Plain Ordinary Girls

The other night was a no-cooking night.  If I had my way, every night would be a no-cooking night, because I abhor cooking with the heat of a thousand burning suns.  Baking=Awesome,  Cooking=brainsuck.  So I walk into a restaurant and order something to go.  The girl was all, “It’ll take twenty minutes to cook,” and I was all, “That’s all right, I’m going to the bookstore,” and she’s all, “Oh, I love the bookstore,” and you know how these conversations go.  Turns out that she wants to be a writer.  She had an epiphany the other night that she should write a novel about her life.

I wrote my first novel about my life when I was eight.  It was pretty short, as novels go, maybe ten typed pages, but I waxed on about family trips and the annoying failings of my little brother.  Our dinosaur of a computer crashed and  I lost The Life and Times of Mercedes, much to the relief of the literary community.  But I knew where this girl was coming from.  I’ve been wanting to write a “real” novel ever since that fateful experience.  At 16.  At 21.  By 23 I was certain that I missed the boat, that it was too late.  Finally at age 27 I threw all caution to the wind and wrote my first “real” novel.  It was a fantastic experience.

So I thought about her as I wandered around (and kicked my heels and spun in circles and burst into cheery song) inside of the bookstore.  Everybody has a novel inside of them.  But where’s the plan?  Where’s the kick in the butt that gets you going?  I wanted to write a novel for years, but it was too daunting.  Real Writers write novels, not Plain Ordinary Girls.

Real Writers are smart.  Disciplined.  Creative all of the time.  They speak opulently and with perfect grammar.  They sequester themselves inside of their office until something amazing flows out of their pen.  They never revise. Real Writers only read classic novels.  They’re born of grief and mourn the change in seasons.  They starve out in the forest, eating nuts, berries, and pencil shavings.

Real Writers often write in pencil.

Sheesh.  No wonder I didn’t think that I’d ever be a Real Writer.  Real Writers like I imagined don’t really exist.  Or if they do, they’re not making their way out of the forest.  It took me a long time to get over the fact that it doesn’t have to be perfect.  I was always waiting for the perfect time of day when I’d be uninterrupted.  I was waiting for the perfect idea, the perfect flash of inspiration.  I mean, I still don’t have an office.  Or a desk.  I sprawl on the couch with my keyboard on my lap.  My daughter watches Sesame Street and we discuss why Elmo doesn’t wear shoes.    But I’ve learned that Real Writers write even when it’s inconvenient.  They write while holding down families and jobs.  They aren’t mystical.  They aren’t at the top of some imaginary social strata.  Writers are Plain Ordinary Girls and Plain Ordinary Boys that made the commitment to write, that’s all.  There isn’t any magic involved.

It’s a good thing to know.  It took me far too long to figure this out.  I hope this girl that I was talking to realizes it more quickly than I did.

 

Pieces out: 28

Goal: 40

Baring It All Online. G-Rated, You Pervs.

Ray Veen is the Anti-Me.  I don’t think that either he or I realized this, but it must be the case.  For a while I thought that Matt Betts was the Anti-Me, but it turns out that we’re almost disappointingly similar. If Matt and I were to meet up, we’d spend the time watching PG-13 horror movies between our fingers, interspersed with showing each other pictures of our family and then getting into a hand slapping fight. But Ray and I might eye each other warily from opposite sides of the room. Why? Profile pictures. They may have effectively driven a wedge between us. Er, the cyber us.

I loved his post.  (Check out the linky-link above.)  He feels that profile pics are contrived and unrealistic.  I think they’re just made of awesome.

But I see his point.  Online relationships are made and carried out based on an idea that you have of a person.  Pictures can be misleading. They can feel dishonest.  On the other hand, pictures give you a way to identify with somebody. 

I lost a challenge once.  I know, I was sorely disappointed.  I can’t even remember what the challenge was, but the consequence was that I had to take a fresh faced picture and post it online.  My hair couldn’t be done.  No makeup.  I was to be naked, in a strictly metaphorical sense.  And it was scary, because lipstick is armor, boys and girls.  I don’t go into a meeting without it.  Especially if I think it’s going to disintegrate into a brawl.

But there’s freedom in putting the axe down, as some would say.  Let’s strip away all of the pretenses.  Look.  It’s me.  I’m bare.  Let’s start a revolution.

Curse You, Fragile Human Body!

My daughter had a high fever last night.  I rocked her, bathed her, gave her water and children’s Tylenol, cuddled her, and sang to her until her fever broke at about 3:00 AM.  Then I went to bed.

This morning I woke up with a headache that progressed to migraine status as the day went on.  The auras, nausea, wishing-that-I-had-an-ice-pick-so-I-could-jam-it-into-my-eyes, the whole deal.  I am now drugged to the teeth and life isn’t quite as bad.

So although I hate it when my writing schedule gets thrown off, today was a gentle day of lying around the house and watching Lady and the Tramp.  Here’s to hoping it all returns to normal tomorrow.

KillerCon

It’s Vegas, Baby!  It’s KillerCon!

