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This post doesn't have a cool name, unless we call it "Octavia"

I am so very delighted. It's Tuesday evening. I spent tonight writing on my lap top next to my husband as he watched a military film on the tube. Our feet shared space on the ottoman I move back to its place in front of the chair fifty-million times a day and yell, "Stop rearranging the furniture!" Of course, we moved it in front of the couch for the evening, but that is so very far beyond the point, I'm not even sure why I brought it up.

Today is Tuesday and on this day I attend a fantabulous critique group. I know all my most recent blogs have been about critique groups, but I seem to have become addicted. In my addiction I am writing like crazy, and paying attention to call-outs I may have otherwise ignored,  just so that I will have something to receive critique advice on. It sounds so strange, but I love hearing what other people think of my work. It is simply -----educational. There is no other way to put it. I read something I've created, that did not exsist before I made it, then go around a room and let 9 or 10 people talk to me about what I just read and I get 9 or ten amazing opinions.  

I love it. I have a piece I want to submit to Not Your Mothers Books and I read it today at critique. I sat down this evening and after reviewing each critique I made changes to the piece. They all worked and they all improved it. Right now it has been set to breathe a bit while I move on to other things. I have so many stories and essays I want to write I may need to hire a babysitter to get through them all.

Am I normal?

This is what I asked myself this afternoon. I've been writing a lot lately, more than I have before, I think. I have many projects taking place at once, which is exciting for so many different reasons.  A few weeks ago someone at a writing group told me about a contest with a deadline of June 10^th. I started working on a short story for it and wrote about six drafts. Through a series of events I ended up sharing it at several writing groups in its various outlines over the last few weeks. Today, after slicing, dicing nearly trashing then resurrecting the piece I took it for it's final critique to my Tuesday critique group.

--Can I begin by saying what an awesome group of folks I have the pleasure of being with every Tuesday? So kind, honest and helpful.-- I passed out my piece and once again read it proudly (although it was suggested that I slow down a bit. I have no idea why I started out as the Speed Racer of Reading - read slowly at critique, they need time to absorb and critique at the same time.). This time instead of expecting everyone to find it fascinating, I only hoped they'd tell me what the heck was wrong with it! It didn't flow, I had obvious plot holes, was the suspense there, was the dialogue alright... They did tell me what was wrong. Once again, they delivered brilliantly.

I hurried home to look through all of their wonderful notes. I was excited to see what solutions they'd come up with for me. But, when I got there, instead of being excited to rewrite my piece using all the great advice I'd been given, (and get it submitted by the deadline), I found myself wanting to throw it away. Could it be that I'd written and rewritten it TOO many times? I feel like I am completely done looking at it. It doesn't help that I took another peek at the contest I'll be sending it off to and they mention they'd prefer something humorous. Nothing about my dark piece is humorous.  

Nevertheless, I think I've chopped the thing to bits too many times, I even resorted to using cliches! I'm afraid I simply need to rewrite the thing from scratch using all the advice from today, but I'm not sure I have it in me. Ugh. I do plan to pick it up again tomorrow and see if I can get back into it. I still have several more days to work on it, in fact. I've come this far with it, I owe it to the piece and to all the folks at critique (and the ones that critiqued it that aren't part of the group) to at least submit the thing.

Oddly, I'm in the mood to blow the dust off the novel I have stored away. Perhaps it needs to see the light of day again. -->I'm stumped on the first page. I suppose I should just skip it since it seems to be holding me back. (I'm all freaked out about the need to grab the reader right away...errgh) I'm thinking shorter, tighter chapters than the drawn-out chitchat I produced for Nano. Let's get moving! Let's all drag out an old Nano-novel and do some work to it! Then we can write a brand new Nano-novel this November! Weeeeeee! Let's catch up a bit. Ready? Go!

I am a writing fool as of late!

So much so that I am actually considering opening my dusty, dilapidated... all but forgotten [because it is a thorn in my side] novel from last years www.nanowrimo.org contest and doing some work on it.  I know, its crazy.

I mentioned the other day that I belong to several writing and critique groups. I bestowed ghastly ghostly work upon one of the groups the week before last, but I am hoping to redeem myself next week with a story for a Writers Digest contest. At another critique group I've just sent off a piece via email I plan to enter into a contest in October. The two groups are quite different in how they work their exact critique, but the result is the about same - plenty of great advice on your piece.

At lunch the other day a friend that was present during the reading of a piece of flash fiction I'd written asked me about it. I told her I received Honorable Mention in a contest. She suggested that I expand the story into a series. I hadn't thought of it before. What a delightful idea! I was able to add to my delight when I later saw a couple pieces of art by someone I know. Boy, I could write a series and that artist could illustrate!  Ahhh! Move over Winnie the Pooh!

I've been coming up with different storylines. A series... are my characters detectives? Are they explorers? What is their mode of travel? How many main characters are there? Names! Oh, I have some wonderful names chosen already. For some reason I rarely name my characters if I can getaway with it. I've discovered that names hold meaning to people. I'm always afraid my character will be defined by his or her name. But, I have a few unique names I've sort of been holding onto through the years that may have finally found their character.

