Friday, May 8, 2020
Friday, May 1, 2020
Friday Funny
Top 5 Gift Ideas for Moms Who Are Writers
1. More time to write
2. More time to write
3. More time to write
4. More time to write
5. More time to write
1. More time to write
2. More time to write
3. More time to write
4. More time to write
5. More time to write
Friday, April 24, 2020
Friday, April 17, 2020
Friday, April 10, 2020
Friday Funny
A writer comes home to a burned down house. His slightly-singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks.
“Oh, John, it was terrible,” she weeps. “I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in a second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is–”
“Wait, wait. Back up,” the man says. “My agent called?”
Friday, April 3, 2020
Friday, March 27, 2020
Friday, March 20, 2020
Friday, March 13, 2020
Monday, March 9, 2020
Mining Our Lives for Writing Ideas
I lost a boy at the zoo today.
Unfortunately, this is a true story and not the first sentence of a fiction piece I’m working on.
Writers are often asked where we get our ideas from.
Unfortunately, this is a true story and not the first sentence of a fiction piece I’m working on.
Writers are often asked where we get our ideas from.
The answer is everywhere.
Writers, and artists in general, get ideas from everything around us—our family, work, friends, movies, shows, dreams, songs, memories, smells, books, articles, hospitals, restaurants, zoos, everywhere.
All it takes is seeing something on our way to work or smelling a certain scent, and—bam!—an idea is born.
Take this zoo field trip I went on. I was thrilled to be chosen as a chaperone for my daughter’s kindergarten class—my first time chaperoning! I pictured a fun morning strolling the zoo with adorable, curious kindergarteners pointing out the monkeys, koalas, bears.
The reality of what actually happened was very different.
I was assigned five children—three boys and two girls, including my daughter and her best friend. I got down to eye level with my five kids and told them my name and that were to stay close to me as we walked around the zoo.
The three boys must suffer from short term amnesia. They completely disregarded my instructions, and ran up ahead, sometimes out of my sight, until I would yell at them to come back or walk fast enough to catch up to them, all the while making sure I didn’t leave the two girls behind.
That was not the only naughty thing they did. All of the children climbed the animal sculptures around the zoo. To be fair, it was unclear whether they were allowed to do this, but I didn’t think so. The sculptures were bronzed metal with gold-plated dedication plaques. They looked a little too fancy for climbing. I told the kids not to climb them, but they continued to do it despite my stern instructions not to.
This naughtiness continued for the next two hours. Meanwhile one thought is repeating in my head: I am never volunteering for another field trip.
Finally it's noon, and I take my five kids near the exit. This is where we're supposed to meet the other groups. Slowly they start to appear. I stare at one group with envy—the one that has three parents.
Writers, and artists in general, get ideas from everything around us—our family, work, friends, movies, shows, dreams, songs, memories, smells, books, articles, hospitals, restaurants, zoos, everywhere.
All it takes is seeing something on our way to work or smelling a certain scent, and—bam!—an idea is born.
Take this zoo field trip I went on. I was thrilled to be chosen as a chaperone for my daughter’s kindergarten class—my first time chaperoning! I pictured a fun morning strolling the zoo with adorable, curious kindergarteners pointing out the monkeys, koalas, bears.
The reality of what actually happened was very different.
I was assigned five children—three boys and two girls, including my daughter and her best friend. I got down to eye level with my five kids and told them my name and that were to stay close to me as we walked around the zoo.
The three boys must suffer from short term amnesia. They completely disregarded my instructions, and ran up ahead, sometimes out of my sight, until I would yell at them to come back or walk fast enough to catch up to them, all the while making sure I didn’t leave the two girls behind.
That was not the only naughty thing they did. All of the children climbed the animal sculptures around the zoo. To be fair, it was unclear whether they were allowed to do this, but I didn’t think so. The sculptures were bronzed metal with gold-plated dedication plaques. They looked a little too fancy for climbing. I told the kids not to climb them, but they continued to do it despite my stern instructions not to.
This naughtiness continued for the next two hours. Meanwhile one thought is repeating in my head: I am never volunteering for another field trip.
