Want to write a novel? Let's get started!

WRITING CONTEST #12

DEADLINE: SEPTEMBER 3rd

WRITING CONTEST: Every Monday a new, interesting vocabulary word will be posted here, as well as a sentence using that word.

Your job is to create and post a new, better sentence in the comment box, using the same word. Yes, you may change the form of the word. Yes, I'll be the judge. Yes, I am a subjective judge  ( I like clever or funny, I hate bigotry).

The winning sentence will be announced here the following Monday.

THIS WEEK'S WORD:    ~ hell ~

SENTENCE TO BEAT:  I walked downstairs into the eighth circle of swamp gas hell; the dog, a doddering springer spaniel, looked at me, forlorn, ashamed and, above all, desperate to go the bathroom . . . again.

TELL ME ABOUT HELL. Click here:  Smart Mouth

Please God

My lips turned white. My lungs were frozen. I hit “send.”

Today I sent off my novel to an acquisition editor at one of the Big Six. She liked the first fifty pages. Let’s see if she’ll like the book. Please, god, let her like the book.

When my husband came home, I told him. He nodded, smiled, said, “That’s great. I love you, Honey.” One minute later, he said, “Oh, did you hear that the neighbor is looking to hire someone to clean her house once a week?”

Stab. Stab.

Please, god, let her like the book. 

The Tooth Fairy Lie

My boy lost his third tooth yesterday, leaving him with the quintessential gap-toothed smile. My own little Dennis the Menace. At bedtime, he carefully prepared his tooth and a letter for the Tooth Fairy.

He wrote “How does one become a tooth fairy?” Damn. That was hard to answer at 10 o’clock at night, one glass (alright, two) of wine down. I could have left his missive unanswered, start to prepare him for the string of disappointments and unsolved quandaries he’ll face in his lifetime. Or I could have left a short sentence, like “Santa picked me out of a lineup.” Instead, I wrote a full page response, masking my handwriting by using cursive for the first time since fourth grade. I mean, if I was going to do this, I had to go all out, right? Hence the creamy bonded paper and letterhead.

The bit that created the most conversation? The line “Magic is real.” Wow. So far today my six-year-old has wanted to discuss rainbows, cross-pollination, oxygen in water, love, diamonds, the sense of smell, skin's ability to heal, a heart’s internal workings, energy transfer, how sperm collide with an egg and – voila - life starts. These concepts can all be explained by science, sure, until you get to “why?” Why. Follow out “why” with a long string of cause and effect, but at some point . . . why. Because. Magic is real. 

Perhaps I'm doing the boy a disservice by drawing out a fib which will be revealed in a few years, only to also reveal myself a liar. But I don't think so. In the minute, he's happy the Tooth Fairy took the time to answer him. In the big picture, there was no lie. Magic is real.  

I'm (very slightly) famous!

One of my short stories, An Instrument of Time, is published!! Yeah for me!!! The magazine is beautiful and quirky, a collection of words I'm proud to be part of. I've added the Amazon.com link in case you're interested in getting a hard copy or kindle version. 

Here's the blurb about the mag: American Athenaeum takes its name from the first literary journal published in London in 1798 by August Wilhelm and Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel called Athenaeum. We strive to offer a kaleidoscope of voices, not by publishing the best or most literary, but through providing a diverse web of voices that represents the common person. Whether writers know it out not, they are influenced by the world around them. Each shares a slightly different worldview and experience into their writing. And just as we can know, understand, and learn through the voices of the past, it is our hope that through this publication, each of our smaller worlds will grow a little bigger. American Athenaeum is a cultural magazine that features fiction, poetry, essays, opinion, author book reviews, and other literary contributions. Each journal explores the world of words like a patron explores a museum—by offering a view of the past, right up until the present. We consider this journal to be a museum of artistic endeavors, filled with cultural appreciation and stories that not only teach, but demonstrate the frailty of the human condition.

http://www.amazon.com/Colossus-American-Athenaeum-Museum-Words/dp/1477631348/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1344958600&sr=8-2&keywords=Colossus%3A+American+Athenaeum

http://www.amazon.com/Colossus-American-Athenaeum-ebook/dp/B008U8YPSW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1344958600&sr=8-1&keywords=Colossus%3A+American+Athenaeum

You're about to get book-slapped

A couple of boys pried the Gentle Ben bear statue from its moorings in Morey Park last week. Then they left it in a ditch. Prodigious example of ingenuity and strength aside, those asshats were willing to destroy, figuratively and literally, the character created by author Walt Morey. Why are people so willing to steal beauty from the world? Hammer it out of existence, if necessary.