All of this writing has picked up and taken off over the last week or so. I wrote before that, of course. The last week I really feel like a switch has been clicked on for me though. It's a good feeling. I hope it lasts for a while.

Memorial Day 2012

In honor of today, I want to share a Personal Essay written by a Saturday Writers member in 2010. I was present to hear him read it and it has stuck with me since.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

In Honor of Memorial Day - An Essay by Jerrel Swingle "In Remembrance"

Memorial Day, 2009

It was a simple transaction. I exchanged two one-dollar bills for two small red plastic flowers. They were offered to me by a pretty little girl outside the main entrance of a supermarket. She was accompanied by an elderly gentleman holding a donation cup. He wore a dark blue overseas cap with an embroidered VFW on it. I recognized it. Veterans of Foreign Wars.
The girl held up one of the plastic flowers as I came close. Her smile said, “Please?” I looked at her and said, “I’ll take two. I have two grandchildren just like you who would love to have one.” I handed her the money, and she gave me the flowers.
The man spoke gently to her. “Give him another one,” he said. So I had three plastic flowers. I looked at him and then looked down at these small tokens of sacrifice from long ago.
“Buddy Poppies.”
I remember that in years past they were made of crepe paper by the hands of veterans scarred by war. But the message was the same: “Wear it proudly.”
I said to the man, “I wonder if anyone still knows what these mean?” It was a rhetorical question, and I didn’t really expect an answer. But he looked at me with what seemed to be surprise. For a moment he was silent.
I started to pass on my way back to the parking lot, but as I did, I heard his voice calling out behind me.
“In Flanders field . . .!”
I turned. Our eyes met, and I nodded in appreciation. This brief moment, a transaction deeper than I might have imagined brought two minds together in shared understanding in an unlikely place. I raised my hand and gave him a thumbs-up with a silently mouthed “Thank you!”

* “In Flanders field the poppies blow,
Between the crosses row on row . . .”

Over the years, I have read this poem many times. And over the years, I have bought many poppies, paper and plastic. I cannot pass them by. The feeling is still the same. It was the “war to end all wars.” World War I. But it wasn’t. And the poppies still blow. And every time I read these lines, they create a deep ache in the center of my being.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders fields.”

I have read stories and poems about soldiers and war, about battles and strife, about what soldiers think and feel in the midst of terror, death, and destruction. But, for whatever reason, this short poem has always been the one work that touched me most deeply. It was written a decade before I was born, but its meaning still reaches across generations. A mere fifteen lines that touch the soul. I always have to fight against a wrenching sadness as I read:

“. . . If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.”

I think of today, and wonder.
And every Memorial Day,
I buy a poppy.
-------
*- “In Flanders Fields”
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
(1872-1918)
Canadian Army

Essay by Jerrel Swingle
jerrelswingle@gmail.com

Critique Group : Every Writer Should Have One

            There are many factors that occur to make a writer great. Having a lot of support behind your work is quite valuable. Beyond your parents, whom are quite proud of everything you do, or your husband, boyfriend or best friend that better be proud, you may find that your work benefits significantly by having a good-fitting and experienced critique group behind you as well. You may have to shop around for the perfect fit, but it will be well worth your efforts.

            I belong to several writing groups, and happen to be the President of one (shameless plug: http://www.saturdaywriters.org/). Several times a month I find myself immersed in wonderful advise from writers of all different experience levels. Simply attending and observing is of advantage to a writer. So much is to be learned by listening to casual comments spoken throughout the room. If you are with a really good group you better take notes once the actual critique begins.

            Really, I believe we learn from any exposure we have to the craft. A writer gains even more by participating in the critique with his or her own work. For one group I attend, I had come to a point where I felt comfortable enough to commit to read something for critique this week. Boy, I soon found myself regretting that commitment.

            Nevertheless, (<---I learned this is one word at critique today!) I'd made a commitment, and I am not one to take doing so lightly. I have a couple of items I am working on for various projects. I've come up with a personal essay that will work for several venues, I have a few short stories that could use some critique for use in the future, a piece I want to enter into a particular contest with an upcoming deadline... my thriller novel I wrote for www.nanowrimo.org last November that desperately needs attention (so much so I rarely look at it because it seems a bit hopeless at times). Then there is the brilliant idea I came up with a few days ago which happens to be the lesson of this very blog...

            I am a ghost hunter. Only a handful of folks know this about me, and most that do find it hard to believe. Alas, it is true. Just this past weekend I was crawling around in creepy spaces in search of communication from the "other side".  I've been actively hunting for several years and have quite a few adventures under my belt. Back in 2010 I had an article published at http://paranormaltaskforce.com/ about a hunt I attended with the fine folks at PTF. Everyone was Ga-Ga over the article at the time. I didn't write anymore about my adventures, but in a twist of events, I've decided to chronicle my ghost hunting jaunts into a sort of "How to" manual. I figured it could be something I self-published down the road.

