Butt in Chair

            Doug Savage, who draws (on post-its) wonderful cartoons (mostly about chickens) has offered up some Olympic events for the lazy. If you're not a follower, you can find him here.

           However, if you're a writer, when your butt is in a chair, it's not necessarily a bad thing. It might mean you're writing.

          What tricks do you have up your sleeve (or in your waistband) that keep you in your chair?  Do you have a special chair that is hooked up to a cattle prod really adds to the writing experience?

           Inquiring minds want to know...

          

Better Than a Rottweiler...

        The days are cooling off, which means--in our neighborhood--a flood of Jehovah's Witnesses will start their knocking anew. I apologize if you are of that faith, but since you wouldn't let me rollerblade on your parking lot, I don't want you on my front stoop.

      Often, signs on the door do nothing to deter. Neither do dogs. But Tammy comes rushing to the rescue. She has the perfect assortment of signage; you choose the message, the style, and she'll handcraft them to match your home's motif.

      What kind of message can you send to bothersome door-knockers? Check them out here.

      Also, I recently got news that two (which means I need to use two fingers, and not just my all-time favorite one) of my stories will appear in Not Your Mother's Book on Dogs--"A Power Higher Than the Law" and "Heart of Pure Gold." Kathleene Baker has been a delightful editor to work with. She's bent over backwards to ensure that 1) enough details were changed in one of the stories so I wouldn't be thrown into jail (I committed a felony) and 2) I was happy with any changes/cuts that were made. I was actually looking forward to some time in prison--unlimited time to read, no lesson plans to write, no cooking or cleaning to do--but that will have to wait for another day.

       This was my turn to crow. How 'bout you?  What do you want to shout from the rooftops? It could be writing-related, or it could be something along the lines of, "I am so proud, my buttons are about to pop off. I ate only half of the bag of Dove chocolates, instead of the whole freakin' bag. What's that you say? You think it's my poochy gut and not my pride that's causing my buttons to fly off like missiles? Why, you little..."

        Go ahead. Yell it, scream it, whisper it. We're listening...

Caught Red-Handed (Or Black-Handed--If There's No Red Ones)

       Yes, school has started. Yes, school with kids has started. Teachers talking to other teachers always like to make that distinction. "With kids?" when they're comparing start dates. Because almost-always, there are several days or a week of deadly dull fascinating meetings that cure insomnia inform and educate the teachers before the students begin.

photo by missngui

      I have had two days already with my students. And it has been two good days. But that is not what this post is about...

       When the teachers begin a new school year, so does the tried and true annual stealing spree. In the halls and teachers' lounge, there are stacks and boxes and rows of treasures junk that have been discarded as cabinets and file cabinets are cleaned out. Cruising through colleagues' clutter to find a valuable worthless goodie (that--most likely--you will discard next year) is how we warm up.

      Because this is just the appetizer. The entree waits...in the office.

      There, in the school office, is the vault. In our building it has a combination, and only the secretary knows the left-right-left-right-left (and so on) combination that has to be spun to, the dial wildly spinning as forty-two numbers are clicked into place, 42 rotations of the dial, until--with a magical whoosh--the vault door is opened.

      Once the Brinks men have left their post at 7:30 every morning (because now the secretary will take over the guarding of the loot), the safe's contents are fair territory. Educators sidle in, sideways glances to see if the secretary or one of her minions (the aides) are watching, and if no one is paying close attention, they slip in, closing the door slightly, to stealthily carry out the deed.

      Only new teachers get excited with file folders and scotch tape. The highly-prized and almost-extinct rolls of masking tape, dry-erase markers, staples and (whisper) Sharpie markers are what we old frumpy and hairy-chinned veteran teachers stuff into our pockets and shove into our armpits...but we grab a few file folders or a few envelopes as our "cover." And then we scuttle back to our rooms with our bountiful booty.

      Earlier in the week, I snagged a whole box (count them: four of 'em) of dry erase markers. Sadly, no Sharpie markers could be found. I also grabbed two rolls of masking tape. Yes, I might only need one right now (I have 157 dozens of large, laminated leaves that still need to be affixed to my ceiling) but educators are hoarders. You never know when the producers of masking tape will go on strike...so you must collect and hide and say, when asked, "I have no square to spare."  Because teachers who share end up with empty cabinets. And the friends they shared with? They're happily snapping off snippets of masking tape, not even shedding a single tear for their tapeless neighbors...

photo by Tony Lynch Photography
Blue Tack (do not confuse it with the grayish, useless Blue Tack wannabe) is never in the vault. Teachers have to buy
this miracle material themselves.

        Teachers are not the only talented thieves around. Writers steal, too. They find a device, a strategy that's clever (like beginning with the ending, and then flashing back--or leaving the reader in the dark until the end of the piece) and then they embrace it as their own. Oh, we're glad to give credit, but we steal nonetheless.

        What have you stolen from a writing friend? For writers, the statute of limitations is seven minutes, not seven years, so don't be afraid to admit it.  

