I thought I had it all figured out
Thought that I had no doubt
I thought I knew black from blue
Thought I knew me from you
I thought I had you to choose
Thought I had nothin’ to lose
I thought I had something to offer
Thought why should I bother
I thought I had a future
without you
Now I’m not so sure
that I do
Blue
Tag: writing
Conference Notes: An Editor’s Wishlist
“An Editor’s Wishlist” presented at Making it in Changing Times by the dashing Jessica Morrell
* I really tried to take these conference notes word-for-word–but naturally something will be lost or manipulated along the way. My apologies. In addition, I added my own special formatting to the notes. For example in this first post I will do a simple “bullet list” since the topic was editor’s “wishlist”.
———————————————–“Editor’s Wishlist”:
———————————————-A writer who:
- #1. Has Voice!
What is Voice?
-Your character’s consciousness
-A character who has more personality than you do
-In harmony with your roots
-Changes depending on the circumstances
- Can promote their own work via personal blog, goodreads.com, Twitter, Facebook. One more time: CAN PROMOTE THEIR OWN WORK VIA PERSONAL BLOG, GOODREADS.COM, TWITTER, FACEBOOK
- Has realistic expectations about editors and publishers (piggy-backing off the former bullet)
- Is shocking, surprising, and uses “fire-fly” words (i.e. magical, special words. No clichés!)
- Uses word combinations that make you feel something, one example is “he huck-finned his way across the nation”
- Has a “high-concept” story–a story that gets across a single point such as Cheryl Strayed’s WILD: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. A story about a woman hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. Another example is Jurassic Park. A story about Dinosaur’s living in the modern world.
“There is a dramatic question at the heart of every high-concept story” – Jessica Morrell
A story that is NOT high-concept makes the reader say “wait, what is this story about exactly?”
In closing:
“The traditional publishing world has changed–but editors need you, publishers need you. You are teenage girls and publishers are teenage boys.” – Jessica Morrell
Very Inspiring Blogger Award!
Oh boy! Much to my surprise (looooove surprises!) Maggie Madly Writing nominated little ol’ me for a blog award! This my second blog award and I’m absolutely, 100% shocked and honored. I mean, I was starting to think my blog kinda sucked if you want to know the truth…
Anyways, thank you Maggie! You are incredibly generous and forgiving.
Rules for blog award:
1) Display the blog award
2) Mention and link to the person who nominated you
3) Tell readers 7 things about yourself
4) Nominate 3 fellow bloggers
7 Things:
1) Today, I used honey in my coffee instead of cream and sugar–and I actually liked it a lot better!
2) I’m reading 3 books right now, all written by people I know! (The Dragon’s Harp by Rachael Pruitt, Make Love To The Universe by Phoenix Desmond and A Common Pornography: A Memoir by Kevin Sampsell)
3) Rachael Pruitt is a dear friend, Phoenix Desmond is my yoga teacher, and actually…I don’t really know Kevin Sampsell but I have met him!
4) I’ve lived in a lot of different places: Crescent City, Klamath, Rock Creek, Orick, Lacey, Sunsites, Douglas, Orlando, Flagstaff, Cave Junction and Eugene.
5) I’m moving to a farm smack dab in between Canby and Molalla, Oregon and I still don’t know which town to say I live in. I like the sound of Molalla, but my mailing address is in Canby…
6) On February 14th my boyfriend and I will celebrate our 2 year anniversary. But we were thinking of telling people it’s been 3 years. So we’re taken more seriously or something. Hey, it feels like it’s been 3 years. In a good way.
7) I have Twitter now. Follow me!
Now, for the nominations:
Maggie Madly Writing (what?! I love your blog!)
What’s Broken by Lennon Sundance
Found in France by Leamuse
There are many other bloggers I admire, I mean, A LOT and I hope for the opportunity to nominate you in the future!
Thanks again Maggie!
Making it in Changing Times Conference Notes
I made my way up to Portland (soon I won’t have to travel so far, yay!) on January 26th for a writers conference, Making it in Changing Times.
Lidia Yuknavitch was the keynote speaker and the event was organized by Jessica Morrell author of Writing Out The Storm, a book Lidia held close to her chest and kept on her bedstand during the FIRST days, weeks, and months of her writing career. She credits the book for motivating her to write. Jessica Morrell is to Lidia what Natalie Goldberg is to me.
The event was SPECTACULAR. I was high the entire time. On writing, folks, on writing. During the session I thought of you guys: my blogging community. My writing tribe. My stranger-angels.
I took notes of course, with the intent of sharing them on my blog. With you. Because you are where I am–scratching and clawing your way into the writing world. Some of you are further along than others. For some of you this information will be premature, for others it will be old news. But I hope for at least one of you, it is just perfect useful.