            So, this morning, (because my kiddo's keep me fairly busy in general, but added to that my poor dog broke her tail over the weekend, I'm busy attending events because its graduation season, and so on and so forth) I pulled up the article I'd written in 2010. Some of you may have read it on my old blog, it was called "In the Darkness, Silence is Easy to Find". I've since removed the photos I borrowed *cough*stole*cough* from the internet and what remained was the shell of the original article which relied heavily on the photos. I've since taken my own photos to replace the others, but of course they are stuck in a file somewhere to live out the rest of their natural computer file lives and are not likely to see the light of day again. (You know how it goes...)

            I decided I'd take the shell of this article and make it Part 1 of my story to read to my critique group. As I munched my egg sandwich I hurried through the article trying to change the areas I'd only had to "tell" about because it had a photo attached originally into a "show" with words. I worked on it for as long as time permitted, printed ten copies of the first 5 pages and commenced to getting the living souls in the house ready for the day.

            Once I got to my critique group I immediately changed my mind about reading. No way was this article-turned-almost-story ready to read to these members. Why, just last week one of them commented to me how he worked on his stories for weeks before presenting it to the group. Weeks?? I didn't even work on this one for hours. Yikes. The sign up sheet came to me and that darned commitment thing popped into my head again. I had to do it, bad or good writing. I'd made a commitment last week to read and I had to stand by it. Thankfully my name was last on the list. I hoped we'd run out of time before we got to my turn.

            A personal essay with a great moral was read. Then two short stories about motherhood. Next was a chapter from a memoir about a little boy learning to swim. I thought I'd be saved by the clock when it was decided I should go ahead of the second to last person.

            I-yi-yi! As I passed out a copy to each of the ten people in the room, I explained that what I was about to read was once a great paranormal article published on a legitimate website. This wasn't just some kooky ghost story, I wanted them to know. It had substance, I just needed a bit of direction, that's all.

            I read my article-turned-almost-story loud and clear and with pride. Here was a room full of people that had surely never heard of such a thing as ghost hunting. They certainly would appreciate knowing the technicalities that go into such an event. I got chuckles in the right places and I felt the reading went well. The article-turned-almost-story stalled a few times, I admit. The "sweaty ghoul finger" really had no place there, I admit that too. But, I'd explained this was a work-in-progress. It'd been a famous piece once, so they'd understand and unquestionably appreciate what was happening on the pages in front of them.

            [Crickets chirping...] Wow. Remember earlier when I mentioned the part about shopping around for the perfect fit in your critique group? Well, that's important. Writers are human beings. We're a bit slow to accept change just like everyone else. [I smile]

            The critiques and comments I received actually weren't that bad. I know folks were holding back from saying things like, "Oh my Gosh! Are you kidding me with this?? You bring this CRAP in here after I let you critique my finest work week after week??! How dare you? HOW DARE YOU?!" Okay, I probably did deserve to hear that because I admit I didn't work hard on the piece, but still. I think some people just didn't get it.

            I received comments like, "Don't leave the evidence for later." My defense (and you aren't supposed to be defensive in a critique group) is that during a ghost hunt you don't know what your evidence is until much later when you have a chance to review everything you've documented, and the original article was written in two parts.

            "It reads too scientific" It IS scientific... as scientific as paranormal can be, anyway. I got the feeling the group is programmed for STORIES.  This person took aim at a part where I wrote about describing our equipment to entities. Yes, its true, we ghost hunters speak to rooms that appear empty. I do believe the group member found this absurd. That was absurd, but a few weeks ago the person jovially critiqued a story about two headed dragons... okay.

            Of course my favorites were "Very interesting to me because I'm from that town" and "Like the whole story, keep it up" I'd say these people hated it most.

            This is where having a good and experienced critique group comes in handy: I also received numerous thoughts about my structure. Maybe I shouldn't keep all the evidence for later. My readers might find it boring having to read through tons of investigation with little or no result. They pointed out the fact that I used the word "investigation" fifteen-million times. Somehow... I hadn't caught that! They helped me think of different words for cemetery, building and old. They pointed out where they felt like I had extra long sentences that didn't work. Some of my long sentences they liked and told me to keep. They explained where my pace was slow and offered advice on how to pick it up. They want history on the town I hunted in, which I probably would not have included because that wasn't why I was there. Talking with my group I realized the history was actually interesting and it has the word "bones" in it, so it might actually add something. Two of the members even invited themselves on my next ghost hunt!

            So, the lesson of my blog is that every writer can benefit from a first-class, good-fitting critique group. Even though some of the group didn't seem able to handle the muck I forced upon them today, I feel the majority of them are willing to try and that sort of support is invaluable. I'm not sure where my article-turned-almost-story will go from here, but I am so thankful I have this group of fine folks to help me figure out where to start.        

Back from the Future

For years, I worked at a law firm where our biggest client had thousands of cases on court dockets. I noticed years flying by faster than I thought they should. Sure, I was getting older and all that jazz, but I began to think the feeling of time whizzing by was because I constantly worked months into the future. Everything I did was for an upcoming court event.

Recently I've been concentrating on events for a group I help organize that will take place during the Fall time-period. My summer is over before Memorial Day has even passed when I work on these things.