An Achingly Brilliant Book

        Who would you walk 1,000 miles for? Would you willingly walk into a territory where in all probability, you'll be beaten or lynched? Would you keep a love alive in your heart, even though it had been 15 years since you last saw him/her?

       That is at the heart of Leonard Pitts Jr.'s novel Freeman. The Civil War is over, it has been a decade and a half since Sam saw Tilda, but even if he dies trying, he's determined to find her. Or, find out what happened to her, if it's too late.

        And so he starts his journey, beginning in Philadelphia and heading into the deep south.

        It is so well written and such a compelling story, I relished the waits in the airport earlier this week (I even read in line while shuffling towards the security check) and read each evening in the hotel (I went to a workshop in Chicago).

         What book did you read that made your summer  sumptuous?     

ABC--Arachnids' Brazen Counterattacks

          I had a weird experience with a spider earlier this week. Thought it was an isolated incident. A "Sioux-thing," much like getting my head stuck in a sink. Something not worthy of talking about.

          But then, I read Val's post. And I smelled something fishy. Or closer to the truth, I smelled something eight-legged and hairy.

          Tuesday evening I killed two spiders. The only thing I had handy was an empty QT (Quik Trip) cup (plastic), and since the bottom is hollowed out a bit, I really had to work to get the dirty deed done. But I did.

          Wednesday evening, I saw another spider. I was prepared this time, with a shoe. But apparently, this spider had been witness to the arachnicide the night before--it was prepared as well--because as I headed toward the spider, it wheeled around so that it faced me, and charged at me.

photo by C.J. Newberry

           Sadly (for the spider), it did not end well. But it made me wonder what other odd encounters people have had with animals.

           And what would happen if we were all like that spider? What would happen if when we were attacked, we immediately armed ourselves for our own self-defense? To defend our way too frequent occasional use of the ellipsis...To defend our deliberate use of sentence fragments...What would life be like?

           Certainly, most of the feedback we get as writers is constructive. Helpful. Nothing offensive. So thankfully, we don't often have to do what that brazen spider did.

            Tomorrow I'm going to Chicago for a National Writing Project workshop. I'll be off the blogosphere and the submissionsphere for three solid days. And for those clamoring for another story from the "Sioux's shirt" vault, I am bringing my "Will Write for Food" shirt, but since I will be trapped in work sessions most of the time, it's unlikely anyone will be lured by my siren-song of a shirt.

           But, you never know...

Why Write?

 a Savage Chickens cartoon by Doug Savage

      Doug Savage, over at Savage Chickens, almost always makes me laugh. He draws wonderful cartoons, usually featuring chickens, and he does it all on post-it notes. Amazing!

       And while I chuckled, I wondered...Why indeed? Why do we write? It rarely pays--or doesn't pay much--and it can be incredibly frustrating and time-consuming. So why do we continue sitting down to a blank page day after day?

       Of course, if you're Pearl, you write because you have 1.8 million followers (and every day, 217 more add themselves to the list). She manages to conjure incredibly hilarious urban tales about riding the bus and her cubicle mates and her cats. If she didn't post, a disgruntled mob would rise up and wreak havoc.

          If you're Fireblossom or Mama Zen, who write mind-blowing, teeth-gnashing poetry (you gnash your teeth because you didn't write it), you write because...well, I guess they write because they must. Their words and their thoughts must be like a geyser that has to find a way to vent. (And if you're Marcia Gaye, another poet friend of mine, you write because you're so good at it and you win local and state poetry contests. (Has the madness gone beyond Missouri, Marcia? Let me know...)

      If you're Val, you write because the're a geyser inside of you, too, but it's a geyser of snarkiness. I think, if Val did not write, one of her kids or her bumbling husband or  one of the goats or chickens would...well, I think something unexpectedly horrific would happen to them. Plus, she likes to flaunt her knowledge of Seinfeld (she and I often have duels, but she is always the victor), along with every other television show, movie and song that's ever been written.

      If you're Donna Volkenannt, you write because you have to keep your pen limber for the next international Erma Bombeck humor contest. (She was the most recent winner.) Or the next anthology to come out. When a collection comes out, you'll invariably find a story by Donna.

     If you're Linda O'Connell, a fellow WWWP, you write because your keyboard's on fire. Linda has a writing goal, and she's burning to achieve it. (Ask her what the goal is. She might tell you.)

    And if you're one of the other WWWPs (Wild Women Wielding Pens)--Lynn Obermoeller, T'Mara Goodsell, or Beth M. Wood--you write because you're prodded and encouraged and cajoled and begged to write. The five of us support each other and keep each other on the writing path...

      Doug Savage, on his little biographical page, spoke about being an artist. He said, "Creativity is a bit like a stubborn weed that won’t die: the roots run deep enough that it will keep growing back under the right conditions."

        What simile would you use to describe the writing process or creativity? Or, what are the "roots" of your writing like?