Officially Published

I can say,
with more than a little pride,
that I am now a paid, published writer.

Last night, at The Rivoli,
I read Memère Rosa.
I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be.
Though I did ask TH if he could see me quivering.
My hands didn't shake,
but my legs were like Jello the entire time!
He assured me it wasn't noticeable.
Then again, he does have a Shallow Hal complex,
and thinks I'm a size 2.
God bless him!

Which brings me to this snapshot:



Sadly, it's the best picture of the lot.
I'm not talking about the fact that it's out of focus.
That's because the room was dark,
and we don't have a high end camera.

I'm talking about the fact that
I need to have a conversation with TH
and explain that he needs to work on
taking pictures that don't
accentuate my muffin top.
Cuz the bottom two-thirds of that picture
have been cropped.

And burned.

I do have great pics of the anthology, though.





Look! That's me, right there on Page 27.



The audience was great:
they laughed in the right places,
and clapped loudly at the end.

It was perfect!

Shout out to
Lady Fairchilde, Robi, M'Licious and Bobby-Jo
who came out to heckle support me,
and even one of the associates from the office.

A special thanks to Vikki Summerfield who pushed me to write,
and harasses me on a daily basis,
for more pieces to record for Life Rattle Radio.

And, of course...TH...
who puts up with the usual crap
that a writer's spouse puts up with.
Probaby more.

No...definitely more.

The Eye of the Beholder

As you know, I'm taking a writing class.
I don't know what I expected to take away from it,
but I can tell you I'm a little disappointed.

I've taken some workshops,
and I've entered several competitions.
In every case, I have received positive critiques.

The first story I wrote for my class,
was a coming-of-age piece with some Canadiana.
My professor loved it.

Then again, he's a Canadian author,
who proudly waves the flag for the home town.

I get it.
I should be proud to be Canadian.
And I am.
But if any Canadian author is honest,
they'll admit they want to break into the American market.
It's where fame and fortune resides.

I thought I'd flex a little on the second story.
It was a rewrite of an older piece.

He panned it.

I was down for days after that.
Not because he butchered it.
I'm OK with that.
I was upset because it bothered me.
I thought I could take criticism better than that.

But after a few days of moping,
it occured to me he was wrong.
That piece was good.
I had completely rewritten it for a competition.
The result was that I was short-listed and,
although I didn't win, to me, that says an awful lot.

I made further edits for the class and it was much tighter,
far better than my original piece,
and better than the competition entry.

Perhaps I wouldn't have felt as bad about his criticism
if I hadn't received such a glowing critique from the competition.
But they told me it was good,
good enough to be sent to the final judge.

And my prof wasn't impressed.

So, for my last submission,
I wrote something just for him.
Well ... not really.
I wrote it for the Life Rattle radio programme,
but I knew he'd like it.

I read it in class,
giving a disclaimer before I began:
"I have yet to read this story without crying,
so bear with me."
Everyone nodded.
And I cried.

He loved it.
The few amendments he suggested were good technical changes.

And then he panned someone else's piece.
It was a great piece,
similar to my style of writing,
and definitely not the prof's.

Which cemented it for me.
It's not me--or us, rather.
It's him.


I sent TH a text:

Me: On break. He loved the story. Figures. And he panned another guys story that was brilliant.

TH: Great literature = Mad Magazine.

Short and Stout

I've been fighting a cold for a few days.

But by the end of Tuesday's class
I started feeling worse.
Uh-oh.
When I woke up yesterday,
I was feeling pretty craptacular.
Hence my FaceBook status update.

My friend, Carrie, suggested I get a Neti Pot.
I've been thinking about getting one
for a while.
And thanks, Carrie, for reminding me.
My head is pretty fuzzy right now
and I can barely remember how to get home.

If you don't know what a Neti Pot is,
check this out:



Now, before you ask ...
and I know ya'll are thinking this ...
I am NOT going to video-tape myself doing this.
Don't even bother asking.

