Today is the day we unveil what Katie, Nichole and I have been working on the past six weeks.
As of today, we will no longer be The Red Dress Club.
Please head over to our new place, Write on Edge.
We cannot WAIT to hear what you think!!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Weekend linkup
It's time to link up a favorite post you've written. It's a great way to meet new bloggers and find amazing writers.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
RemembeRED
Speaking of change, this week we'd like you to write about a moment in your life when you knew something had to change drastically. Maybe it was a relationship, or career, parenting, school, diet - anything.
Really explore the moment. What it felt like to make the decision. Lots of opportunity to show and not tell.
Then come back and link up Tuesday.
Really explore the moment. What it felt like to make the decision. Lots of opportunity to show and not tell.
Then come back and link up Tuesday.
It's Big
Katie, Nichole and I have an enormous, huge, not-to-be-missed announcement coming Monday.
It will rock your world.
We have been working on something and we can't wait to share it with you all. We hope you will be as excited about it as we are.
So make sure you come on by Monday. We are dying to hear what you all think!
It will rock your world.
We have been working on something and we can't wait to share it with you all. We hope you will be as excited about it as we are.
So make sure you come on by Monday. We are dying to hear what you all think!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Red Writing Hood - Sex
Your assignment this week was to write about sex without writing about the actual act. Because you always want to leave a little to the imagination.
Time to link up, but ONLY if you've done the prompt, please!
Time to link up, but ONLY if you've done the prompt, please!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Red Writing Hood
Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex.
But you know us. There's a twist.
You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).
There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them.
Limit is 600 words. It can be fiction or non-fiction. Come back here and link up Friday!!
But you know us. There's a twist.
You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).
There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them.
Limit is 600 words. It can be fiction or non-fiction. Come back here and link up Friday!!
Friday, August 5, 2011
Weekend linkup
It's time to link up a favorite post you've written. It's a great way to meet new bloggers and find amazing writers.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Red Writing Hood - Writer's choice
Do you have a favorite Red Writing Hood post you've done? Here's your chance to get it a second look. Link up the favorite one you've done - and if you've only done RemembeRED, feel free to link your favorite that you've written.
Also? This is like a "best of" which I think is totally cool.
Please don't link up regular posts - the weekend linky will be up Friday for you!!
Also? This is like a "best of" which I think is totally cool.
Please don't link up regular posts - the weekend linky will be up Friday for you!!
Retro week: Helpful writing sites
Today's retro post is a list of some helpful sites. Feel free to add yours in the comments.
We all need places where we can go for inspiration, answers, motivation, and insight.
We all need places where we can go for inspiration, answers, motivation, and insight.
Here are a handful of our favorite sites.
Interested in checking out a site that fosters a connection between women writers, authors, editors, publishers, and readers? Stop by and visit: Wow…Women On Writing
Looking for a fun writing exercise? Hop over to: One Hundred Words
Want to get inside the head of a former literary agent? Visit: Nathan Bransford
Want to get inside the head of a former literary agent? Visit: Nathan Bransford
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Retro week: It's in the details
Before we get to today's journey into the archives, we thought it'd be fun for Friday's linkup to post your favorite Red Writing Hood post you've done. Some of you have had yours syndicated on BlogHer which is amazeballs! But maybe that's not even your favorite. Whatever one is, link it up here this Friday!
And now here's our all-time most popular guest post. It's about the use of description from Kris of Pretty All True.
I write a lot about childhood memories.
Someone recently asked me if I have a photographic memory.
I do not. That suggests to me that I could pull up any moment in my childhood and reproduce it in exact detail. I do not have that ability. My memory is not a videotape of the past. It is not exact.
There is no single version of reality, no complete retelling of a past experience. That’s why writing is an art. I can take you to where I was, but the place I was? That place has been colored by the passage of time . . . perhaps just a few hours or maybe years and years of living. So really? I can only take you to my memory of the place that was.
And that memory is true and real and perfect to me.
It is not all there is. But it is all I have to offer. So, no . . . I do not have a photographic memory.
But I do remember. I remember a 6th-grade math teacher who used to read aloud to us every Friday afternoon. Can you see her? I can see her. But you cannot.What if I describe her for you as I saw her then from my second-row desk?
She was tall, very tall and thin. Severe and mannish, despite her long skirts and flowing blouses.She wore strangely bulky shoes and she had an odd gait. Her shoes made a loud uneven clomping sound as she paced before the chalkboard and up and down the aisles to be sure that we understood our math assignments. She was far too old to have the burgundy-flamed hair that sat atop her pale stern face, but it never once occurred to me at the time that she had not been born with this hair.
Do you see her now?
