Southeast Review Writer's Regimen Day 1

I'm taking a 30 day writer's regimen course. I won't be posting the assignments as Southeast Review has respectfully requested that we don't duplicate the assignment, but I will be posting my writing that comes from the assignments.

Writing Prompt Assignment:
"I jumped, fell and stood. Repeat."

Reading Writing Assignment:
When they were new, they had this intoxicating smell; slightly sour, musty and sweet. I would bury my face in the folds of their neck and breathe in till my lungs were full. I’d pause to exhale and go in for another hit. Time passed and the smell lessened and lessened until one day I couldn’t seem to get my fix no matter how deep I breathed. Then—sometimes years, sometimes days—later I catch a ribbon of the smell as they scamper past me and out the door on their way to some adventure. My breasts tighten and my uterus contracts. I have to sit for a second because I miss the babies that were swallowed up by these little children. The longing dissolves into laughing when I see them through the window, outside riding their trikes and grass-staining their socks on dew-soaked lawn. The blinds make indentations in my hands from pressing up against them as I watch. I remember what it was like without them and it makes me feel a hollowness in my stomach. It’s an unsettling feeling that I fill back up with echoes of their giggles, the memories of fevered nights: years of motherhood. I look down at my softened body: the lines, the indentations; the body I gave to them. Most of the time I miss what it used to be but at this moment, it makes me proud. And later, at night, one under each arm, I sing them to sleep as their heads cut off circulation and send pin-pricks down my arms into my fingertips. Then there’s no regret; only the passion of a mother’s love.

Riff Word Assignment:
He had this aura about him. I squinted and widened my eyes over and over wondering if it was a glare from the fluorescent lights. Man-Made Light Glare or vibrations of his spirit? It was beautiful and purple-blue, the color of lilacs.

100 pages

Cheer with me as I celebrate hitting the one-hundredth page in my novel! I've already completed two rewrites and I'm sure there are countless rewrites to follow, but can I just say: it's fun to hit one hundred.

For Abby

They introduce her by the shortened version of her first name. How odd, I think. They do not even know her. Listening to her speak I think her genuine; her voice has a musical quality with a hint of smoker's rasp. I buy her books and put them down in front of her to sign. She holds a cigarette in one hand, a tattoo on her forearm. As she writes I wonder how this nice old woman came to have an inked lizard on her arm. I'm thinking of starting my memoir, I say. She scribbles words of encouragement. I shift my weight, uncomfortable in the role of groupie. Later I see her curled up, barefoot on a brown wicker chair with an orange cushion. She looks at the sky as if it belongs to her.

They hail her, speak of her, talk as if they were close to her. They call her, "our own." Pathetic.

I bump into her once more; outside the barn. She is smoking, I am putting something in my car. She smiles at me with one crooked front tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth, her turquoise ring the width of two fingers. That night even my friends abbreviate her name. Ridiculous.



It is three weeks later. I have finished the books with her Best Wishes written sloppily on the title pages. The way the words were shaped and sculpted on each page has changed me. Tonight I sit on a deck chair, barefoot. I look at the sky as if it belongs to me. And now, I know.

When I met her--before--I shook her hand. If I met her now--after--I would throw my arms around her, thank her for the beauty her words have brought to the world. Maybe I'll see her again someday. If I do, I'll call her Abby.

Viral Marketing for Writers

When I was at the Writers at Work conference someone (I think it was Julianna Baggott but it may have been Terrell Dougan) referenced this youtube clip as a way of grassroots marketing. This woman, Kelly Corrigan, author of The Middle Place, had a very soft opening for her book. But after that she made this clip she and attracted over 4 million hits, her book launched to the NYT bestseller list. I watched it out of curiousity and ended up thankful for my own group of friends, but also wanting to buy her book. Brilliant. And as an aside, I'm glad that 4 million other women out there have what I have with their friends, I'd be lost without it.

I'm a baby writer.

Here I am, at my computer. My fingers are at home, safe. I've developed a writing bump on my finger from scribbling notes. I haven't had one of these (way chic) bird finger bumps since college when I sat under the giant maple tree on campus and wrote faux beat poetry. It's been awhile.

I've spent the week soaking in this world. Some of it I love (the readings, the panels, open mic, Julianna Baggott, Abby Thomas, Eileen Pollack). Some of it I hate (Heated POINTLESS debates about religion, Arrogant people). I'm being taught, (by brilliant litearary minds) but mostly I'm being humbled (I'm not a brilliant writing prodigy? Are you sure?).

In some ways I feel old, like my proverbial ship has sailed. The time for becoming a writer, getting fancy degrees that declare me to be literary, and philosophising about weather or not to include religion in my writing has passed. Destined for the writer's cemetary and only twenty nine!

Another realization I have had this week is that...wait for this one people...you ready?...here it is: I am not a great writer. Sad. Everyone take a moment and shed a tear. I am ambitious and I know how to write lovely little words but inasmuch as becoming a novelist is concerned I-- my three readers-- am a baby writer. An infant who cannot speak, walk, talk or even communicate in this world. In my writing I am the following: Overly sentimental. Cliche. Dishonest to reality. Manipulative. Clueless as to how to write a novel. I could go on and on and on.

I am a "very talented writer" and can paint a pretty picture made of words, shaded with images and tinted with characters, but pretty pictures aren't real. To be real and great I'm going to have to grow up.

Yes, I am a baby writer. And it sucks.

P.S. If someone chooses spike leopard print heels over chaco's can they really be a writer? Sigh.

My fingers are dancing on these keys!

In twenty-two short hours from now I will be immersed in my craft for an entire week. I'm going to do nothing but write for hours on end without children luring me away from my keyboard by being irresistable, without goodreads distracting me with engaging conversations, without a husband wanting to bond with me over a plate of nachos and a great DVD. This week is devoted one hundred percent to my dream of a career as a writer and launching myself into its grasp. Today, I'm giddy.

"I am addicted to adverbs," she said desperately.

Help. I'm addicted to adverbs. I'm doing much better with curbing them in my novel, but I use them in excess in my every day life. That's what we dramatics do, emphasize everything. -LY -LY -LY. I love them truly, madly, deeply, hopelessly, endlessly.

I'm in big trouble.