What is a "Shay"?

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a time of indifference, it was a time of toilet paper hoarding...

I'm on spring break this week. Then, for the next two weeks (a minimum of two weeks), I'll be teaching via the internet.

The times, they are a' changin'. (Dickens and Dylan in the same post?)

I'm looking forward to getting some things done around the house, getting caught up on my "five a day" queries, and maybe even getting some gen-u-ine writing done. I submitted a Chicken Soup for the Soul story yesterday and earlier in the week I submitted a narrative poem to them (probably pointless).

image by Pixabay

At the end of the month I'll be facilitating a writing retreat. Facilitating is a loose term. I arranged for our accomodations. I sent a variety of irritating and mailbox-clogging emails. I'll arrange the group into small response groups. This time I will use bleach wipes several times a day to clean the door knobs and the light switches, and I'll wipe down the tables before we begin on Saturday morning. I'll close down our meeting hall on Sunday evening... and that's it.

On my most recent post at The Muffin, I mentioned some writing colleagues--writing folks who had helped me out. If you're curious about what (or who) a "Shay" is, or you're interested in who has helped me in my writing so you can slash their tires and make them promise to never ever help Sioux again, check out my post on the power of a word.

Stay safe and healthy. But don't be goin' crazy...

The Power of Words

          On Friday a parent toured our school. When we get a note saying something like, "There's a school tour at 11," my opinion is whatever is happening is what the family will see. I might make sure my desk is not piled too high with papers but other than that, things go on as planned.

       But in the middle of viewing and scoring our movies, the visiting parent came in. All 22 of the middle-schoolers were in the room, a movie was being presented via the smartboard, and the lights were off. 

     Usually, a tour peeks in, then steps out. But this mother and their guide stood there... and watched the movie.

     And it was an especially good one. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Photos of the 8th grader's family and friends with a simple, poignant voice-over. One picture fading into the next.

     Once that film was finished, they asked if I could step out and chat for a moment. I filled the mom in on what we do during the year--"I am from" poems at the beginning to ease into writing, personal narratives, NaNoWriMo in November, informational writing (including multi-genre pieces) and finishing up with persuasive/argumentative pieces.

    And I reveled in the power of words.

    So when I saw Shay's poem (inspired by the news) and then followed the link she provided, and I was a bit inspired. Here's the poem I came up with, after thinking about the news:

the news these days

is mostly sad

maddening

worthy--sometimes--of a froth of spittle

spraying out

resulting in--other times--streaming tears

‘cause the headline’s are so ridiculous,

they seem made-up

but they’re not

they’re not

the headlines and the fine print

are inked in black on white

and it’s bleak

but dig a fingernail under the text

and find the stories

that are either untold or buried

and there’s some hope

hopefully we can unearth all we need

so that tolerance

and understanding

and plain ol’ common decency can reborn

here’s to hope

(covered by a thin layer of filthy dirt)


What do you think of when you think of the news/the power of words? Awed minds want to know.

      

What Do You Count On?

       
       Writing is hard work. Being able to count on certain tools is critical.

     
     On a daily basis, we have to dip into our tool box as we craft our lines.

        One of the tools I occasionally use is a rhyming dictionary. (Mine has a boring cover, so I'm borrowing Bart Simpson's for a moment.)
        Rarely do I write poetry with a rhyme scheme. I mean, do you think I even want to dabble in the same arena as Fireblossom or Mama Zen? Fuhgeddabodit.
         However, sometimes I am forced drawn into writing a poem with a particular rhyme scheme. Sometimes I'm a scribe as my class writes a group poem. Very occasionally, I write a rap (and horrors! Yes, I even perform it. What's that you say? You haven't heard of Reddiculous Redd? You're missing out on something hilarious rich.)
        A rhyming dictionary is a tool that is always sitting on my shelf, waiting and ready...

       
 Here is a tool that ensures I don't sit too long. Radar. Whiner Extraordinaire. The Yipster. The Gnaw-er. We thought we were adopting a dog, but we were hoodwinked. Radar is a miniature pony. He's all legs right now, and weighs close to 40 pounds. And he's only five months old.

