Month: July 2013

I Constantly Notice the Difference, Don’t You?

Yeah, so I know the adage that without bad things going on, you won’t appreciate the good, but seriously, I’m pretty sure I would. A bunch of happy things have been going on–writing wise–but the rest of life has been irritating. To the powers that be, I’d like to point out that I know these beautiful flowers are fabulous:

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I don’t need hungry, mean deer flies attacking and biting me every time I go outside just to make me appreciate the beauty of the blooms. Minga!

Anyway, last week, I started taking a playwriting workshop with Bella Poynton. I am loving it. The first session was such a revelation to me–I’ve gotten so many comments on rejections that whatever else was wrong with my manuscripts, the dialogue was good. I had my free writing/first attempt at a play read aloud. It was so exciting. It was one of the first times where I wrote something and came to the end and recognized that. It was a fabulous.

Then, after learning to strip down the conflicts and characters to just “voice,” I came home to find a lovely email from Southeast Review about a story I wrote during June for their Writers Regimen. My “Turtle” story was selected as a finalist for their “spotlight.” I sent two stories in. I thought the other one was stronger, but whatever. The ironic bit is that the story they liked was one where I focused on details of the senses. It didn’t win, but I now have a good story to send out during the upcoming August/September/October Submission Opening Madness. (I love the problems I have.)

Today, was the community blood drive. I thought I’d have time to do that then go to the café and grab a sandwich or a salad or something for dinner before the workshop began. Stupid me for thinking that things would work out! Anyway, I went in to donate, got done, and as I was eating my cookie, I looked down and there was blood all over. The monitor rang a bell; I was taken back and swabbed down and had a new, larger bandage applied. Which would have been fine, but I looked at the blood swabbing and saw the blood all over my shirt and I felt lightheaded, aw hell, I almost went down. I’m good with blood in tubes and bags, but on my arm and shirt, not so much. So, I was sent to rest. I got out of there and had to go buy a new shirt–not an easy task when it’s a “have to”–and I had barely enough time to get to the playwriting workshop, so no dinner for me.

Meanwhile, at home… Husband had called when I was in the intake area. He was looking for a phone number. I couldn’t leave to go get it for him, so after the blood donation/bleeding through the Band-Aid, I called him back and gave him the number. That was at 5:35. There were a few things I’d asked him to do, but by the time I got home–four hours after that phone call–and I had left originally at 4:15–so really, he had 5 hours. FIVE HOURS to do these simple things: a) pull open a tin of food and put it in the dog’s food bowl b) Take a shower c) rinse some bagged lettuce, put it on top of the ton of vegetables I’d already rinsed, peeled, cut up, and put in a salad bowl d) add salad dressing and e) heat up meat and a roll and combine them for a small sandwich.

He managed the meat and roll. That’s it. I’m still SO pissed. How is 5 hours not enough time to get those tiny minor things done? If there was some television show he watched, maybe, but no. There isn’t one, so there is no excuse.

Yes, I’ll stupidly talk to him about this tomorrow. Again. But I don’t think he gets this. I want/need to go out to conferences and workshops and meetings with other writers. When he dicks around and drinks and watches episodes of M*A*S*H for the fiftieth time instead of doing minor things like eating, it makes me feel like I can’t leave the house at all. I’m starting to REALLY resent that. I just hope he doesn’t think that’s a ploy that will keep me. I’m not even trying to be a bitch, I’m just saying that I do see the good and the bad and appreciate the difference. Right now, blood drained and playwriting workshop high, I’m feeling like he’s taking advantage of what I’m providing in the “good” so much that he isn’t recognizing the “bad” if I disappear and stop doing what I do. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Worse than the blistering deer fly bite on my neck.

(Yeah, so, wow, that would be my wounded wife creek side reflections for this week. I hope to god your experiences do vary.)

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Celebrating a Higher Tier Rejection from the Paris Review

Happy July 4th (even if that’s not a holiday for you.)

I’ve got to say you look incredible. Have you lost weight? Is that a new haircut? Whatever you did, you’re looking fine. As fine as I’ve been feeling recently…

The Paris Review sends out nominal slips of paper with rejection. I’ve gathered a few. I just got a different one. This one said they liked my work and would like to see more. Fantastic, right? Except now I’m wondering what to send.

I absolutely love and adore the problems I have.

If you’re following along, I am four days into Camp NaNo. The story I’m seeking advice on as a possibility to send to TPR was written in the first two days. Last month I subscribed to The Southeast Review’s prompts–a great (and cheap) amount of inspiration if you are thinking about doing it. End shot: I didn’t do every day’s prompt but I did do most. I wrote what I consider two solid stories. I sent them in as contender‘s for their best story written from the prompts. Rough contest–you had to have them sent in by the end of July 1st. The last prompt was interesting, but what I wrote for it, I couldn’t have revised in time to send–just saying it’s intense, but worth it if you look into it.

Anyway, I don’t expect to win, let alone be a finalist, but I feel really good for having written those stories. Like I said, I’m a few days into Camp NaNo and it is also intense, but this time I’m in a “cabin” and my fellow campers are an inspiration and I love the friendly competition.

There are slugs and weeds in my garden. I’ll be out there soon, combating those beasts, and it’s all good. I’m registered to go to a playwriting workshop. New form. New challenges. New hope.

I think I’m ready.

I do love writing. I probably have a crush on you if you must know. As if you’re reading this, I’m all shimmery from your attention, dear reader.

Thank you.

(These are just my overly  happy to be writing creekside reflections. Your experiences may vary.)