I tend to be the person in my family that everyone goes to when they have a problem. I think every family has one of these. Maybe it’s because I’m the only girl with two brothers, or maybe I just tend to be that way – the kind of person who pays attention to things like when someone’s birthday is, or which doctor to recommend. I also tend to be the person with the information – why dial 411, when I can give you the number for free?
I remember my dad calling me one afternoon out of the blue and asking me to make him an eye appointment (because, of course, I had the eye doctor’s number). My dad wore glasses for longer than I’d been alive, so this wasn’t so unusual. The rest of the conversation, though, was a little more out of the ordinary.
“Why? Isn’t your prescription strong enough?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think it’s okay. But my peripheral vision just went out.” You’d think that response would be more panicked or something, but he didn’t seem to see anything wrong with this.
“What do you mean, it went out?” I was less calm about the situation.
“It went out. I can’t see anything out of the sides, just straight ahead.”
I didn’t want to scare him by screaming, “You need an emergency room, not an eye doctor!” But I knew enough about stroke symptoms to know what he was experiencing was most likely not optical.
Traditionally, most people left their health information in the hands of their doctors. After all, they went to school and practiced for many years and must know more about what may or may not be going on in our bodies. And this is true to an extent. But the truth is, it helps to know what symptoms might be associated with a serious situation. Most people have warnings of heart trouble or any myriad of things well before the condition is life threatening, and they ignore these “aches and pains” because they don’t feel severe, or they go away, or they just don’t associate them with something life-threatening.
I’m not advocating people to go ahead and doctor themselves. Certainly, a trusted physician is the best person to see with regards to your health. But, I do strongly believe in educating yourself enough to know your body, and understand the recommendations that your doctor might give you.
Special thanks to Health Yahoo for sponsoring this post.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Rose By Any Other Name Still Grows Best In Manure
I've been working on my pitch over at the Query Goblin's. While I'm still working on it (and would appreciate any critiques here as well) I'm really at a cross as to the title. I have two titles, both of which I like for different reasons, both of which give me pause for different reasons too... but rather than get into all of that, I'll just say that both are phrases used in the book. That's all you really need to know because a reader wouldn't have me there to feed them all the backstory of what the damn title means, now would they?
Let me know if you like one or if you think I should be brainstorming for a new one...
Redemption is a Road
From the Neighborhood
And onto the pitch:
When Jack Poverelli’s uncle bails him out of jail, packs his mom off to rehab, and whisks Jack out of the neighborhood, it should have been a good thing. What sixteen year old wants to wake up in the middle of the night and make sure his mom’s still breathing? But Jack doesn’t belong in the gleaming halls of his new high school where everyone judges him for what he looks like, and he doesn’t trust his uncle. Why would he show up now, after all these years? And why is he so interested in their house and finances?
Jack would give up clean sheets and full meals to be back with the friends who’ve looked out for him his whole life. Everything is pushing him into this new place – better classes, a job, a girl whose way out of his league but doesn’t seem to notice. Even Jack’s oldest friends are telling him to move on, that he should be trying to get out of the neighborhood, not stay in it. When his mother relapses, Jack and his friends step between her and a neighborhood drug dealer, setting off a chain of events that put them all in the crosshairs of both the dealer’s cronies and the police.
Let me know if you like one or if you think I should be brainstorming for a new one...
Redemption is a Road
From the Neighborhood
And onto the pitch:
When Jack Poverelli’s uncle bails him out of jail, packs his mom off to rehab, and whisks Jack out of the neighborhood, it should have been a good thing. What sixteen year old wants to wake up in the middle of the night and make sure his mom’s still breathing? But Jack doesn’t belong in the gleaming halls of his new high school where everyone judges him for what he looks like, and he doesn’t trust his uncle. Why would he show up now, after all these years? And why is he so interested in their house and finances?
Jack would give up clean sheets and full meals to be back with the friends who’ve looked out for him his whole life. Everything is pushing him into this new place – better classes, a job, a girl whose way out of his league but doesn’t seem to notice. Even Jack’s oldest friends are telling him to move on, that he should be trying to get out of the neighborhood, not stay in it. When his mother relapses, Jack and his friends step between her and a neighborhood drug dealer, setting off a chain of events that put them all in the crosshairs of both the dealer’s cronies and the police.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Many Thanks to Vista Print for Supporting the Blog
There are new things afoot on the blog... for starters, I have some lovely supporters.... Yay!
You'll notice a pretty new picture to the side that looks like this:
If you click on it, it'll take you to Vista Print a great place for your custom business cards and printing needs. So if you're looking for something that they supply, please feel free to click through here or at the sidebar.
You'll notice a pretty new picture to the side that looks like this:
If you click on it, it'll take you to Vista Print a great place for your custom business cards and printing needs. So if you're looking for something that they supply, please feel free to click through here or at the sidebar.
Facing Your Finances
Anyone who’s ever had financial trouble can tell you how embarrassing it is. No one ever wants the neighbors to know that their phone’s been ringing off the hook with bill collectors or that they never go out when invited because they just can’t afford it. And I think most people hit those low financial patches in their life, but right now it seems like there are a lot of people struggling that weren’t quite acclimated to going without. It’s hard to streamline your bills to a manageable degree when your income has been cut in half – and that’s what many people are going through. And because financial problems are so socially embarrassing, many people will hide their heads in the sand rather than face it – which makes the problem ten times worse. You can’t keep spending as usual without the income stream to back it up.
A lot of people are turning to services, like http://anewhorizon.org to help them relearn how to manage their money and live within their current budget. They get pulled under with credit card debt because they overuse the cards trying to keep up with bills they can no longer afford. Or they simply need a sounding board to try to figure out how they got off track and relearn to live within their new means. Another thing they might do is look into debt consolidation in order to make their payments lower and more manageable per month.
Sometimes you don’t even need to use a company, just some standard research and a good common sense look at where you are, what you earn, and what you need in order to not only float but save a little to get a cushion… that’s the biggest problem I see. People will spend exactly what they make. But without that bit of savings then one extra bill can send you into a spiral. And who hasn’t run up against an unexpected bill?
In the last few years, I’ve adopted a few habits that have saved me a bit… still not completely there, but I’m working on it… how about you? What things have you started going without or doing in order to help your bottom line?
Special thanks to A New Horizon for sponsoring this post.
A lot of people are turning to services, like http://anewhorizon.org to help them relearn how to manage their money and live within their current budget. They get pulled under with credit card debt because they overuse the cards trying to keep up with bills they can no longer afford. Or they simply need a sounding board to try to figure out how they got off track and relearn to live within their new means. Another thing they might do is look into debt consolidation in order to make their payments lower and more manageable per month.
Sometimes you don’t even need to use a company, just some standard research and a good common sense look at where you are, what you earn, and what you need in order to not only float but save a little to get a cushion… that’s the biggest problem I see. People will spend exactly what they make. But without that bit of savings then one extra bill can send you into a spiral. And who hasn’t run up against an unexpected bill?
In the last few years, I’ve adopted a few habits that have saved me a bit… still not completely there, but I’m working on it… how about you? What things have you started going without or doing in order to help your bottom line?
Special thanks to A New Horizon for sponsoring this post.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Pitch Critique: Jean Ann Williams Middle Grade Pitch
First, the pitch:
CLAIRELEE A.D. (AFTER DISASTER)
An Excerpt
by
Jean Ann Williams
One mother damaged, one family tested, one daughter determined to find her place.
At thirteen years old, ClaireLee Monteiro’s family life becomes a shambles. Feeling incapable of taking Mama’s position in the home, she longs for acceptance at school. She sets out to impress Wendy Lavender and her school cronies, and so she lies.
While the Lavender Girls Club receives ClaireLee into their fold, they do not choose her best buddy, Belinda Cruz. How far will ClaireLee wander from honesty, her devoted friend, and a feeble mother’s love?
Next: My Critique:
CLAIRELEE A.D. (AFTER DISASTER)
An Excerpt I’m not sure why this is here. It suggests you’ve included an excerpt of the work, but there isn’t one, it’s just the pitch.
by
Jean Ann Williams
One mother damaged, one family tested, one daughter determined to find her place. Great tagline! I’m interested.
At thirteen years old, ClaireLee Monteiro’s family life becomes a shambles. ’becomes a shambles’ sounds awkward to me. Maybe try a more active verb? Feeling incapable of taking Mama’s position in the home, she longs for acceptance at school. She sets out to impress Wendy Lavender and her school cronies, and so she lies. I need a little more. What does she lie about? Why does she need to take Mama’s position?
While the Lavender Girls Club receives ClaireLee into their fold, they do not choose her best buddy, Belinda Cruz. How far will ClaireLee wander from honesty, her devoted friend, and a feeble mother’s love?This seems like the real story, the Lavender Girls Club choose ClaireLee but not her friend, Belinda. I wonder if you might want to use your space to fill out this plotline, give us a little more on the family situation especially what’s going on with her mother.
Overall, I’m interested. It sounds like a good premise for Young Adult. I want to get to know the character a little better in the pitch and I think we need a little more information.
Okay guys, your turn. Please feel free to critique this pitch in the comments section. A big thank you to Jean Ann for being brave enough to submit her work for critique. I hope it's helpful!
CLAIRELEE A.D. (AFTER DISASTER)
An Excerpt
by
Jean Ann Williams
One mother damaged, one family tested, one daughter determined to find her place.
At thirteen years old, ClaireLee Monteiro’s family life becomes a shambles. Feeling incapable of taking Mama’s position in the home, she longs for acceptance at school. She sets out to impress Wendy Lavender and her school cronies, and so she lies.
While the Lavender Girls Club receives ClaireLee into their fold, they do not choose her best buddy, Belinda Cruz. How far will ClaireLee wander from honesty, her devoted friend, and a feeble mother’s love?