          Okay, admittedly, this is not a writing tool--at least not in the strictest sense. Aquarelle pencils are really tools of diversion. Using a brush and water (or a finger you slobber on), your drawings are transformed into looking like watercolor art. This year, I've vowed to filling my writing journal with doodling and ticket stubs and photos along with the writing. 
        However, as I'm sketching or zentangling (type "zentangle" into your search box, but beware: doodling with zentangle patterns is highly addictive and is a wonderful way to while away the hours during day-long meetings) I'm also thinking about what I'm writing.

         The delete key is another tool I rely on. Getting a story down often means there are pages/paragraphs/lines/words that need to be deleted as revision happens.
   
          'Cause if you're a writer, you know that writing is usually more deconstruction than construction.

       What writing tools (or tools of diversion) do you rely on?    

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.


  

Writing Outside of Your Box

          I admit, this post is not directed at Fireblossom who writes mind-blowing poems every day (and lately, several times a day). Not only are the images and word choices she crafts responsible for lots of teeth-gnashing by those who are envious, but the style and tone of her poems is so varied, it's hard to believe one person actually writes all of that poetry. (There is an investigation underway by the PP--the Poetry Police--because of the many allegations that have arisen, but since witnesses are still being questioned, no details are available at this time.)

photo by jaqian

          I began this new year by writing something that was way out of my box. Late last year, I had submitted to a romance anthology. Since I am incapable of heaving bosoms and men with Fabio-esque looks, it was humorous. It was snarky. It was rejected.

        Stung by the resounding gentle "no" I received in November, during the first days in January I opened up my laptop to craft something for the same editor--a different anthology but still the pesky romance genre. I am holding my breath, waiting for either a yea or a nea.

        Everything else I write is creative nonfiction. Writing a romance is not my forte, but my stubborn nature has fueled my efforts during the occasions I do emerge from my box--these two romance stories...a novel that is currently in a rut--I'm pushed forward by my pride. And when I fail to get something published or a little voice inside me says 'Don't be ridiculous. You can't do that, Sioux,' my uncertainty surrenders to my stubborness.

       What have you done--writing or otherwise--that has brought you out of your box? What fuels you? What keeps you moving forward? Inquiring minds want to know...

(This post is also not aimed at Mama Zen, either. She's a poet who can write mind-boggling poems with just a few words. After the investigation into the ruse Fireblossom has created has concluded, one is going to be launched to check out Mama Zen. Is she really a mother? How can an actual mother squeeze out creative brilliance like that as she does diapers and laundry and lunches?  Was she really a singer in a band in her "former" life?  How much talent can one person hoard?) 

        

I am an Artist.

        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.) 

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? 



You're a Poet...And You Might Not Even Know It

          Fireblossom was asked to tell 7 things about herself. Instead of noting things like she loves Bolthouse Farms Vanilla Chai Tea (she does), or she has a wonder dog named Bosco (she does), or she loves the color red (she does indeed), she wrote a gorgeous poem.

         No simple, numbered list. No bulleted bits of information. No, that would have been waaaaaaay too easy for Fireblossom.

        So I'm going to ask anyone who happens upon this post to write a poem telling us something about yourself. It could be a couplet, it could be haiku, it could be a free verse poem, it could be a limerick...the possibilities are endless. 

        Then, read her poem. And gnash your teeth over it. I know I am...

        (Here's mine:)

You really want to know 'bout Sioux?
You want it false or want it true?
She's gotta hard head,
Under hair that's fake red,
And loves tragic movies--who knew?

Now it's your turn...

Another Fairy Tale

           Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a community of writers. Each one of them had their own little castle, and met every evening so they could chat, procrastinate about writing, and sip beverages.

photo by Gary Shield Photography

         "Aaah, a community," you might say, and you perhaps envision a group of writers who only had altruistic intentions. Thoughtful authors. Collaborative creatives. 

