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Posts tagged ‘writing’

Sep 16

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Bethany: I’ve been around

Really. I’m not dead. I’ve spent a night out drinking more glasses of wine than I have consumed in one year and I’m still paying for it. I’ve spent more hours in a car than one should in a given week. I’ve gained more responsibility at work that I care to even think about. And I’m considering weaning the Peanut sooner rather than later. I haven’t lost a single pound (maybe gained a few). And I bought a new shirt at Old Navy because I just wanted a new one.

Now that I got all that out of the way, I can give you the real scoop. The crap that I’ve been avoiding. I’m tired and still overwhelmed. That revelation no surprise to you? Me either. But I do know that the fact that I am not writing (and apparently drinking) is in direct correlation to the amount of tired and overwhelmed I am feeling. And it is a vicious cycle. For anyone that has tried to do something outside your comfort zone and takes a TON OF TIME… well you know you have to be dedicated. You have to love it. And, by God, you have to make room for it in your life. And as of tonight, I haven’t written a word in my novel in over 2 months. Maybe 3 if I am truthful about it. And it is killing me. Slowly. Softly. And hell, I cried a few tears over it last night at the bar (damn it! A crying drunk!).

But that embarrassment proves one thing. It really is bothering me that I am not writing. And I need to do something about it. Anything. So that I am not a blubbering idiot next time the Hubby and I decide to pay a sitter and go out (and have the Wine Flights at the local pub). Seriously people. By how much more did my geek factor climb because I was weeping over not writing at a bar? A BAR! [shaking my head] No need to tell me, I know how it sounds. And, regretfully, I know how it looks. Thank God my husband is also one who believes in dreams. And gets me. So, he just bought me a shot, gave me a hug, and told me he loved me. Then, as quick as I took that shot, I told him we needed to go home before I got sick.

So, today, after a bottle of ibuprofen and a long afternoon nap with the baby to rid myself of a hangover, I’m writing. Not the book (hell, that’s too much effort. I’m still recovering!). But at least a blog post. And a book review. I’m dusting off the virtual files for the book. So tomorrow, I can make grand plans. And write. I hope. But, let’s not let the doubt creep in. That just makes for more pressure. And right now, my head has all the pressure it can take (hangovers are a bitch).

[Cross-posted from Mommy Writer Blog. Thanks, Bethany!]

Sep 16

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Christa: Chances are

Freelancing over the last seven years has taught me foremost that you just never know. The most innocuous, even boring, opportunities might lead to the best ones…or they might not. The point is never to pass something up just because you don’t expect it to go anywhere. It might surprise you.

Five years ago I was assigned to write an article about cell phone forensics. At that time, no one knew much about it; I remember panicking because I had found exactly one source for the article, and he wanted to remain anonymous. Then one of my editors recommended the International High Tech Crime Investigators Association. I just needed one more source.

I can’t remember if my HTCIA source recommended the Sacramento Valley Hi-Tech Crimes Task Force by name, or if I Googled “cell phone forensics” (or something similar) and arrived at the site that way. I believe what happened next was that I emailed their generic address and hoped like heck they would get back to me (cops not being the most trusting of media). One investigator did, and ended up being tremendously helpful, someone I got along with better than I’d expected.

I didn’t expect him to keep in touch; only one other source has, and only because we reconnected on a site for crime fiction authors. (Ironically, I also interviewed her in 2003, for an article in the same issue. Her name’s Felicia Donovan; go check out her website.) But he did email me again, several times in fact, soliciting article ideas. Over time our professional relationship developed, and from there became more of a professional friendship. And that’s when we decided to collaborate.*

I don’t know what the chances were that he versus another investigator would have answered my email. Maybe he was on “media duty” that week, or maybe he was considered the “go-to” guy for media in general. The point is, if you get along well enough with a source or another creative person, don’t be afraid to follow up. Don’t think there are “boundaries” you need to respect; if you think they’re open to working more with you, ask. That’s what I did this past week, when another source dropped a few hints about writing such that I asked if he wanted to collaborate. He does, and we’re negotiating.