A few more details . . .She was all angles and sharpness to me, her body thin and strong, her movements tense and purposeful, her voice a biting precise judgment when she spoke. She seemed to me to be my math book come to life . . . exacting, calculating, cold.
She carried a ruler in her hand, her long slender fingers wrapped around its rectangle. With sudden harsh movements, she would reach into the curve of our bodies over our papers to indicate a mistake, a misstep, an error. Her loud commanding voice would announce the failure to the class.
She did not want to be friends with us. She did not invite our confidences. She did not seem aware of our lives outside of her classroom.
And there was this . . . She had one glass eye.
She never acknowledged it. Never spoke of it. But we all knew, and we watched as one cold eye tracked our movements and the other colder eye did not. She did not miss much.
That was my 6th grade math teacher.
Do you see her? I have shared all of these details to tell you of the times when she was that which I have described. So that you will understand the contrast.
The softening.
Every Friday afternoon, she would pull her chair from behind her desk. Roll it to the front of the class. She would go to the back of the classroom door, where she hung her bag and her sweater. Put on her sweater.Reach into her bag for a book. Slip off her shoes and then walk in silent stockinged feet back to her chair.
Settle in.
Open the book . . . she was fond of The Boxcar Children series . . . and she would read to us.
Her reading voice was magic.
Not the voice of my math teacher at all, but instead a fluid feminine floating thing, filled with emotion and nuance and vulnerability.
I was always captured by the transformation. From hard to soft.From harsh to yielding. From plain to beauty.
From teacher to woman.
Always, as she read, the story appeared before me in the classroom air. Not as a picture painted before me, not as a movie played for my amusement against the chalkboard screen, not as a radio play.
No, as she read, the story appeared before me as though I might step into it. As though I was no longer a frightened small girl with too many secrets, but another braver character altogether. I was a girl able to leave the regular world behind and survive on my own. Apart. I was stronger and better version of myself. One of the boxcar children.
Some of the class would fall asleep to the lull of her voice. She never minded. Others would stare out into space, captured by visions within their imaginations.
And one little girl in the second row of desks would occasionally end up with her head buried in her arms to hide her tears. That I was not in fact this braver other from the story.
Just myself instead.
As my teacher was just herself.
My teacher would sometimes lay a hand gently on my head as I gathered my belongings at the end of class, “Have a good weekend, Kris. I will be here when you return on Monday.”
Do you see her now?
I hope so.
Because this is all I have to offer.
And now here's our all-time most popular guest post. It's about the use of description from Kris of Pretty All True.
I write a lot about childhood memories.
Someone recently asked me if I have a photographic memory.
I do not. That suggests to me that I could pull up any moment in my childhood and reproduce it in exact detail. I do not have that ability. My memory is not a videotape of the past. It is not exact.
There is no single version of reality, no complete retelling of a past experience. That’s why writing is an art. I can take you to where I was, but the place I was? That place has been colored by the passage of time . . . perhaps just a few hours or maybe years and years of living. So really? I can only take you to my memory of the place that was.
And that memory is true and real and perfect to me.
It is not all there is. But it is all I have to offer. So, no . . . I do not have a photographic memory.
But I do remember. I remember a 6th-grade math teacher who used to read aloud to us every Friday afternoon. Can you see her? I can see her. But you cannot.What if I describe her for you as I saw her then from my second-row desk?
She was tall, very tall and thin. Severe and mannish, despite her long skirts and flowing blouses.She wore strangely bulky shoes and she had an odd gait. Her shoes made a loud uneven clomping sound as she paced before the chalkboard and up and down the aisles to be sure that we understood our math assignments. She was far too old to have the burgundy-flamed hair that sat atop her pale stern face, but it never once occurred to me at the time that she had not been born with this hair.
Do you see her now?
A few more details . . .She was all angles and sharpness to me, her body thin and strong, her movements tense and purposeful, her voice a biting precise judgment when she spoke. She seemed to me to be my math book come to life . . . exacting, calculating, cold.
She carried a ruler in her hand, her long slender fingers wrapped around its rectangle. With sudden harsh movements, she would reach into the curve of our bodies over our papers to indicate a mistake, a misstep, an error. Her loud commanding voice would announce the failure to the class.
She did not want to be friends with us. She did not invite our confidences. She did not seem aware of our lives outside of her classroom.
And there was this . . . She had one glass eye.
She never acknowledged it. Never spoke of it. But we all knew, and we watched as one cold eye tracked our movements and the other colder eye did not. She did not miss much.
That was my 6th grade math teacher.
Do you see her? I have shared all of these details to tell you of the times when she was that which I have described. So that you will understand the contrast.
The softening.
Every Friday afternoon, she would pull her chair from behind her desk. Roll it to the front of the class. She would go to the back of the classroom door, where she hung her bag and her sweater. Put on her sweater.Reach into her bag for a book. Slip off her shoes and then walk in silent stockinged feet back to her chair.