         You'd be wrong.

         Just like in Chuck Palahniuk's brilliant (but twisted) book Haunted, these writers tried to sabotage each other...in creative ways.

          Some of the sneakiness involved food. Fireblossom got the whole kit and kaboodle hooked on Bolthouse Farms Vanilla Chai Tea. One evening she brought several bottles and soon, every single one of those writers was bellying up to the upturned, empty jugs like guinea pigs at their water bottle, desperately trying to get the last drop. Lynn served up some spaghetti (a la Nora Ephron) and everyone gorged themselves. Tammy whipped up some stuffed tomatoes (Oh, how healthy? Au contraire.) that made even one writer swear off her decade-long avoidance of pork and beef as she stuffed them into her gaping piehole. (Later, this writer could be found hiding in a corner, with mayonnaise smeared around her mouth, mumbling, "Bacon...yum.") Even Donna Volkenannt
brought to the table a potato salad recipe. After everyone tried it in their own little castle's kitchen, they all looked like potatoes...

        Some of the sabotage centered around diversion.  Beth would regale the group with tales about her travels. South America. Australia. Her beauty (tall, skinny bitch) along with her hypnotizing stories got all the writers off track. Val would lure her colleagues into her blog, baiting them with wry, pointed posts and then would hook them again...because as her followers are well aware of, Val's replies to comments are just as amusing as her posts are. Lisa was another one of those diversionary ones. She'd rent kids, claim they were her own (even though she clearly was too thin and too young to have spawned the grown-up rent-a-kids) and then host a brilliant meme, Book Blurb Friday.  

        And some of the stealth and sneaky goings-on had to do with blinding their fellow writers. 

        Donna won the Erma Bombeck contest, and she'd flash that eight-foot tall trophy at you like she was sending signals across the canyon to the Lone Ranger. Linda always had--in her pocket-- a list of the publications who had sent her an acceptance letter that day, and after reading the seemingly neverending list, her colleagues couldn't see straight. And speaking of straight...You wished you weren't after reading Fireblossom's daily serving up of poetry. She does it all--blazing hot love poems, hilarious stabs at society, channeling of Emily Dickinson. The lady's way too mercurial... 

        Some of the authors living in this community resorted to old school medieval fun. Cathy C. Hall would keep her fellow writers from writing by jousting and challenging other punsters to duels. She'd unsheath Cathy-on-a-Stick and threaten the other writers.

photo by Sioux

        And finally, there was a musical duet to divert us. Lynn and Tammy would whine play a sad song on their tiny violins. In perfect harmony they would sing, "Thisisawful-Itispurecrap-Don'tyoufallasleep." The chorus was, "Mywritingstinks-It'sreallynothing-Helpmehelpmeplease." (And they never even served any cheese with that whine.)

        And since it's a fairy tale community, do these writers live happily ever after? Why don't you finish the book you're currently reading, and once you've read the last word on the last page, ask yourself "Was I moved?"

        'Cause writers have that power. They can do that. They can move you. And while that doesn't make it all happy, it makes it all good...

                                             The End

The Last Line First

        Jodi Picoult spoke at a local library last night. (Shay, eat your heart out although granted, Picoult is not Emmylou...That I would not dare try to rub in your face ;)

        Because Picoult is one of my favorite authors, I was looking forward to it. Because she was touring with her daughter (they have co-authored a young adult novel, Between the Lines), I imagined there would be moments that would not especially enjoyable. I wanted it all Jodi for the brief time she would be there...I wanted to hear about SingYouHomeandHandleWithCareandTheNinthCircle, not this new book.

      I was pleasantly surprised.

photo by ALA--the American Library Association
Jodi Picoult (on the left) and her daughter, Sammy

      Picoult's daughter, Samantha Van Leer, is an incredible reader; her voice colored her words perfectly as she read an excerpt from the book. It was also fascinating hearing how they worked together for the past three summers on this book.

