This is our final judged event. Alicia and I are the judges.
Are you all familiar with flash fiction? Flash is ultra-short storytelling, complete with a protagonist, a conflict, and a resolution. It's focused, condensed, and often as delicious as a single bonbon. (There's a great article about it here if you want a more detailed definition.)
Your job today is to write a 300-word flash story. Your story can be on any subject, but you must use two of the three following words: short, track, or speed.
Post your entries in the comments before the Closing Ceremonies begin. Alicia and I will pick the winner.
Showing posts with label Pen Olympics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pen Olympics. Show all posts
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Heat #12: Freestyle Keying
Alicia says that voice begins with worldview and ends with word choice. Today's exercise gives you a chance to reflect on your worldview in a simple, black-and-white manner.
Use a kitchen timer so that you don't dawdle over this one. It can be very tempting to dwell and ponder and explore trains of thought, but this is just an exercise. The end result should be a bit of enhanced clarity of your personal worldview.
Take a pad of paper and draw a vertical line down the middle of the page. On the top of one column, write "Yes." On top of the other column, write "No."
The Yes column will be for things that make your creativity hum in a positively energized way. These are things that wake you up. Things that excite your curiosity. Things guaranteed to make you stop and look twice. They might not always be pretty or charming or nice. But they will always call out to you, and you will always be drawn to them.
The No column is for things that raise your hackles. If you want to write a letter to the editor about it, it goes here. If you want to slap your Congressperson over it, it goes here. If you want to stop total strangers in public and let them know why they shouldn't do it, it goes here.
Set your timer for ten or fifteen minutes or so. Write quickly. Don't stop to think about whether anyone will approve of your choices. Nobody but you ever needs to see this list. This is personal self-exploration, for your eyes only.
List items in the Yes column until you can't think of any more, then switch to the No column. When you get stuck in the No column, switch back to Yes.
Don't worry about why a particular item makes the list. It can be irrational -- we all have pet peeves, after all. It can be mundane -- there's a reason we all cringe to see someone pick their noses and wipe it on their shirts, right? But the underlying reasons or values aren't important. All you really want is to write a list of things that make you buzz with emotion.
This list represents part of your worldview, the part that taps into your emotions and creativity. It's worth a few minutes to get all those things down where you can see them together, isn't it? Leave a comment about this exercise to be entered into the drawing for the Closing Ceremonies!
Use a kitchen timer so that you don't dawdle over this one. It can be very tempting to dwell and ponder and explore trains of thought, but this is just an exercise. The end result should be a bit of enhanced clarity of your personal worldview.
Take a pad of paper and draw a vertical line down the middle of the page. On the top of one column, write "Yes." On top of the other column, write "No."
The Yes column will be for things that make your creativity hum in a positively energized way. These are things that wake you up. Things that excite your curiosity. Things guaranteed to make you stop and look twice. They might not always be pretty or charming or nice. But they will always call out to you, and you will always be drawn to them.
The No column is for things that raise your hackles. If you want to write a letter to the editor about it, it goes here. If you want to slap your Congressperson over it, it goes here. If you want to stop total strangers in public and let them know why they shouldn't do it, it goes here.
Set your timer for ten or fifteen minutes or so. Write quickly. Don't stop to think about whether anyone will approve of your choices. Nobody but you ever needs to see this list. This is personal self-exploration, for your eyes only.
List items in the Yes column until you can't think of any more, then switch to the No column. When you get stuck in the No column, switch back to Yes.
Don't worry about why a particular item makes the list. It can be irrational -- we all have pet peeves, after all. It can be mundane -- there's a reason we all cringe to see someone pick their noses and wipe it on their shirts, right? But the underlying reasons or values aren't important. All you really want is to write a list of things that make you buzz with emotion.
This list represents part of your worldview, the part that taps into your emotions and creativity. It's worth a few minutes to get all those things down where you can see them together, isn't it? Leave a comment about this exercise to be entered into the drawing for the Closing Ceremonies!
Entries for the Wordic Combined Challenge
Here are the entries -- vote in the sidebar poll for your favorite! These are so clever that it might be hard to choose just one, so I've set the poll to allow multiple votes.
Entry #1: edittorment
The feeling you get when you're editing your manuscript and you realize the first draft needs a complete rewrite. (Also the feeling you get when you can't think of something for an EditTorrent challenge! LOL)
Entry #2: Mysterotica
Entry #3: Horromance
2 and 3 are new genres sure to inspire great stories.
Entry #4: schadenfreudanista
(n) A person who finds glee in the misfortune of others.
Entry #5: bitchwell
Created in honor of the entrant's neighbor.
Entry #1: edittorment
The feeling you get when you're editing your manuscript and you realize the first draft needs a complete rewrite. (Also the feeling you get when you can't think of something for an EditTorrent challenge! LOL)
Entry #2: Mysterotica
Entry #3: Horromance
2 and 3 are new genres sure to inspire great stories.
Entry #4: schadenfreudanista
(n) A person who finds glee in the misfortune of others.
Entry #5: bitchwell
Created in honor of the entrant's neighbor.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Heat #11: Pro-Boarding
Today we're going to put a new spin on the notion that success breeds success. Instead of looking to your own successes and building on them, we're going to examine what other successful writers do, and how they do it.
When do they write? Do they have daily page goals? Do they have rituals? Do they create rules for themselves?
I think that if you want to be successful, you look at what successful people do, and then you do that, too. You might find you need to refine their methods to suit your particular needs. You might find multiple methods and choose between them. Perhaps Annie Author locks herself in her attic office every morning, and doesn't emerge until she has written a thousand words. Perhaps Wrobert Writer spends months researching his subject and doesn't set pen to paper until the research is done. Whatever methods they choose, those methods have led to success. Why did the method work? How does that habit breed success?
In the comments, tell us a habit you learned from a successful writer, and tell us why you think that has contributed to the writer's success. Everyone who comments will be entered in the drawing for prizes, which will be awarded at the Closing Ceremony.
When do they write? Do they have daily page goals? Do they have rituals? Do they create rules for themselves?
I think that if you want to be successful, you look at what successful people do, and then you do that, too. You might find you need to refine their methods to suit your particular needs. You might find multiple methods and choose between them. Perhaps Annie Author locks herself in her attic office every morning, and doesn't emerge until she has written a thousand words. Perhaps Wrobert Writer spends months researching his subject and doesn't set pen to paper until the research is done. Whatever methods they choose, those methods have led to success. Why did the method work? How does that habit breed success?
In the comments, tell us a habit you learned from a successful writer, and tell us why you think that has contributed to the writer's success. Everyone who comments will be entered in the drawing for prizes, which will be awarded at the Closing Ceremony.
Entries for Cold-as-Ice Hockey Challenge
Is there a doctor in the house? This poor guy is freezing to death!