It wasn't uncomfortable at all,
just ... an odd sensation.
I have to admit that
it did clear out my sinuses
and I was able to breath again.

The entire time I was doing it, though,
I had "I'm a Little Tea Pot"
running through my head.
Mine does look like a wee tea pot.

This is the one I bought:



Sadly, it doesn't cure the cold,
and I feel like several heaps of crap today.
I can breath, but I'm coughing like crazy.
GTB got a glimpse of that on the train this morning.
It's worse now.

I already told Boss #2 I'm going home early.

The real stinker in all of this
is that I booked tomorrow off
so I could hang with my sisters.
We're meeting for breakfast at Cora's,
then some serious retail therapy.

BJ mentioned that she wanted
to pick up something
(I don't remember what it is now...
give me a break...I'm sick!)
and I know that I want to pick up some books.
Alex is always up for the bookstore!

I hope I don't make them sick.
And if I do,
I'm really sorry, girls,
but I need me some girl time
and I'm not cancelling.
Dammit!

Oh ... we got homework, by the way.
Basically we have to start writing our stories.
I finished my 'Postcard' story.
Go check it out.

It's a School Night

I starting my writing class tonight.
It was supposed to start January 12,
but was postponed to tonight.

Our instructor is Richard Scarsbrook,
author of
The Cheeseburger Subversive,
Featherless Bipeds,
Destiny's Telescope, and
The Monkeyface Chronicles.

I've read Cheeseburger--
twice, in fact--
and it was great.
A wonderful coming-of-age story.
I kept picturing TH
the entire time I read it.

I'm beyond excited about this class.
Rich sent us the course outline.

We are expected to write:

A 'Postcard' Story - 250 words
A 'Short-Short' Story - 750 words
A Short Story - 2500-5000 words
Then...
one final, edited and revised version
of one of the assignments
to be included in a class anthology.

Awesome!

I hope we get homework tonight.

Another Rejection

I've entered a few writing competitions.
I try to enter ones that will give you back a critique.
How are you supposed to improve, otherwise?

I really like the Abbey Hill competitions.
They give you a prompt
and basically tell you to run with it.
The catch (if you can call it that)
is that the story MUST begin with the prompt.
Verbatim.
Or you're disqualified.

My first submission received a good critique.
They made positive suggestions,
which I incorporated into my next submission.

Although I didn't win,
I received another great critique:

"This was a compelling story with a crisp, surprise ending that was well hidden by the author over the course of the narration. Several sentences, paragraphs and descriptions were particularly attention getting, especially as related to Venom’s appearance, gross and/or threatening actions, smell, etc. The author transports the reader to the dark, dangerous streets, and never allows Venom and the narrator to fall out of character – keeps the pressure on until the end. This story, in fact, was a finalist that was included in the group sent to the primary judge."

Can you believe that?
I was short-listed.
Me!
Short-listed!!
That's as good as winning to me.

Or, as my old mentor and boss, Bob MacKinnon, used to say,
That's as close as damn is to swearing.

Writing Workshop

I signed up to take a short story writing course.
It was supposed to start last Tuesday.

Unfortunately--or perhaps, fortunately--
the start date was delayed two weeks.

You can imagine how excited I was to start this course,
and how disappointed I was when it was delayed.
So I decided to take a workshop on Saturday,
just to tide me over.

I wasn't going to take this workshop--
after all, I was already taking the Short Story class.
But I'm so glad I changed my mind.

The workshop was given by Ruth Walker.
It was on dialogue,
both internal and external.
Like I need more voices in my head!

It was an awesome class
and I had so much fun.
We were given assignments
then 15 minutes to write.
We read our pieces to the class,
who then critiqued our work.
It was very inspirational.

I posted two of the pieces on my
Monica Manning site:
An Untitled piece and
another titled Between Floors.

Mark Your Calendars

Well, that didn't take long!

I ended up recording three stories
for Life Rattle:

"Grandma's Quilt",
"Saturday Morning Cartoons", and
"Memère Rosa"

which are all expected to air
THIS Sunday!!

