Dishing it out ... and taking it

   I belong to a local writers group that formed several months ago. Up to this point the purpose has been very low-key: we bond over a passion for expressing ourselves in words and encourage each other to keep doing so. Just finding the courage to share one's work is a major step for some in the group.
   Recently a group member asked if I would help her form a sub-group for those interested in giving and receiving critiques on their work. I immediately said yes. I feel sure I can give constructive feedback and helpful suggestions. And I've been on the receiving end of enough rejections to have developed a thick skin regarding my writing.
   Or have I?
   Rejections have always been vague and brief remarks from strangers, and were easily chalked up to commercial interest versus artistic quality. I did get an in-depth critique from a book editor years ago. Eventually his criticisms were a tremendous help, but initially, and for a long time, they really hurt, and that was from a stranger in a letter. Now we're talking about lengthy, specific criticism from fellow writers I like and whom I have to face at every meeting.
   I realize now that I'm not as ready as I thought. But I'm bracing myself mentally because I know the path to growth is painful, but necessary.
And now dessert. This passage marks the entrance of an important character to the Earthen Vessels story, Yovana.

Maggie was about to ask about the woman Luis had mentioned before, Yovana. Was she related also? But just then their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s shrill voice calling from outside.

“Luis!” she cried with a voice that could shatter glass. “Caleb Luis! Give us a hand here!”

The two men stopped chewing. Their eyes locked across the table. And together they hissed out a single word: “Vana.”

If she hadn’t known better, Maggie might have translated the word they’d whispered with such drama as a curse, or something to ward off evil spirits. Luis jumped up from the table and sprinted to the door. He had no sooner laid his hand on the knob than the door flew open and knocked him on the forehead.

“Ow, my head!” he moaned, pressing both hands against his wound.

“Caleb, are you suffering with those headaches again?” questioned the plump little woman who had just burst in. “Why haven’t you come to see me about it? But never mind. I have some medicine with me that will fix you up in no time.”

Salvador was stifling a chuckle and Luis gave a look of exasperation, but the little woman didn’t seem to notice. “I thought you might have at least helped me with my things,” she went on, as she dropped her bundles on the floor. “Didn’t you hear me calling to you?”

“People on the other side of the village heard you, I’m sure,” Luis grumbled, still rubbing the sore spot on his head. “But never mind, there’s someone here...”

“Ooh, this must be her,” she bubbled, turning her attention to Maggie. “Well, muchacho, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Probably not, Abuela , since...”

“You’re the foreign girl they’re all talking about around town, aren’t you?”

“Maggie Boyce. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand.

“I’m Yovana,” the woman told her, and she took both Maggie’s smooth hands in her own rough and gnarled ones. “Now, the name I heard in town was Magdalena. You know we have a river named after you!” Yovana chuckled at her little joke.

Maggie did recall a thin blue line running through a map of northern Colombia labeled Magdalena. “Actually it’s Mary Margaret.”

“¡Oye!” Yovana said, even more excited. “El nombre de ella es ‘Maria.’”

“Vana, half the girls in town are named Maria,” Salvador said in an exasperated tone. “It is not a sign.”

“It could be,” the old woman defended herself.

“You’re starting to sound like Guadalupe Valdez.”

“And what’s wrong with Lupe, I’d like to know?”

Luis smirked and nudged Maggie. “A few months back Lupe found her three-year-old napping in the position of a crucifixion.” He demonstrated. “She thought that was a sign.”

“Especially since she’d named him Jesús,” Salvador put in. “Never mind that half the boys in town are named Jesús.”

Yovana tried to ignore them, but Maggie couldn’t help letting a giggle escape. Half of her amusement came from the initial image she’d conjured up of Yovana - a young, willowy lover for Luis. This woman was probably about sixty, squat, with graying hair and a broad smiling face. She wore a knee-length cotton dress with three different types of buttons up the front. It reminded Maggie of the housecoats her mother used to wear.

“Well, you probably guessed from the stir you created yesterday, we don’t get many outsiders around here. Once or twice a year a medical team comes through. I help them out when they come,” Yovana said with obvious pride.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, she’s not,” Luis hurried to insert.

“What he means is ‘not exactly’..."

" 'Community Health Aide' is the name the medical team gave her."

Yovana nodded. "But I’m anxious to know about you." Yovana turned a bit sober. "Tell me, dear, where are you from?” she asked.

"She's from La Junta, Abuela ," Luis put in.

"It’s in Colorado. In the United States,” Maggie answered.

“And how far is La Junta from here?” Yovana asked.

“A few light years, I think,” Maggie answered. 

