Happy Father's Day... and the Father I Might Kill

When I was a kid, fathers weren't as hands-on as they are now. I don't know, but I imagine my dad didn't change a lot of diapers. His job was to bring home the bacon... and the ground beef that got mixed with lots of spaghetti and stretched thin.

My dad was a great parent. Was he a bit inflexible? Yes. Was he too conservative for my tastes? Yes. Did he sometimes get too loud and blustery? Yes. However, he put up with my shenanigans along with my brother's, was a master BBQer and loved a cocktail every evening before dinner.

My father (and mother) chose me--I'm adopted. However as a writer, I chose the characteristics as I create fictional characters. 

How will they end up when the story is finished? It is up to me...

Please check out my post on The Muffin. In it, I share a little about my WIP... and a little about the father I might be killing.

Packing Up the Old... Headed to the New

Today I'm headed to both my new classroom and my old one. I'm hoping to unload two carloads full of crates and boxes into my new classroom. Then I'm going to clear out (more) stuff from my old classroom, eat lunch (with my "old" colleagues) in the middle of the clutter-fest... followed by boxing up more of my clutter.

As I was clearing out and organizing last week, I threw away a lot of stuff, gave away stuff and packed up stuff. It made me think of the impasse I've reached (recently) as a writer.

I've been plagued with rejections from agents. Several of them were personalized. Two of them praised my writing... my manuscript just doesn't fit their current needs. 

That's the old.

A couple of days ago I began reading the book Dreamland Burning by Jennifer Latham. The format (back and forth between two characters living in two different eras--along with the two storylines--inspired my inner core to budge. I've been stagnant as a writer for a month, mired in self-doubt and despondency.

But no more. Now I'm looking to the new. After my former classroom is cleared out and my report cards are finished, I'm moving forward.

How about you? Are you stuck in the past or are you plodding forward?

What We Know or What We Want to Know?

When I was much, much younger, I was told, "Write what you know." 

Today, that would involve battling my mustache... and I'm a woman. It would involve falling asleep at 7:30 at night on the couch, surrounded by a puddle of drool. It would involve daily trying to camouflage my poochy belly.

That's what I know. Does anyone want to read about that stuff?

Probably not.

For a serious discussion of the dilemma I'm currently facing, go check out my post on The Muffin. 

And if you have a suggestion or you know an agent or a publisher (who owes you a big favor), please let me know.

After all, I'm looking for just one yes...

Mired in ???

I feel like I'm stuck in a tar pit. Not that I have an experience with that horror, but I mired in sticky stuff... stuff that's keeping me from moving forward with my writing.

I recently got a rejection in which the agent brought up the #OwnVoices trend. If you're not familiar, that's the movement pushing for books that focus on LGBT characters be written by someone who identifies as LGBT. A book centering on a person of color? That should be written by a person of color.

As I read and contemplate and seek advice, I wonder: can a white person write a novel with a young African American as the main character? More importantly, can they create a nuanced character with respect and authenticity woven in?

In the next couple of months I'll be figuring out my next steps with my manuscript... and hopefully I can pull myself out of this tar pit very soon. 

Poetic Postings Day # 3

Today's prompt involved a list. Some suggestions: 10 things I'd change... 10 things I've learned... 10 things I know to be true.

The one I chose was this:

10 Things I Love

naps on Saturday afternoon

getting together with friends after work
a glass of cold milk
snuggling with my dog
watching a spur-of-the-moment movie with my husband
Tyrion Lannister
falling asleep with a good book in my hands
my students
salt and pepper pistachios
a road trip with a friend

Poetic Postings Day # 2

The best part of me
is underneath
honking and telling
rude drivers
they're number one

The best part of me
is hidden by sarcasm
and snarky remarks
and shrugging off 
the pain

The best part of me
is often misread

The best part of me
is given freely
but rarely accepted

When you see me 
hunched over, writing

When you see me
prodding 
and praising students

When you see me
gush over my granddaughter...

You're seeing my best