It Ain't Got a Thing If It Ain't Got That...Rhythm

        Every almost every time I hear a singer from England or Australia or France or any other foreign place, I am always amazed by the fact that any trace of an accent has disappeared. (The most recent time, it was Chris Martin of Coldplay, who's married to Gwyneth Paltrow; he's the son-in-law of the late Bruce Paltrow, the man who brought us "St. Elsewhere," one of my favorite TV shows.)

        And then I contemplate that the rhythm is the king. The rhythm of the song dictates what the voice does.

        It's like that with writing as well. Sometimes a slow, meandering flow is appropriate for the story/article/poem.  Other times, an intense, more hammering rhythm is called for.

        I'm leaving you with a Ruthie Foster video, and giving you a link to Jennifer Brown Banks' blog, 'cause in a comment she (Jennifer, not Ruthie) reminded me of how much I love Foster's singing.

 

With a Little Hindrance From My Friends

          This week we had our writing critique meeting. The meeting of five wild women wielding pens. The WWWPs.

          Three of us had submitted to the same anthology. Two of us had not heard (or so I thought) . Privately, a couple of weeks ago, I had told the more brazen of the other two of the submitters that I had already heard. I heard the next day--the day after I had submitted my story. Seeing the name of the anthology on an email that quickly was definitely surprising.

photo by mbgrigby

         The other writer-friend I didn't tell, until I knew she had sent hers in, as she is sometimes of the thinking, 'Well, they'll take yours and hers...why would they want mine?' But on Wednesday I discovered that my shy friend had indeed sent in her piece.

         It was then that I admitted that I had already heard. "They emailed me the next day. 'No,' they said. It stunk so bad, they had to burn rubber getting away from the stench--that's why they answered so quickly."

        When the shy submitter said she hadn't heard, I replied, "Well, that's a good sign, because apparently if they don't like it they move fast." Then I looked at the other one, and she had her hand over her mouth and had her head ducked down...like she was trying to hide from me.

          She had heard as well. They were considering her story. She said, "I didn't want to say anything because I knew you'd be mad."

          I wasn't mad, although I did shout out my favorite phrase in mock ticked-offness. But that was all a façade. I wasn't angry with her. Instead, I felt bad.

          Talking wryly about my rejections is something I do, right along with celebrating the times I get a "yes." And when my friends get their work accepted, I'm thrilled. If it's a publisher/editor that I failed at, I might throw a colorful phrase at the friend, but I'm never serious about it. Rarely am I emotionally invested in a piece to the point that I get furious when I hear "no" because I know that at some point, I'll change the piece and regurgitate it and then submit it to another publisher.

         So if you have any shouting-from-the-rooftop to do, let me know. My writing friends help me so much--either in person or via the blogosphere--and I never want to hinder or inhibit any of them.

         Ever.  

Kill Your Inner Critic

cartoon by Doug Savage, of Savage Chickens fame

          Everyone has one. Everybody has an inner critic. Sometimes they rear their ugly head when we look in the mirror and spy the two honkin' huge zits that sprung up on our face. (What kind of cruel god would give me hot flashes AND zits at the same time?)

          Sometimes they tromp on in when we're writing. And instead of saying, "Yikes! You are one hot mess,' they say, "That story sucks."

          Most writers have their own ideas and strategies when it comes to rough drafts. Many just hunker down and get the story/article/novel down on paper. Even if you think some of your word choices could be improved upon. Even if you know there are huge holes in the piece. Just get it down, and worry about fixing it up after the first draft is done.

         Some even conjure up an image of their inner critic. Mine is a middle-aged lady. She never wears anything except a faded, thread-bare housecoat. On her feet--dingy slippers. She smokes, and the ash of her cigarette is so long, it's always on the verge of dropping off onto the floor. And she wears glasses--pink-tinged plastic frames. Cat-eye glasses.

         When I have to explain my piece to Cat-Eye Lady, when I have to rationalize my choices to her, my writing becomes stronger. I either become more convinced, or my explanation results in me heading down a different trail with my tale.

         So, how do you handle your inner critic? Do you kill them off (I'm overly fond of "death by wood chipper") or  do you embrace them?

Finding What's Missing

     Oh, many things are missing these days. My youth. My skin's elasticity. My once-perky parts' perkiness. Viggo from the newest Hobbitt movie. (No Viggo? What's the point of watching it?)

     And this morning, I found part of a rough draft went AWOL. Last night, I guess I fell asleep in front of my computer. When I shut my laptop down, I must have neglected to save the work I had done. (Hopefully the stuff I "recreate" will suck less than what I forced out last night.)

     In some of my pieces, what's missing is easy to spot. The beginning needs more oomph. The ending is abrupt or lame. Too few ellipsis. (Yeah, like that could ever happen with me.) Some rocky transitions that need smoothing out.

     Other times, everything seems tight and well-crafted...but editors have a different (wrong) opinion. It's a shame that so many publishers and editors make sooooo many mistakes (she said with her tongue jammed firmly into her cheek).

      What are you missing these days? (You interpret it any way you choose.)

       And since I did watch a 27  3  hour movie, waiting for just a glimpse of Viggo, here's a parting picture...

photo by robertnkellypattinson

Take a Few Whacks At It--Like a Pinata

       Late last week I had a critique night looming over my head, and nothin' to share. Wednesday evening would be here all-too-soon.

       Also pushing my procrastinator's button was an anthology's deadline. I wanted to submit something, but had not started anything until Saturday night, when I sat down and wrote...a whopping three sentences.

      Crapola.

      On Sunday evening, instead of working on lesson plans when I had some spare time, I added to my piece. Now it was about a third or so done.

      Monday evening, Adam Levine was beckoning me ("The Voice" was on NBC) my muse cooperated a bit, and I made a bit more headway. But still, no end in sight..

      On Tuesday night, I got within sight of the finish line. However, it lacked some oomph here and there and it lacked cohesiveness.

      When I woke up on Wednesday morning, I was able to finish it and do some much-needed polishing. After some extremely-needed critique from the WWWPs last night, I submitted my story...just a few minutes ago.

photo by starmunki

      Last week the piece felt really forced. There wasn't anything easy about it. However, after working on it for a few days, and taking several whacks at it, the words busted loose...just like candy from a piñata.

      When the words are dammed-up, let your writing sit for a day or two. Make several attempts. And if the writing doesn't flow then, take a big stick...and whack at it until something busts loose...

My Mama Didn't Tell Me...

       When I was growing up, my mother told me all about becoming a woman. At least, she told me about what becoming a woman would be like when I was a teenager. What she didn't tell me was what it would be like in my 40's and 50's.

        For example, my mom didn't give me a refresher course on gravity. What was once high and perky...eventually falls. Droops. Hangs in pendulous rolls. I would have appreciated that booster class in my 40's.

photo by Lyzlachian

       Also, my mother didn't tell me that I would be able to see the Grand Canyon--every day--just by looking in the mirror. The crevices in my face are deep and wide. I don't need no stinkin' mule trip to see this breathtaking sight (because I do stop breathing when I see the wrinkles and furrows in my face).

       And I've become texturized! Adding texture to painted walls is a wise decorating move, but skin tags? Not so attractive...

      Finally (at least for now), I wish my mother had let me know that I would resemble a seal when I got to be in my 50's. Whiskers in all sorts of weird places have appeared. They're long (by the time I catch sight of 'em) and are white.

      Yes, growing old is fun--and that's just the physical appearance part of it.  What bucket of fun have you opened up as you've gotten older? Old, forgetful but still inquiring minds want to know...