Finally it's noon, and I take my five kids near the exit. This is where we're supposed to meet the other groups. Slowly they start to appear. I stare at one group with envy—the one that has three parents.
I stick my hand in my pocket and find a banana from one of the boys that was leftover from his lunch. I ask him if he would like it, and he says yes. The boy eats the banana, and when he’s done, he asks me where he can throw away the peel. I point to a garbage can not too far away.
He goes to throw the peel away. I bend down and ask the other four kids if they had a good time at the zoo. They all say yes.
I look towards the trash can and I don’t see the boy. I scan the area again. I see lots of parents, kids, grandparents—but not the boy.
I ask the other four kids if they’ve seen their classmate. No, they tell me, they haven’t. I tell them if they see him to please let me know. I keep looking for him.
The Class Mom is calling me. I go over to her with my four kids. She tells me they’re letting the kids on the bus. She asks me how many kids I have. I tell her five. She says, I only see four. I tell her that I sort of lost one.
Her eyes widen. Are you serious? she says.
She takes my four children to the bus while I go look for the boy I lost. He’s not hiding behind the trash can. And he didn’t fall in the tiny half-inch deep creek beside the trash can either.
He goes to throw the peel away. I bend down and ask the other four kids if they had a good time at the zoo. They all say yes.
I look towards the trash can and I don’t see the boy. I scan the area again. I see lots of parents, kids, grandparents—but not the boy.
I ask the other four kids if they’ve seen their classmate. No, they tell me, they haven’t. I tell them if they see him to please let me know. I keep looking for him.
The Class Mom is calling me. I go over to her with my four kids. She tells me they’re letting the kids on the bus. She asks me how many kids I have. I tell her five. She says, I only see four. I tell her that I sort of lost one.
Her eyes widen. Are you serious? she says.
She takes my four children to the bus while I go look for the boy I lost. He’s not hiding behind the trash can. And he didn’t fall in the tiny half-inch deep creek beside the trash can either.
Someone took him.
Oh God.
I think about the boy’s mom who could be working in a cubicle at the moment. I don't know. I've never met her.
Oh God.
I think about the boy’s mom who could be working in a cubicle at the moment. I don't know. I've never met her.
But I’ve lost her son.
I can’t believe this happening. I can’t believe this is happening.
The Class Mom is calling me again. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear her, I’m too far away. I walk over to her in a daze.
He’s on the bus, she tells me. He left with another group.
Relief floods through me. But so does anger. I’m angry with myself. And I’m angry at the boy.
Fifteen minutes later, I get in my car and I just sit there, shaking. I still can't believe I lost someone's kid.
When I get home, I’m still trembling. I need to take my mind off what happened. A show. I need to watch a show. That’ll distract me.
I head to the TV, but I stop and go in the opposite direction, to my desk. I open up my laptop and start typing: I lost a boy at the zoo today.
Ideas are everywhere.
I can’t believe this happening. I can’t believe this is happening.
The Class Mom is calling me again. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear her, I’m too far away. I walk over to her in a daze.
He’s on the bus, she tells me. He left with another group.
Relief floods through me. But so does anger. I’m angry with myself. And I’m angry at the boy.
Fifteen minutes later, I get in my car and I just sit there, shaking. I still can't believe I lost someone's kid.
When I get home, I’m still trembling. I need to take my mind off what happened. A show. I need to watch a show. That’ll distract me.
I head to the TV, but I stop and go in the opposite direction, to my desk. I open up my laptop and start typing: I lost a boy at the zoo today.
Ideas are everywhere.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Why do we write?
I think people start blogs when they're feeling something strong. Something has to drive them to take that action. For me, it's frustration. I want to connect with others through my writing but it just wasn't happening for years.
I've been writing with the goal of publication since 2008, the same year I started my doctorate. I finished my first novel four years later, the same year I graduated with a PhD. After revising the manuscript countless times, I sent it off to agents. It didn't get much interest.
So I started another one. I wrote the first draft in six months and revised it over the next year and a half, which included time working with a professional editor. If you've never worked with an editor, I highly recommend it. The feedback she gave me was more valuable than gold.