Next: My Critique:
CLAIRELEE A.D. (AFTER DISASTER)
An Excerpt I’m not sure why this is here. It suggests you’ve included an excerpt of the work, but there isn’t one, it’s just the pitch.
by
Jean Ann Williams
One mother damaged, one family tested, one daughter determined to find her place. Great tagline! I’m interested.
At thirteen years old, ClaireLee Monteiro’s family life becomes a shambles. ’becomes a shambles’ sounds awkward to me. Maybe try a more active verb? Feeling incapable of taking Mama’s position in the home, she longs for acceptance at school. She sets out to impress Wendy Lavender and her school cronies, and so she lies. I need a little more. What does she lie about? Why does she need to take Mama’s position?
While the Lavender Girls Club receives ClaireLee into their fold, they do not choose her best buddy, Belinda Cruz. How far will ClaireLee wander from honesty, her devoted friend, and a feeble mother’s love?This seems like the real story, the Lavender Girls Club choose ClaireLee but not her friend, Belinda. I wonder if you might want to use your space to fill out this plotline, give us a little more on the family situation especially what’s going on with her mother.
Overall, I’m interested. It sounds like a good premise for Young Adult. I want to get to know the character a little better in the pitch and I think we need a little more information.
Okay guys, your turn. Please feel free to critique this pitch in the comments section. A big thank you to Jean Ann for being brave enough to submit her work for critique. I hope it's helpful!
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Scrubbing In
With the current economy, I have a number of friends who’ve started rethinking their career prospects. Some of them have been outmoded by computers or employees overseas… some of them are just victims of a scaled back labor force, but either way they’re switching gears. A lot of them are going toward medical fields. Maybe it’s because all the forecasts say those jobs are stable. Maybe they envision themselves in cotton medical scrubs saving lives. I can see the romanticism there – if you’ve ever spent any time with a loved one in a hospital, a great nurse or technician can become a lifeline akin to a god.
I can totally see it – being completely in control in the face of chaos. And I wouldn’t be wearing any old cheap hospital scrubs, either. Mine would have to have Snoopy or something on them… ohhh, I wonder if they make them with Calvin and Hobbes? Don’t worry, guys. I’m not turning in my keyboard. But in a time when starting over seems to be the call of the day, I can see the draw to donning a pair of cotton surgical scrubs and getting to be the reason someone has more time with their loved one.
So, if you decided to call it and leave your current profession for a new one, which one would you pick? And could your write a really great novel surrounding it? (See, that last sentence is how you know I’m nothing if not a writer).
Many thanks to Blue Sky Scrubs for sponsoring this post.
I can totally see it – being completely in control in the face of chaos. And I wouldn’t be wearing any old cheap hospital scrubs, either. Mine would have to have Snoopy or something on them… ohhh, I wonder if they make them with Calvin and Hobbes? Don’t worry, guys. I’m not turning in my keyboard. But in a time when starting over seems to be the call of the day, I can see the draw to donning a pair of cotton surgical scrubs and getting to be the reason someone has more time with their loved one.
So, if you decided to call it and leave your current profession for a new one, which one would you pick? And could your write a really great novel surrounding it? (See, that last sentence is how you know I’m nothing if not a writer).
Many thanks to Blue Sky Scrubs for sponsoring this post.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Censorship: Things What Annoy Me
I’m going to guess that most readers of this blog will already know about the hubbub surrounding the new version of Huck Finn censoring all words deemed racist in nature.
I’d like to say that Twain, if he were alive, would smack his head at their idiocy and tell them all to go fuck themselves. (Sorry, I don’t censor). But Twain was well-versed in censors and exactly how to deal with them. Twain liked to tweak people’s noses. He did so purposely and by accident. This novel in particular garnered quite a bit of venom in its day. Here’s what Twain had to say about it in a letter to his editor, shortly after the novel’s original publication:
"The Committee of the Public Library of Concord, Mass., have given us a rattling tip-top puff which will go into every paper in the country. They have expelled Huck from their library as 'trash and suitable only for the slums.' That will sell 25,000 copies for us sure."
Of course, in the time it was released the novel was censored for the opposite reason – how’s that for irony? The thing with this that irritates me is not so much that the word offends people; it was supposed to offend people. His intention was to offend people. Twain took great pains with his words. It’s well-documented that his manner of reproducing dialect and verbiage was precise to the point of near perfection. The man read every single word out loud, every single revision until each character and voice sounded exactly right to his ear. Is anyone really under the delusion that he would use the word, “nigger” more than 200 times by accident? Mind you, he used the same word in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer – 4 times.
It’s not a far stretch to understand he was making a point and he was doing so by purposely getting in the reader’s face. What I think is underestimated on a personal level is that this stance was brave for the author during this time period.
I think that should be honored rather than swept under the carpet. And by people who are using his exact ethical position – and whose ancestors, by all statistical likelihood, were not as highly evolved morally during its first printing.
I think literature should be read in the form it is written in any and all ways readers can scrutinize it. Like most cases of censoring, I have to believe that most people who have a problem with Twain’s prose have either never read or cannot understand the prose. There are a great many works of fiction (and non-fiction for that matter) that I disagree with… that doesn’t mean I won’t read them. It doesn’t mean I keep my children from reading them – in fact, disagreeing with a sentiment in literature is one of the greatest jumping off points for honest discussion I can think of.
I won’t be buying a copy that’s been censored. And I have to wonder whether there would even be a discussion about this if the author wasn’t a dead white guy… which makes me wonder who the real racist is in this scenario.
(psst: the Pitch Critiques are still open if you’re interested.)
I’d like to say that Twain, if he were alive, would smack his head at their idiocy and tell them all to go fuck themselves. (Sorry, I don’t censor). But Twain was well-versed in censors and exactly how to deal with them. Twain liked to tweak people’s noses. He did so purposely and by accident. This novel in particular garnered quite a bit of venom in its day. Here’s what Twain had to say about it in a letter to his editor, shortly after the novel’s original publication:
"The Committee of the Public Library of Concord, Mass., have given us a rattling tip-top puff which will go into every paper in the country. They have expelled Huck from their library as 'trash and suitable only for the slums.' That will sell 25,000 copies for us sure."
Of course, in the time it was released the novel was censored for the opposite reason – how’s that for irony? The thing with this that irritates me is not so much that the word offends people; it was supposed to offend people. His intention was to offend people. Twain took great pains with his words. It’s well-documented that his manner of reproducing dialect and verbiage was precise to the point of near perfection. The man read every single word out loud, every single revision until each character and voice sounded exactly right to his ear. Is anyone really under the delusion that he would use the word, “nigger” more than 200 times by accident? Mind you, he used the same word in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer – 4 times.
It’s not a far stretch to understand he was making a point and he was doing so by purposely getting in the reader’s face. What I think is underestimated on a personal level is that this stance was brave for the author during this time period.
I think that should be honored rather than swept under the carpet. And by people who are using his exact ethical position – and whose ancestors, by all statistical likelihood, were not as highly evolved morally during its first printing.
I think literature should be read in the form it is written in any and all ways readers can scrutinize it. Like most cases of censoring, I have to believe that most people who have a problem with Twain’s prose have either never read or cannot understand the prose. There are a great many works of fiction (and non-fiction for that matter) that I disagree with… that doesn’t mean I won’t read them. It doesn’t mean I keep my children from reading them – in fact, disagreeing with a sentiment in literature is one of the greatest jumping off points for honest discussion I can think of.
I won’t be buying a copy that’s been censored. And I have to wonder whether there would even be a discussion about this if the author wasn’t a dead white guy… which makes me wonder who the real racist is in this scenario.
(psst: the Pitch Critiques are still open if you’re interested.)
Monday, January 03, 2011
Pitch Critique to Ring in 2011
I love the smell of red ink in the morning... well, it's afternoon, but you get the idea.
In my last post, I asked if some of you might like to open the new year by participating in a pitch critique session. I haven't done one in quite a while, but they're a great way to get feedback on your pitch, narrow down your focus for a new work, and just flex your muscles creatively. Pitching, for me, is harder than writing. It's more marketing and understanding the business end of publishing, and less about the play of words. It's a balance I think you have to attain in order to get to the next level. Personally, I get just as much for critiquing for others as I do getting my own work critiqued.
So, we haz sum rulz:
Any and all writers are welcome to participate. No matter where you are in your journey, from newer writer to seasoned veteran, the more the merrier.
It is NOT mandatory to submit a pitch. I know some people aren't ready or don't like having too many eyes on their own material and that's fine. You're still more than welcome to critique or comment on other peoples' pitches.
If you do submit a pitch, it IS mandatory to critique others. This is just a little sideline I like to include because, depending on what writing loop you're on, sometimes people stick around to get feedback on their own work but are less inclined, for whatever reason, to give the same feedback to others. This way, each participant will at least have some feedback coming their way.
ALL feedback must be constructive. (I have to note here, I have never had a problem with this on this blog, all of my writing friends are awesome.) But just in case there are some newer posters of a less constructive nature, I reserve the right to delete anything I see as inflammatory or derogatory, or any of the other tories that we no likey.
If you would like to submit a pitch to critique, please send it to: merry(dot)monteleone(at)gmail(dot)com
I was going to leave this option open, if you guys would like the critiques to be blind, as in I don't tell you who wrote it, that's fine. Let me know in comments or if you don't want your name on yours you can let me know when you submit the pitch.
I don't know how many pitches I'll be receiving, so depending on the volume, I might post one with my critique at a time, and then the comments would be open to other writer's critiques... or I might post two or more on a post, if there are a lot of them... I'll also try to let everyone know via email when their pitch goes up. But keep checking back anyway just to participate in the rest of them.
