In which I grouse yet again about my life

Yes, I completely fail at updating the blog. I also fail at writing, unfortunately -- thanks to insanity at work, the pressure of school, and of late, a cold that completely leg-swept me. The cold was particularly unfortunate, since after all the talk of swine flu, having a miserable cold for a week seemed anticlimactic. I didn't complete NaNo this year; I didn't even get 10k words. And so far little has come of my eagerness to start turning this writing business into a career, in terms of even just sending things out lately.

Oh well. It's certainly easier to write when you're not sitting in a sleet storm (which is how I feel about work most days), but I'll have to fit in what I can and forgive myself for months like the last. At least school ended yesterday, with delivery of a massive unsatisfying 30-page Strategic Finance paper (I guess I shouldn't complain; 30 pages of fiction or, heaven forbid, rhymed research paper about corporate governance at Apple would have been equally terrible). Hopefully now I can find some breathing room. And my muse. I think she moved out again.

Origins of the novelist

I sent out a short story to a magazine the other day. This was a big moment for me -- due to a lot of logistical reasons, I hadn't sent anything out since the end of 2008. But now I'm serious.

You know why? My job is not fun. At all. And I really, really would rather be making my money on this writing business.

Oh, how often are novelists born out of misery...

Tangible Noun, Intangible Noun

I haven't been blogging about it much of late, but I'm still writing. In fact, I've changed my daily schedule up to suit the changing seasons (and my unwillingness to get up at 530am and run in the dark when it doesn't get light until after 7!). Now I wake up just early enough to have an extra hour before my commute, do a quick Bible study and then start writing. Perhaps this will save me during NaNo in November.

Today was one of those rough sleepy non-creative mornings, though, so my writing today has been limited to writing exercises and now, of course, the blog. I thought I'd share this one with you:

2) This is one of my favorites. I came across it as I was studying metaphors. On the left side of the page, list tangible nouns. Ocean, flood, steam shovel, cinder block, spoon. On the right side of the page, list intangible nouns. Respect, desire, hunger, flight. Now combine them in a phrase like this:

'a of '. Examples would be 'an ocean of respect', a spoonful of desire'. Let yourself get carried away with this, and you will come up with some very powerful images.
from essortment.com

My list of tangibles:
Ocean
Flood
Pint
Half
Rock
Ache
Brick
Spoon
House
Compass

My list of intangibles:
Respect
Affection
Wishes
Romance
Disdain
Meaning
Happiness
Angst
Running
Ego

Starting off with some fun phrases:
“Ocean of ego”
“Flood of wishes”
“Brick of romance”
“The compass of the ego”
a precocious little “Half-pint of angst”

I love writing exercises like this because, whether you feel inspired on a given day or not, it's an easy way to interject some creativity into your day and keep the habit going! Happy writings.

NaNoWriMo 2009

Who's in?

Pics

I know I anthromoprhize everything.

My stories really do feel to me like they have their own life, and I am just barely in control. If I have any say over the world whatsoever, it's more of a minor Greek goddess sort of thing that one of the big brand-name Gods.

Right now, the story just flows. I am working on a rough draft for a YA novel, and every time I sit down at my computer, Deirdra comes to life and keeps doing interesting, sometimes-dumb and sometimes-wise things and driving my story along.

Right now I am completely bestotted with this character and this story.

I know this can't last and the story will eventually turn nasty and uncooperative, and I will sit here and bang at my keyboard and then go back and erase the last 120 words I slowly eked out and write them again.

But when it's good? It's so good.

3 Day Novel Contest

Anyone going to do this?

3-day Novel Contest

The idea is certainly intriguing, but I am going to stick with NaNo because a) 30 days to a novel is unlikely enough for me, forget 3 and b) NaNo is free.

Maybe someday, though. It seems like it would be trippy.

Please to be telling me...

...if this story is terrible. This is the potentially cliche-ridden story that I mentioned feeling so uncertain about in my last blog entry. I feel sometimes that I have these good ideas that I execute terribly. What do you think?

THE LAST DANDELION ON THE BLOCK

Their life had settled into a routine again, and although it was not the routine Gretchen wanted, there was still some trace amount of comfort in it.
She woke up first in the morning – she left earlier for work – and started a pot of coffee for herself. While she checked the news online and ate her bowl of Special K, she heard Jake stirring upstairs, taking a shower. He would mumble a good morning to her when he came down, got his coffee, give her a peck on the cheek as she went out the door.
In the evening, she came home first, changed, went to the gym. Yoga on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; treadmill on Tuesday and Thursday. When she came home, dinner would be on a plate, ready to be re-heated for her, and Jake would be in his office.
Across from the office was their daughter’s room – what had been their daughter’s room – and she wondered if that bothered him. He came to bed after she did, kissed her, as clumsily in the morning, before he fell asleep. She was always awake. Her cheeks were almost always damp, and the kisses felt odd against the wet.
The weekends were harder, finding ways to tactfully avoid each other. She usually escaped to her sister’s house, although seeing the new swelling of Anna’s baby bump each week made it seem like less and less of a safe place.
“He’s always been taciturn,” Anna reminded her, coming back from the kitchen with turkey sandwiches for lunch. They sat in the sunroom, Gretchen’s favorite place in the small cottage, with its expansive windows and collection of green plants.
“Not like this,” Gretchen said. “It’s like he doesn’t feel anything at all. I don’t think I can live like this.”
“It’s just his way of coping.”
Gretchen sighed.
“I know.” Anna reached out and took her hand. There were four years between them, but their hands, at least, were twins, narrow-fingered and freckled. “It isn’t good enough. I wish you two would go back to therapy.”
“It’s not worth sixty dollars an hour for Jake not to talk to me,” Gretchen said. “He can be taciturn for free at home.”
“Well, if he won’t open up for trained professionals, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. If I had more energy, I might leave.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Anna said. “You’ve both been through so much since the accident. You just have to hang in there.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing left to hang onto.”

Anna sent her home with a plate of cookies and a bag of apples – Anna always expressed her love through food – and Gretchen reached out to steady them on the passenger seat as she took the sharp turn onto their street. It was the same way she would have reached to protect Laura, as if seatbelts and airbags didn’t do enough to protect her but her mother’s arms could. But she hadn’t been the one driving when the drunk ran the red light, and Laura had been in the back seat, where small girls were supposed to be safest.
When she turned into the driveway, Jake was bringing the mower out of the garage. It was if he had a sixth sense for when she was re-entering the house. She waved hello to him as she entered the house, gave him a tight smile.
An hour later, she carried the bills and checks in their neatly addressed envelopes out to the mailbox, before she could miss the post. Jake was in the backyard by then, but she could still hear the dull roar of the mower. She frowned at the spotty job she had done, so unlike him; the lawn mower had meandered across the yard, instead of criss-crossing in even rows of grass.
Then she noticed the little clumps of grass he had left standing, surrounding pockets of dandelions.
Laura had been convinced that dandelions were legitimate flowers, not weeds, and she had often run across the yard as he mowed, picking enough dandelions to fill every vase she could find in the house. Don’t mow the pretty flowers, Daddy!
Gretchen’s eyes filled, as they seemed to every other hour these days. Through the blur of her tears, she put the envelopes in the mailbox, and then picked a few dandelions to put in Laura’s favorite red vase on the kitchen counter. She hadn't had flowers in this room since the last ones died six months before, and they made the kitchen look brighter.
When Jake came in, she came up to him. “What?” he asked, clearly startled. She slid her arms around him, laid her head on his chest.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just love you.”
“Love you too,” he said. Uncertainly, he hugged her back.

I'd live in a big marble building if I could.

Today Handsome and I stopped off at one of the libraries in our new town. Even though we're buying a house here, a library card for this county is just one of those things I need for it to feel like home. I am a library addict -- I grew up with what I think has to be one of the coolest small-town libraries in America:

When I was a kid, I wanted to live in that building, with its marble floors, sweeping staircases, and the artwork that depicted its namesake family's history. The lions out front and the fountain were an added draw. Although, of course, the real appeal of the library was its two stories' worth of wonderful books.

