No longer my home

I am abandoning this poor, unloved blog for a new one.

http://itsmaryannlewis.blogspot.com/
Please visit me there.  Thank you for checking in!

Writing Time: 8:34 pm until 8:58 pm
Word Count: 240 words
Feeling:  Late start to hard work day, hubby working, laundry and dishes.  However, it went very smooth.  Now, on to homework.

Writing Time: 7:36 pm until 8:10 pm
Word Count: 315 words
Feeling: I finished Chapter 3 yesterday (for which I forgot to post a word count). Tonight, I started Chapter 4. My friend, L, offered to read my chapters, though she wasn't sure she could give feedback. Give my prior behavior, I don't blame her. I can be a horrible monster, so I told her it wasn't necessary. I would love to have her feedback, but I'd rather keep what little friendship we've rekindled.

Possible wrong questions

I had a weird experience at my last writer's group.  When asked to introduce myself, I ran through my usual list.  The group's fearless leader, B, asked what I was working on.  I explained that I was running through an edit on my spec script, shopping my short story around for a publisher, and starting to edit my novel.

"How many pages is your novel?" asked a member.

"I don't know."

"What is the word count on your novel?" asked the group's fearless leader.

"I don't know."

No one asked what my novel was about.  Only two of the present members had heard me read part of my chapter at the last meeting.

Am I weird or were those the wrong questions?

Sorting through

I am sorting through all the electronic documents I rescued from my back-up CDs (starting with my Creative Writing class at University of Michigan in 1993 to my last round of short story submissions in 2007).  To date, this is my favorite name of a document I've found:

Question:  What kind of writer hates everything that writer has written? 

Homework

Though I have not posted of my last few writers group, the meetups have gone very well.  So well, in fact, that the organizer, Brent, has opted for meeting every week for a while - just to see how it goes.  The last three meetings have been about writing/editing your novel.  Monday's up-coming gathering is called, "Show-off Night."  Members are being asked to bring their best works to present to the gang.

If placed on the spot, before a firing squad, with bazooka-sized rounds that would cut me in two, and asked what my favorite thing was I ever wrote, my diet would go so much better.  I would lose half my weight immediately.

Brent has read several passages from his self-published books.  Keiti never fails to pull up an autobiographical fiction piece.  Everyone has stuff printed out or on their e-readers/laptops.  If I poke through my folders on my laptop, I cringe at everything I find.  When I work up the courage to open a document, I cannot read it.  My eyes unfocus.  The letters on the page blur.  I turn away, clicking the red X before I do permanent damage.

I love what I write when I'm writing it.  While most days, writing tends to be a "ice needle in the eye" painful, I never fail to feel wonderful after I'm done.  I love the high after creating.

"I hate writing, but I love having written."  - Dorothy Parker

I cannot find a quote to explain why I stop loving my work after I abandon it (Picasso said no work is ever done, and that's how I feel).  I never look back. Once the umbilicord is cut, I kick the kids out the door to survive on their own like some ancient lizard.

That can't be healthy, for me or my stories.

So, tonight and tomorrow, I'm digging up the past.  I rolling in the old worlds.  I'm reading my old work.

How much booze can you send?

Writing Group - Writing Exercise - August 18, 2014

First, create a character, give him/her a goal and then write attempts about getting a goal.  Then, someone counters against his/her goal with just as much cleverness/strength.

---

It couldn’t stay there.  It couldn’t.  The people walked through the museum with their drinks and food from the snack shop; they would drop crumbs and spill drinks.  And if anyone spent any time watching the maintenance crew, with their unwashed bins and rice-paper-thin plastic gloves, they would know that the floor, the benches and the handrails were never clean.

Not really clean.  Not like they should be.

And when the air conditioning clicked on, I watched dust and mold flutter through the air as little specs in streaming sunlight.  It made me want to scream.

How could I leave George Washington’s pocket watch, the one Martha gave him after he retired from his presidency, in such filth?  Seriously, how could I?

I know what my doctor would say.  He would say I was imagining the filth because of my condition.  He would tell me that I was hyperly aware of the lack of proper cleaning fluids and proper application of said cleaning fluids because of my OCD.  He would write me another prescription.  He would try to have me read another book.

But I’m not crazy.  And I’m not a slave to my compulsions.  I have valid reasons for staking out the museum.  There’s a purpose to my timing the guards and learning their names and habits.  The cause is just and righteous, even if I am the only one to see it.

Slipping in when the night janitor took the trash out the back door was simple.  He was a retired security guard who should’ve been home enjoying his retirement and his grandchildren.  His Coke-bottle glasses hid me from his line of sight as I turned sideways and walked through the closing metal door in the back.  

