#CloYoBloMo
My editor is not diggin’ my recent entries.
One tough critic
#CloYoBloMo
Well, Clog Your Blog Month has finally taken a toll. I have got to focus on one thing at a time.
Tito does not approve.
#CloYoBloMo
People in the world of writing and blogging are familiar with November being a motivational month. There is #NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and now there is #NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month.)
Presumably it is to encourage people to write every day and to end up with a full rough novel at the end of the month.
My friend, Mandy Brasher and I find it to be a little too daunting. We made our own writing prompt…#CloYoBloMo OR “Clog Your Blog Month.”
It is an impossible task, but I am finding ways to make time.
No time to stop writing!
Wacky Wednesday Writers Guest Post
One of the people I have met through attending the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop thrilled me by asking me to submit a guest post to her site. Marcia Kester Doyle is someone I admire and love for all her energy, zest and writing talents. She has accomplished a great deal and you should definitely check her funny blog out.
Right AFTER you read my piece called “Quiz Whiz.”
Thank you Marcia for the pleasure of being a part of your site. I am always touched by the support and love the writing community has for each other and you are one of the most generous among them.
Color Me a Writer
I have officially been interviewed, thank you Mandy Brasher!
It’s all up stairs from here…
Why do I write what I do?
I write humorous stories usually inspired by my own life. Call it creative-nonfiction or exaggerated bullshit, whatever. I am a firm believer in being able to laugh at just about anything, particularly when something goes wrong or breaks the routine. Routine is boring. Sliding down the basement stairs and taking pictures of the everchanging colors of the resulting ass bruise is funny. To me. So I share it with others. Because I have to use what I can. The next time a doctor asks the obligatory question, “Do you feel safe at home?” I can honestly answer, “No. My home has stairs.”
Yeah, that was the next day.
I call this, “Blood, Butt and Beyond.”
Definitely put my modeling career on hold.
How does my writing differ from others in its genre?
Not sure my writing does differ in this genre. I use my own voice and that’s about as different as it can be. In this case I use my own butt, and THAT is unique.
How does my writing process work?
My process is all over the place. Like my thoughts. I do write down any and all possible ideas that could be used at some point in the future or as a prompt. If an idea is worth it, I usually just start ruminating and organizing things in my head. Then I hit the keyboard.
My worst habit is correcting every little error as I write. I’m anal like that.(Only when it comes to writing, sorry Brad.) Then I keep rewriting until I’m satisfied enough to stop. Rewriting can be endless.
Ideally, it’s good to sit on something and come back to it to make adjustments. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Consistency is not my forte. Nor is patience. Maybe that’s why I choose to slide down the stairs, rather than take one step at a time.
What am I working on/writing?
I am currently working on query letters to agents for a children’s book I have written and reworked to death. I am determined to get it published by hook or by whatever method works.
Writing is hard. There, I’ve said it. But I simply love doing it. When I feel like it. See? No rules. Discipline is also not a forte. But I did get these questions answered and I think I deserve a medal just for that. Tito’s Time!
Name three blogs you like.
This is tough because there are way more than three. To be fair, I put names in a dog bowl and blindly selected so no one would be slighted. I’m sensitive like that. Because I see beauty in everything, as demonstrated by the art shot below the nominees.
The very funny, wry and talented, Astra Groskaufmanis.
The wickedly smart and sentimental, Sarah Hunt.
The “just as clumsy as me” and despicably funny, Michelle Lamarca.
Baby Buttluga
Dance Dunce
In one of our early moments as empty nesters, my husband and I were having an average, uneventful day when the song by Josh Turner “Why Don’t We Just Dance” comes on. Impossible to resist, I kick off my Crocs and dance.
Before Brad can get up from the kitchen table, I turn it into a mild burlesque aimed at him. I’m self-conscious, but Brad looks at me like I’m Jaime Lee Curtis in her dance scene from True Lies and he’s Arnold, so I pelvic thrust onward.
His face is rapt, while I’m forcing an out-of-body experience to get past my cellulite-awareness, hating those damn tabloids at the checkout that show horrible pics of celebrities in bathing suits, while posing the question, “Can you guess who these hot messes are?” (And I do have an Enquiring mind. Who doesn’t want to see a celeb who has helped create impossible standards fall? I like knowing they’re human. I like it even more if their lumpy backsides are more human than mine.)
As usual, my mind wanders while Brad’s hopes rise.
