Writing Group

Not surprisingly, some of my friends are writers. There are two in particular that I like to talk with about writing. I've talked with each of them separately on several occasions and we always say we should start a writing group. So we finally did. I wasn't sure how it would go, or whether the three of us would gel. I write some fiction, but mostly non-fiction. One of my friends is a poet, and the other a screenwriter, so I was curious whether it would work, bringing us together even though our writing is so very different.

It was fantastic.

We each shared a little of our writing and found that there are certain similarities, but more importantly, things we could learn from each other that might help sharpen our own writing. For instance, the screenwriter writes emotionally and sees the movie running in his head the whole time. The poet writes emotionally, too, as well as visually. The way she places her words on paper is as deliberate as the words she chooses and the effect is powerful and symbolic; something I'd like to adapt to my own work.

They both professed to think that non-fiction writing is something harder than what they do. Neither thinks they could be as concise in their writing. Funny -- I struggle with stretching things out.

Anyway, our get-together was a great success. I can't wait until we meet up again to share more work. I just know they'll be instrumental in helping me with my latest writing experiment: a long (for me) literary short story about a pig auction. (Hence the picture above.) I wonder what they're working on?

Prairie Dog Village

If you look in the background, you'll see a gathering of people. I don't know why we thought we'd have better luck if we looked for prairie dogs off the beaten path.

Happy Groundhog's Day! I don't have a picture of a groundhog, but I do have a picture of a prairie dog, so I thought I'd share the story behind the picture.

We were in the Badlands of South Dakota and heard about the Prairie Dog Village. Hundreds (maybe thousands??) of prairie dogs  were concentrated in an area of mounds and tunnels. We bought some sunflower seeds and headed off, hoping we might see one.

When we got there, we began walking around and saw a prairie dog or two pop their heads up out of holes. Entranced, we spread out, hoping to find a hub of prairie dog activity.

My brother cased his hole, inching slowly toward the hole where a prairie dog coyly peeked out at him. Ryan held a sunflower seed in his hand, creeping closer and closer to the hole, hoping the prairie dog would come out, unable to resist the temptation of the seed. I trailed Ryan, hoping to capitalize on his expedition and snap a picture of a prairie dog.

Meanwhile, off in the distance behind me I heard my then-8-year-old son yelling "Mom! Mom!" Intensely focused on the prairie dog progress in front of me, I stage-whispered back to him, "Just a minute!" but he continued to call to me.

Finally, Ryan's prairie dog emerged from his hole and took the bait. We saw a prairie dog! We saw a prairie dog! We were ecstatic. I turned around to call my son Mac over to see it, but stopped in my tracks. There was Mac, surrounded by prairie dogs popping up out of their holes like a hyperactive Whack-a-Mole game. He'd been yelling to me because he was already out of sunflowers seeds and the prairie dogs wanted more.

Torturous Colleagues

Medieval torture device

Bev was waiting at Carrie’s desk as Carrie walked out of her meeting. Her footsteps slowed and she quickly ran through escape scenarios in her mind. Bev’s demeanor said it all: something had transpired while Carrie was in her meeting, and Bev was looking for the only ally she thought she had.

Carrie plastered a smile on her face, determined not to let Bev drag her into whatever new drama she’d created.

“Hey,” Bev said pitifully as Carrie dropped a stack of papers on her desk and lifted her phone receiver. She didn’t have any voicemails, but hoped Bev didn’t know that and would be deterred under the assumption that Carrie was busy. Carrie punched in some numbers as Bev stood behind her, plaintively sighing and whispering, “Can I talk to you?” The phone ruse didn’t work.

“What’s up?” Carrie asked brightly, even as her lips flattened with the force of her smile. She checked her watch; one last-ditch effort in deterring Bev before she got started.

“I was a bad girl. I snapped at Jody while you were in your meeting.”

Carrie quickly turned toward Jody, who stared with a little too much concentration at her computer screen. Carrie noticed the headphones plugged into her ears; something Jody didn’t usually wear.

“But I apologized to her,” Bev continued. “Didn’t I, Jody?”

Jody’s back remained an unmoving wall of stillness.

Bev pursed her lips. “Oh, I suppose she’s not talking to me now. Jody. Jody!”