Here are the entries for the "Cold-As-Ice Hockey" writing challenge. Vote in the poll at the sidebar for the one that makes you reach for your hot cuppa and favorite blankie. Because of the number of entries, we'll let you vote for more than one.
Entry #1: White-bitten.
Everything seemed crystalline now, white-bitten, harsh and elemental. He could no longer feel his fingers or toes, knew the tips were blackening—a steady dark encroaching on the pale, lifeless flesh that crowned his limbs. Grey light, wind-whipped, laced with furious flakes, seeped into his mind through crusted lashes. Leaden legs breasted the drifts as though they would not accept capitulation, pulling him forward one laborious step at a time, a passenger in his own body. The warmth had begun to bloom in his chest, cloying harbinger. All white mind and gritted teeth, he rejected surrender and leaned into the gale. So far away, the treeline... shelter... so far.
Entry #2: Seeing White.
White. All Matt could see was white. Curled in a fetal position, wind keened through him, struck his bone marrow like knives. Crystals gathered on his eyelids, but he had no energy to strike them away. Matt heard bells. He stumbled to his feet, shambled in the deep drifts after the sound. After only a few steps, he collapsed. He drifted into sleep, jerked awake as heat coursed through his body. Matt tore off his parka. Stinging air hit his skin. Recognition hit. Hypothermia had set in. Sleep, and soon death, overtook him.
Entry #3: Glove on Fencepost.
His glove stuck to the fence post, ripping off a layer of leather when he pulled free. The wind leeched warmth from his exposed skin, stinging, hurting and then different, hot, blistering hot to make him sleepy. White swirled around him, easing him into a cocoon of forgetfulness. Nothing to see, but the dense wall of whiteness—no trees; no stars; no help and no light for him until the sun came up. He had come so far, surely he would be safe to sit down for just a moment? The white mound was soft and he scooped out a space for his body. So sleepy now. He would just shut his eyes for a moment.
Entry #4: Not a Bad Way to Go.
When he'd dug this cave, his hands could still move and ache, even with the waterproof mittens. Now the mittens kept him from thinking about his blackened fingers. He'd given up on exercise days ago—too weak and clumsy to stimulate blood flow. The pain and the shaking had left. He knew what it meant. It was time—possibly the last time. Hand over useless hand, he clawed over the packed white crystals to the mouth of the cave, pushing himself just to inch along. Finally, the white tunnel began to glow with surface light. He closed his eyes against the reflected glare; his burning thighs gave out. His wind-burned cheeks didn't feel any warmer as he sank to the floor, but the rest of him did. He pulled his legs to his chest. He was actually comfortable enough to sleep. Not a bad way to go.
Entry #5: Blood Clumping.
His blood began clumping in his veins, heart sluggish. Legs granite, arms tucked in close to his chest, the man dared not cry tears destined to still on his immobile cheeks. The wilderness enveloped him in indifference, a slight breeze blowing in the bleak, stinging night. He knew too well the land was a most apathetic mistress. She cared not for his life, not for his dreams. When he capitulated, returning to the inhospitable ground he laid on, the man would render his final tally.
Entry #6: Prayer for the Wolves.
Jake wrapped the tattered blanket around himself tighter to preserve as much warmth as he could. Tonight the mountain wolves were the least of his worries. Not even they could stand these conditions. The skin on his knuckles cracked, the blood hardening as it came in contact with the air. His whole body was tight, dry and papery fragile.
His lips fused together, he couldn’t open his mouth to scream for help. His joints were too stiff to move.
His eyes watered and a biting sensation shot through them as the moisture solidified. He tried to close his eyes against the pain, but the lack of lubricate caused his lids to fold in on themselves just as the night’s wind sent a vicious current whipping around him. A groan escaped him.
How much longer could he survive like this?
Jake clenched his cracked fists and prayed for the wolves.
Entry #7: Tundra Sky.
Karl watched the tundra sky staring down at him, the perfect black dotted with perfectly white stars. He remembered that he should get up, get moving. Then he remembered that the last time he had tried to get up he had discovered that he couldn’t move anymore – his hands and feet were already too dead from frostbite to support the rest of him. They would shatter if he moved. That was all right. His teeth had stopped chattering, and he felt peaceful. He remembered how in Grade 4 he had studied the Antarctic explorers. The men had written in their diaries that dying this way was nothing to fear. They said it was like going to sleep. Karl did feel sleepy. He watched the tundra sky staring down at him. He remembered to get up. He remembered he couldn’t. The sky had stars in it. He closed his eyes.
Entry #8: No feeling.
Jake couldn't feel his feet. Or his hands. They had finally stopped hurting. He almost felt warmer. So sleepy. He wasn't supposed to sleep, but he couldn't remember why. So confused. Why was he lying down in the white fluff? Must have fallen. He should get back up, but his stiff joints wouldn't cooperate. Why was he here? Hunting, that was it. A Christmas trip into the high Sierra. Bob broke his leg. Phone didn't work. Had to get help. Trudged through deep drifts for hours. Too sweaty, too tired. The sweat hadn't stayed warm. Stumbled and fell. Had to get up, had to keep going. But it would be so much warmer if he slept. Maybe just a short rest. He let his eyelids droop.
Entry #9: The End Was Here.
The end was coming. He could feel it. In one of life’s great ironies, dying on the tundra strangely felt like slowly burning to death, as human nerve endings can’t differentiate between extreme temperatures. But his skin had long ago passed the stage of blistering pain. Now, each step across the wasteland took more effort, his muscles refusing to work properly. He’d never make it to the promised warmth of the substation. Was he even going in the right direction anymore? He couldn’t tell. The relentless wind had cemented his tear-streaked eyelashes together. But he had no choice except to keep trying, pushing himself upright with every stagger into the deep powder. His breath seared his lungs as he gasped, open-mouthed, unable to draw air through his crusted nostrils. Another step – a stumble to his hands and knees. His last. The end was here.
Entry #10: Afraid to Shatter.
He was stiff. Afraid to fall. Afraid he’d shatter. Like glass thrown against the pavement. Except there was no road ahead. Only an opaque sky that fell to the ground in crisp white layers crunching beneath his feet and burning his soaked-through soles to the bone. A solid blast pierced him to the core and embraced his insides within its deceptive warmth. A siren’s call echoed in his mind, whispering like the towering pines that dizzily swayed overhead: You’re weary, take shelter from the storm. Rest. Lie down within the scattered wreathes of powder, shimmering like clouds dusted by a thousand diamonds. So beautiful. So inviting. Maybe for just a moment he could share in the radiance. He was tired. Too tired. He sank into the pristine oblivion and let the cunning maiden, wrapped in her blanket of white, lull him into eternal sleep.