My body continues to writhe and work its way towards Brad, who is still seated, knowing he must savor every seductive move because this doesn’t happen every day decade. To his delight, my body moves in for a lap dance. I’m in full fantasy mode now and so is Brad. He glances toward our cluttered table and grabs the nearest scrap of paper to stuff down my pants like a high roller at the club.
“Yeah big Daddy, make it rain!”
He shoves the stiff paper where I rarely let the nightstand lights shine, and I lean in to tease him with a kiss, but the piece of paper bugs me, so I pull it out and start to wave it in the air, ‘like I just don’t care’, when my peripheral vision catches a glimpse of what it is.
Try as I might to stay in the moment, being ‘tipped for a strip’ with an AARP magazine ad insert is too ironic to miss. Guffaw.
“That is perfect! You really know how to flatter a girl.”
“It was the closest thing I could find. I didn’t want to stop the action.”
Professional as I may be, I cannot stay in character after this. The romance is gone, but it is my favorite fantasy-block ever and Brad is duly rewarded…right in his funny bone.
Still got it!
How Do You Spell Your Name?
Scene: the restaurant in the Dayton Marriott Sunday morning, at the end of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. I’m having lunch with good friend and fellow Ermatologist, Molly Campbell.
Waitress: Excuse me, but someone just asked if you would give them your autograph.
That’s funny. Who’s pulling my chain? (I start scanning the restaurant for one of my friends.)
Waitress: No. I’m serious. Here’s her name. It’s pronounced Heidi. “HAYDEE” is scribbled on a small torn piece of paper and she includes a separate paper for my autograph.
No way. Maybe because I did stand up last night?
Waitress: She says she saw you in a casino.
Uhhhh. No. I don’t work casinos.
Waitress: I’ll go get her.
Please do. I sign ‘Amy Sherman’ on a separate little piece of paper and add: ‘Please feel free to stop by, Haydee.’
To Molly: Oh this will be rich. Who do you think she thinks I am? Marlo Thomas?
Waitress comes back with a darling young woman. She’s also a server.
Me: Nice to meet you. Who did you think I was? Ann Miller? (Like this baby would know who that was.)
Haydee: No. Who would be next?
Me: I have no idea.
Haydee: Amy Schumer!
I jump up so excited: OMG, I LOVE her. Do you think I’d be sitting here if I was Amy Schumer? I’m so sorry to disappoint you.
Hysterical hugging.
Haydee: I overheard my co-worker when she was running your charge. (Remember, Amy Sherman.) So I’m like, ‘I LOVE her. And I saw her show recently at a casino.’ I peek around the corner and think, ‘Did she do something with her hair?’ But your face actually seems similar, so maybe you’re her mother?
You take that back! (Everyone around us in the restaurant really thinks something is happening. We’re making quite the commotion.)
I hand her my autograph with my business card.
“You are adorable. Please take my card because YOU are going to be in my next blog.”
Haydee proceeded to tell us how she once misunderstood a diner talking about chauffeuring film star Gina Davis around. So she starts asking all sorts of questions about her, tells how much she loves all of her movies, and wonders why she hasn’t seen much of her lately.
Soon after that she sees a beautiful blonde woman getting into the limo at the front of the hotel and it isn’t Gina Davis at all. Turns out it is Jenna Jameson, world renowned porn star and brilliant business person. Looking back at her conversation with the driver she bursts out laughing because all of her Gina Davis questions fit Jenna perfectly, while making Haydee look like a huge porn star fan.
She had more stories to share as well. Haydee made our day and we told her she should definitely be telling her stories. Erma would be proud.
And Molly will always remember dining with a beloved comedian. As she should.
Haydee, my first autograph seeker.
Easy mistake…Sherman/Schumer
Photo courtesy of Orlando Weekly
EBWW in a Nutshell
Everybody has a story to tell, and you must tell it.
Michele Lamarca, telling it like it is.
Do not wait for the glass slipper. Put your work shoes on and make your way.
Cathryn Michon, who is starting an industry revolution with “Muffintop: A Love Story” No Cinderella girl here.
Put your money where your mouth is and support creatives.
Mothers are the bomb. (good OR bad)
Mother Bear and Cub playing Hide and Seek by David Cardinal. National Wildlife Federation 2011.
Friends and support systems are critical.
Gemini Twins: Bonnie Jean and
We have to own it…I AM WRITER, HEAR ME ROAR!
- Anne Bardsley