Today I decided to put all my "work" aside and work on painting a mural I've been planning in my home for a very long time. While I was painting I realized how grounded and in the present I felt. Each stroke was happening as soon as I touched the brush to the wall. Now those strokes are there for as long as the mural lasts. They were part of the present, and now they are part of the past, not the future.  

The Big Grab

I want to share a fun conversation I had with my son this morning. It's been a pleasure (and a horror and times, I admit!) being home with him all of his life and able to watch him become the Kindergarten graduate he will be in a few weeks.

This morning while he was dressing he said, "I know how to spell know: k-n-o-w"

I explained the context of spelling it that way means he "knows" something as opposed to not being allowed to do something, which is "no".

He stood still for a moment, obviously contemplating, then said, "I think I'll write that sentence, 'I know what no means'." And suddenly it was if his day was complete. Imagine being that fulfilled from one sentence!

I have a writer friend that is on "twitter novel" strike.  Since I began my serious interest in writing wayyyyy back in 2009, I've been told repeatedly that you have to grab the reader on the first page, in the first paragraph, with the first sentence, with the first word, with the first letter... in fact you have to know your audience well enough that they don't even have to read your book to fall in love with it... that is what all that jazz is beginning to sound like to me and apparently to my friend as well.

My friend told me about a pitch session turned conversation she had with an agent at a recent writing conference. She said she told the twenty-something agent she was done with "twitter novels" and doesn't believe you have to grab the reader the first millisecond they open your book. I tend to agree. Lets not wait until page 35 to grab them, but dang... the first sentence?!? The agent, of course wanting what is popular and now, didn't agree with my friend.

I've been told that if your novel doesn't grab someone until page 3, then move page three's action to page 1. what do you think? Can you lead into the Big Grab, or should it be the first thing the reader reads?

After Years

Rarely do I become moved by poetry. In fact, much of the time I just don't seem to understand it. Saturday Writers hosted a delightful speaker by the name of Anene Tressler-Hauschultz in March. She spoke of her use of poetry as a writing tool and read us the following poem. To speak lightly of the matter, I was moved.

I've used the poem several times since hearing it read, and it only seems fitting to share it here as well.

After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

Ted Kooser

Hi! I'm still here!

What does that thing say over there----> November 2011!? Gosh, does that make me a slacker or what?

Excuses. That's what I should have called this post. I started typing up a bunch of excuses as to why I haven't blogged in over 5 months, but I erased them all. I'll skip the excuses and only mention the exciting stuff!

The http://www.nanowrimo.org/ novel I finished in my last blog has survived. In fact it has been reworked and added to... it continues to grow and be rewritten as time permits. I'm thinking about ways to continue the book in fact, so that one day I can offer a series rather than a stand-alone book by a first time author. Something tells me that will be more appealing to the folks who matter.

In January 2012 I took over duties as President of an awesome non-profit group for writers called Saturday Writers. We're a Chapter of the Missouri Writers' Guild in our 10th year. We write just about every genre you can imagine and we range in age from 16-80, literally. We meet about once a month to encourage one another and learn about writing. I have an awesome group of fellow board members that are all willing to  go the extra mile, and continually offer great ideas and creative suggestions for our meetings.

I could go on and on about all the fabulous things happening Saturday Writers, but I'll save those things for future posts, because.. oh yes, my friends, there will be other posts. In the meantime, you can check out our group at http://www.saturdaywriters.org/

YAWN | STRETCH | YAY!!!

Oh My! 29 days ago I was warned that by this day I would be so ready to get my novel out of my face but, I didn't believe it. While I was writing I couldn't imagine how I could ever want to put my novel away. Of course I would want to write and write at it until it was perfection.

Ya, right.

I'm not sure how it happened, but it did. I think it was around day 25 or so. I'd written every single day until then, even if it was just 500 words or so. I was ahead and happy to have a bit of a break for Thanksgiving, and then... I didn't write, and I didn't write and I didn't write. I complained to my husband about it. I surfed the net for the first time in nearly a month.

Then, I feared.

I feared the spark was gone. What had been such an amazing story a few days before suddenly wasn't there. I was scared. I made myself sit down yesterday and write a couple thousand words. I made up a scene I hadn't outlined and I liked it. My spark was back. Today I needed only 500 words to be a "winner" and trust me when I say that as excited as I was to be winning, I was equally excited that I never had to look at the piece again if I so chose.

I really think I've written something good, so I will look at it again, but for now... whoooo! Next time I see that person that gave me that warning I'll have to let them know that they told me so. The best move I think I can make for my novel at this time is to close the file and not open it again until next year. I love the story, I love the plot, I know I love many of the scenes I wrote, but right now I can't bare the thought of having to read them!

Writer Be Aware

In completely unrelated news, I'd like to announce that if I didn't have mom, wife, cleaning lady, chef, frozen fundraiser pie delivery, field trip to the library, and visit to Grandma's and Doctor responsibilities today I would be heading to the department store make-up counter in pursuit of the perfect shade of red lipstick. Today feels like a good day to own a tube of red lipstick. I don't mean an off-shade like burgundy or wine, I mean RED. So red that people see my lips coming in the door before me. Well, okay, maybe not quite that red, but a red that looks great for the fast-approaching holidays. That is all I have to say about that.

