As you can see from the title of this post, anything I write here will be pure fiction. According to family lore, I started speaking when I was so young, people thought my mother was lying about my age. So here's the story, prompted by Lisa Romeo:
Prompt: Speechless
Speechless. I was completely and totally speechless. Sure, I've imagined winning something like this ever since I first put fingers to keyboard with the idea for my novel, but when the call came, I was speechless.
And not in a charming, humble kind of way. I was speechless a way that had my agent banging his receiver on his desk (or whatever, I assume it was his desk) and shouting my name into the phone. "Are you OK? Should I hang up and call 9-1-1."
Then I started to cry. Not cute, endearing tears of humility. I was doing the ugly cry, complete with puffy red eyes and lots of snot. Thank God video phones have not caught on yet. I do not want people to see what I look like when I'm talking on the phone. If I wanted them to see me, I would meet them in person. No picture is one of the best features of a telephone.
"Oh, for God's sake, this is good news," Michael said.
"I know, I know," I finally stammered. "I just can't help it. You caught me off guard. Who would have thought after 437 rejections …" I hiccoughed and went back to speechless.
"Well, you should have come to me first," said Michael. "I told you your book was brilliant. I knew it in the first 30 seconds. You're brilliant, and now you are a brilliant, award-winning author. The ceremony will be in New York next month. Get this. They are paying for your plane ticket and your hotel. You have to come on Thursday, because there will all kinds of press events before the dinner on Saturday night. I heard John Irving is giving the keynote, and your speech will come right after dinner.
Speech? How can I possibly give a speech? I can't even talk to Michael on the phone. All of a sudden, I hang up. And then I crack up. I'm laughing so hard that now I'm crying again. The dog is whining and my son wants to know if he should call 9-1-1.
Time: 10 minutes
So, I can dream, can't I? How sad is it that even in my dreams I'm not lovely and charming and eloquent? You would think if I'm going to muster up a fantasy, I should be able to make myself witty and skinny. Clearly, this fantasy needs some rewriting.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Day #10 — So Many Possibilities
For today's prompt, Lisa Romeo suggested: Read All Directions Before Starting. Oooh, which way to go? There are so many good possibilities. In the true spirit of the SFD, I think I'll just let my mind and keyboard ramble.
Prompt: Read All Directions Before Starting
When DH built the little shed in our backyard, he was shocked and frustrated to discover that the kit had too many medium-length bolts and not enough long ones. Turns out that he had used the long bolts in the wrong spot and had to take the shed down to the ground. I discovered this when I read the directions. Read them — not just looked at the pictures. I do so love to be right. It could be my fatal flaw.
One of my favorite in school exercises, and a truly delicious practical joke, is that old ridiculous worksheet entitled: "Read All Directions Before Starting." My mother was a teacher and a librarian. I always read all the directions before starting. As a consequence, I was one of the few that read:
Step 1 — Read all directions before starting. Complete this assignment as quickly as possible.
Step 2 — Write your name at the top of this page.
Step 3 — Open and close your workbook three times.
Steps 4 though 19 — a bunch of other ridiculous tasks, including (I kid you not) "walk to the front of the room and kiss the chalk board." (I suppose now it would be a white board, but it would have the same effect.)
Step 20 — Set down your pencil and watch most of your classmates make fools of themselves because they did not follow directions. Try not to laugh, or you'll give it away.
I loved this exercise. Have I mentioned that I love being right? It's definitely my fatal flaw.
Recently, I have used two different sewing patterns that had incomplete and just plain wrong directions. I found myself rereading them over and over, with the ingrained belief telling me that if I only read the directions carefully, I'll be able to figure it out. But sometimes directions are wrong.
And sometimes there are no directions. We've all encountered the missing manual. How can software companies get away with putting out complex products without creating and including a comprehensive manual? What is that?
And what about all those really important things that simply don't come with directions — like children. Where's the manual for parenting? What was God thinking?