 

20 Bad ideas .. and another excerpt

     A member of my writers group recently shared a few online articles that have had a great impact on my occasional writer's block. The general idea is that you set down as many ideas you have on a given subject and try to reach a set number of ideas. The number may be 20 or 100 or even more, and quality doesn't matter yet, only quantity. The philosophy is that in coming up with 99 rotten ideas, odds are you'll come up with at least one useable one.
   So many times I reach a point in my writing where I have a fair idea what should happen next, but the idea of working out the details makes me too tired to think. I would click off the page, vowing to "come back to it later." Eventually I did go back, but I was frustrated at how slow my progress was.
   This "bad ideas" method is maybe an updated version of "brainstorming" - do people still call it that? - where you consider every idea that comes anyone in a group without judgement, and without rejection. It has helped me out of at least three writing logjams in the last few weeks, and I'm recommending it to students who are writing speeches for competition, with good results.

   It's been too long since I shared an E.V. excerpt. This comes mid-way through the novel. Our would-be hero [Luis] went out drinking, believing the object of his affections [Maggie] had left town for good. He comes home drunk to find she has returned. She's been waiting up for him in her white nightgown, staying warm by the fire. Enjoy!

He took a long time bolting the door before he turned and saw her. Once again, she appeared as an angel in white, illuminated by a heavenly glow. He stared in amazement for several seconds, waiting to see if she had some divine message for him. He blinked a couple times and she became a fiery temptress, the silhouette of her body outlined against the flames of hell. Then his gaze of wonder shifted to the bottle of golden rum clutched in his hand. “This is good stuff,” he muttered. “She looks so real.”

“I am real, you drunken fool!”

“Sounds real too. That’s exactly what the real Maggie would say if she was here.” With great effort, he managed to set the bottle on the table without tipping it over.

Maggie slid past him to unbolt the door again. “Staying out all night and coming home in this condition are bad enough,” she hissed at him. “You don’t need to go locking poor Yovana out on top of it all.”

He followed her to the door, and while her back was still turned he ran his hands up along her bare arms. Instinctively, she stiffened and gasped. “Shh,” he told her and gently pressed his fingers over her lips. His own lips were pressed against her neck as he spoke. “Don’t wake me up. I like this dream.”

“This is no dream-” She folded her arms in front of her, protecting her heart.

He swept her hair aside and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. “Smells real,” he whispered. He pulled the nightgown from her shoulder to plant tiny kisses there. Despite herself, Maggie felt the desire well up inside her. Lead us not into temptation. The phrase called to her from far away, but she was having trouble hearing it over the sound of her own breathing.

His hands traveled down her back, her hips, and on down her thighs. “Shh…” he whispered against a small whimper that might or might not have been a protest. She left her heart unguarded, using her hands instead to brace herself against the door.

“Feels real. Real soft.” The fabric of her nightgown bunched up under his hands as they slid over her thighs, her belly and her breasts. She moaned with wanting him so bad.

He pressed his body into hers. His breath was coming fast. He reached down under the nightgown’s hem and started to pull it up. “Maggie…” he whispered. “Maggie, I’m …I’m…”

She put her hands over his. “Wait, Luis, please…” Despite the full force of his weight against her, she squirmed to face him. “Not like this. I wanted it to be – Luis?” His eyes might have been closed in ecstasy, but his face had gone slack and she realized ... he had passed out.

“Why, you son of a-” She managed to hoist him far enough away to slap his cheek. He sucked in a breath but still did not open his eyes. She cracked him harder the second time, which brought him to his knees.

“Now that was real,” he muttered, rubbing the spot and looked up at her standing over him. “Did you just hit me?”

“You insulted me,” she told him, indignantly adjusting her clothing. “A slap on the face was what you wanted the first time you kissed me. I was just a little late with the payment.”

“She’s real, all right,” he muttered. His thumb and fingertips opened and closed against each other in the international gesture for, yak, yak, yak. He didn’t get up, didn’t even look up. He just started groping along the table for his bottle. Then having found it, he crawled over to the fireplace and sat on the floor.

“So what’s with the bender?”

“I admit, I started drinking because you were gone.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m drinking ‘cause you’re back..."

Self-fulfilling prophecy?

   It cannot be coincidence that I blogged about a lack of creative energy - and then had no blog ideas for over a month. Other factors certainly entered in: new demands at work and activities of the holiday season. Preparing to put another Christmas Day behind me now, I feel a spark of hope that the writing muse will visit me again.
   My feelings about this time of year are certainly mixed. While few people have affectionate regards for the long hours of darkness and freezing temperatures, my aversion is especially strong. I also suffer with a mild case of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). At the same time, this feels like a special time of year. Mid-way through the school year we have a break that allows us to get our second wind and return renewed in January to face the long spring semester. And a new year on the calendar does inspire personal improvements.
   Whatever goals you have for the coming year, I hope you find the wear-withal to meet them!

Creative Energy: A zero sum game or perpetual motion machine?