What’s my point? I have “chance” on the brain because I’m about to take a big one-not just the collaboration, but kicking off my freelance career as a whole once more. I’ve always been a “go with the gut” person, and my business has for the most part been successful for it. Still, I keep wondering what on earth I’m doing. I still have one (rather needy) child at home, and even though most of the sources I plan to work with have no problem hearing his little voice in the background, it’s a chance I’ve never taken before. But it, like the collaboration, feels like the right chance to take. And in my mind, that makes it worth the risk.

* I don’t mind dropping Felicia’s name, because she’s trying to sell books. However, my collaborator is still active in law enforcement and not trying to draw attention to himself. You can probably figure it out if you read enough of my articles, especially in upcoming months, but really high-tech crime — at least the way I write it — isn’t that terribly interesting!

Sep 15

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Brittany: The Artiste at Work

I am finished with my novel.

I wrote down the words, but it hardly seems real. Probably because my critique group hasn’t had the chance to sink its teeth into my novel yet. Some revisions will still need to be made. But beyond that, I also feel a deep sense of melancholy about its completion. It, and Sam, were both conceived in November 2005. I have centered my life around them. They were my soul reason for being these last two, now almost three, years.

But now Sam is two, and going to preschool. The book is finished. John is here. Could I have a better reminder that time marches on?

I feel like, as a writer, I have been a neglectful mother. While I am holed away with my laptop searching for comma splices, my boys are growing bigger every day. I really should go live in the world I’m writing about, and bring them with me. Sometimes I feel such enormous guilt. Have I done what I set out to do? Do my boys love language, and reading, and art? Are they creative and open to possibilities? Do they see the world as magical and everyday objects as things to explore? I often wonder…

Yesterday, I got a yes.

I was nursing John. Just one side. Just for a minute. I knew I shouldn’t leave Sam to play unattended, but the baby did need to eat. I figured, what can he get into in just a couple of minutes?

Bubbles.

I hear the word coming from the bathroom. I go to investigate. And this is what I found:

Sam had channeled Jackson Pollock and taken a half-full bottle of liquid soap and created a fabulous art display all over the bathroom vinyl. Then, he brought out his cars and furthered his artistic endeavors all over himself, the bathtub, and the bath mat. It was marvelous. It was horrifying. Like there are really enough hours in the day to clean up a mess of that magnitude?

I had to step back and look at it through his two-year-old eyes. What a thing of beauty is a bottle of soap? How easily it moves. How pretty it shines. You’ve got to hand it to the kid. He doesn’t lack for creativity.

And then I had an ephiphany. Maybe all that time I was fretting about being neglectful, it wasn’t really neglect at all. I was giving him space, and room to just be. What if I was actually a good role model, plugging away on my computer, creating my world of words, and leaving him to his exploration? Would Jackson Pollock have gotten anywhere if he wasn’t given time to experiment? Would I? Would anyone? Who knows, Sam may become an artist one day too, and for that I would gladly sacrifice a bath mat.

Sep 11

9 Comments

Kristine: The Quest for Balance and Sanity

Greetings! I’m excited and honored to join Creative Construction.

I’ve always been a Type-A personality, which has been a both a blessing and a curse my entire life. On the plus side, I’m extremely organized. On the negative side, I can be a tad neurotic. Okay, REALLY neurotic depending on the day. Just ask my husband.

When I had my first child in December 2007, I thought I could handle it all. I took a week off from work after I gave birth and then was back on the computer editing layouts the next week. (Being self-employed means no paid maternity leave, of course.) And I believed that after a few months of taking care of my baby, life would pretty much go back to normal.

It didn’t take me long to learn that “normal” was a concept that was going to change on a daily basis.