Reluctantly, Jody turned her head and Carrie saw the flush of her cheeks and the hooded look in her eyes. Jody removed one earphone, but said nothing.

“Jody, tell Carrie that I apologized to you.”

Carrie and Jody locked eyes. Two deer in the headlights of a barreling truck. Carrie wanted to stop her, to thwart this further humiliation of Jody, but she was too stunned to speak. Jody did instead, saying flatly, “You apologized,” before turning back to her inconsequential computer screen.

Carrie took in the stiff resolution of Jody’s back as Bev pleaded for her attention again. “See? I apologized,” Bev insisted.

“You shouldn’t have snapped at her in the first place.”

A look of alarm passed over Bev’s face as she realized that Carrie might not side with her. “My head hurts,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead as her lip quivered.

Carrie looked toward Jody again, whose muscles hadn’t moved. She’d seen enough. “I’m going to lunch.”

When she returned, Bev was standing at her desk again, a piece of paper in her hand.

“Carrie, would you mind taking a look at this? I’m thinking of applying for a new job.” Carrie took the paper from her hand and glanced toward Jody’s chair. It was pushed in. Her desk lamp was dark, her computer shut down.

“Where did Jody go?”

Bev’s shoulders hunched defensively. “She left. The boss pulled me into a conference room and had a talk with me. Apparently Jody went to him and said that I was mean to her and she was so upset that she had to leave.”

“What exactly happened?”

Bev’s voice rose. “I don’t know! Honestly, Carrie, I don’t know what she’s talking about. She said I was mean to her, but I have no clue what’s she’s even talking about.”

“Wait a minute. You told me earlier that you snapped at her.”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about! I don’t know what I could have possibly said that would have upset her. And now she’s quitting.”

“Wait a minute.  I don’t understand. What actually happened?”

“I have no idea!”

“You said you snapped at her, but about what?”

“I don’t even know what I could have done. I didn’t do anything, Carrie! It’s her word against mine. She says I was mean to her and that she’s leaving, but no one will tell me what I supposedly did wrong! I told the boss to keep Jody and I would leave since apparently I’m too difficult for anyone to work with.”

Carrie stared at her. Bev’s eyes watered as she ramped up her role as victim.  “Can you look at this job posting for me?”

“I guess. But is Jody really leaving?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened or why everyone is against me. I have no idea what she’s upset about.”

Carrie shook her head and glanced through the job posting. She debated whether to call Jody and find out the story, but was already tired of the drama and just wanted to get back to work. She nodded her head and handed the sheet of paper back to Bev. “This looks perfect for you. Go for it.”

Why It's Hard For Me To Read Travel Blogs

Tiananmen Square, China. Trust me, EVERY travel blogger has been to China and makes it seem cliche.


I consider myself a pretty adventurous person, and I definitely LOVE to travel. So you'd think that I'd devour travel blog posts like an intercontinental buffet. But I don't. I subscribe to a few that I really like, written by average Jo's (mostly women) who travel when they can. Those posts almost always lead to more blogs and more blogs and suddenly, I'm miserable.

I can't decide if the travel blogs depress me because I'm envious, jealous and smitten with bad cases of wanderlust after I read them? Or if it's because so many of them detail journeys to far-flung corners of the world that I don't imagine ever exploring. The locales in these blogs are always exotic: Angkor, Egypt, Antigua, South Africa, Marrakesh, Manitoba, etc., etc., etc.. And the events are always over-the-top extreme adventures that involve living alongside the locals: walking with cheetahs, carving up a whale, teaching English to South American children, harvesting crops in Chile, etc., etc., etc..

This is not how I travel.

These blogs exclude me and categorize me as someone who takes trips instead of someone who "travels." And so I cannot relate.

I (finally!) have four weeks of vacation a year and have to make that coincide with my family's work and school schedules. I have limited funds and know that most of my trips will involve getting to my destination and back in about a week. My primary objective is to see as much as I can of whatever city I'm visiting. And as much as I like meeting people in the locations that I travel to, there's not much time to do so if I'm going to see all the sights as well.

