http://earthshoes41.blogspot.com/

The boys hit the books again this week after a long summer break. This means that I'm spending what free time I have editing Witness Tree and very little time blogging.  I'm considering switching blogs anyway--to something other writers can comment on even they aren't members. 

I can't believe that's me that just wrote that.  I guess I needed a place expend the white noise more than I thought. How does one leave a blog? Does one post links and say goodbye?

  I played with the structure of WT this week, deleting flashbacks, moving them around, re-ordering the story in a linear fashion. It was wrong. And the absence of the flashbacks meant explaining and info dumping.   After all of that, I just put it all back the way I found it.  I was right the first time. The flashbacks belong and I had them in the right place.  I should trust my own instincts.  I did edit a couple of them pretty closely and I think that improves their punch some. 

This sprang from observing the exchange between writers in an online workshop concerning flashbacks.  I've concluded that as much as I enjoy socializing with other writers,  I won't be workshopping any of my novels.  Group think is bad for books.  I will show trust a couple of beta readers, but I otherwise it's between me and the (someday) agent and publishers.

I worked the Extension booth yesterday at local festival.  I really don't especially enjoy these things.  Meeting and greeting is is not a natural thing for me so I drag out "Professional Mary", dust her off , prop her up a bit and let her do the talking.  She is smooth and friendly, has a perpetual smile that she can wear during the most boring of conversations.  I am a lot of things, but I am not a phony at heart and these situations require this. I also use her when I'm dealing with difficult people (though she's just as lost as I am in the face of parent's anger .  . . I might need another persona to get through that).

The County Program Director in our office, Tim, is an extremely nice man who thrives in situations like this.  He loves to meet to meet people and is extremely good with them. People really like him and he is often surrounded by people looking to him for advice. He is used to people looking to him because he knows more than they do about various subjects and he knows who to send them to when he doesn't have the answers they're looking for.

Yesterday an older gentleman stopped by the booth, shook Tim's hand greeted him and said, "So how's Mary?"

Tim looked at me, a bit lost, and back at him and said, "Well, she's right there."

"I know that but I'm askin' you. How's Mary?"

Tim is no slouch, but man was faster and I immediately identified him as Trouble.  I know how to cope with this. My father is a cutting from the same tree. People like this cannot help themselves.  They simply must harrass those who cross their paths--it's scrawled in the very fiber of their being. 

Tim looked at me and the old guy said, "You mean you've been sittin' next to her all afternoon and you don't know how she is?  What kind of conversationalist are you?"

Tim laughed and tried to steer the conversation toward why the man had stopped by.  There was a discussion about trees and where to plant what and where to buy them.  Tim advised him to go to the Conservation Department and purchase the trees from them.  More conversation.  Then the man asked where the nearest office was.

Tim never knew what hit him.  He launched into giving a set of directions and the man interrupted him with, "Don't you know the address?"

No, Tim replied, he didn't, but the place wasn't hard to find . . .

They talked for another second or two, the man made eye contact with me and with an evil twinkle in his eye said to Tim, "Well, ya know where's I live don't ya?"

No, now poor lost Tim answered.  He didn't.

"Well ya go down Hwy 45 and ya turn where the red barn--well, it aint there no more cause it blowed over--Ya know where I'm talkin' about?"

Haplessly Tim shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't."

"Well, there was a red barn there--it was right there on that corner-- that they painted white--and then it blowed over.  Anyways' that's where ya turn.  Then go on down that road a piece and ya come to a fork in the road."

"Isn't there a tree there?" I asked.

"No.  It blowed over too."

"Funny, I heard it was struck by lightening."

"Well, it was, but it stood for a while after that and then it blowed over. Ya know there was a fire there in the field across from it, did ya hear about that fire?"

"Yeah, it burned up a lot, didn't it?" I said.

"Yep. Burned everything up and then jumped the road and burned up where the tree stood too and now it's all burned up.  Anyways, ya take the left fork--not the right 'cause that'll take ya to Cartersville and ain't nobody want ta go there that's lookin' for me. Ya take the left, and go on down the road a piece and there's red barn there.  It ain't blowed over.  And my house is the third one and if it ain't, ya've gone too far."

By this point, Tim knew he'd been had and he was laughing. 

