Just one more thing

I'm one of those suckers who volunteers for everything. I admit it. If you sound desperate enough, I'll probably raise my hand and pile on another obligation. But there's a limit. Really, there is.

The phone rings. A familiar Boy Scout dad's voice says, "I need you to run our upcoming popcorn fundraiser."

"I'm sorry, I really can't."

The superhuman inside me seems to have worked the duct tape on her mouth loose. She mumbles something the sounds like, "Say yes." I kick the bound superhuman and wave at her to shut up.

"We were really hoping you would."

"I have too many other things going already during that same time."

Superhuman rolls her eyes. I apply new duct tape before she can scream, "I'll do it!".

"Your name was brought up by several people who thought you'd be right for the job."

"I'm sure it was." I take a deep breath. "You have to understand, during that same couple months, I have to purchase materials and create nine hundred christmas craft kits for my daughter's school. I'm also a Girl Scout leader and have meetings and crafts to organize. We have a PTO fundraiser I'm helping with. I have NaNo raffle items to solicit and some to create and write-ins to set up. I have the Young Writer's program to pitch to new schools and organize in the two I already do. I'm running a book drive for the entire county, and I just signed up to be on the funding committee for the school system. Did I mention that I also run a business?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I might have someone else that can do it, but can you at least help her?"

I give Superhuman one last kick and rip off her shiny red cape. With a quick twist, I put it on. "I'll do what I can, but I'm not promising anything big."

"Thanks. We'd really like you to take this over next year so keep that in mind."

After hanging up the phone, I drag Superhuman out to the back yard, toss her in a hole and bury her. After standing there minute, I pile on a few cinderblocks for good measure.

There, maybe now I'll still find a little time to write.

Getting groovy

It's almost time to get back into the groove. School starts next tuesday. That means no more waving the husband off in the morning and crawling back into bed for an few minutes (an hour or two) before realizing I've slept all my writing time away and the kids have slept until 10. Again.

This is adjustment week. Up at 7:00am - 'up' as in awake enough to turn on the news and wave the husband off to work. I've been waking the kids up earlier each day. We were down to 7:30 this morning. Bed times have also been adjusted. So far everyone is taking the return to routine pretty well. Evenings have been filled with school open houses, and PTO, Girl Scout and Boy Scout planning meetings. Ah, fall. I'd love to say that I can smell it in the air, but its ninety degrees and horribly humid again today, and I don't want to think about what that funky smell is.

Very soon, I'll have the silent house to myself. I'll get some uninterupted writing time. Of course, there's still work to be done and volunteer obligations to meet, but I'm excited nevertheless.

Rewrites, short story fixes and Sahmara edits, I'm coming for you!

Reading, ranting and religion

It's sunday evening and it's freakin hot. Ninety degrees and counting. I grab a book from my stack of NaNo raffle prize / Barnes & Noble clearance bin purchases, pack up the kids and head to the beach.

The parking lot is packed. The beach is over-crowded. We find a small haven between the three foot trench someone dug earlier in the day and a couple yelling at their kid to stop throwing sand. The water is cool and clear - for once since we haven't had a good rain storm in weeks to stir it up into its usual muddy look. Waves slurp at the shoreline, filled with kids and a sampling of rafts, tubes and floaties. My kids wade out to join the others. I kick back with my book in the desperate hope that it will be far better than the last.

Thank goodness it was, because I don't have the patience to scrape another learning experience from reading something far less than stellar after the last few books.

While I've heard the majority of the advice offered in this book before, it didn't hurt to hear it again. The positive and realistic light shed by the host of successful novelists was refreshing, uplifting and sometimes even downright humorous. Though I haven't yet come across any 'insider secrets', it is filled with lots of helpful tips and advice. I'd recommend this book to anyone who doesn't have access to a critique group with experienced writers.

As I was busy reading the tirade on writing muses and percolating the issue I'm having with the ending on the short story I'm revising, I became aware of multiple feet gathering behind me. The chatter level grew to a volume I could no longer tune out. My reading and pondering oasis was shattered. I turned around.

A hundred-some people stood behind me, all dressed in beach-going attire but milling around and showing no sign of settling down. Mostly teens and thirty-somethings, these folks gathered into a tight cluster and raised their hands. At least they quieted down at this point so I went back to reading. Or trying to.