I stopped to allow my eyes to adjust, even though I knew it was fourteen steps to the next door.  I had walked the make-shift floor plan in my grandmother’s garage.  Once I could see the shipping crates and empty garbage bins, I made my way to the set of doors that lead to the main, maintenance hallway.  It wasn’t alarmed yet, so I turned the handle and walked in.

The hallway led past the offices of the security guards and minor administrators.  Lights were off except for the few screen savers from the computers on ratty, disgustingly filthy desks.  Ugh.  I felt the muscles in my arms and shoulders twitch as the thought floated to my head.  Clean.  I could clean the desks.  Maybe if I cleaned everything, George Washington’s pocket watch wouldn’t be at risk of deteriorating into history.

No.  I had to stay focused.  I had to stay on task.  Even if I cleaned the desks up, even if I cleaned the whole museum, these animals would only drag their putridity back.  It would start all over again.

I picked the lock at the end of the hall.  It was a standard office lock - I found one online on eBay.  It wasn’t as clean as mine, but I practiced in surgical gloves so I was finished before the janitor was back in the building.

The main hall was quiet.  I’ve never heard such quiet before.  It caught me off guard, leaving my brain to fill the silence with thoughts of what needed to be done and how fast it needed to be done.  My heart rate picked up as I shifted the messenger bag hanging on my shoulder.

I had four minutes before the janitor would call it a night and lock me in.  I didn’t have much time.

“Darin, stop.”

The voice echoed through the room like someone yelling into the Grand Canyon. I jumped.  My sneakers squeaked against the floor as I landed and turned all the way around.  For a second, I thought maybe I had finally cracked.  That maybe all those things the police said about me were true.

And then George Washington stepped from the shadows.

“Darin, you don’t need to do this.”  He stood in one of the security’s lights, but out of the reach of cameras.  I froze where I stood.  Was this what it was like to go crazy?

“I -” I stopped speaking because my mouth ran dry. What do you say to the first president of the United States?  Even if he was wearing ratty Nike running shoes.

Wait a minute.  I knew those shoes.

“George?”  Ironically enough, there was a guy named George in my group.  He had shoes just like the ones on George Washington.

“Yeah,” he said.  He laughed that weird little quiet laugh of his that sounded more like wheezing that laughter.  “It’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”  I rattled my brain for why George was in group.  He was thin with a big nose.  He chewed his cuticles until they were red, but he stopped short of making them bleed.  I could see him slouched in his chair with his legs kicked out into the center of the circle of chairs.  With those shoes.

“I couldn’t let you do,” he said.  He took another step towards me.  “You’re a good guy, Darin.  The next time they catch you, you will go to jail.  For a long time this time.  You won’t make it.”

“They wouldn’t catch me.”

“If I figured it out, the cops would too.”

It hit me.  George was a single obsessive.  He stalked his last boyfriend to the point of ending up in group rather than do jail time.  He didn’t attack him or break into his house, which the police knew about, but there was notebooks filled with schedules, pictures and drawings when he was picked up.

“Listen, George, we have about three minutes to get the pocket watch and get out of here.”  As I took a step towards the other end of the gallery, I watched George match it.  We did our cha-cha for another half-a-dozen steps before I stopped.

“Darin, we could get out of here now. You and me.  Go somewhere nice.”  He smiled.  “I’ll buy you dinner.”

(I ran out of time.  So, yeah, sudden stop)

The Serious Writers Group

Serious.  We did serious writing.  Would you like to see?

Prompt:  Write a scene in dialogue of someone accusing another of being crazy and the other denying it.