       Several interesting tidbits were launched our way during the book talk:

• Someone noted that many of Picoult's novels include a legal battle; they were curious why that was the case. The author explained that when she discovers a legal loophole, she is determined to include it in a book to "educate" the public. For example, she explained that she could not be forced to testify against her husband, but she could testify against her son or daughter. She jokingly admitted she would be much more likely to want to put away her husband than her kid.

• Her novel Sing You Home has a main character who is a music therapist. This character also happens to be a lesbian. Picoult shared that while she was writing the book, her son came out. Interestingly, that book has brought more hate mail than all her other books combined--and there have been some awful things happening in her other novels. 

• Someone in the audience complained how horrible the ending was in the movie version of Her Sister's Keeper. Picoult compared selling a book's movie rights to putting your child up for adoption. You hope they end up with loving parents, you hope they go to college and get married and have a family...but sometimes they grow up and become a hooker.

• Before they even began writing the story, Samantha told her mother, "I know what the last line in the book should be." Apparently Picoult agreed, because they typed that line first, and as they started composing the story, they just kept typing above that first (last) line.

         I was determined to not buy a book, because Barnes and Noble (the sponsoring book seller) required audience members to buy a copy of the new book if they wanted to get only one additional book signed. However, after hearing the two authors speak, I am considering buying Between the Lines. It is written from several perspectives--as many (all?) of Picoult's novesl are--and centers around Delilah--a reader who is smitten with the hot prince in a fairy tale book and Oliver--the prince who is desperate to escape the tired story he is trapped in. What happens in a story when the book is closed? Do the characters remain frozen, waiting for the book to be cracked open once again? Or, do the characters in a book have a life all their own that they live whenever the book is put aside?

       If you're not familiar with Picoult's novels, check one out. Handle With Care  is one of my favorites. I also love Sing You Home. (My son is a music therapist, so this was the reason why I was initially drawn to the book.) Last night, Jodi spoke about how she is always conscientious about putting in all sides of an issue--even if that means she has to create a character whose views are repugnant to her--because she said, "It's not fair for me to preach to you and expect you to listen to me if I'm not listening to the viewpoint of others." (The narrow-minded minister in Sing You Home was disgusting to Picoult, but a necessary character.) 

       And thanks, Lynn, for coming last night. I love to watch sad movies by myself but other than that, things are better when you do them with a friend...

  

Mt.Vesuvius--Vanquished by the Amish

           I was reading Cathy C. Hall's blog, and she was writing about mistakes we make--in life, in writing. I wrote a comment about my former life as a quilter, and it prompted me to dig up an old wall hanging.

        This wall hanging was made during a retreat. Since I hate using the machine am not overly fond of working with a sewing machine, in times such as this--where the machine was used for lots and lots of piecing--I cursed and spit and threatened my Singer machine...a lot.

      Sometimes you're not thrilled with the writing process when it comes to a particular draft. But be persistent...

    However, as the weekend progressed, I was pleased with the results. The colors, the "movement" in the piece.

     Celebrate the small victories in writing. You crafted a great phrase, a wonderful image, an effective metaphor? Revel in it. And then continue writing...

           All these evil lovely diamonds were coming together--in rows--to create larger diamonds. How cool. It was somewhat of a mystery what it would look like once it was completed, but the parts were pleasing...so far.

       Sometimes, when you're working on a poem, a story, a novel--you're not sure where it's going to go.  Enjoy it when you step off the cliff.  If you know the characters, the story will take off on its own direction in a sure-footed manner. If it's a poem--well, ask Fireblossom what it's like to "freefall" while writing poetry.

      I was ecstatic when I finally got the thing pieced together. The final step--before it was basted and then hand-quilted--was pressing it. I proudly took my creation to the ironing board and started to press. And press.

    Unfortunately, no matter now hard I pressed down with the iron, the center would not be subdued. The middle would not lie down flat. All those diamonds converged in the center and erupted.  The center of my wall hanging was like Mt. Vesuvius--and from the looks of it, it was about to spew.