There are two ways to listen to the show:


On Sunday, December 13, 2009 at 9:00 p.m.

Set your FM Dial to 88.1

OR

Listen live at ckln.fm


As my stories are not long enough
for the entire 30 minute time slot,
they will also play another story
by another author.

The recording was fun.
I did all three stories in one take.
I only fudged a couple of words,
at which point I would pause,
then re-read the paragraph
and Virginia edited-out the errors.

She sent me the audio files after editing.
Now that I listen to them,
I realize I could have talked more slowly.
It seemed slow when I was speaking,
but listening to someone read
and having a conversation
are two entirely different things.

I also think I could have been more animated.
But that will come with experience.

And I had no idea my voice is so deep.

I have visions of the scene in Spaceballs
where Princess Vespa is singing.
"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
Nobody knows but Jesus."

I'm a bass!
Who knew?!

Hand to Hand

The muse at Pictures, Poetry & Prose was a beautiful black and white photograph of aged hands.

The suggested prompt: His hands tell a story. Offer your creativity to share it.
You'll note I took literary license and made the poem about a woman.
Or it could have been a drag queen ... you decide.

My submission:

* * *

Hand to Hand

Once lacquered, long and slender
adorned with fine glinting gems,
waved haughtily at adoring faces.

Now creased, twisted and gnarled
weathered with gruesome russet spots,
waiting patiently for attention.

Sweet Alex

You may recall a previous post regarding a prompt from Pictures, Poetry & Prose. It featured my own photograph of chocolate.




Alex sent me a poem she wrote, with this message:

I'm not brave enough to blog it but I have to write it to you cuz I know you won't criticize and if you do it's okay cuz I know you love me. Yeah I know COWARD...but was too chicken to post it.


Perhaps Nephew #2 has actually inherited the writing gene from her after all.

And in case you're wondering, she does talk like that.
One giant run-on sentence, followed immediately by a deep breath.
Kidding! She's gonna smack me when she sees me later!

* * *

Chocolate

Is it sweet and sensuous,
or dark and mysterious?

Is it sinful,
or blissful?

Is it one heavenly taste,
or many pounds on your waist?

Why do you care,
go for it, I dare!

PPP: A Letter

The muse at Pictures, Poetry and Prose was, to say the least, cathartic. There were some pretty powerful pieces.

Our suggested prompt:

Dear ____, I wanted to write you this letter to explain.
(Write this letter to yourself from someone you wish would write to you.)

My submission:

* * *

Dear G,

I am not asking for forgiveness; what was done is unforgiveable. A bond of unconditional trust was broken, never to be mended. I realize that my betrayal rises above all others. I, alone, have shaped your personality. I have destroyed your trust ... your trust in others and, worse, in self.

I cannot change this, for it was ordained that we should meet, you and I, and teach each other this difficult lesson. I know you have learned this moral well, for I have watched you grow in strength of spirit. And I am proud. You have fiercely chosen to deny the destruction of your life. Instead, you have conquered all challengers and are stronger for it. You are a warrior. A survivor.

When we meet again, we will recognize and know each other. You will understand and you will be healed. Until then, know that the Guardians watch over you and protect you always.

P.

The Call

Another win at Pictures, Poetry and Prose.

Not that this is based on a true story, but I was thinking of The Husband when I wrote this. I married a man who is not afraid or embarrassed to tell his children he loves them. All the time. And who, in turn, are not embarrassed to say I Love You back. Listening to him talk to his kids simply makes my heart glow. He's so proud of them.


The suggested prompt:
Write creatively so that we understand what this phone call is about.
(If you click on the link, you'll see the picture is of a blue collar worker, sitting in a dimly lit stairwell, talking on his cell phone.)

My submission:

* * *

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, Gregg sat down on the steps, away from the rest of the crew. He glanced at his watch. It was just before eight, almost bedtime. He knew she was waiting up for him, waiting for his call before she climbed into bed with her entourage of stuffed bears. He punched the familiar numbers into his phone, pressed it up to his ear and listened to the rings.