Settle in.
Open the book . . . she was fond of The Boxcar Children series . . . and she would read to us.
Her reading voice was magic.
Not the voice of my math teacher at all, but instead a fluid feminine floating thing, filled with emotion and nuance and vulnerability.
I was always captured by the transformation. From hard to soft.From harsh to yielding. From plain to beauty.
From teacher to woman.
Always, as she read, the story appeared before me in the classroom air. Not as a picture painted before me, not as a movie played for my amusement against the chalkboard screen, not as a radio play.
No, as she read, the story appeared before me as though I might step into it. As though I was no longer a frightened small girl with too many secrets, but another braver character altogether. I was a girl able to leave the regular world behind and survive on my own. Apart. I was stronger and better version of myself. One of the boxcar children.
Some of the class would fall asleep to the lull of her voice. She never minded. Others would stare out into space, captured by visions within their imaginations.
And one little girl in the second row of desks would occasionally end up with her head buried in her arms to hide her tears. That I was not in fact this braver other from the story.
Just myself instead.
As my teacher was just herself.
My teacher would sometimes lay a hand gently on my head as I gathered my belongings at the end of class, “Have a good weekend, Kris. I will be here when you return on Monday.”
Do you see her now?
I hope so.
Because this is all I have to offer.
Monday, August 1, 2011
RemembeRED - Mentor
This week you were asked to write about a mentor, someone who guided or inspired you. How did your mentor impact your life?
Let's see how you did. Please link up - but only if you've done the prompt.
Let's see how you did. Please link up - but only if you've done the prompt.
We're going retro
Hello?
HI! You're still here!
We are so very glad. I hope you've enjoyed The Red Dress Club's Summer of You as much as we have.
Katie, Nichole and I have been very busy doing things that we'll tell you about ... not quite yet.
This week the three of us will be busy plotting at BlogHer in San Diego. So we thought while we're gone, we'd bring you the best from our archives. We've been around for over a year now, and there have been some really great stuff.
We will have our RemembeRED linkup Tuesday and our weekend linky Friday.
For those of you who ARE going to BlogHer, feel free to tweet at us. We'd love to meet you!@ksluiter @itsmoments @mommy_pants
Let's kick off this week with a funny post from Ericka, who originally formed The Red Dress Club with me.
How to write a book
I love how-to posts like ones that teach me how to make a blog button, or fashion a pair of crotchless panties from floss and a handkerchief or the best way to punch myself in the teeth. so i figured it’s practically my duty to teach you folks something that i do best: novel writing.
be sure to follow these steps in order to create a 350-400 page albatross you can lovingly wear around your neck:
1. go to a coffee shop to write. and make sure everyone knows you’re going to a coffee shop to write. be sure to type “stopping by the coffee shop to add a few pages to my novel” as your twitter and facebook statuses. casually mention you’re in a big hurry and simply must use the five items or less lane at the grocery store because the coffee shop is closing in an hour and you probably don’t even have enough time to flesh out chapter five as it is. and if at all possible, wear a t-shirt that says “i’d rather be writing at the coffee shop.”
2. speaking of clothing, you might want to burn everything you own now and start over with a completely new wardrobe. i enjoy wearing a pair of thick framed glasses and donning a knitted scarf. the scarf comes in handy because it not only soaks up summertime sweat but it also says things like “i am more important than you because i’m writing a novel. what are you doing besides raising kids and performing heart surgery?” and “MFA programs be damned, i’ll publish this baby completely uneducated, thankyouverymuch.”
3. when you arrive at the coffee shop (and you will arrive at the coffee shop. in fact, you’ll know the route to the coffee shop by heart and will have to set up a security system in your home to keep you from sleep driving there at night) be sure to take out your cell phone and call your deaf grandmother or the operator. be sure to mention the plot device you’re toying with and why aiden’s character development in chapter seven is taking you for a loop. you might be tempted to only pretend you’re talking on the phone but don’t. the phone will most certainly ring if you do.
4. cry at random intervals.
5. order lattes with triple shots of expresso and when the barista mentions it’s practically illegal to sell something with that much caffeine in it, say “it’s okay. i’m a novelist.”
6. stretch every twenty minutes and be sure to swivel your lap top around so that everyone can capture a glimpse of your word document painted in courier new.
7. carry a ginormous notebook with a cover page on the outside that reads “blah blah blah: the novel.” fill the notebook with printed addresses, menus of your favorite restaurants, a list of people you’d enjoy beating with a giant stick of salami. be creative here.
8. “accidentally” send out an email to a group of five or seventy of your closest friends that captures the correspondence between you and an imaginary agent who just loves your work. send out a follow up email letting your friends know that you’re embarrassed by your little faux pax but are hoping to “share some exciting news real soon.”