So I’ve changed big time. I’ve learned that if I can get a shower and dressed before lunch, it’s a good day, and if I can accomplish at least half of the things on my to-do list, even better. I’ve also learned that a day spent playing with my daughter and watching her smile is better than anything in the entire world.

I work part-time at home as a freelance technical magazine editor, moonlight as an aspiring novelist, and work full-time as a mommy and wife. There are days when I feel I can juggle it all. Then there are days when brushing my hair is an accomplishment and I question my sanity.

But underneath it all, I’m a writer. That’s the true core of who I am.

I write because it makes me feel alive. I write as a way to capture moments that I know I won’t remember in another year or two. I write as a way to escape reality and enter a world of my own control. I write as a way to reconnect with myself and make a difference. I write because I can’t imagine not doing so.

I leave you all with a quote that sums up the importance of writing in my life, one I heard from a published author during a writing conference I attended a few years ago and which has stuck with me ever since. The subject of the speech was motivation, and when this author was asked why she wrote fiction, she said simply, “I write to entertain, and while I may not be able to change the world, I may be able to change someone’s afternoon.”

It’s a pleasure to be here.

Sep 8

8 Comments

Kate: On Daily Writing

A couple of weeks ago, in an effort to catapult myself out of a summer-long funk, which I described here, I began getting up and going to the coffee shop to write each weekday morning. My husband’s job had slowed down enough for him to be home until 9 am, and this allowed me two hours (or 1 ½, as is usually the case) to write.

I needed this desperately. My husband’s job, which he began just three weeks after Zoë was born, meant long days (12-14 hours) and a number of road trips this summer. Stella was out of pre-school for the summer, and I spent my days juggling my girls. By the time I got them both to sleep in the evening I was too drained to think, much less write. (And I’ve never been a night writer. Sadly, I get progressively stupider as the day goes on, so I need to write in the morning if I want anything coherent on the page.)

I literally ran out the door the first morning of my new writing ritual, jumped in the car and drove to the nearest coffee shop, where I quickly ordered my coffee and set up shop. This is the same coffee shop where I wrote the bulk of Ready for Air, and I’ve spent countless hours there, glued to my computer. Because of this, I know most of the regulars, something I realized that morning when they all greeted me as if I had returned from a long journey (which, in a way, I had). The problem with all the greeting, though, was that I got very little writing done.

The next day was better because I had explained my 7-9 time slot, and when my coffee shop friends saw me again, we waved, smiled, and I got straight back to work. Let me repeat that: I got to work. I got to work. I can’t tell you how this—a few hours in the morning five days a week—has changed my outlook on life.

When I arrive back at home to a fussy infant (and a ready-to-start-the-day almost five-year-old), I smile. I kiss my husband goodbye as he heads out the door, nurse the baby, and plan what’s next with Stella. Don’t get me wrong, as the day wears on I still get frustrated and Stella still gets time-outs. My arms still ache from carrying my not-so-little Zoë. But I feel lighter. I feel more like myself. And this is because throughout the day, I think about my work, about the essay I’m trudging through, about what I might add to it the next day. It’s near the surface, and I love that, because it makes me think that my mind is working on it all day, even when I’m doing something as mundane as putting toys away. This reminds me of Miranda’s comment on my last post. She claimed that even laundry could be a creative act. Cathy and I scoffed a little. But this is exactly how I’ve felt the last two weeks: all those little, housekeeping, family-tending things I do everyday are now infused with creativity—they are enhanced by my writer’s mind, at work again.

Even when D has had to go on road trips and I’ve had to miss a couple of my writing days, I know I’ll get back to it as soon as he’s home, so I’m not constantly wondering when I’m going have time to write. And this is such a relief. I have a schedule. I know when I’m going to do my work.

There is also something to be said for not writing until I’m exhausted. Each day when I leave the coffee shop to head home, I’m reluctant to go. I feel I could write for another two hours—or four. It’s hard to leave my work, but this means that I’m always excited to get back to it the next day.