Entry #11: Hand-Cranked Movies.
He sits, drowsy and heavy-lidded, watching the deer move closer as they browse on tufts of brown grass barely breaking the heavy, white cover. Thoughts come in slow motion like an old movie cranked by hand. He holds up his right hand, the tips of his fingers an aching grey, and puts them to his lips to let the warm air glide over them, hoping they will stop hurting soon. There are no sounds near, no civilized sounds. He knows his perceptions are dulled, tempting him down the giving-up path. He can’t care anymore. He just wants sleep, gentle sleep, to show him the way home.
Entry #12: Blank Landscape.
Andrew leaned back against the tree. It was too small, shaking with his every movement, sprinkling white powder over him, making gentle mounds across his shoulders and head. Mounds he couldn’t find the energy to push off. He should have chosen a larger tree; a more solid one. Maybe a tree that kept had enough leaves to provide some small protection from the wind, though that wasn’t really the biggest threat right then.
The real threat was exhaustion. He knew it. He should still be walking, but he couldn't seem to convince himself to stand back up. The danger fluttered across the front of his mind, but it really didn’t matter as much as it should. One more hill. One more valley. One more step. He hadn’t been lost too long, he could still make it. All he had to do was stand.
Stand up. Walk.
And he would.
Soon.
Entry #13: George and Tilly
George stamped along the tracks. The pale light was fading fast. He trudged on, knowing Tilly was right, he should never have left. The wind whistled through his layers of clothes. George stumbled, striking his knees on the jagged ruts he'd followed for hours with dwindling hope. Thick brown scrub-grass poked through the rubble crust of the track's edge. He rolled over and sat, taking advantage of the spiky insulation. So this was the end. He pulled his arms around his knees. Tilly used to talk about dying like this, said the last thing you remembered was sleepy contentment. George pursed his cracked lips in an attempt to whistle, but no sound came. He hummed a sad tune that Tilly sometimes played. Maybe Tilly was playing that fiddle now in front of the campfire, a mug of whiskey next to him. George smiled at the thought and closed his eyes.
Entry #14: Seductive Lethargy
A seductive lethargy was seeping through his bones. “Must stay awake,” the man whispered to himself through cracked lips, fumbling for a match with stiff, unresponsive fingers. He barely noticed as the biting wind tore into his thin protective awning. The canvas ripped away, a ragged flag fluttering in the desolate landscape marking the narrow trench he had scraped out of the hard earth hours earlier. The man lay curled like a foetus around the empty shell of an oil lamp, which had long since guttered into darkness. White flakes whirled around him, softly settling in the shallow hole, dusting his hair and eyelashes. He knew the matches must be in his pocket, but his hands were no longer sensitive to touch. He could no longer remember why he had wanted them. Light.... warmth... it no longer seemed important. His mind drifted.
Here are the entries for the "Cold-As-Ice Hockey" writing challenge. Vote in the poll at the sidebar for the one that makes you reach for your hot cuppa and favorite blankie. Because of the number of entries, we'll let you vote for more than one.
Entry #1: White-bitten.
Everything seemed crystalline now, white-bitten, harsh and elemental. He could no longer feel his fingers or toes, knew the tips were blackening—a steady dark encroaching on the pale, lifeless flesh that crowned his limbs. Grey light, wind-whipped, laced with furious flakes, seeped into his mind through crusted lashes. Leaden legs breasted the drifts as though they would not accept capitulation, pulling him forward one laborious step at a time, a passenger in his own body. The warmth had begun to bloom in his chest, cloying harbinger. All white mind and gritted teeth, he rejected surrender and leaned into the gale. So far away, the treeline... shelter... so far.
Entry #2: Seeing White.
White. All Matt could see was white. Curled in a fetal position, wind keened through him, struck his bone marrow like knives. Crystals gathered on his eyelids, but he had no energy to strike them away. Matt heard bells. He stumbled to his feet, shambled in the deep drifts after the sound. After only a few steps, he collapsed. He drifted into sleep, jerked awake as heat coursed through his body. Matt tore off his parka. Stinging air hit his skin. Recognition hit. Hypothermia had set in. Sleep, and soon death, overtook him.
Entry #3: Glove on Fencepost.
His glove stuck to the fence post, ripping off a layer of leather when he pulled free. The wind leeched warmth from his exposed skin, stinging, hurting and then different, hot, blistering hot to make him sleepy. White swirled around him, easing him into a cocoon of forgetfulness. Nothing to see, but the dense wall of whiteness—no trees; no stars; no help and no light for him until the sun came up. He had come so far, surely he would be safe to sit down for just a moment? The white mound was soft and he scooped out a space for his body. So sleepy now. He would just shut his eyes for a moment.
Entry #4: Not a Bad Way to Go.
When he'd dug this cave, his hands could still move and ache, even with the waterproof mittens. Now the mittens kept him from thinking about his blackened fingers. He'd given up on exercise days ago—too weak and clumsy to stimulate blood flow. The pain and the shaking had left. He knew what it meant. It was time—possibly the last time. Hand over useless hand, he clawed over the packed white crystals to the mouth of the cave, pushing himself just to inch along. Finally, the white tunnel began to glow with surface light. He closed his eyes against the reflected glare; his burning thighs gave out. His wind-burned cheeks didn't feel any warmer as he sank to the floor, but the rest of him did. He pulled his legs to his chest. He was actually comfortable enough to sleep. Not a bad way to go.
Entry #5: Blood Clumping.
His blood began clumping in his veins, heart sluggish. Legs granite, arms tucked in close to his chest, the man dared not cry tears destined to still on his immobile cheeks. The wilderness enveloped him in indifference, a slight breeze blowing in the bleak, stinging night. He knew too well the land was a most apathetic mistress. She cared not for his life, not for his dreams. When he capitulated, returning to the inhospitable ground he laid on, the man would render his final tally.
Entry #6: Prayer for the Wolves.
Jake wrapped the tattered blanket around himself tighter to preserve as much warmth as he could. Tonight the mountain wolves were the least of his worries. Not even they could stand these conditions. The skin on his knuckles cracked, the blood hardening as it came in contact with the air. His whole body was tight, dry and papery fragile.
His lips fused together, he couldn’t open his mouth to scream for help. His joints were too stiff to move.
His eyes watered and a biting sensation shot through them as the moisture solidified. He tried to close his eyes against the pain, but the lack of lubricate caused his lids to fold in on themselves just as the night’s wind sent a vicious current whipping around him. A groan escaped him.
How much longer could he survive like this?
Jake clenched his cracked fists and prayed for the wolves.
Entry #7: Tundra Sky.