"AMEN!"

I jump a little and turn around. Don't tell me...

And then the guitar starts. And the singing.

Yes, a hundred-some folks have decended on the packed public beach, on a ninety degree day, the last weekend before schools starts when everyone is making their last big beach trek, to hold a church service. And not just any church service, oh no.

"Hallelujah!"

The crowd breaks and decends on the beach, heedless of the families they have interupted, the children's sandcastles, and the people that are grabbing their lawnchairs, towels and bags and relocating. Half of the church people wade out into the water, sending kids running in all directions as their swimming space is taken up by the crowd. People with cameras wade out further as do several others. An akward hush takes over the entire beach as a baptism takes place - everyone attempting to be respectful of the occasion thrust upon us all.

The teen boy comes up from the water after being dunked and lets out a loud cheer. The church crowd claps and cheers along with him.

Ok, fine. They're done. Everyone can go back to playing in the water, resuming their conversations and I can go back to reading my book. Don't get me wrong, but if I wanted to be included in a church service, I'd have gone to church instead of the beach.

The crowd doesn't disperse. No, no. They go on to perform thirteen other baptisms with thirteen other rounds of cheering and clapping. I attempt to block out the noise. People attempt to play quietly in the water.

At this point I overhear the suggestion that the masses should go among the beach-goes and spread the love of the church. Seriously? As if you haven't impossed on everyone enough already? I'm sure if anyone felt moved by the ceremony and wanted to join you, they'd know which cheering, guitar-toting, we're-taking-over-the-beach gaggle of half soaked people to approach.

An exodus began from those within earshot of the group. We joined them.

Thank you, church group, for making my last time at the beach with my kids this summer less enjoyable than putting up with the annoying kid who was obessed with jabbing an empty plastic bottle with a large stick for half an hour. He had a right to be on the public beach too, but at least his parents eventually yelled at him for being inconsiderate of others.

Dude! And then it was like really scary!

I'm still plugging away at How It Feels To Be Attacked By A Shark. I've given up reading it as a source for good sensory information on life changing situations. Instead, its become an excercise in studying why we doze off when people tell what could be a heart-pounding story that makes us hang on every word.

These are true stories of horrible events, getting shot, gettting stuck in a drainage pipe with rain water pouring down on you, choking to death (yes, he did technically die, I finally got through that one), getting trapped in an avalanche, etc. There was also what could have been the inspirational story of how a woman grew to five hundred pounds and then lost the weight, but it just wasn't. As I considered tossing the book against the wall, I couldn't help but wonder how much more compelling these events could be if they were told by a writer instead of the average person who lived through them.

Often the voice got in the way, both in word choice and clearly conveying the situation. Yes, people really do talk like they do in these retellings, but when I can't tell who or what they are talking about, or in what order events transpired, the voice is like totally in the way, man. And the telling... If you were ever unsure of what 'telling' is and why you keep getting told not to do it, pick this book up for a thorough example.

The situations themselves should have been full of emotion and sensory input. I expected that they would. (After all, that's what were told, as writers, to put into our scenes.) But I've come to realize that the average story is just a list of events of what happens to a person. Without the emotion or sensory information to pull is in, we smile and nod, and if we are fortunate to be on the phone, fold our laundry, clean off our kitchen counters and try not to doze off while listening. There's no heart pounding, no "OMG, how will they make it through this?" and no warm glow at seeing someone beat the odds at the end.

After having these examples of what doesn't work put in front of my face, I'm going to be doubly diligent. And for those I critique, be warned, I'm going to be watching you too.

Plot Bunny Attack

So I'm running errands yesterday, minding my own business as I drive along when I'm blindsided by a story idea. I wish I'd had my camera because it would make a great visual prompt. Well, and I wish I wasn't driving so I could have snapped a quick picture as I went by without crashing or pulling into a driveway, getting out and looking suspicious to other passersby.

Along a flat stretch of sidewalk lined with tall pines and elderly oaks lies a child's bike on its side. The nearby houses and yards are devoid of obvious signs of the bike's owner. The sidewalk is far enough off the road and its not near a driveway so I'm not concerned that its been hit by a car. But where is the child and what happened to make him or her leave their bike in the middle of the sidewalk? Hmmmmmmmm