Five Things I Hate About My Writing

Boy,I’m just a gloomy girl lately. Would hate to see what would happen to me if I didn’t live in the Sunshine State. Right now, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, still in my jammies but wearing my winter coat. I’m freezing my arse off. Yup. Florida’s got freezing temps again.

But that’s not the point of this blog. Let’s move on as Robblogger would say. I think my saying will be ‘Flying Monkeys’ or ‘Oh, no Toto’. Wait a minute…how about ‘Let’s fly monkeys’? We’ll see which one fits best.

Okay. Let’s fly monkeys….(What do ya’ll think?)

Today I wanted to share what bugs the crap out me about my writing. There are five things that top my list. Those five things I can’t seem to let go of no matter what I try or, read or, practice. They’re nasty ole habits like smoking and eating Lay’s potato chips, two things I refuse to do. Too bad they’re not two bad writing habits that I’ve learned to curb. It would be nice to say that I’ve overcome them. But….(palms up, I’m shrugging).

1. Still can’t get that rule of when to capitalize mom and dad. In my world they’re important. They should be capitalized no matter what some dumb rule says.

2. Why can’t garbage cans climb through windows? Because dangling participles are not acceptable. My stuff is littered with silliness like this.

3. Trying to describe things that are virtually impossible. You know, like trying to describe ten drunk naked people on the Twister Mat. Think about it. I’m told constantly to keep it simple. Yeah. Right.

4. Why can’t animals be referred to as ‘she’ and ‘he’ even if they have no name. They’re still people. Furry ones. Besides, I don’t know all the people in the world by name.

5. Why can’t we tell our stories a little bit? An insy-winsy-tiny-bit? A microscopic-insy-wincy-tiny-bit?

These are the five things that drive me crazy. Teeth gritting, foot stomping crazy.

What drives you crazy about your writing?

Happy blogging, reading, and writing!!

Shelly

P.S. Ya’ll hang in there.

Challenge Day 15: Life’s Lessons

Wow! It’s day fifteen of my challenge to write a blog everyday in fifteen minutes. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. The hard part was paring it down to fifty words. I’m a wordy person even in conversation.

But, that’s not the point of this blog. Hopefully, this one won’t be lengthy I’ve got other writing to attend to and a phone conference with my editor some time today. It’s one of those be ready when she calls deals, drop-what-you’re-doing-at-that moment-kind-of-thing.

Okay. Enough of that.

This morning I woke up at eight A.M. Its not like me to sleep this late, I’m usually up by five A.M. But it’s freezing in the Sunshine State today. Tomorrow could be a different story. Even Sir-Poops-A-Lot stayed in bed all night. No warm welcomes from him, thank the potty-gods.

About the time I meandered down the stairs to the kitchen, my phone rang. Right away I’m thinking its work calling me to come in on my day off (happens a lot since I’m a shift manager). But no, its Tinkerbelle slash Esmeralda, daughter number four. She’s got two personalities. I swear. Good and Evil.

“Mom,”  she said, after mumbles something. She’s known for this. Ghetto language. I know, I raised her to speak proper.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask.

“Do you think you can slip me a twenty every week?” she asks loud and clear. No mumbling here. “You know, dad won’t.” Yup. That’s true dad won’t because she’s used us like a yo-yo ever since she turned thirteen, shuffling from my house to his, looking to do things her way. He’s fet-up and makes no bones about it.

I hold my breath for a few seconds, rolled my eyes, and said, “You need to get a job.”  You see, she left her dad’s house about three weeks ago and left mine this past summer. She’s not one to follow the rules, only hers, no other. In February, she’ll be eighteen. Thank God and the Universe. Party, party everywhere. There’s no way this mom will be suffering from empty-nest syndrome.

“How am I going to do that and finish high school and beauty school? I’m in school from 8 am to 6 pm.” Yup. This is true. She made the decision to do things the adult way without having her ducks in a row. No driver’s license. No car. No job. Living like a gypsy from friend’s house to friend’s house. What a life. Huh?

“Find a place that will hire you for the weekends,” I said.

The phone goes silent at her end for about thirty seconds. She catches her breath, and mutters something. Who knows what she’s saying. Sometimes I think I need a dictionary to figure out the incoherent babbles of this child. Seriously, the child didn’t pick up good diction or articulation from me. Annoying.

“Mom,” she said, articulating the name I will sometimes answer to. “Do you think you can throw me a twenty. The people I’m staying with are having money problems.” The people she stays with can afford the luxury of smoking and drinking. Hmmm. Wonder what else they put their monies toward. Maybe they should stop smoking and drinking.

“Seriously, get a job,” I said.

“Mom!” Wow. She said that word with no problem. She articulates ‘MOM’ well.

“What?” I ask, hoping she’ll terminate the call.

“Will you?”

“Look. Let’s say this. I won’t let you starve to death. Okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone heated up.

“Just that. I’ll send you a gift card to Publix.”