Most travel blogs leave me feeling very inadequate. I sit and read them and my shoulders slump. I would love to board a ship to Antarctica as much as the next guy. But my next trip is likely to be within a 7-hour drive of Ohio. I'm probably not going to get mugged as I leave a hostel, or find myself crowded off the road by oxen. I will wander into quirky little museums and eat at hole-in-the-wall mom & pop restaurants. I'll hit all the tourist attractions and take loads of pictures. But the reality is that I'll get home before my postcards do.

I'll blog about my trips and immediately begin planning the next one. But they won't read like the travel blogs that chronicle the lives of those nomads who've chucked it all to travel the world. I wish I were one of those gypsies, but I'm not. So I stay away from their blogs. Instead of slurping up their travel tales and licking my lips as I savor each detail, their smorgasbord of adventures makes me depressed that I seem eternally stuck on a 4-weeks/limited-funds diet.

Boy, do I need a vacation...

A Perfect Day

by Mike

The sun was shining and there was a slight breeze. Not strong, just enough to take the heat off. He could feel the sweat drying almost as soon as it started under his arms. He was glad that he had brought the shirt with him. With both of the excursions they had planned, he really did not expect to be wearing it but he had it with him anyway.

Good thing, too, since as soon as they showed up for the parasailing, the guide told them it was canceled due to high winds and, more importantly, the loss of a boat. The guide was extremely apologetic, offering them a refund and a free lunch at the diner of their choice. She had also clued them in on the many other activities on the island. Her parting words to them were to check back towards the end of the day and see if they could get on a later run if the boat was fixed.

They had gladly accepted her terms and set off, sure that they could find things to occupy their time. Holding hands, they set off down Duval Street. First on their itinerary? The Hemingway House.  They had heard of the six toed cats and needed to see them. He had actually never read anything by Hemingway. Not in high school, college, not even now as an adult. She commented that she had read a few but was not really interested. But still, they were here and had to see it.  They arrived right at the end of a guided tour and made their way around the property, marveling at everything still standing.

From there, they made their way to the Southernmost Point. Off they went, past the military base, cemetery, various watering holes, taking pictures of everything they saw.  It was true what they said: Key West was definitely an interesting place with interesting characters. They stopped a few times to grab a drink and some Key Lime Pie. Before the end of the day, they hoped to find some conch soup or fritters.

As they walked, she asked him a few times what he was playing with in the pocket of his swim trunks. Quickly removing his hands, he just commented that he had an itch. Now with the sun setting, they decided to head to Mallory Square to see the awesome sunset that everyone spoke of. He quickly fingered the pocket of his trunks again when she was not looking.

They found a spot on the wall overlooking the ocean and turned around to see the end of a street performance.  It was captivating, two jugglers using fire and various apparatus to perform. Amazingly, the show ended with no one getting burned. Turning back towards the sea, he thought of how right this was. How perfect. They did not need to talk all the time; they just held each other and cuddled. It was almost as if each one knew the other’s thoughts. He looked at her as her long brown hair blew in the gentle breeze.  They watched as a clump of clouds drifted in to cover up the setting sun. They were going to miss the end of the day. She laid her back into his chest and sighed as he stroked her hair.

As they sat there, he looked through their pictures, glad to see that they had gotten a picture of the mile marker 0 on Route 1. Of course, they had gotten the end sign, not the beginning on the opposite side of the road. He smiled and flipped through the rest of the pictures.

She sighed again. He laid the camera down and felt his pocket for the twentieth time that day, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the bump in there. The clouds cleared and it looked as if they would get their sunset after all. The end of a perfect day.

She adjusted herself and looked up at him. Her brown eyes were caged in by her hair. She smiled, wistfully. He thought she looked contented. He had known this day would come. Ever since they had met back at the last New Year’s Eve party. He had known they would be here now on this New Year’s Eve. He smiled back and stroked her hair, bending down to kiss her.

She stiffened; afraid they would miss the sunset. Looking out, he saw a pair of birds cross the sail of a sailboat. The sun set below the horizon and everyone clapped.  He clapped as best he could with her in his chest. She just looked off into the horizon.

He gently sets her up as he moves in front of her, saying he needs to talk to her.  She looks at him and says the same. They went back and forth on who should speak first. They finally agreed to go at the same time, on the count of three.

One…He reaches in his pocket. She inhales.

Two…He kneels. She tears up.

Three…“Will you marry me?”  “I think we should end it.”

