Yesterday I led some middle school students in a session at a writing workshop. Each young writer got a small mirror tile. I spoke about the layers of an onion--the outer crackly-paper skin, so delicate and thin. Then I dug into the onion with my fingernails as we discussed how we are like the onion...we have an outer, fragile layer which covers layer after layer. Some of those layers are so private, no one sees them. Others we share with our family, our friends, our loved ones.
 |
| photo by faygate |
The students used the mirror tiles to look at parts of their faces. They were instructed to imagine...If someone saw them walking down the street, and saw their eyes, their mouth, their nose, their hair...what judgements would they make? What kind of labels would they come up with?
We discussed teenagers, and the stereotypes teens are burdened with. We discussed football players, African Anmericans (especially African American males), students from expensive private schools and the erroneous conclusions people jump to when they encounter them---we had them all in our community of writers.
The students then wrote--prose or poetry--about the surface them compared to the real person underneath the surface. Some of them began with "People think I'm....but really, I'm...." One writer created an interesting "checklist," with checkmarks in the boxes of things she really was, and Xs in the boxes of things that people thought about her but were incorrect. We then shared our pieces (some of us) and I put in a plug for NaNoWriMo.
Two of the writers had earned an a field trip to an amusement park for the same day--due to being on the Honor Roll--but chose writing instead. How cool was that?
Here is what I wrote as we all sat and created together:
You see someone fat, frumpy...
But deep down inside,
I'm really a skydiving,
Breaking Bad-watching woman.
You judge me,
calling me old,
calling me out of touch.
But under the surface
is a tattooed semi-radical,
a Sons of Anarchy fanatic
left behind from the 60's.
You envision me as slow-moving,
lethargic--part of the primordial ooze
I perhaps rose up from?
But try to tred on my passion,
try to smother my fire...
and you'll see.
What do people think when they see you? When strangers see you on the street, when someone hears you read your writing out loud but has never met you, what impressions do they form? What kind of "mask" do you wear, and what lies under the surface?
Come on--share. It's safe. We're all writers 'round here...
For quite a while, I read as C. Hope Clark charted her novel's progress via encouraging posts. When Lowcountry Bribe came out, I was unable to run out and buy her book because I was buried under a tower of books I had borrowed from friends. (Right now, only an arm is peeking out from under that heap.)
However, I was sure that--soon--I would read her novel. After all, Hope is a writer's writer. After hearing stories of the conception, the discomfort as things shifted, the labor pains...I was looking forward to seeing her new baby.
And fortunate me, a copy dropped right into my lap. Barbara Younger had a give-away, and I won.
Today it came winging my way and landed in my mail box. I read the inscription, and then turned to the first page. For many readers, that's what hooks them. if the first sentence doesn't reach out and grab 'em, they'll put the book back on the shelf.
Here is Hope's first line: "O postive primer wasn't quite the color I had in mind for the small office, but Lucas Sherwood hadn't given the decor a second thought when he blew out the left side of his brain with a .45." What a wonderfu line to start your novel with.
And speaking of minds, I have not yet made the final decision about my NaNoWriMo 2012. If you have a first line that's been discarded, please send it to me. I will gladly you half credit for the steaming pile of poop manuscript.
So, how 'bout it? Do you have a first line to spare?
Last night was my twice-monthly writing critique night. It was held where it always is, but this time, instead of just light fare, we had dinner together.
Our hostess--who will remain unnamed--welcomed us into the kitchen (she was putting on the finishing touches to the meal). Her first words were, "Who would like an o--asm?"
(Her husband was out of town, and she had decided to walk on the other side of the street for a change the wild side. Of course, our hostess with the mostest is the epitome of selflessness. In this instance she only gave, she did not receive.)
When we are all satiated (it had Creme de Cacao and Baileys, I think, along with other ingredients. I didn't pay very close attention when she was telling us what was in it. She had me at "O"...), we dined.
Following way too much food, we tackled the real work, the true reason why we were there--critique.
