A Second Bite

         Sometimes I go into spasms of pleasure when I take the first initial bite of something new. Tammy's BLT bites. Anything (and I do mean anything, from her Orgasms to her quiche to her spaghetti) made by Lynn Obermoeller. My grandmother's gravy. (Every time she made it, it was a little different but those brown, fat-laden pools never failed to make me swoon.)

      When something edible is that good, I have to take a second bite. (Or a second helping. Yikes.)

      This morning I was taking a second bite at a story idea. There are two stories I am driven to get published, to honor the people who are at the heart of the pieces.

      One slice-of-life story I am yearning to see in print is about my friend Darice's son. He is the same age as my son, and you will never meet a friendlier, more polite kid than Aaron. He is the kind of young man who could talk to a lamp post and he'd get a response. Now in his mid-twenties, he got his Master's degree, and was enrolled in chiropractic school when someone broke into his house while he was sleeping. Aaron now has a bullet in his spine as a reminder, and has been living as a paraplegic for over a year. (I've submitted a story about him to Chicken Soup, but no news is bad news, so I am going to write another story about him from a different angle.)

      The other story I'm taking another stab at (See? It started as a "bite," but now I'm getting surlier, so "stab" seems more apt.) is about a friend named Ruthie. She and her husband Jim had an unwavering optimism. Jim had Alzheimer's, and they had more than their share of obstacles, but their sunny outlook remained intact. (I submitted an absolutely fabulous story, worthy of a Pulitzer Prize second look, but no. Again, no news means no publishing agreement...)  I'm writing the story from a different perspective, will beg my critique partners-in-crime to read it ("OMG! Another Alzheimer's story?" they'll cry out in protest.) and after it's all polished up, nice and shiny, I'll send it off.

      What are you taking a second (or third) bite of?  What (or who) are you taking a second stab at?  Inquiring minds want to know...

What is Faux About Your Life?

           A few weeks ago, I sponged-painted my once-yucky kitchen counter. It now looks like granite--sleek and mottled with browns and black and tans. And it looks like a brand-new $5,000.00 countertop, and all it cost us was $70.

        Every morning I use an eyelash curler, in an attempt to override my drooping eyelids. 

        And as evidenced by all the skin cleansers and skin sloughers and skin creams that hog up space in my hall closet, it's obvious--I'm trying to be something I'm not (which is older than mud).

         As writers, we specialize in what is faux and what is not. Even if we're writing nonfiction, we're putting our own spin on things, and filling in with details that we forgot long ago.

This collection will be on sale on December 24, 2013.
My slice-of-life story, "Still Dishing It Out"
is going to be one of the 101 story offerings.


I received word yesterday that my story has made it to the final round. I also received a letter yesterday from a epistolary addict  letter-writing maniac  writing friend, and what she wrote made me think... Am I a creative nonfiction writer? Am I a novelist? Or am I whatever I'm dabbling in at the moment?

What is the thing that is most faux about you or your life? Don't be afraid to share. I won't tell a soul... 

       
   

Tag!

          I've been tagged. Yes, that's what happens when one is fat and slow-moving--it's easy for them to lose a game like "Tag."

       But wait. This is the kind of game I can play while I am procrastinating mulling over a current work-in-progress.

       Cathy C. Hall tagged me. Or maybe it was Cathy-on-a-Stick. (You never know about that one...) Cathy answered some writing questions, and then passed the torch, for a burning inquisition...

What are you working on right now?

        Right this moment, I'm working on a submission for Chicken Soup for the Soul. I also used to have a pet snake--several, in fact--and am planning on writing a piece to send to Publishing Syndicate for possible inclusion in their Not Your Mother's Book...On Pets.

          As far as something lengthier, I began a "longish" piece last November during NaNoWriMo. It's a little more than 60,000 words long right now, and is currently the object of much colorful language called "The WWWP Critique Group and SD Society."

How does it differ from other works in this genre?

      Well, for one, it's not finished. (Duh.)

       It's a mash-up of novel/cookbook/collection of essays. It's part marathon and part sprint. It's been dormant for a month or two, but I think I've found the thread I need to weave throughout the whole thing. Only time will tell...

Why do you write what you do?