Walt Morey. I met him once, a white haired man, seemingly ancient to an eight year old. He slouched comfortably in the small town library, well-versed in the hub-bub of kids in love with his big bear, and his Kavik the wolf-dog, and his Sandy the cougar . . . oh, his books were worn and battered by many grimy fingers at our elementary school. 

I sat cross-legged in the crowd at his feet, barely listening as he talked, imagining instead the courage it would take to talk to him, the questions I wanted to ask. I’d set my alarm an hour earlier that morning, giving myself enough time to french braid my hair, slide on white tights and a ruffly dress, a skosh too small but the only piece of clothing good enough for the god of books (I’ve acquired a pantheon of book gods since, Morey among the first). Crinkled in my be-skirted lap, I clutched my own manuscript, a twelve-page booklet filled with crayon illustrations and loopy cursive exhorting the wonders of running. I repeatedly wiped my palms on the library carpet so as not to soak the paper with sweat.

Finally, he finished. The kids jostled and jiggled and jacked around, swarming over their teachers, freed from the agony of sitting still. I sat. Walt Morey, leaning against his stool, just looked at me, not saying a word. He waited. When the room hung with silence, I creaked open my lips.

“I want to be a writer.”

Morey sighed. He crossed his arms, ran a hand through his hair. “Honey, I bet you can write. But spend most of your time reading. Reading. That’s what really counts. Then, later, you’ll be ready to write.”

Then he left.

I didn’t get a chance to show him my book.

He was right. Is right. Reading is a gift to the reader on every level. Humans -- from beach readers to anthology readers to aspiring writers – are given the ability to see the insides of another human being. I’ve never sweltered in an Ethiopia heat but I was THERE while reading Cutting for Stone. I’ve never clung to the side of boiling volcano but I was THERE with Frodo. I will never vote for a member of the Bush family but I was THERE with Laura Bush in her biography.

I strive to achieve the level of storytelling Morey hit, mark after mark, but I’m extraordinarily grateful I AM a reader. And this reader would like to find the two bear-vandalizing ignoramuses (ignarami?), leave them with book-sized dents on their foreheads.

On being a prostitute.

I prostituted myself out this weekend. It was great.

Sure, I didn't make much money (actually, I spent an ass load), but I looked good. I wore a dress for the  first time since 1982, pink fingernail polish for the first time since . . . ever, and spanx. That's right. Spanx. I couldn't breathe but I couldn't jiggle, either.

I attended a writer's conference and sold myself. I pretended to be a peppy, people-lovin' smart ass, afraid of nothin', struttin' my stuff like a sweet tiger. I drew people in with my charisma, hooked 'em on my charm, delighted them with stories of my genius writing. All the while wishing I had on a diaper because I was pretty sure I was going to loose it any second. I mean, I can be as confident as the next guy, but pitching my book to the powers-that-hold-my-financial-life-in-their-hands was straight up terrifying. Anyone looking closely could see my shirt move with the thump of my heart.

Having said that, I learned more in that three-day period than I have along this whole publishing journey. For one, I finally understand what it means to pitch to an agent or editor, what it takes to get them to like your book. The big secret? They have to like you first. Introverted writers need to become actors, channeling their inner DiNero or Pfieffer. The meek will not inherit this world.

Just so you know, I walked away with some flesh under my nails. Two acquisition editors and two agents asked me to send them my manuscript. Damn. I feel good. I watched the show and figured out how to emulate the best; coaching speakers for fifteen years didn't hurt, either. Now I can pitch like a pro.

A hundred strangers did see me in my pajamas, hair askew, this weekend, but that's a different story.