     My piecing skills--as usual--had failed me. While other quilters' seams are perfectly uniform and unwavering, there were probably dozens and dozens of tiny mistakes I had made...resulting in a "perfect storm" of thread and cotton fabric.

      If your draft is not working, rearrange it. If it's a story, begin at the middle or the end and go back to the beginning. Change genre. There was a memoir I wrote that sucked in prose. But when I put it in the form of a free-verse poem, it sang. Don't be afraid to change things up.

       No amount of spray starch worked. I was ready to chuck it (I was that frustrated, after working on it all weekend) or I thought, 'I'll sew a huge button in the middle, to hide the eruption,' when the workshop leader suggested I cut out one of the eyeball-looking things in the border fabric and applique it in the middle.

       I did, and it looked like I had intended it as part of the design all along. The "eye" kept the center of my cotton volcano from erupting.

       The Amish don't believe in perfection. They don't think humans are capable of anything completely perfect. So, when they make a quilt, they will make a small, deliberate mistake.

       When you screw up a piece, call it your Amish essay # ____.  When you mess up on the rhythm of a poem you're writing, tell everyone it was an on-purpose mistake.

    And then keep on writing...

Pearl. Shay. Donna. Tammy. Val. Lisa. Force It---A Little

        I submitted a story about my dog Trixie to NYMB. The co-creator, Kathleene Baker, spit an email right back at me. She had read my submission quickly, and immediately sent me a very helpful (and encouraging) message.

       Pearl, I know you have cats but do you have any dog stories? Shay, I know you have some Bosco tales to tell. Donna--I imagine you have at least one dog memoir up your sleeve. Tammy, you have gazillions of canine tales. Val--you can give us a rollicking Juno escapade or two, can't you? Lisa, the weiner dogs are always the underdogs. And Lisa, you have Golden Retriever stories, too. The deadline is July 1.

      It seems the Not Your Mother's Books are looking for upbeat stories about dogs...whacky stories...funny stories. There is a children's novel entitled No More Dead Dogs, and the main character moans about the fact that if there is a dog's name in the title, don't read the book, because the dog will inevitably die during the story. (Think about it. Old Yeller. My Dog Skip. 'Tis true...)

       And my story definitely had a dead dog in it.

       Ooops. I am as bad as some of my students. I didn't do my homework very well, and apparently did not check the guidelines for this collection at all very well.

       Kathleene said if I rewrote it, and make the story "end" before our beloved Trixie died, they would reconsider it. If I wouldn't, they couldn't.

       Thrilled with a second chance, I worked on it for quite a while yesterday evening excited to do anything to avoid working on my report cards . But I got stuck. I wanted to make sure the "spackling" I did was seamless, and I had no idea how I was going to create a satisfying ending. I figured, I would let it sit for a few days. That's my normal MO.

     This morning, still trying to avoid working on report cards I still had nothing, so I didn't even plan on opening up the story and working on it. But something made me say to myself, 'Just try. You might come up with something.'

     And forcing myself--a little--to just reread the tale so far, and attempt to finish the revision resulted in me being able to finish the story---and submit it.

      Of course, Kathleene and NYMB might not like what I did with it. And that's cool. But I prodded myself--poked myself with a stick--and got it done.

      How about all my blogging colleagues who have a dog? What is stopping you from submitting? You have a little more than a month left...and as June Carter Cash sang it so well: "Time's a'wastin'."

     (I know. I promised the debut of Sioux-on-a-Stick with my next posting, but my life will be so less hectic this week after I stop avoiding the completion of my report cards finish my report cards. So Donna, stop holding your breath. She'll make her appearance...soon.)

Poetry Contest and a Flash Fiction Contest

Emily Dickinson
photo by Amherst College Archives

         Saturday Writers is having two contests this month--poetry and flash fiction. The deadline is April 28. Poetry is limited to 50 lines; flash fiction is limited to 500 words. The entry is fee is $7, with a maximum of 3 entries per person per category. (If you're a member of Saturday Writers, the entry fee is only $5 per entry.)