 ~~

I recently wrote a sex-scene for my Nano novel. I've never written one before and quite honestly, I had to tap into the memory bank of all the lovemaking scenes I've ever seen in the movies. That task accomplished, I went on with my Nano-ing for the day, finishing at a respectable amount of words as I've been doing everyday since November 1^st.  (Expect yesterday, but I felt getting a bit ahead and taking a break was probably a good idea since I was beginning to feel a bit of a love-HATE thing for my story, more on that another day...)

I happily told my husband about the scene I'd written after the kids went to bed. I was excited that it had turned out quite well, in my opinion. I didn't want to write a porno-scene, but I didn't want readers to be bored with it either. All was well, my husband congratulated me and then asked a simple question that actually caused me to take a step back. He asked to read the scene. Of course I am happy to let people read what I've written, but my goodness... what if my nano-novel actually turns into something good and gets published and... my mother reads that sex scene, or worse, my Grandmother! My neighbor, my son's teachers. To use an expression from my old Jewish boss, "Oy vey ishmere!"

This past summer I heard the newly published Kelly O'Conner McNees speak about her book The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (http://kellyoconnormcnees.com/ ). She was a very good speaker and I enjoyed listening to her as well as reading her book. One thing she talked about during her lecture was how surprised she was when she realized that people were reading her book. She mentioned a time that a perfect stranger commented on a scene from her book and she thought, "How did they know I wrote that in there?" It wasn't until then that she really realized what being published meant. It means anyone can pick up your book and read your words. All of them.

I'll likely keep the sex scene in the book, and in fact, I have planned an additional scene that I might not normally discuss with my mother or grandmother otherwise, but the story needs it. The scene will be food for the reader, and it is necessary to the story, I feel. But, let the words of those that have come before me whisper in your ear as you write, "EVERYONE will read this!"

*Gosh, if the fear of a bad critique isn't enough to scare you away from writing, now there is the awareness that if you do publish your book people will read it! LOL!

I should be nano-ing

I haven't posted in awhile and thanks to www.nanowrimo.org I've discovered something exciting that I really wanted to share with the world.

As usual, I have only just discovered this new and exciting thing, but I am certain others have known about it for a long time.

I was nano-ing along, starting at the beginning of my story like a good little first time nano-er, when suddenly I had an idea for a scene that would occur much later in the book. I didn't sit on the idea and wait to type my way to the part in my story I'd use it for, I stopped what I was working on to type that scene and it came out quite lovely, if I do say so myself. Then later I did it again! And then again until I was jumping all over the place in my story and that is just about when something peculiar began happening...

I was typing away when suddenly this tall handsome man walked into my story and said, "Hi, I'm Will, the husband." Then it happened again later when a boy strolled in and explained that he was the third son, Bradley. I was amazed. Characters seemed to be appearing from no where in my story. I admit, I was a little taken back when a lady sat across from me on the screen and explained she was at the funeral. Funeral?? But who died?! Brilliant!! Brilliant!!!

So, at the end of Nano I'm not certain anyone will be able to read my story from beginning to end at first, but after a little rearranging I think it will be okay.

Oh, so the neat-o thing I learned: I've never been very good at coming up with the middle of a story. I can write amazing beginnings with decent endings but rarely fill in the middle very well in my opinion. So, what I've figured out is that by not trying to do that, but instead focusing on each scene I am able to write a great beginning, middle and ending with no problem. My character goes to the gas station. I can write when she arrived what she did and when she left. Breaking it down like that seems to really be helping me. Now, I am not nearly ready to start rearranging these wonderful scenes I've written and trying to make the story readable from the actual beginning, but I think having figured out to write it scene by scene and not even in order, for that matter, is really working well for me.

12,841 words written as of yesterday. Today I am procrastinating a bit, but by this evening I'll be on my way to India with a French poet in search of.... well, I can't really tell you that, now can I? [smile]