9. make sacrifices to the gods.
10. take up an unseemly habit like drinking or smoking too much (or preferably, both) and quote memorized lines from authors who died from cirrhosis of the liver or depression (or preferably both) when your best friend has broken up with her boyfriend. she’ll appreciate it.
11. don’t edit. ever.
this should pretty much do it. it’s been my system thus far and all i know is that a few agents (i won’t name names. but i want to) think my work is pretty stellar. i mean they don’t want to publish it right now but that’s only because they’re busy and their kids have school and they don’t want their wives to catch on so it’s probably better if we enjoy my work in private together.
but i’m still holding out hope that good things will happen one of these days. in the mean time i’m stocking up on scarves.
HI! You're still here!
We are so very glad. I hope you've enjoyed The Red Dress Club's Summer of You as much as we have.
Katie, Nichole and I have been very busy doing things that we'll tell you about ... not quite yet.
This week the three of us will be busy plotting at BlogHer in San Diego. So we thought while we're gone, we'd bring you the best from our archives. We've been around for over a year now, and there have been some really great stuff.
We will have our RemembeRED linkup Tuesday and our weekend linky Friday.
For those of you who ARE going to BlogHer, feel free to tweet at us. We'd love to meet you!@ksluiter @itsmoments @mommy_pants
Let's kick off this week with a funny post from Ericka, who originally formed The Red Dress Club with me.
How to write a book
I love how-to posts like ones that teach me how to make a blog button, or fashion a pair of crotchless panties from floss and a handkerchief or the best way to punch myself in the teeth. so i figured it’s practically my duty to teach you folks something that i do best: novel writing.
be sure to follow these steps in order to create a 350-400 page albatross you can lovingly wear around your neck:
1. go to a coffee shop to write. and make sure everyone knows you’re going to a coffee shop to write. be sure to type “stopping by the coffee shop to add a few pages to my novel” as your twitter and facebook statuses. casually mention you’re in a big hurry and simply must use the five items or less lane at the grocery store because the coffee shop is closing in an hour and you probably don’t even have enough time to flesh out chapter five as it is. and if at all possible, wear a t-shirt that says “i’d rather be writing at the coffee shop.”
2. speaking of clothing, you might want to burn everything you own now and start over with a completely new wardrobe. i enjoy wearing a pair of thick framed glasses and donning a knitted scarf. the scarf comes in handy because it not only soaks up summertime sweat but it also says things like “i am more important than you because i’m writing a novel. what are you doing besides raising kids and performing heart surgery?” and “MFA programs be damned, i’ll publish this baby completely uneducated, thankyouverymuch.”
3. when you arrive at the coffee shop (and you will arrive at the coffee shop. in fact, you’ll know the route to the coffee shop by heart and will have to set up a security system in your home to keep you from sleep driving there at night) be sure to take out your cell phone and call your deaf grandmother or the operator. be sure to mention the plot device you’re toying with and why aiden’s character development in chapter seven is taking you for a loop. you might be tempted to only pretend you’re talking on the phone but don’t. the phone will most certainly ring if you do.
4. cry at random intervals.
5. order lattes with triple shots of expresso and when the barista mentions it’s practically illegal to sell something with that much caffeine in it, say “it’s okay. i’m a novelist.”
6. stretch every twenty minutes and be sure to swivel your lap top around so that everyone can capture a glimpse of your word document painted in courier new.
7. carry a ginormous notebook with a cover page on the outside that reads “blah blah blah: the novel.” fill the notebook with printed addresses, menus of your favorite restaurants, a list of people you’d enjoy beating with a giant stick of salami. be creative here.
8. “accidentally” send out an email to a group of five or seventy of your closest friends that captures the correspondence between you and an imaginary agent who just loves your work. send out a follow up email letting your friends know that you’re embarrassed by your little faux pax but are hoping to “share some exciting news real soon.”
9. make sacrifices to the gods.
10. take up an unseemly habit like drinking or smoking too much (or preferably, both) and quote memorized lines from authors who died from cirrhosis of the liver or depression (or preferably both) when your best friend has broken up with her boyfriend. she’ll appreciate it.
11. don’t edit. ever.
this should pretty much do it. it’s been my system thus far and all i know is that a few agents (i won’t name names. but i want to) think my work is pretty stellar. i mean they don’t want to publish it right now but that’s only because they’re busy and their kids have school and they don’t want their wives to catch on so it’s probably better if we enjoy my work in private together.
but i’m still holding out hope that good things will happen one of these days. in the mean time i’m stocking up on scarves.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Weekend linkup
It's time to link up a favorite post you've written. It's a great way to meet new bloggers and find amazing writers.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
Try to visit as many as you can, or at least the one in front and behind you.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Red Writing Hood - Rewrite
This week's hosts, Nancy and Erin have tasked you with revisiting an old post and reworking it.
Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul.
Or, kill your babies, as Nancy put it.
Okay, let's see what you came up with.
Please only link up if you have done the prompt.
RemembeRED
This week, Erin and Nancy have the following RemembeRED prompt for you...
Everyone remembers that first inspiration or mentor in their lives that made them want to be or do something in their lives, whether you actually followed through with it or not. Tell us about that inspiration/mentor. How did they affect or change your life!
Let's keep your posts to 500 words or less.
Please come back on Tuesday, August 2nd to link up.
Simplicity
I am not a writer, but I play one on The Red Dress Club. And I am honored to be asked to participate in the “Summer of You.”
When I was in college, I had no reason to take any English classes as my major was Psychology. So they offered me a way out of English. A two-hour test, an impromptu subject to write on. Not to prove your knowledge on that subject but to prove that you could, in fact, write, and that you did, indeed, have a good basis of what the English language was and how to use it.
My “prompt” was censorship in music. I thought briefly, just the tiniest of moments of how to attack this. And I began to write. It didn’t matter what I wrote, if I wrote about how great censorship was or how horrible it was. As long as I wrote a 5 paragraph essay. Take myself back to the basics. My mind said to me K.I.S.S. “Keep It Simple Stupid.” And I passed with flying colors. The grader left notes stating it’s been a long time since he had seen such a perfectly written 5 paragraph essay.
Writing doesn’t have to be hard. A 5 paragraph essay is just that easy. And writing is just that easy. It’s when my brain gets in the way that makes it complex. I do it all the time. I am self conscious of my writings as I have been told I have the gift of the depressed word.
I’ve always heard “write about what you know,” so I write things that happen in my life, and I dive so deeply into my words and my experiences that they come from a deep, heartfelt, and sometimes dark place. And those pieces come out fantastic but they make people cry or think “how sad” or “how depressing.”
So my brain gets in the way and makes it all complex as I try to come up with something upbeat, something funny, something, not so depressing. And those pieces, come out as forced and not me.
So I am learning that going back to basics and keeping things simple, helps in creating a masterpiece in my own mind. I don’t need to write a 5 paragraph essay for every prompt, I don’t even need to write on every prompt, but when I keep things simple, it flows.
It’s when I don’t think when I have some of my greatest successes. Go figure!
Today's guest post is from Erin, of My Little Miracles.
When I was in college, I had no reason to take any English classes as my major was Psychology. So they offered me a way out of English. A two-hour test, an impromptu subject to write on. Not to prove your knowledge on that subject but to prove that you could, in fact, write, and that you did, indeed, have a good basis of what the English language was and how to use it.
My “prompt” was censorship in music. I thought briefly, just the tiniest of moments of how to attack this. And I began to write. It didn’t matter what I wrote, if I wrote about how great censorship was or how horrible it was. As long as I wrote a 5 paragraph essay. Take myself back to the basics. My mind said to me K.I.S.S. “Keep It Simple Stupid.” And I passed with flying colors. The grader left notes stating it’s been a long time since he had seen such a perfectly written 5 paragraph essay.
Writing doesn’t have to be hard. A 5 paragraph essay is just that easy. And writing is just that easy. It’s when my brain gets in the way that makes it complex. I do it all the time. I am self conscious of my writings as I have been told I have the gift of the depressed word.
I’ve always heard “write about what you know,” so I write things that happen in my life, and I dive so deeply into my words and my experiences that they come from a deep, heartfelt, and sometimes dark place. And those pieces come out fantastic but they make people cry or think “how sad” or “how depressing.”
So my brain gets in the way and makes it all complex as I try to come up with something upbeat, something funny, something, not so depressing. And those pieces, come out as forced and not me.
So I am learning that going back to basics and keeping things simple, helps in creating a masterpiece in my own mind. I don’t need to write a 5 paragraph essay for every prompt, I don’t even need to write on every prompt, but when I keep things simple, it flows.
It’s when I don’t think when I have some of my greatest successes. Go figure!
Today's guest post is from Erin, of My Little Miracles.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Rumor
I am in pain. Not today. But I was. And tomorrow? Maybe.
Pain can be my worst enemy. But more often, it’s where my words are conceived. It’s the feeling that sucks the life out of me, yet gives life to my page. For a split second, the pain will make me want to fall asleep forever, but fortunately, in my heart I am writer. And as a writer, the rush and urgency to tell the story is always stronger than the pain.
The problem with writing out of pain is that sharing it can be ugly. Will I hurt someone? Will exposing this cause heartache? Is this crossing the line? In my experience, the answer is usually always “yes.”