        I wrote a murder story for the March contest, but after searching (in vain) for a way to make a cigar poisonous (I was killing off Rush Limbaugh) I had to alter my story; my victim became Steve Tilley, the Missouri politician who has idiotically decided to honor Limbaugh in the state capitol with a bronze bust. (The thought makes my shirt bust open in pride! Not only is Missouri the meth capital of the country and not only are we the puppy mill mecca, we also have some of the stupidest politicians.)

       Now, I have to think of a poem to submit, even though it's not my normal genre. Flash fiction as well? Who knows...

        I have a writing friend who writes poetry almost exclusively. (Barb)

        I have a writing friend who writes humorous poetry. (Linda)

        I know a writer who writes mind-blowing poetry, and even channels Emily Dickinson at times. (Fireblossom)

            I know a writer who writes wonderful microfiction; I'm sure Lisa could submit at least one or two flash fiction stories.


        I know of a couple of other writer who are phenomenal poets. (Hedgewitch and Mama Zen).

         How about it? What's stopping you?

Fireblossom? Val? Lisa? Katie? Kathy and Her Clothesline? They Want YOU.

         I am busily mining nuggets from my life--hot flashes, pesky children, good-for-not-much dogs--and am submitting to some of these anthologies. And there is something for everyone.

RV adventures  (Kathy, I know you have a boatload of those)
Alternative Lifestyles
Mom
Family
Celebrity Encounters (Katie--You had that encounter with Paul Newman, and it's
                                    a wonderful story)
Dogs (Fireblossom--How about getting your spirits to spin a story about Bosco?
          Lisa--You have scads of dog "tails," I know.)
Cats
Military Life (Linda--You have some side-splitting tales that they'd jump on.
College
Menopause
Cats
Holidays
Travel
Writing (Fireblossom--This would be an opportunity to impart some of your
              wisdom about writing, since you usually are so stingy with it;)

Two wonderful St. Louis writers--Linda O'Connell and Dianna Graveman--are developing two of the titles--"On Mom" and "On Family." If you'd like to see the website and find out more information, click on here. 

She Asked for It...You Got It

       One of my writing peeps, Lynn Obermoeller, gave me an award.  Lynn is a gifted writer, a gentle critic, a wonderful friend. I initially started a list of seven of my fashion faux pas, as I am so not a fashionista (example: I am wondering how wise it would be to wear my Crocs today, and there's snow on the ground) but gave up after 5 or so...Then I read Tammy's post, and it got my thoughts meandering in a different direction...

1. When I was a kid, when I went to the circus, people could buy little alligators. Their legs were stapled to a piece of cardboard. Then, I was too young to be aghast; instead, I was fascinated. Now, I would be horrified to even go to the circus (unless they ever come up with one that features only humans).

2. I am adamant about seatbelts. No one rides in my car without buckling their seatbelt. When I still had my driver's permit, a 14-year old driver (driving for his grandmother) veered into my path and hit me head on. Thanks to my seat belt, I only broke my nose. (The ER doctor said it would heal without a splint, but since our family LTD was ruined, I wanted some proof of the accident. I also loved looking like the Lee Marvin character in Cat Ballou...at least for a day or two.)

3.  Sad movies and sad books are my favorite. I just finished Sarah's Key. Definitely sob-worthy. A Thousand Splendid Suns is one of my favorites, as is Too Late the Phalarope.  Both have brought tears to my eyes. Don't get me wrong: I love Augusten Burroughs' hilarious vignettes. The books about the Sweet Potato Qeens (the best is the book on men and love) ---I love. But if given a choice between Sophie's Choice and something gut-busting, I'll choose the former every time.

3. I spent a summer working in a gift shop in Yellowstone Park. I was 18.We were lured there by promises of "resort food" and the chance to enjoy beautiful scenery. If resort guests ate lots of oatmeal and white bread, I guess they were honest. We also worked split shifts, so we had little time to explore the area. However, since the legal age to drink was 18 there, I did a lot of exploration with various flavors of Schnapps...