I'm looking forward to it. Can't wait to play!
In my last post, I asked if some of you might like to open the new year by participating in a pitch critique session. I haven't done one in quite a while, but they're a great way to get feedback on your pitch, narrow down your focus for a new work, and just flex your muscles creatively. Pitching, for me, is harder than writing. It's more marketing and understanding the business end of publishing, and less about the play of words. It's a balance I think you have to attain in order to get to the next level. Personally, I get just as much for critiquing for others as I do getting my own work critiqued.
So, we haz sum rulz:
Any and all writers are welcome to participate. No matter where you are in your journey, from newer writer to seasoned veteran, the more the merrier.
It is NOT mandatory to submit a pitch. I know some people aren't ready or don't like having too many eyes on their own material and that's fine. You're still more than welcome to critique or comment on other peoples' pitches.
If you do submit a pitch, it IS mandatory to critique others. This is just a little sideline I like to include because, depending on what writing loop you're on, sometimes people stick around to get feedback on their own work but are less inclined, for whatever reason, to give the same feedback to others. This way, each participant will at least have some feedback coming their way.
ALL feedback must be constructive. (I have to note here, I have never had a problem with this on this blog, all of my writing friends are awesome.) But just in case there are some newer posters of a less constructive nature, I reserve the right to delete anything I see as inflammatory or derogatory, or any of the other tories that we no likey.
If you would like to submit a pitch to critique, please send it to: merry(dot)monteleone(at)gmail(dot)com
I was going to leave this option open, if you guys would like the critiques to be blind, as in I don't tell you who wrote it, that's fine. Let me know in comments or if you don't want your name on yours you can let me know when you submit the pitch.
I don't know how many pitches I'll be receiving, so depending on the volume, I might post one with my critique at a time, and then the comments would be open to other writer's critiques... or I might post two or more on a post, if there are a lot of them... I'll also try to let everyone know via email when their pitch goes up. But keep checking back anyway just to participate in the rest of them.
I'm looking forward to it. Can't wait to play!
Saturday, January 01, 2011
A New Blog for the New Year...
Okay, the title's misleading. It's the same blog. Same URL. Yep, yep. But I've been contemplating what I want to do here, and I think I really want to get back to basics.
This was a writing blog when I started. Over the years I've been doing this, I've used it to flex my writing muscles, banter about my children, banter about myself... but my favorite posts were always the writing ones.
I can't promise not to tell you stories about the kids - they're usually a lot funnier than I am. I can't promise not to tell you neighborhood stories... they kinda suit me. But I would like to devote more time to booksies, and literary discussions, and writing exercises. I miss the writing exercises.
So, my writing colleagues, who's up for a good old fashion pitch crit? Anybody game to start their 2011 with a little bloodshed, er, umn, I mean solid, writing criticism...?
Let me know in the comments. If there are at least a few who might participate, I'll put a post up this week, and we can all play in the comments... if not, I guess I'll go back to silly stories.
Oh, and Happy New Year!!!! Let's see what 2011 has up its sleeve.
This was a writing blog when I started. Over the years I've been doing this, I've used it to flex my writing muscles, banter about my children, banter about myself... but my favorite posts were always the writing ones.
I can't promise not to tell you stories about the kids - they're usually a lot funnier than I am. I can't promise not to tell you neighborhood stories... they kinda suit me. But I would like to devote more time to booksies, and literary discussions, and writing exercises. I miss the writing exercises.
So, my writing colleagues, who's up for a good old fashion pitch crit? Anybody game to start their 2011 with a little bloodshed, er, umn, I mean solid, writing criticism...?
Let me know in the comments. If there are at least a few who might participate, I'll put a post up this week, and we can all play in the comments... if not, I guess I'll go back to silly stories.
Oh, and Happy New Year!!!! Let's see what 2011 has up its sleeve.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Wisdom is Often Hard-Earned
My friend, fiction writing goddess, and woman I’d most likely dig chicks for, recently put up a “What I’ve Learned” post to commemorate the ending of this year and the turning of the page. Personally, I can’t wait to turn the page and God help me if 2011 is even half as bad as 2010 was… well, God help me anyway, I could use it.
Wait! Don’t leave! I promise I won’t whine… instead I thought I would take my cue from The Divine Ms. O and reflect on the lessons learned, and some of them re-learned, over the last year:
1. They say, “Quitting is easy.” Don’t believe them. Quitting is the hardest thing anyone ever does. It’s the release of hope wrapped in the tattered remnants of failure. No one ever quits anything important without grieving it deeply.
Quitting means you have to give up something of who you are and reinvent yourself… I’ve wondered off and on whether I should logically quit writing – it’s not exactly the most stable of professions. Without getting into the whole poetic gobbledygook of why I haven’t, one of the most profound reasons is that I don’t know who I am without it. And hell, I’d much rather be a failed writer than a successful crazy person with lots of voices in her noggin.
2. You don’t actually need most of your stuff. It’s amazing how much crap you have that you won’t use or look at in months.
3. Merry, Merry, quite contrary – I can say, “They’re only things, they don’t really matter,” as much as I want. There are some things in this world that it will break your heart into pieces to lose.
4. Some people can only see in black and white. To them, people are either good or bad and there is no shade of gray. What they don’t realize is that their inability to accept the shades of gray in others is likely the same foible their loved ones overlook in them. Avoid them when you can.
5. When you have absolutely no idea what to do about a situation, up your gumption. Ask an expert, learn a skill, hell, make it up as you go… any of those solutions will get you farther than sitting on your hands and sobbing.
6. People can be petty and mean and spiteful. But at the end of the day, the only opinion of you that counts is your own. If you let someone else change how you feel about yourself, you’re the only one you have to blame.
7. I understand that forgiveness is healthier for the person holding the grudge… but there is still a small group of people who I wouldn’t cross the street to spit on. (Sorry, E, at least I’ve stopped short of kicking them in the shins.)
8. There is no measure of heartache that can’t be endured in the presence of friendship and laughter.
9. You can’t go home again is a poetic lie. Where you come from is as much a part of your life as blood or breath. Embrace it.
10. I yelled at Him way more than I should have this year. But God knows I’m blessed, and as whiny as I’ve felt lately, I do too…
(and an 11th bonus one – I have a serious ellipsis problem…)
So, what have you learned this year that you’d like to pass on? Any life lessons? Writing skills? Bit of wit?
Wait! Don’t leave! I promise I won’t whine… instead I thought I would take my cue from The Divine Ms. O and reflect on the lessons learned, and some of them re-learned, over the last year:
1. They say, “Quitting is easy.” Don’t believe them. Quitting is the hardest thing anyone ever does. It’s the release of hope wrapped in the tattered remnants of failure. No one ever quits anything important without grieving it deeply.
Quitting means you have to give up something of who you are and reinvent yourself… I’ve wondered off and on whether I should logically quit writing – it’s not exactly the most stable of professions. Without getting into the whole poetic gobbledygook of why I haven’t, one of the most profound reasons is that I don’t know who I am without it. And hell, I’d much rather be a failed writer than a successful crazy person with lots of voices in her noggin.
2. You don’t actually need most of your stuff. It’s amazing how much crap you have that you won’t use or look at in months.
3. Merry, Merry, quite contrary – I can say, “They’re only things, they don’t really matter,” as much as I want. There are some things in this world that it will break your heart into pieces to lose.
4. Some people can only see in black and white. To them, people are either good or bad and there is no shade of gray. What they don’t realize is that their inability to accept the shades of gray in others is likely the same foible their loved ones overlook in them. Avoid them when you can.
5. When you have absolutely no idea what to do about a situation, up your gumption. Ask an expert, learn a skill, hell, make it up as you go… any of those solutions will get you farther than sitting on your hands and sobbing.
6. People can be petty and mean and spiteful. But at the end of the day, the only opinion of you that counts is your own. If you let someone else change how you feel about yourself, you’re the only one you have to blame.
7. I understand that forgiveness is healthier for the person holding the grudge… but there is still a small group of people who I wouldn’t cross the street to spit on. (Sorry, E, at least I’ve stopped short of kicking them in the shins.)
8. There is no measure of heartache that can’t be endured in the presence of friendship and laughter.
9. You can’t go home again is a poetic lie. Where you come from is as much a part of your life as blood or breath. Embrace it.
10. I yelled at Him way more than I should have this year. But God knows I’m blessed, and as whiny as I’ve felt lately, I do too…
(and an 11th bonus one – I have a serious ellipsis problem…)
So, what have you learned this year that you’d like to pass on? Any life lessons? Writing skills? Bit of wit?
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Don't Quit... author unknown
We interrupt this blog for an interlude of poetry. I don't normally post other people's work (except for the occasional guest posting author, of course). But this poem has been running through my head a lot lately. And, being that it's a writer's blog, I figured it might've run through yours a time or two as well...
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow--
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor's cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out--
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit--
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.
- Author unknown
Got a favorite poem, song lyric, quote? What literature is speaking to you today?
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow--
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor's cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out--
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit--
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.
- Author unknown
Got a favorite poem, song lyric, quote? What literature is speaking to you today?
Monday, December 06, 2010
Oh, So That’s How The Whole Christmas Miracle Thing Really Works…
Littlest Guy is eight and he’s decided that there is no Santa Claus… Eight!!!! Okay, I already knew by that age, but still… I thought I had a little more time on it. I, however, was not nearly as upset about this recent turn of events as my Gracie Girl… She’s a smart one, she is… She’s thirteen now and has known the “truth” since she was about Littlest Guy’s age, but she also knows that as soon as they all know the truth, Adios Santa Gifts. And honestly, who doesn’t love waking up to presents?
As heartbreaking as these changes can be – the end of innocent childhood magic, the beginning of cynical adulthood logic… realizations of this kind just turn into comedy at my house. This was our dinnertime discussion last night:
Littlest Guy: I know there’s no Santa.
