writing skills/profession

I Love Contests


Not the themed kind though. The ones that remind me of school.

500 words on faith.

Or

Write a short story using the words taxidermy, malevolence and mauve.

Restrictions that send the truly creative on an eye-rolling bender and cater to the concrete-sequentials of the world – of course, it’s their world, so why not.

I don’t mind parameters, but it’s guaranteed non-participation on the part of the majority when the rules try to control the outcomes to suit a purpose that has nothing to do with art or the creation of it.

Last month, I may have mentioned it even, Nathan Bransford held a contest with the prize being the chance to fill in for him on his blog for a day. He asked his readers to write a post that could strictly, or not at all, visit a topic in keeping with what he does, which is to share his wisdom and experience as a literary agent with writers.

He’s holding another contest this month ,and I am tempted to enter again though I don’t know what I might write about. All I know is being an unpublished and struggling writer. Topic?

Below is what I wrote for the last contest, and for the record, Nathan gushed about the quality of entries, so I didn’t feel too bad when he choose real writers and such for winners.

A Point of View



Recently I asked my blog readers to ask me anything. Not because I am that kind of a no holds barred blogger, but because I was as tapped as a pony keg in a fraternity house closet. They did not disappoint and inquired in ways that lead to great fodder, but one question stood out from the rest.


If you had to choose, werewolf or vampire? He didn’t ask about zombies because they are so not glam, but I will ponder it for a nano-sec anyway before utterly discarding because in order to rise above the standard Swine Flu model of infection that often involves various government incompetence or evil banality, one would have to explore an urban setting where zombies are common place which, to my mind, involves temporal distortion and a FWB’s vampire sidekick for the hero and simply needs to be told not explained.


Therefore it’s tempting to go vamp because of the brooding glamour thing. But the angst scale is chartless, and the hours are bad, and there is the whole transmission issue again. Whedon did the parallel universe and Stoker covered the “gripped by darkness” Frank Langella route, and Twilight can’t be mentioned, nor would I personally want to go down the misogynist as romantic hero road, so I went werewolf for reasons that are quite simple and more logical than my husband was able to believe.


First, it’s a once a month thing. As a female, I have been afflicted once a month since my teens. A spiritual oneness with the phases of the moon and the cycle of life is second nature to me now. My husband, Rob, is an extremely handy fellow. Constructing a werewolf version of a red tent wouldn’t be an issue. He could probably convert my office, but I don’t want to take a chance that my manuscripts could end up doubling as litter. But I am totally okay with spending some down time all alone in a small windowless room because – aside from the windowless thing – I do this already as a writer, and as long as Rob takes care and has me secured during my monthly, I won’t be a danger to anyone. No arousal of angry mobs or hunters with dead sisters to avenge. Very low key. Not a hint of angst, which is probably as bad for werewolves as stress is for the whole girly PMS thing. Do werewolves have pre-moon-symptoms?


The hairy thing is something I deal with now as I march towards menopause, and shaving is likely a quicker fix than plucking one pointy strand at a time, but also very unnecessary because, I believe, the fuzziness is a 24 hour affliction.


As a werewolf, I would retain my reflection which, as annoyingly teenage as vampires are, it surprises me how easily they do without it. Vampires are portrayed as preening and foppish, but it’s werewolves who can primp and prance in front of a full length mirror. Not that I do that. But other werewolves might want to admire their coat, impressive musculature and fabulous nails.


I would have the  ability to eat garlic. I can barely cook without it and even as a werewolf, I need to keep those irritating vampires at bay. And unlike them, I would not be restricted solely to the night or have to worry about bursting into flames. Spontaneous combustion could be hazardous to my loved ones and just doesn’t look fun. And, of course let’s not forget that I would not have to die, be buried, resurrect soulless and be compelled to dig my way out of a coffin and grave with my bare hands (here is where those long, strong werewolf fingernails would be exceedingly useful). And I don’t have to be more pasty looking than I already am. Deathly pallor is likely the only reason vampires don’t miss mirrors.

And suddenly there is story. A strikingly beautiful middle-aged writer dealing with the genetic heritage of her people (I did mention the DNA thing right? And think Mary-Louise Parker in Weeds only minus the Latin mafia lovers and the weed and the widowhood and set in Canada, not Mexico). I’m thinking paranormal romance.


A new perspective. It’s all point of view and a bit of twistedness.


A non-Meme Monday


I don’t feel like meme’ng today and couldn’t find anything worth the effort of stealing for that purpose anyway. Today I want to hear from you, my gentle readers.

I am rewriting the first chapter of my memoir. I have the chance to pitch it to an agent who represents a friend of mine and I need at minimum the first three chapters written and polished. I am going to write some version of a recent post on Will’s last months in hospice. And I just want to say, I appreciate those of you who took the time to comment and offer your take on my disclosure dilemma.

Whenever I question writing and trying to publish the memoir, I hear from people who say “Write it. I want to read it.” but they never really say why or what it is they think I will be writing about that intrigues them sight unseen.

Rob is semi-busily composing his chapter in his head. His first months after Shelley died, I think. But as he pointed out, our lives have been intersected only a short time in comparison to the length of our lives overall and certainly our first marriages. What makes our story worth knowing? Worth the time it would take to read?