Anyway, back to the present day. The particular branch I stopped into was tiny, but in my quick browse through once I had card in hand, I happened across The Writer's Market, 2010. I've only ever seen this in libraries as a reference book, but this one had it available to check out. Swoon.

So I am now the proud borrower of the latest and greatest edition of The Writer's Market, which is already collecting post-it notes.

I also deserted Handsome for the evening to head to a local coffee shop. This is where I get the most work done writing-wise, and I really need to make it a habit to carve these blocks of time out at least once a week, ideally two or three times. My three hours were very productive:

1. Identified a dozen potential magazines to submit non-fic, fiction and poetry

2. Did preliminary research on a half dozen different new markets (checking writers' guidelines and content on websites)

3. Formatted two short stories and four poems for submission and organized them in their own folder, so I can select what I want to submit and dispatch it readily to the chosen market.

4. Wrote a brand spanking new short story from an idea that had been jiggling around in my head. It's short -- approximately 800 words -- and I have no idea if it's any good or not. In fact, at the time I wrote it I kept thinking, "Cliches! Cliches, you damn hack!" But that's my usual positive internal monologue, so I have to let it sit for a week or so before I go back, re-read, and decide if this requires editing or circular filing.

I may post aforementioned short story to see what y'all think. I have been going through a bit of a writer's identity crisis lately, where I do not think my writing sounds as mature as it should. My twenty-something-ness seems to show itself in occasionally confident, occasionally awkward, always self-conscious prose. But the only thing that will change my writing style is more reading, more study, and most importantly of all -- more writing. So I keep at it. Internal editors be damned.

What the Muse Says, Goes

I''ve been struggling lately with letting go of my internal editor and just having fun writing, instead of always looking over my own shoulder. I think that self criticism gets in the way of much of the creative process. But, I just always worry that I'm writing something ridiculous and not-at-all clever.

Maybe that's not the end of the world, though.


So I bring you the most whimsical thing I've written in a while... enjoy. Or skip over it if it's ridiculous and not-at-all clever. I'm just trying to loosen up, you're not going to hurt my feelings.


“Write something,” the muse says.

The muse lacks sympathy. There is no point to excuses. But that never stops the writer.

“I had a long day at work.”

The muse rolls her eyes. “Oh. The suffering artist can’t escape the corporate drone. You should write a suspense novel. Do you think the artist would be thrown over a balcony or –”

“Some of us were up at six this morning, you know. Don’t think I didn’t see you sprawled across the walk-in closet, snoring, when I left for work this morning.”

“Well, maybe if you respected your muse and gave her a bedroom to herself, instead of having to sleep on the piles of laundry you never manage to hang up, you wouldn’t have to spend quite so much time vacillating on your writing.”

“Are you saying you’re holding out on me, muse?”

“I’m saying a muse needs a little respect. A good night’s sleep. Maybe a quilted duvet and a Serta to herself.”

“You never complained before.”

“I didn’t mind sleeping under your bed in college. We were poor – we ate Ramen – but we were brilliant together.”

“All the last-minute deadlines we beat,” the writer agrees. “The A’s we weren’t entirely sure we deserved, given the intermittent rambling that worked its way in around 3am in the library…”

“That was all you,” the muse sniffs. “After about your fourth Mountain Dew, I could never handle working with you anymore.”

“Fickle muse,” the writer says. But the tone is a little bit fond – how could it not be?

“No distractions. Write something.”

“But about what? Isn’t that your department?”

“I’m always here when you ask me,” the muse says. “And I’ve been throwing ideas out since minute one.”

“Fascinating.”

“No one likes a poor writer, but especially no one likes a poor sarcastic writer.”

“We’re not going to fight, are we? I don’t like to fight.”

“No? That’s not what I’d expect from someone who practically disowned me in Venice.”

“The most romantic city in the world, except perhaps Paris – I haven’t been but I doubt it smells swampy like Venice does in places – and you couldn’t give me one air-kiss worth of inspiration.”

“Is that any reason to go ranting about your muse into the stereotypically dark and rainy night?”

“It was all the red wine I drank with my pizza.”

The muse is quiet for a second. “That was great pizza. With the egg on it?”

“We miss out here in America. No egg on our pizza.”

“Write something and I’ll buy you a pizza.”

“You don’t have any money, remember? You’re ethereal.”

“Is that your way of saying I am the most delightful figment of your imagination you have?”

“Sure.”

“Then do me a favor and write something.”

“For the love of all that is holy and some things that aren’t, write what?”

The muse nibbles charmingly on the end of an eraser, then spits out little pieces of pink rubber in disgust. “Erm,” the muse says, before rubbing her tongue with the back of her hand. “Didn’t I already tell you?”

“No,” the writer says, wearily, remembering another conversation that went like this, just before the incident in Venice.

“Write about fighting with a lover in the most romantic city in the world. Write about eating pizza in a half-dozen countries across the world and what was happening around each meal. Write about being a poor, sarcastic writer that no one takes quite seriously – what does your mother think about this living, really? Write about eating Ramen noodles as the sun comes up, too enthralled in your own novel to stop and sleep. Write about being unkind to your muse. Write about what it’s like to be a corporate drone and a passionate artiste all at once.”

The writer thinks for a second. “Oh.”

“Yes, that’s right,” the muse says. “Oh. Now write.”

Book Review: The Renegade Writer

One of the books I picked up on my last trip for work was Linda Formichelli and Diane Burrell's The Renegade Writer: a totally unconventional guide to freelance writing success.

I really enjoyed this book as a look at the world of freelance non-fiction, but I think it's best suited as one of a series of books in a library rather than a stand-alone guide to the non-fiction world. I think it needs to be backed by at least two other books. One would be a good resource on writing queries, with plentiful examples (more on this in a subsequent post). And the other one would be a more, well, conventional guide to freelance writing, not to borrow too freely from the subtitle. Because I think a writer needs to really understand the rules in order to determine which to break.

However, The Renegade Writer was informative and clearly written, with enough anecdotes from the writing business to keep it fun. I thought I'd tell you a little about the contents to help you determine if this would be a good addition to your writing resources:

Breaking in by breaking the rules: even new freelancers can be renegades. I thought this was really helpful -- it offered a lot of tips for the so-to-speak freelance noob to enter the industry and then parlay initial assignments into a career. Linda and Diana laid to rest some of the rumors that make newer freelancers worry they are about to destroy their careers before they can even begin through one misguided query, suggesting that it's OK to start with shorts, it's OK to write for newspapers and it's OK to write for free -- you just have to know when these things are helping your career and when it's no longer advancing your particular set of goals.

Cranking up the idea factory: bold thinking leads to countless ideas. Loved this section, which is about nurturing and developing non-fiction ideas, but the general concepts apply across the board. One tip I liked is similar to shopping in your own closet (which would be easier if the mall did not offer Cinnabons and chick flicks as well as new tops): go through old writings and look for new life. Recycling is in, people!

No fear querying: now turn those ideas into assignments. Here we address the always controversial topic of SASEs, whether or not to read back issues before submitting (and if so, how many) and whether or not it's ever acceptable to call an editor. They also have a pre-query checklist. I like checklists.

Signing on the dotted line: renegades get fatter, fairer, safer contracts. Contract negotiation, because writing is a business, not just your hobby. I will admit, I was too over-the-moon about my past publications to worry much about the contract I signed, but I am an older, wiser writer now. Well, I'm older and less excitable, anyway.

Mining for information: a little digging can turn up info gold. This chapter is about finding sources to flesh out your great idea - finding the right source, getting them to talk to you.

Talking the talk: renegade interviews get the story, and then some. How to get folks to open up and give you the real story. As a mildly introverted person, I don't find myself squeaky with excitement over this prospect, but it was good information.

Putting pen to paper: yes, renegade writers even break grammar rules! I didn't really need these chapter. I've been breaking grammar rules since I discovered the English language. Seriously though, this chapter has some useful info about story length for delivery, when to alter quotes and how to do it so you don't get sued, and how to keep your grandmother from reading your "91 ways to shock to him tonight" article in Cosmo.

Getting the green: don't be shy when it comes time to collect. Ah, money. As practical as the focus was here, I just found myself day-dreaming about the day when I'm cruising around in a Lexus, thinking of great stories on my way to the beach.