      I began this novel monstrosity longish piece with just a kernel of an idea at its core. It almost immediately morphed into a vehicle that could honor an endless parade of people---my close friends, my granddaughter, my critique group, the authors I adore, blogging buddies--because the story centers around five fierce women writers. With my clumsy deft hand, I could manipulate the characters to rant about Rush Limbaugh, to stalk Jean Ellen Whatley as an ardent fan, to drool over Khaled Hosseini. 
     That's why I was writing it...And at some point, the story took over, and I'm no longer in control.  

What is the hardest part about writing?

       It depends on the project. Sometimes it's the title. There's lots of times I come to my critique group and have to beg and plead for a title. There are other times (like with the piece I'm bringing tomorrow) where the ending is suckola. (And I know that odor when I encounter it, believe me.) Sometimes (very occasionally) the hard part is keeping up with the story. On rare, magical moments, the piece tumbles out all by itself. I wish that happened more often...

       Now it's time for me to tag three people. Tammy. You're it. Val. You're it. Lynn. You're it. Oh, and along the way back to the "safe" spot, I brushed past Shay. You're it, too.


  

I'm Wise to You...

      Yeah, you can try to hide your fascination with my gracefulness, but it's no use. I know it. You can't lie. Don't bother. You are obsessed with my dancing ability. I've even heard you say, "Sioux, your dancing is unlike any dancing I've ever seen." Remarks like that make me bust my buttons with pride...

      
      Over the years I've endured grueling dance lessons from the best of the best--Elaine Marie Benes.  In case you've just crawled out from under a rock, check out one of her stellar performances. After decades of practice and recitals, I've reached the pinnacle of dancer-hood--now I'm resting on my cellulite-riddled butt laurels... 

      And check out my story in Sasee magazine. It details my climb to the top--of the heap (it's a pile of something, that's for sure).

They're a Brick! House!

         Okay, I admit it. Disco is my favorite driving music. It keeps me awake and alert and energized.

       In fact, in the September issue of Sasee magazine, a story of mine ("Still Dancing") is going to appear. It chronicles my horrific unbelievable past attempts at dancing.

                                                         These are plates. Don't you think any food
                                                  placed on it would boogie-oogie-oogie right off?

        Tomorrow, some local writers are going to be guests at a private event, featuring Gloria Gaynor, the queen of I Will Survive. Cathi LaMarche, Alice Muschany, Lynn Obermoeller, and Linda O'Connell will be dancing under the disco ball--and they each have a story of theirs published in an anthology about surviving.

                                                      This is the cover of the anthology inspired
                                                     by Gloria Gaynor's song "I Will Survive."

         Please send them congratulations and if you're older-than-mud "seasoned" enough to remember the disco era, give them your best dancing advice...

         ...'Cause they don't need no stinkin' writing advice. They're solid writers. Each of them is a Brick! House! of writing skills.

Be Careful What You're Hating On

       When I was in high school, I hated crab ragoon. My sister Virginie, Charmaine  (the 3rd Musketeer of our group) and I would go to a local Chinese restaurant almost weekly. They had crab ragoon and I waited patiently while they crunched away, because after their appetizer-turned-entree, we'd have fried ice cream. That I loved...

       The fact was I hated crab ragoon, despite the fact that I had never even tried it.

photo by wintersoul1

        Now, of course, I adore it. If there was a swimming pool full of crab ragoon, I'd happily dive in and eat my way out of it. And then I'd be renamed Shamu.

        A couple of weeks ago, I got word that a publisher liked a story of mine but it needed tweaking. They wanted to include it in the Not Your Mother's Book...On Family--if I did some revising.

         I looked at the story several times and felt no inspiration. I began to hate the story. I had written it in a whirlwind session of submissions, and not only felt the ending "fell flat" but thought the whole piece was dead...and I wasn't in the mood to beat that dead horse.

         Yesterday (thankfully) I found out it was a different story they wanted. Also, (thankfully) the talented Linda O'Connell, the co-editor of the book, did some magical work on the story that I had never hated.

         What have you hated/resisted, until you tried it and found out it either wasn't too bad or you found out it was positively addicting?

          And pass that plate of crab ragoon. I'm in the mood for another one...