Me: Oh, do you now? And why do you say that?
Littlest Guy: Because I know. (He eyes me with his ever-famous mischievous grin). You and Dad leave the presents Christmas morning.
Gracie Girl: Of course, there’s a Santa. Why would you think there’s no Santa?
Littlest Guy: Well.. How does he get to all the houses in the whole world in just one night?
Gracie Girl: He splits it up, silly. When it’s daytime here, it’s nighttime on the other side of the world… he delivers the gifts where it’s night first, and then goes to the other side of the planet.
Littlest Guy: (grrrrr) That’s against the laws of physics.
Gracie Girl: No it’s not. You haven’t started studying physics yet. Wait a few years. You’ll understand it better.
(Meanwhile, oldest son is watching the other two with amused curiosity. Having finished his dinner, he pushes back his plate and gets up.)
Oldest Son: I’m not messing with the fat man. Can I be excused?
(Oldest Son bolts as soon as I give him the okay… mind you, he already knows, I’ve heard his whispered conversations with his sister… he’s just not dumb enough to make sure there’s no Santa Gifts on Christmas morning)
Littlest Guy: Okay. Even if he could get to every house, how does he get in? Not every house has a chimney. What about apartments, or like our house – no fireplace, the chimney goes to the furnace?
Gracie Girl: Oh, yeah. The fireplace thing is just a story. Really, Santa has a magical key that works on every lock in the whole world. He’s had it since way back in his criminal days.
Littlest Guy’s eyes widen and his mouth pops open.
Gracie Girl: Didn’t you know? Oh yeah. Santa used to be a master criminal. He pulled the most amazing heists ever! That’s why he became Santa and started giving presents to everyone once a year – it’s kind of like a penance to make up for his past misdeeds. He’s paying back karma.
Littlest Guy: Okaaaaay, well what about the reindeer? How can reindeer fly?
Gracie Girl: Steroids.
Littlest Guy: Steroids? They can’t do that.
Gracie Girl: Sure they can. But only to special reindeer. If you tried them, they’d only make you sick. Say no to drugs, man.
Littlest Guy: Well, what about the elves? Where did he get them?
Gracie Girl: Don’t you know what elves are? They’re midgets (I have to admit, I completely lost it at this point and had to walk away from the table… I listened to the rest of the conversation from the kitchen sink). Santa takes midgets, er, umn, little people, and convinces them to work in his sweatshop.
Me: Workshop.
Gracie Girl: Yeah, that.
Littlest Guy: Like slave labor? He just kidnaps them and makes them be elves?
Gracie Girl: No. It’s strictly voluntary. But he lures them with the drugs.
Littlest Guy and Me: WHAT?!!!!
Gracie Girl: Yeah, Santa makes lots of trips to the black market to stock up on steroids for the deer and crack for to keep the elves productive. Happy Reindeer, high elves, everybody wins.
Me: Okay, stop.
Littlest Guy: Yeah, Grace. Besides, even if there were midgets working there all the time, how would they know what toys to make? They wouldn’t know how to make the ones just like in the stores.
Gracie Girl: Oh, that! Yeah, you know those fake Santa Clauses like at the mall? Yeah, well they work for the real Santa. And they’re real smart. They might look like goofy, acne prone adolescents, but really they’re secret agents for the fat man… and they come and bring detailed diagrams of all the new toys to the elves.
Okay, I’m easily amused. Maybe I should just throw my hands up and tell him there’s no Santa… better than taking the chance my 8 year old will be repeating the crack-addicted elf version of the story at school.
As heartbreaking as these changes can be – the end of innocent childhood magic, the beginning of cynical adulthood logic… realizations of this kind just turn into comedy at my house. This was our dinnertime discussion last night:
Littlest Guy: I know there’s no Santa.
Me: Oh, do you now? And why do you say that?
Littlest Guy: Because I know. (He eyes me with his ever-famous mischievous grin). You and Dad leave the presents Christmas morning.
Gracie Girl: Of course, there’s a Santa. Why would you think there’s no Santa?
Littlest Guy: Well.. How does he get to all the houses in the whole world in just one night?
Gracie Girl: He splits it up, silly. When it’s daytime here, it’s nighttime on the other side of the world… he delivers the gifts where it’s night first, and then goes to the other side of the planet.
Littlest Guy: (grrrrr) That’s against the laws of physics.
Gracie Girl: No it’s not. You haven’t started studying physics yet. Wait a few years. You’ll understand it better.
(Meanwhile, oldest son is watching the other two with amused curiosity. Having finished his dinner, he pushes back his plate and gets up.)
Oldest Son: I’m not messing with the fat man. Can I be excused?
(Oldest Son bolts as soon as I give him the okay… mind you, he already knows, I’ve heard his whispered conversations with his sister… he’s just not dumb enough to make sure there’s no Santa Gifts on Christmas morning)
Littlest Guy: Okay. Even if he could get to every house, how does he get in? Not every house has a chimney. What about apartments, or like our house – no fireplace, the chimney goes to the furnace?
Gracie Girl: Oh, yeah. The fireplace thing is just a story. Really, Santa has a magical key that works on every lock in the whole world. He’s had it since way back in his criminal days.
Littlest Guy’s eyes widen and his mouth pops open.
Gracie Girl: Didn’t you know? Oh yeah. Santa used to be a master criminal. He pulled the most amazing heists ever! That’s why he became Santa and started giving presents to everyone once a year – it’s kind of like a penance to make up for his past misdeeds. He’s paying back karma.
Littlest Guy: Okaaaaay, well what about the reindeer? How can reindeer fly?
Gracie Girl: Steroids.
Littlest Guy: Steroids? They can’t do that.
Gracie Girl: Sure they can. But only to special reindeer. If you tried them, they’d only make you sick. Say no to drugs, man.
Littlest Guy: Well, what about the elves? Where did he get them?
Gracie Girl: Don’t you know what elves are? They’re midgets (I have to admit, I completely lost it at this point and had to walk away from the table… I listened to the rest of the conversation from the kitchen sink). Santa takes midgets, er, umn, little people, and convinces them to work in his sweatshop.
Me: Workshop.
Gracie Girl: Yeah, that.
Littlest Guy: Like slave labor? He just kidnaps them and makes them be elves?
Gracie Girl: No. It’s strictly voluntary. But he lures them with the drugs.
Littlest Guy and Me: WHAT?!!!!
Gracie Girl: Yeah, Santa makes lots of trips to the black market to stock up on steroids for the deer and crack for to keep the elves productive. Happy Reindeer, high elves, everybody wins.
Me: Okay, stop.
Littlest Guy: Yeah, Grace. Besides, even if there were midgets working there all the time, how would they know what toys to make? They wouldn’t know how to make the ones just like in the stores.
Gracie Girl: Oh, that! Yeah, you know those fake Santa Clauses like at the mall? Yeah, well they work for the real Santa. And they’re real smart. They might look like goofy, acne prone adolescents, but really they’re secret agents for the fat man… and they come and bring detailed diagrams of all the new toys to the elves.
Okay, I’m easily amused. Maybe I should just throw my hands up and tell him there’s no Santa… better than taking the chance my 8 year old will be repeating the crack-addicted elf version of the story at school.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Give That Drummer Something to Do
Driving in my (Awesome) Jeep yesterday, my daughter got all disgruntled with the song on the radio.
Gracie: This song is terrible. The drummer has to be bored to death.
Me: What are you talking about?
Gracie: The drummer. (Looking at me like I have two heads and one of them’s picking its nose) The drum beat, can’t you hear that?
Me: No. I hear the music and the lyrics.
Exasperated by my obvious musical stupidity, Gracie grabs two straws and starts playing air drums in the car, tapping out the beat (she was right, it was ridiculously slow) on the dash.
Gracie: (still playing, and rolling her eyes) See, that’s what the drummer is doing. That’s ALL the drummer is doing. B-o-o-o-r-i-i-n-g… I mean the words are okay. Eh, but man, you’ve gotta give that drummer something to do. When I have my rock band, we’re never going to play anything that the drummer doesn’t have fun with.
She switched the radio, screamed “This is better” and started rocking out on air drums the rest of the way home… driving with the kids is getting to be more fun as they get older, I have to say… but that’s beside the point.
With music, I don’t hear that stuff. I actually focus on the lyrics (gee, ya think?) and I can hear the beat, but I don’t break it down to different instruments. I hear music like a listener, not like a musician. But the thing is, if it’s off to the musician, it’s going to be off to the listener, we just won’t know exactly why we don’t like it. Same thing, I think, with writing.
A reader will know they don’t like something. An astute reader might even break it down into why, but they generally won’t know the fix – just the problem. And when she said this, said it was the drummer, I broke that down into characters.
For me, good fiction is character driven. That’s a lot of hoo ha, everyone says that. But the truth is, the characters can’t be different extensions of one writer. They have to be individuals that come together with their own complexity to bring you the full arc of an overall story. If any of them are “off” it compromises the whole. There are a lot of balls to juggle, or beats to hit if we’re staying with the drum analogy.
With the novel I’m currently working on, the one affectionately known as The WIP What Killed Me, I have a character I didn’t know was going to be as important, or as ass kickingly cool as she is, when I started… I knew she was there. She was in the original outline. But man, it wasn’t until I met her that I totally got her. The thing I’m struggling with in writing her wasn’t obvious to me. It just read wrong, rang wrong, didn’t quite hit that honest note I wanted it to. It was good. It lacked great. And she was great, I was just missing the mark with it.
And then I got it. With an offhanded music tutorial from the daughter type person. I’m not giving the drummer something to do.