The renegade attitude: Your success often depends on your mindset. All about turning from that freelance noob to the career writer, through saavy business skill to match your killer writing.

Thriving, not just surviving: don't settle for anything less than reaching the top. And once you've become that career writer? Here's how you keep it going.

Like I said, I wouldn't use this as my sole resource, but The Renegade Writer is packed with great information. And it was a really engaging read -- very nice if you're going to be stuck in the Denver airport (or that may have been Chicago, I honestly lost track) for four hours on a misbegotten layover, as I was. Overall, I'd give this book a solid 8 out of 10 points -- I'd be interested to read anything else the writers have on the market, and I plan to keep this book on my shelf for a long time to come.

Mmm books!

I just came back from a hellacious business trip (including a return flight home where my originating flight was delayed, I missed my connecting flight, and United tried to tell me the first flight home would be in the morning. After I bullied them into flying me out that night, they lost my luggage).

However, there were some positives to this trip. Notably, I was in lovely Oceanside, CA (well, parts of it are lovely, anyway), and I was able to visit my fave local bookstore, Fahrenheit 451 in downtown Carlsbad. It's two blocks away from the ocean, and conveniently located across my favorite bar and my favorite sushi place. Mmm. I miss California.

Anyway, I headed in there one day and ravaged their fiction and writing sections for half off cover price. Borders just cannot compare. I picked up some new novels: Sittenfeld's latest, "The Man of My Dreams", Emily Gilbert's "Stern Men", and Jodi Picoult's "Vanishing Acts". Those saved my sanity during my long and disasterous day of travel on Friday!

But best of all, I picked up some books on writing:

• The Renegade Writer, by Formichelli and Burrell
• Follow the Story, by James Stewart
• The Writer's Guide to Queries, Pitches & Proposals, by Moira Allen

I'll review each of these in the weeks to come as I work my way through them. They have a more non-fiction focus than usual, for me, but I am interested in expanding my writing horizons (and making more money). And, as we count down the days to closing on our house (assuming our short sale works out... we'll see) I find myself day-dreaming about turning one room into a study, with a shelf full of writing books to reference.

Ah, I'm a dork. But that's nothing new. :)

Fiction, non-fiction, ad copy....

I have a writing hierarchy in terms of how I'd like to some day earn a living with this writing business:

1. Writing fiction and poetry.

2. Writing commercial non-fiction.

3. Writing copy for advertising.

I've spent most of my time so far focusing on my fiction. But lately I've been thinking a lot about what happens when I transition out of my current day job (in a few years). Handsome and I would like to work out a way for me to stay home with our kids without completely leaving the job market. I'm working on a second day job, but finally it occurred to me that the most logical thing would be to do what I want the most -- to write.

But getting to a point where I could make this into a day job... oy. I feel so overwhelmed by the idea of trying to pursue this seriously... not just the dream of selling my novels, but the idea of writing historical articles and women's health shorts and even, if it pays the mortgage, ad copy. Man, I am really struggling just to refine the query for that piece on the Rabbits of Ravensbruck that I described in the post below. This is hard frickin' work!

But then, I guess even the dream job ends up being work, in the end. :)

So now that I feel pretty comfortable writing fiction queries...

It's time to switch it up and start writing non-fiction queries.

I've decided to try and branch out to write about some of my non-fiction interests as well. I have been reading books and thinking about all three for a few years now, and tried two years ago to start my own ad-writing business, but that quickly went onto the back burner when I decided to start graduate school instead. But what the heck... you can always find some extra time to write. Right? That's our theme around here.

So today, since I was organizing files anyway, I flipped through my non-fiction writing from college. I did my undergrad in History, and my special interest was the plight of Polish Catholic women during WW2 (an interest that stems from the fact that the Polish side of my family all disappeared in WW2... the American emigrant side was never able to contact them again). I am currently struggling with a proposal on the "Rabbits of Ravensbruck" for a WW2 history magazine. Does this sound interesting to you?

When Wanda Poltawska regained consciousness in the Ravensbruck hospital after her first operation in 1942, her leg was in a cast. Written on the plaster was the Roman numeral “II”. She and the other five women in the room compared their casts; two of them had “I”, two “II”, and two “III”. They were mystified. They were relatively healthy (except for malnutrition) and had no need for surgery. They hadn’t been told why or how their operations were being conducted. They had no way of knowing that the numerals signified what material had been introduced into incisions in their legs to bring about infection: I was fragments of wood, II glass splinters, and III a combination of both.

These women were all Polish-Catholic political prisoners held in Ravensbruck Concentration Camp. Without trial, they had been sentenced to long and painful deaths as the victims of Nazi medical experiments, on treating battlefield wounds with sulfanilamide medications. Some would succumb to their wounds and some would be executed; some survived to tell their story at the Nuremberg trials of the medical staff. These women refused to be willing victims of the Nazis and struggled to protect each other and to expose their miseries at the camp hospital to the world. But have the “rabbits” (their joking way of referring to themselves as guinea pigs) of Ravensbruck been forgotten?

I am prepared to write a short article of 2500-3000 words on the 74 women who resisted medical victimization at the hands of the Nazis. Although this is a small group, they have an intriguing story. These women protested their treatment to the camp leadership, knowing it would be futile but hoping to take a stand; they passed information about their condition outside the camp, where word of medical abuses eventually reached the Allies; and they were dedicated to ensuring there was at least one survivor to tell their story after the war. Their spokeswoman told the camp commandant that, “as political prisoners they all preferred execution to operations”.

The other members of the Ravensbruck concentration camp did their best to shelter the “rabbits” and to hide them in the final days, as the war came to a close and the doctors sought to destroy the evidence of their inhumanity. These efforts included a female Russian electrician cutting the power in the midst of roll call so that the injured prisoners could be relocated and hidden. Finally, in 1946, four survivors testified against the three members of their medical staff held responsible: Doctors Gebhard and Fischer, and the female Doctor Oberheuser. The two male doctors were both condemned to death by hanging; Gebhart claimed his sentence was unjust, but Fischer, visibly shaken by the testimony against him, said at the end of his trial, ““I would have liked to stand up and say, hang me immediately. I am finished.”

Man, I feel like this should be shorter, but I have so much to say about these women! They truly took a heroic stand in the face of terrible mistreatment and death.

But then again, that's why I'm struggling with this query.

It's like poetry...

It is poetry!

I'm excited right now and I just had to share with you guys. I'm on a layover right now (enjoying the free wi-fi in the very nice Denver airport), and I just had a very successful cross-country flight: I finished the Jodi Picoult novel I was reading (not my favorite), outlined the solution for a group project for my class, and... wrote some poetry!

This might not sound too exciting, but I haven't written poetry in years. Seriously. Since 2006 -- I've had poems published more recently than I've written one. I just have not felt poetically inspired and, when I tried anyway, it was TERRIBLE. Really, is there anything worse than a bad poem? I blamed it on my current state of happiness, since most of my poetry came from a well of adolescent angst and unrequited love (yes, it was that kind of poetry).

I'm not saying anything I wrote today is genius, but... it's definitely a start. And I'm happy - with my life and with having some poetry in it again... if not with domestic airline travel (it's for business, nothing exciting... and they're making me fly on a Sunday. Poop).

Information wants to be free

I've never been a big fan of e-publishing. In fact, I've traditionally shied away from publishing in electronic magazines, preferring the respectability a printed and bound document seems to convey.

But the magic of the iPhone is changing my mind.

It all started when I first browsed through free applications. And - oh, look, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I'd like to read the Fitzgerald original, having seen the movie. And a Children's Books app, free to download - Peter Pan and the Jungle Book at my fingertips? I had to have that one.

From there, I was on a crusade to find all the free books I could. I downloaded Stanza to my iPhone, and from there accessed the online catalog. And there were many books by established authors, and also new works by emerging artists. I read P.J. Lyon's short story, I Burn Today, and I was hooked on discovering new authors who had released free books.

