Tomorrow is the first of a three-day Writers Retreat sponsored by the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. The retreat is being conducted at the Liniken Resort in Boothbay Harbor, Maine.
Because I will be leaving early (to allow plenty of time to get lost-and-found several times enroute - it always happens when going to a new place, regardless of whatever map I use), there will be no posting tomorrow. On top of the new route and my propensity for getting lost, the weather is projected to be rainy - very rainy. Oh Joy!
So today I am getting chores done, for both my place and for a family member who will be returning to his home on Saturday following rehab for a hip replacement. The objective is to minimize the stress tomorrow and to arrive at the Retreat relaxed (and excited). The latter is an automatic. The former, a challenge.
In the meantime, I can see the storm coming in over the lake and I still have to go to town, the post office, etc.
Maybe a nap is in order first. Naps always help. Perhaps I am part cat.
Have a great day.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
WHEN LIFE IS AT ITS BUSIEST - TAKE A BREATH
Lately I have found there is much too much to do and not enough time to look, think, ponder or even breath. Not good, especially for a creative person. Definitely not enough time to laugh - especially to laugh at life's moments.
Yesterday was the gathering of my weekly writers group at Borders. I do LOVE our Borders store. The staff and management there are so welcoming and accommodating. It's a bit like a mini-library with benefits galore.
So there we were, the six of us - gathered around our two tables pushed together, papers out, coffees on the table (hoping no one spills anything), sharing the news of the week. One of us has just been signed by an agent who sounds like she must have been a heavenly angel in her previous life. Another one has just returned from caring for a daughter-in-law who had major surgery and an elderly mother. Needless to say, she is more than qualified to writer about the "sandwich generation."
So, the assignment for the week was to read and critique one member's submission from the previous week. We go around the table - one at a time. First the summary and then page by page - punctuation, flow, typos, the whole kit and caboodle. And there are six of us, remember. The writer/submitter only gets to take notes or to answer a question if specifically asked. No defending. No clarifying unless asked. (But we are not brutal either. On the other hand, if we don't understand something, why should the writer assume any other reader will?)
I took last dibs yesterday. I have a tendency to be a bit "creative" in my critiques - offering suggestions about how a sentence might have more punch with a word change - or breaking one sentence into two - or changing one word for another. Or moving an ending paragraph to a different position. Or asking what if you did this instead of that. Just a thought, nothing more than a thought to ponder.
Well, in the middle of one of those - "think it would have more punch" kind of remarks, a gentleman from a nearby table comes by - probably on his way to get another coffee - and interjects, "I think what you all are doing is great!"
It was a bit startling, I will admit. But we are a friendly group so we turned to him and said, "thanks" - or words to that effect.
"I've been listening to you all. I think your group is just great. I teach writing at the local community college. You people are really good."
We didn't say who or what we were. It was just nice to have the "approval." Maybe he overheard something that will end up in his classroom this week.
One just never knows what will go out over the air or where it will land.
(Gee, I'm glad we weren't reviewing/critiquing a sex scene. We have been known to do that, too. Certain ones of us always want to make it more steamy. Even the gentleman in the group likes it steamy. And then there is the question of what to call certain components or actions..... We can be sooo creative. LOL)
Yesterday was the gathering of my weekly writers group at Borders. I do LOVE our Borders store. The staff and management there are so welcoming and accommodating. It's a bit like a mini-library with benefits galore.
So there we were, the six of us - gathered around our two tables pushed together, papers out, coffees on the table (hoping no one spills anything), sharing the news of the week. One of us has just been signed by an agent who sounds like she must have been a heavenly angel in her previous life. Another one has just returned from caring for a daughter-in-law who had major surgery and an elderly mother. Needless to say, she is more than qualified to writer about the "sandwich generation."
So, the assignment for the week was to read and critique one member's submission from the previous week. We go around the table - one at a time. First the summary and then page by page - punctuation, flow, typos, the whole kit and caboodle. And there are six of us, remember. The writer/submitter only gets to take notes or to answer a question if specifically asked. No defending. No clarifying unless asked. (But we are not brutal either. On the other hand, if we don't understand something, why should the writer assume any other reader will?)
I took last dibs yesterday. I have a tendency to be a bit "creative" in my critiques - offering suggestions about how a sentence might have more punch with a word change - or breaking one sentence into two - or changing one word for another. Or moving an ending paragraph to a different position. Or asking what if you did this instead of that. Just a thought, nothing more than a thought to ponder.
Well, in the middle of one of those - "think it would have more punch" kind of remarks, a gentleman from a nearby table comes by - probably on his way to get another coffee - and interjects, "I think what you all are doing is great!"
It was a bit startling, I will admit. But we are a friendly group so we turned to him and said, "thanks" - or words to that effect.