She answered the phone breathlessly, excited, as always, to hear from him. He chatted with her about her day in kindergarten and what the new puppy had done.

As usual, before he could say goodnight, she asked him, “Daddy, will you sing with me?”

He grinned into the darkness. “Of course I will, honey.” He glanced around, to be sure no one was nearby, and softly began singing. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...” Her tiny voice joined in with his until the end.

Giggling, she whispered, “Goodnight, Daddy. Love you!”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you too,” he replied quietly.

Pocketing his phone, he turned to climb back up the stairs and was met with several senior crew members, all grinning at him. He shook his head, his face reddening. As he walked through the group of men clapping his back and punching him in the arm, they catcalled. “Hey Gregg, will you sing Old McDonald with me?”, “How about Mary had a little lamb? That’s my favourite!”

He grinned back at them, knowing each one of them, at some point in their service, had done the exact same thing. Their teasing was nothing more than an initiation; their way of saying ‘welcome to the club’.

A Week in Review

Over at the One-Minute Writer, yesterday's prompt was: Imagine you will be sitting down a week from today to describe how your week went. What do you hope you'll be writing?

My submission:

* * *

Monday.
Post blog.
Work all day.
Final Spanish exam tonight.

Tuesday.
Post blog.
Work all day.
Date night with Husband.

Wednesday.
Post blog.
Work all day.
Four hours of overtime.

Thursday.
Post blog.
Work all day.
Puppy gets nails trimmed.

Friday.
Post blog.
Work all day.
Russell Peters on CTV.

Saturday.
Up early.
Drive to Newmarket.
Sister day with Alex!

Sunday.
Sleep late.
Write a bit.
Hang out with Husband.

* * *

It's not about how I hope my week will go.
It's more about how I expect it to go.
So far, I haven't been disappointed.

Or ... maybe I should be.
*sigh*

WCDR

I did it.
I joined the Writer's Circle of Durham Region.
There's no excuse now.

Yesterday I mailed my first submission for a short story competition,
sponsored by This Magazine, titled Before I Go.

As the rules of the competition specify that the submission must be previously unpublished, and posting on the internet is deemed as published, you'll have to wait until the winners are announced before you read it. Sorry.

I don't expect to win, but it's been very exciting to write and simply lick the envelope!





I've also begun writing my entry for the Wicked Competition, sponsored by WCDR.

I'm having the time of life!

DWP: Multitasking

Marc, at the Daily Writing Practice, wrote the funniest story.
I urge you to go read it.
It inspired the DWP writing prompt: Multitasking.


My submission ...


multitasking

sort the darks, from the lights, start making plans for dinner
scrub the counter, wash the dishes, dust the living room
slice tomatoes, chop the onions, add softener to the wash

feed the cat, pick up toys, take the garbage out
check for emails, send replies, stir the bubbling sauce
let the cat out, change the litter, write a thank you note

help with homework, kiss a scraped knee, turn the dryer on
set the table, wash small hands, hang the school award
family dinner, share some stories, let the cat back in

clear the table, finish homework, mend some holey socks
one more email, straighten den, supervise the bath
read a story, say a prayer, start again tomorrow

The two of them

Over at Pictures, Poetry & Prose, one of our recent muses was a picture from Cyndy. I don't know how she captured this picture, but it's great. You really have to go take a peek at it so that the writing makes sense.

I'll wait.

Most of the writers wrote humorous pieces. As did I. I really couldn't help it. The picture just burst with funny. Don't you agree?

The voice that immediately popped into my head when I saw the picture was the voice of the Abominable Snowman. Do you remember that scene? When he finds Daffy Duck and he thinks he's a rabbit. "I will love him, and pet him, and call him George." Use that voice for Fred when you're reading this.

Our suggested prompt: "The two of them stood and talked about their plan..."
My submission ...


* * *


"Psssst! Fred … c'mere!"

"Uuuuh, what, George?"

"See that? Over there? What's that?"

"I don' see nuttin', George."

"Over there! That guy. He's pointing something at us."

