Buying and Selling

Trinculo and Ariel in Shakespeare Walla Walla's production of The Tempest

For the second story I ever submitted to workshop as an MFA candidate, I did some research. The whole story was based on a news article I'd read, and to make it as accurate as possible I maintained an email correspondence with a local policeman and beat a pumpkin with a ketchup bottle, the pumpkin standing in for a human head. All this was done to ensure that I would not hear that most odious of workshop phrases, the one that has dogged me my whole writing career: "I don't buy it."

Unfortunately, it didn't work. The research I did with the cop (which I printed and brought with me in case anyone questioned the fictional policeman's actions) failed me; one of the first negative comments a classmate has was that he "didn't buy it." My research didn't make a dent in this opinion. It didn't matter to my readers what would and would not happen in real life (and they were convinced what the cop told me was a lot nicer than what he would actually do) if it didn't match the image the readers had of cops in their minds. I thought this was pretty unfair, but I didn't want to be that person who argues at the end of a workshop, so instead I told them about my Mythbuster's-style attempts at finding the effects of assault with a ketchup bottle. Always leave them laughing.

Eventually, I dumped this particular story (especially since it was about a pregnant woman and I really doubt I'll be able to understand pregnancy until I've experienced it) but I did learn a valuable lesson from the argument surrounding it. Stories rely on common knowledge. You could say they rely on stereotypes, cliche, and prejudice: all things we are taught not to use in our writing. Veer too far away from what people already have in their heads, and they will squawk. To get away with it, you have to convince them. Start with what people think they know and mold their ideas from there.

Flannery O'Connor on Writing Habits

“Don’t do other things. Sit at your machine.”
 
“It is my considered opinion that one reason you are not writing is that you are allowing yourself to read in the time set aside to write. You ought to set aside three hours every morning in which you write or do nothing else; no reading, no talking, no cooking, no nothing, but you sit there. If you write all right and if you don’t all right, but you do not read; whether you start something different every day and finish nothing makes no difference; you sit there. It’s the only way, I’m telling you. If inspiration comes you are there to receive it, you are not reading. And don’t write letters during that time. If you don’t write, don’t do anything else. And get in a room by yourself. If there are two rooms in that house, get in the one where nobody else is . . . I will not tell you anything interesting to read as you have no bidnis throwing away your time in that fashion.”

For the Sensitive, Bookish Mom: Five Mother's Day Gifts

How about some vintage carved bookends? Find these and more on Etsy.

Shorn

Probably the shortest my hair's ever been, circa 2005

I may well have just changed my gender.  I have taken the scissors to my hair—eight dollar Goody scissors meant specifically for the purpose, not the orange-handled office kind—and now the trash can is full of dirty blonde curls.  And the sink.  And the floor.  I’ll be feeling the scratchy shards of it on my shoulders for days.
It started with just the bangs, but people with curly hair haven’t pulled off bangs since the ’80s.  Then a few chunks came out of the sides: once you start cutting your hair, you can’t just stop.  You have to keep snipping and snipping, trying to find that hairstyle that you imagined when you first began.  You have to find the sculpture within the marble, the bob within the mass of curls.  You cut one bit just a little too short and then have to trim the rest to match, eroding your mountain of hair until there’s practically nothing left.  You start out methodical—measuring the strands against each other, trying to work in sections—and then you get artistic.  You chop and hack.  You feel instead of thinking.  You’re not just cutting off your hair; you’re setting yourself free.

Vacating the Vacation

Do I list my "Pour the Perfect Pint" certificate under awards and honors or education?

Ian and I have never vacationed on an island. The closest we've come to a tropical locale is Disney World. If we were to visit our friends and family who live in Hawaii, we would probably spend more time hiking or museum-going than we would on the beach. This is partially due to the fact that neither of us is particularly gorgeous in a bathing suit, but that's not the whole story. Our problem with the lounge-chair vacation is that, well, it's so sedentary.

Ways To Write Without Really Writing

Write a to-do list. Make it as long and detailed and possible. Create categories and sub-categories. Make little boxes next to each item, to be filled with check marks.

Write a long, detailed email to your mom (or dad or sister--whoever). She'll (he'll) appreciate knowing what's going on with you.

Find a passage from your favorite book and copy it, word for word. If you're looking to kill time, do this longhand. (Silly as it sounds, this is actually a valuable writing exercise, as it forces you to slow down and figure out the sentence structure and cadence of writing you admire.)

Create a file detailing all your story/poem/essay submissions, including notes on each one explaining how you felt when you were rejected, if the rejection was just, why you'll never submit there again, etc.

Saying Goodbye--Again and Again

In nineteen days, I will be leaving the town I've (begrudgingly) lived in for seven years. (For info on why I've lived here, see other blog posts I've written on the topic--I'm sick of writing about it now.) I will also be giving up my coffeehouse lifestyle because our new apartment will have office space for me and, let's face it, lattes are expensive. I keep thinking I'll get a jump on my new life by saying goodbye to my local coffeehouses now, as a way of gradually easing into things. I've also started packing a few small boxes every day. Unfortunately, I've so trained myself to write at coffeehouses, I'm having a hard time giving them up.