"Now wouldn't have been easier just to tell me that the Conservation Office is located at . . . " and he rattled off the address of the office and recommended that Tim look into street signs, a new fangled thing with numbers on it.

After he left, Tim sat down next to me.

"Are we supposed to know him?" I asked.

"Nope.  Never seen him before.  He sucked me in, you know." Tim affectionately kicked me.

"I know."

"I tried to make him the Conservation department's problem."

"Chances are he's trouble where ever he goes."

"Yes he is." Tim grinned and shook his head. 

I sipped my water and watched the man enter another booth a few yards away.  "We all should be that kind of trouble when we get older."

Someone on the PFFA asked why there are so many shoes dangling on telephone lines around their neighborhoods these days.  Most of the replies were depressing: indications that dealers could be found  on that street, the remnants of a gang beating up some poor kid, etc. 

But one quirky optimistic soul replied that he'd heard that it was shoe suicide. Being me, I prefer this. 

We have a running joke in our home that I think you have to be one of us to understand.  No one else seems as amused by it as we all are. 

I walked into the livingroom a few months ago to sight yet another disaster left by the boys--toys everywhere, nintendo controls strung across the floor, the clean laundry I'd left on the couch--where? you guessed it--on the floor. Dirty plates, dirty glasses, shoes, socks and so on.  And the boys were all sprawled in the middle of it watching tv. I knew that when I demanded that they clean it up, the protests from all of them would be, "I didn't do it."

My mother's reply to this was always, "Well, fine, I guess the dog did it, but because you insist on keeping the damn thing, you get to clean up his toys and wash his dishes."  I'm trying rather hard to not be like her as I get older.

Normally, I'd yell about the mess, but this time I just shook my head as I gazed at the four pairs of grungy tennis shoes laying at all angles, scattered all across the floor.

"What?" asked Joseph, my third born.  "You want us to pick them up?"

"No. But I think you'll be happy to hear that I think I've just solved one of life's great mysteries."

"What would that be?" My oldest, accustomed to his mother's dramatically strange statements, sat up and looked interested.

"All this time, I've been yelling at you guys about leaving messes all over the house, wrecking your rooms, eating all the peanut butter, putting holes in your socks, but it hasn't been you has it?"

They looked at each other, looked a me and the only one with the nerve to go with the moment was my smart-mouthed third born. "Finally!  Finally you believe us!" He paused. "So umm . . . who do you think's been doing all this?"

"The shoes."

They echoed me, smiles creeping across faces.

"Think about it fellas.  Every time there's a mess in the middle of the room, what's right in the middle of it?"

"Shoes!" shouted Sam, my youngest. 

"That's right.  It's the shoes. All this time, it's been those innocuous things you wear on your feet.  They're everywhere.  We leavee them trustingly in the middle of the floor and they abuse that trust by sneaking around, wrecking things and letting you take the blame."

My second born, Daniel, loved this idea. He snatched his pair from the center of the floor and brandished them.  "Ah-HAH!  I knew it!  I thought I'd seen mine move a time or two, but I just didn't think it was possible. So what should we do with them?"

"Well you could throw them out and go barefooted."

They discussed this and decided that wasn't a great idea. (We do live in the Ozarks, after all).

"Or you could  start by keep them in your closets when they aren't on your feet--with the door closed firmly, I'll be they can't get out." 

They looked at each other, having been had, grinned good naturedly, scooped up their shoes and put them away.  Then just as good naturedly they cleaned up the rest of the mess.

Now when I find messes and they protest that they didn't do it, I say, "Musta been the shoes.  I told you to get rid of them while you could.  Since you didn't, I guess you're responsible for the mess . . ."

Okay, so maybe I'm just a little like her.  But only a little.