Annabelle is blending in to the speech patterns and mannerisms of my main character. And in life, that happens. You adopt things from the people around you and they slightly change how you come across – your people leave their mark on you, the same way you’ll leave a mark on them. But in fiction, you can’t do that. Your reader won’t get that she’s adapting to her environment, they’ll read everyone as one voice. I had to give her back her own pattern and keep it separate from my mc.
So re-work, again… just slightly. As soon as it hit, I could see it everywhere I’d done it… everywhere her dialogue came out a little too neighborhood… everywhere she was more lax than she is… I love those dawning light moments, though. Because in all honesty, I knew there was something. But until you figure out what it is, the best you can hope for is that it’s good enough. And I don’t want good enough.
How about you guys? Have you given your drummer something to do? And what have you learned in life that translated to an aha moment in your writing?
Gracie: This song is terrible. The drummer has to be bored to death.
Me: What are you talking about?
Gracie: The drummer. (Looking at me like I have two heads and one of them’s picking its nose) The drum beat, can’t you hear that?
Me: No. I hear the music and the lyrics.
Exasperated by my obvious musical stupidity, Gracie grabs two straws and starts playing air drums in the car, tapping out the beat (she was right, it was ridiculously slow) on the dash.
Gracie: (still playing, and rolling her eyes) See, that’s what the drummer is doing. That’s ALL the drummer is doing. B-o-o-o-r-i-i-n-g… I mean the words are okay. Eh, but man, you’ve gotta give that drummer something to do. When I have my rock band, we’re never going to play anything that the drummer doesn’t have fun with.
She switched the radio, screamed “This is better” and started rocking out on air drums the rest of the way home… driving with the kids is getting to be more fun as they get older, I have to say… but that’s beside the point.
With music, I don’t hear that stuff. I actually focus on the lyrics (gee, ya think?) and I can hear the beat, but I don’t break it down to different instruments. I hear music like a listener, not like a musician. But the thing is, if it’s off to the musician, it’s going to be off to the listener, we just won’t know exactly why we don’t like it. Same thing, I think, with writing.
A reader will know they don’t like something. An astute reader might even break it down into why, but they generally won’t know the fix – just the problem. And when she said this, said it was the drummer, I broke that down into characters.
For me, good fiction is character driven. That’s a lot of hoo ha, everyone says that. But the truth is, the characters can’t be different extensions of one writer. They have to be individuals that come together with their own complexity to bring you the full arc of an overall story. If any of them are “off” it compromises the whole. There are a lot of balls to juggle, or beats to hit if we’re staying with the drum analogy.
With the novel I’m currently working on, the one affectionately known as The WIP What Killed Me, I have a character I didn’t know was going to be as important, or as ass kickingly cool as she is, when I started… I knew she was there. She was in the original outline. But man, it wasn’t until I met her that I totally got her. The thing I’m struggling with in writing her wasn’t obvious to me. It just read wrong, rang wrong, didn’t quite hit that honest note I wanted it to. It was good. It lacked great. And she was great, I was just missing the mark with it.
And then I got it. With an offhanded music tutorial from the daughter type person. I’m not giving the drummer something to do.
Annabelle is blending in to the speech patterns and mannerisms of my main character. And in life, that happens. You adopt things from the people around you and they slightly change how you come across – your people leave their mark on you, the same way you’ll leave a mark on them. But in fiction, you can’t do that. Your reader won’t get that she’s adapting to her environment, they’ll read everyone as one voice. I had to give her back her own pattern and keep it separate from my mc.
So re-work, again… just slightly. As soon as it hit, I could see it everywhere I’d done it… everywhere her dialogue came out a little too neighborhood… everywhere she was more lax than she is… I love those dawning light moments, though. Because in all honesty, I knew there was something. But until you figure out what it is, the best you can hope for is that it’s good enough. And I don’t want good enough.
How about you guys? Have you given your drummer something to do? And what have you learned in life that translated to an aha moment in your writing?
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Old Friends and Bad Politics
I found the joy of coffee shops and little dive restaurants when I was a teenager. That’s when my love of coffee started – free refills, man. The nice thing about it was that I could go in by myself, with my journal, a book, or my sketch pad, and write or read or draw while I waited for my friends to get there. We could sit for hours and hang out… and then go out drinking… or go there after we went out drinking… yes, there was usually drinking.
So, in case you ever wondered, that was where my addiction to coffee began. But this isn’t really about the coffee. I had a favorite coffee shop that I went to all the time on the south side of Chicago. They all knew me by name, from the owner to the wait staff to the cooks. They never kicked me out, and were more friends than anything else. One of the waitresses, Anna, was my all time favorite ever. She’d give me a heads up on guys I dated in her awesome Polish accent, “Ewwwww, no, Merry… I no like him, is cheeeep idjeeit.” Don’t worry, you had to be a real nitwit to get that reaction from her, that was just the funniest one.
There was a guy I met there when we were both in our late teens, we’ll just call him T. T. was from Mexico and came here on his own when he was fifteen. He started out as a busboy at the coffee shop, which is how I met him. He’d hang out with me sometimes on breaks and eventually he got to know all of my friends. I hung out there for years, and even worked there for a bit myself. In the time I knew him, T. taught himself both English and Polish (it was a large Polish population and he wanted to be able to communicate well – see how much cooler he is than most “real” Americans). In case you didn’t know it, busboys make relatively little money. T. still managed to support himself, put himself through community college, and send money home for his mom and younger sister. He worked his way up to waiter, which made more money than bussing, for sure, but still not what you’d call lucrative, all the while he was taking classes and doing things on his own to improve his life and fortune.
Eventually I got married and had my oldest, and I didn’t hang out at the coffee shop anymore. I came in a few times, but T. had moved on and it’s an odd thing because we were such close friends, but we just kind of lost track of each other. I wondered over the years how he’s been doing, though. He was one of those people who you just know is amazing – not in the ‘he’s going to change the world’ kind of way, but definitely in the ‘he’ll bless every corner of the world he enters’ vein of thought.
Last week I went to a concert at this very upper class, hoity toity venue. And who do I see, walking with two rather important looking gentlemen, but T – 15 years older, with a bit of gray on the sides, in a very spiffy business suit. He’s doing well, has a family, a fantastic job, and he’s happy, which is more than all the other things, really… and never have I been more proud of or happy for someone’s success.
This is one story among hundreds of thousands. On the political spectrum, people discount such stories, because they’re simply trying to push their own theories or points or whatever. I get the argument that immigrants are taxing our social systems – the problem is with the system, not the immigrants. I’ve heard all the puffed up bullshit about how “Our forefathers bled and died for this country…” blah, blah, blah… that’s awesome, but what the fuck did you do? Or are you just going to sit back and insist that you have the right to rest on the laurels of your ancestors? I call bullshit. And I think someone like T has actually earned the American Dream… I think a lot of the whining and hysterical bigotry surrounding the issue of immigration is perpetrated by people who are too lazy or stupid to go after theirs… someone else’s success does not diminish one’s ability to succeed.
I was born here through no effort on my own part – just luck, or providence or whatever you would name it. The same goes for any natural citizen. Maybe the ones arguing the loudest should be forced through the same hoops they want to force other people to jump, or maybe they should just sit down with some of the people they’re dismissing and have a real conversation… because I think in cases like that, ignorance tends to run rampant. I’m liable to annoy a few people with a post like this, and I normally stay pretty far away from religion and politics on this blog… oh well. This is one of those cases where I just don’t care. Mostly because I’m right on this one, and the one quote that keeps running through my mind is this:
“All it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.”
So, in case you ever wondered, that was where my addiction to coffee began. But this isn’t really about the coffee. I had a favorite coffee shop that I went to all the time on the south side of Chicago. They all knew me by name, from the owner to the wait staff to the cooks. They never kicked me out, and were more friends than anything else. One of the waitresses, Anna, was my all time favorite ever. She’d give me a heads up on guys I dated in her awesome Polish accent, “Ewwwww, no, Merry… I no like him, is cheeeep idjeeit.” Don’t worry, you had to be a real nitwit to get that reaction from her, that was just the funniest one.
There was a guy I met there when we were both in our late teens, we’ll just call him T. T. was from Mexico and came here on his own when he was fifteen. He started out as a busboy at the coffee shop, which is how I met him. He’d hang out with me sometimes on breaks and eventually he got to know all of my friends. I hung out there for years, and even worked there for a bit myself. In the time I knew him, T. taught himself both English and Polish (it was a large Polish population and he wanted to be able to communicate well – see how much cooler he is than most “real” Americans). In case you didn’t know it, busboys make relatively little money. T. still managed to support himself, put himself through community college, and send money home for his mom and younger sister. He worked his way up to waiter, which made more money than bussing, for sure, but still not what you’d call lucrative, all the while he was taking classes and doing things on his own to improve his life and fortune.
Eventually I got married and had my oldest, and I didn’t hang out at the coffee shop anymore. I came in a few times, but T. had moved on and it’s an odd thing because we were such close friends, but we just kind of lost track of each other. I wondered over the years how he’s been doing, though. He was one of those people who you just know is amazing – not in the ‘he’s going to change the world’ kind of way, but definitely in the ‘he’ll bless every corner of the world he enters’ vein of thought.
Last week I went to a concert at this very upper class, hoity toity venue. And who do I see, walking with two rather important looking gentlemen, but T – 15 years older, with a bit of gray on the sides, in a very spiffy business suit. He’s doing well, has a family, a fantastic job, and he’s happy, which is more than all the other things, really… and never have I been more proud of or happy for someone’s success.
