I just found out. Ed Cordon, my friend and typewriter repairman at Acme Business Machines is gone. Those interested may want to leave a message here. I’ll send a long letter to his wife, typed on one of the many typewriters Ed lovingly resurrected for me.
It isn’t enough, though. School began and I was busy. I never called and now I can’t.
Ed was a gentleman and a good man, and is missed.
I love that quote. Mainly because anyone who writes knows that sooner or later, the writing rips that club out of your perfectly manicured fingers and pummels you over the head with it. It’s called Rewrite. It’s a small price for 50,000 words. And there’s just something about NaNoWriMo that makes you feel a little bit smug, despite the fact that December demands its due.
I’ll think about that next month. Right now, slamming out the first draft like barn ‘afire makes me plenty happy. So does Daylight Savings Time, because it’s put me in a good sprint. Sure, I may fall apart in an hour or so (we all will) but I don’t plan to worry about that, either.
We had a rousing Kick-Off Party and Write-In this afternoon, complete with goodie-bags and stickers and foods only good Southern women know how to bring to a gathering. I pity those of you who live elsewhere, because I’m not sure anyone knows how to whip out a casserole dish full of heaven quite like these gals below the Mason-Dixon.
The collective creative energy in that room today could’ve lit up all of Little Rock for for at least an hour. There was mojo, I tell you, mojo.
Speaking of mojo, I’ve added a little something over there on the right of the blog. The folks who put together National Novel Writing Month (a nonprofit) also run the Young Writers Program. It’s a fine operation that provides free writing kits, lesson plans, and online assistance to classrooms all over. The program is free to teachers, which makes me happy, but the funding has to come from somewhere. Over there on the right —–> you can sponsor me and help raise funds to keep the Young Writers Program going to the schools, gratis. Any donation will do and is greatly appreciated. Just click on the picture of me with my very first typewriter, or click HERE.
Happy scribbling, y’all!
Dear Rapists and Mute Onlookers,
My rage consumes me. There are no words powerful enough to gauge my reaction to the 2 1/2 hour gang rape of a 15 year-old girl outside of her high school homecoming dance while ten or more looked on and did nothing.
Nothing.
They found her barely conscious and medflighted her away where, they say, she’s gone from critical to stable condition.
Stable Condition. I don’t think so. There’s not enough money in the universe nor jailtime extant to erase those 2 1/2 hours. Her condition will never be stable again.
The rapists will be tried as juveniles if they’re young. A couple are old enough to learn about rape themselves behind bars, which they certainly will. Nothing will happen to those who chose to watch and keep silent.
I understand a few even recorded the event on their cell phones. A few pictures of the homecoming dance, a few more of the gang rape just outside. Just another Saturday night.
Animals.
The news cycle is thick with various explanations of gang mentality and brain development in teens and I say bullshit. Bullshit. Our young people don’t need excuses, they need consequences. The girl in the hospital, she deserves justice.
That is all.
Monda
Two shipping containers full of Kotex and baby wipes and whatnot, whisked away by feminine hygiene pirates in the dark of night. Local police feel certain they were stolen for the shipping containers alone, as it’s unlikely they’ll fence the goods. As one official noted, “It isn’t like a trailer load of flatscreen TVs.”
Do tell.
I‘d prefer to imagine a whole band of young mothers, desperate in these tough times, clipping padlocks and absconding with the goods. Gals sitting around the dinette table in some double-wide, drinking box-wine and splitting up the loot – that sort of thing.
Five days before the beginning of National Novel Writing Month, this is a gift indeed.
I‘m well into a string of six-day work weeks and no end in sight until mid December. How did I over-extend myself this way? It sneaks up on me. One week I’m working at a steady, relaxed pace, then one Sunday night I flip the organizer book over to the next page and it looks like Armageddon.
I bring this on myself. Please tell me I’m not alone.
There are a gazillion commitments this week – everything from throwing a NaNoWriMo plotting workshop to advising the November online issue of the Vortex. In the next two days I’ll rake in around 80 freshman essays that need grading, I’ve got a novel rewrite due, judges for a freshman comp essay contest to wrangle, and the 2nd Edition of the Easy Street Carnival of Writing and Art to judge and post.
Halloween is coming and I have no candy.
So is NaNoWriMo and I have no plot.
Clearly I’m suffering from Sunday Night Panic. Just so you know, the antidote is writing this blog post. Short of knocking myself in the head this seems to be working fairly well. Mainly because I just put blogging on my to-do list so I could check it off with a flourish.
Ta-da, y’all.
I‘m not entirely sure what to do with these tidbits from the Log Cabin Democrat’s Police Beat, but I’m unable to keep them to myself.
“Residential burglary at [deleted] Highway 89 South (about a mile northeast of Mayflower). Victim reported on Thursday that someone had broken into a residence and stolen a water hose and water hose reel, a Marlboro bag, a box with 500 magazines in it, some camping supplies and some iodine.”
Sounds like someone’s on the lam. Because it creeps me clean out to think otherwise, I’m going to assume that box held back issues of Field and Stream. Regardless, that’s one heavy box to tote around and I’m surprised the thief didn’t take a little Bengay with that iodine.
And this typographical house-guest mystery:
“Theft of property at [deleted]block of South Boulevard. Victim reported that at some point between 11 p.m. Sunday and 9:30 a.m. Monday, as the victim slept, someone stole an ACER computer. The victim told police that a guest known to her only as “E” had stayed at the apartment on that night, and was gone before she woke the next morning. The letter “U” was reported to be missing from the computer’s keyboard.”