END

My husband and I are doing a fiction exercise. We've both crafted a short relationship story to go with this picture. My story is below. I'll post his tomorrow.

The Florida sun beat down on Brent's head, pounding pressure into his skull. He felt sweat trickle down his temple as he practiced the lines in his head. It's not you; it's me. It's not you; it's me.

Valerie walked out of the souvenir shop with a smile on her face and a plastic bag in her hand. She skipped toward him and delightedly grabbed his arm. "Wait until you see what I got us!" She kissed him on the cheek and reached into her bag.

It's not you. It's me. Brent recited to himself.

Valerie pulled a wad of colorful material out of the bag and held a shirt to her chest. Her bracelets clinked with the motion, bringing Brent out of his reverie. "I got one for each of us," she squealed. "Do you love it?"

Valerie bounced in place as Brent took in the airbrushed palm trees, a sunset fading into the water beside them. With growing horror, he read the words painted in fanciful script: Key West Is For Lovers and inside a heart over his grilfriend's breast: Valerie & Brent

She giggled with pleasure as his eyes locked on the bright pink heart that bore his name. It seemed to pulsate and grow the longer he stared. It wasn't until he felt the brush of soft cotton against his arm that he realized Valerie was holding a blue t-shirt against his chest, too. "Here's yours. Put it on!"

Brent moved his hand toward the shirt that Valerie was pressing against him, but his sweaty hands did not fold around the fabric securely and the shirt dropped to the sidewalk. He watched the exasperation and dismay cross Valerie's face and knew what was coming: another pouting lecture in which she accused him of not loving her. They went through this every day, and he prepared himself for the reassurance that he'd have to dole out for the next few hours, when suddenly he noticed the street sign above him. END. It was an omen; a prophetic, if tangible sign. It's not you; it's me ran through his mind.

He picked the shirt up from the ground and held it out to Valerie, whose bright beachy smile was already turning sour.

"Listen, Val. There's something I need to tell you. I should have said something before."

Valerie placed her hands on her hips. The wadded-up sunset turned upside down in her hand resembled a frying egg now. Brent fixated on it as he delivered his prepared statement.

"It's not me. It's you."

He held his breath as he realized his mistake. Valerie's eyebrows shot up above her designer shades as her mouth formed an 'O' of surprise and then quickly gave way to the straight line of a set jaw. "What did you just say?"

Brent stared at the END sign above him. He hadn't noticed the skull and crossbones beneath it, but studied them now. He focused on the red stop light behind it, then watched it turn green. He took a deep breath and held the blue shirt toward the girl before him. The same annoying, whining, shallow girl whose calls he avoided and who was familiarly furious with him again. Traffic started moving and Brent raised his voice to be heard.

"I said, it's not me. It's you." Then he pushed the shirt into her hands and walked away.

Non-Laminated Lists

Remember the Friends episode in which Ross finally narrows down his list of five celebrities that he could sleep with without Rachel getting mad? He whittles it down by taking Isabella Rossellini off and then runs into her at the coffee shop. Rachel tells him to go for it anyway, and sits back to watch.

My husband saw this picture of me with Troy Polamalu and said, "I suppose you're going to add him to your list." It actually hadn't crossed my mind since it was really just a wax dummy. Then I re-considered. He is a good looking guy, and he does have great hair. But no. I'm too much of a Bengals fan to cross that line.

Besides, my list isn't quite as rigid as Ross'. In fact, my husband and I change our lists almost daily, depending on what TV show or movie we're watching. We don't ever actually write the names down, and I don't think we've held ourselves to five celebrities. Let's put it this way: our lists aren't laminated. They're not even written down, and if they were, they'd be in pencil and we'd always have an eraser ready.

Some of the stars who would make my list: Jason Ritter, Zac Efron, Kevin Bacon, Ryan Reynolds, and Robert Pattinson.

My husband's list would include: Mila Kunis, Marcia Cross, and Sophia Vergara.

My son's list, interestingly enough, includes only one name: Emma Stone. I found that very intriguing.

But again, our "lists" are not exactly lists. More like droolfests and daydreams during movies. We're not foolish enough to get stuck in an awkward situation like Ross did if a parade of stars walked into our favorite coffee shop. We'd just tell them they're on our lists and they'd just have to trust us.