memior book pitch

Posted on February 14, 2012 by admin
Prompt via Write on Edge: We’re ready to hear your pitches! Sell us your memoir in 200 words or less.

31-year old Barbara G has more problems than storage boxes. Two years ago, she moved with her husband to New York in pursuit of a degree designed to open up new doors. After graduation, without so much as a window to pin their hopes on, Barbara celebrated her 30th birthday moving from a one-bedroom apartment on New York’s Upper West Side to a single room in her in-law’s house. As she desperately seeks for a job and housing situation that would rescue her family from sharing a bathroom with her husband’s elderly parents, she battles her mother-in-law’s smoking, her father-in-law’s insistence on folding her underwear, and the family habit of wearing bathrobes until noon. Can Barbara survive this troubling time and rekindle the hope of her marriage, or is she doomed to shower with her mother-in-laws bras hanging from the bathroom curtain forever?

I accept concrit and title ideas!
Posted in remembeRED | 10 Comments

valentine

Posted on February 14, 2012 by admin

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace….
Grant that I may not so much
seek to be consoled as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.”

-Prayer of St. Francis

I made sure that this hymn was played during my wedding – I truly believe that if we all could work on consoling, understanding and loving others, instead of demanding to be consoled, be understood and be loved that the world would be a better place.

Certainly my marriage would be!

I say these lines to myself during times of stress, when I need a push to be more generous and giving.

Maybe they will help you, too?

Happy Valentines!

Posted in heart, life and living, love, navel-gazing | Leave a comment

element of weather

Posted on February 10, 2012 by admin
When I wrote down my numbers for this week’s Write on Edge prompt (where you choose 4 numbers and then integrate the story elements that correspond), I felt a strong urge to choose 4, 6, 12, and 10. Then I realized that there was no 12. So I took 1 and 2 for that element and wondered what a person might do when encountering such a once-in-a-life-time weather element. Then I used all my words in establishing my character and left little for the moment! Ah, well!

Jennifer looked across the counter at the restaurant.  “Are you kidding me?”

“I am not,” Sean replied.

“Seriously, you have got to be joking.”

“Sadly, no.”

“Sean!” The yell carried over to where two men, regulars, were having their coffee in a vinyl booth near the door. They grinned.

“You promised. You promised that this wouldn’t happen. Again.”

“Sorry, Jenny, what can I say?”

“You can say that you’ll call Alice or Joanne or anyone else in this podunk town to cover the shift instead of me!”

“I did!” Sean ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Alice just got back from the doctor and Joanne can’t get a babysitter—you know Joe works the night shift. She can’t leave those twins alone. And she certainly cannot bring them here.”

Jenny paused, thinking of the night she found one twin trying to stuff his brother into the dishwasher out back. “That’s true enough. How’s Alice feeling?”

“Better, she said, but the doctor said he was going to put her on bed rest unless she started taking it easy.”

Jenny sighed. She knew the three of them were the only waitresses in town—and now that Alice was joining Joanne in the parent game, it looked like she’d be picking up the slack. Again. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Jenny said, going back to wiping down the counter. “I’ll stay until close, but you better realize that you are paying me overtime and forking over your share of the tips.”

“Done.” Sean gave the counter with a triple rap and, when he was sure Jenny was looking, shot the gentleman in the corner a wink. “Thanks.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

Jenny supposed it wouldn’t be too bad. After all, her rent was due and the extra hours would mean she wouldn’t have to suffer through a week of ramen noodles. She hadn’t had a man since Ray left and that was months ago. At this rate, she would take to visiting her mother.

* * *

Three hours later and well short of the normal quitting time, Jenny stood outside, shivering in her old parka and thread-bare hat. “Sean, you’ve done it again. Can’t believe I listened to you.”

“Come on, Jenny,” Sean said, locking the door and taking her arm to help her into his truck, already warmed up and waiting for them. “Have you ever seen weather like this? We’ve got almost two feet in as many hours and—”

A bright light flashed suddenly across the sky and had them both jumping. Sean grinned as the rolling echo closely followed. “And thunder to boot! There’s no way anyone could have predicted this.”