Lynn shared her 91-word memoir submission. If you lost it or have not seen it, here is the low-down. The deadline is October 15, and you can only send in one submission (online only).
I shared my Bigfoot story, and got some invaluable suggestions. When I brought it to the group initially, they sent me off in a wonderful direction. I was now floundering a bit, was nearing the end, and again--they came to the rescue.
Linda was missing last night (no O for her--at least not from Lynn) but we managed to limp along and snort and advise without her. The evening's big climax--an intestinal "concert" of sorts. All the rich pasta and the dessert items made a couple of our stomachs caterwaul like a cat and moo like a cow in pain and howl like a coyote. It was hilarious.
(Polite people would have pretended it was not happening--they would have ignored it. But then, no one ever called us polite--at least when the five of us are together.)
One bombshell was dropped last night. Or more accurately, several bombshells. I think all five of us are going to do NaNoWriMo this year.
Okay there, I said it. I don't want to shout it out too loudly, because that might cause it to not happen. However, the other four of us have become inspired by Lynn. Over the past year, she's shared parts of the manuscript she wrote for NaNoWriMo 2012. We finally got tired of holding our breath and demanded she give us the entire story--we got weary of waiting for the next installment each month. Seeing an engaging novel unfold--one that was written in one month--gave the rest of us hope.
So, it was a night filled with delectable food, delicious company, wonderful writing critique, and even a happy ending...
Do you have a favorite beverage you depend on when you're writing? Or, do you fantasize about drinking a particular liquid as you write?
It's less than a month away from NaNoWriMo--National Novel Writing Month. The chance to write a fifty-thousand-word pile of a hot steaming mess novel in one single month. And hey! It's done during one of the shorter months, which only adds to the frenzied fun.
Two years ago I crashed and burned in less than a week. Last year, I ended up with a piece of work that will never ever be seen by another human being that is not quite ready to be revised. This year, I'm more hopeful.
A fellow WWWP, Lynn, has done NaNoWriMo several years. Currenly, she is working on revising one of her novels. It's warm and moving and full of voice. It's not a steaming pile of excrement far different from my last attempt. Lynn's work makes me hopeful.
So, if you've never done it, here are ten six reasons to do NaNoWriMo:
1. You develop some writerly habits during the process. You need to average so many words each day, so the ol' "butt in chair" is a mantra you mumble every day.
2. You develop trust within those 30 days. Oh, not trust like, "Everyone will pitch in and help out around the house/yard, because, you know, I'm writing a novel this month." No, that probably ain't gonna happen. But if you leap out and take the risk, with just the beginning idea, you can trust that if your story has legs, the novel will evolve and grow and probably surprise you as you write it.
3. When you're done, you can print up your manuscript...it can be used as a wonderful paperweight.
4. You will be secure in the knowledge that you are part of an international movement. People all over the world are doing the same thing you are.
5. This might get you out of having to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Try practicing this several times in the mirror--check your facial expression--before you say it to your family and friends: "I don't think I will be able to cook the turkey and dressing and sweet potato casserole and all the other dishes this year--I'm swamped right now writing my novel. I'll probably just make a quick grilled cheese sandwich, so I can get right back to writing." This might snag you an invitation to someone else's house for the holiday meal...And if your spouse and kids sniffle and whine a bit, they might get invited, too.
6. You can get some cool blog bling, like this:
How about you? Are you doing NaNo this year? And if not, what can you add to my list of six reasons? (Already I need help to pad my word count...)
 |
| photo by Sardonic Salad |
First, the hallacas (pronounced "aye-jak-ez," I think). It's a dish from Venezuela. A mixture made from fifty-eight five different kinds of meat (and the meat came from three different animals), capers, raisins, marjoram and other spices, red wine vinegar and red bell pepper. They're "embellished" with slivered almonds and olives. It's encased in a cornmeal "pocket" and then is "packaged" in banana leaves and steamed.
I won't say what I was calling those banana leaves--since you might not appreciate the colorful and creative combinations I came up with--but suffice it to say, it was a daunting task.