Karl watched the tundra sky staring down at him, the perfect black dotted with perfectly white stars. He remembered that he should get up, get moving. Then he remembered that the last time he had tried to get up he had discovered that he couldn’t move anymore – his hands and feet were already too dead from frostbite to support the rest of him. They would shatter if he moved. That was all right. His teeth had stopped chattering, and he felt peaceful. He remembered how in Grade 4 he had studied the Antarctic explorers. The men had written in their diaries that dying this way was nothing to fear. They said it was like going to sleep. Karl did feel sleepy. He watched the tundra sky staring down at him. He remembered to get up. He remembered he couldn’t. The sky had stars in it. He closed his eyes.
Entry #8: No feeling.
Jake couldn't feel his feet. Or his hands. They had finally stopped hurting. He almost felt warmer. So sleepy. He wasn't supposed to sleep, but he couldn't remember why. So confused. Why was he lying down in the white fluff? Must have fallen. He should get back up, but his stiff joints wouldn't cooperate. Why was he here? Hunting, that was it. A Christmas trip into the high Sierra. Bob broke his leg. Phone didn't work. Had to get help. Trudged through deep drifts for hours. Too sweaty, too tired. The sweat hadn't stayed warm. Stumbled and fell. Had to get up, had to keep going. But it would be so much warmer if he slept. Maybe just a short rest. He let his eyelids droop.
Entry #9: The End Was Here.
The end was coming. He could feel it. In one of life’s great ironies, dying on the tundra strangely felt like slowly burning to death, as human nerve endings can’t differentiate between extreme temperatures. But his skin had long ago passed the stage of blistering pain. Now, each step across the wasteland took more effort, his muscles refusing to work properly. He’d never make it to the promised warmth of the substation. Was he even going in the right direction anymore? He couldn’t tell. The relentless wind had cemented his tear-streaked eyelashes together. But he had no choice except to keep trying, pushing himself upright with every stagger into the deep powder. His breath seared his lungs as he gasped, open-mouthed, unable to draw air through his crusted nostrils. Another step – a stumble to his hands and knees. His last. The end was here.
Entry #10: Afraid to Shatter.
He was stiff. Afraid to fall. Afraid he’d shatter. Like glass thrown against the pavement. Except there was no road ahead. Only an opaque sky that fell to the ground in crisp white layers crunching beneath his feet and burning his soaked-through soles to the bone. A solid blast pierced him to the core and embraced his insides within its deceptive warmth. A siren’s call echoed in his mind, whispering like the towering pines that dizzily swayed overhead: You’re weary, take shelter from the storm. Rest. Lie down within the scattered wreathes of powder, shimmering like clouds dusted by a thousand diamonds. So beautiful. So inviting. Maybe for just a moment he could share in the radiance. He was tired. Too tired. He sank into the pristine oblivion and let the cunning maiden, wrapped in her blanket of white, lull him into eternal sleep.
Entry #11: Hand-Cranked Movies.
He sits, drowsy and heavy-lidded, watching the deer move closer as they browse on tufts of brown grass barely breaking the heavy, white cover. Thoughts come in slow motion like an old movie cranked by hand. He holds up his right hand, the tips of his fingers an aching grey, and puts them to his lips to let the warm air glide over them, hoping they will stop hurting soon. There are no sounds near, no civilized sounds. He knows his perceptions are dulled, tempting him down the giving-up path. He can’t care anymore. He just wants sleep, gentle sleep, to show him the way home.
Entry #12: Blank Landscape.
Andrew leaned back against the tree. It was too small, shaking with his every movement, sprinkling white powder over him, making gentle mounds across his shoulders and head. Mounds he couldn’t find the energy to push off. He should have chosen a larger tree; a more solid one. Maybe a tree that kept had enough leaves to provide some small protection from the wind, though that wasn’t really the biggest threat right then.
The real threat was exhaustion. He knew it. He should still be walking, but he couldn't seem to convince himself to stand back up. The danger fluttered across the front of his mind, but it really didn’t matter as much as it should. One more hill. One more valley. One more step. He hadn’t been lost too long, he could still make it. All he had to do was stand.
Stand up. Walk.
And he would.
Soon.
Entry #13: George and Tilly
George stamped along the tracks. The pale light was fading fast. He trudged on, knowing Tilly was right, he should never have left. The wind whistled through his layers of clothes. George stumbled, striking his knees on the jagged ruts he'd followed for hours with dwindling hope. Thick brown scrub-grass poked through the rubble crust of the track's edge. He rolled over and sat, taking advantage of the spiky insulation. So this was the end. He pulled his arms around his knees. Tilly used to talk about dying like this, said the last thing you remembered was sleepy contentment. George pursed his cracked lips in an attempt to whistle, but no sound came. He hummed a sad tune that Tilly sometimes played. Maybe Tilly was playing that fiddle now in front of the campfire, a mug of whiskey next to him. George smiled at the thought and closed his eyes.
Entry #14: Seductive Lethargy
A seductive lethargy was seeping through his bones. “Must stay awake,” the man whispered to himself through cracked lips, fumbling for a match with stiff, unresponsive fingers. He barely noticed as the biting wind tore into his thin protective awning. The canvas ripped away, a ragged flag fluttering in the desolate landscape marking the narrow trench he had scraped out of the hard earth hours earlier. The man lay curled like a foetus around the empty shell of an oil lamp, which had long since guttered into darkness. White flakes whirled around him, softly settling in the shallow hole, dusting his hair and eyelashes. He knew the matches must be in his pocket, but his hands were no longer sensitive to touch. He could no longer remember why he had wanted them. Light.... warmth... it no longer seemed important. His mind drifted.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Heat #10: Wordic Combined
Shakespeare created as many as 1,700 new words for our English language.Today, you get to follow in his footsteps and make a new word, too.
Take two existing English words which commonly exist in most people's vocabularies.
Combine them into a new term. The meaning of this new term must be clear and easy to grasp upon first reading.
Example: Shakespeare gave us coldblooded, moonbeam, and skim milk.
(He also gave us Olympian. Huh. What a coincidence.)
This is a judged event. Enter more than once if you wish, but get your entries in no later than February 26 at noon central time. Mail them to edittorrent at gmail dot com. Polling will go live at the deadline and will continue until just before the Closing Ceremonies.
Take two existing English words which commonly exist in most people's vocabularies.
Combine them into a new term. The meaning of this new term must be clear and easy to grasp upon first reading.
Example: Shakespeare gave us coldblooded, moonbeam, and skim milk.
(He also gave us Olympian. Huh. What a coincidence.)
This is a judged event. Enter more than once if you wish, but get your entries in no later than February 26 at noon central time. Mail them to edittorrent at gmail dot com. Polling will go live at the deadline and will continue until just before the Closing Ceremonies.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Heat #9: Figure Stating
Today we're going to build on the Skeleton from Heat #6.