“Mom.” She rambles a string of something my ears can’t pick up and then….

CLICK!

Another lesson to be learned in the life of a young adult. Life’s a BE-OTCH. Get used to it. And God, help them learn what they need to learn.

Yup. Another drama filled-day in the life of Shelly Arkon, a novice writer. Like my hubby says, “It’s all fodder for your upcoming novels.”

Happy reading, writing, and blogging!!

Shelly

DIng Dong My Brain is Dead

That’s right, I think I’ve killed my brain. Oh, my Toto.
It took two hours to figure out how to download a picture to my personal file to save so that I could transfer the darned thing to my blog here. Schwooo! By now my forehead is glistening total girl sweat. Thank God for computer literate children! I would never have made it without my No-No-O. She’s great when it comes to computer stuff.

Once I tackled that task, I had to figure out how to actually post the pics to my blog. What an eye-crossing-brain-twisting event that was. And yes, I went through the BlogSpot Tutorial, but once again it challenged me. Maybe it’s all those hot dogs I ate with the processed cheese as a child, or perhaps all the tap water I drank. My poor brain about hyperventilated on me over this whole ordeal. It got my armpits crying, and that’s not good because you have to stop every so often and wipe at the tears tricking down to your waist. I went through half a roll of Bounty. Oh, man!

Anyway back to the task at hand here. When I finally figured out the save-the-pic-off –the-internet-thing, it was time to save the darned things to my blog page.( I think I said that in the paragraph above but got emotional.) Okay, every writer-girl wants a pretty blog page, right? I was tired of looking at my Plain-Jane-page and desperation filled me to change it(talk about a yellow- brick-road-need-to-find-the-wizard-so-I-can- get-home…such turmoil traveling through my brain). I know. I’m being dramatic…I’m a woman. We’re known for drama, okay, but this is pivotal for me.

Of course, my wonder daughter, No-No-O showed me how to get from A to Z again, and THEN she left me to myself. For two hours after that I happily sat and pasted pics into my browser for each article that I’d written. I previewed each one. They looked lovely(gloat, gloat), and I was so proud of myself.

When I finished pasting, I pressed the View Blog button. I blinked a couple of times, no pics. Oh. My. God. Where is the Good Witch when you need her? The Bad Witch has to be responsible for this mishap. Maybe it was the apple I ate earlier causing me hiccups in my thought process. She poisoned it causing my brain to malfunction.

Okay, so DUFUS here, backtracked, and I figured out that I didn’t push the PUBLISH SAVE button. Big sigh. Another big sigh. What a bunch of flying monkeys!

Half- way into the project again someone must have thrown a bucket of water onto my brain. It sizzled at first and THEN it went into shrinking mode(I’m SHRIIIIIINKING). My eyelids got heavy with sleep and whatever thoughts I had..well…flying monkeys equals chaos and who can possibly think when you have to bat those things out of the way.

So the little munchkins gathered around my soup for brains and sang “Ding Dong Her Brain is Dead….fa..la..la…la. It’s better than having your husband tell you that you have Alzheimer’s.

Today's Bad Writing

The other night at my critique group, I brought up the fact that a lot of the newly published authors’ books are full of mistakes. What I’m seeing makes my mouth drop, my brain twist, and leaves me saying to myself “they didn’t”. Oh but, they did. Oh. My. God. They really found someone to publish them or they were brave enough to publish themselves, talk about balls and guts.

Pages and pages of ‘then’s’ and ‘just’s.’. Lots of ‘as’ man. Lots of them. Newer writers are beginning their sentences with “finally” and “suddenly”. Instead of describing what their characters see, hear and feel, they are telling us they saw, heard, and felt.

Maybe the current and next generation won’t care how to spell (I mean the kids text today and teachers don’t correct spelling mistakes…not all, but too many don’t follow the old protocol) or what action verbs are. This new generation lacks love for English and the written word(not all, but too many). It amazes me how few love to read (too busy texting) and when a young person expresses their love for reading, it’s euphoric.

For the kids that love to read, how are they ever going to know any better with the smattering of stuff that’s out there. What are we teaching them? That it’s okay to be mediocre? Total ugh.

Publishing companies and self-publishers are putting first drafts of dribble-babble out on the market. I’d be embarrassed to have my babbles published as serious work, and I do a lot of babbling before I get it write. This is probably some hideous babble because no one is editing this piece, but me.

In my critique group, I get a good “YAK!” from my group queen, but newer writers are getting away with sloppy writing. Wow man! Wow! I mean, I know, I’m a novice at writing stuff, but at least I admit it, and I don’t shove it out there in the market for the world to see. Free is good, but you get what you pay for.

My Ritual

Today, I’m taking my time. I’m in no hurry. Hate hurrying anyway. It’s my day off from lopping hair (stylist by day and sometimes by night). My foot warmers, (my dogs, Baby and Honey Bear), have planned along with me a writing fest today. They’ve got their bones and chews. I’ve my gi-normous cup of hot tea, my water, and the bathroom near-by (my bladder pees on demand…achoo!). Oh, can’t forget the Sounscapes, too.

