WPW: Scratching

See Ali's blog for the guidelines for Writing Prompt Wednesday.



The scratching started up again. Under the sink. Where the huge bag of dog kibble was stored. I told him to buy one of those big Rubbermaid tubs to put it in. But no.

I reached back and smoothed the hairs on the back of my neck, the ones that stood up whenever I was scared. I knew what made the noise. Recognized it from childhood. Mice. Back then it was field mice that came in the house to get warm. "They're more scared of you than you are of them," my mother said. Impossible. And now it was late October and the weather had turned cold.

We'd tried traps, all kinds. But the scratching continued. Always when he was at work. Night shift, of course. That's when bartenders get the good tips. He said he believed me. But there was that look.

So I bought a book. Then I collected the supplies: a small cauldron, charcoal, sage for cleansing, a tiger's eye to protect and draw down spiritual energy, black salt to keep away evil (and mice are evil), and a mixture of herbs for banishing.

Early evening on the 31st, I started by lighting the sage and smudging the whole house, all four rooms of it. Then I lit the charcoal and threw the herbs and salt on it. As the smoke rose toward the ceiling (making my eyes water so I opened the window a crack), I clutched the stone in my hand and pictured the mice rising up and away on the smoke. I threw a few more herbs on the fire for good measure.

I awoke to him standing over me. My teeth chattered in the coldness of the room. All the windows were wide open and the ceiling fan spun above me. "The neighbors thought the house was on fire."

The scratching didn't return.

Missed Hallowe’en, though. Rats.

WPW: Fuchsia Feather

See Ali's blog for rules.

I have no idea, but there has to be a good story to go with this....

The woman with the teal blue hat tottered into the cafe on bright red stilettos. The black band around the wide brim held a fuchsia feather that bobbed in time to her unsteady steps. The air around her thick with the smell of espresso and tapas, now blending with Chanel No. 22.

All eyes watched as she made her way to the counter. Eyes in young faces. Young faces with single chins and slender, healthy bodies. Most wearing jeans and t-shirts. A few with funky tie-dye skirts and gauzy blouses.

She reached into the banana yellow handbag and pulled out a ten. "A glass of chardonnay, please."

The counter man's sleek muscles rippled under the tight black shirt as he poured the wine. He glanced at the woman and poured a little more into the glass. "Six dollars, ma'am."

The ten slid across the counter, and the woman picked up the glass by the stem. "Keep the change." Another, shorter, expedition--seemingly in time with the jazz standard playing in the background--across the slick tile floor brought her to the table for two in the very back, very dark corner. The chartreuse dress strained as she sat, but she sighed with satisfaction to be off her feet for a time.

Anyone still watching saw her lift the glass in salute to the empty chair across from her before she took the first sip.

So What Have We Learned?

What did I learn from the recent contest?

--That 3,000 words a day is a lot until someone you're competing with writes 10,000.
--That you don't necessarily have to be "in the mood" or "inspired" to write.
--However, certain scenes are easier (or at least less difficult) if you are "in the mood."
--I'm competitive, but also know my limits.
--That Murphy will rear his ugly head at inopportune times.
--That eliminating contractions bumps word count without a lot of pain. Kidding! A little bit.
--That it can be very satisfying to watch a friend whup ass.
--That writing very quickly helps quiet the Inner Heckler (which I already knew).
--That writing very quickly also may mean losing track of secondary characters, subplots and (more concerning) the protagonist's voice.
--That even with some of the things I dropped along the way, I'm still liking this story and my protagonist very much.
--That when you get in the habit of writing every day, it feels weird when you don't write for a day (which I also already knew, but needed to be reminded of).
--That it's good to have a prize that everyone gets to enjoy.

I'm sure I'll discover more as I continue working on TNN and other projects. It was hard and frustrating at times, but definitely worthwhile.

So, what can you push yourself to do over the next 2 weeks?

What A Weekend/Everyone Should Have Friends Like Mine

And I don't mean "What a weekend" in a good way.

I dog and house sat for two very dear friends. One of the dogs has developed some special needs over the past year. She is blind, but gets around okay except right after she wakes up. She also has IBS. I won't go into details here. Suffice it to say that she often needs to get outside RIGHT NOW and doesn't always wake up in time to do so. Even when she does wake up, she might start in the wrong direction and not want to believe me that I know where it is and it's this way and please, please, please hurry.