“Are you crazy?”
“Easy.”
“You can’t take the corner that fast!”
“Hold on.”
“They’re still behind us.”
“I know.”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“Kind of.  Mostly away from them.”
“What kind of get away driver are you?”
“The kind you hired.  Cheap.”
“Oh, shit.  Oh, shit, Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
“We’re good.”
“That’s a red light.”
“I know.”
“There’s traffic.”
“I know.”
“OH MY GOD!  AAAAAAHHHHH!”
“No problem.  Are they still behind us?”
“Hang on. I have to remember how to breathe first.”
“Let’s get on the freeway.”
“No.  No, don’t.  We’ll get stuck in traffic.”
“No, we won’t.”
“We lost one of them.  The other’s still coming.”
“I don’t hear them.”
“I don’t think the siren’s on.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.  It’s just not a good sign.  Hang on.”
“Watch out for that ditch!”
“It’s not that bad.  We made it across the median.”
“Yeah, without our back bummer.  They’ll be able to make us for sure.”
“If they catch it.”
“Woah.  Watch out.  Look out!  Yikes!”
“Okay, freeway was a bad idea.  Let’s get off.”
“Let me out.”
“Do you want to get caught?”
“Yes.  The money we pulled from the bank isn’t worth this risk.”
“The cops think so.”
“Well, that’s their job.”
“Hang on!”
“Are you nuts?  We won’t fit through there.”
“Yes, we will.”
“No, no, we won’t.  Slow down.  Turn around. Stop!  Stop the car!”
“No, watch.”
“I’m not watching.  I’m covering my eyes.”
“Chicken.”
“Is it over yet?”
“Yes.  And guess who isn’t following?”
“Are you kidding?  Did you lose them?”
“Yep.”
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
“Man, you’re good.”
“Told you.”
“Where we going now?”
“Back to the hideout.  You have cash to count so you can pay me.”
“About that.  See, the teller got the silent alarm before I got all the cash I thought I would get.”
“What are you saying?”
“We may have to renegotiate your fee.”
“My fee.”
“Yeah, see, there isn’t enough here to really cover costs, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Looks like enough to me.”
“Well, yeah, but there’s not really enough for both of us, so I thought since you’re only the driver, you could take a cut.”
“Only the driver.”
“Yeah.”
“All right.  Listen, we should get the money out of that bag.  I have one in the back seat that should work.”
“Where?”
“Take your seat belt off.  Look.”
“Oh, here it is.  Wait, what are you doing?  No, don’t!  Don’t!  Slow down first before you push me out the door!”
“Sorry about this.  My fee is non-negotiable.”
“Wait!  Wait!  We can talk about this!”
“No, we can’t.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Apparently, I am.”

I'm practicing for my radio play.  How'd I do?

I hate being proven wrong

From an AIM chat transcript with my friend, Laura:

Me:  Draft 13 of my short story is done.  *sighs* How sad is that?
Laura:  Lol! Actually, I think that makes you normal.
Me: I dare you to find me another published writer who has done 13 drafts.
Laura:  http://blog.karenwoodward.org/2012/12/how-many-drafts-does-it-take-to-write.html?m=1
Me: Well, fine.
Laura:  *g*
Me:  >:-P

Granted, Karen Woodward talks about novels in her blog, it was refreshing to see someone who uses a multi-draft system to complete her work.  Of course, I wonder how long it takes to run through her mult-draft system.

My husband sleeps next to me in bed.  He woke at 4 am this morning, as he tends to do the first morning off his third shift schedule.  I pick at my script, slowly but surely, while the first season of Sherlock plays on the bedroom telly.

I have NEW IDEA for when the short story is done (by Monday, at the latest.  I am presenting it to the writers group).  And once the script is done, I am shifting back to novel mode - even though it terrifies me to death.  After the last review of my short story came back from the Clarion editor, I realized I do suck at editing my own work.

The Clarion editor made the simplest suggestion to improve my story - and I kick myself still for not seeing it.  It was the best advice I have ever received on my work.  And yet, I'm ashamed it had to be given.  The next group of skills I need to work on is editing.  And I don't believe I will have any help from the writers group on that.  Its fearless leader gives his novels one pass before setting it off to a beta reader.  Once those corrections are made, he self-publishes through Amazon.

Call me old fashion and crazy, but I would like my second novel to be published by an actual publishing house.  I don't know why it is a dream, but it always has been.

I hear what you're saying.  "Second novel?"  I doubt I will possess the skills to properly edit my first novel for circulation.  However, I should be ready to go by the time I finish draft zero of my second novel.

Well, back to it.  Hubby snores.  It's the perfect backdrop sound for the script.

Writers Groups

Please note the plural in the subject line.  Yes, I have managed to find myself in not only one but two writers groups.  To be fair, both groups are run by the same person, Brent.  However, the weekend group focuses more on emotional expression, or as I like to call it, play time.  Brent provided four prompts and we wrote for five to ten minutes on each.  

Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 1: Fear

The waiting room’s air conditioner was broken, obviously.  Not only did she wipe the sweat from her forehead, pushing her brown bangs to the side, she saw several other patients waiting do the same.  The rather plump man with the heavy metal band tee shirt had damp stains under his arms.  He didn’t seem to mind, she thought to herself.  He flipped through a men’s fitness magazine without much care.

“Rebecca?”  The nurse’s voice was as pert as her smile, which annoyed Rebecca all the more. Her palms were damp, but it wasn’t from the heat.  It wasn’t from the abundance of water she had been drinking in the last month.  She slung her purse on her shoulder and folded her arms over her chest and walked into the doctor’s office.

“If you wait in here, the doctor will be in with the results.”  She slipped Rebecca’s folder into the holder on examination room 3A. Se waited for the patient to enter.