4.  Over my Christmas break, dealing with a cold that would not leave, I watched 13 episodes of Sons of Anarchy--one right after the other. My husband (who had a motorcycle for a while) finds it quite amusing that although I refuse to ride on one, I'm obsessed with a show about a motorcycle gang. And yet I am...

5.  As a kid, I went through a "saint" phase. I voraciously read about them. I even dreamed I could become one. Not Catholic, so I'm not sure where the interest came from...Perhaps those pixie hair-cuts I sported in those days had something to do with my fascination with Joan of Arc?

6. (Almost there! Whew!) I have long feet. Size 11. You know what they say...Long feet, long boobs.

7.  I believe in many gods. The God of Snow Days. (They didn't come through today.) The God of Snooki. (Someday, that god will exert their power and we'll stop supporting Snooki...no more books, no more television shows, no more photos plastered in magazines.) The God of Fairness. (At some point in time, my final growth spurt will occur, and my 7'8" frame will be able to handle this weight gracefully...)

I am supposed to pass this award on (much like a chain letter) and have decided to highlight some blogs I follow that--in my opinion--lack the followers they deserve. They are:

•  Shay and her wonderful poems. They bloom in her Word Garden. Sometimes they're roll-on-the-floor funny, and sometimes they're bitingly serious. But what they always are is phenomenal...
• Ramblings of a Very Pale Man.  He writes about his family with humor. And he's working on a novel. (That makes me a bit envious...)
• Val's antics are spilled out on her blog---Unbagging the Cats. She can take a trip to the gas station and make it a journey of epic proportions--and make it hilarious.

Thanks, Lynn. And check out these blogs, if you aren't a follower already...

Another Friggin' Fairy Tale

            There once was a mythical, magical land, shrouded in spiritual s*#t. Viggo Mortensen (with his long, Lord-of-the-Rings hair) stalked around, searching for his perfect mate: a middle-aged woman (middle-aged, if she was going to live to be 106, that is) with overactive upperlip hair and a poochy belly. (His tastes must have changed since moving into this fantasyland, you say? I'm the blogger here. I should get some perks. After all, it is my fantasy!)

         On one hilltop was Lady Linda. She would have been working on another submission, but she was too busy zipping up Santa's pants. (Sorry. This is not a G-rated fairy tale.) Santa was  looking for a  saying, "Ho Ho Ho," causing Linda to be...preoccupied. If you want all the lurid details, check out her side of the story.

        Surrounded by swarms of supporters was Shay. She lived in a lovely valley, where life is fair and everyone is free to choose who they love. (Did you forget again? It's a fairy tale.)  Her 1,000th poem had just been posted, which meant 1,000 tired spirits had done all the work but Shay had gotten all the credit. Bosco was at her side, as usual, to keep up the pretense that swirled around Fireblossom's blog; in her lair is also Emily Dickinson, preserved in dry ice.   

Bosco, the Wonder Dog

     On another hilltop was Temptress T'Mara, singing her Siren's song. Who was she luring into the sharp-edges of her words--handsome young men, men who are Cougar-worthy? Alas, no, they were bandy-legged baldies, because she was culling the depths for stories since--after all--men with quirks and men with twitches are far more interesting than Viggo clones. (And if you need sustanence during your tour of this fantasyland, Tammy has some birthday cake, topped with cream cheese frosting, that she can offer to you to...oops, it was consumed by a coven of five bwitches. Sorry.)

      If you looked quickly, you could see Beth darting here and there, doing planks and push ups and her exercise instructor other exercises. She has time to write and work and raise kids and look fabulous. (She must be destroyed!) The walls of her writing den are covered with the snot she has snorted out in her frequent fits of laughter. (She must be silenced!)