And I am starting to change my mind. Because here's the thing -- I've always believed in the somewhat hackneyed saying that "Information wants to be free". Watching the music industry fail to adjust to changing technology, trying instead to haul us back into the dark ages so they can keep selling CDs at $18 a pop, I've been convinced that the answer was to make tracks available for free and allow people to choose to support the artists. I know I'll happily pay for tracks off iTunes or buy CDs or concert tickets to support a musician once I've fallen in love with him or her (which only happens if I try it for free, one way or another).

So maybe writing is the same thing. Maybe what matters most is getting the story out there that needs to be told. And then all the other stuff - the money part - will work itself out in the long run.

Maybe that's naieve. But I have stories I want to tell.

Happy 4th!

Happy Independence Day to my fellow American blog-followers. :)

This is a busy weekend for me -- we put an offer in on a house yesterday (we'll see what happens-- cross your fingers for us!), we have big plans for tonight, watching the D.C. fireworks from a cute rooftop restaurant, and Monday is my birthday. But while I am excited for everything going on this weekend, I find I'm also excited for my quiet Sunday plans. Handsome needs to do some work on a project for work, so I'm going to get my nails done, then try out a new indie coffee shop (love the non-chains) and do some writing. In the midst of all this craziness, this seems like quite a treat!

Anyway, I'm out... I have a cookout to prepare for. Have a great weekend! And make some time to write! :)

Hai guys!

When I first started this blog, I wasn't sure if there was a blogging community of people like me: the future professional writers, still undiscovered, staring down their keyboards with "Eye of the Tiger" playing in the background.

Well, OK, that part might just be me. But the would-be writers, the semi-pros, that's a much bigger community. Not folks who necessarily have a big fan page set up yet, but people just talking about their writing journey. Every new blog I start reading, I seem to find links to some great resources, some new blogs I'd also like to follow. It's already getting hard to keep up with - there are so many blogs I want to check out (I do have a full-time day job and part-time school, so my running out of time does not equate to me being a total slacker. Really).

So I just wanted to mention a few of the writing blogs I'm reading, that you might enjoy reading as well:

The Writer's Cocoon. Stephanie blogs beautifully about the writing process (and the searching-for-an-agent process). If you enjoy my blog and a look into a writer's mind, you'll likely enjoy Stephanie's blog as well.

Practing Poetry. Whether you are a fellow would-be writer or not, you may enjoy Morrow's poetry. I read these evocative, image-rich poems and wish I were still writing poetry (my poem-muse seems to have jumped ship; thank God my fiction-muse is still bumming around the house and forgetting to put the OJ back in the fridge).

InkyGirl is a fun one to check out when you are procrastinating on getting down to work (Not that any of us do that, of course). She covers topics of interest and - best of all- creates original comics for writers. I love comics! Who doesn't love comics? I have include one of InkyGirl's comics at the top of the page (it would be down here, but I apparently have no control over Blogger yet. Sawwy).

Oh, my gosh. There's several more excellent blogs to cover, and I am out of time for this particular post. And I keep running into fun new blogs, too... well, I'll keep posting blogs I read & love as I run across them. And if you run across my blog, and seem to be a kindred spirit, please leave me a comment with a link to your site! I'd love to check it out.

Until next time...

*Cue music* So many times, it happens so fast/you lose your passion for glory/don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past/you must fight just to keep them alive... it's the eye of the tiger/it's the thrill of the fight...

In which I do not completely fail at writing

I feel a little less horrid about myself as a writer already... I wrote a new scene for my fantasy novel, weighing in at 680 words - not bad work for half an hour. Not that I feel 100% sure about the writing itself (One of my characters said, and I quote, "You aren't a-bed yet, sweetness?")... but getting the words on the page is the thing, right? Anything else can be sorted out later in re-writes.

That's the theory by which I live, anyway.

Now to write a few hundred words tomorrow, too, and the next day...

You May Have Noticed...

...that not only am I doing a rather poor job of updating this blog, but also, all my posts lately seem to focus on procrastination and making time to write?

You are wise, O Reader, since you have deduced my secret. I am doing a crummy job of getting any writing done lately.

Here's the story (or rather, there's presently a lack of story-writing; we should probably just refer to this as the litany of excuses): My current day begins at 5am when I leave for the gym, I am at my desk by 745am, and I work until 430pm before driving the 1/2 hour to 45 minutes home (traffic dependent).

In the evenings, I attend school part-time, grocery shop, or go house-hunting with Handsome, since we are currently looking for a home (which will no doubt be yet more of a black hole in terms of my time, since I hear houses require maintenance and other ugly things). Sometimes, I make us some sustenance or toss in a load of laundry, although Handsome has taken over most tasks for me... right down to hand-feeding me homemade rice krispy treats while I crunch numbers for my finance class. Since we're new to the area, we're also trying to make it outside of the apartment now and then to make some friends, or explore the delightful city nearby (free museums! art shows! bike trails! great restaurants! theater!).

In other words, I haven't written a word in two weeks, other than this blog... and when I'm not even managing to write any fiction for myself, the blog itself seems a bit fraudulent.

You know, the journal I kept when I was a teenager was filled with angst, but I didn't realize the online one about writing was going to be quite this full of angst itself.

Oh well. Now that I'm settled into a schedule, I can work on carving out some time to write. Perhaps I can find someplace near work to take my laptop over lunch once a week, Maybe in the morning... nah, there's no way I'm getting up even earlier than 5am. Next idea. Maybe I can take a night off to myself to sneak off and write, or carve out a regular weekend date with the muse. I'll figure it out. I have to. I'm making progress on a lot of other goals right now, but not towards this "career novelist" bit.

However, right now, I have my homework done, my gym bag and lunch packed for the morning, and a sweet half-hour to myself. So I am going to go and try to make the most of this time, even though I barely know where to begin.

Never trust a cautionary tale

I read a short story when I was in high school that I can only describe as a cautionary tale for writers. It was the story of a woman (set in the pioneer days, oddly enough, as I remember), who is so busy raising her kids and taking care of the farm and whatnot that she never has time for writing. Instead, she lays pretty paper away in a drawer for someday when she has time. When her children have grown up and moved on, and she finally has free time, she brings out the paper, sharpens her pencil...

She can't think of a thing to write. Her writing gift has slipped away throughout years of neglect.

As a writer, I was alternately unsettled and outraged by this story. We all procrastinate -- that's the one sure thing about every writer (after all, we wouldn't write fiction if we didn't spend plenty of time daydreaming!). I hated the idea that, just because we were too busy for a week (month/year/decade), we might be able to lose the craft. Lose a little dexterity with dialogue or scene, perhaps; forget a thread that ran through a story, maybe. But not lose the idea of story itself.

I still think this is true. I think we should write now not because we'll lose our very ability otherwise; the only reason to write now is that you'll only tell this story, this once. Now when a memory is fresh or an emotion raw, now when there's a particular news story you're mulling over that will play out in your prose; now when you've just overhead a funny snippet of dialogue in the grocery that you'll find a place for. Write now so that you won't lose today's little details, the strange directions that today's thoughts can take you towards.

But if you don't manage to write today? If there's a big work deadline or a friend needs you or you have the stomach flu?

Well, then, there will be a whole different set of little details, a whole new story to tell, tomorrow.

**Bonus points for any reader can tell me the author or title for the story described above -- I've been wracking my brains and googling, but I am at a loss.**

If you started writing...

I'm a long distance runner. I ran track and cross-country in college, and I've run two marathons since. I'm currently training for the next. Distance running fills a void for me, because I find myself with little time in my day-to-day life for the daydreaming that is, I think, an essential part of writing. A nice six-mile run gives me the chance to go internal for a bit, let my mind wander.

I have a Nike t-shirt I wear that says: "If you started running when you started talking about it, you'd be done by now". It's true, the hardest part of running is often stopping, finding athletic socks, my iPod and my keys, and making it out the door. I love to talk running (obviously), but all the anecdotes from the past don't count for much if I don't hit the streets today.

Writing is the same - it's often easier to talk about than to do. It can be much more fun to tell someone your story's plot and to describe your beloved characters than to sit at your keyboard by yourself re-writing that damn paragraph four times because it just doesn't work quite right. And just like with running, there are a million other distractions that can keep you from getting out the proverbial door. When I hit a rough scene, I sometimes find myself thinking, "Wow, I should really put a load of laundry in/tidy the living room/start my homework/go for a run/update my blog".