I remember a snarky comment – not here – that I read directed at Rob and I shortly after we married that went something like,

“I don’t need to hear about relationships and marriage from two people who’ve been widowed less than a year and been dating and then remarried for about a total of  two minutes.”

And though I think that sometimes “seat time”  is important, it does not necessarily make one an expert either. I have run across more than a few widowed people who believe that it is years out that gives when insight and the moral authority to speak to the generalities and larger truths of surviving a spouse, and yet some of the widows I most admire for their choices, compassion and wisdom aren’t even as far along in the journey as I am.

And anyway, my experience is atypical in terms of circumstances and the order in which I went through things, so I don’t see it as modeling for anyone.

At the conference I attended in May, I had a chance to sit with a publisher from South Africa and I quizzed her on the marketability of memoir. She said that from a personal standpoint the reason people read them baffled her. She found books on surviving tragedy more depressing than uplifting and a little bit voyeuristic, not in a good way. 

I suppose I have things to say in terms of dating after spouse loss, remarriage, family blending. I hesitate to get all “how to” though. I prefer the facts and how it played out personally with people taking or leaving it as they will.

So, here I ask again, what would you want to know – bearing in mind that I am as likely to really tell you as not – in terms of my memoir. Don’t be shy. But don’t be a snark either.

A Memoir Discussion


With Rob on forced rest as he recuperates from the abscess, we have had time to sit and discuss ideas for the memoir I have been threatening to write since pretty much the dawn of this blog – in its first incarnation. Because I had always planned to use blog entries, emails, message board posts (my own only – so down boys & girls) and photos to tell some of the story, Rob writing some of the book seemed an natural outgrowth of the project.

We sat for quite a while Monday evening after dinner with tea and memories and tried to figure out where we should each begin which brought up the issue of back story. Just how much do we include and how do I – mostly – tiptoe around the fact that my perspective isn’t very flattering where Will’s family, my mother-in-law in particular, is concerned.

Rob is always amazed when I share in-law stories. Shelley’s family is a family with all the flaws and foibles that you would normally expect, but they are kind and gracious, and they pull together when it counts.

I ended up telling Rob the story of MIL’s evil during the last few months. The day Will was taken to ER from the nursing home, I was in Dubuque with Dee. My dad was undergoing surgery to stem the TIA’s he was having. There was a good chance he would die and my mother was crumbling under the pressure which wasn’t making DNOS’ job any easier. I wasn’t sure at all I would be able to get away. I had to phone in sick for one thing and I had only just started working at the high school I was at, and Will had been sick all week. He was spiking temps and had a terrible cough. The nursing home DR’s were telling me it was bronchitis, but in retrospect, I know it was the beginning of embolisms and pneumonia. However, the night before Dad’s surgery, Will was doing better and I felt safe to make a dash for it. My plan was to be back early on Sunday but for some reason that I can’t remember anymore – I was probably exhausted and slept in a bit – Dee and I didn’t make it back until late Sunday afternoon.

The answering machine messages went from

“Will is spiking temps. Do you want us to transport him to the hospital?”

to

“Since we can’t get a hold of you, we are sending Will by ambulance to ER.”

which was followed by several calls from the hospital.

When I finally got to the hospital with a frazzled 3 year old on my hip, I found MIL and her annoying friend had been there all day. MIL had my cell phone number and had apparently told the admitting DR that she didn’t know how to contact me.

Fast forward 4 days and she was the one who was at the hospital when Will was transferred to hospice. I went ahead and made the call on that over her objections and she was seething. I was in bed with a migraine. I had to call my BFF to get Dee to preschool because I couldn’t stand up and was basically crawling back and forth between the toilet and my bed until the meds kicked in around noon.

I get to the hospice to find that Will was settled in and MIL and her irritating side-kick were occupying the seats on either side of his bed which forced me to hover at his feet. I hadn’t been to work in four days and still had the nursing home to deal with as his stuff was still there and there was the little matter of the fact that they had called his mother when they sent him to the hospital instead of calling me on my cell – a number they had too.

I filled out paper work. I got into an argument with MIL about funeral arrangements of all things and by then it was time to go pick up Dee.

I came back after dinner to find an agitated Social Worker who ordered me to leave Dee with MIL and follow her as she needed to talk to me right now.

In a small office off the nurse stations, she informs me that she is disturbed by accusations MIL has leveled in my absence.

“She claims you abused him and regularly threw him out of your home when he was ill.”

WTF?

I quickly disabused her of her faulty information. And then I cried. And I never cry in front of people I don’t know. 

I could have banned MIL from hospice at that point. The staff quickly came to know MIL for who she was and not what she pretended to be. But they put a lot of pressure on me to keep things civil and to work on repairing the relationship with MIL for Dee’s sake. The fact that Dee had never had a relationship with her grandmother was a fact that I soon got tired of trying to explain.

The story from here goes from awful to simply more-so and ends with MIL having a tantrum the night Will died, and so she was allowed to sit with his body until the ambulance came to take him to the hospital for the autopsy* and I went home. I was tired. I was sick with strep that eventually gave me shingles of all things. And I was done.

Is this the kind of thing people really want to read? But as Rob pointed out, “our story” is a short one and some of what brought us to the point where we met on the widda board – which is a whole other nightmare to try and tell yet not tell – needs to be written to bring perspective.

What, if anything, would you want to know if you were inclined to be interested.

 

*I donated his brain and spine to a university that specializes in research about illnesses such as Will’s.