Friday night's multi-interrupted sleep was nothing compared to Saturday night's getting maybe three hours total and not more than an hour at a time. Each time she moved, I had to be ready to help her get outside. Even when she was asleep, I had to be aware of whining and tummy rumblings so I could wake her up in time. As I said in an email to Jenny, not conducive to sleeping or writing.

I would finally feel like I might maybe be starting to get a flow or words going and have to stop, deal with things and then try to figure out where I was and where I thought I was going. It only takes a few of these to just kill any desire to even try to put one word after the other. After about ten o'clock Sunday morning, I just quit trying.

There was a point late yesterday that I decided that not only was I going to throw in the towel on the contest, but on the whole writing thing. Why was I bothering? Most people seem to be quite content, happy even, going to work and coming home day after day. They might work out and/or go to movies or plays or concerts. But mostly they work and take care of their homes and families, and watch television. Basically what I do already except that I give short shrift to everything except the television watching, because I write or try to write or think I should be writing.

And then it happened.

I heard everyone's voice in my head. I heard Jenny, Ali, Fleur, Mary, Shane, Nicole and all the rest of the Pirates saying, "What the hell are you talking about? You're making excuses. Get over yourself and get back to work." I heard Carrie saying, "If you don't finish something for me to read, I'll shave your head. You won't even see it coming."

How great is that? They don't even have to be around to give me a verbal--mental?--bitch slap.

It's going to be like starting a marathon, getting out front in the first mile, stopping to have a big lunch--maybe a nap--and then deciding that you are going to try to win it after all. But I'm not throwing in the towel. I may finish dead last, but I'll finish. And I'll have more words of TNN than I had when I started. And that was sort of the point all along.

My Own Prep For Word Race 2009

It looks like everyone is getting some of their more mundane tasks out of the way so they don't have to deal with things like laundry and shopping during the big writing race. I should have enough clean clothes to get me through. I'll have to pick up some perishable food items next week, but that won't take very long. I won't be home next weekend (dog and house sitting), so I won't have that weird pull to have everything spotless that I always get when there's something else that really needs to get done. I will be watching a "special needs" dog which could be distracting, but we'll see.

I am going to try to keep some semblance of balance during this. I've been eating a more healthy diet the last few weeks, and I want to keep that going. I will continue my workouts. The Pirates are meeting tomorrow night, and we've all agreed to take a break for that. But I know how to keep the words flowing. I've done it before. There's a kind of muscle memory there.

So, watch the word count over on the left side of the screen, but don't expect much in the way of updates here. I may feel the need to vent or gloat, but if words are being typed, I'd rather they go toward my count.

Game almost on.

Stoopid Stoopid Stoopid

That's me.

Just accepted a challenge with Jenny and Ali. Whoever produces the highest wordcount in two weeks, starting next Monday, wins. The one who comes in last has to buy dinner.

**CORRECTION** The losers go in together to buy the winner dinner. Which makes more sense since the winner is the only one getting something and the losers share the pain of losing.


I still say, "Ack!"

WPW: Grilling

This is my entry in Ali's Writing Prompt Wednesday challenge. See the rules here.

The pile grows. Mostly magazines. Men's Health. GQ. Runner's World. Field and Stream. Seriously, Field and Stream. The man's never been out of Manhattan.

I find a couple Playboys and a Penthouse tucked in the back of his nightstand, and turn to the most rumpled pages. No big surprises. Silicon and airbrushing. These are tossed on top.

And then there's the cookbook. I take my time with the cookbook. Each page is torn from the binding and crumpled, dropped around the perimeter. Certain pages receive special treatment. I tear these into shreds and then shred the shreds.

"Well, it's close, but still not like Mom's. Did you call her for advice? Maybe you should try this one next time. She says even a child could make it."

I click the lighter and hold the flame next to the recipe kindling I've made. The edges catch, quiver and hold the fire. It spreads to the rest. Pages fan, an image becomes clearer, prettier then it blackens and curls in on itself.

That damn paprikash. I'll never have to cook it, or eat it, again.

