterday Kelly O'Connor McNees gave a presentation for Saturday Writers.  Kelly's debut novel, The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott is now in paperback.

         I loved Little Women when I was younger. Because I was a tomboy, Jo was my favorite character.

        I bought a copy for my daughter for Christmas but I'm going to gently read it first .

        After the presentation was over, a few of us went out for lunch. It was an opportunity to hear more about Kelly's journey to Publication Land.

        One of the funniest tidbits she shared was a reader's "review" that was posted on the internet.  They said, "This summer should have stayed lost." She said she laughed about it, thinking the play on the title was humorous.

        As writers we have to develop a thick skin. Certainly there is going to be constructive criticism, and most of it we will weigh and ultimately, the suggestions will help shape our work.

        But other comments we should just laugh about, shake our heads over, have some chocolate or a margarita and forgeddaboddit.

Book Blurb Friday # 17

         Yes, it's Book Blurb Friday.(Actually, it's still Thursday, but if I take too long writing this, it will indeed be Friday by the time I get through.)

          The reason why we slather and clamor every week is 1) we get a great photo to inspire us (Sandra, what did you do to the spider web to make it appear so white?) 2) We get to hone our blurb-writing skills (150 words or less) and 3) we get to read everyone else's blurb.

            Go to Lisa Ricard Claro's blog, link your blurb to the efficient Mister Linky, and enjoy the other BBFs that are posted.

Granny, I Got the Clicker Now!

Cecil was smitten and nothing—not even that old bat!—could keep him from his one true love.

That blue-haired biddy insisted on watching her shows, as if no one else mattered on the face of this pitiful planet. Lounging in her Lazy-Boy, Granny refused to loosen her gnarly grip on the clicker.


He longed to gaze at his love’s orange, fake-baked flesh as she scampered across the screen…But no! Granny would not give it up!


Finally, Cecil exploded. A new Jersey Shore was coming on; still, she wouldn’t surrender the remote. In a fury, he grabbed Granny’s tiny frame, carried her out into the front yard, and opening the driver’s side door, placed her in the front seat of the ’64 Falcon that sat up on blocks.


That had been seven months ago. “Aaah, Snooki,” he sighed, as he gazed out the window. Had Granny learned her lesson yet? (150 words--whew!) 

And if you are so inclined as you chatter on twitter or "like" things via facebook, please check out my newest blogging adventure here. Be gentle. I've just begun.

Magpie Tale #70

        Tess Kincaid brings it every week. Every week, another photo, another invitation, another chance to hone our writing craft.

       This is the 70th Magpie Tale, and your mission (if you choose to accept it) is to write a poem or a short vignette, using the photo as inspiration.

        After you write one, link it via Mr. Linky at Magpie Tales and read and comment on the others' tales.

         Following the photo is my Magpie for this week.

         She held the photo in her hand. The number meant nothing to her. Last summer, her great-granddaughter had gone through the dusty, thumbed-edged portraits and together, they numbered them chronologically. She said, "Nana, now we'll have like a timeline of you and what you looked like. Isn't that tight?"

          Tight? What was constricting about it? She let it pass, not understanding, but just nodded a bit.

          Photo # 199 was Margaret at 19, already a mother, but still so beautiful. (Even if she did say so herself!) Her eyes clear, her skin flawless, her face unlined.

           More than six decades had slipped between her fingers since that portrait was taken. Now her eyes were a milky blue. Her skin was as fragile as crepe paper. Her face was cross-hatched with deep crevices.

         Where had the time gone?  And how many other photos were waiting in the wings, still untaken?

(Only after I read Tess Kincaid's Magpie did I examine the photo once again, and felt silly. Of course it is a price, not just a three-digit number!  Since I realized that too late, I went in another direction when I wrote my Magpie Tale.

Which is okay, because as long as we're writing, we're using our writing muse-cles, which means we're working on our craft.)

A Day for Fathers

           I never got to know my biological father. Not his name, not his character traits, nothing about his physical appearance.

       According to the story my birth mother told the adoption agency, his family came from Greece. Since I am white as notebook paper (with the blue lines, since my leg veins have become more prominent these days) and my hair color doesn't look like it's Greek, I wonder if "came from Greece" meant they recently returned from a mediterranean cruise.

       On the other hand, perhaps she was spinning a story to hide the shame that this was the second time she had gotten pregnant and had to give up a baby. I cannot imagine the dilemma she was in.

This is my birth mother with the 3rd daughter she
gave birth to. She managed to hang onto this girl for a while...

      Luckily, I grew up with a great mom and dad. Love and affection and attention showered down on me for the last five decades. While he was alive, I know that my dad's life was enriched because he had a daughter. And yet I have a huge void in my life... 

       This week I was flying around from Goodwill shops to Target  and (sorry) Walmart. Yesterday my husband loaded up a U-Haul trailer and headed to the other side of the state. And it was all for our son, who recently snagged a job in his field, along with an apartment in a very funky part of his new "home" town.

      Looking back on our days when parenting was an every-minute exhausting affair, I cannot imagine what my life would be life if I had to miss out on the joys, the sorrows, the fumbling. My daughter and her family, my son...our lives are so rich because of them.

      My birth father may not have even known about my biological mother's pregnancy. If so, he doesn't even know what he's missing out on.

      But my husband and I know all-too-well what he missed...


(Note: I was prompted to write this post because of what Barbara Hodges wrote on a recent post of hers. If you don't know Barb, you must take my word for it. She is one of the few "ladies" I know--always gracious, always kind--is a retired teacher, and is a prolific writer. Her parents really missed out on something special, but her grandparents got a gem of a deal!)