May 9, 2012
A Siren’s Call to Writers
My muse has been vexing me. She’s gotten into this annoying habit of visiting late at night or when I’m in car without so much as a dirty napkin to write on. (I recently paid the kids to clean the inside of the vans.) I should have a talk with her, but I won’t. I never do. I’m afraid of offending her.
Last night after I’d already been dragged out of bed by her a few times, I decided to hell with it and just stayed up. And I came across the siren call that seduces most writers at one time or another. The words:
The good news: It’s a free Writer’s Digest Contest. The bad news: The deadline is Monday, May 14. There’s not much time.
Details: Welcome to the 10th (free!) “Dear Lucky Agent” Contest on the GLA blog. This is a recurring online contest with agent judges and super-cool prizes. Here’s the deal: With every contest, the details are essentially the same, but the niche itself changes—meaning each contest is focused around a specific category or two. So if you’re writing a upmarket (see exactly what this term means below) novel, this 10th contest is for you! (The contest is live through May 14, 2012.)
Of course, it’s for that novel you’ve already written. Just get it out and polish it up. It’s show time.
Polish it up.
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January 3, 2012
Avoiding the Warden
I’ve mentioned my muse many times. I respect my muse but I’m also intimidated by her; I suck up to her as much as possible. After reading virtualDavis’s comment I realize that in the process of kissing up to the muse, I’ve neglected mentioning my other writing collaborator. virtualDavis refers to this entity as a warden; I refer to mine as an editor, although warden is also fitting.
Have I failed to mention her because I’m avoiding her and her warden-like tendencies? Or is it because editors are overworked, underpaid and just don’t get the same attention as muses? The editor isn’t as awe-inspiring as the muse, but she’s just as important.
If my editor/warden looked like Robert Redford, I’d spend a lot more time with him.
I was first introduced to my editor in my sophomore year of high school in my Advanced Comp. class. I was intimidated by the upperclassmen that made up the class and by the teacher too. They all seemed much more literary than I. I kept my mouth shut, my ears open and did the work.
Then we got an interesting assignment. We were told that each of us had an inner editor that was naturally adversarial. This editor hampered and tampered with our writing by getting us to focus more on the reader’s reaction and less on the actual content. These editors also filled us with such paranoia about the mechanics of writing we were paralyzed to true creative writing.
The assignment consisted of three parts. The first was to describe your inner editor, physically and mentally. The second was to spend one hour writing everything that came to your mind without editing any of it. The last part consisted of re-imagining your internal editor as a friend not an adversary.
I really got into this assignment. It’s one memory of high school that hasn’t faded into a huge fuzzy blob in my mind (Thank you Lord that the rest has). I found it easy to visualize my adversarial editor. In a nutshell, she was a tall blond in a tweed suit, hair pulled severely back into a knot. She sat at an immaculate desk waiting to trounce me. And trounce me she did. I just hadn’t realized it before.
My friends and I could put these guys to shame.
The second part of the assignment was slightly more intriguing. Imagine me, an adolescent angst ridden girl who could look out her window and see the house of her unrequited love (who was probably out with that FRESHMAN). Add to that the fact that my friends and I swore like sailors when out of earshot of parents or teachers. Then throw in my inclination to snarkiness (even if the word snarky wasn’t yet in existence). That editor of mine never had a chance. As soon as I wrote the first f***, she was forgotten and I was free. This was in the days of long hand and I sat on my bed and wrote non-stop for an hour. The thought of my teacher reading it made me smile. He didn’t know what he was in for.
The third part, re-imagining your editor, was a turning point for me. I remember my editor’s hair was loose and she wore jeans. And we became friends. She wasn’t a warden anymore; she was a collaborator.
My teacher was astonished by my paper. I’m sure he’d never noticed me before I gave him the very detailed inner-workings of my mind. I got an A+ and a “Why are you hiding your light under a bushel?” in the margin. He even talked to me about it after class. Since then, my editor has become my cheerleader. We’re on the same side.