"Da guy wit' da silver rectangle tingy?"

"Yeah, him. What's he doing?"

"I duhnno, George."

"It doesn't look good, Fred. What if it's the same thing that Farmer Joe had yesterday? You saw what happened when he pointed that long, skinny black thing at Jimmy."

"Yeah. Jimmy falled over."

"He didn’t just fall over -- he died, you bonehead! DIED!!"

"Oh."

"Yeah, OH."

So what should we do den', George?"

"I think we should hide. Hide behind this fence. Like this. See?"

"I don' tink dat's gonna work, George."

"Just do it, Fred. Duck. DUUUUCK!!"

"I don' see no ducks, George."

Sweet

I've given Laura Jayne permission to use pictures from my picture blog (and this blog) on Pictures, Poetry & Prose. She recently used this picture:



I've become quite interested in the ancient art of Haiku. It's not just your 5-7-5 prose anymore, like back in elementary school. There are tons of rules and variations of said rules, many of which contradict each other. I thought I'd take my first crack at Haiku with this picture. The winner, by the way, was Marc, who wrote a beautiful piece that evoked many wonderful childhood memories. I've begun following Marc's blog, Daily Writing Practice, to help me get my writing groove on.

Our prompt: "Write a poem with a chocolate theme."
My submission:

* * *

heavenly cocoa
melts sensuously on lips
hips widen

Pretty In Pink

Our muse at Pictures, Poetry & Prose was a wonderful picture of a flower, taken by Highlander. No link was provided for Highlander, but if you click here, you can slip over to PPP and check out this great shot. I love the focal point of the cluster in the forefront, and the blurred clusters in the background. I'm still trying to perfect this macro effect, myself.

The suggested prompt: A poem for a flower.
My winning submission:

Harsh words.
Arms fold.
Backs turn.

Feet stomp.
Door slams.
Car drives.

Cry alone.
Hours pass.
Wait up.

Door opens.
Timid steps.
Soft voice.

Trembling hands
Offer flowers.
Peace made.

Service

This is my most recent win at Pictures, Poetry and Prose. I loved the picture by Sabrina! My immediate thought was the teenage angst so many of us felt -- wanting so much to be cuddled and loved, yet needing to have that tough exterior so your friends wouldn't tear you apart. Didn't I mention yesterday that I was feeling all broody and what-not?

Our suggested prompt: "She was waiting to serve ..."

My submission:



She was waiting to serve.

It was a sleepy little town, no doubt about that. Jane shrugged. No matter, it was only a pit stop. Somewhere to eat. Maybe rest a bit. Hide.

Opposite the gas station was what appeared to be the only restaurant in town. It did boast having The Best Burger for Miles. We'll see about that, she thought. Throwing her backpack over her shoulder, she made her way across the street.

Quite a few customers for mid-afternoon, she noted. Maybe the sign was telling the truth. She made her way to the counter and sat down on a stool, carefully placing her backpack at her feet where she could keep an eye on it. Everything she owned was crammed into it.

Mama had seen her come in. Scared little thing. Oh, she had the tough exterior, alright. The short, spiky hair dyed an unnatural purple, heavy black eyeliner. And the tattoos! My word, she tutted to herself. But when that poor dear sat down, Mama's heart just melted. She could see the fading bruise around her eye and the cut on her lip that was beginning to heal. Mama pursed her lips. Damn shame, that is, beatin' on a child like that.

“What can I get you, honey?”

“You really have the best burger for miles?” Jane eyed the waitress, taking in the teased, bleached hair that was ruthlessly sprayed into place and the ample bosom floating above an equally ample body.

Mama leaned over and whispered, “Truth be told, honey, we’re the ONLY burger for miles, but you best believe it’s fine!” She let out a raucous laugh that made Jane smile. “Now you just sit a spell and let Mama take care o’ you.” And off she bustled.While Jane picked at her hamburger, Mama wiped the counter nearby, keeping an eye on what she already thought of as her new charge. She kept up a steady stream of chatter. “You staying in town for a while? Cuz if you are, we sure could use some help around here. We need a new waitress since Missy’s off havin’ her baby an’ all.”