       There was a pinnacle, where two quiet writers perch. One is Donna, who refuses to read her work aloud. Elusive, shy, and humble, you must purchase anthologies with her work in them--or win a copy of one of her stories--in order to enjoy the gifts of her writing. The other is Lynn, who--despite her immense talent--makes excuses about her pieces. Her stories are haunting, poignant, and her endings are brilliant. When she opens her mouth in self-denigration, shove some of Nora Ephron's spaghetti into the open maw. (That heavenly stuff will shut anyone up!)

      There is another pinnacle where a humorless writer writes. No sound is heard except the sssssh of the wind. Don't stop or tarry too long there. Anyone who lacks a sense of humor is not worthy of your time... 

     There are more places we will visit in 2011 as this fairy tale continues before the year ends...Come back so we can get to the "happily ever after" part.
     

     

     
    

The Match

photo by udijw

Fireblossom wrote a poem for me. (I won a contest posted on her blog. It was grueling...144 questions--gross!--each one requiring copius amounts of research. Whew! I'm glad it's over now.)

I am going to print the poem and hang it up in my writing space, which is still under construction. (So yes, Shay, I am going to "pick the blooms" but certainly your name will be on what I hang as well. Anyone who knows my writing knows I could not write a poem like that one...)

For those who don't follow Fireblossom's blog, I'm providing a link.  (It's written about writing...Don't we all need inspiration at times?) Check out the poem here.

And thanks again, Shay...

Praise the Chocolate, and Pass the Ammunition

photo by houtlust
Do we need to be able to speak German to understand this?
I think not...

      Okay, ladies. Gather 'round...This one's for you.

      It's time for our monthly "meeting." And for those who no longer have any monthly "meetings," join us, please. The chocolate and the nonstop playings of "Goodbye Earl" and "Fried Green Tomatoes" will help us all.

      Oh, the line is long for the milk chocolate bars with macadamia nuts? Find a chair, sit down, and read this. By the time you finish laughing and changing your underwear (incontinence is not fun! Little panty liners have no chance of keeping up with pee-your-pants uproarious laughter!) the line for the chocolate bars will be shorter... 

Book Blurb Friday # 19

      
         Yes, it's Friday again. Time to write a blurb for a no chance for this one potential best-seller. The photo this week is supplied by Becky Povich. The multi-talented Lisa Ricard Claro hosts this meme every week on her blog.

         Your book can be any genre, but it must must be 150 words or less. I was going to blog about something else today, but decided I could double-dip and write a book about the "adventure" I originally planned on writing about.

         After you write a blurb, link it to Lisa's blog, read the other blurbs and allow yourself the luxury of wallowing in everyone else's creativity.

        And without further beating around the bush ado, here is Becky's photo and my shot at stardom!

White-Knuckle Writing

by Cassie "Pro" Crastinator

       It was the last day of June. The evening sun, filtering through the blinds, reminded her that midnight wasn’t a threat, it was a promise.

     
       Two Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies had a call for submissions; their deadlines were June 30. Cassie had planned on submitting a second story for the Christmas collection to follow up her earlier memoir that was already sent off. ‘Increase the submissions means an increased chance of publication,’ she thought, with a touch of hysteria. Not having an idea for the Here Comes the Bride book until the last minute, she now had two story ideas.


      Could Cassie finish the Christmas story that was already half-finished and get it submitted in time? Would she be able to begin and finish two wedding stories before the bell tolled twelve?


     White-Knuckle Writing will make you screech and sweat right along with Cassie. (147 words not including the “reviews”)


……………………………………………………................................................................................

The Reviews of White Knuckle Writing:


“A cautionary tale. These pages paralyzed me.” Dr. Wright A. Head


“Cassie’s philosophy should be everyone’s mantra: More submissions = more publications. After all, I average 13 stories in every Chicken Soup anthology and that only happens because I submit like crazy!” Linda O’Chicken Soup


“Writing is a breeze when you have bottled-up spirits as your lackeys. Have Cassie call me.” Fireblossom


Princess Procrastinator's Note:  No, I did not get three stories submitted last night but by 11:45 I had submitted two to two different anthologies.