The two sides of my brain are in constant battle over the whole "read the directions" imperative. How much time have I wasted reading directions I either already know or that don't matter? Why must I read them word for word and critique how well they were written. Why can't I just take what I need and move on?
Time: OK, over time: 14 minutes
Clearly, this topic struck a chord. I bet it could be revised to make a smashing essay. Ah, perhaps there is a reason for all this prompted free writing. Must mark to revisit.
Prompt: Read All Directions Before Starting
When DH built the little shed in our backyard, he was shocked and frustrated to discover that the kit had too many medium-length bolts and not enough long ones. Turns out that he had used the long bolts in the wrong spot and had to take the shed down to the ground. I discovered this when I read the directions. Read them — not just looked at the pictures. I do so love to be right. It could be my fatal flaw.
One of my favorite in school exercises, and a truly delicious practical joke, is that old ridiculous worksheet entitled: "Read All Directions Before Starting." My mother was a teacher and a librarian. I always read all the directions before starting. As a consequence, I was one of the few that read:
Step 1 — Read all directions before starting. Complete this assignment as quickly as possible.
Step 2 — Write your name at the top of this page.
Step 3 — Open and close your workbook three times.
Steps 4 though 19 — a bunch of other ridiculous tasks, including (I kid you not) "walk to the front of the room and kiss the chalk board." (I suppose now it would be a white board, but it would have the same effect.)
Step 20 — Set down your pencil and watch most of your classmates make fools of themselves because they did not follow directions. Try not to laugh, or you'll give it away.
I loved this exercise. Have I mentioned that I love being right? It's definitely my fatal flaw.
Do you know how many times I have read the directions for making Jello? It's not that hard. Boil one cup of water. Dissolve the gelatin in the boiling water. Add one cup of cold water. Stir gently. Refrigerate until firm. If I can reproduce the directions (almost verbatim) even though I have not made Jello in many months, then why do I feel compelled to reread them each time. And it's not just Jello. I still read the directions on the pasta package. Pasta. Boil until desired doneness. It doesn't take a genius.
Recently, I have used two different sewing patterns that had incomplete and just plain wrong directions. I found myself rereading them over and over, with the ingrained belief telling me that if I only read the directions carefully, I'll be able to figure it out. But sometimes directions are wrong.
And sometimes there are no directions. We've all encountered the missing manual. How can software companies get away with putting out complex products without creating and including a comprehensive manual? What is that?
And what about all those really important things that simply don't come with directions — like children. Where's the manual for parenting? What was God thinking?
The two sides of my brain are in constant battle over the whole "read the directions" imperative. How much time have I wasted reading directions I either already know or that don't matter? Why must I read them word for word and critique how well they were written. Why can't I just take what I need and move on?
Time: OK, over time: 14 minutes
Clearly, this topic struck a chord. I bet it could be revised to make a smashing essay. Ah, perhaps there is a reason for all this prompted free writing. Must mark to revisit.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Day #9 — Go, Team, Go
Lisa Romeo prompt #9. This was week two of our improv sessions with Jimmy Carrane at Off Campus Writers Workshop. I'm still a bit fuzzy on where all this improvisation (both the theater games and the free writing) will take me, but I'm sticking with it for now.
Prompt: Go, Team, Go
The Big House — also known as Michigan Stadium — the biggest, baddest, best place to watch American football, nay, any sporting event, in the world. 100,000+ seats of unobstructed views of the field.
Even if you don't like football, The Big House is an adventure. There's always something to watch. You have your rabid Michigan fans, many shirtless in frigid temperatures, showing off Maize and Blue war paint and jingling their key rings on key plays. There's the tide of sound rising in a unified chorus of cheers or moans as they play unfolds on the field.
Then there's the human wave, when 100,000 people work together rising and waving and falling again as the wave rings the stadium, faster and faster, reversing on itself and then crossing, in spontaneous perfectly timed choreography. It's a sight to behold.
