Writing Groups or Linda O'Connell is Now in a Safe Place

What do the following comments have in common?

"What is that you're drinking--cat pee?"

"You don't have to pad your comments for me. I want to know if it sucks. Just say--'It sucks' if it does suck."

"My cat died...So now, I'm looking for a boyfriend."

"Your endings are always brilliant. These letters could be an incredible book. We want to see more."

"Your ex-husband lives with his mother? Yikes!"

"I don't know where this circus guy came from. I think I channeled him." 

If you thought these might be things overheard during a writing group meeting, you're correct.

photo by Janny Brocken

Recently, I had the good fortune to fall into a writing group. We've only met twice so far, but already I'm enjoying it immensely. (Over the summer I joined a marvelous one--temporarily--but since I had to return to work in August, I no longer had Tuesday mornings free.)

I have a few guidelines, if you're not involved with one but would like to be:

1. Make sure you're clear about what you want when you share your work. Do you want really constructive criticism? Do you want everybody's comments tied up with a pretty bow, or are you of the opinion "If it smells like poop and looks like poop, it is poop...So say 'It's poop,'"?

2. Find a suitable place to meet--one that adds the desired ambience, is quiet enough to hear each other, and has carpeting (so the landings on one's rear-end is a soft one).  We first met at Barnes and Noble, but some whack-job assaulted Linda O'Connell while we were there, and Linda ended up with a multi-colored bruise after falling on her...Well, you get the idea.

3. Make sure everyone is in the same "ballpark," writing-wise. I'm in the bullpen--not quite on the field yet--but I am learning from the other writers and getting great suggestions and submission ideas. Soon, I'll be in the batting rotation...

4.  Make sure your group stays on track. Bawdy comments, snarky remarks...those tend to get the writers off the subject of writing. Revel in Avoid them.

Linda is worried that, after reading the comments at the beginning of this post, people will wonder if she suffered brain damage when she fell. Only two of the comments were said by her. (You figure out which two.)

Where Was I? Where Were YOU?

This is where I was ten years ago--at Griffith Elementary, in Ferguson, Missouri.

          Ten years ago, I was in a fifth grade classroom. The students had not arrived yet, but even though they would be arriving soon, I could not do any of my normal last-minute preparation work. I was frozen. Frozen in place, mouth gaping open, staring at the television screen.

      Did I see the first tower topple in slow motion? Or was it my imagination...had my sorrow made things freeze in place momentarily in an attempt to allow my heart and mind to catch up with what my eyes were seeing? I clearly remember being amazed that--even though a plane had rammed into the tower--it remained standing. I thought, 'Well, it's awful for those people on the affected floors, but everyone else escaped harm.' I was amazed that the structural know-how of architects ensured that a skyscraper could withstand such an accident and remain upright and sturdy. 

     But all-too-soon, my amazement turned to overwhelming sorrow as the tower fell, and then the second one as well. And the horror continued...

     As our class had discussions that day, that week, that month, we spoke of differences in people. We spoke of prejudices and stereotypes.  All white people are not good. Some are murderers. All black people are not good. Some are criminals. All police officers are not honest. Some are dishonest.  We spoke of different religions, and spoke of Muslims, and how one particular religion was not to blame...A particular group of individuals were to blame.

     The teachers painted a huge flag on the playground, and signed their names. The vivid red and blue, the pure white...it was a simple way to express what we were feeling.

     Of course, 11-year olds could not really comprehend the enormity of what happened, any more than they could grasp the concept of what slavery was truly like...In their mind, if they were enslaved, they would simply fight back against their owners and run away. 

     But for those of us old enough to understand, we all remember where we were ten years ago on this morning...And it's a memory we're unlikely to ever forget.   

I Knead More Dough

        Reading Linda O'Connell's post--which was written because we really needed a momentary break from crying ten years ago--prompted me to recall my past dealings with dough. 

      I have so many encounters with bread and rolls and monkey bread and Cinnabons and breadsticks and biscuits, I have started taking my "rolls" with me.

      My name is Sioux, and I am a bread-aholic.

      These days, I try to stay away from white flour. Quinoa pasta and whole grain macaroni fill my cupboards now.

       But a few years ago, my sister and I went to visit a cousin, who baked yeast rolls for us one evening. The plan was for Orvilene (the cousin) to show us how to make them the next day, and give us some "starter" to take home.

       Well, those rolls were out-of-this-world. I can (still) conjure enough drool over them to write an ode about them. They were so delectable, no butter was needed (and definitely no margarine--margarine wasn't good enough for those bits of bread-heaven!).

photo by Shutterfool

       After eating them for dinner that first night, my sister lay in bed before falling asleep and talked. Not about our conversation we had with Orvilene and her husband, nor about the little trip we took that day did we chat. Instead, we talked about those rolls.

      You see, those rolls were bubbling in our stomachs. Whatever powerful yeasty action made those rolls rise up, they were working their magic in our tummies. And although we were complaining about the heartburn, we were trying to calculate how many rolls we could eat tomorrow and still avoid feeling uncomfortable again. 

"I think I had four rolls. I wonder if I just had two or three tomorrow?"

"Oh my!  I've never even had heartburn. This is horrible. I wonder if I only ate a couple?"

     Thankfully, we had something else to worry about the next day besides heartburn. We had tromped around some sites that were historic to our family and ended up with chiggers (my first time for those, as well). And also thankfully, although we brought home some starter, the rolls never even got close to Orvilene's.  (If I had been successful, I would now weigh 642 pounds, and my "rolls" would be even bigger than they are now.)