I've been a member of  a poetry forum called the PFFA for six years.  Though I've shopped around a little and been a member of other forums, pffa is and probably always will be home in a strange, get-a-life, sorta way. I had a falling out with a moderator there once and stayed gone for nearly a year and it bothered me enough to return. There was just no other place with the same mix of perfectionists and crazy people.  The forums are tough--graded based on ability and strictly policed by no nonsense moderators.  What this means is: if you crit a poem you can be guaranteed that the writer is going to take what you say seriously enough to at least say thank you, not defend their work or try to explain their way out of it (They don't have to agree--just say thank you).  And if you post a poem there, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the crits will be anything but fluffy one-liners, that if people like it, they'll know why and if they don't they'll do their best to explain. No off-topic chatter is allowed. There are a great number of tools available to strengthen both writing and critting skills.  Since I turned to writing short stories and novels, I rarely write poetry and crit just about as much, but I do love to stop in and read what everyone is doing.  I believe the pffa has seen some of the finest up and coming poets on the net, though publishing credits are discussed very little (though I've noted that during the last year or so--if one gets published in an "approved" journal, it's become okay to mention it in the Watering Hole).  The Watering Hole is the one section of the forum where chatter is encouraged and it is the busiest section of the place.  Discussions range from inane to political, to such hot button topics as "the benefits of not having children vs what kind of selfish jerk are you?".  Though I am only an average poet, I credit the place with turning me into a half-decent writer. Because of the pffa I understand how to mesh the gifts of the right brain with the structure and form seeking part of the left. 

A year and a half ago, TUF, a prose spin-off of the PFFA, was borne and I joined two other moderators in looking after it.  It is a quiet little spot with a slow but steady flow of traffic.  I'm afraid we're all inclined to return to the pffa when we're looking for company.  I enjoy watching beginning writers get their feet under them and helping when I can.  We are not about getting published--we are about better writing.  Publishing is treated as a nice thing, but not essential to the process. Personally, my favorite part of the place is Electroshock Therapy, where writers can write chain stories--each person contributing to it.  It's lots of fun and requires that I use a much neglected muscle--the "maximus flybytheseatofyourpantsicus".   While I'll play with anyone who'll jump in, there's one member in particular I enjoy matching wits with simply because he's faster than I am and makes me work hard.

I am not going to look up the link to Boot Camp, namely because unless you join (which costs quite a lot--something like a $100.00 a month--and may have gone up since then), you won't be allowed to see anything but the member's publishing credits.  This has changed since I was there and I think it's a marketing mistake, however I'm not running the place.  Alex Keegan (pen name) is the admin, instructor, aka God, of Boot Camp.  Boot Camp is a high pressure place with the goal of creating disciplined, published writers.  This is done through daily word challenges, weekly stories submitted anonymously,  and critting an assigned group of them (sometimes as many as twelve) using a grid system (which I personally hated and found highly biased, but it did help break stories down to their elements. Alex may or may not have to worry about other former members stealing his grid--I am not one of them--I simply want to say what I have to say and the grid slowed the whole process up--but that's just me).   The mantra of the group is Write, Write, Write, Edit, Edit, Edit, Submit, Submit, Submit.  The forumula absolutely works.  If you want to build good habits and function well in a structured environment and have the time to devote to the system, I'd encourage you to try it.  The following info should not discourage you, but it should help you understand what you're getting into.

 I personally didn't enjoy the sense of personal agendas, the under currents of trouble between specific posters, and the power games I observed--mostly played by Alex.  I avoided these discussions like the plague and refused become a part of the drama.  I found it distasteful and draining.  Real life was distracting enough.   I was there to write and that's what I did.  There were other reasons too, but they eat up space on the page and not the purpose behind this particular blog entry. 

Since I've finished what I consider a publishable book, I've been searching for answers concerning publishing and agents and in my travels turned up a place called Absolute Writer Water Cooler  It is not a workshop so much as it is a place to network with other writers who are serious about publishing, as well as editors and agents. It's active with well over a hundred people online on a regular basis. I am still forming opinions about the workshop sections of the place, but really like the section for general discussion of novels as well as the sections dedicated to seeking agents' advice. 

I subbed a story to a hard copy Sci-fi magazine today.  Now all I can do is sit back and wait.  That's it.  The archives are empty.  It's time to start writing new material. 

All but one of my test readers (thank you, thank you John) have disappeared and I am feeling paranoid.  I don't know if it's because real life has gotten in the way or if they are afraid to tell me that a year's worth of work and all 150,000 words really suck or what.  Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if a couple of them didn't like it. 

My husband, who finally nagged me enough to let him read it, told me today that he's really enjoying it--that it's easy to read (dunno if that's good or not) and that he doesn't see any huge problems yet.  However, he is suspect at best as I am sure that when I'm happy I'm a lot easier to live with and  . . . well . . . other things are better too.   

I did tell him that I feel like I've written the very kind of book that I hate the most.   However, when I go back and scan it, I know that it's a good story.  Does that make any sense?  Probably not. 