This is not a judged event, but everyone who comments about it will be entered into the prize drawing.
You already know your new character's age, gender, social roles, and mannerisms. Today, your job is to use that information to build a physical description of the character. Think closely about how these factors might influence physical characteristics. Your aim is not to list the merely visual, but to understand how a confluence of factors might allow you to create a visually coherent character. For example, does your 16-year-old fry cook have bad skin? Burn marks on his hands? A slight paunch from all the fries he sneaks? Or does your 16-year-old fry cook have a serious light to his brown eyes and a bankbook perpetually tucked into his back pocket?
You can take the same set of facts and slant them toward very different descriptions. Your goal is to find a description that is meaningful.
This is not a judged event, but everyone who comments about it will be entered into the prize drawing.
You already know your new character's age, gender, social roles, and mannerisms. Today, your job is to use that information to build a physical description of the character. Think closely about how these factors might influence physical characteristics. Your aim is not to list the merely visual, but to understand how a confluence of factors might allow you to create a visually coherent character. For example, does your 16-year-old fry cook have bad skin? Burn marks on his hands? A slight paunch from all the fries he sneaks? Or does your 16-year-old fry cook have a serious light to his brown eyes and a bankbook perpetually tucked into his back pocket?
You can take the same set of facts and slant them toward very different descriptions. Your goal is to find a description that is meaningful.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Heat #8: Cold-as-Ice Hockey
They say that Eskimos have like eleventy squillion words for snow and cold.
Today, you're banned from using any of them.
Your task: Write one vivid and evocative paragraph (not to exceed 150 words) depicting a man on the verge of freezing to death in the wilderness.
The catch: You cannot use any of the following words:
Cold, frozen, arctic, bitter, cool, freezing, frigid, frosty, glacial, ice-cold, icy, nipping, nippy, numb, numbing, polar, shivery, shiver, shivering, winter, wintry, subfreezing, subzero, zero, chill, chilled, cooled, frosted, iced, ice, snow, refrigerated, unheated
This is a judged round. Send your entries to edittorrent at gmail dot com. Entries will be posted anonymously on the 24th, and voting will remain open until just before the Closing Ceremonies. Have some fun with this one! Make us really shiver!
Today, you're banned from using any of them.
Your task: Write one vivid and evocative paragraph (not to exceed 150 words) depicting a man on the verge of freezing to death in the wilderness.
The catch: You cannot use any of the following words:
Cold, frozen, arctic, bitter, cool, freezing, frigid, frosty, glacial, ice-cold, icy, nipping, nippy, numb, numbing, polar, shivery, shiver, shivering, winter, wintry, subfreezing, subzero, zero, chill, chilled, cooled, frosted, iced, ice, snow, refrigerated, unheated
This is a judged round. Send your entries to edittorrent at gmail dot com. Entries will be posted anonymously on the 24th, and voting will remain open until just before the Closing Ceremonies. Have some fun with this one! Make us really shiver!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Heat #7: Biothlon, Take Two
In the Opening Ceremonies, we asked you what your "parade moment" would be. At what moment will you know, right down to the tips of your toes, that all your hope and faith in yourself has been justified?
Your Heat task today is to write the author bio which will be true when you experience your parade moment. How many books will you have released by then? How old will you be? What does your daily life look like? What are your new career goals at this stage of your career?
Leave a comment about this exercise to get an entry in our drawing. Prizes will be awarded at the Closing Ceremonies.
Your Heat task today is to write the author bio which will be true when you experience your parade moment. How many books will you have released by then? How old will you be? What does your daily life look like? What are your new career goals at this stage of your career?
Leave a comment about this exercise to get an entry in our drawing. Prizes will be awarded at the Closing Ceremonies.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Checkpoint!
You should be halfway through your goals today. Are you?
It's a simple yes or no question. Post your answer in the comments.
No heat today. Your only task for today is to find your second wind and apply it to your goals. Push, baby! Work it! If you get over today's hump in good shape, then you can start thinking about the finish line!
It's a simple yes or no question. Post your answer in the comments.
No heat today. Your only task for today is to find your second wind and apply it to your goals. Push, baby! Work it! If you get over today's hump in good shape, then you can start thinking about the finish line!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Doggerel Sled Racing -- the Contestants
Take a gander at these, and then vote for your favorite in our sidebar poll. Polling will remain open until just before Closing Ceremonies.
Entry #1: Not Quite Haiku
A squall line of panic ushered in the winter storm.
Entry #2: Not Quite a Limerick
There once was a writer named Chance,
Who worked hard on her ‘I’m gonna be published’ dance.
She donned her best pearls,
And perfected her twirls,
But her prose, she gave not a glance.
Until, one fateful day,
A friend stopped by to say,
How goes the romance you have penned?
Did you to a publisher send?
To her horror and dismay,
She realized she’d gone astray!
Back to the drawing board she fled,
Her egocentric manner, did she shed.
It might have taken months to do,
But now she truly could pursue,
Her steamy romance to be read.
By some disapproving egghead!
Entry #3: Not Quite an Ode on a Grecian Game
The Olympics awaited!
Susanna rejoiced in her chair,
her breath was bated,
her nervous fingers sought her hair.
Would this be the year
her beloved sport of Snowball Fight
would on TV appear?
It might, it just very well might.
There it was - on TV!
A tie score, to the death, in overtime.
The Finals! Oh squee!
Any more excitement would be a crime.
But then, just as the players took their positions,
they interrupted the game
to show a tale of surviving an inquisition,
the survivor - a player they named.
Susanna threw the remote!
Who cares about this story of woe?
Fury from her eyes did smote.
For god's sake, get on with the show!
She stood up and swore:
Never again!
Passages of backstory are no more!
Never again!
I will stop my plot for exposition,
never again!
I have learned my lesson for fiction!
Never again!
Entry #4: Not-Quite-Heroic Quatrains
I'm really supposed to be writing
but you know, I have all day.
Reading blogs is so inviting
I'll pass just an hour this way.
I'm really supposed to be writing
but it's almost time for lunch!
and February cold is so biting
I *need* something to munch!
I'm really supposed to be writing
but it's so very hard to think.
Maybe if I try handwriting...
once I find just the right shade of ink.
I definitely need to start writing,
I shouldn't procrastinate
but Twitter just got exciting
Neil Gaiman's posting what he ate.
I meant to do lots of writing:
navigate storylines uncharted.
But blank pages are so uninviting,
I'm not sure how to get started.
Tomorrow I'll do lots of writing
I promise I mean it this time
My words will all be delighting
despite the evidence of this rhyme.
Entry #1: Not Quite Haiku
A squall line of panic ushered in the winter storm.
Entry #2: Not Quite a Limerick
There once was a writer named Chance,
Who worked hard on her ‘I’m gonna be published’ dance.