WPW: Enough Like Midnight

Writing Prompt Wednesday

Even now, nearly midnight, the ground is still very warm as I sink my fingers into the earth. The moon is out, just a sliver of it. My favorite to look at, but little help to work by. At least the dirt is soft and easy to grasp. Dark, loamy. Good for growing things. Rich enough.

A strand of hair slides in front of my left eye, and I swipe it back behind my ear, most likely smudging my cheek in the process. It'll wash off easily enough.

Sitting back on my heels, I survey my work. The hole is almost perfectly round; I'm tempted to go back in and find an old compass to check, but resist. The bottom is rounded like a bowl. Three inches should be deep enough.

I set the reason for the hole in it and look at it for a minute--two--three. Long enough.

The dirt sifts through my fingers back into the hole, exactly as it was before. Not exactly, I guess. But close enough.

The ring is out of sight. I couldn't sell it, but I don't want it either. This is a compromise. Unlike him, will it be good enough?

Wednesday Writing Prompt

Yeah, I know. It's Thursday. Whatever.

This is my take on Ali's weekly challenge. Here are the rules. The prompt, from Juanita's blog, is highlighted and links to said blog.



“I’m STILL waiting for my doll class.”

“Sorry?”

“My doll class. I’ve been waiting for it for ever so long.” The ragamuffin slumped between the craft store and tiny toyshop, her clothing reminiscent of a Dickens orphan.

The strip mall would close in just a few minutes. Certainly no doll class would be starting now. I scanned the window of the craft store for a class schedule, but found none. “Did your mother go into that store?” I pointed.

She shook her head. “My mother left me here ages ago, but she didn’t go into that store.”

“The toy store then?” I opened the door of the toyshop and strained to see. The lights were dim and no one was in sight. “Hello. Does anyone know this little girl?” I stepped back outside. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

Her head tilted down as if to hide her face. “It used to be Rebecca Louise. But then my mother started calling me Doody Head and Puke Face.”

Disgust for the woman who would do something like that to her own child filled me and almost choked off my next words. “I’m going to call someone to help you.” My cell phone blinked “no service” at me, and there was no sign of a security guard anywhere. “Stay right here, I’m going into the store to make a call.”

I dashed into the craft store. Maybe the horrible mother was inside it after all. At least that was the justification I gave for not just stepping back into the toyshop. The toyshop that felt off somehow.

There were no customers inside, and the woman behind the counter knew nothing about a doll-making class. After reporting the lost girl, I went back outside to wait with her for the police and, I suspected, social services. She wasn’t there. I tried the door of the toyshop, but it was locked. Panicked, I ran the length of the mall, stopping at each of the six other stores. Most were already closed, but the few people remaining had not seen the little girl.

An hour later, the police officer finally seemed satisfied with my statement. “Maybe her mother picked her up while you were calling,” he offered for the fifth or sixth time.

“Maybe.” It was as much as I could manage. I had been watching out the window the whole time I made the phone call. No one had passed the store. And I hadn’t seen the little girl, Rebecca Louise, walk away. But I had my own children to get home to.

“Thank you for your concern,” the office said. “Not everyone would take the time.” He closed his notepad and walked back to his squad car.

I leaned against the window of the toyshop, going over the event, trying to figure out when the girl’s mother could have retrieved her without my seeing it. The interior of the shop was brighter than it had been when I’d been inside. It looked more cheerful as well.

As I gathered my bags, a display near the back of the shop caught my attention. One doll pointed at a blackboard. Three other dolls sat at desks facing her. One had short marcelled hair and was dressed like a flapper. One looked like she’d just come from settling the old west. And the one closest to the door looked like, she looked like, well like Rebecca Louise.

I shifted to see what was written on the blackboard. The teacher pointed at, “How To Find A New Mommy.”

Wednesday Writing Prompt

Ali is at it again. She has started a new weekly challenge. The quick explanation is to take inspiration from any blog using a post made in the previous week. Bold the phrase in your scene, poem, dialogue, etc. with a link to the original blog.

Here is my contribution:

Sure, you can pummel
Vegetables to death, but
Hollandaise is best

June Goals

May seemed like such a long month, yet I didn't really accomplish much writing-wise. About 25 more pages of MMG revised and 25 pages of TNN in pretty good shape for submission this month. Not a lot. But I did a whole bunch of other good stuff. Got back into the habit of writing Morning Pages daily. Started practicing banjo again, complete with sore fingertips on my left hand as I get used to holding down the strings. Really cleaned out the writing room, even the scary closet. And moved the chest of drawers downstairs so there is now room to set up bookshelves. All in all a productive month.