This is one story among hundreds of thousands. On the political spectrum, people discount such stories, because they’re simply trying to push their own theories or points or whatever. I get the argument that immigrants are taxing our social systems – the problem is with the system, not the immigrants. I’ve heard all the puffed up bullshit about how “Our forefathers bled and died for this country…” blah, blah, blah… that’s awesome, but what the fuck did you do? Or are you just going to sit back and insist that you have the right to rest on the laurels of your ancestors? I call bullshit. And I think someone like T has actually earned the American Dream… I think a lot of the whining and hysterical bigotry surrounding the issue of immigration is perpetrated by people who are too lazy or stupid to go after theirs… someone else’s success does not diminish one’s ability to succeed.
I was born here through no effort on my own part – just luck, or providence or whatever you would name it. The same goes for any natural citizen. Maybe the ones arguing the loudest should be forced through the same hoops they want to force other people to jump, or maybe they should just sit down with some of the people they’re dismissing and have a real conversation… because I think in cases like that, ignorance tends to run rampant. I’m liable to annoy a few people with a post like this, and I normally stay pretty far away from religion and politics on this blog… oh well. This is one of those cases where I just don’t care. Mostly because I’m right on this one, and the one quote that keeps running through my mind is this:
“All it takes for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.”
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
In the Wake....
This post is a long time in coming, partially because I had limited online access, but more because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Most of you already know I flooded. But when we say “flooded” we generally mean, “I got a little water that was a flipping inconvenience and now I’m going to whine about it while I squeegee and bleach my floors”… that’s not what happened this time… it’ll likely never happen again, I’ve got neighbors who have been here more than forty years, and they’ve never seen anything like it in this area… I’d give you a nice, sarcastic, “aren’t I so lucky?” line, except, I’m thinking I am – lucky, or blessed, or both.
My youngest woke me at seven in the morning to tell me there was water downstairs. It’s summertime, so I was half asleep stumbling down to the kitchen to see what the problem was. It rained heavy the night before, and I thought maybe we had a little water coming in from somewhere… nope, not a little… the entire lower level of my house had nearly a foot of water and it was rising fast. The current was so ridiculous it slammed all the doors shut and just kept coming, and I looked out my kitchen window to see that there was a three foot deep river of water just flowing over the fence and surrounding my house. The current was so strong it actually broke through my downstairs laundry room door.
We evacuated the kids first, sending them out the front door with backpacks over their heads to walk, in littlest guy’s case – chest deep, down the block and away from the water… in the half hour that took, my entire lower level was lost and things were blowing up and crackling downstairs as the electric was still on. By the time I finally abandoned the house (because shock and stupidity told me it was savable at that point) the water had crested the stairs into my main level and come through all of the doors from the street.
We sent the kids off with their grandparents. And then I sat, at the edge of the river that was my street, for the majority of the day, watching as everything I had floated away. I sat with neighbors whose houses were also in the melee, and joked about how well getting the basement sealed worked once the water came in the windows… I sat with neighbors who lived two or three houses farther up the street, but were blessedly spared from the path of the water.
I went back a few times, to try to salvage things that were higher up and could be saved, wading through muck and nasty. I joked, I zoned out, and I moved on rote… but mostly I just wanted to fucking quit. Never in my life have I felt more like looking up to heaven and cursing a blue streak and to be perfectly honest, this wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve been through, just the last straw kind of thing… and a pretty big straw it was.
We spent the night at my in-laws, and I woke the next day with a screaming migraine. I spent the morning and a large part of the afternoon either in bed or vomiting, and I fucking wallowed. I did, weak and spineless as it is. And then I got up and caught a ride back to the house (as the flood also engulfed my little mini-van) and got on with it – admittedly, badly at first. By the time I got there, the water was pumped out and only the destruction remained.
I don’t even know what there is to say about the destruction. Most of you can imagine what it would feel like to lose two thirds of your house and its contents, some of you have. Furniture, clothes and appliances, all of my writing prior to the bit on my last computer… every journal from eighth grade to today… my leather bounds, holy hell, four wheel barrows full went out to the dumpster, and another three or four hundred books besides. Ack. Art supplies, books and papers, which is pretty much the sum total of my life. The friend who did most of the clean up for me is an artist, and I think he might have been sicker about the art supplies than I was. Then there were things, just things… the kids first walking shoes and christening gowns. All of the holiday stuff, and photos… pictures from when we were young, people I took the journey with, that I’ll never see again or who aren’t today who they were back then… the colors running to rainbow patterns that overshadowed brilliant smiles and mischievous eyes.
Three boxes of my dad’s things. He’s been gone nine years, but I had them, packed away. Shirts and slippers, his old humidor that held papers and cards rather than cigars. His wallet and things, packed away, just the same way he kept them, like a little time capsule. I used to go into the crawlspace once in a while and open them up and smell them, because they still smelled like him. Which is weird as hell, I know. See, that was harder than this. If there was ever a time I felt like I wanted to lie down and never get up, it was when he did.
Okay, so you’re probably waiting for the blessed part at this point, because most of this is just fucking depressing.
What I found at my house besides destruction were friends. Friends I see all the time, friends I haven’t seen in, literally, twenty years. Friends I grew up with, ones I went to high school with, and neighbors who were battling the same destruction at their own homes. I could say that the best friends are the ones you grow up with – I thought that more than a few times over the first few weeks because there are a few (you know who you are) who I couldn’t possibly thank enough or adore more.
But then there were my writing friends, like Erica and Travis and JJ and Ello, who did what we tend to do when one of our circle needs – they got the word out, and suddenly my inbox was flooded with messages and gift cards, and lovely booksies started to arrive in the mail. I haven’t gotten to the thank you cards yet, guys, but they’re coming…
At this point, my upstairs bedrooms are put back together… we painted and removed all of the floor vents to get the smell out… the lower level is gutted as is the main floor… oh, but I have internet and a kitchen floor now, so yay, progress! We’ll all be back in the house this week, just in time for school… as it is, one of us has stayed here working on things every night anyway, just not the kids yet. They’re dying to come home, too. The next few weeks will be like roughing it… no kitchen so we’ll have to use the grill and do cold food… picnic table instead of dinner table… but it’s home.
Over the past month, my best friend lost her father and another friend lost a brother. And I thought to myself, “Snap out of it, for fuck’s sake. Their road right now is way steeper than yours.” This was just stuff. Important stuff, stuff I never wanted to lose, and stuff I didn’t even remember was there. It was scraps and pieces of who I used to be, but none of that ever really goes away. I’ll never hold a card or letter in my dad’s perfect handwriting again… but it’s still in my head, every loop and curve of his signature and every word he ever uttered in my earshot. I’ll never see sketches and portraits I pained over in the past… but hell, they were just sitting in sketchpads in a dark crawlspace anyway… and the books, well, isn’t the most brilliant thing about story the fact that it stays with you? I’ve read most of them; I’ll replace the important ones over time…
A neighbor across the street lost more than I did. The water was far higher in his main floor and all of the possessions, well, most of them were picked out by his wife – she’s been gone ten years this month. He set up his dining room table and lamps in his garage. We sat out there the other day, having wine and talking (my neighbors are just cool as hell, I tell ya). I was worried about him, maybe more than anyone else. After ten years, he still mourns his wife constantly, and I know losing those things that were hers, cut him deeply.
So we sat there, at his beautiful dining room table, surrounded by remnants of his house shoved inside a dirty garage, and he said, “Maybe it was time I moved on. This thing could be a fresh start, you know, sometimes life works that way. When you won’t let go and live, it pries your hands lose so you have to. Maybe there are beautiful things waiting, when you make room for them.”
How much do you love him? Resilience is a far prettier trait than poets give it credit for. And me, I’m not used to people worrying over me. I’d much rather help someone else than take help – I don’t know why, and as someone pointed out to me recently, that’s kind of a selfish thing, too, not letting other people feel good by taking care of you. So I’m trying not to lose patience when I get the sad worried puppy dog eyes of well meaning and fantastic friends who are worried about how I’m handling things. And I’m looking at it as a massive, if expensive, spring cleaning. A fresh start to new things and if I’m really lucky the next leg of the journey will be blessed with as many amazing people as the last one was.
My youngest woke me at seven in the morning to tell me there was water downstairs. It’s summertime, so I was half asleep stumbling down to the kitchen to see what the problem was. It rained heavy the night before, and I thought maybe we had a little water coming in from somewhere… nope, not a little… the entire lower level of my house had nearly a foot of water and it was rising fast. The current was so ridiculous it slammed all the doors shut and just kept coming, and I looked out my kitchen window to see that there was a three foot deep river of water just flowing over the fence and surrounding my house. The current was so strong it actually broke through my downstairs laundry room door.
We evacuated the kids first, sending them out the front door with backpacks over their heads to walk, in littlest guy’s case – chest deep, down the block and away from the water… in the half hour that took, my entire lower level was lost and things were blowing up and crackling downstairs as the electric was still on. By the time I finally abandoned the house (because shock and stupidity told me it was savable at that point) the water had crested the stairs into my main level and come through all of the doors from the street.
We sent the kids off with their grandparents. And then I sat, at the edge of the river that was my street, for the majority of the day, watching as everything I had floated away. I sat with neighbors whose houses were also in the melee, and joked about how well getting the basement sealed worked once the water came in the windows… I sat with neighbors who lived two or three houses farther up the street, but were blessedly spared from the path of the water.
I went back a few times, to try to salvage things that were higher up and could be saved, wading through muck and nasty. I joked, I zoned out, and I moved on rote… but mostly I just wanted to fucking quit. Never in my life have I felt more like looking up to heaven and cursing a blue streak and to be perfectly honest, this wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve been through, just the last straw kind of thing… and a pretty big straw it was.
We spent the night at my in-laws, and I woke the next day with a screaming migraine. I spent the morning and a large part of the afternoon either in bed or vomiting, and I fucking wallowed. I did, weak and spineless as it is. And then I got up and caught a ride back to the house (as the flood also engulfed my little mini-van) and got on with it – admittedly, badly at first. By the time I got there, the water was pumped out and only the destruction remained.