I just wanted to let you know that it’s working. I’m working again, and I feel so much better. I’m officially de-funked.

Sep 1

6 Comments

Alana: A new job

Life is all about phases. Once I was the burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-highly-motivated-successful-career-girl, and then I became the sleep-deprived-slobber-covered-breeding-feeding-weary-worn-stay-at-home-mum. And now, as of tomorrow, I will become — wait for it — a PART-TIME WRITER!!

OK, the full title is full-time-mum-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-time-writer, but when I’m asked I might just stick to the last part. A new phase in our lives begins, and although I mourn the loss of what we have, I run full speed ahead to a new life. For three years my toddler has been mine, and we have been free, but this week she begins playschool 5 mornings a week. I have cared for my baby constantly for the precious 15 months of her life, but now I will have a childminder to look after her three mornings a week. I’m scared and I’m a little sad. But, I am going to write. I can hardly contain my joy. I burst little sniggers from my mouth. My mind jumps from list to adoringly written list to decide what shall be my first task. I feel new life breathing into my fuzzy brain. It’s only ten hours a week, but they are MY ten hours. Mine all mine. Ten hours! How many words can I write in ten hours? How many emails can I send? How many blogs can I read? How many blogs can I write? How many articles can I devise, and pitch and write and send? How much money can I earn? OK, the answer to the last question is probably not very much, but who cares? Who cares when I have ten whole glorious, gluttonous, gigantic hours to write? My ‘business plan’ shines out like gold on my pin-board and I check and re-check my breakdown of hours.

I love being a mum. It’s everything I thought and 1,000 times more. But I miss me. And for ten whole hours I get me again. So fellow writers, as you settle down to work tomorrow, feel me in your ranks…. And listen out for the sound of my pencils being sharpened. It’s the first task on my list.

Aug 21

5 Comments

Cathy: The boys are back in town

My two sons, K and S have been away at their father’s for a solid month. This is the longest I’ve been away from them since, to be honest, FOREVER. I spent most of that time gardening, enjoying baby C and long relaxed walks with the dog, reading or writing by the lake, and sitting in front of my pc writing in my manuscript and ok, I admit it, surfing the web. Without having to constantly break up spats or redirect from tv, videos, video games, I was free to be lazy. I was good at it, too. If I absolutely didn’t have to get out of my chair, I didn’t. If the only interruptions I had were baby interruptions, that’s less than a third of the interruptions I usually have. It sure was quiet around here, too. Even my mother-in-law began to think it was too quiet. My boys make a lot of noise, especially S. An old friend of mine referred to him a number of years ago as ‘the wall of noise’ and she promptly stopped hanging out with us. I guess she didn’t want her kids to learn any new tricks.

Anyway. I missed them terribly, and I got used to the quiet. I wrote, and I enjoyed the freedom to do so. I almost felt like the post-collegiate promise of a writer I felt, well, post-collegiately.

The Coley Clan

The Coley Clan

We spent this weekend visiting my family in Connecticut, showing off the baby, getting grandparents and uncles and cousins time in with the boys, and we all had a great time once the boys were back in my domain. Here’s the whole Coley Clan. My parents, my two brothers and their gangs, and us.

Now we’re home. The house is turned upside down from paint job. All the furniture is in the garage, all the gewgaws, too. The walls and ceiling are beautiful, but boy do we have a lot of work. It’s like moving in all over again. Just two years ago, we moved twice. Once, into the area, then three months later, we moved into this house, and moved my mother-in-law into the house, too. Moving furniture and setting everything up again is not my idea of fun. Not this week, after Friday and Monday were spent, for about 12 hours average each, in the van.