I can’t tell you how excited I am to go.  It’s going to be the first of hopefully many more to come: KillerCon. 

“Horror, thriller, and paranormal romance collides in this inaugural multi-genre writer’s convention. The First Annual Las Vegas KillerCon will take place September 17 through 20, 2009 at the Palace Station Hotel/Casino in Sin City. KillerCon will feature panel discussions, readings, writing contests, parties, book signings, and author Q&As with Guests of Honor Joe R. Lansdale, Brian Keene, L.A. Banks, Heather Graham, Edward Lee, and Allen K., as well as many other top writing and artistic talents.”

My first conference, and on my turf!  It’s ran by Wrath James White and Monica J. O’Rourke, who I’m hoping to meet there.  Shock Totem and Sideshow Press will be sharing a vendor’s table, and it will be manned by Kurt Newton and yours truly.  You can pick up a copy of Shock Totem’s debut issue, signed by Kurt and I, for a special KillerCon discounted price of five bucks.  Woo!  Or slip me an extra dollar under the table and I won’t sign it for you.    And here’s an awesome piece of Trivia.  The conference is being held at the Palace Station.   Google “Palace Station OJ Simpson”.  Oh yeah.  Love it. 

Anyway, I’m all kinds of excited, and quite a few of my Internet associates should be there.  I’m also all kinds of nervous because I have no idea what to expect.  But the table will be my anchor, and I’ll run screaming for it when I’m drowning in a sea of talent.

But seriously, this would be a fabulous time to throw out words of advice.  What was your first conference like?  Is there anything that you think I should know?  Or shall I just toss my hair back and meet all of these awesome writers?  So cool!

I Forgot WIP Wednesday…Again

Somebody just tap me on the shoulder and discreetly whisper that I’m losing my mind. I promise not to make a scene.

Anyway, this week I’m working on a story about a woman named Violet who has…let’s just say “star issues”. I’m actually trying to write a serial in tweets, because it’s a challenge that I’ve never tried before. It’s fun but a little difficult, because each tweet needs to stand alone, but also be cohesive as a whole. I’m enjoying the process so far.

Google History: eggs benedict, killercon, sideshow press, fireworks, shipping in alaska, death note, f. paul wilson, playing at the hilton, sparklier, blood soaked chandelier, totems

Happy New Writing Year!

It’s time for a celebration!  Woo!  Why, you ask?  It’s because August means the beginning of a new writing year in our house.

Summer is full of “Ack, both of the kids are home!” and “We are going to do family things, dagnabbit!” and “It’s too hot to go outside, so how about movie night…again?”  I try valiantly to write, but with two small, wiggly children who can’t even get their own glass of water, let alone watch themselves for a few minutes…well, Mommy’s Special Writing Time was a complete bust.

But now?  Mmmm.  I say that again.  MMMM.

My son is settling into his new school.  My daughter takes one long midday nap.  And I?  I get to breathe again.  I anticipate falling asleep while plotting and planning scenes.  I am going to breathe in my characters.  And I’m going to enjoy KillerCon.

“KillerCon?” you ask.  Oh, yes.  KillerCon.  But more on that later.  It is, after all, time to write.

Hey, You! I Like Your Face!

Do you know what I’m absolutely mad about?  Profile pictures.  I love them.  They’re awesome.

You hear all about auditory learners and the like.  I’m very visual.  If you say, “Yo, Mercedes, where are your red and black stripped leg warmers with the cute little brass skully buttons?”  I will first say, “Did you really use the word ‘Yo’?!” and then I will close my eyes and draw you a picture with my hands.  “Go down the hall to my bedroom.”  (demonstrates opening the door.) “Now you’re inside. Go to the left” (waves hand vaguely left) “bottom drawer” (pantomimes the drawer) “on the left side, under the black knee socks and the fishnets.”  I have to see it in order to tell you.  Otherwise it isn’t real.  Otherwise I throw my hands in the air and exclaim, “I have socks?!”

So if I am anchored visually, then your forum/facebook/bio picture anchors me to you.  It gives me somebody to picture as I type.  It doesn’t matter if you think you’re fat or thin or hate your hair or look like a crazy man.  I just need the visual.  I don’t want to imagine you as a disembodied being or the cover of a book.  Because that’s just creepy.

But pictures are daunting.  Especially since I just put the pressure on you and said that’s how I (and everybody else) is going to imagine you.  How do you want to be known?  Seriously intelligent?  Fun?  Mysterious and brooding?  Sexy and outrageous?  I’ve scrapped all of that. I’m usually just shooting for Non Geeky, and if it’s a particularly fine day, Non Homicidal.

I feel ultra lame in front of the camera, and I know a lot of other people who do, too.  But I also appreciate those who bite the bullet and take that blasted pic.  I like knowing what people look like.  It just seems much friendlier that way.

So I want to hear about you guys.  All of your profile pics, all of your author’s photos.  How do you decide?  Do you love them?  Hate them?  Do you enjoy seeing other people’s?  Would you rather everything be left to the imagination?