I don’t even know what there is to say about the destruction. Most of you can imagine what it would feel like to lose two thirds of your house and its contents, some of you have. Furniture, clothes and appliances, all of my writing prior to the bit on my last computer… every journal from eighth grade to today… my leather bounds, holy hell, four wheel barrows full went out to the dumpster, and another three or four hundred books besides. Ack. Art supplies, books and papers, which is pretty much the sum total of my life. The friend who did most of the clean up for me is an artist, and I think he might have been sicker about the art supplies than I was. Then there were things, just things… the kids first walking shoes and christening gowns. All of the holiday stuff, and photos… pictures from when we were young, people I took the journey with, that I’ll never see again or who aren’t today who they were back then… the colors running to rainbow patterns that overshadowed brilliant smiles and mischievous eyes.
Three boxes of my dad’s things. He’s been gone nine years, but I had them, packed away. Shirts and slippers, his old humidor that held papers and cards rather than cigars. His wallet and things, packed away, just the same way he kept them, like a little time capsule. I used to go into the crawlspace once in a while and open them up and smell them, because they still smelled like him. Which is weird as hell, I know. See, that was harder than this. If there was ever a time I felt like I wanted to lie down and never get up, it was when he did.
Okay, so you’re probably waiting for the blessed part at this point, because most of this is just fucking depressing.
What I found at my house besides destruction were friends. Friends I see all the time, friends I haven’t seen in, literally, twenty years. Friends I grew up with, ones I went to high school with, and neighbors who were battling the same destruction at their own homes. I could say that the best friends are the ones you grow up with – I thought that more than a few times over the first few weeks because there are a few (you know who you are) who I couldn’t possibly thank enough or adore more.
But then there were my writing friends, like Erica and Travis and JJ and Ello, who did what we tend to do when one of our circle needs – they got the word out, and suddenly my inbox was flooded with messages and gift cards, and lovely booksies started to arrive in the mail. I haven’t gotten to the thank you cards yet, guys, but they’re coming…
At this point, my upstairs bedrooms are put back together… we painted and removed all of the floor vents to get the smell out… the lower level is gutted as is the main floor… oh, but I have internet and a kitchen floor now, so yay, progress! We’ll all be back in the house this week, just in time for school… as it is, one of us has stayed here working on things every night anyway, just not the kids yet. They’re dying to come home, too. The next few weeks will be like roughing it… no kitchen so we’ll have to use the grill and do cold food… picnic table instead of dinner table… but it’s home.
Over the past month, my best friend lost her father and another friend lost a brother. And I thought to myself, “Snap out of it, for fuck’s sake. Their road right now is way steeper than yours.” This was just stuff. Important stuff, stuff I never wanted to lose, and stuff I didn’t even remember was there. It was scraps and pieces of who I used to be, but none of that ever really goes away. I’ll never hold a card or letter in my dad’s perfect handwriting again… but it’s still in my head, every loop and curve of his signature and every word he ever uttered in my earshot. I’ll never see sketches and portraits I pained over in the past… but hell, they were just sitting in sketchpads in a dark crawlspace anyway… and the books, well, isn’t the most brilliant thing about story the fact that it stays with you? I’ve read most of them; I’ll replace the important ones over time…
A neighbor across the street lost more than I did. The water was far higher in his main floor and all of the possessions, well, most of them were picked out by his wife – she’s been gone ten years this month. He set up his dining room table and lamps in his garage. We sat out there the other day, having wine and talking (my neighbors are just cool as hell, I tell ya). I was worried about him, maybe more than anyone else. After ten years, he still mourns his wife constantly, and I know losing those things that were hers, cut him deeply.
So we sat there, at his beautiful dining room table, surrounded by remnants of his house shoved inside a dirty garage, and he said, “Maybe it was time I moved on. This thing could be a fresh start, you know, sometimes life works that way. When you won’t let go and live, it pries your hands lose so you have to. Maybe there are beautiful things waiting, when you make room for them.”
How much do you love him? Resilience is a far prettier trait than poets give it credit for. And me, I’m not used to people worrying over me. I’d much rather help someone else than take help – I don’t know why, and as someone pointed out to me recently, that’s kind of a selfish thing, too, not letting other people feel good by taking care of you. So I’m trying not to lose patience when I get the sad worried puppy dog eyes of well meaning and fantastic friends who are worried about how I’m handling things. And I’m looking at it as a massive, if expensive, spring cleaning. A fresh start to new things and if I’m really lucky the next leg of the journey will be blessed with as many amazing people as the last one was.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Public Humiliation
Okay, so the Koala kicked my ass. There. I said it. I failed miserably for the month of June. Please taunt torture and fuck with me appropriately.
I've been largely off of blogging the last few months, but fucking around on facebook wayyy more than I should. If you catch me in either place for prolonged periods of time, ask me what my wordcount is... If I have none, feel free to kick the hell out of me... I always have some hell in reserve anyway.
Monday, June 14, 2010
File It Under, “My Characters Amuse Me”
“Reverse psychology,” Jack said.
“Re-hoosit-whatsit? I just thought it was scamming.” Mikey slapped Jack’s shoulder and leaned against the railing.
“Yeah, well, they’re pretty much the same thing. People just use the big words to make it sound less shady.”
Writers love to talk about craft. The hard stuff. The stuff that makes us feel all accomplished and whatnot. But the reason we keep trucking through all the dejection, rejection, and unavoidable lows of a very tough profession is because the high points are just fucking fun.
My characters sometimes pull out my heart and stomp it into a million little pieces leaving nothing but hollow space and an inability to breathe. But more often than not they make me laugh out loud. The biggest hope is that whatever I’m feeling translates on the page and someone else will get to feel it, too. Those few lines at the top of the post cracked me up... weird, right? There are people in my head, telling jokes that give me a physical reaction. In normal people circles, that’s called crazy. But we get to balance on the tight rope of split personality and delusional tendency and other people marvel at our creativity. I don’t think you can really ask for better than that. Okay, you can ask for millions of dollars and a harem of smoking hot pool boys, but God tends to frown on delivering those kinds of things...
And we can get into craft... Do those words move the story? Is there a point to that little exchange or am I just amusing myself with my own wit, or lack thereof? Some of my silliness will, rightfully so, get cut in revision... in fact, a lot of my silliness will get cut in revision... along with, hopefully, all of my purple prose. But right now I’m just taking the journey. I can think about the destination. Dream about it so much I can taste it. Envision it in my head until it feels like a well-worn reality... and still, the road beckons more than the destination today... and I hope every day to come.
How’s your writing going? Care to share a scene from your wip that spoke to you, tickled you, or you hope moves someone else? Care to share one that’s hitting the cutting room floor? And what’s your priority today – the road or the destination?
And guys, if you haven’t yet heard and congratulated her, head over to Ello’s and share her much deserved high point with her.
“Re-hoosit-whatsit? I just thought it was scamming.” Mikey slapped Jack’s shoulder and leaned against the railing.
“Yeah, well, they’re pretty much the same thing. People just use the big words to make it sound less shady.”
Writers love to talk about craft. The hard stuff. The stuff that makes us feel all accomplished and whatnot. But the reason we keep trucking through all the dejection, rejection, and unavoidable lows of a very tough profession is because the high points are just fucking fun.
My characters sometimes pull out my heart and stomp it into a million little pieces leaving nothing but hollow space and an inability to breathe. But more often than not they make me laugh out loud. The biggest hope is that whatever I’m feeling translates on the page and someone else will get to feel it, too. Those few lines at the top of the post cracked me up... weird, right? There are people in my head, telling jokes that give me a physical reaction. In normal people circles, that’s called crazy. But we get to balance on the tight rope of split personality and delusional tendency and other people marvel at our creativity. I don’t think you can really ask for better than that. Okay, you can ask for millions of dollars and a harem of smoking hot pool boys, but God tends to frown on delivering those kinds of things...
And we can get into craft... Do those words move the story? Is there a point to that little exchange or am I just amusing myself with my own wit, or lack thereof? Some of my silliness will, rightfully so, get cut in revision... in fact, a lot of my silliness will get cut in revision... along with, hopefully, all of my purple prose. But right now I’m just taking the journey. I can think about the destination. Dream about it so much I can taste it. Envision it in my head until it feels like a well-worn reality... and still, the road beckons more than the destination today... and I hope every day to come.
How’s your writing going? Care to share a scene from your wip that spoke to you, tickled you, or you hope moves someone else? Care to share one that’s hitting the cutting room floor? And what’s your priority today – the road or the destination?
And guys, if you haven’t yet heard and congratulated her, head over to Ello’s and share her much deserved high point with her.
Monday, June 07, 2010
An Open Love Letter to Stephen
This week we’re celebrating Stephen Parrish, at The Year of Parrish. It’s a weeklong extravaganza with games and blog parties and probably a bit of cyber debauchery (if I know this crowd, more than a bit). I could say that it’s an attempt to bask in the light that is Stephen, or share with him his more than deserved success... but mostly, it’s to fuck with him make him feel shiny and happy.
I could tell you that he’s a brilliant writer. You would already know that if you read his blog or, better yet, devoured his debut novel. That’s not the real reason so many bloggers and writers, people who’ve never met the man face-to-face, came out in the blog-o-sphere with every intention of making him feel spiffy. Hell, there are some damn fine writers out there and I’ll certainly buy their books... but there are only a few people who would get this big of a following of true friends who’ve never met them.
I could think of more than of few examples that make Stephen a cut above the rest in the friendship department. Like the time one of our blog friends had a fire that completely destroyed his home, and it took Stephen all of a day to get up a blog to help him rebuild. That’s an extreme example. I think I’m safe in saying it’s not the only one... he’s a better friend to most of us than some of our real world friends could be.