I think I'm going to tape a post-it note to my computer that says, "If you started writing..."

Icky, ew, rejection

I posted The Perfect Girl, a short story of mine, a few weeks ago. One of my fellow bloggers suggested that I try submitting it to Flash Me, a flash-fiction 'zine (and thanks for the suggestion, Stephanie! It may not have worked out, but ideas for new markets are always much appreciated). I think it's a pretty good short story.

So, while I'm never heartbroken to get a rejection letter - it's just part of the trade - I was a bit surprised by the editorial commentary that came with it.

EDITOR 1: No. This didn't hold my interest.

EDITOR 2: No. This started off rather well, but the ending was childish
and immature, completely ruining the piece.

EDITOR 3: No. This needs a thorough proofreading, and the end is
psychologically unsound.

EDITOR 4: No. The beginning of this reads like a character sketch, and as
far as characters go, Ali isn't particularly interesting. The ending
didn't work for me either, mostly because of the awkward transition in
mood.

Usually when I get a rejection letter, I wish there was a bit more explanation of why my piece didn't work. Now I'm thinking, be careful what you wish for!

You can read the short story in the post here.

Memorial Day Thoughts

Happy Memorial Day! Oftentimes, this seems like National BBQ and Beer-Drinking Day (Which, actually, sounds like a very worthy holiday in its own right).

But, as much as I love grilled chicken and cole slaw, I do always find myself thinking of the people I've lost. At twenty-five, I've already seen more than one friend die too young. But the greatest personal loss for me has been my father, who died when I was seventeen.

The interesting thing is how much that loss has affected my writing. I haven't written a story since that included two parents. My novel, SHARDS, is based on my memories of losing Dad in high school (with extended what-if scenarios, of course, but some scenes are purely mine in the midst of the fiction). The independent reader book I wrote before was about a girl who has lost her mother to cancer.

The day that my father died, I was getting ready to go to the hospital. It was spring, and the lilac bushes in our backyard were fragrant, the scent drifting into the house on a soft breeze as I washed dishes at the sink. I heard the front door open and I knew. I walked slowly into the living room with the dish towel in my hand. My mother was in the doorway with her arms full of flowers carried home from the hospital.

And one way or another, I've been writing about that day for the last eight years. I guess we write what we know. But I worry that there's only so much I should write about grief, that I should try to branch out and talk about college, travel, marriage. I have such a wonderful life. Why do I always find this one subject slipping into my work?

Floating on the interwebs

I've been thinking lately about how much about my writing I've been putting up on the interwebs. Details on my novel-in-progress, SHARDS, including plot elements, character names, even chunks of the story. Past short stories I've written (and have submitted... ooh, I might have to pull PERFECT GIRL off the interwebs, now that I think of it). It may not be the "smart" thing to do.

But I am an "information wants to be free" believer. The type of person who thinks record labels should get with the program, because we are willing to support the artists - just on our own terms. The type of person who reads books off the Gutenberg Project website and thinks it is the most awesome thing ever.

So I'm going to go ahead and put my writing out there, too. Because my stories also want to be free.

Bones

It's been a fun-filled week. Driving 12 hours a day some days... at which point, even Handsome begins to really get on my nerves... with some fun stops like Nashville, TN and a great blues bar, B.B. King's, and Coyote Ugly's; Charlotte, NC and the U.S. Whitewater Center (we rode an unbelievably fast, 35 MPH zip line, went rock climbing and white water rafting, which was a great break from being in the car) and Virginia Beach, VA, to meet friends and enjoy the (cold) beach.

But I've been getting some work done, too - mostly outlining work since the car seems more conducive to outlining than actually typing away on my laptop.

I did not outline my first draft of SHARDS. Which may or may not be how it ended up at 127,000 words by the time I finished, two months later than planned, but that is neither here nor there.

I have a neat two-page outline in my File Of Stuff To Send Out To Agents (also, a one-page and seven-page, since everyone asks for something different), but now that I am re-writing, I feel I need a more comprehensive outline for myself. Especially since I've decided to do a major renovation of SHARDS (sigh), but want to keep a lot of the same scenes and dialogue when possible. This may be difficult, though, since I want to change around some of the bones of the story and remove an entire subplot.

For someone as obsessive as I generally am, you'd think I would have an outlining method down, but no. I started off by outlining by chapter, i.e.:

Chapter Four: April goes home to Conner, her live-in boyfriend. She tells him that she ran into Nick, with whom she had a “thing” in college, and Conner says, “I sense lies of omission.” She asks him how he can be with someone he does not trust, and he admits he doesn’t know. April listens to her phone messages, and has a call from her mother, complaining that she never sees her. She deletes it, thinking that most mothers and daughters probably like each other, which is why they actually talk. Still, she adds “Call Mom” to her mental to-do list – a list which most certainly does not include calling Nick.

But then, I realized I needed to separately outline my key plot points and the subplot points, so that I could change these elements without having to look at each individual chapter. I'm finding that is helping me to focus on what my actual story is, i.e.:

Primary plot: Man against self. After telling many painful lies while covering up her father’s assisted suicide, April takes comfort in twisting the truth to make the world (and herself) seem better. However, her pathological lying endangers her relationship with her boyfriend, Conner, her seat in medical school, and even her sense of self. April tries to stop lying and tell the truth, but one more lie is always so tempting. To undo all the damage, she will eventually tell the truth about everything, including admitting that she helped her father commit suicide, which makes her vulnerable to her estranged mother and her competitive peers. But through this vulnerability, she strengthens her relationship with Conner, begins a dialogue with her mother again, and realizes that how the rest of the world sees her doesn't matter all that much.

It's hard work outlining a novel. Not the creative buzz of the writing itself, not the business thrill I feel when doing the grunt work of mailing out submissions. And I still don't know if I'm doing it "right". I guess only the finalized manuscript will tell.

What system have you developed for outlining a novel? Are you the type to wing it, or do you work with a full outline from Day 1? And how does your outline fit into your re-write?

Off on another adventure...

But hopefully, not too much of an adventure.

Today Handsome and I leave to drive cross-country from California to Virginia. We love Cali, but this is a career-precipitated move. Another bonus for a writing career: you can write virtually anywhere. In sunny SoCal. In Singapore. In Ireland... *Escapes into blissful daydreams for a moment*

Anyway. Back. We've much enjoyed the year and a half we spent out here: going to the beach after work to boogie-board, dinner parties and hot tubbing with friends, kayaking on the Pacific, exploring the cute little seaside towns, and finding our favorite restaurants. This is where I learned how to play soccer and how to live with someone else. We bought our wedding rings together in the L.A. jewelry district, and most importantly, we married on the beach a bit north of San Diego. SoCal will always have a bit of my heart.

But I'm excited to start the next chapter of our lives. We're planning to buy a house in VA, and if all works out, that's where... far, far down the road... we'll hopefully expand our family with some little hellions and a puppy. In the mean time, we have D.C. to explore, new friends to make, new hobbies and volunteer work to experience. It's an exciting move.

First, though, we have to get there. This is our first cross-country trip together; I drove out on my own and he flew out to join me before. During my drive from east to west coast, I stayed in some horrendously sketchy, rundown motels. The worst had the peep hole in the door busted out, and a wad of paper towels stuffed in; the completed deserted Denny's next door (at 7pm) did little to calm my disquiet about the place. I had already gotten a room in another motel when I noticed the flashing GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign at the classy establishment behind. I also got snowed into Amarillo, Texas, for two days -- and I don't think there's much to do in Amarillo regardless, but certainly not in the midst of a blizzard.

This time, I don't plan to stay anyplace that looks like a movie set for a horror film (though that's dependent on whatever we can find along the highway, unfortunately); in fact, I don't want to stay anywhere that doesn't have a hotel gym and complimentary wi-fi. And given that it's May, I think we should be safe from blizzards.