Sullenly, Jenny nodded. She knew he was right. Just another wasted night in a little wasted town.

Sean paused before putting the truck in gear. “Maybe this is a night where  anything can happen?”

“What’s that supposed to—”

Sean silenced her by pulling her close and delivering a kiss that had Jenny’s toes curling inside her wellies. He pulled back, one eyebrow raised.

Jenny waited until she thought she could speak without squeaking. Then she said, “That’s some powerful lightening you got there. Hit me again.”

Sean smiled.

Posted in red writing hood | 4 Comments

island charm

Posted on February 3, 2012 by admin
Prompt via Write on Edge: We’ve asked you to show us in 400 words or less how your character reacts to a piece of music. Did music advance a story line or flesh out a character–or both?

Jenny couldn’t believe her luck.

Here she was on a beautiful tropical island, trip paid for months in advance, nothing but bikinis in the luggage and sunglasses in the carry-on and what does she get: a hurricane.

“Serves me right, buying that deal-so-good-it-couldn’t-be-true,” She muttered under her breath, struggling to roll her suitcase over the soggy carpet and into the resort’s one elevator.

She jabbed at the button again and again until the doors closed. Alone with the drums of the island playing over the speakers, she let the tears fall.

“Figures. Even a tropical island fantasy falls apart. Stupid.”

She wiped her face an instant before the doors slid open. Thinking only of the large bed promised in the brochure, Jenny rushed through the doors and right into the man waiting for the elevator.

“Oomph!” Jenny managed into the man’s sweater.

“Woah, there,” he said.

Annoyed, Jenny looked up, fully prepared to launch into a tirade that she was sure would include the words “inept” and “vagabond” and found herself staring into a pair of smiling blue eyes.

“Ah, erm.”

“Are you okay?” He reached down to pick two pairs of sunglasses that had escaped her purse.

He smelled like cinnamon, she thought. “Ah, yes, of course, I’m fine.”

“Two pairs?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing for the glasses and tucking them into her purse. “For different occasions.”

“Occasions?”

Jenny tore her eyes away from the intricate floral pattern of his shirt. “Yes. Like, one for sitting at a bar and another for walking in the sunset.”

“Hmmm. And which pair do you suggest for a hurricane?”

Jenny raised a finger and poked him in the chest. “See here. Sunglasses are a necessity, hurricane or no. And if you would excuse me.”

Jenny attempted to roll her suitcase around him and only succeeded in knocking it to the ground.

“Allow me,” he said.

Jenny frowned at him, reaching to grab the handle as soon as it was righted. As he did not immediately release his hand, she found herself awkwardly covering his hand with her own.

“I’m Tom.”

“Jenny.” She released the suitcase and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Seems we’re trapped indoors today, my new friend Jenny. Care to join me at the bar, once you’ve settled in?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Wheeling her suitcase down the hall, Jenny couldn’t resist a glance over shoulder. Tom was still looking.

Jenny couldn’t believe her luck.

Interestingly… I chose island drum music and spend many words creating the contrasts between its upbeat rhythm and my character’s sad past… but then she ran right into that guy. I  ended up editing out the music to focus on the budding relationship instead. So the musical prompt took me from dark to upbeat prose!
Posted in red writing hood | 8 Comments

witness

Posted on January 24, 2012 by admin
Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul? The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” Now it’s your turn to tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less. Prompt via Write on Edge.

I get that a lot, you know. The impossible bendy and far too cheerful line. But that’s me: a bright picture of a cartoon gymnast balancing on her hands.

I remember when she first hung me up. She couldn’t be more proud! I looked just like her, you know. She would gaze up at me in awe and promise under her breath that she would get up on her hands just like me next time.

She looked at me for years that way. Every night, she would stretch and bend before bed. Every morning, she would balance on her hands, using my wall for support. Three times a week, I would watch as she loaded up her little bag with hand grips and hair scrunchies. And three times a week, I would wait for her to come back so I could make sure she was okay.

There were plenty of scrapes and bruises those days.

Then one day, she came home with the biggest smile, her little matching braids bouncing all around, proudly swinging a blue ribbon. I could tell right away that blue meant the best. She hung it on me and smiled for days and days.