Plans for June? A lot of the same old/same old with a little twist:

--Rewrite of MMG with new-old structure (75/??)
--Rewrite 2nd 25 pages of TNN for CWC
--Prepare short story for submission to magazine
--Do CWC critiques (0/2)
--Finish writing room makeover

I've been flirting with the writing room redo for two years now. There has been this niggling around the sides of my mind saying that I shouldn't get a new writing room until MMG is ready to send to agents. Well, that's horse hockey, as my mother used to say. If I want a redecorated writing room, then wanting it is all that's necessary.

The extra challenge is in getting a short story to a point where I feel it's ready to submit to a magazine. Regular blog readers know I'm not comfortable with shorts, nor am I ever really happy with any of them. So this is a biggie for me.

What do you feel you don't do well that you'd like to do better? How about working on it this month?

Taking Ali's Challenge Plus

Fred, a member of the Sunday Group, passed away over the weekend as the result of a stroke and the complications that followed. He was a highly intelligent, funny, odd and just plain nice man. Ali's May Challenge is in Fred's honor. It is simply to learn something new just for the pleasure of learning.

One of the last times I spoke with Fred was right after I read Dante's Inferno. Although I stated that I understood how it had stood the test of time and the artistry and craft that went into writing it (see post in archives), the mere fact that I didn't enjoy it appalled Fred. He seemed to take it as a personal affront. So, in Fred's honor, I will finish The Divine Comedy this summer. I also picked up a copy of the Poetic Eddas and will read them over the summer as well.

Rest well, Fred.

Duck!

The challenges are flying fast and furiously around here as we get closer to the end of the month. Ali and John are in the middle of another smackdown. I'm feeling challenged just getting out of bed in the morning. Bad cold, project at work whupping my butt, yada yada yada. It's all by way of the old excuse of not enough time. Whatever. I'm over it.

I did make a change to my goals for the month based on some feedback from the ever brilliant Jenny. Chapter count is much easier to manage and more practical than page/word count when it comes to rewrites. Chapters are the units we're dealing in once the novel is done. Even if we query with word counts. So, chapters it is.

The NewsMag is out the door, and I have a couple weeks until the deadline for the next one. I have no plays or hockey games or parties or anything else to attend between now and the CWC meeting. So. 31 pages of Vesta is 2.8 pages a day in order to give myself time for a polish before I make copies. Really doable. I have the first chapter of MMG pretty well done, just one scene to add. A push to get another one done, but not at all out of the realm of possibility.

Time to just do it, as the ad says. There's a writing marathon next month and NaNoWriMo the month after that. I need to condition these flabby writing muscles before then. Who's with me?

August Turns Into September

And the weather goes from summer to fall over the weekend. That's usually a good thing for me. My energy level increases with the waning of the heat. And this summer was weird for me anyway.

Let's look at the month just past, shall we? My goals were:

--Finish rewrite of MMG. (Not even close again)
--Write 62 pages of Vesta or 2 pages a day. (Made it to 31)
--Complete CWC critiques. (Did do both of them)

So what to do about September? I have to get to at least 50 pages on Vesta or face the wrath of the group. And that ain't pretty, let me tell ya. And MMG deserves to be finished and let loose. Work-work isn't giving me much free time these days so it's all evenings and weekends with some extra-tired in the evenings. [I know, whinging doesn't get it done.] So, given all that, I've still got to push myself.

--Rewrite 200 pages of MMG.
--Write 31 pages of Vesta.
--Quick polish of Vesta for CWC.
--Complete CWC critiques.

Here's the thought process. If I get to 200 pages of MMG rewrites, I'm hoping that I'll either be so caught up at that point that I'll push through or the instinct to 'just do it' will kick in and I'll finish. But even if neither happens, I'll be 200 pages closer to done. Since I managed 31 pages in about 10 days last month, I should be able to do the same this month. And have time left over to pretty it up a little for the group. And there is no negotiating on CWC critiques. Those just get done.

And I may come up with a self-challenge for Ali. But not right now. I have an appointment to make with a plumber, a deposit to take to the bank and about 50 customers to call so I can verify shipping addresses.