Over the next few days, I will post 4 conference “notes”:
1. “An Editor’s Wishlist” by Jessica Morrell
2. “Kick Start Your Writing in 2013” by Polly Campell
3. “The Worth of Risk” by Lidia Yuknavitch
4. “Signs You’re Telling Not Showing” by Jessica Morrell
Do you know these authors? What books, conferences, and authors have inspired you? Please share your thoughts, we’re all in this together. I’ve never heard of an artist being “over inspired”, have you? For me, I can’t get enough inspiration. But like love, the timing has to be just right…if you don’t get anything from these notes right off–come back. It’s good stuff.
Neurotic Fan Part III–Chuck Palahniuk
Throughout the night Lidia, Chelsea and Chuck read their potent pieces and throw out souvenirs to the crowd–teddy bears and baby dolls and just the heads of baby dolls. And somehow toy intestines (see image above).
One million times I think of yelling Mommy! Mommy! to Lidia, my child-like fascination with her echoed by the toys they toss.
These people don’t need a gimmick. They’re gods, not people. They’re not like us. They should know just their presence is enough. But I guess they have to get their kicks too. All these shows feeling the same after time.
You should’ve seen the way these kids were clawing and begging for more toys. Lidia told one girl, You’ve have enough. Look at you, you have like fucking five.
Mommy! Over here! I scream inside my head.
Later, I leave the show with nothing but my covered-up shaven legs, and Dora: A Headcase, unsigned. I hadn’t even caught Lidia’s eye.
I round the west corner of the WOW Hall, thinking of how I’d taken Chuck Palahniuk for an uber-eccentric, maybe a little self-centered at the worst, I mean he was famous and all that…but that wasn’t Chuck had come off. Not at all. He came off as a gentle spirit, more than just a writer, but quietly charismatic too…
when,
BAM
there’s Chuck in my peripheral vision, exiting the back door to escape the crowd…both of us in our silk robes, his–red, mine–black.
Lucky. Fucking. Me.
“Thank you,” I say, gesturing with a nonchalant nod.
“Have a good night,” Chuck tells me.
A bum sitting on a nearby tree stump parrots Chuck’s words as I pass: Have a good night, Have a good night. My mind is already doing the same as I head home sober as a whistle and starstruck.
I’m a Night-Creature Again (Warning: Life Rant)
While you sleep I watch and write.
When I first moved to Eugene I searched for work for a month or two before finding a night shift position at a group home for teenagers. I wasn’t sure about staying up all night five days per week but let’s face it: I’m no stranger to the night.
It turned out the position suited me well. My job involved insuring the safety of our clientele–and when it comes to wayward teens I am a claws out, karate-chopping mother-hen-type gal (I remember what it was like to be in their shoes, many having been abandoned by their parents and experiencing unimaginable amounts of helplessness).
After being laid-off (surprise!) in November I sulked for nearly three months, writing a bit at first but losing my momentum as it seems writing and life and work all go hand-in-hand (I’ve heard many writer’s attest to this). Then, last week, in some crazy twist of fate, in a “the more things change the more things stay the same” kind-of-way, I was rehired. I will sit at the same desk, I will walk the same grounds at three a.m. admiring the same moon and all its phases and I will cook breakfast at the end of my shift in the same kitchen for the same people.
I am ecstatic. I’d recommend that any writer consider the night shift. In between bed-checks and garbage-taking-out and pots of coffee: there is writing. There is quiet. There is time and space and somehow, money too. Graveyard work + Writer’s dreams = Happy camper.
Neurotic Fan Part II–Am I Invisible?
I shuffle upstairs in my long black kimono, the show starting soon.
I go to the bathroom to piss out my beer and stand in line, nobody talking to me and me talking to nobody. I think of what a little city Eugene is. People say it’s a real friendly city. I’m not entirely convinced. I remember bathrooms down on the border of Mexico and how they came practically stocked with cocaine and how that really brought the women together, really opened up the lines of communication, har har.
Eugene needs more drugs, for sure. Women here care about health and spirituality and jogging. Fucking. Jogging.
I emerge from the bathroom stall and am the only person left. Good. I wash my hands and check myself out in the mirror, remembering the young girl who didn’t check my ID. Bitch.
Then I hear a stall door open and close. And though I didn’t know it yet– I hear the sigh of Chelsea Cain’s pre-show nervousness or boredom, I don’t know, but it was a sigh…a famous-author-sigh and Famous. Authors. Are. People. Too.
“Oh. Hi!”
I perk right up as Chelsea Cain emerges in her pink lipstick, short nighty and fuzzy bunny slippers.
