Carry Yourself Like a Champion

      In less than a week, our dog Foley will be prancing around Purina's huge arena. It's the national Golden Retriever show, and when he makes his entrance, all eyes will be on him glazed over; they will be impressed aghast, because Foley does not look like the typical, show-quality Golden Retriever. So, even though it is only the "Rescue Parade," it seems our pooch will get a rosette to commemorate the occasion, and for one brief moment, he will run with the thoroughbred dogs.

      Once in a while, we've captured Foley looking like the typical Golden--head up, eyes alert, and posed in the perfect stance. Those times always involve a ball held out of the camera's view, because the only thing our dog loves is playing fetch. More than eating. More than taking a walk. Hurtling after a ball is his passion.

        As writers, we have to carry ourselves like dog show champs. We have to fluff and primp up our drafts, and prance from critique session to critique session, making sure our confidence is always intact. We have to keep whispering subliminal messages to ourselves, to ensure we don't get battered or beaten by critics and rejection.

       What kind of champion canine is your dog? What do they excel at?

or

       What kinds of things do you tell yourself to keep yourself on the writing path?
     

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...