But I’ve realized recently that in re-creating my editor, I’ve created a monster…
I’ve created a monster…
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December 13, 2011
Avoiding the Muse
Greetings,
I guess you could consider this a guest post since the writer of this blog has gone AWOL. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for days but she’s not taking any of my calls.
Oh, I guess I should tell you who I am. I’m Dawne’s Muse. I apologize for her disappearance, but I’m sure she’ll be back posting at the beginning of the year.
Meanwhile, I’ll be attending the semi-annual Muse Retreat and Convention with my fellow muses. If your muse is missing over the holidays, chances are they’re attending as well. We always have a great time recharging our “inspiration batteries” and swapping ideas. I’m hoping to get John Steinbeck’s Muse’s autograph while I’m there and a glimpse of Stephenie Meyer’s Muse. But I’ll make sure to keep my distance; I’ve heard some “interesting” things about her.
Dawne and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and we look forward to confabulating with you in 2012.
Peace and Blessings,
Dawne’s Muse
PS- I thought coming up with the inspiration was the hard part of writing. But the actual writing of the thing is more difficult than I thought. Don’t let Dawne know, or she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Writing the actual post is not in my job description
September 12, 2011
Do-Overs
I was mulling over topics for my next blog post when my muse paid a short visit.
“How about a post on re-do’s. You know, things you would go back and re-do if you could.”
“It’s called a do-over. Not a re-do,” I informed her.
“Whatever,” she said. Then she was gone. I’ve got to learn not to get her angry.
It was an intriguing thought. What would I do-over if I could? Well for starters, I wouldn’t buy those cute $90 kitten heel mules that felt fine in the store, but turned my feet into burning hunks of coal every time I wore them after that.
And I would definitely pass on the “home hair-coloring advice” I read in a magazine. (Mix grape juice with peroxide and wash your hair with it for subtle highlights. The sad thing is I never noticed what a hideous orange it was until years later, looking at pictures).
But what about the important stuff? I’d thought about it before and sometimes a do-over of life sounded really good. Some people say they wouldn’t do anything differently because then they wouldn’t be who they are. I always thought that was a load of crap. When I was ten years old, there was already stuff I wanted to do over.
I thought about my life. Would I choose a different path in college? Would I move to upstate New York with my boyfriend (now husband) at nineteen? Would I still marry him? Would I have five kids? Would I start my writing career sooner?
My mind wanders to the night before my wedding. If I was going to change anything, it would probably be that night. And the thought is tempting. My fiancé and I lived in New York but were getting married in Michigan on a Saturday. My fiancé and one of my bridesmaids got into town on Thursday evening right before the wedding rehearsal. That left only Friday night for a little bachelorette fun.
My friends got tickets to Sexy Rexy Friday evening. I drove to meet them at the bar, in the car we’d rented to use for the wedding. Renting limos for weddings wasn’t that common back then (boy, that’s a saying that makes you feel old). Two of the couples standing up in the wedding were driving it from the church to the reception the next day.
The tickets included two free drinks of your choice. I got two Long Island iced teas because those were the most expensive drinks and I’d never had them before. They went down very easily, let me tell you, but they were very potent. I don’t remember my friends taking me out to the car later. I don’t remember being passed out for hours in the backseat. And I don’t remember throwing up. I remember the ride home, horizontal in the back seat, as my maid-of-honor and my cousin drove and friends followed in another car to give them a ride back.
I remember getting up on the morning of my wedding, after four hours of sleep, and scrubbing the backseat of the rental car so it could be used by our lovely attendants (The ones who actually didn’t go to the bar the night before. How unfair is that?)
Despite everything, our wedding was wonderful and I looked and felt radiant. And as I really ponder my life and things I regret, I realize I would not choose to do-over that evening or anything else, because– as some people say– I wouldn’t be the person I am right now, or have the family I’ve been blessed with.
If you could have a do-over, would you?