I Survived American Icon

Barely. It was a nerve-wracking evening to say the least.

I arrive, turn in my form with the title (now Swamp Witch) and logline and pick up my program and name tag. Sit down with my buds and open the program. It still says "Vesta" as the title and I'm #13 in the line up. That means I'm after the intermission. Great. Lots of time to worry.

More people show up. At the cool kids' table, we have Jenny, Shane, Ali, Nicole, Fleur, John and me from the Pirates plus another John, Joe and Iron John's folks. Cool, indeed. I listen to the other people reading. Some are excellent. Some, not so much. Listen to the feedback. Don't agree with all of it, but then you never do. It's a subjective business.

Intermission. Time for a trip to the bar so I can have a nice cold glass of pinot grigio waiting when I come off stage. It'll go nicely with the two petit fours (would that be a petit eight then?) saved as a reward. And, of course, a visit to the ladies room.

First person after the break gets up and reads. I sort of hear it. Sip some water. Then the one before me. I stand up and move into position. Feel for a moment like I'm going to pass out. Breathe. Again. People applaud. I climb the three steps. Put my paper on the podium (plexiglass so I can't really hide behind it-damn!). Hang on to the podium so I don't fall over. Start to read. My voice is shaking so I take a deeper breath and speak louder. Seems to have steadied. Keep reading. Look up. So many people out there. First page done. Do the voice. Do the voice. Okay, that sounded deeper to me. Different. Did anyone else catch it? "finds it hard to ignore." Done. Applause. Smile. Turn to judges. They're applauding. Seems geniune. Feedback starts. "Great premise." blah blah blah "Backstory bad." blah blah "Good metaphors. Nice description." blah "Backstory really bad." blah "Wanted some religious symbols after hearing the logline." Huh? More applause. Return to seat. Don't trip. Congratulations from the table. Where's the wine?

Then it was Fleur's turn. She rocked the house and ended up winning for Best Tension. Abso-freakin'-lutely. John followed her with his fabulous reading. I'd heard it before and was still on the edge of my seat and laughing at the same time. Hard to pull off. But he did, and should have won for Best Thriller.

I know the person who won the Audience Favorite and Best Overall. I almost voted for her for Audience Favorite because her writing and reading were great. How can you go wrong with a woman's reaction to being next to the stage at a strip club watching another woman dance?

I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed that I didn't win. Especially when one of the categories was "Best Premise". But the feedback about not going into back story on page two might very well be valid. It doesn't really need to be there. It's only two sentences, but still. The religious symbols? Not so much. She's going home to have dinner with the preacher, for pity sakes. Two more pages and we'd be there. But I got up and read and survived. I'm glad I did it for that reason. I don't have to do it again. And I doubt I will. At least in that setting.

Oh, I won a fabulous door prize. So between that, overcoming one of my big fears for a few minutes, seeing a couple friends win big and hanging out with my buds (who were so greatly supportive and I can't ever thank them enough for that), it was in the end a great evening.

A Challenge

I know everyone's busy with the holidays and feeling like writing is the last thing you have time for. But here's a multiple-choice Evil Editor themed challenge to get you writing for a little bit at least.

Pick one (or more if you're feeling ambitious):

1) Submit a query letter to Evil Editor.
2) Submit the first part of something you've written to Evil Editor for a continuation.
3) Do one of the following current Writing Exercises (word limit 250) and submit to Mr. Evil:

a) Evil Editor is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past, who helps him revisit the crucial event that led to his evilness.
b) You find the list of your three 2007 New Year's resolutions. So far you've accomplished none of them. But there are still two hours till 2008. Better move fast.
c) We all know what happened when the little "Who" discovered the Grinch taking all the presnts; she bought his lies and went back to bed. Write a scene in which one of the following characters discovers the Grinch stealing Christmas: Columbo; Rambo; Chief Wiggum.
d) An ice storm has had your electricity of for four days. You can't cook, watch television or use your blender. Worst of all, you can't get online. Write a scene describing the lengths you go to to find out what's happening on Evil Editor's blog.
e) Stranded on a frozen tundra, you look up to see a vast herd of reindeer stampeding toward you. It could be time to use your time travel device, but there's no telling where and when it'll deposit you.

Have fun.