The 150-member Miiiiichigan marching band takes the field at half time, led by the most enthusiastic drum major in the NCAA. We don't need no stinkin' mascot. We've got cheerleaders tumbling off the walls to count out the score. And the pep band touring the stands. And an alma mater that nobody knows, except when you reach the word "Hail". And a fight song that everybody know, played like a leitmotif throughout the game.
I like football, at least college football, but you don't need to be a fan to get into the spirit. An autumn afternoon at The Big House will take you to places you've never been … even back in time and spirit to the days of the Roman Coliseum — it's a real Ann Arbor circus.
Time: 11 minutes
Nonfiction from a writing prompt is a completely different experience. I've written about Michigan Stadium before, on my real blog. Maybe there's something here that needs to be explored — an essay for the alumni magazine perhaps. Think outside the box. Think new venues.
Prompt: Go, Team, Go
The Big House — also known as Michigan Stadium — the biggest, baddest, best place to watch American football, nay, any sporting event, in the world. 100,000+ seats of unobstructed views of the field.
Even if you don't like football, The Big House is an adventure. There's always something to watch. You have your rabid Michigan fans, many shirtless in frigid temperatures, showing off Maize and Blue war paint and jingling their key rings on key plays. There's the tide of sound rising in a unified chorus of cheers or moans as they play unfolds on the field.
Then there's the human wave, when 100,000 people work together rising and waving and falling again as the wave rings the stadium, faster and faster, reversing on itself and then crossing, in spontaneous perfectly timed choreography. It's a sight to behold.
The 150-member Miiiiichigan marching band takes the field at half time, led by the most enthusiastic drum major in the NCAA. We don't need no stinkin' mascot. We've got cheerleaders tumbling off the walls to count out the score. And the pep band touring the stands. And an alma mater that nobody knows, except when you reach the word "Hail". And a fight song that everybody know, played like a leitmotif throughout the game.
I like football, at least college football, but you don't need to be a fan to get into the spirit. An autumn afternoon at The Big House will take you to places you've never been … even back in time and spirit to the days of the Roman Coliseum — it's a real Ann Arbor circus.
Time: 11 minutes
Nonfiction from a writing prompt is a completely different experience. I've written about Michigan Stadium before, on my real blog. Maybe there's something here that needs to be explored — an essay for the alumni magazine perhaps. Think outside the box. Think new venues.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Day #8 — SFD, with emphasis on the S
I am very tired today, so this may turn out to be a SSFD, if you know what I mean. The prompt today, as it will every day in January, comes from Lisa Romeo .
Prompt: Small, Medium, Large
She had never been small, at least not physically. Born at 9 pounds, 6 ounces, she was considered large for gestational age, being well above the 90th percentile for newborn girls. She started wearing adult clothes at nine — a medium — and had never worn anything smaller than an extra large since she hit puberty.
Her real name was Felicity, but every called her Cat, which always seemed more than a little ironic, given that she moved with the grace of a three-legged elephant, galumphing around and settling with a decided whomp whenever she sat down. Cat wasn't exactly fat, although she was by no means skinny. She was just big. Big and awkward and … not at all cat-like.
Those who knew her and loved her, at least theoretically, always offered the usual platitudes to her mother. "She has such a pretty face," Aunt Gert always said, repeatedly, at every family gathering. "Doesn't she have a pretty face?"
Cat thought: With a name like Gert, and those horse teeth, she really doesn't have a lot of room to talk.
Cat said: "Thank you, Aunt Gert."
Clothes were always a problem. Pants were too short, waists were too tight, boots never fit over the calves. The few times she was able to find something relatively pretty to wear for some occasion or other, she could never quite put the look together they way she had seen it in the store. The dress would sag, or the blouse would gap. Accessories always seemed too much on her. "Gilding the lily," her mother always said, taking off the scarf Cat had spent 20 minutes trying to tie.