But that was a long time ago.

Now I hardly see her at all.

I watched over the years as friends were moved from the bedroom to the closet. The dolls went first, then the smallest blanket and the stuffed animals.

I still hung on, for years and years, though she didn’t look at me anymore. I watched as she stopped her stretching and packed bags with cleats and school books. She was away a lot more then. The bags got smaller and smaller until all she could pack was a few dollars and a lip gloss.

I wasn’t around much longer after that.

These days, I just sit on this shelf and stare at nothing.

But it’s okay, because sometimes, you see, it’s time to clean. The door gets thrown open wide and everything gets taken down for a spell. Then, I get to sit on her lap instead of the wall, while she carefully removes every speck of dust from me and the ribbon. She always holds me for a bit and smiles and smiles.

I know we are thinking about same fun times.

I spent some time trying to find the picture from my childhood – the smiling gymnast with her dark hair and bright smile – to no avail. Here are two approximations. This first picture has the cartoon nature of the print that hung on my wall (imagine, too, a pink border and silver frame):But this little ornament is a closer match to the position of the gymnast:
I wonder if the original is still in storage…
Posted in life and living, remembeRED | 4 Comments

my life as a title and tagline

Posted on January 17, 2012 by admin
Prompt via Write on Edge: We’re doing something short and sweet for this week’s RemembeRED post. Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline. That’s it. Give us the title, and give us the tagline. We’re looking forward to seeing your life distilled to a few catchy, perfect words.

A Moving Target

With her life permanently stuck in transition, one woman searches for home.


Posted in life and living, remembeRED | 6 Comments

taste of childhood

Posted on January 13, 2012 by admin

The girls wore the same outfits day after day: plaid jumpers, light blue button-down blouses, blue knee socks, and practical black shoes.

We sat in rows, kept our eyes to the front, and spoke when spoken to.

We lined up in straight lines, marched to bathrooms in unison, and went two by two to dismissal.

We read the same books, solved the same problems, and prayed the same words.

The nuns thought us virtuous, studious, and disciplined. Or at least, they thought we were quiet, which is mostly the same thing.

But we were tricky.

Make-up and candy were strictly forbidden and none of would dare so openly defy the rules. Those girls would come later, fourth or fifth grade transfers into our tidy little world.

But if there was time before the bell rang outside of school in the morning, and a girl had some pocket money to spare, across the street to the corner store we would go.

The shelved were cramped and high, full of enticing delights for the schoolchildren across the street. We didn’t have to go farther than the counter to find the goods we were looking for, so well did they know their clientele.

Luden’s Wild Cherry Throat Drops.

Later in class that day, we would carefully ease one from the box into the pencil tray in our desks, always keeping our eyes forward. Sister would turn to write on the board, and quick! Into our desk we would reach, cough drops grabbed and popped in.

Ah.

Eyes still front. Lips still closed. Lines still straight.

But the sugary sweet taste with the light medicinal burn was already in our mouths.

When a girl or two was discovered, a polite reference to a parent and a cold was all that was required to shift blame and suspicion.

And when lips appeared too shiny and mouth too perfectly pouted, a turning out of pockets would only yield chapstick, surely just a simple balm to the chapped lips of winter.

The nuns may have had reveled in their control and conformity, but we held the tools of persuasion and doubt.

The flavor of my childhood: sickly sweet with a hint of menthol-infused rebellion.

post via the Write on Edge prompt: Four hundred words or less, fiction or creative non-fiction, linked up on Friday morning’s post, based the definitions of flavor.

Posted in life, red writing hood, religion | 9 Comments

in development

Posted on January 12, 2012 by admin

You might think my pen is silent, what with the glaring absence of January posts, but I have not been idle.

I have a piece that is all-but-ready to go to a few selected readers before submission at the end of the month: a short story.

Not to worry, I plan to continue to post observations, short fictions and essays in the near future!

Stay tuned…

Posted in life and living, writing | Leave a comment

the spirit

Posted on December 23, 2011 by admin

Waking up on Christmas morning as a young child, there was no limit to the possibilities below.

Santa came! Reindeer flew! Presents under the tree!