Also, remember my old Broken Laptop, mascot of this blog?  We fixed that sucker enough to pull all of the pictures off of it.  I’m extremely pleased, and will be posting them with wild abandon.  Hope you like pictures of sharks and blossoms, that’s all I can say.

When Our Separate Worlds Violently Collide

 

So this blog has had two themes lately: our separate worlds (writing/real life) and friends.  I confessed that I try to compartmentalize because I think it’s A Kind Thing to do for everybody, and I think life is about doing Kind Things.  I don’t want you guys to be uncomfortable.  I want you each to put your feet up, fluff the cushion behind you, and chat quietly about things that make you happy.  I want you to be snuggly little bunnies.

Except that, you know what?  We’re writers, and writers by nature aren’t snuggly little bunnies.  We’re voracious.  We have teeth.  We have a keen sense of curiosity and wonder.  If I was chatting politely by a fire, it would only be a few minutes before I was kicking the table over and throwing the tea cozy at my host.  Let’s go white water rafting.  Let’s make our Wint-o-mints spark in the dark.

So I’m going to go over to my Special Needs drawer and pull something out.  It’s crumpled and smells like cedar.  I’ll shake it out and hang it up so that you can see it here, because this is where it needs to be. 

I didn’t write this essay, but I love it.  It explains a lot.  I have permission to post it as long as it is kept in its entirety.  It’s ugly, just like this aspect of life can be ugly. It can also be amazingly beautiful. 

I have officially let you out of your writer’s box.

 

Hey everyone,

For those of you who don’t know me (I’m only an occasional poster) I am mom
to Michelle, 9 years old, microecephallic, athetoid/spastic CP, Cortical
Visual Impairment, Seizure disorder — and CUTE! Ok, now for the reason I’m
posting.

To make a long story short, earlier this week a question was asked by some
nit wit official as to why there weren’t more parents (of special needs kids)
involved in the local PTA and other issues that have come up that directly
involve our kids. His question, which was passed on to me was “Where are the
Parents?” I went home that night, started thinking – and boy was I pissed -
and banged this “little” essay out the next day on my lunch break. My
friends thought I should share it all with you, and I apologize for the
length, but I wanted you to have it all. By the way, I took copies of this
to the school board meeting that night, gave it to a couple of influential
people and it WILL get around………….
Where are the parents?

They are on the phone to doctors and hospitals and fighting with insurance
companies, wading through the red tape in order that their child’s medical
needs can be properly addressed.
They are buried under a mountain of paperwork and medical bills, trying to
make sense of a system that seems designed to confuse and intimidate all but
the very savvy.

Where are the parents?

They are at home, diapering their 15 year old son, or trying to lift their
100 lb. daughter onto the toilet.
They are spending an hour at each meal to feed a child who cannot chew, or
laboriously and carefully feeding their child through a g-tube.
They are administering medications, changing catheters and switching oxygen
tanks.

Where are the parents?

They are sitting, bleary eyed and exhausted, in hospital emergency rooms,
waiting for tests results to come back and wondering: is this the time when
my child doesn’t pull through?
The are sitting patiently, in hospital rooms as their child recovers from yet
another surgery to lengthen hamstrings or straighten backs or repair a faulty
internal organ.
They are waiting in long lines in county clinics because no insurance company
will touch their child.

Where are the parents?

They are sleeping in shifts because their child won’t sleep more than 2 or 3
hours a night, and must constantly be watched, lest he do himself, or another
member of the family, harm.
They are sitting at home with their child because family and friends are
either too intimidated or too unwilling to help with child care and the state
agencies that are designed to help are suffering cut backs of there own.

Where are the parents?

They are trying to spend time with their non-disabled children, as they try
to make up for the extra time and effort that is critical to keeping their
disabled child alive.
They are struggling to keep a marriage together, because adversity does not
always bring you closer.
They are working 2 and sometime 3 jobs in order to keep up with the extra
expenses.
And sometimes they are a single parent struggling to do it all by themselves.

Where are the parents?

They are trying to survive in a society that pays lip service to helping
those in need, as long as it doesn’t cost them anything.
They are trying to patch their broken dreams together so that they might have
some sort of normal life for their children and their families.

They are busy, trying to survive.

Sue Stuyvesant
10/15/96

Closing Time at the Shop of Dreams

“Closing Time at the Shop of Dreams” went up at Six Sentences today.  You all know that I’m mad about ultra shorts.  I just confessed to Rob, the editor of 6S, that 6S has single-handedly done more to spark my imagination that any other magazine out there.  This little snippet will eventually become a longer story, I think.  Anyway, you can see “Dreams” here.

I received some news in Real Life (vs. Writer’s Life) that made my soul begin a slow burn.  I had been very kind and gracious, and actually put the axe down, as some would say.  Well, no longer.  It’s officially time to pick it up again.   Unfortunate, but necessary.

Mercedes is back.

The Pedestal

Screw my last post!  It’s totally not important.  What is  important is that The Pedestal Magazine ran “The Container of Sorrows” today.  This is one of the stories that is quite dear to me.  Please stop by and read it if you can.  You can find it at The Pedestal Magazine.

Oh, and one more thing.  BOOYA!!