Now we’re home, and the boys were so good while we stayed at my brother’s house. One of the first things that happened here was The Scream From Upstairs. The one that happens several times a day when K won’t let S into his room for some brother time or a lego raid. The one where S is just going to die if K won’t let him in. The one which if I’m being a good mom, I haul my butt out of my chair and go play field manager, break it up, find out how we can best go from here, resolve the conflict and redirect. The one which if I’m being a bad mom, or I’m nursing, I holler up the stairs for quiet, and when they come down, each pleading their case before me re: who started it, whose fault it is, etc, and I say, I don’t care, get away from me, if you can’t work it out, go to your rooms. And they stomp away whining a chorus of ‘it’s not fair’.

Then this afternoon, it took us awhile but we got out the door and went out to the neighborhood pool. I didn’t bring baby C there the whole time they were gone. She loves the water. The boys do, too. After all, they all take after their mother. Boy did we have fun, and it was relaxing. I didn’t write. Until now. Thank goodness baby C slept after the pool. By the way, S came over about six times to interrupt while I wrote this. K did so twice. Or was it three times? I’m so glad they’re home.

Aug 19

6 Comments

Kate: De-funking

[Editor’s note: When I read the post below at Kate’s blog yesterday, I knew it belonged here too. Kate graciously agreed to cross-post at Creative Construction, and she’s going to post here next week to update us on her new writing routine. Brava, Kate! And if you haven’t met Kate yet, it’s never too late for Breakfast.]

I’ve been in such a funk this summer, which is unlike me because I love summer. I love the green and the heat (within reason) and the long days. But the days have been so very long with the two girls, and I’m always scrambling to squeeze in one more thing. I have been taking Zoë with me to work for a couple of months now, and frankly, it doesn’t work. She usually falls asleep in the car on the way there, but she wakes up after about ½ hour, and then I nurse her and put her on the floor next to my desk or hold her as I type. I share the office, which is slightly larger than a broom closet, with two other people, and while they are gracious about my crying and fussy baby, I know that they must want to wring my neck or Zoë’s neck or both of our necks. So, after another ½ hour, I pack up my things and the baby and head home. Zoë sometimes falls asleep again on the way home, only to wake up as I pull up in front of our house. By the time I nurse her again and bounce her and get her ready to fall asleep for real (whatever that means), it’s time to go pick up Stella from whatever camp I’ve enrolled her in for the week. Sometimes Zoë falls asleep for a couple of hours in the late afternoon, during which I work a little and play with Stella. Later, we have dinner, Stella showers (she has declared herself too old for baths) and we read books before bed. All of these things are accompanied by Zoë’s fussing and crying and Stella’s late-afternoon whining. (Sometimes Zoë cries so much while I’m reading to Stella that I just put her in her crib in the other room and let her wail as we make our way through the three books of the night.) When I finally get them both to sleep (about 8:30), I pour myself a glass of wine and sit on the porch and stare out at the street, semi-comatose. This is when D usually gets home. We talk for a bit and often watch an episode of The Wire, which is fabulous and heartbreaking. Then I go to bed, wake up three times to nurse Zoë, then begin the day all over again.

Things will be easier in a couple of weeks because D won’t have to coach in the evenings anymore, so he’ll be home to help with dinner and kids and bedtime. Also, I’ll be done with my job in two weeks, and that will be a relief.

But the thing I can do in order to de-funk myself is to carve out serious writing time, and I’m determined to do this. D has agreed to go into work a little late so that I can write everyday from 7-9 a.m. It’s the only way I will make progress on the essay I’ve begun. I also need to dive back into my book because I finally figured out what it is really about. If I were one of my students, I would have pressured myself into this discovery about, um, a year ago, when I finished the damn thing. In workshops I always ask them to identify for the author what the piece is really about. But I failed to heed my own advice, failed to answer my own questions. (I hate when I do this.)