My eyes would open with the dawn and I would glance eagerly outside the window next to my bed, taking in the rooftops and backyards of my block. Was it really Christmas? Did Santa really come? Were other houses awake?

On the rare, most magical of Christmases, there would be snow on the rooftops and backyards.

I would stare at the digital display on my clock radio and deliberate. Was 6:02 too early to go running into my parents’ bedroom? Should I try to sleep more? Were my brothers awake?

When I couldn’t hear noises from any other room, I knew that I had to wait, somehow, for the rest of the house to wake up before we could all walk downstairs together. Finally, I would hear my brothers whispering and I would open my door. Across the blue carpet in front of my parent’s room we would exchange excited glances. Would slamming the doors a few times would rouse our parents?

Luckily, they would never make us wait too long.

As we continued our whispered consultations, my brothers and I would hear our parents moving around the bedroom. We would wait happily knowing it would only be a few moments more.

Mom and Dad would appear at the door, looking disheveled and tired, but smiling nonetheless.

But then, agonizing delay!

Dad would go downstairs to “check and see if Santa had come.” We would hear him put on the kettle for tea, turn on the Christmas lights and get out the video camera—not one of those cute little hand-held devices everyone has today, but the gigantic kind with the VHS tapes that had to be balanced over your shoulder.

Mom would remain upstairs with a watchful eye in case anyone decided to make a run for it.

Downstairs, magic waited. Upstairs, anticipation grew.

And then, finally, finally, we got the call from below and Dad would say that we should come downstairs and see if Santa had come after all.

As soon as we hit the first turn in stairs we knew that all was well. We would see the heaps of wrapped presents that certainly hadn’t been there the night before. Our eyes would be wide as we walked into the parlor, unable to believe our good luck, that Santa had come again and left such a wealth of gifts behind.

Chaos commenced and we dug in from every which side!

If I had to think of one word to describe the glory of those days, it would be ‘halcyon.’ There is something truly golden about those memories, something glittery and bright, that gets lost a bit as we grow older.

Christmas is Christmas, and the magic is still there…but you have to work a little harder to find it as an adult.

There is still joy in:

Finding just the right gift for someone you love.

Spending time with family over dinners that make the table groan.

Singing Christmas carols in the car.

Seeing the advent candles lit in church.

Eating too many cookies.

Asking your nieces and nephews about what Santa brought!

Watching the Yule Log on TV (although maybe that is just me!)

But greatest joy I have found this holiday is watching my husband on all-day baking sprees, and the happiness he finds in creating and preparing beautiful deserts for our family and friends. He is truly my treasure and joy.

Merry Christmas, everyone! Go find your joy!

Posted in heart, life and living, love, tis the season | Leave a comment

motivation

Posted on December 14, 2011 by admin

Motivation is a tricky thing.

I have 144 pages of writing. My own writing. My story, my thoughts, my heart and my character.

I have not looked at it for 10 days.

At first, I thought it was just a Nanowrimo hang-over. The initial rush of writing 50,000+ words had diminished and I was craving the gentle pleasure of sleeping over the satisfaction of writing.

I planned to triumphantly return to my manuscript on Monday. But I didn’t. Then Tuesday morning. But I didn’t.

Tuesday evening, I bore down and sat in front of that computer screen.

I realized that what I thought was a lack of motivation might have an even deeper root: frustration.

Somewhere along the course of those many, many pages, I lost sight of certain plot lines, character relationships and important scenes.

I started jumping around in the novel, writing scenes that I knew I needed, but couldn’t be bothered to worry about where they should fit. I realized that the argument between my main character and her friend occurred too early and the tension between the two was lacking.

I tried to do what I did in Nanowrimo: just push through anyways… but I couldn’t!

My characters can’t really grow until their author fixes their storylines and their backgrounds match their character.

So, I am heading back to the drawing board. I am printing out those 144 pages and looking at them with an editor’s eye. I am investing in software that will help me compile, keep track, and edit my work more successfully.

Writing and rewriting until those first 50K are not perfect, but are closer to where they need to be.

Then, I think my characters and I will be ready for the next 50K sprint to the finish!

Posted in NaNoWriMo, navel-gazing, writing | Leave a comment