YOU ARE THE BEST!

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Beta Reading

Sometime last month I sent a preliminary draft of KMDC to a writer friend who has literally witnessed this project from the very beginning. And about a week ago I sent off the beta draft of KMDC to a few trusted ladies up in Boston. My parents currently have copies loaded on their kindles, and, to complete my Arsenal of Critique, I’ve enlisted another novelist in a trade of manuscripts. (the lovely J.M. Johnson, who you should follow on Twitter. Also, check our her blog).

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My Two Favorite Men

You know how it’s a bit of a trope for the sad, single girl/gay to flop down next to their best friend (usually the main character with a love interest half-developed by now) and say, “I’ve got a date tonight with my two favorite men! Ben…and Jerry!” And we all laugh at the simmering hilarity that is self-indulgent, sugary melancholy?

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Here at the Bottom

When I write, I generally keep a scene outline at the bottom of my document. As I figure things out and make edits, this outline tends to accumulate into a chapter outline, then a section outline, then eventually a book outline. It looms beneath my cursor like some sort of stupid, static dirigible, feeding me hints as I encroach on its content, and bumping itself down obediently as I progress.

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On Resolutions

There’s something sickly about resolutions. I think it has to do with the way they’re made; either uttered furtively or pronounced with great enthusiasm (but always as a shamed self-reprimand), and they’re always precipitated by something arbitrary. I mean that as: it isn’t your weight, or how you feel about your size, but the time of year that drums up your resolution. It isn’t your generally aloof nature, or your family’s naturally sparse dynamic, but the death of a cousin that makes you resolve to stay in touch.

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The Healing Power of Music

Tonight my mother and I attended an event entitled, “The Healing Power of Music.”

I know, I know. I was also torn between rolling my eyes and bringing out my own celestial harp (a la Myrtle Snow, for all you AHS: Coven fans out there). But, hokey title aside, it was nothing short of captivating. It’s a forum style discussion that’s part of the Freshly Squeezed series with Colin McEnroe, of WNPR fame, and his panel consisted of a neuroscientist, a music therapist, and some super talented musicians. (Shout out to Kate Callahan and Echo Joy! Your story is incredible and you are a triumphant talent).

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Chocolate Therapy

So a few nights ago I was working at the ice cream shop. A  grandmother brought in her two little girls, and the older one ordered the flavor called Chocolate Therapy. Seeing this, the younger one also ordered Chocolate Therapy, to which the grandmother (who had the best, bright red blow-out since David Bowie), gasped and said, “Why, I didn’t know you were a chocolate therapy girl!” The little sister seemed to read a pejorative meaning into the exclamation (shame on you grandma!) and so, thinking I’d be helping, I whispered huskily over the counter, “I, too, am a chocolate therapy girl.” 

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Anne Lamott and Sand Castles

“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible. So part of us believes that when the … Read moreAnne Lamott and Sand Castles

Necessary Frenzy

I’m curious about how many writers are full time in their writing, and how many hold down some other ‘traditional’ role (such as, I imagine, hair dressing, or manning the salad bar at Hometown Buffet). A writer friend of mine and I aways giggle at the writers who, online, allude to their lifestyle that is undefined by any obligations save their manuscript (read: unemployed) while also somehow managing to avoid publication ardently. What do they do? What do they want to do? What is that like? Is it deadening? It sounds deadening.

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Think Of All the Blogs

Think of all the blogs. The abandoned ones specifically. The emaciated, pocked, forgotten vessels littered across the virtual ether, with a few heartfelt sentences rattling around in their dead bellies, with long shadows turned velvety in the crepuscular light.

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