My first ever critique

This was over a year ago. Should this stall my writing? Probably not. It has. I think because there is a comment on nearly everything I've written. Scary.  

~~~

Chapter 1

 

These mys jumped out at me. Although they don’t necessarily need to be taken out, you could simply leave the my turn out and eliminate one of them.

            I tap my hand on my jeans to the beat of the blaring salsa music waiting my turn in line at the coffee shop. My mouth starts to water at the familiar aromas that waft all leave out around me.  Many mornings I drive out of my way to Lorraine's Coffee House for her amazing brew hoping Lorraine's flea market and antique shop treasures will be the perfect remedy to fix what's been leave out ailing me. I love to sit in her funky chairs and marvel at her crazy trinkets. The porcupine that sits leave out in front of the fireplace, the delightfully patterned sea horse shaped vase she has next to the door for umbrellas and the Elvis mannequin who sits leave out in the corner with his fake spilled cup of coffee on the table in front of him. See if this isn’t better. The porcupine in front of the fireplace, the patterned sea horse-shaped vase next to the door and the Elvis mannequin in the corner with the fake-spilled cup of coffee on the table in front of him. That Elvis, he never could hold his drink.

            I listen to Lorraine the Coffee-Lady going on as usual about her fresh baked scones. I nearly forget how great the place smells wondering why no one has ever told her how horrible her scones actually are. Well, what would she have to drone on about if not her scones; I shutter at the thought.

            "Gwen! Good morning to our famous writer. Famous writer in the house." Lorraine jests as she sticks her pointer fingers in the air and performs a modified version of The Twist. I laugh; I’d take the I laugh out. And watch the use of semi-colons in fiction. Read the sentence and see if it wouldn’t be best broken into two sentences or if you can simply use a comma. Semi-colons and colons lend a sense of formality to your writing, and especially in this piece, you want a relaxed fun feeling. And then make a new paragraph here. Otherwise you’d have Lorraine’s dialogue and Gwen’s dialogue in the same paragraph…that’s a no-no.

            Lorraine is sort of cute in her own Coffee-Lady kind of way. "Good morning, Miss Lorraine" I say through my fake smile and think enjoy livin' the dream, sister; because That’s three of those boogers in less than 300 words. And this one should really just be a comma. it's not gonna last forever. I order a cup of her house blend and notice she does not offer me a scone. She must be onto me.

            With a half hour to spare before the meeting with my agent, I take a seat at a tall, round hot pink table.   Now I have a great view of the front door and a bamboo bead curtain that leads to the unisex restroom—a perfect people watching spot. a half hour to spare before the meeting with my agent, I take a seat at a tall round hot pink table with a great view of the front door and a bamboo bead curtain that leads to the unisex restroom on my right; a perfect people watching spot. You are way to in love with semi-colons. I am entertained for a few minutes watching the folks in their business suits carrying briefcases, laptops and newspapers talking into the air about their ever so important day, mouthing their orders and pleasantries to Lorraine so the person on the other end of their [phone thingy] doesn't hear them. My mind drifts to my meeting with Jill. She will surely yell at me, I will defend myself, she will yell at me for defending myself. Oh, what excuse can I give this woman? I simply cannot write anything. I do not know why. The creative section of my brain is on vacation. Use contractions whenever possible. It’s more conversational, which is the style you’re using.

            I look up from my coffee in time to see a very old, and very tall, skinny, balding man wobble in the door wearing what is likely his Sunday best. He looks directly at me and for a moment. He looks directly at me and I’m afraid he’s going to mistake me for his internet hook up and hit me with a line like, “I look older in person” and explain he only uses his cane to get a handicap parking space. I'm afraid he's going to walk over mistaking me for his internet hook-up with a line like, "I look older in person" and explain he only uses his cane to get rock star parking in handicapped parking spaces. But instead, he takes a seat next to the front door. The man takes a seat next to the front door in one of Lorraine's crazier flea market finds.

            I tighten my ponytail while I try to imagine why the old man is there. He didn't order coffee, or even buy a scone. He came in, looked at me and sat down. Odd I think. Odd, indeed. This is kind of a cart before the horse sentence…I think it would make more sense like this…The old man doesn’t order any coffee, or even a scone. He just walked in, looked at me and sat down. I tighten my ponytail and try to imagine why he’d be there. Odd, I think. Odd, indeed.

            A dark headed handsome twenty-something ordering a floofy coffee drink catches my attention. I debate whether I'd be too old for this guy and finally decide too old or not, I'm totally not interested in someone who drinks a floofier coffee than I do. I stand up to leave, check my pocket for my keys and apply a fresh coat of Chapstick. As I turn toward the door, I notice the old man is now standing next to the colorful flea market chair he’d been sitting in. The hair on the back of my neck tries to decide if it should stand up as well because this man is definitely on the "doesn't belong side" of one of these things does not belong.  ?? Maybe just say……man is definitely on the “doesn’t belong side” of my list.

            I check my table one last time to make sure I didn't forget anything, which would be hard considering I only ever leave out carry keys and Chapstick with me. I attempt instantly gathering my wits about the old man because the shop is not very big and I will be walking past him in less than two point five seconds. Luckily, I notice a black bird flapping around outside the door in the parking lot. Great distraction, now I can stride past him and not worry about looking freaked out. I decide I need to gather my wits about me since the shop isn’t very big and I’ll be walking past the old man in less than two point five seconds. Luckily, I notice a black bird flapping around outside the door. Great distraction, now I can stride past him and not worry about looking freaked out as I concentrate on the bird. I really think you need to explain this part about the bird more. I keep reading it and wondering who is distracted by the bird…Gwen or the old man. And if it’s Gwen, how does she convey that?

