I HATE When That Happens

        Don't you hate it when you get something marvelous to read, and you can't put it down? Other things call to you...the laundry...lesson plans...the dishes...plucking the stray white eyebrow hairs that have formed a huge (but scattered) community and are apparently there to stay.

          The night before last, I was up until 2:00 in the morning--reading. Could. Not. Put. It. Down. I finally surrendered--reluctantly--because I was going on a hike this morning. I had to get at least a little rest. 

photo by DARREN STONE

 
          My eyes looked...well, they looked horrible. I'm sparing you the image of what they actually looked like, and am instead using this cool, purplish eye. Just add a large gray Samsonite bag under the eye, lots of red vein-y things across the white of the eyeball, and wrinkly, crepe-paper skin surrounding the eye.

           Last night I was up til 11. I finally finished it. I was compelled-- by the plot--to get to the end so I could find out how all the loose ends got tied up.

          For months, a writing friend and WWWP, Lynn Obermoeller, has been sharing her manuscript with the other WWWPs. Some meetings, she would share a submission for Chicken Soup or Sasee or some other publication. Other meetings, she would share a small piece of the novel she created during NaNoWriMo 2012.

          It's really hard to keep the momentum of the story going if you only get bits and pieces of it. Especially if the novel has some shreds of mystery about it, if there are some elements of suspense embedded in the tale. Waiting a couple of weeks or a month for the next installment became unbearable...

           A novel is like a baby the writer gives birth to. A memoir or other piece of nonfiction is like an adopted bambino--in some ways even more difficult than the "conventional" way of bringing your "creation" into the world, but the writer's baby nonetheless. However, a novel is totally new, completely coming from the writer's imagination. And you have to tread lightly when the nose, the eyes, the mouth---when they all can be traced back to the writer. Friends might want to crowd around to see the new arrival, but parents are fiercely protective. They might say, "No visitors right now."

           When the other four WWWPs demanded to get a copy of the manuscript--all of it at once--Lynn was brave enough to surrender. And then, I imagine she held her breath. Probably is still holding her breath. 'Cause no one wants people to gush over your "breathtaking" baby when--in actuality--the baby is hideous (for all you Seinfeld fans).

              What has been keeping me up late during the last two nights? Lynn's story. I am not really prepared for work today, will probably stumble through my schedule, I'll be observed by a roving group of administrators and it will be apparent I did diddly-squat (work-wise) over the weekend, I will be brought into the principal's office to be reprimanded, I will cry out, "But I was reading Lynn's story. I couldn't put it down. I had to finish it," and my boss will shake his head, I'll get fired and will have to become a stripper a slurpee machine operator to support my family.

              All because of a well-written story...

             What book or WIP (work in progress) is keeping you up at night lately? Or If you're planning on taking part in NaNoWriMo, what ideas do you have so far? Or What's the bravest thing you've ever done as a writer?

          

Deaf to All Except Those With a Deft Touch

        
         We were talking about this (how we love a delicate touch) at our writing critique meeting this past Wednesday. (You know, after roll call...after the minutes from the last meeting were read aloud...after issues from the floor were discussed...after they tried to force me into an Ellipsis Intervention group...)

          What's that, you ask? Am I speaking of how much I would appreciate Viggo Mortensen's gentle touch? No. Not at this moment. (But now that you mention it...) Right now, my appreciation is being heaped onto editors who know their boundaries.

art by hardgalvin.deviantart.com

          So far, I've been lucky enough to work with only a handful of editors, and they've been  extremely respectful of territorial lines. Where does my voice end and theirs begin in the editing process? I have a unique style/rhythm/strange set of idiosyncrasies  to my writing. There might be editors who--when they edit my work--might unwittingly infuse my writing with their voice. It might be when a bit of punctuation is changed, a different phrase is added, or the format of the story is altered.

         Lately, I've worked with two great editors---Dahlynn McKowen and Pat Nelson. Their suggestions have improved my pieces and the changes are done seamlessly. In my mind, that's one sign of a great editor.

         What editor have you worked with recently that you'd like to highlight as you pile on the praise? Come on. I know there are lots of stories to tell...

Goldens and Medals and Dreams, Oh My!

           Yesterday I took a personal day off work (something I've only done one other time in the last 13 years of working for my school district). It was the Golden Retriever Club National Specialty (AKA the national Golden thingy), and yesterday they hosted the "Rescue Parade." Fifty rescued Goldens were being highlighted, and our Foley was one of them.

           I was prepared for the variety of Goldens. Some were small, some were lanky, some had a big head (one was brain-damaged) and one even had a missing leg. I was prepared for all the swirls of golden-colored dog hair whirling around the floor of Purina. (Purina's clean-up crew probably worked overtime each evening; many sweaters could be knit with the hair that was shed.) What I was not prepared for was my emotional response.

         Seeing the people who came specifically to view the rescue parade--they cheered and clapped and thanked us individually for what we did--was heartwarming. The event began with a bagpiper, then each dog's story was read as the dog was paraded around the ring. Each dog received a medal that was placed around its neck--hung from a plaid ribbon--and the bagpiper finished up the parade.

        We waited in line before we got our cue. We waited until the real champions' events broke for lunch. And we all looked up and down the row of dogs who were loved and cherished and cared for. But not one of these canines would ever win a ribbon in this kind of competition.

          One of us made the comment, "We each have a #1 dog." Someone else replied, "And to think they're all 'throw away' dogs." He was right. Every one of those dogs had been discarded by someone...left for dead...abandoned.