She donned her best pearls,
And perfected her twirls,
But her prose, she gave not a glance.
Until, one fateful day,
A friend stopped by to say,
How goes the romance you have penned?
Did you to a publisher send?
To her horror and dismay,
She realized she’d gone astray!
Back to the drawing board she fled,
Her egocentric manner, did she shed.
It might have taken months to do,
But now she truly could pursue,
Her steamy romance to be read.
By some disapproving egghead!
Entry #3: Not Quite an Ode on a Grecian Game
The Olympics awaited!
Susanna rejoiced in her chair,
her breath was bated,
her nervous fingers sought her hair.
Would this be the year
her beloved sport of Snowball Fight
would on TV appear?
It might, it just very well might.
There it was - on TV!
A tie score, to the death, in overtime.
The Finals! Oh squee!
Any more excitement would be a crime.
But then, just as the players took their positions,
they interrupted the game
to show a tale of surviving an inquisition,
the survivor - a player they named.
Susanna threw the remote!
Who cares about this story of woe?
Fury from her eyes did smote.
For god's sake, get on with the show!
She stood up and swore:
Never again!
Passages of backstory are no more!
Never again!
I will stop my plot for exposition,
never again!
I have learned my lesson for fiction!
Never again!
Entry #4: Not-Quite-Heroic Quatrains
I'm really supposed to be writing
but you know, I have all day.
Reading blogs is so inviting
I'll pass just an hour this way.
I'm really supposed to be writing
but it's almost time for lunch!
and February cold is so biting
I *need* something to munch!
I'm really supposed to be writing
but it's so very hard to think.
Maybe if I try handwriting...
once I find just the right shade of ink.
I definitely need to start writing,
I shouldn't procrastinate
but Twitter just got exciting
Neil Gaiman's posting what he ate.
I meant to do lots of writing:
navigate storylines uncharted.
But blank pages are so uninviting,
I'm not sure how to get started.
Tomorrow I'll do lots of writing
I promise I mean it this time
My words will all be delighting
despite the evidence of this rhyme.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Heat #6: Skeleton
Your Heat for today is a simple character or subject mapping exercise. Choose a new character or subject for this one. This is not a judged exercise, but everyone who comments will get another entry into the drawing for the prize awarded at the Closing Ceremony.
For your new character or subject, write down all of the following:
Congratulations! You've just outlined a character or subject, and you now have a skeleton which you can flesh out as you choose.
For your new character or subject, write down all of the following:
- Age. (Does the character's age create any physical, mental, or emotional characteristics?)
- Gender. (Ditto -- but go for non-obvious characteristics here.)
- Social roles. (Start with the main role(s) played by the character in the story, but then brainstorm the character's other social roles. Is your waitress also a student at the community college? A Meals On Wheels volunteer? A daughter, a girlfriend, a mom?)
- Mannerisms. (Include physical mannerisms, such as scratching an elbow, that might be unrelated to mood or emotion. Also include physical mannerisms that flow from internal states, but try to avoid the obvious such as smiling when happy.)
Congratulations! You've just outlined a character or subject, and you now have a skeleton which you can flesh out as you choose.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Heat #5: Cross-Query Skiing
Today's Heat is open to everyone. This is not a judged Heat.
Your task is simple. Using Query Tracker, Agent Query, Writer's Market, or any other reference tool you like, identify one editor or agent who takes the kind of work you write. This must be an editor or agent you haven't previously researched. You're looking for new terrain to explore.
Once you've identified this new-to-you agent or editor, find their website. (If your reference site doesn't have a link, use google.) Read their submissions guidelines. All the way through. No skipping of paragraphs allowed. If you choose, you may also take a moment to browse books they've repped or published to learn more about their preferences.
How easy was that? Leave a comment about today's Heat, and we'll enter you into the drawing to win a prize at the closing ceremony.
Your task is simple. Using Query Tracker, Agent Query, Writer's Market, or any other reference tool you like, identify one editor or agent who takes the kind of work you write. This must be an editor or agent you haven't previously researched. You're looking for new terrain to explore.
Once you've identified this new-to-you agent or editor, find their website. (If your reference site doesn't have a link, use google.) Read their submissions guidelines. All the way through. No skipping of paragraphs allowed. If you choose, you may also take a moment to browse books they've repped or published to learn more about their preferences.
How easy was that? Leave a comment about today's Heat, and we'll enter you into the drawing to win a prize at the closing ceremony.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Heat #4: Speed Scrivening
This is an easy one. Anyone can play. This is a judged event with prizes and bragging rights.
For those of you competing in the Drafting event, take a moment to imagine a scene you must write. No writing yet. Just daydreaming, but daydreaming with a focus. You want to give some thought to where they are, what must happen, what the dominant moods of the characters will be, and how they are thwarted in the context of the scene.
For those of you competing in Pre-Writing, choose whether to focus on character histories or plot summaries. Don't bother pre-thinking. You want all your words to get spooned up straight from the deepest part of the psychic soup bowl. No filtering or stirring allowed.
For those of in Submissions, this will be a chance to write a new synopsis. Don't review the old synopsis, if you've already written one. Just take a moment to think about your plot and refresh your memory about the order of events -- no peeking at the manuscript or outlines, though. You're aiming for only the key events, the parts you can remember most easily, the biggest moments in the plot. If you refresh your memory, you might get sucked into the quicksand of detail.
For those of you competing in Editing, pick a scene which is giving you trouble. Longish scenes with structural issues might be best suited for this exercise. (Too bogged down/not developed enough/action gets sidetracked/etc.) Read through the scene one time only. Then set it aside in some place where you cannot see it. This is important. You want to be working from a refreshed memory.
Next, everyone, go to the Write Or Die tool created by Dr. Wicked.
Set the time goal for 15 minutes.
Write as fast as you can until the time is done. Don't worry about word choices or spelling errors or other nits to pick. Your goal is to write fast and get a flow through the events. Don't let your hands stop moving!
Drafting -- write a new scene, as imagined.
Pre-writing -- get busy exploring your plot or characters.
Submissions -- write a new plot-based synopsis. No peeking at the old one!
Editing -- take another stab at that complex scene. No peeking at the old one!
After you're done, send your final word count to edittorrent at gmail dot you-know-what. Everyone who sends us their word count will be entered into the pool for prizes at the Closing Ceremony, and another prize will also be awarded once all entries are received. Get your entries in by midnight tonight, and we'll announce a winner tomorrow!
Ready, set, GO!
For those of you competing in the Drafting event, take a moment to imagine a scene you must write. No writing yet. Just daydreaming, but daydreaming with a focus. You want to give some thought to where they are, what must happen, what the dominant moods of the characters will be, and how they are thwarted in the context of the scene.