“Hi!” She smiles her bright, gorgeous smile.
“I like your nightgown. Very vintage.” I smile back. Again.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Well, have fun!” I wave while leaving the bathroom.
I look for Lidia but she’s hiding (she does that) and I think, gosh, I hope Chelsea knows I know who she is. All I did was talk about her clothes. I could’ve mentioned her books.
But the truth is, I hadn’t yet read her. But I liked her–just for being her–she was perky and charismatic, I knew that. A week later I would read her memoir Dharma Girl, which wasn’t a struggle, not at all, it was very well-written and introspective but lacking a little spice and danger.
Reading Dharma Girl after reading The Chronology of Water reminded me of when I replaced methamphetamine with cocaine (we’re talking daily use here). So mellow it was hardly even potent. But it’s all relative–if I did cocaine now I’d be swimming the clouds. Back-strokes n’ shit.
I’m sure, no I’m certain Chelsea Cain’s murder mystery shit is potent as hell.
So I look for Lidia and she’s still nowhere to be found. I get in line for a stuffed animal and I’m the only one there and there’s an empty box behind the deserted foldy-table.
Oh well.
I join the fifty-thousand fucking horny college kids with their iPhones and now their huge cheetah and lion stuffed animals that they’re literally making hump eachother.
I sit on the floor cross-legged with my faint close-lipped smile that says I’m approachable and someone elbows me in the mouth and a round girl in front of me scootches back to make room for her friend, a sexy blonde in a black kimono and they snap a picture together and they’re so close I could lick the backs of their heads. I shift uncomfortably and think Am I invisible? Like, really. No, seriously..am I invisible?
Neurotic Fan Part I
I missed out on the free stuffed animal cause I wanted a beer and the line for beer was zilch and the line for a free stuffed animal was around the block and down the hall.
I was disappointed.
I thought I was part of a bite-size group of people and after the show we’d all sit around in someone’s cramped apartment drinking straight whiskey and maybe doing a little coke.
I thought I’d get to talk up my book and maybe Chuck Palahniuk and Lidia would ask me to join their writers’ group.
It doesn’t matter if you’ve got no experience–all that matters is you’ve passion, and you do, I can see it in you they’d say as I’d shoot back the whiskey hollering Fuck yeah I do! sticking out my tongue and shaking my head back and forth. We’d all cheer and laugh. There aren’t enough writers out there, Chuck would tell me.
I thought I’d be the only girl in a black kimono and that Lidia might point me out to the audience, telling everyone what a good writer I was and some hot guy would spot me and think I was super sexy. Then he’d approach me and we’d fall in love and we’d both be writers and we’d make writer love.
It didn’t matter that I was already in love, and with a writer. Things could always get better.
You already know how this ends: in near full disappointment.
After standing in line with fifty-billion fucking college kids watching them text and say Like and grab eachother’s asses we filed inside where I slipped away to the WOW Hall’s basement bar missing my chance at a free stuffed animal (free to the first 100 people).
It was so quiet down there the bartender had her back to me and was on her knees stocking the cooler. I cleared my throat, ordered a Sierra Nevada, and sat in the corner and read Dora.
I knew Lidia was upstairs signing books for all the, like, college kids and I tried to summon her downstairs with my mind. Cause down in the dark basement bar was where Lidia should be. And, you know if it were twenty years ago it’s where she woulda been. But it wasn’t twenty years ago.
That was a long time ago.
What is a Dream?
You know those dreams you’ve had in life that you’ll never forget? I’m not talking about waking dreams (for once), I’m talking about sleeping dreams. For example, when I was about four years old I had a dream my dad picked me up in a hot air balloon and took me to Safeway to so we could buy some 
ABC soup, which was my favorite meal. Not much happened other than that but for some reason I’ve always remembered that particular dream. But why?
Then there are the recurring dreams–again, when I was just four years old, I’d say from four to six–which was actually a pretty traumatic point in my life–I would have this dream:
I’m in a dark dungeon. I’m lying on my back or my side and there are about five or six little elves running around and climbing all over my body. Above my head is a big roll of lead. Let me explain more: you remember Bubble Tape? They always had Bubble Tape on the rack at the grocery store at the check out stand. It’s like a carpenter’s measuring tape only made out of bubble gum. Yeah. That. So that’s what this big roll of lead is like. The little elves pry my big toddler mouth open, much to my resistance, and insert the end of the roll of lead into my mouth, shoving the lead down my throat. My throat expands and I choke but this goes on for what feels like hours and upon waking faintly taste lead in my mouth, metal in my throat.
I had this dream at least a few times throughout my childhood. I can’t help but notice–now I’m having a dream quite the opposite.