Time: 10 minutes
Too much detail, I know, but what can you expect from a SSFD. Still, I can feel the character. Her slow burning fuse, her discomfort in her own skin and in the world around her. She may be worth getting to know better.
Prompt: Small, Medium, Large
She had never been small, at least not physically. Born at 9 pounds, 6 ounces, she was considered large for gestational age, being well above the 90th percentile for newborn girls. She started wearing adult clothes at nine — a medium — and had never worn anything smaller than an extra large since she hit puberty.
Her real name was Felicity, but every called her Cat, which always seemed more than a little ironic, given that she moved with the grace of a three-legged elephant, galumphing around and settling with a decided whomp whenever she sat down. Cat wasn't exactly fat, although she was by no means skinny. She was just big. Big and awkward and … not at all cat-like.
Those who knew her and loved her, at least theoretically, always offered the usual platitudes to her mother. "She has such a pretty face," Aunt Gert always said, repeatedly, at every family gathering. "Doesn't she have a pretty face?"
Cat thought: With a name like Gert, and those horse teeth, she really doesn't have a lot of room to talk.
Cat said: "Thank you, Aunt Gert."
Clothes were always a problem. Pants were too short, waists were too tight, boots never fit over the calves. The few times she was able to find something relatively pretty to wear for some occasion or other, she could never quite put the look together they way she had seen it in the store. The dress would sag, or the blouse would gap. Accessories always seemed too much on her. "Gilding the lily," her mother always said, taking off the scarf Cat had spent 20 minutes trying to tie.
Time: 10 minutes
Too much detail, I know, but what can you expect from a SSFD. Still, I can feel the character. Her slow burning fuse, her discomfort in her own skin and in the world around her. She may be worth getting to know better.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Have You Heard the News Today? — Day #7
No prelude today. This is prompted by Lisa Romeo and an actual news story.
Prompt: Have You Heard the News Today?
I read, on Facebook of all places, that Miep Gies died recently at the age of 100. Miep gave safe harbor to Anne Frank and her family for two years during World War II. She was a hero — a quiet, reluctant hero who did what she did because it was the right thing to do.
As a writer, I am continually awed by the power of words and books. I, like most girls, read The Diary of Anne Frank when I was a young adolescent, just like Anne in her diary. I didn't know then, but realize know that Anne played a profound role in me becoming a writer.
She was completely and utterly herself in her diary. We could all relate to her feelings, her relationships, her small joys and petty complaints in the dire circumstances in which she lived. She was a girl like any other girl, and that is why her story has remained so powerful after all these years. She put a human face — a beautiful face — on one of the most unimaginably inhuman events in history. Her little diary made us realize that if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone.
I long to write with the clear, passionate voice of Anne Frank. I wish I could be as honest and uncensored as she was in her diary.
I mourn with the world the loss of the woman who tried and failed to save Anne, but who did save her diary for us to treasure. She was truly a blessing.
Time: 11 minutes
Prompt: Have You Heard the News Today?
I read, on Facebook of all places, that Miep Gies died recently at the age of 100. Miep gave safe harbor to Anne Frank and her family for two years during World War II. She was a hero — a quiet, reluctant hero who did what she did because it was the right thing to do.
As a writer, I am continually awed by the power of words and books. I, like most girls, read The Diary of Anne Frank when I was a young adolescent, just like Anne in her diary. I didn't know then, but realize know that Anne played a profound role in me becoming a writer.
She was completely and utterly herself in her diary. We could all relate to her feelings, her relationships, her small joys and petty complaints in the dire circumstances in which she lived. She was a girl like any other girl, and that is why her story has remained so powerful after all these years. She put a human face — a beautiful face — on one of the most unimaginably inhuman events in history. Her little diary made us realize that if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone.
I long to write with the clear, passionate voice of Anne Frank. I wish I could be as honest and uncensored as she was in her diary.
I mourn with the world the loss of the woman who tried and failed to save Anne, but who did save her diary for us to treasure. She was truly a blessing.