      As you think about where you were 10 years ago tomorrow morning, and you need a reason to smile, read Linda's post. As is always the case with her writing, you won't be disappointed...

  

What $60 Will NOT Get You

photo by extrawack

       

        My son moved out on his own this summer. He's living 6 hours away, having found a very cool apartment in a very funky building, which is in the middle of a neighborhood full of character and one of the main "characters" is now my boy. 

        He was fortunate enough to graduate from college and actually snag a job in his field (music therapy). In fact, he admitted he almost feels guilty taking a paycheck,  his work is so enjoyable. Not only does he have fun every day, he gets to wear gym shorts to work sometimes. From my son's perspective, clothing--or a lack of it--is crucial to happiness. He was the kid who refused to apply to be a dorm's RA--Resident Advisor--for two years because if he did that job, he'd have to wear a shirt. Going shirtless and shoeless, no matter what the season, is his normal state.

       Okay, he's a musician, so I get his quirkiness. He's also his father's son, and all my son's weird traits came from the paternal pool of DNA.  Except for the good quirks. Those ones came from me.

      Once the boy moved out, my husband and I had a sudden swell of wealth. We had so much extra money at the end of each month, we recently bought a couple of new vehicles. My husband got a large Lexus truck with a Jack in the  Box taco bar in the truckbed. I got a Jag with a neverending chocolate fountain flowing in the back. Where did we get all of this extra moolah?  Did I start pole-dancing, and get a fortune thrown at me every night as the audience begs me to "Stop!  For the love of man, please stop!" ? Did I sell my fat rolls to some oil speculators? 

Nope. All that happened was the boy moving out. And the fortune we're saving is because our grocery bill is 3% of what it used to be.

When he was in high school, the boy and his posse would swoop down on CiCi's Pizza.  For a incredibly small amount (under $5?) he could eat all the pizza he wanted. The group of hairy teenagers would have a leisurely lunch or dinner, each one filling up their hollow legs. When he went away to college, he enjoyed the heaped-high trays of dorm food, and will only go to Pasta House on Monday nights, because those are all-you-can-eat evenings.

Once he moved out from under the sheltering umbrella of mom and dad, he went on his first official now-I'm-on-my-own shopping trip. To be completely honest, he had lived in dorm apartments for two years, and had done grocery shopping then, but it was mainly for snacks and "extras" since he relied mainly on the cafeteria food.  So he was a bit naive...

When I went for a visit to see his new place, he admitted, "I went grocery shopping, and thought $60 would get me food for a month."

I laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

After my tears stopped and our talk continued, he said, "I bet you and dad are saving lots of money since I moved out."

And indeed we are...

It has been a while since I welcomed new followers. I apologize. I'm so glad that occasionally someone will log on as a follower, even if they're pity followers.

Welcome to Marinela Reka, Vanilla Mama, Windowlad, indiwriter, haiku love songs, and Beth M. Wood.   (As an aside, Beth is funny, but you would not like her if you met her in person. She is not spring-chicken young, but she's got a tall, thin frame...so pretty, you can't help but dislike her. But read her posts nonetheless. She can't help the way she looks.)

Breasts: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Live Without 'Em

photo by jamie nyc

       
          Recently, my husband asked me why breasts are often featured in my posts. Of course, since he is male and is differently-equipped, he's clueless.

         When I was in junior high and my breasts developed on my then-thin frame, they were a pain in the rear. Being a tomboy, I lived in chambray shirts and jeans, or overalls. My true desire was to wear bright red or rainbow-colored suspenders, but being extra-endowed proved problematic. Should the suspenders be worn right over the middle of each breast, or shove them off to either side?  Thinking they looked stupid on my figure, I (sadly) did not wear them.

       In my late teens and early 20's, I developed an appreciation for my breasts; as a waitress, I could use them to my advantage. Leaning over a bit--for leering purposes--when serving a businessman or a drunk truck driver could bring in extra-large tips. However, sometimes I had to get a customer's eye contact back to my eyes so I could get their order. (They were easily hypnotized or not too bright--maybe they thought they were in a drive-through and my breasts were speakers...I'm not sure what their problem was.)

       Now in my 50's, I've discovered how versatile my breasts are. Patricia Heaton (the actress that played Ray Romano's wife on Everybody Loves Raymond) once spoke quite candidly about the breast augmentation she had done. She said before the surgery, it was like an origami project putting on a bra---folding each breast multiple times to get it in. So there's one way they serve a purpose: as a free rainy-day activity.

       They can also be leg warmers during cold weather. If you flip them up over your shoulder and around your neck, they can be neck warmers.

        So yes, I did not appreciate or like my breasts when I was young, but now I've gotten quite attached to them. And if you have other ways they are versatile, feel free to send them my way.

Constructing and Deconstructing

photo by Lightning Lee
(Maybe he gets all the words right the first time...)

      
       I'm working on a piece that needs lot of tearing apart (the crappy parts) and  a great deal of building up (the weaker and the fairly-decent parts).

      One of the "Donalds" (Graves or Murray, I can remember which) said that writing is "as much deconstruction as construction." He claims that we spend as much time scratching out and deleting as we do actually writing.  

      What is it about the revising process that you love? Or perhaps it's a relationship filled with pure venom? In that case, what is it about revising that you hate?