I had one just last night:
Sometimes it’s just me but sometimes, like last night, I’ll have an audience:
I’m back in Crescent City at a party and a lot of my friends are there–all grown up, having a good time, drinking beer by the river. I’m chatting with one of my male friends when I feel a noodle in my mouth. The flat kind–linguine. I put my index finger up to indicate “just a moment”, a break in the conversation if-you-will and reach into my mouth for the linguine. I grab hold of the linguine and tug. Well, that’s where my dream morphs into this recurring dream I’ve been having: pulling a never-ending mountain of noodles from my throat. The more I tug, the more I pull, the more noodles emerge. And just like in the lead dream–I can hardly breathe. My cousin Cevin and his friends approach and there I am, crouched down by a cedar tree, pulling out and vomiting up noodles, for what seems like forever.
What I appreciate about this new dream is this: it’s quite the opposite of my baby-Terah-lead-dream. Clearly, I’m letting it all out now instead of shoving it all in. For fun, I’ll retrieve my dream dictionary, The Complete Book of Dreams & Dreaming by Pamela Ball and interpret some of the imagery from both of these dreams:
Dwarf (sadly Elf was not available): A dwarf indicates a part of our personality which has not yet been integrated or has been left undeveloped. In a dream a dwarf denotes a part of ourselves which has been left damaged by painful childhood trauma or a lack of emotional nourishment.
Lead: The conventional explanation of lead appearing in a dream is that we have a situation around us which is a burden to us. We are not coping with life perhaps as we should be, and as a result it is leaving us heavy-hearted.
Throat: Dreaming of the throat denotes awareness of our vulnerability and also the need for self-expression.
Vomiting: Vomiting is a symbol of discharge and evil. We may have held on to bad feelings for so long that it has caused our spiritual system some difficulty.
I do believe there are connections between our dreams and our spiritual selves. I do believe that if you have, especially a recurring dream, you should pay attention to it and make changes to your life as needed. For example, if you are a man and you dream about a particular woman most nights, you need to explore your relationship with this woman. Or, if you dream about water, water, water, you should visit a spring or a sea–because your subconscious is begging for you to wet her.
Please, readers, share some of your dreams with me. I would love to use my dream book to provide you a little more insight into your subconscious. If you’re into that kind of thing.
Nighty-night. Sweet dreams.
Arizona
Up at the house on the Winchuck River one night it was decided I’d be moving with Peggy to Arizona. We’d leave in two weeks. I told my Dad over the phone and he sounded a bit wounded but he assured me it would only be temporary until he and Lisa found a house. I’m not leaving you. You left me. Remember that, Dad I thought but didn’t say.
Peggy and I went down to the DHS office in Crescent City, met with a social worker named Pam, signed a couple papers and it was a done deal. There was no inspecting Peggy’s house, calling references, or privately interviewing me. You just looked at Peggy and knew she was the real deal. There was virtually nothing wrong with her. She was my perfect temporary guardian. She was my perfect permanent guardian but nobody wanted to go there yet. And I mean nobody. Not Peggy nor me. They talked like it would just be for the school year, but Arizona was hundreds if not thousands of miles away and as soon as we headed south I knew, I just knew the miles were coming between me and my old life. And a good part of me was really, really happy about that. The other part tried to remember landmarks for my runaway escape. Ch-yeah, ’cause that had gone so well the first time..
After a couple days of driving we ended up in Arizona. Peggy recalls what I said when we got there: “Where’s the water? No, seriously, where’s the water?” I found out the water came from faucets and deep underground, not pouring from the mountains like it did back home. We stopped off at an outlet mall outside of Phoenix and Peggy bought me some Levi’s, t-shirts, and a couple of new bras. We drove for another five hours south and finally ended up in what looked like the middle of nowhere. You could look in every direction, north, east, south, west but there was nothing there, just the horizon. We ended up in Sunsites, Arizona. Peggy owned a funny-looking little eggshell-colored house on Geneva Street. Geneva Street had a ton of funny-looking little eggshell-colored houses that Peggy called “stucco”. Stucco was this certain texture the paint had. The houses were boxy and had red-tiled roofs. Don’t get me wrong, they were nice.
School would start in three days. I would be taking the school bus to another town (El-fucking-Frida), where the high school was. Sunsites was initially supposed to be a retirement-only community but they ultimately couldn’t afford to keep the young folk out so it was ninety-percent retirement and ten-percent everything else. There was a ghost town a mile away. The nearest grocery store was thirty miles north. There was no mayor. There was a golf course which was a big deal. Tombstone was over a hill to the west and Mexico was forty minutes south.
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 