Time: 11 minutes
Monday, January 11, 2010
Bedazzled — Day 6
Today is day six of the Lisa Romeo prompts: Bedazzled. I will ignore my immediate impulse to do a riff on that machine that adds sparkles to your jean jackets. Will not go there. Where then? Let's see.
Prompt: Bedazzled
"Oh. My. God." they mouthed to each other after Sara pulled the curtain closed. Behind it was one Matthew M. Constant, by far the cutest patient who had found his way into their ER in … well, a very long time.
"Did you see those pecs?" Sara asked when they got back to the station. She'd been the one to cut off his shirt so they could get a clear look at his wound. "He must work out incessantly."
"Who does?" asked Danny, their favorite moonlighter from U Hospital.
"Curtain 3," said Diana, a third year resident. "I'm all about the arms. He has great arms. And beautiful eyes. My God, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner."
"What's wrong with him?" asked Danny.
"Nothing," the women sighed together, then giggled and gave their report.
"Car accident," said Diana. "He wasn't actually in the accident. An SUV flipped over and he played hero, climbing in through the broken back window to rescue a toddler from her car seat. He scraped his side pretty good on something that was sticking out from the mangled roof. I need to see how deep the wound is before we clean it out and stitch him up. Probably needs a Tetanus booster, too."
"A Greek God and a hero," said Danny. "Sounds like just my type."
"Uh, hands off, buddy boy, we saw him first," said Sara, doing a fast walk past Danny back to the patient. Danny grabbed the chart and gave the hero a once over before turning his back and mouthing another "Oh, my God!" to Sara.
"Told ya," she said.
Time: 10 minutes
OK, it sounds a bit like a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy. But I can see this guy. Really white teeth. Not complaining about the pain. The nurses I know live for this kind of patient. I wonder what's really wrong with him. Will he die in this episode? Stay tuned.
Prompt: Bedazzled
"Oh. My. God." they mouthed to each other after Sara pulled the curtain closed. Behind it was one Matthew M. Constant, by far the cutest patient who had found his way into their ER in … well, a very long time.
"Did you see those pecs?" Sara asked when they got back to the station. She'd been the one to cut off his shirt so they could get a clear look at his wound. "He must work out incessantly."
"Who does?" asked Danny, their favorite moonlighter from U Hospital.
"Curtain 3," said Diana, a third year resident. "I'm all about the arms. He has great arms. And beautiful eyes. My God, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner."
"What's wrong with him?" asked Danny.
"Nothing," the women sighed together, then giggled and gave their report.
"Car accident," said Diana. "He wasn't actually in the accident. An SUV flipped over and he played hero, climbing in through the broken back window to rescue a toddler from her car seat. He scraped his side pretty good on something that was sticking out from the mangled roof. I need to see how deep the wound is before we clean it out and stitch him up. Probably needs a Tetanus booster, too."
"A Greek God and a hero," said Danny. "Sounds like just my type."
"Uh, hands off, buddy boy, we saw him first," said Sara, doing a fast walk past Danny back to the patient. Danny grabbed the chart and gave the hero a once over before turning his back and mouthing another "Oh, my God!" to Sara.
"Told ya," she said.
Time: 10 minutes
OK, it sounds a bit like a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy. But I can see this guy. Really white teeth. Not complaining about the pain. The nurses I know live for this kind of patient. I wonder what's really wrong with him. Will he die in this episode? Stay tuned.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Take One — Day #5
This is day five of the Lisa Romeo emailed prompts (you can still sign up to get her writing prompt in your inbox; just click here). I've been very busy putting up my new freelancing Website , but I'm not going to break my resolution of 10 minutes of free writing every day. Starting now.
Prompt: Take One
Do you ever feel like your life is a movie? Lately, mine feels like a b-movie script on a straight to video project.