   One tidbit of information that has always stayed with me from physics class is Newton's First Law of Motion: An object at rest tends to stay at rest. (And no, I'm not just repeating the commercial for arthritis medication.) A day spent "resting" often results in an ever-deepening vortex of lethargy and apathy. But a day that starts with a short stroll can lead to a brisk walk and productive hours of yard work. A brief and boring journal entry can yield fresh revisions or pages of new material. An object - or a mind - in motion tends to stay in motion.

   But I have to also believe that one's supply of personal energy is limited. Each year at this time I'm tasked with cobbling together the one-act play at the school where I work. This comes on top of the everyday creative energy required for teaching. Right now I feel like all my creative energy is being channeled to these endeavors, and there's none left for writing.

   Maybe it doesn't matter which is true, and maybe both are true. In any case, the writing is occasionally being put on hold for a bit, as my responsibility right now is to my students. The important thing is to be challenged, and I certainly am that.

No such thing as bad publicity?

     The good news is that the local newspaper printed a photo of my recent book-signing.
     The not so good news is appears right beside a picture of a 9 pound sweet potato some woman dug up in her garden. It kind of puts into perspective what passes for news in a small town. Picture the retired farmer opening up the daily paper: "Hmm... this here gal wrote a novel, no doubt with careful attention to developing plot, characters, theme and ... Hey, hold up! THIS gal done growed herself a whopper of a yam! Hand me the scissors, Ma... this one's going on the fridge!"
     It's karma. I joked one too many times about the media in our area. And in truth, I like living in a town where crowds and traffic jams are virtually unknown... and where an unheard-of, self-published author like me can get full color coverage free of charge.

And ladies of the club

     Another author first for me came on Saturday when I addressed a book club at the invitation of my mother-in-law. As I'd never done this before, I was a little nervous, but they were all so friendly, they put me right at ease. The group was mostly mature ladies, many of whom I knew already. I opened with some brief remarks similar to the entries in this blog, and followed by reading a couple of one-page excerpts. These were the same readings I'd chosen for a book-signing in August, and in reciting a tense passage I thought, "Oh no! Will they be offended by the word 'damn?'" Apparently I wasn't overly shocking, as several ladies were kind enough to buy copies of the novel. The group had several thoughtful questions and I believe I managed to formulate some reasonably intelligent responses.
     One highlight was meeting a woman visiting from a major city, who passed along contact information for her running partner. She casually mentioned that this friend had a couple of published titles under her belt, and would be glad to hear from an aspiring author like me. That evening I did an Internet search on this friend and discovered she has many books and great reviews to her credit. (No, I'm not going to drop names.) Now I just have to work up the courage to actually contact her!
     So did I rake in loads of cash that day? No. Did I blow the room away with erudite literary insights? Hardly. But I successfully navigated a new experience and made some new contacts. Mostly I hope my remarks encouraged listeners to pursue their passions as I am doing. That's what I call a productive Saturday.

    

For your reading pleasure.. a second excerpt

O my soul, come not thou into their secret;

unto their assembly, ...

for in their anger they slew a man.

Genesis 49: 6 (KJV)

The unexpected sound of the plane overhead had interrupted a productive morning at Raul’s operation. After dumping yet another barrel of kerosene into the vat, he was laughing to himself again over something a colleague had told him - that Europeans considered cocaine a glamor drug. Mopping his brow with a crusty bandanna, he watched Platon and Mario kick off their grimy sandals to slosh their sweaty feet in the vat of coca leaves. They joked together to pass the time, each one daring the other to pee into the stuff. Glamorous? This?

That was when they’d heard the plane overhead - right overhead. What idiot was flying that thing? The landing caused a ripple of excitement through the camp, as did any hope of contact with the outside world. They'd been working three weeks without a break, and were hoping to wrap up this harvest soon.

Of course there were a dozen or more volunteers to go investigate at the airstrip, but Raul knew these muchachos would take half the morning at it, and he wanted to keep the work moving. Besides, he needed to check this out himself. He barked at them to keep working, he’d be back in half an hour, and he expected to see some progress.

The wooden planks of the boardwalk groaned under Raul’s considerable weight, as he trotted through the trees, his mind racing. He was not expecting any shipments - he already had more leaves than he could process in a week, and it would be several days before he had anything to ship out. Damn them all! What kind of production schedule was he expected to keep, anyway? Approaching the airstrip, he slowed to a walk, then crept around the trees, his pistol drawn.

He saw her in the clearing. Not who or what he’d been expecting at all. The plane had apparently made an emergency landing here.

He watched her play-acting with the gun and had to smile. Then when it went off and she was scared to death, he could hardly stifle a laugh. He watched as she packed the weapon away. And whatever was wrong with the plane, she clearly hadn’t a clue as to how to fix it.

He had seen enough. He smiled and put his pistol back into its holster. He would not be needing it.

He imagined his crew bugging out at the first sound of gunfire, afraid to show their faces near camp for days. But, Raul reasoned, it might be labor well lost to get some privacy with this little gringa.