For those of you competing in Pre-Writing, choose whether to focus on character histories or plot summaries. Don't bother pre-thinking. You want all your words to get spooned up straight from the deepest part of the psychic soup bowl. No filtering or stirring allowed.
For those of in Submissions, this will be a chance to write a new synopsis. Don't review the old synopsis, if you've already written one. Just take a moment to think about your plot and refresh your memory about the order of events -- no peeking at the manuscript or outlines, though. You're aiming for only the key events, the parts you can remember most easily, the biggest moments in the plot. If you refresh your memory, you might get sucked into the quicksand of detail.
For those of you competing in Editing, pick a scene which is giving you trouble. Longish scenes with structural issues might be best suited for this exercise. (Too bogged down/not developed enough/action gets sidetracked/etc.) Read through the scene one time only. Then set it aside in some place where you cannot see it. This is important. You want to be working from a refreshed memory.
Next, everyone, go to the Write Or Die tool created by Dr. Wicked.
Set the time goal for 15 minutes.
Write as fast as you can until the time is done. Don't worry about word choices or spelling errors or other nits to pick. Your goal is to write fast and get a flow through the events. Don't let your hands stop moving!
Drafting -- write a new scene, as imagined.
Pre-writing -- get busy exploring your plot or characters.
Submissions -- write a new plot-based synopsis. No peeking at the old one!
Editing -- take another stab at that complex scene. No peeking at the old one!
After you're done, send your final word count to edittorrent at gmail dot you-know-what. Everyone who sends us their word count will be entered into the pool for prizes at the Closing Ceremony, and another prize will also be awarded once all entries are received. Get your entries in by midnight tonight, and we'll announce a winner tomorrow!
Ready, set, GO!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Heat #3: Doggerel Sled Racing
This is a judged event, and it's open to all Pen Olympics Team members.
Doggerel. adjective
For today's Heat, we invite you to write a short comic verse on the topic of writing, winter, or athletics. Send your entries to edittorrent at gmail dot you-know-what. Entries will be posted anonymously on the blog, and judges -- that's everyone who reads the blog -- will be invited to vote for their favorites. The winner will receive a special Medal graphic and wicked cool bragging rights.
Get your entries in no later than February 18, 2010. We'll post the competitors the following day.
Doggerel. adjective
Etymology: Middle English dogerel, probably diminutive of dogge dog
Date: 14th century
: loosely styled and irregular in measure especially for burlesque or comic effect; also : marked by triviality or inferiorityFor today's Heat, we invite you to write a short comic verse on the topic of writing, winter, or athletics. Send your entries to edittorrent at gmail dot you-know-what. Entries will be posted anonymously on the blog, and judges -- that's everyone who reads the blog -- will be invited to vote for their favorites. The winner will receive a special Medal graphic and wicked cool bragging rights.
Get your entries in no later than February 18, 2010. We'll post the competitors the following day.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Heat #2: Curling (Around His or Her Little Finger)
Today is the High Holy Day of Romance, so of course our Heat must have something to do with twoo wuv. Everyone is eligible to play this Heat.
For Team Fiction, choose a happily committed character in one of your stories. Romantic leads are a good choice, but certainly not the only choice.
For Team Nonfiction, choose an interview subject you can easily reach for a brief interview. Got any elderly relatives who would appreciate a phone call?
For Team Submissions or Team Drama, choose whichever method suits your project best.
Your subject or character must answer two questions:
By the way, I must give a tip of the hat to Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer, who inspired these questions with their brilliant romance, Agnes and the Hitman. Here's how Agnes might answer the questions:
Your turn!
For Team Fiction, choose a happily committed character in one of your stories. Romantic leads are a good choice, but certainly not the only choice.
For Team Nonfiction, choose an interview subject you can easily reach for a brief interview. Got any elderly relatives who would appreciate a phone call?
For Team Submissions or Team Drama, choose whichever method suits your project best.
Your subject or character must answer two questions:
- What was the most romantic thing your lover did for you that nobody else would have thought was romantic?
- Your lover is charmed by a trait of yours which everyone else finds annoying. What is that trait, and why does it charm your lover?
By the way, I must give a tip of the hat to Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer, who inspired these questions with their brilliant romance, Agnes and the Hitman. Here's how Agnes might answer the questions:
- He bought me an air conditioner. I can't believe he bought me an air conditioner. He saw that I needed it, and he went out and bought it. Just. Like. That. I was trying to pretend that he wasn't the right guy for me, what with him being a paid killer and all, but I was a goner as soon as he bought me that air conditioner.
- Okay, so I have this slight habit of assaulting people with kitchen implements. Frying pans are usually pretty handy, but meat forks are a great way to make a, er, point. Usually people tell me it's wrong to bash cheating boyfriends and other reprobates in the head with skillets (even if they're not cast iron!), but Shane didn't mind. He did disarm me a couple of times, but that might have been just so I wouldn't get blood on my Cranky Agnes apron.
Your turn!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Heat #1: Biothlon
We thought it would be fun to do Heats just like real athletes. Each day during the Olympics, we'll post a Heat exercise. None of these exercises should swallow all your writing time (unless you let it!), but I still want to urge you to put your Event goals first. Some Heats will be judged heats with rewards, and some will be just to help you build your creativity muscles and stretch your writing muscles.
Today's is in the second non-judged category, and it deals with your specific project. We're going to write a bio. (Get it, biothlon! When your words are shot with deadly accuracy! *teehee*) But this won't be an ordinary bio. Here's how to play:
Did you learn anything new about your character or subject? Did you find it difficult to look at your character or subject through a different lens?
Leave a comment about this exercise, and you'll be entered into a pool of pen athletes to win a prize at the closing ceremonies!
Theresa
Today's is in the second non-judged category, and it deals with your specific project. We're going to write a bio. (Get it, biothlon! When your words are shot with deadly accuracy! *teehee*) But this won't be an ordinary bio. Here's how to play:
- Choose a character you would like to know better. (For Team Nonfiction, choose an interview subject you've already interviewed at some length, or someone you know particularly well.)
- If your character/subject could meet anyone in history, living or dead, who would they choose to meet?
- Now here's the twist. Imagine your character/subject through the eyes of this historical person. From the POV of this historical person, write a short piece describing the character/subject and what it was like to be interviewed by that character/subject. How did the character/subject behave in the presence of such an important person?
Did you learn anything new about your character or subject? Did you find it difficult to look at your character or subject through a different lens?
Leave a comment about this exercise, and you'll be entered into a pool of pen athletes to win a prize at the closing ceremonies!
Theresa
Friday, February 12, 2010
Go!
The Parade of Athletes in the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics is one of my favorite events to watch. Period. I anticipate this with the same fervor as the Final Four, the season opener of Mad Men, or the first weekend of summer at the lake. It's that good.