Most often, those are the stories I keep to myself. Those pieces are password protected on my laptop or tucked messily in an unraveling notebook in my drawer. I want to share them, but I never do.
It’s those stories that tell my story. They are the stories I’m most proud of. Those stories bring me to tears and from those tears, I find a rhythm and cadence and diction to write from my gut. As a writer, we take risks, right? We share our most vulnerable selves. We expose the unexposed. We are constantly unearthing our own emotions, and striving to make a connection to our readers.
Writing about pain is a risk. Today, I’d like to take that risk with you.
Pain can be my worst enemy. But more often, it’s where my words are conceived. It’s the feeling that sucks the life out of me, yet gives life to my page. For a split second, the pain will make me want to fall asleep forever, but fortunately, in my heart I am writer. And as a writer, the rush and urgency to tell the story is always stronger than the pain.
The problem with writing out of pain is that sharing it can be ugly. Will I hurt someone? Will exposing this cause heartache? Is this crossing the line? In my experience, the answer is usually always “yes.”
Most often, those are the stories I keep to myself. Those pieces are password protected on my laptop or tucked messily in an unraveling notebook in my drawer. I want to share them, but I never do.
It’s those stories that tell my story. They are the stories I’m most proud of. Those stories bring me to tears and from those tears, I find a rhythm and cadence and diction to write from my gut. As a writer, we take risks, right? We share our most vulnerable selves. We expose the unexposed. We are constantly unearthing our own emotions, and striving to make a connection to our readers.
Writing about pain is a risk. Today, I’d like to take that risk with you.
A Rumor
I heard a rumor that he’d died.
I heard he’d slipped from a high platform used to service the massive Boeing 747’s he’d been maintaining for years. He’d fallen. He’d died.
The details were sketchy and were delivered to me long before I knew how to search for specifics on the world wide web.
This news didn’t make me sad; It didn’t even derail my day. I felt small pangs of regret cloaked in large sighs of relief.
I didn’t know him anymore, and honestly, I didn’t care to. He was my father, but for the last three years, he’d been my enemy.
My parents split in a bitter divorce spurred by illness and neglect and depression and lies. Everyone was left feeling cheated and betrayed and accusatory – and alone. Without question or explanation, my allegiance to my mother was rock solid and unapologetic. I spent the next six years hating every fiber of my father, so when I heard of his death, I exhaled.
Eventually, the rumor was dispelled. He was alive, and I found myself holding my breath again. His alleged death had rid me of the guilt I felt for hating him and had promised that I’d never have to look him in the eyes to explain why I’d abandoned him.
Several years later, I found myself meeting him for dinner. It was our first voluntary face to face encounter in nearly seven years, and in that time, my bitterness and hatred had only multiplied. I’d graduated from High School. My life had changed. The alliance with my mother had been damaged. I was poor, entitled, and lost.
I’d asked for this meeting because I was looking for payment. I’d been suffering, and I wanted compensation. I wanted him to show me he was sorry for what he’d done. I wanted him to apologize for what he’d not done. I wanted him to feel remorseful for missing plays and track meets and graduations. I wanted him to regret being stubborn and never giving in to my mother’s demands. I wanted him to convince me that he was willing to do anything to repair our relationship.
I wanted him to buy me a car.
I was going to lie. I was going to say what he wanted to hear. I was going to manipulate him. Use him. Hurt him. I was going to play this game until I got what I deserved. Until he paid.
Then I saw him, sitting in a large booth in a dimly lit restaurant, waiting for me. Waiting for his daughter.
As I approached him, I was flooded with memories. Memories from before his depression, from before the divorce. With every step, images of my childhood blanketed my calloused heart. I felt his hands on the small of my back, teaching my tiny body to do back handsprings and glide kips. I saw his gentle eyes urging me to tease my mother while we played Uno. I heard his voice sing “Ja, Ja, Ja, Jenni and the Jets”, and I smelled the Zest soap that danced in my nose when he hugged me goodbye each morning.
I tried to force those thoughts away as I slid into the booth opposite him. He was noticeably nervous and noticeably clean shaven. We spent the next hour discussing things I will never remember. Small talk. Surface talk. Things that neither one of us cared about.
His eyes were my eyes. I’d forgotten that. Or, maybe I’d never noticed before? He looked at me in a way no one ever had. Interested. Proud. Unconditional.
I spent the entire dinner trying to make sense of all the things that had gone wrong.
I thought of his mistakes and the mistakes of my mother.
I thought of all the hateful things he’d said to me, and all the hateful things I’d screamed at him.
I thought of all the times I’d wished he’d leave me alone and all the times I’d wished he’d been there.
I thought of being eleven and feeling justified and scared and angry and sad.
But mostly, I thought of how different things should have been.