For the writers in our little circle, his insight and wit has been priceless. He lets us piddle away our time on his blog rather than the real work of writing, and then kicks our asses for slacking off. Let me tell you, it takes a special brand of brilliance to kick your ass and make you like it.
For me, personally, Stephen’s been the best cheerleader (are ya picturing him in the short skirt with pom poms? Ya know you are). Somehow we missed each other back in the Miss Snark days, but I finally met him when I hosted a book club blog for a fellow snarkling’s debut. He was so dead on, insightful, and funny, I just had to follow him back to his own blog. And a cyber-friendship was born. From blog exchanges to emails, to pestering the hell out of him on his facebook wall, Stephen’s one of my true favorites. He’ll give you the real deal, with a bit of humor. And in the solitary world of writing, he’s been one of the bastions of community and understanding that keeps a lot of us trudging through it.
He’s always good for a word of praise or silliness, and sometimes he’ll just pop me an email to check if I’m writing, if I’m holding my own with the whole life sucks and when is it my turn dammit thing, to pass on a word of praise or heads up for someone else in our little cyber world. I’ve got to say, it’s more than once that Stephen’s emailed out of the blue with a back-pat at just the right time. Because really, if someone as brilliant as Stephen thinks I can write, maybe he’s onto something.
So, Stephen, my friend, enjoy your week of festivities. Bask in your much-deserved success. It’s been an honor to take this leg of the journey with you, and I can’t wait to see how far you’ll go. Yer gonna be famous.
I could tell you that he’s a brilliant writer. You would already know that if you read his blog or, better yet, devoured his debut novel. That’s not the real reason so many bloggers and writers, people who’ve never met the man face-to-face, came out in the blog-o-sphere with every intention of making him feel spiffy. Hell, there are some damn fine writers out there and I’ll certainly buy their books... but there are only a few people who would get this big of a following of true friends who’ve never met them.
I could think of more than of few examples that make Stephen a cut above the rest in the friendship department. Like the time one of our blog friends had a fire that completely destroyed his home, and it took Stephen all of a day to get up a blog to help him rebuild. That’s an extreme example. I think I’m safe in saying it’s not the only one... he’s a better friend to most of us than some of our real world friends could be.
For the writers in our little circle, his insight and wit has been priceless. He lets us piddle away our time on his blog rather than the real work of writing, and then kicks our asses for slacking off. Let me tell you, it takes a special brand of brilliance to kick your ass and make you like it.
For me, personally, Stephen’s been the best cheerleader (are ya picturing him in the short skirt with pom poms? Ya know you are). Somehow we missed each other back in the Miss Snark days, but I finally met him when I hosted a book club blog for a fellow snarkling’s debut. He was so dead on, insightful, and funny, I just had to follow him back to his own blog. And a cyber-friendship was born. From blog exchanges to emails, to pestering the hell out of him on his facebook wall, Stephen’s one of my true favorites. He’ll give you the real deal, with a bit of humor. And in the solitary world of writing, he’s been one of the bastions of community and understanding that keeps a lot of us trudging through it.
He’s always good for a word of praise or silliness, and sometimes he’ll just pop me an email to check if I’m writing, if I’m holding my own with the whole life sucks and when is it my turn dammit thing, to pass on a word of praise or heads up for someone else in our little cyber world. I’ve got to say, it’s more than once that Stephen’s emailed out of the blue with a back-pat at just the right time. Because really, if someone as brilliant as Stephen thinks I can write, maybe he’s onto something.
So, Stephen, my friend, enjoy your week of festivities. Bask in your much-deserved success. It’s been an honor to take this leg of the journey with you, and I can’t wait to see how far you’ll go. Yer gonna be famous.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Great Advice from Stephen Parrish - Get Mad
Yippie and double yippie! I might even squee, except that Stephen detests the squee and so I must keep that under wraps. *mutters to self and squees a bit anyway*
Today, I’m thrilled to offer up a guest post by one of my favorite new authors, Stephen Parrish. You can find out more about his debut novel, The Tavernier Stones, by stopping at the site – and you know, the man is giving away a one carat diamond, so you might want to check that out.
But this post isn’t so much about the book (which is flippin’ fantastic and if you don’t check it out you’re missing it. Missing it, and all of your friends will have loved it and there you’ll sit with nothing to say or amuse yourself with except perhaps pocket lint. And treasure hunting cartography wrapped in the most fabulous prose is a far sight better than pocket lint... plus, did I mention the diamond?) This post is to introduce you to Stephen, and it's a little treat for those of us who follow him regularly. Okay, here’s Steve:
A Time For Getting Mad
I got into the habit of shooting pool with an employee I'll call Jeannie. Jeannie and I traveled widely together on business, and since she was passionate about billiards, wherever we went we had to find the nearest table and play. I'm no slouch with a stick, but Jeannie was quite a bit better. Enough so that if we shot an evening of eight ball she should, by rights, have won four out of five times.
For a long time, she never won at all. We played against each other in the U.S. and in various European countries. Everywhere we went, everywhere there was a table, we played. Often other employees would gather round to watch. It didn't help Jeannie's cause that she was competing against her boss, but her biggest problem was a lack of confidence.
The first time we racked the balls I told her: "You're better than me. I've seen you play. But you're going to lose tonight. The reason you're going to lose is because you know you're going to lose."
And lose she did. Over and over. She'd run the table and miss the eight ball. I'd take my time knocking my balls down, while she missed the eight ball again and again. Or scratched. She'd get frustrated, because she knew she'd played better than me, often much better.
I taunted her: "You know you're going to lose. That's why you lose. I'm absolutely sure I'm going to win. That's why I win." And true to prophecy, no matter how close she came to winning a game, she'd find a way to choke.
Now, before you judge me too harshly, Jeannie needed a lesson in confidence, and she needed to learn it the hard way; we'd discussed her problem, which reached well beyond the pool table. I believed in my heart I was helping her. Turned out, in the end, I was right.
"You're programmed to lose," I told her. "It's all in your head."
She got mad. First at me, naturally, but it didn't do any good; I just laughed. Then at herself. One night in Florida, in a pool hall atop a swanky high rise, with a dozen colleagues gathered to watch, she figured out what to do with her anger.
"How many games would you like to lose tonight?" I asked her.
Instead of her usual tight-lipped silence as she racked the balls (losers always rack), this time she said loud and clear, to me, her boss, in front of everyone:
"Fuck you."
I don't know how many times she beat me that night. Maybe ten. I didn't win a single game. She shot with crisp authority, gliding around the table, calling her shots in a calm, determined voice, "Seven, corner," hitting the eight ball extra hard into the pocket to put an exclamation mark on the game. Spectators chanted, "Jean-nie! Jean-nie!" Hollywood couldn't have scripted it better.
We played occasionally after that. I rarely won.
With apologies for the long lead-in, there came a time during my submission process when I got mad. First at the whole publishing industry, naturally, but it did no good. Then at myself, for allowing even the smallest moments of self doubt.
I decided to put the anger to good use. I let it shape my thinking. I've paid my dues, I decided. I would continue to seek criticism and to rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite, but from now on, anyone who turns me down is passing up an opportunity.
I changed my query letter. It had previously come across like a hat-in-hand request for consideration, rather than an introduction to who I was and what I was offering. I changed the opening line: "Hello," I wrote, "my name is Stephen Parrish." Thankfully I never had to tell anyone what Jeannie ended up having to tell me.
Write with confidence and authority. Neither Shakespeare nor a million monkeys can tell your story the way you tell it. Expect offers, not rejections. When the time comes, and you'll know it's time, just get mad.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
A Literary (and literal) Treasure
The awesomeness that is Stephen Parrish is hosting a contest in honor of the release of his debut novel, The Tavernier Stones. But this is not just any contest – it’s a Treasure Hunt! The first one to figure out all the clues and make it to the finish line wins a real one carat diamond. Not too shabby at all!
The Tavernier Stones is available for order now – I’m betting that the novel is a treasure in itself. I haven’t read it yet (off to order my copy and hope the postman isn't bogged down with tax returns), but I’ve been a fan of Stephen’s for a long time now, and if the book’s half as brilliant as he is, it’s sure to be fabulous. You’ll need a copy in order to work out the clues and, you know, because you just have to read it.
Here’s what Stephen’s website has to say about the novel:
“When the well-preserved body of 17th century mapmaker, Johannes Cellarius, floats to the surface of a bog in northern Germany, and a 57 carat ruby rolls out of his fist, treasure hunters from around the globe race to find the Lost Tavernier Stones of popular European folklore.
According to legend, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier was robbed of a priceless hoard while returning from his final voyage to the Orient in 1689. The hoard reputedly includes some of the world’s most notorious missing jewels. Among them the 280 carat Great Mogul Diamond and the 242 carat Great Table Diamond, the largest diamonds ever unearthed whose whereabouts are unknown.
John Graf is an Amish-born cartographer who has never ventured out of Pennsylvania, let alone embarked on an international treasure hunt. David Freeman is a gemologist who has done his share of prospecting, but little of it within the boundaries of the law. Between them, they have all the expertise necessary to solve the mystery. They also have enough differences to derail even the best of partnerships. And ahead are more obstacles: fortune seekers equally qualified and every bit as determined.
The race spans two continents. The finish line is in Idar-Oberstein, the gemstone capital of Germany. There, in chambers beneath an old church, where unspeakable events took place in centuries past, winners and losers alike find answers to age-old questions about the Lost Tavernier Stones.”
Run now, and order your copy, or head on over to The Tavernier Stones Site and check out the about page, to see what other fine stores will be carrying this very cool novel.
So, what do you say, guys? Anyone up for a treasure hunt?
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