I revised that manuscript until I thought I was going mad, then I sent it out to agents. The same thing as before happened. No interest. Zilch. Nothing. Not one single request for more pages.
It was beyond discouraging. I had worked so hard!
Also, I had been operating under the belief that my life would start when I got published, that I would finally become someone. So every time I sent my manuscript out and it got rejected, it was another sign that my life hadn't started yet, that I hadn't become someone.
So I went into a depression.
I didn't recognize it as depression at first because I don't have experience with depression. I had never been depressed before. But I knew something was wrong. I didn't feel like writing anything new. When I tried, I found that I just...couldn't. I had no new ideas and no desire to write about them even if I did have them. This was a red flag for me because I can't not write. I love writing. Writing is a part of me, a part of my identity. Now that I wasn't writing, who was I?
What followed were some dark months. It began taking a toll on my relationship with my husband and my kids, and of course it took a toll on my mental and physical health.
I eventually got tired of feeling so incredibly sad and uninspired that I made an appointment with a life coach. The initial session went terrific. She promised me a transformation, and although I didn't feel transformed after our twelve week session, I did have valuable insights into myself and my motivations for writing. I learned that my creativity left me because I had put too much pressure on it.
Slowly I began to change my reasons for wanting to write and wanting to get published. Before my motivation for writing was to make it on the bestseller lists and sell lots of books and make lots of money. After some deep reflection, I realized I had a stronger reason to write and publish my work -- to connect with others. Little by little, my creativity returned. The day our twins started kindergarten, I began a new manuscript.
These days I try to keep my frustration at bay by focusing on why I write. Which is to connect with people. That's a much better reason to write than wanting to be on the bestseller list, and it's definitely something I have much more control over. So even though I'm not published yet, I can still connect with others. Hence this blog. And if I can help other writers with what I've learned, that makes it all worth it.
Tell me, writer, why do you write?
I've been writing with the goal of publication since 2008, the same year I started my doctorate. I finished my first novel four years later, the same year I graduated with a PhD. After revising the manuscript countless times, I sent it off to agents. It didn't get much interest.
So I started another one. I wrote the first draft in six months and revised it over the next year and a half, which included time working with a professional editor. If you've never worked with an editor, I highly recommend it. The feedback she gave me was more valuable than gold.
I revised that manuscript until I thought I was going mad, then I sent it out to agents. The same thing as before happened. No interest. Zilch. Nothing. Not one single request for more pages.
It was beyond discouraging. I had worked so hard!
Also, I had been operating under the belief that my life would start when I got published, that I would finally become someone. So every time I sent my manuscript out and it got rejected, it was another sign that my life hadn't started yet, that I hadn't become someone.
So I went into a depression.
I didn't recognize it as depression at first because I don't have experience with depression. I had never been depressed before. But I knew something was wrong. I didn't feel like writing anything new. When I tried, I found that I just...couldn't. I had no new ideas and no desire to write about them even if I did have them. This was a red flag for me because I can't not write. I love writing. Writing is a part of me, a part of my identity. Now that I wasn't writing, who was I?
What followed were some dark months. It began taking a toll on my relationship with my husband and my kids, and of course it took a toll on my mental and physical health.
I eventually got tired of feeling so incredibly sad and uninspired that I made an appointment with a life coach. The initial session went terrific. She promised me a transformation, and although I didn't feel transformed after our twelve week session, I did have valuable insights into myself and my motivations for writing. I learned that my creativity left me because I had put too much pressure on it.
Slowly I began to change my reasons for wanting to write and wanting to get published. Before my motivation for writing was to make it on the bestseller lists and sell lots of books and make lots of money. After some deep reflection, I realized I had a stronger reason to write and publish my work -- to connect with others. Little by little, my creativity returned. The day our twins started kindergarten, I began a new manuscript.
These days I try to keep my frustration at bay by focusing on why I write. Which is to connect with people. That's a much better reason to write than wanting to be on the bestseller list, and it's definitely something I have much more control over. So even though I'm not published yet, I can still connect with others. Hence this blog. And if I can help other writers with what I've learned, that makes it all worth it.
Tell me, writer, why do you write?
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