Use More Paper

I totally stole this from someone else's blog because I found it WAY too interesting not to share! Thank you http://www.tomhillwebsite.com/

Note: I have NOT researched any of the information listed in the blog

Unrelated Note: Tom Hill is a Life Coach with pubicity connections who totally hooked up Missouri Police Officers Chris DiGiuseppi and Mike Force with an agent (out of New York!!) after they wrote the book The Light Bringer. http://thelightbringerbook.com/

Stolen Post:

From Gina Danner:

Hi Tom -

I have something that I’d like to share with fellow Eagleziners.

I sell direct mail. At least once a week someone makes a statement to the effect that printing is bad on the environment, that direct mail kills trees, OR I’m reminded in emails to save trees by not printing an email.

I’m here to tell you to use paper. Print that email. Get the newspaper. Request the direct mail. Don’t get me wrong, I love the environment; I especially love trees.

Here is why you can print to your heart’s content…

According to the EPA, nearly 57% of all paper consumed in the U.S. comes from recycled paper. No other industry recycles at this level – Glass 24%, Plastic at 7%.

Paper is a renewable resource. Trees grow, they are harvested and they are replanted. Trees used for paper manufacturing are grown in managed forests, often times by small independent family farmers with fewer than 50 acres. Those farmers need to sustain their livelihood. When they harvest a tree, they plant 10-12 trees in its place. During the first half of this decade over 400,000 acres were added annually to cultivation. On average, over 5 million trees are planted in the U.S. each and every day.

Most important, if those managed forests were not involved in the production of paper, those forests would be at risk of being developed for other uses — think parking lots and shopping malls, families would be out of business, and an increase in the risk of forest fires from poor forest management would be the result.

So feel free to print this newsletter, or anything else. You will only be helping to save trees, and jobs.

Gina M. Danner :: CEOginad@mailprint.com

www.MailPrint.com

Get 6 (a silly man joke)

A wife asks her husband, "Could you please go shopping for me and
buy one carton of milk, and if they have eggs, get 6."

A short time later the husband comes back with 6 cartons of milk.

...The wife asks him, "Why did you buy 6 cartons of milk?"

He replied, "They had eggs."

Start Phasing Insects Into Your Diet

I took to the internet in an attempt to find something to write about. My search led me a June 2011 article about an ice cream store in Columbia, Missouri that sold out of Cicada ice cream. If you were in the Midwest earlier this summer then you know that we were under attack by these 2-inch long noisemakers.  While not particularly harmful to humans, they can be pretty darn annoying, especially when its time for them to emerge in great numbers like they did this year. We humans are pretty resilient though, we won't let a swarm of three-eyed alien-looking bugs stop us from mowing our lawns or going out for coffee. We mow the lawn with a tennis racket and duck, dodge and roll to the coffeehouse while these pesky skin-shedders mistake our arms for tree branches.

Boiled Cicada ice cream anyone? Apparently so. Seems the employees of the ice cream store captured these tasty treats right in their own backyards, removed most of the critter's wings and the boiled the poor things. My question is just how old is the legal working age in Columbia, Missouri because finding playing with bugs fun was over for me at about age 5 or 6.

At least the bugs were boiled before they basted the pests in brown sugar and chocolate and mixed with brown sugar and butter flavored ice cream. This apparently wasn't a plus, however for the public health officials in Central Missouri who kindly asked the store to stop selling the treat.

Did the health official not know that in China, Malaysia, Latin America, and Burma among other places these giant bugs are skewered, deep-fried and served as a delicacy? It turns out that the public health agencies code book doesn't specifically address Cicada's as food so it was more of a nudge to get them to stop rather than an order.

Would you or did you eat any Cicada ice cream during the invasion this year? Here is an interesting idea: we Americans should start phasing insects into our diets. Every seven or thirteen years when the Cicada's emerge in great numbers we would would rely much less on other countries for our food. Think about it!

Thanks for letting me borrow your books, by the way!

I received the first 17 books in the Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Series written by Laurell K. Hamilton. Hamilton is a St. Louis native and the only reason that I can think I may continue reading. I have managed to skim my way about halfway through the first book and I'm dieing here people. I know that I am not one to speak as I have never finished a writing project, removed my previous blog for lack of entries, never been published aside from a few websites linking to my previous blog... but Hamilton... to quote my old Jewish boss, "Oy Vay Izmir!". Actually, she may be a great writer, but I can't understand what she is writing, at least not in the first book of 20 that she copyrighted back in the 1900's (1993). She has a habit of ending lengthy detail-filled paragraphs with "Right." What does that mean? I try "ya right, that's bologna" but that doesn't make sense most of the time. Is she confirming that the over descriptive previous 3 paragraphs I just suffered through are indeed correct? I can't figure it out. Last night in particular she was making me crazy with the word "cig". Why couldn't she just say cigarette? Cig... like it makes the fact that the guy is smoking sound cool. I've determined that Hamilton's style of writing pretty much annoys me.

