THIS is Why I Belong to a Critique Group

        This is a follow-up to my previous post, where I wrote about why I teach. If it was Pulitzer Prize material, I'd provide a link, but it's not, so if you're burning with desire  mildly curious  interested bored out of your gourd, meander around my blog and check it out. I'll be here when you return...

         Why do I belong to a critique group? Why do I stay out late every other Wednesday? (Our writing critique sessions go from 6:30 to 9:30 or 10:00, and none some of that time is spent on shenanigans and rowdy-ness.) Why do I give up a fun night of grading papers to get my writing criticized? Here's why:

1.  I'm working on my circus act...soon, I'll be ready for Barnum and Bailey. The words that are thrown my way on critique nights are razor-sharp and so cutting, I could fill in for the female assistant in the knife-throwing act...and I'd have no fear. (Okay, their words ARE sharp, but sharp as in witty. I've never felt like I needed to thicken up my skin when it comes to the WWWPs.)

2. I've joined a 12-step program, the EA, and I'm making progress. In fact, the last piece I shared had no ellipsis...None...Nada...Zilch...As an ellipsisholic, I must mutter the serenity prayer on a regular basis: Grant me the serenity to accept a short story without insisting it needs at least 14 sets of ellipsis... Last Wednesday evening I got my "1 story chip" and I'm looking forward to earning even more...

3.  When my critique members are not around, it's as if their spirit is. There are times--not often enough, unfortunately--when I'm revising a piece and it comes to me. I know exactly what I need to do to improve the story, I know what needs to be cut, I know how I can punch up the beginning...because I've heard it often enough from the other WWWPs.

4. Pantyliner producers need my support. The four fierce women in my critique group are HE. LARE. E. US. Only one of them has a trouble-making twinkle in her eyes--the other three look prim and proper and oh-so-serious, but that is just a clever ruse.  All of them have mischief and mayhem bubbling right under the surface. Laughter is good for the soul...damp underwear, not so much.

5.  In this part of the season, when the bugs are having their last flings, every fly-catcher is welcome. There are times when my mouth gapes open in amazement. Lynn has the ability to create an authentic voice of a character...and she keeps it up for the whole novel. Beth can do the same. Both of them are working on novels with a teenager as the centerpiece--and every word the characters say and every thought that goes through their head is spot-on. Linda consistently writes warm and witty and snappy. She can paint a picture and pull you back to a moment in your past with just her written words. And Tammy... Everyone hates to follow Tammy. Tammy can (and did) transform a story about a hamster into a lyrical piece that dances across the page. The images she creates are pristine...and phenomenal. When their stories are shared, my mouth drops open and I have to shove it closed...


        And what about you? Why do you write or dance or paint or shop or cook or bake or zentangle or take photographs? Nosey people (like me) want to know...

This is Why I Teach

       A few days ago I got an email from a former student. Kendra had been in my 4th grade class; now she's a freshman in college. It's been years...

     Most people think teachers remember the "challenging" students the most--the kids who made them buy hair dye every six weeks every month every afternoon. Perhaps some educators do dwell more on the tougher-nuts-to-crack than the rest of their students. In my opinion, though, something happens in the classroom that's similar to what happens when a woman gives birth: some magical liquid courses through her body, ensuring she does not remember the excruciating pain and thus rendering her willing to have another child somewhere down the road.

      Teaching is like that. Full of expectations. Exciting. Sometimes painful. And the changes that happen to your body are downright horrifying...The students who never leave my head or my heart are the gifted writers, the kids who overcome incredible obstacles, the students who are exemplary role models...The tough times shed away, leaving me excited about each new school year.

        Kendra was in my 4th grade class the year I did a research project with the National Writing Project. Even at the age of 10, she wrote stuff that had such depth, and yet it seemed to be effortless for her.

        She's beginning a nursing program. I only hope she makes the time to continue writing...

         What friend or colleague has recently contacted you, like a blast from the past? Tell, please.