His suggestion was that I find someone who is not a friend who writes to read it for me.  I just don't think that's the sort of thing one asks of a stranger.  In fact, it's really poor ettiquette in writing circles to do so.

In any case, I'm trying to decide whether to nudge these writing friends or just let it go and go find someone else or maybe take their silence as  a very, very bad sign.  Good god . . .  A whole year's work down the tubes. . .

No writing yesterday.  Well, that's not true.  I did some critting on TUF.  Does that count?   It helps in my own process to comment on other people's work--especially if they're beginners as the mistakes are easy to spot and easier still to articulate.  I struggle with critting, not being naturally analytical by nature and I've really struggled with how honest to be.  This is getting easier with practice. Some people only hear the clear and unadorned truth if you're really really blunt.  (This really sucks. What were you thinking vs This isn't working and here's why.)

I got chewed out by a parent yesterday, showed up for a club meeting that had been rescheduled and no one told me, and my favorite leader is quitting because she's over-extended.    I've been told (by my husband) that I need to develop thicker skin and in theory he's right.  I don't think I want to develop thicker skin. I certaintly don't want to become less sensitive to others than I already am.  Have I mentioned that I hate my job?

This week I will mail Pomegranate to Black Warrior Review.  I scanned some sample stories and think it has a good chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Just returned from a trip to the Buffalo River.  It was my husband's birthday present to me.  I specifically asked to go to the Steel Creek campground where my dad took me canoeing when I was about fourteen (?).  

We got lost (naturally) but finally found it an hour or so later than we planned to arrive.  Ponca is an interesting little town.  All canoe rental places, cabins for tourists and tiny campgrounds.  We found a map at one of the other campgrounds within the Buffalo River campground and located Steel Creek.  I was right as it turned out. We were nearly on top of it, just one turn further up the road.

Funny, how I can have so much trouble remembering yesterday's to-do list, but finding the head of a trail I haven't been down in something like twenty four years was no trouble at all.

We drove down a steep gravel  incline, turned a corner and I pointed at it from the window of the van.  "There. That's the trail that leads to the river."

"Are you sure?"  Gary squinted at it.

"Positive." 

My feet took themselves, him trailing bemusedly behind.

Of course the place had changed.  Due to a three year drought, the water was well below it's normal level, but I suspect the change tracks back further than that.  The river's changed shape, due to global warming and changes in the terrain, I suspect.  It's receded two or three hundred yards from the rock over-hang where I used to watch other canoeists capsize because they wouldn't listen when Dad and I tried to tell them how to negotiate the gap between the boulder in the middle and the bank. 

The swimming hole was in tact. Though still deep enough that I couldn't touch bottom, I don't think anybody will be diving from the ledge twenty feet up the bluff these days.  The water was so clear we could see the rocky depths from the bank.   We cooked steaks over a campfire and drank wine coolers and talked quietly, waiting for the handful of other campers to go to sleep.

Gary and I took a late night swim, watched the stars until the clouds blanketed the sky, creating black spots and then grey as they swept over the moon.  Just as the stars disappeared from view, we were treated to a brief meteor shower and listened to the night birds calling their mates to roost.  We slept very well. 

This morning we swam again, this time meeting some interesting local transplants--third generation hippies, I suspect.  I think the PC term these days is Seekers. Nice people--full of thoughtful insights.   

Traveling the amazing curves of highway 7, I was struck by the difference that just a few miles makes in this area. We are surrounded by beautiful hills here, delighted by the lake as our constant backdrop, and admire the lovely expensive homes (the kind which we'll never own).   However, just a couple of hours south of us, the hills approach mountainhood with steep mineral streaked bluffs and deep, blue valleys.

The images resonate still:  farmhouses, looking the way God intended farmhouses to look, white with wrap around porches, shade trees, sloping green yards and gardens just outside the back door; shanties with yards full of   flowers (Cultivated Black-eyed Susans, Begonias, Roses, Geraniums . . .); and ancient barns--unpainted broken slats with sky glowing through the roof and doors still locked as though that would keep out the years.  I could feel my inner compass spinning, searching for a name for the sensations that rushed over me.  Finally, the needle stopped--the arrow pointing at True Home.  I may not ever live there again.  But I will always belong there.

Gary gave me a better gift this weekend than he will ever know.