But this morning while I was changing Zoë’s diaper (after waking many nights feeling despondent about my “this is no market for this” book), I realized that the book is really about learning to live with uncertainty. Having a preemie is the situation, of course, but the real story is about uncertainty, control, and having faith that I will be able to handle the unexpected. (If you haven’t read Vivian Gornick’s The Situation and the Story, you should—she’s the one who makes the distinction between a memoir’s situation and its real story.) Knowing what the book is about won’t change the perception of my book as a preemie book, of course, but it will make the book better, and this makes me feel hopeful again.

The other thing that makes me feel hopeful is that D will be back tonight (he’s been gone all weekend), and tomorrow I’ll start my morning writing. It will help snap me out of my funk. I’m sure of that.

Aug 14

10 Comments

Cathy: Prior complaints

love me

Love me, love my mess! And Jen Johnson's Baby Friendly Beads, too! Know how I'm always saying paper org on the Monday Page? Check out the box behind me.

After my prior complaints of not feeling like I am writing enough and my excuses-disguised-as-reasons blogs, I took a couple of pages from Christa Miller’s comments and Suzanne Kamata’s Breakfast interview. I squeezed in a little writing in my novel this week. Granted, it was a little, and I hope a little more today. Baby C was post-nursing soundly sleeping on my lap, and my back was achingly curved toward the keyboard, but I wrote. Exactly as I am doing now.

When Suzanne mentioned that her most creatively productive time of her life came after she had her twins who came bundled up with lots besides being twins, I realized I had to get moving. When Christa said:

I think it’s very limiting to say one “can’t” write a novel in stolen minutes outside tap class. Every time someone says I “can’t” I say, “Oh yeah??” OK, so maybe you can’t WRITE A NOVEL that way… but you can draft scenes. You can outline. You can brainstorm characters. All of it counts.

I drank from her dare-me spirit. Somewhere this week I began to feel if I don’t write now, when will I? Baby C will be graduating from high school when I’m 60 years old. Do I start taking myself seriously about the writing and publishing then? Will I even be around that long? I’ve learned to live in the now so much, especially because of and from aspie S, that I put off an entire lifetime of predictions and goals or the working toward them until I have “me” time. Well, guess what. My boys have been out of town for over three weeks, and what have I done? Not nearly what I thought. The time slipped away from me with so much openness about it. I’m such a procrastinating dreamer. Well if I think about it, isn’t that writing, too?

So I hunkered down. I remembered a movie I love in which Stanley Tucci’s character befriends a ‘great writer’ played by Ian Holm. It’s called Joe Gould’s Secret. If you haven’t seen the movie, my apologies but here’s the spoiler: his secret was he never wrote the book he talked about for years, decades. He died incomplete.

I don’t want to die incomplete. I want to finish this youth novel. I want to finish other projects: a couple of screenplays, another novel, organize a lifetime of poems into submissions and slim volumes. I don’t want all to be said of me at my funeral is that I was a devoted mother. Oh, I want that, too, but I have so much more to say now and I don’t want to take my time for granted anymore. Ok, it’s time to get back to the book. Please, Baby C, stay asleep just a little while longer.

Aug 11

4 Comments

Writing advice from friends old and new

A few important reminders from writer Natalie Goldberg, artist and author of the uber-classic Writing Down the Bones. Like Julia Cameron, Goldberg asserts that writing is a basic element of connected existence for everyone, writers and non-writers alike.

Goldberg’s most recent book, An Old Friend from Far Away, was released in February. Old Friend is about writing personal memoir — exploring memories and connecting with the self in a way that opens doors for all who follow a creative path. I haven’t read the book yet, but Goldberg is certainly an “old friend” to many of us.

In this morning’s Boston Globe, novelist Allegra Goodman published the op-ed piece “So, you want to be a writer? Here’s how.” She advises against writing about yourself and advocates reading widely (of course) and finding a peaceful place to work (yeah, right).