My guard slowly dissipated as we spent many dinners getting reacquainted. In time, I began to love him. Again. I never asked him to buy me a car. I no longer needed compensation. I had it.
And every single day, I am grateful the rumor had been untrue.
I heard a rumor that he’d died.
I heard he’d slipped from a high platform used to service the massive Boeing 747’s he’d been maintaining for years. He’d fallen. He’d died.
The details were sketchy and were delivered to me long before I knew how to search for specifics on the world wide web.
This news didn’t make me sad; It didn’t even derail my day. I felt small pangs of regret cloaked in large sighs of relief.
I didn’t know him anymore, and honestly, I didn’t care to. He was my father, but for the last three years, he’d been my enemy.
My parents split in a bitter divorce spurred by illness and neglect and depression and lies. Everyone was left feeling cheated and betrayed and accusatory – and alone. Without question or explanation, my allegiance to my mother was rock solid and unapologetic. I spent the next six years hating every fiber of my father, so when I heard of his death, I exhaled.
Eventually, the rumor was dispelled. He was alive, and I found myself holding my breath again. His alleged death had rid me of the guilt I felt for hating him and had promised that I’d never have to look him in the eyes to explain why I’d abandoned him.
Several years later, I found myself meeting him for dinner. It was our first voluntary face to face encounter in nearly seven years, and in that time, my bitterness and hatred had only multiplied. I’d graduated from High School. My life had changed. The alliance with my mother had been damaged. I was poor, entitled, and lost.
I’d asked for this meeting because I was looking for payment. I’d been suffering, and I wanted compensation. I wanted him to show me he was sorry for what he’d done. I wanted him to apologize for what he’d not done. I wanted him to feel remorseful for missing plays and track meets and graduations. I wanted him to regret being stubborn and never giving in to my mother’s demands. I wanted him to convince me that he was willing to do anything to repair our relationship.
I wanted him to buy me a car.
I was going to lie. I was going to say what he wanted to hear. I was going to manipulate him. Use him. Hurt him. I was going to play this game until I got what I deserved. Until he paid.
Then I saw him, sitting in a large booth in a dimly lit restaurant, waiting for me. Waiting for his daughter.
As I approached him, I was flooded with memories. Memories from before his depression, from before the divorce. With every step, images of my childhood blanketed my calloused heart. I felt his hands on the small of my back, teaching my tiny body to do back handsprings and glide kips. I saw his gentle eyes urging me to tease my mother while we played Uno. I heard his voice sing “Ja, Ja, Ja, Jenni and the Jets”, and I smelled the Zest soap that danced in my nose when he hugged me goodbye each morning.
I tried to force those thoughts away as I slid into the booth opposite him. He was noticeably nervous and noticeably clean shaven. We spent the next hour discussing things I will never remember. Small talk. Surface talk. Things that neither one of us cared about.
His eyes were my eyes. I’d forgotten that. Or, maybe I’d never noticed before? He looked at me in a way no one ever had. Interested. Proud. Unconditional.
I spent the entire dinner trying to make sense of all the things that had gone wrong.
I thought of his mistakes and the mistakes of my mother.
I thought of all the hateful things he’d said to me, and all the hateful things I’d screamed at him.
I thought of all the times I’d wished he’d leave me alone and all the times I’d wished he’d been there.
I thought of being eleven and feeling justified and scared and angry and sad.
But mostly, I thought of how different things should have been.
My guard slowly dissipated as we spent many dinners getting reacquainted. In time, I began to love him. Again. I never asked him to buy me a car. I no longer needed compensation. I had it.
And every single day, I am grateful the rumor had been untrue.
Red Writing Hood
This week, Nancy and Erin have the following Red Writing Hood prompt for you and we think that this one is going to be fun!
Revision is about looking at a piece with a new-vision. Sometimes, it's about sprucing up the trim, but sometimes it's about knocking down walls. That's today's challenge. Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul. Change the point of view. Write it from a different perspective. Try dialogue. Make it a narrative. Play with tense or organizational structure. You know, kill those babies.
Oh, and by the way? Trim it down to 400 words or less.
Come back on Friday, July 29th and link up!
Monday, July 25, 2011
RemembeRED - Lesson learned
This week's prompt, from Angela and Galit, asked us to write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned."
We're looking forward to seeing what you've come up with.
Cheryl wrote about her daughter in The deep end.
Katie wrote about her son's hair in Still my Boy.
Please, only link up if you've done the prompt!
Try to comment on as many as possible, or at least the one in front of you and behind you.
Boogers Are Hilarious: Show Not Tell
This week, Nancy and Erin are our lovely hosts for the Summer of You.
Nancy is up first with some great words of writing wisdom...