I'm hoping that this trip has its interesting moments, but isn't quite an "adventure". I wouldn't mind meeting a few interesting characters and seeing the odd curious sight, but I'd like to avoid weather, car problems, and anything that reminds me of a Freddie Kruger film. Mmmkay? Oh, and no domestic tiffs, either -- Handsome should be a good husband and let me curl up in the passenger seat with our duvet to sleep through our 10+ hours a day of driving.

I''ll be posting along the way if I get the chance, but if not -- we should be in VA in a week. May the muse be with you!

What's the protocol on stealing from other poets?

I was just wondering what the protocol is on borrowing another poet's line as the jumping-off point for your poem, or writing a response to their poem. Is it still publishable? Or is it just a lame writing exercise?

Because I have two poems I've written I don't know what to do with. One was written in response to Robert Frost's "Love and a Question", and one was written with a first line of Emily Dickinson's, "Bring me the sunrise in a cup..."

And if I can't do anything with them, I want to know why I wasted my time. :p I've never been a fan of the "imitation" school of writing that various teachers and professors have had me practice over the years.

Here's "Love and an Answer", my response to Robert Frost's. In his poem, written from the man's perspective, he is keeping some secret from his loving wife in an attempt to protect her.

Love and An Answer

Inspired by Robert Frost’s Poem
Love and A Question

She sat by the firelight, bending over her little work
And her needle went steadily, as he paced by the door.
She sat before the open fire, dreaming happily of him
And her skin flushed pink before the reflected heat.

She looked up often, and he would smile back
But his eyes were worried, and she bit her lip to think.
So she laid her work by her side, and went to him
As he stared out on the darkened road.

She took his big hand in her two and asked to know
And he just shook his head, wishing to keep
Her heart ever as happy and bright as it were then
Her face ruddy from the fire, her lips warm to touch.

And then darkness fell a little, into those pretty eyes
To think that there were secrets he would keep
And thought he wanted only to bear this burden
Even without knowing it had become her own.

He felt the rift, that separating his pain from her’s
Was to deeply separate himself from her,
And so he told her, with a shiver from the open door
And she pressed her warm body against his.

Feeding the homeless, feeding the muse

I know, this is supposed to be a writing blog. But occasionally I am probably going to veer off into my personal life. If that doesn't entertain you, feel free to skip over posts like this one and I will be back to business tomorrow. :) I justify recording these events as the little things that eventually make their way into inspiration and then story form.

Yesterday, Handsome and I were driving to our favorite Mexican restaurant (mm, quesideas and raspberry margaritas). When we exited the highway, we saw a man standing on the corner with a sign that said, "Hungry - please help."

"Do you want to stop off and buy him a burger?" Handsome asked.

I agreed that sounded like a good idea. We know a lot of the homeless kids in our area, so we sometimes give them food or money, but this was the first time we'd stopped off to buy food for a homeless stranger. We discussed the etiquette of it as we pulled into a Carl's Jr -- should we flag him down first and then pay for his order? Or just pick up food and then run it back to him? in the end, we decided to just order him a combo meal and bring it back.

Well, I still don't know about the etiquette, but I do know about the practicality of it. When we emerged with a bag of fast food and a Coke and walked down the street to the highway entrance, there was no more homeless man. We walked down the road a little further, wondering how he could have gotten out of sight so quickly (maybe our fast food wasn't all that fast).

So there we are, with good intentions, dinner plans, and a bag of fast food we don't know what to do with.

"Where are the homeless people when you need them?" I asked Handsome, because I am always very sensitive.

We walked back to our car and decided to drive down to the beach, looking for someone homeless. And as we parked our car, a man sat down on a park bench right in front of us. He was older, wearing a dirty fatigue jacket with a long beard. But... was he homeless? Would we be complete jerks if we went up and asked him if he wanted Carl's Jr?

"You do all the talking," I warned Handsome.

"Okay," he said. So we walked over to the park bench. "Um, do you want some Carl's Jr?"

"No," the guy said. Oh. Okay. Nevermind. Fall back and regroup...

"Okay," Handsome said. We started to move away, and then the guy said, "Well, maybe. Did you have extras or something?"

We explained the story of the disappearing homeless man we'd hoped to give the meal to.

"Well," he said. "I guess I can eat it. Okay. I'll eat it."

"Great," we said. We gave him the bag and the Coke.

As we started to walk away, he called, "God bless you!"

We're still not sure if he was someone who needed food or if he just wanted to end our awkward search. But I'd like to think we still managed to do a good thing that day, even if we bumbled it. Hopefully, we're in service of some higher power that's a little more slick than we are.

Next time we see someone asking for food, though, I am going to ask what he'd like and either bring him with us or tell him not to go anywhere! Handsome would like to take it a step further and bring them into our restaurant with us, but I'm not sure how that would go over. He is inspired by this project. And maybe it's not a bad idea. Probably someone living on the streets can use not just dinner, but someone to talk to.

And, tying this back to writing, the novelist in me thinks it might not be a bad idea, either. Pushing our personal boundaries could change our perspective, challenge our cherished beliefs, inspire our best writing. I know that's how, for better or worse, I've made some decisions for my life -- not, what's the smart thing to do here? but, what's going to make the better story to tell? Remarkably, I am still alive, and maybe a little bit more interesting of a person, as well.

BMW Musings

I want a BMW convertible and a Lexus SUV, but I don't want either of those things right now. My next car will probably be a used Honda (although power locks and windows will still make me it an upgrade from what I drive now, bless the 2002 Saturn). The BMW and the Lexus, to me, are some far-off luxury items that I want to buy as a symbol to myself I've "arrived", when I'm financially independent.

And I would feel cheated if someone handed me the keys to a shiny new BMW right now (although I probably would not turn it down, either). Because then it would just be a car, as opposed to a personal success symbol.

Inspired by a post on the "Just to Write" blog (article found here) about goals & dreams, I have been thinking about what my writing BMW is. If a BMW means to me that I've arrived financially, then what means I've arrived as a writer?

To me, it would be publishing several novels in one genre -- five or six. Instant fame is not required (we can't all be a J.K. Rowling or a Stephenie Meyers), but I'd like to be decently established, to a point where I can support my family on my writing. I want to go into Borders and see my books on the shelf. I don't have to be a household name, but I want to be known in the industry - I want to have the credibility to lead creative writing workshops and teach a college course. I love to teach, and there's nothing I am as passionate about as writing.

So that's what I want. That's my BMW.

And if I can do well enough as a professional writer to buy a shiny BMW, well, that'd be extra peachy.

Good enough to publish, but only $5 worth of good

I was researching markets for a story today and I ran across the most interesting tidbit in their author's guidelines:

All published authors will receive payments ranging from $5 - $25, which will accompany the contributor's CD copy of the issue, within two weeks of publication (delivery to non-U.S. contributors may require longer than two weeks).
Now, this begged an immediate question for me. I'm fine with paying by the word or line, or by standard payment prices for short stories and poetry. But paying short stories on a sliding scale? I was perplexed. How did they determine how much each story was worth?

The actual amount to be paid will be decided by our editors' ranking of the work.

Ah. So you are, theoretically, going to tell me my story was ranked highly enough to be published by your magazine, but not well enough to be worth $25. No, it's a GOOD story, publishable and all, but only $5 worth of publishable.

Folks, my mind just boggled.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about anyone willing to pay us short-story authors for our amazing little creations that far too small a segment of society seems willing to acknowledge. But I find this just a little odd.

Organization and the creative type

How do you track your submissions to magazines and literary agents? Well, if you spend your free time (when not writing) creating financial statements in Excel, Excel probably seems like the natural solution to all your problems. (This is not true, however. Sometimes Visio is the answer, and other times, Powerpoint)

So I track everything I send out in Excel, adding notes when I receive rejection letters, a request for a full or an acceptance (I have seen two of these so far, and I do not believe that it will ever, in my life, cease to be an exciting dance-around-the-living-room-and-scare-the-cats moment).