The point is, anyone looking for NaNoWriMo material need look no further than this fascinating link. God bless the Log Cabin Democrat and all who scribble there.
I just shake my head.
It caught me by surprise, what with all this National Day on Writing and classes and broken elevators and hugging The Perfect Grandson and such. In fact, I almost missed it.
Today’s my second blogiversary.
Celebrating such a thing publicly is odd. I don’t want to be that person in the office who walks around telling everyone it’s her birthday. What exactly are you supposed to do after such an announcement? Prompted congratulations are thin at best. Besides, I’m sure there are several dozen Southern etiquette violations involved, and we all know you go straight to hell for breaking those.
You’re the ones who deserve something, not me. So I’ve got a little something here for you.
I started this hayride for a reason. Two years ago I found myself telling my writing students to scribble incessantly, fearlessly, and then I went home after classes were over and realized I hadn’t written two creative words together in months. Months. My personal writing had taken a backseat to my everyday duties and became that thing I planned to do after the grading/laundry/phone calls/paperwork/planning/meeting/___________.
I wasn’t writing at all. Worse than that, I’d made the very thing I enjoy most into a dangling carrot I’d never quite reach. So I started this blog and decided to make myself get to the page on a regular basis. Absence did not make the heart grow fonder, it made me articulately weak and stumbly. For a couple of weeks I wrote in someone else’s voice – in fact, I channeled a whole slew of mysterious voices.
More than a few times, the frustration of my misplaced voice made me angry enough to quit altogether. Remembering the old days when making words was effortless only compounded the issue. How had I slipped into such a state?
Eventually, it became easier. I added what I now call my Scribbling Hour into my day – an appointment with myself to sit down somewhere and just make words. It’s the only appointment I never break. Between that and this blog, I healed enough to slam out a novel in thirty days last year. I am Writer, hear me roar and all that.
The thing is, I started walking the talk and things turned around. This blog was a big part of that and I’m thrilled I can share this with you. Writer’s block? Hell no. I don’t believe in that boogeyman. Self denial is real, though, and so is procrastination. Neither one can hide under that rock and call itself something swanky. Do I still have crappy writing moments? All the time, but they pass and even the worst of days can leave me a line, a name, a gesture that turns into something stunning later.
So in honor of the National Day on Writing, and as a present to yourself, go write something. It doesn’t matter if it’s awful or tragic or otherwise unsightly. Just do it anyway. If you really hate it when you’re done, then delete the mess or throw pages in the fire or whatever makes you feel better. Then open the same present again tomorrow. Keep doing it until your voice loses the rust and awkward pitch, because it will.
Everyone has something that needs telling. Go tell it.
October 20th is the National Day on Writing. Didn’t know? Well, now that you do I suggest finding a fast pen, a few sheets of paper, and a little quiet time during the day. Not all celebrations require fireworks. Everyone everywhere should be scribbling, typing, scratching, slamming out a few words tomorrow.
The best part is that you don’t have to be a spectator. The Gallery of Writing wants everyone to participate by posting their writing. Don’t get hinky about putting your words out there – the site wants daily kinds of writing. Here, I’ll let them tell you.
“Whether we call it texting, IMing, jotting a note, writing a letter, posting an email, blogging, making a video, building an electronic presentation, composing a memo, keeping a diary, or just pulling together a report, Americans are writing like never before. Recent research suggests that writing, in its many forms, has become a daily practice for millions of Americans. It may be the quintessential 21st century skill. By collecting a cross-section of everyday writing through a National Gallery of Writing, we will better understand what matters to writers today—and when writing really counts.”
While you can post writing on the Gallery through May, the site goes live tomorrow. Go ahead, browse the writing and post something of your own. Scribble in your piece of this historical project. I’d love to read what you dream up, so leave a link to your little corner of the gallery here in the comments.
(Do be patient, though – the “curators” of each gallery have to hit the acceptance button to make sure no one’s leaving nasty business on the site. You understand.)
…in the hoosegow. The one-two punch of midterm papers coupled with the sweet release of Fall Break has me a little shell-shocked. Especially since I spent the first day of the break wringing a tissue and running from computer to television over Falcon the Balloon Boy.
I still don’t precisely know how I feel about that whole business, but I’m crystal clear on a few things: I’m glad he’s safe. I want to know why he wasn’t in school. I want five minutes alone with tornado-daddy to discuss the finer points of parenting.
Don’t get me started.
At the beginning of this four-day Fall Break, I made a list of all the delicious, non-academic things I would do. Didn’t do any of them. I clearly accomplish more when I’m up to my eyeballs in too much work – something to do with forward motion and deceleration. A little free time and I languish.
Enough of that.
Anyone want to spot me a loan? Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter is on the auction block. A friend bought him a “new” Olivetti 32 this past summer for $9 on Ebay.
Miller said that McCarthy does not own a computer, a fact verified by others. In fact, Miller told the story that once while at the Sante Fe Institute, he kidded the author about not using a computer.
“About an hour later, lightning knocked out power at the institute,” Miller said.
As scientists wandered the corridors, Miller said all they could hear were the click, click, clicking of McCarthy’s typewriter, the only machine working in the building.
Which one of us bid against him, I wonder?
No Telling 