Blogger Blather

Remember this post from a few weeks ago about my entering the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest?

If you’re too lazy to click the above link, here’s a refresher: now in its 27th year, the Bulwer-Lytton contest lauds bad writing.  “The goal of the contest is childishly simple: entrants are challenged to submit bad opening sentences to imaginary novels.”

Well, the results are in and I got a “dishonorable mention” in the “Detective” category.  The contest gets a ton of entries so I’m flattered for the (dis)recognition; but I have to admit I was a little bummed that out of the entries I submitted, this was the one to get selected.  I thought some of my others were stronger.

So, here’s my dishonorable mention winning entry:

Darnell knew he was getting hung out to dry when the D.A. made him come clean by airing other people’s dirty laundry; the plea deal was a new wrinkle and there were still issues to iron out, but he hoped it would all come out in the wash - otherwise he had folded like a cheap suit for nothing.

Lynn Lamousin
Baton Rouge, LA

And here are my non-winning entries.  (Maybe too good?  After all the contest is for “bad” writing.)

David was a dream come true – a man who loved her as unconditionally as her cat did – if only Emily could get him to use the litter box instead of peeing all over her toilet seat.

The author of this novel wishes to state that even though the main character and I share a name, and the names of all the other characters match the names of my family members, and the setting of the story is my hometown, and the events did take place, this book is a work of fiction.

Gringle the Elf grumbled through Christmas cookie crusted lips, “You wouldn’t be so fat if you had to eat the oatmeal ones.”

Sex with Bonnie was like a day at Six Flags – after you meet the size requirement and came aboard you saw that the ride was full of wide curves, big hills and bumpy tracks, and when it was over and you were ready to get off you felt like leaning over and puking up a funnel cake.

As Roberta reclined on the pillow, Vince looked up at their reflection in the motel’s mirrored ceiling; boy was he craving two eggs over easy with a side of link sausage.

BTW, here is this year’s overall contest winner.  He’s already getting tons of press.  (Jealous!)

Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin’ off Nantucket Sound from the nor’ east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.

David McKenzie
Federal Way, WA

And finally, a shout out to Scott Rice, professor at San Jose State University, for creating and continuing such a fun contest.

Today I had a “cupcake epiphany” — NO MORE WORK FOR FREE!

I was super-busy last week — and almost all of it was filled with “freebies.”

When I had steady gigs I didn’t mind helping out a friend or an organization every now and then — but now all the free work is still there and all the paying jobs are gone.  I am officially done.

I call it a “cupcake epiphany” because my friend Hollis for like a year was making cupcakes and selling them at a couple of local coffee shops.  She would give the money to her daughter as allowance.  But a couple of weeks ago she made like 100 cupcakes and then she said she just looked at them and thought — this is ridiculous — and instead of icing them she tossed them all in a garbage bag and put them at the curb.

So, the cupcake epiphany is when you realize that the effort you are putting into something isn’t worth what you are getting out of it.

If you’ve been getting pro bono/freebie/gratis work out of me.  It stops now.

I think what brought on my cupcake epiphany was that out of the blue I’ve had two requests to screen my movie at public events.  It’s like I suddenly remembered I deserve better than the discards that have been coming my way.

My life and career were going along pretty well for several years (and I felt really proud of myself) and then all of a sudden it’s like someone pulled the emergency brake and all my forward movement stopped.

Gotta get that car in drive again!  No hitchhikers allowed!

Move over pottery and knitting, there’s a new lame middle age craze — painting parties.

A couple of weeks ago my sister, niece and I checked out Corks n Canvas.  Here’s how they describe what they offer (from their website):

“Looking for a fun evening out with friends while creating your own masterpiece?  We have the answer! Bring your favorite bottle of wine or beverage, and paint a picture along with a local artist. She will show you step-by-step how to paint a beautiful work of art that you will take home at the end of the evening.”