Scene 49, Take 1
Drama at home. Drama at work. So much drama, I keep waiting for the reviews to come out in the New York Times, but here's the problem. I am not the star. I am not the drama queen. I seem to be nothing but a bit player in my Lifetime Movie of the Week.
For example, yesterday Dick lowered the boom on David and Richard's project. (Don't you just love that I have a boss named Dick?) No one was surprised, but the overacting from the two main characters brought eye rolls from the audience. "But, Di-ck," whined Richard. "We've been working on this project for just ages. Why now?"
Cut to Dick. "Because, Richard, I am not flushing one more solitary penny down this stink hole of a merger or collaboration or whatever it was. You have spent more time, more dollars and more of my office supplies on this turd that I care to think about. Done and done."
So, fine. Done and done. Cut to the staff meeting 20 minutes later, when I had to present the monthly figures on my own little project. Modest project, little income so far, but income nonetheless. And the profit is coming. It was all there in black and white, and I was going to be the star of my own little Powerpoint showing just what we can expect. But, nooo. Back to the David and Richard show we go. Dick spent the entire staff meeting on toilet analogies about their done-and-done project, and my Powerpoint was put on the back burner.
"Just email it to me," Dick said as he left the meeting five minutes early. He had plans with D&R for lunch. He buys the potty boys lunch, but wants me to "just email" him about a month's worth of my work. Flush that.
Time: 10 minutes this time
What I've noticed about this free writing thing is that 10 minutes seems to be about the time it takes to write a scene. The characters pop pretty vividly into my mind and the scene unfolds. Interesting though they are on their own, I'm still struggling with the why of this kind of writing. Who are these people and why should I be writing about them? Will this really help me with my "real" writing. I'm already pretty fast. I can follow a scene down it's path. What does this free writing project bring to my palette? Should I be trying to tie these together? That doesn't seem right. Hmmm. More to ponder.
Hey, take a minute and check out the new Website .
Prompt: Take One
Do you ever feel like your life is a movie? Lately, mine feels like a b-movie script on a straight to video project.
Scene 49, Take 1
Drama at home. Drama at work. So much drama, I keep waiting for the reviews to come out in the New York Times, but here's the problem. I am not the star. I am not the drama queen. I seem to be nothing but a bit player in my Lifetime Movie of the Week.
For example, yesterday Dick lowered the boom on David and Richard's project. (Don't you just love that I have a boss named Dick?) No one was surprised, but the overacting from the two main characters brought eye rolls from the audience. "But, Di-ck," whined Richard. "We've been working on this project for just ages. Why now?"
Cut to Dick. "Because, Richard, I am not flushing one more solitary penny down this stink hole of a merger or collaboration or whatever it was. You have spent more time, more dollars and more of my office supplies on this turd that I care to think about. Done and done."
So, fine. Done and done. Cut to the staff meeting 20 minutes later, when I had to present the monthly figures on my own little project. Modest project, little income so far, but income nonetheless. And the profit is coming. It was all there in black and white, and I was going to be the star of my own little Powerpoint showing just what we can expect. But, nooo. Back to the David and Richard show we go. Dick spent the entire staff meeting on toilet analogies about their done-and-done project, and my Powerpoint was put on the back burner.
"Just email it to me," Dick said as he left the meeting five minutes early. He had plans with D&R for lunch. He buys the potty boys lunch, but wants me to "just email" him about a month's worth of my work. Flush that.
Time: 10 minutes this time
What I've noticed about this free writing thing is that 10 minutes seems to be about the time it takes to write a scene. The characters pop pretty vividly into my mind and the scene unfolds. Interesting though they are on their own, I'm still struggling with the why of this kind of writing. Who are these people and why should I be writing about them? Will this really help me with my "real" writing. I'm already pretty fast. I can follow a scene down it's path. What does this free writing project bring to my palette? Should I be trying to tie these together? That doesn't seem right. Hmmm. More to ponder.
Hey, take a minute and check out the new Website .
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