Now I’m ready to let my fingers float across my keyboards and drift into the open sea of my mind. Time to find out what my characters are doing today.
For a few seconds, I sit with my eyes closed, fingers resting on my keyboard. I let the music fill my ears, and type out what I see and hear. It doesn’t matter if it’s perfect at first. Perfection never really comes. The beauty of the manuscript is only in the eye of the beholder. Not everyone likes or appreciates my writing style, or my stories, and that’s okay.

Besides, it would be like having every man on earth fall in love with me. One is enough. It would be the same if everyone loved my manuscript. I’d probably go nuts. Being kept in my humble place is a good thing. A swelled head might explode, and I’d loose all my stories. Wouldn’t want that.

I know, I’m babble-writing this blog today, but I’m in no hurry. It’s ritual for me. We all have our different rituals. This is mine, babble-writing. Writing anything and everything. Trying to dig deep within. Trying to find my happy space in writing. Inhale and exhale. Don’t be afraid to breathe or write.
Have a happy writing day.

Writer's Block v. Constipation

There's not much difference between being constipated, at a loss for pooing, and having writer's block, being at a loss for words. The words to describe both: frustrating and painful.

It irks me when I sit down at my keyboard in front of a blank screen and I can't come up with a darned thing to write. Today, I finished chapter thirty to my novel. I it ended with some mysterious person coming through the door.

As usual I set up my page to chapter thirty-one. You know, header, page number, title, and chapter. And then, without warning my brain stopped. Maybe there's a brick somewhere hidden in the corridors and whatever thoughts I had smashed into it. I don't know.

I tried doodling. Arrows over arrows. Flowers with pretty leaves. Houses with chimneys. Okay, that didn't work. So, I wrote stuff. Stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with my novel. Okay, that didn't work. So, I went for a walk. I walked the dogs. I walked and talked to the dogs about my current dilema. Both of them plopped their butts on the pavement, tilted their heads and raised their ears but they had no clue what to tell me. I didn't have a clue what to tell me.

I go back inside. There I decide to clean my shower and then I clean my entire shower. During this event, I daydreamed about my characters hoping they'd guide me to the answer for my next chapter. Oh my God! Nothing came out. My brain literally hurt.

Read, I say. I'll sit on the great white throne and read. I remind myself that I did have a serving of flax seeds on my quinoa this morning. The bottom half shouldn't be a problem. But nothing comes out at either end.

A revelation happens. Wow! Maybe there is a brain and butt connection. Never know. Maybe this one could be the next great conspiracy theory against all writers. Maybe there should be a discussion on this.

But, I do know this, when they finally flow it's like Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It goes on and on for days. Not necessarily on the same day though.

The Life of a Novice Writer

The life of a novice write is full of dreams. Our stories appear to us as any other best seller on the New York Times list. We can't distinguish between someone else's masterpiece from our own.

Also, admittedly we're a little impatient with the whole process of writing: the writing of the not-so-fun-stuff like the synopsis, the blurb, and the dreaded query letter. Sometimes we are downright lazy. There are so many rules to remember.

It would be easier not to have to go to any classes or critique classes. Why would we do that? After all, we've dubbed ourselves writers, right? And did I mention that our English and Lit teachers in school always gave us rave reviews on what we wrote. This should be good enough knowledge for us to know that we are exceptional in the field of writing, right?

For some reason, we seem to believe that whoever we send our manuscripts to, will worship and adore our work. Why wouldn't they? We do. Oh the treacherous life of the novice writer when receive our manuscripts back Looking as if they've been devoured by some animal. Blood stains filling up the spaces on and in between my intimate expressions of creativity. My poor beloved manuscript. How could they? If only I could throw myself into their den of ravenous wolves to be ravaged like that I would. Only to spare my beloved imagination of those horrid blood stains that come back to me.

If that's not bad enough, we have to put up with our own insecurities and doubts about our own writing. Deep down inside we each have this little whiny, annoying voice in our heads. It races around the same racetrack, telling us "that was a dumb thing to write", "you'll never get published" or "you can't do this, what are you possibly thinking . You are no King or Gresham". Once the racetrack stops, the choir begins. It sings about our doom and gloom as writers.

As a novice writer, I have to do my best to keep the editorial wolves at bay. How do I do this? Dah?

We need to make a promise to ourselves and keep it. Better yet, make a vow to your beloved. You wouldn't go a day without spending quality time with your spouse would you?

Vow to ignore the creepy little voices in your head. Vow to take whatever classes you need to improve your skills. Vow to use your spellcheck. Vow to write everyday even if it starts out gibberish-like. Vow not to be insulted by a publishing company when you get rejected. Vow to keep plugging along. Vow to learn from your mistakes. Vow to join a local critique group.

Last, stay true to your vow like you would your spouse. Cheating is not allowed.