The First Line actually gets it own page, since, as described in my last two posts, I enjoy creating something to meet their requirements. This is what it looks like:

	A	B	C	D
1	Issue	Story Title	Submitted	Response
2
3	Fall 2006	The Way We Say Love	30-Jul-96	Rejected 16 Aug with nice note asking me to try again
4
5	Spring 2008	The Perfect Girl	17-Jan-08	Rejected 19 Feb w/ encouraging personal note
6
7	Spring 2009	Starlets at Work and Play	20-Dec-08

My novel also gets a page, although I've taken a hiatus from sending that baby out. I feel maybe it's a "ten year novel", one that I will re-work many times before it is published. Hopefully the next novel goes faster.

	A	B	C	D	E
1	Literary Agent	Date Sent	Type of submission	Response	Notes
2	Levine Greenberg Literary Agency	18-Dec-08	Electronic
3	Donald Maas Literary Agency, Jennifer Jackson	19-Dec-08	Electronic	Rejected - 20 Dec
4	Laura Dail Literary Agency	23-Dec-08	Electronic	Rejected - 13 Jan
5	Irene Goodman Literary Agency	2-Jan-08	Electronic	Rejected - 14 Jan
6	Aaron Priest Literary Agency, Lisa Erbach Vance	5-Jan-08	Electronic
7	The Writers House Literary Agency, Maya Rock	6-Jan-08	Electronic	Request for a full on 07 Jan!	Full sent on 08 Jan, Rejected
8	Folio Literary Management, Rachel Vater	6-Jan-08	Electronic
9	Dystel and Goderich, Chasya Milgrom	6-Jan-08	Electronic
10	Brick House Literary Agency, Sally Wofford-Girand	12-Jan-08	Electronic
11	Trident Media, Jenny Bent	30-Jan-08	Electronic

Hours of research, hours of designing and tweaking the perfect cover letter, and it all boils down to 44 cells in Excel. And no advance.

Last but not least, I keep my goals in the same Excel doc so that I can be inspired at the same time as I enter the latest news--

	A	B	C
1	2009 Goals:	Intermediate Goals:	Completed:
2	Secure an agent for Shards	Market novel to 30 agents	11
3	Complete a second novel		56,000 words
4	Sell 5 more short stories or poems
5	Enhance my personal marketing	Update writing blog 2x/weekly	Did NaNoWriMo '08 Interview
6		Create professional website
7		Read & apply 6 books on marketing

Hey, I may not be a brilliant published author (yet), but at least I'm organized.

So let's here it from the peanut gallery - how do you organize your work? I've been thinking that each market-ready story and poem really deserves it own Excel line in a worksheet, at a minimum, so I can keep on top of sending them out.

Oh, wow. I think I just added to my To-Do list.

The First Line, Continued

Obviously, I cannot share my current work-in-progress for The First Line's slush pile at present, but here's a story that I wrote and submitted for your reading pleasure. I love this story. I believe in this story.

I cannot imagine where I can possibly submit this story for publication. You'll see why in a minute.

Perfect Girl

Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. That's certainly true for Alberta Helstein. That's one unglamorous name for a very glamorous girl. She gets around it by calling herself Ali, which is almost pretty enough for a girl like her.

She's glamorous, like I said, but down to earth. Like now. She's been on the track for the past forty-five minutes, doing the workout she missed because she was scheduled to work at the restaurant over practice. She's resting after one of her sprints, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, and her gray Nike t-shirt has dark spots at the top of her sports bra, at the small of her back. Her sleek brown ponytail has fallen forward into her damp, red-cheeked face. But she is still heartbreakingly pretty, with her delicate bonestructure and full lips and impossibly bright smile. She has a good face, I mean a really open and honest one; and of course you can't be sure a person is really as good as they look, but I've been watching her for a while and I think I know. She lives with her mom because her mom is sick, even though the dorm is more fun, and she works part-time to pay for her car to get to and from the college. She holds hands and kisses her boyfriend but doesn't go father than that, which is pretty rare and special for a nineteen-year-old these days. Most girls you just can't respect.

Her boyfriend is down there now, as well as two of the female friends. Such is Ali's magnetic personality that even though the other two girls are not fond of running - she goes to the gym with them on occasion, and they are Stairmaster types, not runners - she has persuaded them to come out with her.

They line up, laughing, for another lap. The two girls make a show of coming out hard but then immediately slow as soon as Ali and that guy have passed. Ali, on the other hand, is all running grace, an elegant efficiency in her long-limbed loose movements. Her pink-and-white running shoes deign to touch the ground for a fraction of a second each time she lands, and in between each propulsion forward, she flies above the track. That guy lumbers alongside her, good-naturedly trying to beat her; he doesn't seem to care if he proves himself worthy. Probably wise for him, because when they take the final bend at the 300 meter mark she leans forward into the run, pumps her arms, throws her angular body forward at the finish. She trains like she races and she races like she takes on the world. I want some of her energy and life.

When she makes it across the finish she turns back, panting, and throws her arms around him. He picks her up and walks with her to where their gym bags and Nalgene bottles are waiting on the turf. The four of them gather up their things and walk from the track up the hill to the parking lot. This is where her guy makes a mistake, one of the big ones that proves he doesn't deserve her anyway. He doesn't walk with her to the car to make sure she will make it home safely. Instead, he kisses her goodbye and he and the two girlfriends turn and amble away towards the dorms on the other side of campus. Ali walks between the cars, her blue duffel bag banging against her leg, jingling her car keys in one hand, humming Maroon 5 to herself. That's her favorite group; when I snagged her IPod while she was studying in the library, she had every single song of theirs.

I follow her between the cars. I'm parked in the next row, which took some waiting. I can't wait to be close to her again. Once, in Borders, I brushed gently past her when she was leaning over to survey the lower shelves in the chic-lit section; she smelled like vanilla, spice, warmth and home. I touched the back of her gray wool coat. She turned her head over her shoulder, surprised, and said, "Excuse me", but with a smile. She has the most vibrant blue eyes, and the smile she gave me - it was a smile of sharing. I think she knew then that we were soulmates, like I do.

But in case she doesn't, and it takes some time, I have a taser, and duct tape in the back of the car.

She stops at her car door, keys in the lock - it's almost time to reveal myself now, but I freeze when she stops. She looks around her, slowly looking right and left in a studiedly casual way. My heart pounds in my chest. She's looking for someone - looking for me. She must feel the nearness of her soul mate, the soon-to-be reveal.

Then she looks down, as if she has decided there is no one around after all, and puts her finger in her nose.

She looks disgusting, standing there, with one finger shoved into a nostril, crinkling up her cute little nose. Picking her nose, like a dirty-handed little kid. I almost gag.

She must not get it with her finger, because she tries with her thumb instead.

I turn around and walk away.

The First Line

The deadline for The First Line's summer 2009 issue is rapidly approaching (May 1st). After my last rejection letter from them for the spring issue, I was debating not submitting to them anymore. At least my first two submissions both included nice personal notes encouraging me to submit again even though my story wasn't quite right for this particular issue. Since the last one I got back was a plain-jane form letter, though, maybe they're getting a bit tired of me.

And yet - The First Line offers a fun creative writing prompt. Then you can submit whatever you come up with for possible inclusion, and even if that doesn't work out - you still have a jaunty new story completed. So it's hardly a bad deal.

For the uninitiated, you can find The First Line here. Here's how it works: each issue has a wide variety of stories, but they all begin with the same opening line. For instance, I have the summer 2007 issue here in front of me. The first line for that issue was, "My first impression of Phillip was that he was blessed with ignorance."

It is such fun to read the divergent directions writers take from their one line. For instance, from Phillip the stories include: a story about an old man with two left hands, who makes a difference in a young person's life; a tale about the end of a relationship, told from the POV of both Phillip and Sheila; and the story of a family finally coming to terms with a daughter's sexuality. It also helps that the stories in The First Line are usually first rate.

So, I guess I'm going to give this most recent issue's first line a shot before the deadline; this means I only have a few days to write the damn thing, compose my cover letter and send it out, but that's all right. It usually only takes me a few hours to pound out a short story once I get down to it (I might not have quality down, but I sure can do quantity), so I might as well give it a chance.

For anyone else who wants to play, the first line that is due by May 1st is:
"For two weeks now, I’ve been trying to figure out if people are laughing with me or at me. "

I have no idea where I want to go from that. But I know from experience, I don't do my best plotting in front of a Word document and a blinking cursor. My story ideas always come up when I'm out on a long run, in the shower or about to drift off to sleep. You know. Whenever it's inconvenient to find pen and paper. My muse is a real jerk sometimes.