“Can’t you tell me right now?”  Rebecca refused to enter.  She stopped short and stared at the nurse.  She could feel the bump through her bra.  She couldn’t decide if it felt bigger today or if it was just her imagination.

“The doctor will be by in a moment.”  The nurse touched her shoulder gently, but gave it a firm push.

For a moment, Rebecca thought about punching her right in her sharp nose.  She didn’t want to go into the room. She didn’t wait to wait.  She felt like screaming until it all made sense.  She was too young to be going through something like this.  The doctor said so at the last examine.  The surgeon said as much during the biopsy.

Too young.  She hadn’t done anything with her life.


Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 2: Anger

His slap flipped the switch.  She had sat with her legs folded under her in her favorite chair.  A library book, covered in protective plastic covering, sat in her lap.  Her white night gown kept her warm enough, even with the french doors to balcony open.  Even in the wee hours of the night, she didn’t move to wrap up in her fluffy bathrobe or climb beneath the six hundred thread count covers of her master suit bed.

She waited, passing the time with a library book because Charles wouldn’t grant her a large allowance.  According to him, she had enough for household bills, groceries, gas for the Cadillac Escalade he insist she drive, and clothes for all the parties and social functions he felt she needed.  In her walk in closet, there wasn’t one pair of Manolo Blancs that weren’t purchased without Charles’ approval.

From the canopy bed to the Italian bathroom tile, everything in her life required Charles’ approval.  But what Charles didn’t approve of was her asking where he had been all night and why didn’t he call.  She learned that his disapproval came as a slap across her face.

He flipped a switch.  He would find out what it meant to earn her disapproval.


Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 3

The first rule they teach you in mortuary science class is you can do everything wrong and you can’t get a pulse.  The second thing they tell you is the dead don’t come back to life.  It’s a hard, fact rule.  And I’m not talking about the recently dead, still hooked to machines with doctors beating on their chests.  I’m talking about the kind that have a sheet thrown over them or zipped up in a body bag type of dead.  The dead that have evacuated their bowels and stomach because muscle control is long gone.

That kind of dead.

I had works for the Schultz Funeral home for less than a month when the incident happened.  Being fresh meat, as the funeral home director Bob put it, I was on call.  If a stiff needed picking up after 10:00 pm or before 8:00 am, my cell phone received a call and I would trudge into work for the meat wagon to head off to the hospital for the body.  I would sign all the paperwork, check the toe tag, drive them back to work and slide them into one of the individual meat coolers to keep them fresh until Marg came in to do body fluid draining.

As I was tucking Mr. Simmons, ninety-one whose heart gave out after taking a viagra and watching an episode of Hot in Cleveland, in for the night, I thought I heard a noise.  A moan.  Maybe it was a creaking of some sort.  I couldn’t be sure.  And since I couldn’t be sure, my brain rationalized that I was hearing things.  However, my stomach did a flip as I walked to the board to clip up Mr. Simmons paperwork.

I heard a banging sound.  A meaty thump against metal that repeated over and and over.  I turned back to the row of stainless steel refridgerators, I could see one of the doors shimmer as if it were shaking.

Thump.  Thump. Thump.  It repeated in sets of three over and over as I stood welded to the spot.  I clipped the paper work as quietly as I could.  I walked slow, making sure each step didn’t make a noise.

Thump. Thump.  Thump.  The door shook harder.  The noise was louder.  I was closer.  I put my hand on the smooth, shiny handle. I felt the vibrations.  Maybe they taught guidelines and not rules.

Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 4: Enthusiam

“Yeah. Whatever.” She hadn’t heard what her mom said in the driver’s seat.  It didn’t matter anyway because she could tell by the way the parked cars passed outside her window that they would end up in the back forty of the stadium’s parking.  As she leaned against the passenger side, rear door, she could see that her makeup was flawless still:  black eye shadow with black eyeliner, black lipstick with black blush.  Her skin looked all the paler for it.

It had taken her three hours in the bathroom.  Three hours of washing and re-applying so her brown eyes looked darker and her skinny face looked deader.  If she hadn’t picked out her clothes and jewelry the night before, she would have never made it out the front door of her suburban home.

She shoved her hands in her black jacket pockets.  A group of girls, some with pigtails sitting high on top of their heads, walked by in patten leather boots with six inch platforms on the bottom.  They all smiled and held hands. One even skipped.

She sighed.

She pulled open the car door as soon as her mom parked.  Another group of youngsters, all sporting the band’s tee shirt and black jeans, walked past.  She pulled her hood up over her hair and slumped against the car.  One of the boys, the one with his ear pierced with a spike, asked if anyone knew who was opening for the band.