Why? Why would anyone care about watching a bunch of athletes walk in a big circle and wave? They're not competing. Nothing is being scored or graded. So why care?
For many of those athletes, the Parade represents something magical. Think about all they sacrifice for the right to walk around in a circle. Day after day, year after year, they get up at oh-shit-hundred for the sake of their training schedules. They make their bodies hurt on purpose from exertion, and sometimes they break parts of themselves in the process. Because of the rules governing amateurism, they must hold down jobs and pay their own bills, and frequently pay for gym time and training and sparkly sequined skating dresses for many years before they make the Olympic teams. You think sequins are cheap? Yeah, not the good ones, and you basically need a new set of spangles for every competition.
They opt out of cable tv because they need the money for equipment, and anyway, they're never home to watch the box. When they travel home for family events, they worry about how many pairs of sweat socks to pack and how little control they'll have over their diets. They consult professionals and read medical journals for enhanced understanding of human ergonomics. It's almost like an obsession.
They work for it. For what? A teenage athlete chooses to forego the Friday night football game, even though his friends and that one cute girl from biology class will be there, and instead goes to the gym for an extra set of reps with the weights. Does he make this choice because he knows that someday he'll be in the Parade of Athletes? All he's really got to go on at this point is hope and faith in himself. He knows if he works hard and makes the right choices, he'll get a shot. Whether he'll make that shot is another question. But that hope and that faith can't exist without doing the work. The end results are beyond their control. But they control what they can, and their reward is internal.
You all have something in common with that athlete, that potential future Olympian. There's a long learning curve in fiction writing. Some of you get up very early in the morning to write. Some of you sit at your desks, BICHOKMOM*, until your muscles shake with the need for relief. You know what it's like to turn off the tv and get back to work. You know how to do your work even when it isn't fun anymore. You risk carpal tunnel and sitter's spread, and you hold down a day job in between writing sessions. Many of you even live on the special writer's diet of ramen, chocolate, coffee, and whiskey. Not that we recommend that.
You really can't know whether you'll ever get published, but if you write every day, and take the classes and join the crit groups and do the thousands of other things that can help you advance your craft, you get to dwell in hope. That hope may swell and crash at times, but it will always be there as long as you're doing the work. The work creates the hope, and the hope sustains the work.
Think about the nature of that hope when the Olympians parade and wave tonight. So many of them won't even get to compete, let alone stand on the podium. But this parade is the moment when hope reaches its zenith. The events themselves will be their opportunity to compete, the moment when all those years of physical exertion and struggle reach their culmination.
But that's the external. The internal, the hope and faith that they survived on for years, reaches its peak when they get to walk forth before the cheering hordes, in a TV shot seen around the world, and smile and wave. Watch their faces. Look for the bliss. It won't be hard to spot.
And then let it motivate you. You might live on corn chips instead of protein shakes, and in fuzzy slippers instead of sneakers, but you have a lot in common with those athletes. Find your hope, and hold fast to it while you do your work. Find your dream, the one that fills your heart -- maybe a book signing to a packed house, or a fan recognizing you on the street, or that magical day when you finally get to quit your day job. That will be your shining moment, your parade. There will be a lot of groans and pains between now and then. Forget about those. They're temporary. But that parade, that will stick with you forever.
What is your parade moment?
Theresa
*BICHOKMOM = Butt In Chair, Hands On Keyboard, Mind On Manuscript. Try it. :)
Why? Why would anyone care about watching a bunch of athletes walk in a big circle and wave? They're not competing. Nothing is being scored or graded. So why care?
For many of those athletes, the Parade represents something magical. Think about all they sacrifice for the right to walk around in a circle. Day after day, year after year, they get up at oh-shit-hundred for the sake of their training schedules. They make their bodies hurt on purpose from exertion, and sometimes they break parts of themselves in the process. Because of the rules governing amateurism, they must hold down jobs and pay their own bills, and frequently pay for gym time and training and sparkly sequined skating dresses for many years before they make the Olympic teams. You think sequins are cheap? Yeah, not the good ones, and you basically need a new set of spangles for every competition.
They opt out of cable tv because they need the money for equipment, and anyway, they're never home to watch the box. When they travel home for family events, they worry about how many pairs of sweat socks to pack and how little control they'll have over their diets. They consult professionals and read medical journals for enhanced understanding of human ergonomics. It's almost like an obsession.
They work for it. For what? A teenage athlete chooses to forego the Friday night football game, even though his friends and that one cute girl from biology class will be there, and instead goes to the gym for an extra set of reps with the weights. Does he make this choice because he knows that someday he'll be in the Parade of Athletes? All he's really got to go on at this point is hope and faith in himself. He knows if he works hard and makes the right choices, he'll get a shot. Whether he'll make that shot is another question. But that hope and that faith can't exist without doing the work. The end results are beyond their control. But they control what they can, and their reward is internal.
You all have something in common with that athlete, that potential future Olympian. There's a long learning curve in fiction writing. Some of you get up very early in the morning to write. Some of you sit at your desks, BICHOKMOM*, until your muscles shake with the need for relief. You know what it's like to turn off the tv and get back to work. You know how to do your work even when it isn't fun anymore. You risk carpal tunnel and sitter's spread, and you hold down a day job in between writing sessions. Many of you even live on the special writer's diet of ramen, chocolate, coffee, and whiskey. Not that we recommend that.
You really can't know whether you'll ever get published, but if you write every day, and take the classes and join the crit groups and do the thousands of other things that can help you advance your craft, you get to dwell in hope. That hope may swell and crash at times, but it will always be there as long as you're doing the work. The work creates the hope, and the hope sustains the work.
Think about the nature of that hope when the Olympians parade and wave tonight. So many of them won't even get to compete, let alone stand on the podium. But this parade is the moment when hope reaches its zenith. The events themselves will be their opportunity to compete, the moment when all those years of physical exertion and struggle reach their culmination.
But that's the external. The internal, the hope and faith that they survived on for years, reaches its peak when they get to walk forth before the cheering hordes, in a TV shot seen around the world, and smile and wave. Watch their faces. Look for the bliss. It won't be hard to spot.
And then let it motivate you. You might live on corn chips instead of protein shakes, and in fuzzy slippers instead of sneakers, but you have a lot in common with those athletes. Find your hope, and hold fast to it while you do your work. Find your dream, the one that fills your heart -- maybe a book signing to a packed house, or a fan recognizing you on the street, or that magical day when you finally get to quit your day job. That will be your shining moment, your parade. There will be a lot of groans and pains between now and then. Forget about those. They're temporary. But that parade, that will stick with you forever.
What is your parade moment?
Theresa
*BICHOKMOM = Butt In Chair, Hands On Keyboard, Mind On Manuscript. Try it. :)
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