Last night was our twice-monthly writing critique night. One of our group was missing in action, so it was a bit more sedate than usual, but extremely productive, as always.
Here are some of the highlights:
- ClickClickClickClickClickClick. The sound of pills shaking against the inside of a plastic pill bottle. Three of us sat up on our back haunches and begged, unblinking, expectant and transfixed. (A member of our group just got off painkillers, and we were sure she was shaking one out for each of us.)
Oh, those were toothpicks being shaken out, for the appetizers? Awww. Oh,
well.
- "Change the focus of the piece to your children, take out the 'essay' parts, and this would make a wonderful story." Too often we look at a piece and box it in, thinking it would not be suitable for a particular publication/contest. Repurpose it. Retool it. Tweak it, then send it off.
- The power of self-fulfilling prophecy. Two years ago, my students each hung up their dream in our classroom. There were clouds hanging all over the place, swinging on fishing line. My dream was up there, too: "I dream of being a published writer." That was in September. In December of that same year, High Hill Press accepted my picture book manuscript. Coincidence? I think not.
This year, all five of the WWWP's are going to be in the Chicken Soup for the
Soul Parenthood anthology. We're going to do book signings (they will be the
most raucous book signings ever!) and we're going to be fierce. Have any of
us been accepted yet? No. But it will happen...
Have any of you had first-hand experience with a self-fullfilling prophecy? I'd love to hear about them...
Oh, have no fear. This post is not about what people normally think of when TMI is mentioned. I'm not going to paint a picture of what I looked like when I got my head stuck in the sink, too cheap to pay $5 for a shampoo at the stylist...I'm not going to describe what my evening "attire" is, after a long day of herding third graders...I am going to spare you the psychological scarring you'd suffer if I made you visualize what happens when a fifty-something woman's body meets gravity head-on...
No, this TMI lesson has to do with writing. And I learned it in my twice-monthly critique night. The teachers? Linda O'Connell, Lynn Obermoeller, T'Mara Goodsell and Beth M. Wood. They're better than nuns at rapping my knuckles when I do wrong...
At our last class meeting of the WWWP (Wild Women Wielding Pens), I shared a hockey story. Chicken Soup had a call-out for hockey stories (the deadline is tomorrow) and even sent out a reminder, which--to my way of thinking--meant they didn't have very many submissions. Since I had no real hockey stories, I thought even I might have a chance. Because I had two "near" stories.
I brought both, thinking I could beg them to read the other story sometime in the next week and send it back to me, all marked-up. (I even had stamped envelopes at the ready, in case anyone agreed.) The problem was, the deadline would come before we had the chance to meet again. Two piles of crap had a better chance than only one, I thought.
And the lesson I learned is this: sometimes part of the story is TMI. It may be part of the story that you get down, in the initial draft, and in your mind, it's really a part of it. However, if it doesn't move the story along, if the story can stand without it, cut it loose.
In one of the stories, I was in the locker room with a bunch of teachers and one hunky hockey player (true). There was quite a scandal because the hunk flirted shamelessly with me a crime scheme was being hatched (true). And although most of the giggling, fawning teachers were women, there were a few men.
Since that was true, I thought it important to include. Of course, the WWWP's went after me with a meter stick. The fact that some men were in the group was unimportant. Delete. Immediately.
The other story (in the end, they looked at both, after moaning and groaning about this one) got some major slash-and-burn work done. Half the story was spent explaining how I got some tickets to a semi-pro hockey game. Was it important that teachers sometimes got the chance to get free tickets to a comedy club or a semi-pro baseball or hockey game? No. So, a 1,200 word story ended up 37 words long (just a slight exaggeration).
Barry Lane talks about three drafts. The Down Draft is when you get the story down. Just let the words flow, and banish your inner critic during this phase. Then, there is the Up Draft. This is where you fix it up. Revise. I should have cut those dead limbs then. Finally, there is the Dental Draft. That's where you look at every nook and cranny, checking for anything loose, anything that's out of place...the editing part, and the final touches of revision.
Do you have any stories about having a part of a story or poem that you thought was integral but later saw the light?
As a third grade teacher, I am hugged daily. I am given homemade cookies(that look suspiciously like a bite has been taken out of them--probably just quality control at work, I imagine) that have been carried in their hands, without any plastic bag or food wrapper. I have had students lovingly share their stickers by patting one onto my shirt (which I only remembered--too late--when I went to a neighborhood copy center and pranced around, getting strange looks when the other customers and the employees looked at my chestal region (which is way above the "nether regions," one of Val's favorite phrases).
My kids want to learn how to become more proficient readers. They want to become more capable with their math skills. That's the big picture. But every day, what they fight and fret over daily are things like this:
- Special pencils. In our class we have a communal pencil container. At the beginning of the year,
everyone most of the students some of the students bring in several boxes of pencils. Every morning, I sharpen 8 dozen pencils. At lunch, I resharpen them, because apparently my classroom was invaded by a gang of marauding beavers. My students form relationships with pencils they deem special. There is "Crimper," a pencil that has had the eraser part modified. The eraser is gone, but the top of the metal part has been crimped tightly shut. This makes the pencil suitable for many purposes. There is also "Two Points." A pencil much in demand, this pencil--although only two inches long--has two points. Each end is sharp and ready...There is also "Chewbaca." From all appearances, the colored coating has been chewed/peeled off, revealing a smooth, beige wood surface.