I have to admit, it was kind of fun.  But I was disappointed because they don’t really teach you how to paint.  Our class was sold out (36 people).  And EVERYONE’S painting of the “Dirty Martini” (including the instructor’s) looked awful.  A big part of the problem was that the painting shown on the website was not the one they had on display.  So everyone’s perspective was off (it’s tough to show depth — looking down into the glass) because we were copying something that didn’t look right to begin with.

On the left is the sample shown on the website.  (But, as mentioned, this was not what they had on display at the gallery.)  And on the right is my “masterpiece.”  LOL!

The latest diners at the Meow Mix front porch buffet:

This was taken through a window, sorry for all the glare.  I had already snapped a few pics before this one and Momma cat spied me, thus her angry “don’t be messing with my babies” stance.

When you recall a book you usually remember the development of the plot and characters.  But sometimes a writer will have a style that is so compelling it leaves a mark on the story (and on your memory).  In the literary world, this is called voice.

If you’ve ever taken a writing class, the importance of “finding your voice” is stressed over and over — but there is no way to teach someone how to discover their personal writing style.

Yesterday, I did a Google search on myself  because I’m planning a marketing push for new clients and I was wondering what would show up if someone searched my name.  One of the matches was the book How to Survive Freshman Year which displayed in Amazon’s “search inside” feature and on Google Books.

Years ago, a writer friend of mine, Jamie Allen, was hired by the publisher to solicit input for the book.  I remember sending him a few anecdotes, and then I pretty much forgot about it.  Well, the book is now on its third printing and I am quoted 4 times in the current edition (published in 2008).

I was able to read all four of my quotes online and while I recognized the stories I was referencing, the phrasing was totally foreign to me and I assumed they had reworked what I sent to match the book’s tone.  Here is part of the note I sent Jamie yesterday.

“although I can totally tell you guys edited me extensively … (I’m) listing myself as a ‘contributor’ on my writing credits. Ha! Just wanted to say thanks!”

So, then I got curious about my original submission so I did a search in my email for “llama” (which was part of one of the blurbs) and I found my original email — from June 24, 2002. I was horrified to see that I was hardly edited at all!  I really and truly did not even recognize my own writing. It’s become so stilted from all the “corporate communications” gigs that I no longer have a voice.

Check out what was published:

• When studying Far East religions don’t confuse a llama with the dalai lama, the spiritual leader of Tibet.
• Geology (aka Rocks and Jocks), is much harder than the course description would lead you to believe.
• Never attend a punk rock concert in a sundress and Keds sneakers.  I left a Ramones concert wearing only one shoe after getting caught in the middle of a group of overeager slam-dancers.  Doc Martin’s would have been a better choice.
• Be sweet as pie during your sorority pledge period and wait until after you’re active to tell off the snots who were mean to you.  Better yet, just steal their boyfriends.

Now, here is what I submitted (to help you compare I did strike throughs on what was cut and bolded words that were edited).  You’ll see that the edits are just your typical clean-up stuff.  They didn’t edit my style at all.

• When studying Far East religions don’t confuse a llama, the pack animal breed for its soft fleece, with the dalai lama, the spiritual leader of Tibet.
• Geology (aka Rocks and Jocks), is much harder than the course description would lead you to believe. What is plate techtonics again?
• Never attend a punk rock concert in a sundress and keds sneakers.  I left a Ramones concert only wearing one shoe after getting caught in the middle of a band of over-eager slam dancers.  Doc Martin’s would have been a better choice.
• Be sweet as pie during your sorority pledgeship and wait until after you’re active to tell off the snots who were bitches to you.  Or better yet, just steal their boyfriends.

If I were asked to contribute now, I don’t think I could be so pithy and funny.  My writing has become so, so… well, literal.  I’ve lost the innate sense of the absurd that I used to have.

Basically, I have writer’s laryngitis because I have no voice.  That’s what happens when you dive in to too much corporate writing.  You aren’t supposed to have a voice because you don’t exist, you are just there to mimic the tone already established by the company, brand, etc.