She could’ve answered.  She had all their albums, along with all the albums and imports from the band.  She could’ve told them the release dates for each number one song on the alternative chart and why their music would never be mainstream.  She could have told them the band members’ birthdates and hometowns.

She could have.  But she didn’t.  She leaned against the car and looked at her shoes while she waited for her mom to get it together.  Her stomach tightened.  She bit her lip to fight back the scream.

Expressive Writing Group doesn't critique or criticize.  There is nothing but supportive, wonderful things to be said.  And my ego-starved writer needs it.  And like I said, it's play time.

The work week group does constructive criticize and has exercises that will help develop voice, grammar, story-telling skills, etc.  It's much more serious group with the specific focus of being published (whether it's a traditional publication or self-publication).  I haven't been to one of those in a while because the meetings fell on a night when hubby worked.  However, after hearing my plight, Brent changed the date so it falls on nights my husband doesn't work so I could attend.

That made me feel good.  The next meeting is next month. I'm combing through draft thirteen of the short story so I have something to present to the group.  I'm nervous, but we'll see how it goes.

A New Book

Well, I've started a new book on writing.  It was recommended by Felicia Day on her video blog.  She seemed very excited about it.  Since she's a successful writer (I say), I figured it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the books she recommended.

Right now, I'm reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird (the link goes to Amazon).  I'm only twenty pages in, though the introduction was thirty-one pages.  So far, I like it.  She seems to be as neurotic as I am about writing - and claims that all writers are!  She hasn't read Ray Bradbury's Zen In The Art Of Writing.

It's a good book as well.  However, don't read it expecting to feel better about yourself if you're a neurotic writer.

Anyway, I like how she's framing the book though I am a little annoyed.  Since she teaches, she talks about how the students in her class seem more focused on finding an agent or submitting to a producer than they are in writing.  Frustrating to be sure.  Plus, I realize she isn't writing to me, someone who has been writing all their lives and their long lives leave them well away from college age.  She wants to make sure the young whipper-snappers stay focused on what's important:  writing and creating and improving your skills.

However, I would have liked if she acknowledged that all writers write to communicate.  So, asking about agents, publishing, etc. is still part of learning how to right.  Sure, learn to write first - but what's the point if no one is going to read it?

Also, I am throwing out the advice of "set a time and stick to it", i.e., when it comes to writing.  I can't.  My life doesn't flow that way and my guilt won't let me make it.  I am learning to write at work and write at home in the kitchen and in my writing office and in bed and in the bath if need be.  Sure a set time to sit in front of a blank screen sounds ideal - but ideal never flies straight or true when up against real life.

Anyway, that is as far as I have gotten.  I'll keep you posted.

Oh, and I'm back in writers' group.  I went to my second meeting last weekend.  It went well.

Solution

All right. I have turned the problem of not having a circle of writers or a writers group over and over in my mind.  During my walkies on Saturday (because, yes, I have to walk myself.  No one else will do it.), I had this stroke of genius strike me as I strolled passed newly shorn trees (I am still bitter about the lovely, terribly old birch trees the condo associated decided to sacrifice on the altar of the manager's boyfriend).  I could buy two or three volleyballs and paint faces on them.  They could be my writers group.

I have enough voices in my head.  It just might work.  What do you think, web spiders that browse my site?  My Also... post has received the most views to date.  Eleven.  I'm on my way now.

Also....

I was excited to see that eleven bots buzzed my blog on April 29th.

So, this is the thing........

I have read many, many books on writing. I have read countless websites on writing. I have gone to writing groups and writing classes, both collegiate and iconoclastic.  While I doubt not the volume of knowledge and understanding I have yet to learn, I can feel my feet under firm earth.  I know how to walk and talk.  My wings are strong.  I can leave the nest.

Yet, I stand on the edge and flap.  One piece of repeated advice I cannot seem to master:  writers group.  I cannot seemingly keep up a relationship with a writer.  And because I cannot stand outside myself and judge my performance, I have no idea why.

One writer, whom I invested time in listening to his process and perception, yelled at me for unbidden support. How dare I cheer his progress?

I've had relationships with writers.  One was close.  I cherished it, until one day the "constructive" criticism came in the form of an unfounded insight.  Now, I will say, the insight struck me from out of the blue like lightening.  It hurt. A lot.  I took a year off from writing to attempt to correct my fallacy, which wasn't a waste because, in the long run, it made me a better writing.

However, what's that old sitcom adage?  If everyone has a problem with you, then the problem is you.

I know it's me.  It has to be me.  If I could only see the plank in my eye to pull it out.