"I've been listening to you all. I think your group is just great. I teach writing at the local community college. You people are really good."
We didn't say who or what we were. It was just nice to have the "approval." Maybe he overheard something that will end up in his classroom this week.
One just never knows what will go out over the air or where it will land.
(Gee, I'm glad we weren't reviewing/critiquing a sex scene. We have been known to do that, too. Certain ones of us always want to make it more steamy. Even the gentleman in the group likes it steamy. And then there is the question of what to call certain components or actions..... We can be sooo creative. LOL)
Sunday, September 5, 2010
SEASONS AND THEIR CHANGES
This past week has been a challenge with temperatures in the very high 90s. I will admit, 96, 97 degree days with or without humidity drains everything out of me, creativity, happiness, the ability to even sleep or desire to eat. (And that's a hard one to whip.)
Nights don't seem to bring any respite and so, upon rising I am even more tired, if possible, than I was when falling on the bed the night before. In truth, I can not imagine living in the deep south. Just watching old film noir stories like "To Kill a Mockingbird," where everyone is wiping his or her face with a handkerchief to remove the beads of perspiration, leaves me sticky and irritable. I don't know how they all managed to survive without killing off half the population during those hot, humid days that seemed to last forever. And yet, that is just what it has been like here for the last week. And we had other weeks like that earlier this summer. During such days, I fine impossible to write or work on the current manuscript. One can hardly conjure up a good murder when one just wants to kill any and every thing that moves.
And so along came "Earl." I know, people down along North and South Carolina had a totally different perspective than I about Earl - and rightly so. Down there, Earl was a down right unpleasant and unruly, not to mention unwelcome caller. But, by the time he came visiting up here in Maine, he'd run out of steam and he'd been pushed aside, so to speak, by some cold air giving him a good thumping from Canada. And so, when Earl arrived around 4AM Saturday morning, he had no wind left in his sails. Literally. No enough to blow out a match. Certainly nothing compared to this morning. For truth.
But Earl did bring more than three inches of sorely needed rain to the area where I live. (Thank goodness. I can barely think what my water bill will be the next billing cycle since I have been watering the lawn and gardens for hours at a time every morning starting at 6AM until the heat said the water would be working upward instead of the other way and thereby a total waste of money.) In the process, the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees, there's a good stiff breeze, and I can write again. I can sleep. I can fix a decent meal which will, in turn provide the energy to work on the next stage of this mystery with all of its twists and turns.
There is a nip in the air that smells like fall - not that I look forward to the season that follows. But fall has energy whereas hot summer days have none for me. It takes energy to plan a mystery. Energy to plan a murder. And energy to catch a killer. A good season is upon us. Now all I have to do is entice some good neighbor to bring in the dock before the water gets too cold. No place in this manuscript for a frigid body, or a dock dragged offshore by the ice that is yet to come.
Nights don't seem to bring any respite and so, upon rising I am even more tired, if possible, than I was when falling on the bed the night before. In truth, I can not imagine living in the deep south. Just watching old film noir stories like "To Kill a Mockingbird," where everyone is wiping his or her face with a handkerchief to remove the beads of perspiration, leaves me sticky and irritable. I don't know how they all managed to survive without killing off half the population during those hot, humid days that seemed to last forever. And yet, that is just what it has been like here for the last week. And we had other weeks like that earlier this summer. During such days, I fine impossible to write or work on the current manuscript. One can hardly conjure up a good murder when one just wants to kill any and every thing that moves.
And so along came "Earl." I know, people down along North and South Carolina had a totally different perspective than I about Earl - and rightly so. Down there, Earl was a down right unpleasant and unruly, not to mention unwelcome caller. But, by the time he came visiting up here in Maine, he'd run out of steam and he'd been pushed aside, so to speak, by some cold air giving him a good thumping from Canada. And so, when Earl arrived around 4AM Saturday morning, he had no wind left in his sails. Literally. No enough to blow out a match. Certainly nothing compared to this morning. For truth.
But Earl did bring more than three inches of sorely needed rain to the area where I live. (Thank goodness. I can barely think what my water bill will be the next billing cycle since I have been watering the lawn and gardens for hours at a time every morning starting at 6AM until the heat said the water would be working upward instead of the other way and thereby a total waste of money.) In the process, the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees, there's a good stiff breeze, and I can write again. I can sleep. I can fix a decent meal which will, in turn provide the energy to work on the next stage of this mystery with all of its twists and turns.
There is a nip in the air that smells like fall - not that I look forward to the season that follows. But fall has energy whereas hot summer days have none for me. It takes energy to plan a mystery. Energy to plan a murder. And energy to catch a killer. A good season is upon us. Now all I have to do is entice some good neighbor to bring in the dock before the water gets too cold. No place in this manuscript for a frigid body, or a dock dragged offshore by the ice that is yet to come.
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