I enjoy reading work by Louie L'Amour and recently found a couple books by local St. Louisian Terry Dean (Letters to My Wife & If a Turtle Had Wheels) to be pleasurable reads. After trying to choke down the book by Hamilton, I have to say the biggest reason is that L'Amour and Dean don't bog down their writing with great detail. It is sufficient for them to say, "The man entered the kitchen. He could smell dinner baking in the oven." That's a fine amount of detail. It sets the stage for me, I understand what is happening because I've entered a kitchen and smelled dinner baking in the oven, got it, move on. Hamilton on the other hand, takes a page and a half to describe everything from the entrance to the kitchen, to the fact that last week the family ate chicken for dinner three times. By the end of her drawn out description of the room, even the man with his cig is drumming his fingers on the countertop waiting for the story to move on. The action stalls, the scene gets old and boring before anything begins and more than half of what she talks about is completely irrelevant to the actual story. Maybe she had a great story, visited an editor who told her she needed more detail or a longer book and poof, we are fed this piece of crap story that takes up double the space in our life because someone thought they knew better.

I was stuck with a critique like that once. I have a Paranormal-Romance book in the works. Well, I say that. What it actually has stalled as is Chapter One and a really awesome outline for the rest of the book. I can make up excuse after excuse as to why I haven't written more, but the truth is I put so much effort and love into Chapter One that now I don't know how to get from there to the end of the book. So, it sits and haunts, as any good paranormal story should! (ba-dum-ching!) I did have someone tell me I missed many windows of opportunity to use great detail and really put the person in the moment. So, like a good little writing student, I went back and added detail and more detail, tripling the size of my first chapter. The teacher loved it, she said she could really understand where my character was and put herself there. Gee, that's great, but to me if I say the character is in a library you would pretty much know she was in a building surrounded by books and quiet people.

To each their own, I say. Do not judge, I say. Do as I say and not as I do, I say. Buwahaha! I visited Hamilton's website and apparently, someone somewhere likes her work because from what I can tell she's successful for an author stuck in the Midwest. She does have an agent in New York, which is super cool for any writer, and I noticed she has a film agent in California. I want a film agent, it just sounds cool. You can visit her site at http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/



Just Write, they say

The thing about wanting to be a writer is that you must write. I hear it all the time from everywhere, everywhere being the various writing groups and folks I run into in my daily life. They all tell me 'Just Write'. Okay... well, I set up this blog to have a place to write and now it has been empty for weeks while I've been trying to figure out just what to write about.

I found myself making all sorts of excuses, too. My house is too messy, my kids are too loud. I'm the person who needs to have their Bic pen caps perfectly aligned with the writing on the side of the pen, so you can imagine how a messy house or screaming children could be a distraction.

Then came the times I would write, click spell check and the computer would yell at me about passive voice. I would rack my brain trying to re-state something in a more interesting way. Well, what is my computer doing reading my work anyway?! I've since figured out how to consider the suggestion, then ignore the passive voice indicators. It actually took me weeks to get over. I nearly had to enter therapy for fear of speaking only in passive voice.

Even though I'm over worrying profusely about passive voice, it haunts me still. I was at dinner the other night with a group of people, not having thought of passive voice in days, giddily strumming up writing ideas in my head, half listening to what everyone was saying around me when a writing professor decided to  jump upon his personal soapbox and talk openly about how much passive voice irks him so! I couldn't believe it. Was this man psychic? Psychic, not only, but able to tap into out innermost fears and present them to us at a pub over spinach artichoke dip and hot wings?  He laid my passive voice fears right out there next to the ranch dipping sauce for the entire table to observe. I knew he would first, give me two choices and make me guess which sentence was passive, without my computer to bark at me, and then I knew he would hush the entire barroom while I tried to restate the sentence in a non-passive voice.

Of course, none of that actually occurred, but for the few seconds it took for my palms to sweat I worried. On our drive home later that evening discussing the actual meeting we attended before retiring to the pub, I replayed my passive voice fears inside my head. My friend was none the wiser about what I was actually thinking about, but she probably did wonder later why I wanted to talk about everything we had already discussed. (Yes, every once in a great while I get just a glimpse of what it must be like to be a man.)  

Passive voice fears aside, I know that I must sit at this computer and write. My children will not be quiet, my house will not remain clean for very long, my bic pens will have crooked lids and I must write.  

Besides knowing that I must stop making excuses for not writing something, even if it is just jibawacky like this, I know that I must write in order to get better at the art of writing. I visited a blog recently I used to read often but haven't been to in a year. It was actually good, the blogger's writing had improved. It was inspirational. This and the wonderful fact that I have magnificent friends and family breathing down my neck and yelling into my ears to write...  thank you and enjoy the suffering you have provoked, it's all your fault.

The Colour of My Love - a poem

A poet I am not. In my search for inspiration for a note to my sister-in-law on her wedding day, I came across this poem. I found it quite lovely and wanted to share.

The Colour of My Love

by: David Foster and Arthur Janov

I'll paint a sun to warm your heart
Knowing that we'll never part.
I'll draw the years all passing by
So much to learn, so much to try.

I'll paint my mood in a shadow blue,
Paint my soul to be with you.
I'll sketch your lips in shaded tones,
Draw your mouth to my own.

I'll trace a hand to wipe your tears
And trace a look to calm your fears.
A silhouette of dark and light
To hold each other oh so tight.

I'll paint the stars in the evening sky,
Draw the light into your eyes,
A touch of love, a touch of grace,
To softly fall on your moonlit face.

And with this ring our lives will start,
Let nothing keep our love apart.
I'll take your hand to hold in mine,
And be together through all time.