This has actually really upset me.  My writing career was going along pretty well for a while, but for the last couple of years I’ve felt stagnant and a huge part of it is because the creative writing I’ve attempted lately has not been well received.  Does anyone have advice on how to find your voice again?  I need help!

My freelance gigs picked up for a while, but things have gotten slow again.  As much as I used to complain (because I do love a good gripe), I miss the steady corporate work that I had for years and years.  The money was great, it wasn’t too stressful, and it was reliable.  Lately, it seems like every month I’m scrambling around to cobble together an income.

Got any leads on freelance or contract gigs in Atlanta?  If so, drop me a note.  (You’ll be rewarded with a dose of good cosmic karma.)

My area of specialty is copywriting, web content management and HTML emails.  Back in the day, this was all in demand, but now my writing portfolio is up against hundreds of former AJC and Creative Loafing employees who were recently axed in cutbacks.  I’m trying to think positive, they say the economy is improving.  Right?

Okay, gotta go.  My Chrysler needs an oil change (and a bail out).

My Dad, Louis Patrick Lamousin, Sr. during World War II.  He was a Marine - Semper Fi.  Happy Memorial Day, all.

I fill the outside cat bowl several times a day for the strays in the neighborhood.  I’ve seen a possum out there a few times, and I’ve also noticed a number of birds having a snack.  It doesn’t bother me.  If something’s hungry I let it eat.  I just thought a bird eating cat food was strange.

In this installment of “awful excerpt” I’ll share yet another writing exercise from the continuing education class I took at SCAD.  The class itself was nice, the work I produced… not so much.  I think the value of the class is in the fact that I wrote for almost two days straight.  Too bad none of it was very good!

In this exercise we randomly pulled two pieces of paper out of bag.  Each paper contained a word.  You had to make the two words you selected be the first two words of a paragraph.  Lucky me selected TABLE and ABOVE.  Here’s the paragraph:

Above, table, cat, word, read.  These were the words that the letter magnets spelled out on Diane’s refrigerator.  Chet drank milk out of the carton and tried to decide if there was deeper meaning in these seemingly unrelated words.  Was she just putting together any word she could spell with letters, or did they mean something?  He knew she was a writer so “word” and “read” made sense.  The Persian staring at him from the windowsill was surely the “cat” part.  But what of “above” and “table”?  Nonsense for sure.

Did anyone catch that what I wrote actually does double duty because it takes a little poke at the exercise itself?

I finished early, so I wrote another piece.  This time I used the words in the opposite order (not that it would have really mattered in the above entry).

“Table above, sofa below” Maria bellowed at the movers as she indicated for them to bring the dining room table up the stairs.  The townhouse she and Matt bought had an unusual layout.  On the main floor was their bedroom and bath, the living room and a foyer.  Up the stairs was the eat-in kitchen and an office/guest room.  Not ideal, but the price was right and in NYC price and location were key.

You know it’s interesting to look at these a couple of weeks after the class.  I have a strong urge to edit them before putting them online, but I think these improvisational versions are kind of interesting.  So, I’ve left them alone.

Last Friday I took a daytrip to New Orleans to visit my friend, John.  I didn’t recognize his house when I drove up because he got rid of his picket fence and cut down all the tropical plants.  John is in real estate and he said that the more groomed landscape, “lets people see the house architecture better.” But I have to admit I totally miss his wild garden.

Check out these pics taken in his front yard.  The first pic is from fall 2007 - the plants are long and my hair is short.  The second pic is from a few days ago - the plants are short and my hair is long(er).

Which do you like better?

I promised to share some of the writing exercises I participated in during my 2-day workshop at SCAD. The writing I produced is pretty sucky, but the fact that I wrote anything is what was so useful.

So far, I’ve only gotten around to sharing one excerpt, so here is another…

We were given the following list of words and instructed to use as many as possible in a poem:

PILLOW, SURPRISE, FROG, SHARP, LEMON, WAVERING, KISS, CURVE, DRUM, ORANGE, RUIN, SLAP, STAND

The words in bold are the ones I used. The poem was supposed to be 3 stanzas of 6 lines each, but I kind of disregarded that part. Also, it was not supposed to make sense, but mine kinda does.  I can’t do 100% nonsense.  Just 90%.