**********
Writing teachers and gurus throw out the phrase “show not tell” so often that it has become a cliche. What does it mean, anyway?
When I taught middle school, high school, and community college, I used the shorthand SNOT as an acronym for “Show Not Tell” because boogers are hilarious. I will do the same here, because inside all of us is a thirteen year-old with an affinity for bodily functions. Am I right?
Telling in writing is when the author uses words to explain how the reader is supposed to feel or react. It’s a method of control. When you tell in your writing, you’re saying, “I don’t trust that you will get this. I believe that you are stupid and I will therefore spell it out.” Not only is it incredibly boring to read, it is also insulting to your reader.
Showing in writing means that you are entering a relationship with your reader. It’s saying, “I trust that you are smart enough to see nuance. We’re on this ride together. Hold on.”
Think about the books or films that have lingered–the ones that you talk about over coffee or find yourself deconstructing before you drift off to sleep. Those are the stories that have trusted you enough to show instead of tell.
So, what does SNOT look like?
Here’s a classic tell: It was a miserably hot day.
To change this to a show, you can do several things.
1. Use body language: She fanned herself with a paper plate.
2. Use vivid, sensory detail: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt.
3. Use active verbs: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she lumbered to the cooler for another beer.
4, Add dialogue: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she lumbered to the cooler for another beer. “If he thinks I’m cooking dinner tonight,” she said, “He better think again.” She emptied the bottle in two swift gulps.
I am by no means saying this is incredible writing, but it does so much more than explain the weather. It jumps right into the characterization, skipping the set-up and all the clutter. Through this passage we know that she likes her beer, that she may be heavy, and that there is some conflict with her spouse/boyfriend/partner. And yes, we know it’s hot.
A further note. Try to avoid adverbs. Yes, they aren’t evil, but they are often the lazy way to express something. For example, listen to this with added adverbs.
She slowly fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she clumsily lumbered to the cooler for another beer. “If he thinks I’m cooking dinner tonight,” she said to herself, “He better think again.” She greedily emptied the bottle in two swift gulps.
Do you note how it adds clutter? It’s not necessary or interesting to state that she was fanning slowly. Isn’t that how you normally fan? Likewise, the clumsily is redundant and takes away the power of the active verb lumbered.
In short, if you want to trim the fat, the easiest place to start is with adverbs. And if you wish to write frugally, but with great impact, then reach into those deep, dark places, and pull out the SNOT.
When I taught middle school, high school, and community college, I used the shorthand SNOT as an acronym for “Show Not Tell” because boogers are hilarious. I will do the same here, because inside all of us is a thirteen year-old with an affinity for bodily functions. Am I right?
Telling in writing is when the author uses words to explain how the reader is supposed to feel or react. It’s a method of control. When you tell in your writing, you’re saying, “I don’t trust that you will get this. I believe that you are stupid and I will therefore spell it out.” Not only is it incredibly boring to read, it is also insulting to your reader.
Showing in writing means that you are entering a relationship with your reader. It’s saying, “I trust that you are smart enough to see nuance. We’re on this ride together. Hold on.”
Think about the books or films that have lingered–the ones that you talk about over coffee or find yourself deconstructing before you drift off to sleep. Those are the stories that have trusted you enough to show instead of tell.
So, what does SNOT look like?
Here’s a classic tell: It was a miserably hot day.
To change this to a show, you can do several things.
1. Use body language: She fanned herself with a paper plate.
2. Use vivid, sensory detail: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt.
3. Use active verbs: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she lumbered to the cooler for another beer.
4, Add dialogue: She fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she lumbered to the cooler for another beer. “If he thinks I’m cooking dinner tonight,” she said, “He better think again.” She emptied the bottle in two swift gulps.
I am by no means saying this is incredible writing, but it does so much more than explain the weather. It jumps right into the characterization, skipping the set-up and all the clutter. Through this passage we know that she likes her beer, that she may be heavy, and that there is some conflict with her spouse/boyfriend/partner. And yes, we know it’s hot.
A further note. Try to avoid adverbs. Yes, they aren’t evil, but they are often the lazy way to express something. For example, listen to this with added adverbs.
She slowly fanned herself with a paper plate. She licked her lips, and tasted the salt. With a sigh, she clumsily lumbered to the cooler for another beer. “If he thinks I’m cooking dinner tonight,” she said to herself, “He better think again.” She greedily emptied the bottle in two swift gulps.
Do you note how it adds clutter? It’s not necessary or interesting to state that she was fanning slowly. Isn’t that how you normally fan? Likewise, the clumsily is redundant and takes away the power of the active verb lumbered.
In short, if you want to trim the fat, the easiest place to start is with adverbs. And if you wish to write frugally, but with great impact, then reach into those deep, dark places, and pull out the SNOT.
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