Stay? Here? In this one-diner town that was in the middle of … where was she anyway? She’d been driving for days, not really knowing where she was going, just knowing she had to get away. Far away. She couldn’t stay there anymore. She’d put up with his abuse long enough. Her mother just ignored it, wouldn’t see him for what he was. Jane tried to talk to her, but she just said it was the drink that made him crazy like that. Yeah, the drink. That’s what made him get angry and hit and …

Well, she got away, didn’t she? And she was going to start all over again. A fresh, new life. Make it right. Jane smiled up at Mama. “Yeah, sure, I could use a few bucks.” Mama winked at her and tossed her a fresh apron. “Start tomorrow at eight. Come in a little early and I’ll fix ya some breakfast. Could use a little meat on them bones.” And she was off again, serving up pie and coffee to a man who had just come in.

Jane sighed. This felt good. It felt right. It felt like home. Better – it felt like a new beginning

The Church

Not a winner, but I like this piece I submitted at Pictures, Poetry and Prose. It's obvious that I've been feeling melancholy and mushy lately. And before you ask, this is a completely fictional piece. Frank is NOT The Husband. Sheesh. TH reads this blog. I'll never hear the end of it if he thinks I've been trying to escape from him!

Our inspiration was a photograph of a quaint little church, taken by Dan Felstead. Our suggested prompt: "I stood looking across the field at the church and knew I had to...."

My submission:



There are days when I just need to get away. Take some time for myself away from work, home, Frank, the kids.

Today was one of those days.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me these days. I can’t seem to focus on anything. And my emotions are riding a crazy rollercoaster ride. I’m up. I’m down. This morning was the icing on the cake. The quiche didn’t work out and I completely lost it. Just started bawling. Frank tried to console me, but I pushed him away and ran out of the house. I just needed some time. Alone.

It was nice, actually, just wandering through the fields. I haven’t done that since I was a kid. Crops are coming in nicely. We’ve had a lot of rain lately, which is nice after that dry spell. But today was nice and clear. I followed Old Man Johnson’s fence to that stand of trees, planning to sit a spell and just let my mind wander. Then I heard music. And singing.

I glanced over and saw the old church that Nana used to take me to on Sundays. She always said that everyone should have a relationship with some sort of higher being. She said it didn’t matter who or what it was, just so long as you believed that there was something bigger than you. I didn’t know what she meant by that at the time. I just really liked being with her. She always smelled of Ivory soap and kept candy in her purse.

I listened to the singing for a while. It was so beautiful. People working together in harmony to make something so wonderful. I stood looking across the field at the church and knew I had to go in.

I suddenly knew what Nana was talking about.

The Ferris Wheel

Another win at Pictures, Poetry and Prose. I'm gonna quit my job and write full time. I'm really liking this! Oh, calm down, TH. I was kidding.

Our inspiration was a fabulous picture of a ferris wheel by Highlander, with the suggested prompt: It happened on the ferris wheel.

My submission:


Mary Sue sat alone in the seat. Waiting. "Single rider!" shouted the Carney. She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. Just put the bar down and go, she prayed. All she wanted was a ride on the ferris wheel. To see the pretty lights from the top. Feel the sway of the chair.

"Right here," came a voice. It was Billy Wilson. He sat down next to Mary Sue and pulled the bar down, trapping them together. She lowered her eyes and glanced over at him through her lashes. Billy grinned. "I've been watching you," he said, "waiting for the right time to say something." Her heart skipped a little. "Really?" He nodded.

The wheel began to turn slowly, then faster and faster. As the chair rocked back and forth, they talked. About nothing. About everything.

“So when did you know?”

Mary Sue shook herself, grudgingly came back to reality. “What?”

“When did you fall in love with Grandpa? How did it happen?”

Mary Sue smiled wistfully at her granddaughter, as she stirred the cake mix. “It happened on the ferris wheel.”