Paddling Along

       Sometimes the waters push at you, and you must expend a great deal of effort to stay your course.

       Other times, you are able to coast along. The waters are tranquil--perhaps even shallow--and you can lie back and relax.

   
         Right now my "real" job is pushing and pulling at me. The waves are rough, leaving me exhausted most of the time. I have time to--sometimes--work on my writing, but it's only in small spurts. Lacking stamina, I am letting my "longish" project coast along. However, I am doing some mental writing. Small currents are meandering around in my brain. At some point, enough will accumulate to form a swell...

       The kayak pictured above belongs to "Doc" Savage. This summer he paddled 340 grueling miles along the Missouri River, from Kansas City to St. Charles. He paddled to raise money. He paddled for puppies. (Half of the money that was pledged went to Love a Golden Rescue. The other half went to a charity in his hometown.)

      If you'd like to read about this event, go to MR340. It was beyond tough...

      And now--what kind of "tough" things have you tackled lately? Sioux's nosey nature wants to know...

A Second Bite

         Sometimes I go into spasms of pleasure when I take the first initial bite of something new. Tammy's BLT bites. Anything (and I do mean anything, from her Orgasms to her quiche to her spaghetti) made by Lynn Obermoeller. My grandmother's gravy. (Every time she made it, it was a little different but those brown, fat-laden pools never failed to make me swoon.)

      When something edible is that good, I have to take a second bite. (Or a second helping. Yikes.)

      This morning I was taking a second bite at a story idea. There are two stories I am driven to get published, to honor the people who are at the heart of the pieces.

      One slice-of-life story I am yearning to see in print is about my friend Darice's son. He is the same age as my son, and you will never meet a friendlier, more polite kid than Aaron. He is the kind of young man who could talk to a lamp post and he'd get a response. Now in his mid-twenties, he got his Master's degree, and was enrolled in chiropractic school when someone broke into his house while he was sleeping. Aaron now has a bullet in his spine as a reminder, and has been living as a paraplegic for over a year. (I've submitted a story about him to Chicken Soup, but no news is bad news, so I am going to write another story about him from a different angle.)

      The other story I'm taking another stab at (See? It started as a "bite," but now I'm getting surlier, so "stab" seems more apt.) is about a friend named Ruthie. She and her husband Jim had an unwavering optimism. Jim had Alzheimer's, and they had more than their share of obstacles, but their sunny outlook remained intact. (I submitted an absolutely fabulous story, worthy of a Pulitzer Prize second look, but no. Again, no news means no publishing agreement...)  I'm writing the story from a different perspective, will beg my critique partners-in-crime to read it ("OMG! Another Alzheimer's story?" they'll cry out in protest.) and after it's all polished up, nice and shiny, I'll send it off.

      What are you taking a second (or third) bite of?  What (or who) are you taking a second stab at?  Inquiring minds want to know...

What is Faux About Your Life?

           A few weeks ago, I sponged-painted my once-yucky kitchen counter. It now looks like granite--sleek and mottled with browns and black and tans. And it looks like a brand-new $5,000.00 countertop, and all it cost us was $70.

        Every morning I use an eyelash curler, in an attempt to override my drooping eyelids. 

        And as evidenced by all the skin cleansers and skin sloughers and skin creams that hog up space in my hall closet, it's obvious--I'm trying to be something I'm not (which is older than mud).

         As writers, we specialize in what is faux and what is not. Even if we're writing nonfiction, we're putting our own spin on things, and filling in with details that we forgot long ago.

This collection will be on sale on December 24, 2013.
My slice-of-life story, "Still Dishing It Out"
is going to be one of the 101 story offerings.


I received word yesterday that my story has made it to the final round. I also received a letter yesterday from a epistolary addict  letter-writing maniac  writing friend, and what she wrote made me think... Am I a creative nonfiction writer? Am I a novelist? Or am I whatever I'm dabbling in at the moment?

What is the thing that is most faux about you or your life? Don't be afraid to share. I won't tell a soul... 

       
   

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.