         What accomplishment or steadfastly-held dream are you proud of these days? Or What kind of competition would your dog or cat win? (Foley would win the couch potato trophy, for sure!) Or How does your past (as a writer, an artist, a human) impact your future?

No Way---This is Not Your Mother's Book

         When our son went off to college, I was scared. Scared that no one would be there, standing over his bed and uttering the magic word ("Bacon!") or holding a cup of ice water over him...because if one of those things wouldn't be happening, my son wouldn't be getting up in time for his classes...

This is The Boy. We thought he'd never make it through Drury, but he did...with honors.

         When my daughter's slow-pitch softball team was short a player, I was happy to fill in as catcher. The pitches came over the plate slow as molasses. It would be a cinch. And then, while the players on Virginia's team were infield, I could "play" with my granddaughter. But then I got the awful news: since I was catcher, I had to also bat. And I am famous for being unable to hit anything smaller than the side of a barn. The result was embarrassing for me, and hilarious for everyone at the park that evening...

         Our son got so many tattoos while he was in college, when I counted them, I ran out of fingers on one hand and was working on the fingers on the other one. My husband and I begged him to stop until the frontal lobe of his brain finished forming...then he could make a mature, informed decision. But then he had the idea of getting a tattoo of his parents--a portrait of us--to honor us. Yikes! 

         When I was pregnant at 19 with my daughter--my first--I swore this would be my one and only child, so I was not interested in investing in lots of money for maternity clothes. I wore my husband's jeans--unzipped--leaving my huge Shamu-stomach covered by the long smock-style maternity tops of the era . (Hey, it was the 70's.) And I borrowed a pair of double-knit burgundy-colored maternity pants for "nice occasions. I wore those reddish pants so much, I just knew that right after I gave birth, I would be able to slip into my regular clothes and I could burn that polyester monster in celebration. But would I be able to see them go up in flames immediately after I delivered my after-birth? 

       These are all stories that I have submitted or stories I'm finishing up to submit to the Not Your Mother's Book series. Pat Nelson is looking for a few more stories about parenting and grandparenting. (But hurry. She almost has her anthology filled.) Linda O'Connell is looking for more stories about families. And Dianna Graveman is on the hunt for more tales about being a mom and being a mom-to-be.

         Think edgy. Think snarky. Think twisted with huge dollops of funny. And think about submitting. Quickly.

Top 10 Reasons Why You Should Embrace Menopause

       The other night--a "school night"--I was up from 12:30-3:30. (See reason #9.) I started thinking what were the benefits of being menopausal. And here they are.

1.  The hair on your leg starts getting sparser (but more unpredictable).

2.  You're never cold in the winter. (The hot flashes ensure you're always dragging around your own portable heating unit.)

3.  Your breasts become fashion accessories. Sling 'em over your shoulder for a scarflike look in the back, let 'em hang down like a scarf in the front, or tuck 'em into the waistband of your pants if you so desire. They are so versatile!

4.  Your family, friends and colleagues steer clear of you; often, you will get your way without even pressing the issue because everyone fears for their life if they cross you.

5.  Evening entertainment is cheap now. No need to go to a movie to see something scary. Just sit on your couch with a mirror that magnifies, and start plucking away at the stray hairs on your face. It will make you scream! It will make you shudder. It will petrify you.

6.  You can get a part-time job at Hershey's, if you need to. Your nose now becomes so finely-tuned, you can sniff out chocolate within a six-block radius.

7.  If you're facing an armed criminal, you'll never get shot in the head or the face. As you're coming up to a corner, there's no need to inch your head out to take a peek, since your stomach precedes you wherever you go. Your poochy gut arrives a few minutes before you, like the QEII cruiseship, "announcing" your arrival.

8. Lots of weird things happen--health-wise--but fear not. It's never anything serious. Your doctor will listen to your litany of symptoms, look at your chart, and say, "It's your age." (And then you take the speculum and use it to gouge holes out of his face.)

9.  When you wake up in the middle of the night and cannot go back to sleep--for several hours--you can get lots accomplished. I worked on a submission when I was up the other night.

10.  Because of all the facial hair that is sprouting up, you can now get work as a character actor. In television shows. As an old man...

How about you?  What would you like to add to this list?

Before Cat Stevens...

       Before there was Cat Stevens and John Sebastian and Richie Havens and John Lennon, there was Glen Campbell.

Glen Campbell--photo by m_g_ gray

       It still flummoxes me, but I had a crazy crush on Glen. I loved his music, I loved his voice, and I found him physically quite attractive (as hunky as a 10-year old could hunker together, that is).

       When the movie True Grit came out, I ran, screeching, to the movie theater to see it. (Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but I did have to strap on my drool bucket.) I drank in every moment of every scene he was in.

       During the last quarter of the movie, I was devastated. (spoiler alert) The Glen Campbell character died! The nerve of them! In my young mind, it was as if Campbell was now dead.

       Now Glen has Alzheimer's. He still plays concerts, but is supported by three of his children. They keep him from faltering too far afield. When he finishes a song, then goes into the intro of that same song, they gently remind him. He has a teleprompter, to help ensure he doesn't forget the lyrics. Unfortunately, I know that soon, he will not be able to continue. I know, because my dad had Alzheimer's. It's a horrible disease, but it takes the worst toll on the family of the afflicted one.

        As writers, we have to continue no matter how tough it gets. When we get a rejection, we have to brush ourselves off and send off another submission. When we stumble, we have to get up and keep moving ahead.

         Who do you admire who--like Glen Campbell--is the epitome of perseverance?  Tell their story. Now.