It’s funny how fate plays a role in your writing sometimes.
Today,I woke up exhausted, my head thick with a fog that settled in after lack of sleep and a hangover.
Sleep deprivation was a result from spending two days home with a sick child. Prescribed certain medications, she becomes a toddler-on-the-move who’s stuck on fast forward and can’t even pause for bedtime. At 10:30 last night, her feet kicked up and out and down on the bed and her hands clapped and she whispered stories non stop.
The hangover came after a night of novel workshop with me and mine in the hot seat. Though the critique process worked well – the author sits quiet and listens while the readers discuss – the feedback weighed heavy against my chest when I finally fell asleep.
I’m a newbie, and I imagine first critiques always cut deep. So, I’m following Becky Levine’s advice, from her book, The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide:
Most of our bad feelings don’t come from the words written on our manuscripts…or from the person who writes them. Instead they come from within ourselves. They reflect our own doubts about ourselves as writers – as skilled, creative craftspeople.
Be ready for [those feelings] to come, and, when they do, recognize and acknowledge them. Then, get to work (p. 242).
I decided to pushthose critiques to the side for the day and to tackle Wednesday’s Word.
And, funny enough, the word that rolled out from Wordsmith.org this morning was bayonet — a call to arms, an insistence to fight, a subtle reminder that this is where the rubber meets the road, missy.
Critique or no critique, get writing.
So, here goes. Read at your own risk. And, if you’re feeling feisty, put a link to your version of how the word-of-the-day’s call to action translates into your writing. Camaraderie is always a good thing.
They were back, the whole lot of them.
Phi Delts, from the frat house down the block, stormed into the bar as soon as she unlocked the door that morning. They slurred on and on about another 24 hour party, chanting rugby cheers and demanding multiple rounds of Bloody Marys.
She stood behind the counter and emptied bottles into glasses like she worked on an assembly line.
They harassed her and called her a hard ass when she tried to measure the vodka and told her to “lighten up.”
The one with the U of M baseball cap and stubble leaned over the bar, grabbed her hand, kissed it, and then begged for “three more of those plump…green…olives.” She jerked her hand away.
She picked up a cocktail sword and stabbed three times into the dish with the habanero stuffed olives. She held them up close to his face and smiled.
“Here you go, Mr. Rugby.” Then, she excused herself and walked calmly to the restroom.
She barely heard him over the noise of the hand dryer as he coughed and sneezed and pleaded for water.