From another creative writing prompt...

Because the smallest memory can be turned into a short story... I took a soft and sweet childhood memory (my older boy cousin giving me a pair of his old PJs) and turned it into a darker fragment of story. What do you think?

The prompt was to write about your earliest childhood memory:

First Memories:
Uncle J and Aunt M's house in Brooklyn (?). Pancakes for breakfast. Joe running down the stairs into the kitchen to give me his outgrown pajamas, which were covered in little pictures of sailboats: pants with an elastic waist and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and little sailboat-shaped blue buttons.

Add learning-to-read angst and a hint of a controlling, scary parental figure, neither of which existed for me, and this is the result:

Story:
"No, you don't need to read her a bedtime story," Dad said. "She's old enough to be able to read on her own. She can read her own bedtime stories when she's ready." The way he looked at Jamie when he said this, obviously meant for her ears, was affectionate enough. Jamie felt hurt and embarrassed in front of her cousins, the familiar weight of being the black sheep of the family at seven. Tom seemed to feel sad for her too and patted her shoulder.

"Oh," Tom said, "I have a present for you. I outgrew my pajamas!"

"What are you talking about, Tom?" Aunt Tina asked.

"I outgrew my sailboat pajamas," he said. "I want to give them to cousin Jamie."

Aunt Tina and Dad shared a look, meant to be over the children's heads. Tom was already running from the living room though, to the two small bedrooms in the back of the house. He came back a minute later, clutching the sailboat pajamas that were, in fact, a little too small for him. He had worn them for almost two years now, steadily rejecting new blue-and-yellow striped pajamas, Superman pajamas, pajamas at Chrismas and pajamas at Birthdays and pajamas for just-because-he-really-needs-pajamas.

"Here, Jamie," Tom said. "You can wear these to bed tonight." He thrust them at her, obviously excited by his own generosity.

"It's okay," Aunt Tina said to Dad. "I'll be glad to get rid of them. And she is very small for her age."

"All right," Dad said. "What do you said, Jamie?"

"Thank you, Tom," Jamie said. she took the pajamas from Tom. There were pants with an elastic waistband and a short-sleeved top with a collar and little blue sailboat buttons down the front. They were colorfully splashed with red, yellow and blue sailboats, cars and airplanes.

"Go brush your teeth, both of you, and make sure you do a good job - use the timer, two minutes at least," Aunt Tina said, even though she must have known Dad would follow them into the bathroom to supervise. Jamie followed Tom to the bathroom, clutching in her arms her new pajamas, in their print of fly-away, sail-away dreams.

20 Things That Annoy Me

Shared as promised. Please don't hate me.

20 Things That Annoy Me:

1. Static on the radio.

2. People who don’t use their inside voices while inside.

3. Drivers who travel up the exit lane (or even the breakdown lane) so they can cut in front of other drivers.

4. Atheist misrepresentations of the Bible.

5. Christian misrepresentations of the Bible.

6. Women who try to use feminism as another way to force women to conform. Um, an oppressive matriarchy would be better than an oppressive patriarchy how?

7. Badly behaved children. Which seems to be the majority, these days. Man, I am getting old.

8. Crappy parents, which seem to be the corollary to the above badly behaved children. Actually, it’s not just bad parenting – it is poor examples of human beings parenting poorly.

9. Lousy service/attitude when I’m paying for a product or service. It’s really not my problem that you didn’t go to college, and I don’t care that working at T.G.I. Fridays is not the dream job you used to envision playing with your Barbies. Bring me my water and my burger… your tip is dwindling, honey.

10. “Texting” type communications anywhere other than, well, texts. If you have ever typed “UR” in an email, you are a moron. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.

11. People who act like going into the military isn’t good enough for them or their kids. Hey, guess what, serving your country is for everyone, even the entitled children of yuppies.

12. Being touched by people who are not welcome into The Bubble of Trust. When I am in foreign countries, I adapt to their customs, but... this is America. We are supposed to like our personal space. Back the F up.

13. The size of soft drinks nowdays. A large at Wendy’s is what, 32 ounces now? That is, minimum, 400 liquid calories to wash down your 900 calorie meal. And you want me to support socialized health care? Maybe when we impose a sin tax on high fructose corn syrup.

14. People who act like you’re a heathen for not supporting their cause/party/ideology. Because vitriolic though I may sound here, I really don’t give a crap what it is you want out of life – even if that is to raise entitled brats or to gain a new Guinness World Record for fattest human being – as long as you’ll just leave me alone. Thanks.

15. Ice on the ground. It’s slippery and dangerous and, sometimes when you fall, there isn’t even someone you can sue.

16. Diet anything. Because a) it’s been scientifically proven that it just makes your body crave more calories to replace the ones you aren’t eating, and b) wouldn’t going out for a nice run just make a lot more sense than putting all those chemicals into your body? But that’s OK. Convince yourself it won’t make you fat.

17. Twitter. Because really? Nobody should care.

18. Celebrity gossip mags. See 17.

19. Political commentary in magazines like Cosmo and Glamour. Um, if I read your crap magazine, it’s to check out the ridiculous fashions in this season, maybe some mascara recommendations… not for some silly party line I’m supposed to fall in line with (right after I blow $600 on a trendy-ugly purse, right?).

20. Lukewarm food on buffets. Because it tastes disgusting, and it could give you food poisoning. And also it just tastes disgusting.

Creating Writing Prompts

Lately, to try and get in my word count, I've been using two sources to write something, anything. The first is a fun little website:
http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#
As you hover over the number of each prompt, it displays what it is -- they aren't brilliant, but they're a start. It is amazing what can develop once you start writing about something.

Growing up religious, I was told that the law of Physics that stated that objects at rest tended to remain at rest was also true for people -- that it was easier for God to get us moving in the right direction as long as we got started moving first in ANY direction. I think the same thing is true with the muse... you might start out writing about automatic pencils or chocolate cupcakes, but the story burning within you will find an outlet from there.

The other prompt I've been using is Novakovich's "The Fiction Writer's Workshop". Each chapter discusses a different concept - dialogue, character development, viewpoint, etc., with examples from literature. Then the end of chapter gives several writing prompts. It's like a little creative writing class, but without the fun of reading aloud and hearing your peer's work. Still good stuff, though. He also wrote one for novel writers, which I am dying to read - I'll have to add that to my birthday wish list!

Tune in tomorrow for my answer to Creative Writing Prompt No. 40 from the website - 20 Things That Annoy Me. I still haven't figured out how to parlay any of those into a story, but I had fun writing it. :) Although, I am somewhat inspired by the exercise to write a tale of a young woman crotchety before her time...

Off Subject

So I know this is my writing job, but I'd like to take a minute to go off subject and vent about my in-progress Master's degree. That's my other project, you see, besides working full-time and trying to start a career as a novelist (and also training for a marathon, diet-and-exercising my way back to my college weight... two pounds down so far, it's going to be a while... and keeping my house tidy enough that I don't feel like a complete domestic failure).

I am getting my Master's in Finance, because grad school is a must when you decide to get your bachelor's in History because, well, you like the subject and you want plenty of time for varsity sports and drinking. Now, I don't have any interest in teaching (actually, that's not true. I love the idea of teaching. It's the teacher's SALARY that loses me), so that history degree is not helping me out. So, as much as I wanted to do a MFA program in Creative Writing, I decided to be practical with my MS.

But sometimes I wonder, what in the world am I doing? I have eighteen credits down so far, five more classes and a thesis to go. It's not fun doing homework after work and on weekends. I can't imagine what in the field of finance I'm going to write my thesis on -- a lot of the material is, you know, a little dry (as fascinating as it all is in practice). And while I'd like to become a stockbroker and dream of being on the board of directors of a bank I helped start (yes, there are people who dream of such a thing, oddly enough), I picked one hell of a time to enter the finance industry.

Man, this blog is really just me being a big whiney-pants most of the time, isn't it? Fine. I am going to shut up and go do my homework now...