Sidestepping the frogs,
I followed the path to his bed.
The curve of his bottom lip tasted tart —
like lemon and raspberry.

His head lifted.
The pillow still holding his impression —
and the kiss still holding me.
A frog jumped on his chest and slapped me.

Like a steady rhythm,
unwavering and intense,
reality rang hollow like a broken drum.

The blog post “It was a dark and stormy write” discussed my quest to be named the most outstandingly awful writer in America.  In response, I received the following Bulwer-Lytton lampoons:

Facebook post from my “friend” Drew in Atlanta
I’m afraid to congratulate you for being such a sucky writer… I mean, it feels suspiciously like a trap that compliments simply can’t negotiate… you know, like one of those sticky, mosquito-festooned strips of brown death that slowly sag under the withering heat of the sin-soaked southern skies in the deep, deep hate of a summertime that compassion never knew and civility only visited on a bi-monthly basis due to a court order.

Email from my “friend” John in New Orleans
Like a Corp of Engineers flood wall, I needed to get her to slowly release the pain - then she can finally flow to my arms… 

How humiliating!  Their awful prose seems effortless and it took me several hours to come up with my bad entries…

“The Spellman Files” by Lisa Lutz — an example of good writing.  I’m currently reading the third book in this series.

To my right:

To my left:

I wish I could blame this pathetic Saturday night on Baton Rouge, but I actually did have something to do tonight — I just chose not to do it.  Instead I am about to pour myself a glass of wine and watch a couple of episodes of Angel (Season 2) on DVD.

I know what you’re all thinking - what a fun gal!  And she has cats!  I wanna date/friend/be just like her!  Right?

For the past year I’ve been carrying around a newspaper clipping about the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest sponsored by San Jose State University.  Named after Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, the windbag writer who originated the phrase “It was a dark and stormy night”, the contest lauds bad writing and challenges would-be novelists to come up with the world’s worst opening line.

On my calendar I had Friday (tomorrow) listed as the entry deadline.  Of course, I haven’t written a single word and I was so mad at myself for not coming up with anything.  Well, I just visited the contest website and learned the deadline isn’t actually until next week.  Now I seem to remember marking the early entry date on my calendar so I had some wiggle room in case I procrastinated for too long (which is exactly what happened).  So, I’m excited to have a second chance at being recognized as one of America’s worst writers! Although, I don’t know if I can top the brilliantly bad winning entry from last year, check it out:

“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped “Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.”

Garrison Spik, Washington, D.C.

“It was a dark and stormy night;  the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

As promised, here is one of the exercises from my writing class this past weekend.

The prompt was to fill in the following blank “What the __________ says” and then write a vignette from that point of view.  So here it is…

The flower says, I am the seedling you bought for a dollar at the flea market.
So proud of your bargain.
Brought home and nurtured in a little clay pot decorated with blue polka dots.

I am the bush you planted in your garden.
Protected from the cold with a special cover
and nourished with fertilizer.

I am the bloom you cut from the stem.
Placed in a vase and put on display.
Tell your cat to stop nibbling me.

New pic of Orange Cat courtesy of Tom.  When he sent it to me the caption read, “curses!! another escape to freedom foiled!!”

Ugh!  I’m sick!  I slept 13 hours last night and I still feel awful.

I usually don’t suffer from allergies, so I don’t know if it’s the pollen, the flu, or just being run down in general (you know, from all the hard work I’ve been doing).

This weekend, I was in a two-day writing class at SCAD.  I’m not sure how effective I thought the brainstorming technique was that we learned, but I did enjoy the writing exercises and the diversity of people in the class.

My brain was full of Nyquil/Dayquil when I left for the coffee shop this morning, and I forgot my class journal.  I wanted to share some of the (somewhat dreadful) things I wrote.

So, tune in tomorrow for excerpts…