And this is true for everyone, but especially for women: If you don’t value your own time, other people won’t either. Trust me, you can’t write a novel in stolen minutes outside your daughter’s tap class. Virginia Woolf declared that a woman needs a room of her own. Well, the room won’t help, if you don’t shut the door. Post a note. ‘Book in progress, please do not disturb unless you’re bleeding.’ Or these lines from Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which I have adapted for writing mothers: ‘. . . Beware! Beware! / Her flashing eyes, her floating hair! Weave a circle round her thrice, / And close your eyes with holy dread, / For she on honey-dew hath fed, / and drunk the milk of Paradise.’

Unfortunately, the “don’t bother me unless you’re bleeding” routine really isn’t appropriate for mothers with children under the age of six, to my mind. What do you think?

Jul 17

6 Comments

Cathy: Art is play

I know that Keri Smith’s Wreck this Journal has already been recommended on this site, but I feel compelled to endorse it as well. What a fantastic reminder that art is not perfection, as museums and literary and music critics would like us to think. I have a lifetime struggle with the idea that what I’m working on has to be perfect. This is probably my greatest obstacle to completing my myriad larger projects.

Upon reading Miranda’s blog entry, the Cecil Vortex interview, and going to Keri’s blogs, I received a wonderful kick in the head, and promptly ordered the book from Amazon.com. The excitement ran through me like electricity when I opened the mailbox to find a neat cardboard box. I ripped it open, flipped through the book, reading this page then that randomly, and began following instructions. Each page may advertise itself as a place for destruction, but really they are invitations to play. And really, isn’t that what all art is? It shouldn’t feel like going to the office.

And that is what happened for me at some point in working on my youth novel. In the beginning, I was all excited, the ideas were popping, I sang and made silly sounds while typing. As I approached page 40, something of the play part went out and I found myself trying to make plot lines work. I asked how am I going to get from here…to there. I knew where I wanted it to go, but not how to get there and something in the writing process died — the creative part. So I shelved it without really meaning to and without ever letting it go in the back of my mind. Then life hit with the proverbial load of poo. Oh, it was all good, and troubling, and hard and fun, but it was a lot of distraction from the writing. Then I felt it was a chore to get back to it.

Well, now, with Wreck in hand, and back in a playful spirit of my own, not for baby or big boys, I am excited again about writing what ultimately is, I hope, going to be a fun book for 9-12 year olds to read. I have relocated a couple of versions of the manuscript with notes and outlines, and the USB version, too. I’m ready to sing, dance my fingers on the keyboard, make leaps and bounds, and play with the writing. Wish me luck and joy! And don’t be afraid to play and let your art/work be imperfect, too. Color outside the lines and see what comes of it.

Jul 15

Betsy: Pitches/submissions wanted for my blogazine

Hi. I’m really happy with how my new blogazine, The BetsyG-Spot, is coming along. I’ve gotten great feedback on the quality of the essays, and I’ve published one wonderful essay by another writer, with another in the queue.

I welcome your pitches/submissions for my site. While I am not currently paying writers, the more readership the site builds the more likely I will be to pay writers in the future.

I take pitches for the Sex in the Suburbs feature. I recommend that you read what’s there already and also take a look at my Submissions page. As you’ll see, I don’t take stories about marital bliss (though I am really happy for you if you have that!), so if you are interested in writing something, dig deep and go somewhere you might not ordinarily go when you think about relationships. The subject doesn’t have to be dark—in fact, I really favor humor—but it does need to be personal and go somewhere unexpected.

The Wheel of Fortune feature is a bit more flexible, and I am willing to look at submissions of any length for it. Topics include Weird Things that Happen (an informal vignette is welcome here from any reader), Mind and Body, Media (reviews, points of view), Getting On (ack…this is really about aging), Nostalgia, and Random…with more topics to come. Really, humor should be at the fore, but a really great, true story or essay about something on the poignant end is also welcome.

In any case, I hope you’ll give it a read and pass it on to others you think might like this type of content. Growing a blog turns out to be a lot of work!

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