I was up until 2:30 in the morning on Saturday making these delicacies. My teaching partner's husband took his oath on Thursday and became a citizen. They have the most drop-dead gorgeous girl (who is a spitfire), and Holly hosted a surprise party on Saturday afternoon. I offered to make the hallacas before I knew how troublesome they would be. However, Rodrigo went back and got thirds, so I was happy...
Next, no Ho-Ho for me. My "Fifty Shades of Santa" was rejected, but it was an encouraging no. I plan on studying the tone Pat wants, and submitting something to her at a later date for a later anthology.
And I got a hello from Simon and Schuster. Okay, the "hello" was a box of Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Positive books, I was expecting them, but it took a little out of the sting from the rejection.
How'boutchoo? What was the funniest culinary disaster you've experienced?
And if you'd like a pedicure this Sunday while you sip beer and get a pap smear, go to Pearl's Paps and Pedicure Pub. She'll fix you right up...I promise.
As it is still my reign as Princess Procrastination, I had to drive downtown this week, park in a part of the city where there are cobblestones, and walk several blocks to hand-deliver a submission.
 |
| photo by skibriye |
The deadline was Monday...at 5:00 p.m. and I got off work at 3:45...and I had just "found" the poem on Saturday.
Have you ever looked in an old journal, found some writing, and you barely recognize it as yours? You read it, and you wonder, When did I write this? What was I thinking about when I scribbled this down?
I participated in a writing marathon on Saturday, and before leaving the house, I grabbed one of my hundreds of barely begun many composition books. Standing around, waiting for the others to arrive, I scanned what was written on the first few pages. There was a poem, written during some writing conference or meeting, a poem that I had forgotten.
Impressed, I was. Okay, it was not perfect, but since I usually don't do poetry, if it makes sense and the rhythm is workable and there is some kernel of imagery or relevance, I crown it Pulitzer Prize material...
(After all, I ain't no Shay or Marcia Gaye. I don't masquerade as Mama Zen. I'm a writer of prose, for crying out loud.)
And I did say it out loud. I had done some minor tweaking, made sure it did not go beyond the 15-line limit, and got my envelope ready. (Since it was for writers who live within 50 miles of St. Louis, I knew I was not competing with Shay or Mama Zen. Marcia was another story...) When I dropped my submission off (45 minutes before the deadline--so early, I wondered if I really deserved to keep my tiara as Princess), I chatted up the front desk guy and another guy who was sitting there in the lobby and who was obviously just wasting time.
The work-avoider paused, his arm elbow-deep in a bag of chips, after I had explained to the front desk man why I was there. He had looked up some name on some directory he had--after I refused to just hand him the envelope--made a call, and was told that the PIC (person in charge) would be downstairs momentarily.
The chip guy looked me up and down--made note of my swirled-up hair (from rushing to feed the parking meter and racing along the cobblestone street while simultaneously scanning for street numbers), made note of my somewhat funky outfit (long, flowing skirt to hide the possibly-hairy legs) and the definitely funky scarf (to camouflage the flab) and asked the question that made me stop my mindless chatter with the guy perched behind the front desk.
"Are you an artist?"
And without a moment's hesitation, I said, "Yes. I'm a writer."
And for me, that doesn't need an exclamation point. It deserves a period because--for me--it's matter-of-fact. It's just the way it is. I can gesticulate and talk all day about the exhilaration of writing, and how excited I am about NaNoWriMo this year, and how much fun I had writing a "Fifty Shades of Santa" story and how jazzed I get whenever the WWWPs meet (they're my writing critique peeps), but if you want just the facts, there they are: I am an artist. I am a writer...
Are you planning on doing NaNoWriMo this year? (And if not, why not?) Are you planning on submitting to any anthologies this fall? (And if so, which ones?) Are you planning on trying to wrestle my tiara away so you can reign as Princess of Procrastination? (And if so, what are you gonna bring to this rumble? 'Cause I'm reeeeal good.)