- Getting to use the tall water fountain instead of the short one. When we come back from PE, we stop and get a drink. There are two water fountains--one for taller kids/adults and one for the shorter students. Jockeying in line, to guarantee drinking from the taller one is crucial to their existence...
- Getting at the front of the line to go to lunch. At recess, many of the students get in line 5-10 minutes early, and just stand there, waiting for the whistle to blow, just so they can be "first." Of course, they are worrying needlessly. The cafeteria ladies never run out of corn dogs...
There are other life-or-death battles fought every day, but I will stop here. However, if you want to get a glimpse into what high school teachers deal with, go to this post. This hillbilly teacher is a hoot!
Last Friday I had a sleep study done. A number of years ago (8? 10?) I had had one done initially. My snoring is notorious, and has been the case since I was a teenager and rail-thin, so fat is not the only issue (although it is exacerbated by the layer of lard I've become so fond of). Over the years, I've gotten used to the CPAP machine--with the long hose that accompanies it--but my doctors felt I needed to be "recalibrated."
If you've never had the pleasure, they hook you up, using a gross of electrodes. You're in a room with a comfortable bed, a television, a tiny restroom. Oh, you have to void? Don't forget to take along your huge "box" of electrical something-or-others, that keeps all the electrodes straight. That is, until they hook you up for real...After that, you'll have to get permission to pee.
And then, they give people (who have paid for their admission tickets) access to the "observation room," where the techs are sitting, monitoring the studies and the cameras. You think you're safe, because it's dark? Don't get too secure--they have special cameras that can see everything despite the darkness, kind of like those night-vision goggles worn in "Silence of the Lambs." Popcorn is nibbled on, slushies are slugged, and everyone in the audience gets to laugh at the varied and hilarious snoring that goes on...
They ask you what time you want to go to sleep. I said "between 10 and 11, and probably more like 11." That's the case every Friday evening. I have great intentions of staying up, because sometimes, I can sleep past 5 on Saturday morning. The idea of kicking up my heels and being up late is thrilling. However, my body is rarely able to fulfill those intentions. Usually, around 9:30 or so I'm drooling and snoring on the couch, missing out on all the wild antics I had planned. I've gone all week without enough sleep; my body finally crashes...
And this was a normal Friday night. Somewhere before the clock had struck ten, I had already snorted myself awake. The technician came rushing in, and gave me the officiall hook-up. Within minutes, I was asleep.
So it is with my writing. I have good intentions to live a more writerly life. I have the intention to write every day at the same time, to develop a real habit. However, what drives me most are deadlines. And I can't find a set time every day, so I eek out bits of time here and there.
How about you? What are your intentions when it comes to writing or your creative life? How do you balance your intentions and the everyday muck of life?
(Inquiring minds want to know.)
This is a horrifying tale. For the weak of heart, go back to the blog you were on previously, and pass on this post.
It all began because of my Russian hair stylist. She is determined--with each of my appointments--to jack my bill up. Shampooing...another $5. Blow drying...another $5. A professional dye job...I shudder to think.
She tries to bully me into getting my hair washed, and lures me to the vicinity of the sink with a bubbling pot of borscht and a television playing "Dr. Zhiavago" on a non-stop loop. However, I've become wily, and wash my hair and then drive (very fast at the posted speed limit) to the salon.
Every time I look forward to the magic happening...Sadly, it never happens.
Yesterday I made an appointment for 5:30. That meant that a lot of gas would be wasted driving home (in the wrong direction) to shampoo and then doubling back. So, I thought ahead and brought some shampoo and a towel to work.
At 4:01, our school becomes a ghost town. At least on most days. I figured I could quickly shampoo, and slip out without anyone seeing me, so I headed down the hall to the staff bathroom.
Locking the door (it's a one-staller affair), I turned on the faucet and bent over the sink. I knew it would not be an easy task, as the sink is very, very tiny. Not only is the sink small, but the faucet really juts out, taking more than its share of the sink space. Prepared to get into some interesting yoga poses, I began to get my hair wet.
To do so, I had to angle my head, get one side wet, stand on my tiptoes and splash water on the very back, then pull my head out and do the same thing on the other side.
Then something catastrophic happened. My head got stuck. Wedged under the faucet, with no room to pull out and disengage.
Turning my head to the left and trying to get unjammed--no luck. Trying from the right side had no effect, either. The metal of the faucet was digging and scraping my scalp.
Three and a half hours later, the door's knob had been removed, the floor and part of the hallway was flooded, a fire engine had to be called, six firemen laughed their rubber boots off, and my principal had been called back into the building...I was finally free.
The lesson I learned? Pay the $5. Retaining my skin cells is worth 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...
