Woo-Hoo!

I am enthused, enthralled, exhausted this morning after three days at the Missouri Writer's Guild Conference, JUST WRITE! I was C. Hope Clark's assistant when she presented at workshops. If you don't know who I am talking about, check out Funds for Writers. Hope is the founder; she puts out three newsletters packed chock full of information, call outs, contests etc.

I pitched my woman's ficton, The Hot Mess Chronicles, to two literary agents. One of them (a big name in the industry) asked me to send her the first thirty pages. I had a tear in my eye!

The other agent, who was closer to my age, asked, "Why would I want to read that? I lived in that era, I certainly don't want to relive it."

Obviously, we were not a good match. That's the way it goes; you can't take those comments to heart.

I am very realistic and know that chances are slim that my novel will be picked up. It is set in the 1980's but they want contemporary ficiton. I am hopeful that there might be a baby boomer market for it one day. I am patient.

I attended a workshop, An Agent Reads Aloud from the Slush Pile. The slush pile (stack of queries on an agent's desk) is where most work ends up if it survives the trash can. Writers submitted the first two pages of their work, (I did not) and as the work was read aloud, she dissected it, commented frankly why she would or would not read on. Few works made it past a few sentences. It's a brutal industry. But,in a very professional and friendly manner she made us aware of glaring errors that many writers make.

"She scurried down the hall." MICE SCURRY.
"Her ears pricked up." Did you really ever see ears prick up!
"His voice came through the wall." REALLY, let's rephrase that.

And so it went as she slashed flowery words; too many descriptors slows the story.

I met lots of nice people, and hugged presenter and inspirational writer, Linda Apple. She and I are running neck and neck with Chicken Soup books. Our stories are in many of the same books.

Elaine Viets, was keynopte banquet speaker. She has a fun, twisted sense of humor; she had us laughing out loud. She is St. Louis's hometown sweetheart, a former columnist for the local newspaper. She was fired from the Post-Dispatch for insubordination. Everyone knows that her humorous columns were the main reason why most people bought the newspaper. She's laughing in their faces, living in Florida in a beach condo, writing books.

Some day ...

Did you ever consider yourself an answer to a prayer?

When the elderly neighbors on either side of us passed away, I asked God to send me a good neighbor, a woman friend with whom I could share my joys and sorrows. He sent me two wonderful Bosnian speaking families, a couple our age to our left and a family with children on the other side. We smile and say hello, we in their language and they in English. Hubby is jovial and thinks the louder he talks the more they understand because the men laugh and gesture with him about their gardens and such. He is a talker and a joker. We share food with one another; it's a cultural experience and fun, but we have limited verbal exchanges.

Recently, I lamented the fact that I didn't get an answer to my prayers. If only I had a neighbor lady to talk to, like when my kids were young and my next door neighbor and I shared every detail of our lives.

If you are reading this, I consider you a coffe klatch 'neighbor' no matter how far away you are, whether you are male or female. Your supportive comments on my previous post demonstrated that God does answer prayers; he sent me each of you! I appreciate your friendship and was deeply touched by your positive comments.

Wish me luck as I head off to meet up with NY agents at the Mo. Writer's Conference. I am pitching my women's fiction novel, The Hot Mess Chronicles, or perhaps I should title it, One Hot Mess After Another. It is a not a genre romance, although there are elements of romance. It is a realistic, engaging tale of four women: next door neighbor housewives, Trish, a goody-two-shoes all of her life and Meg, a former go-go dancer/wild child, who has settled down and been a good wife. Sally her older sister is in a long-term, loveless marriage, and Racquel returns as a blast from Meg's past. Twenty years later she is wilder than she was when they were in school.

The four women experience simultaneous divorces, affairs, and conflict. Three of the women are married to jealous, cheating, controlling husbands. This novel details their playfulness, silliness, (think Lucy and Ethel escapades) their insecurities, imperfections and growth. There are elements of drama, suspense, conflict, humor, major twists and tragedy. The ending is inspirational and spiritual and has made some early readers cry. As a result of their friendships, these four women with distinctly different personalities are able to endure their unhealthy marriages, escape from them, and to evolve into emotionally healthy individuals.

Thanks again to all of you for your friendship. I'm off and running. Last night I had dinner with Hope Clark, Funds for Writers who is presenting at the conference. She is so down to earth and fun. I am quite blessed to be her go-fer, also known as writer's shepherd.

Writing evocative poetry can be scary

Each year at this time, as I drive through a section of the park on my way to work, I remember an Easter Sunday long ago. Although my heart skips a beat at the sight of the new spring growth, the memories of that day also evoke sadness.

When writing for literary journals, I write with impact and use strong words, innuendo, and metaphor to express emotion. Authentic writing is evocative, the expressed emotions, raw. Some folks may think this is too personal, too revealing. My apologies. Those who have experienced an unhealthy, or unhappy relationship may be able to relate.

I assure you that I am mentally sound, emotionally well-balanced, and I have never stabbed anybody or snorted into the gravy :() I am also happily remarried, as is my ex, and we all get along.


Melancholy Bunny
Linda O’Connell (c) 4/11

There’s another frenetic eruption
of tiny pale wildflowers on that same slope where we posed
for a picture-perfect family photo more than three decades ago.
I, in my sky blue silky dress; he, cranky as usual in his tan suit;
our children happy and unaware of our mismatched misery.

That day, colored Easter eggs dropped and shattered.
I snapped the ears off a solid chocolate bunny,
crushed a marshmallow Peep in my fist,
punctured the ham with cloves,
stirred a tear into the pineapple glaze.

I fake-smiled at our guests, stared at my reflection
in the blade of a carving knife
and I pondered,
Do pigs have feelings?
Then, I bowed my head and prayed.


(Not everything I write is pretty or funny, because life isn't always that way. I am a multi-genre writer.)

Spring Poem

Spring Portrait
Linda O’Connell © April, 2011

Splash the barren earth with daffodils,
streak golden sunlight o’er the hills.

Smudge hedgerows purple, dark and light;
tint forsythia and azalea blossoms bright.

Swab ruby rouge on pansy cheeks,
daub dainty smiles that glow for weeks.

Smear winter’s lawn in sage and jade.
Paint spring on every stem, and branch, and blade.

Like baby-like Nana

I wrote this when my three year old granddaughter was born. Things have gotten a lot worse. In honor of poetry month ~

My little baby granddaughter sort of resembles me.
Her big blue eyes are sparkly; mine look tired as tired can be.

She has a double chin like mine. Hers you want to nibble.
Mine hangs loose and fleshy and catches all my dribble.

My little baby granddaughter has a roly-poly belly.
Hers is soft and solid, mine is just like jelly.

We both have many dimples. I love her baby sighs.
My dimples look like grapefruit peel up and down my thighs.

The baby has a bubble butt; her pampers fit her well.
My bubble must have popped; my hiney’s gone to, well…

My little baby granddaughter is as cute as cute can be.
When I look at her, I see a sort of replica of me.

One sip at a time eventually equals a cupful

What a gorgeous day, 90 degrees, sunny and gusting wind. In four short hours the temperature is expected to drop fifty degrees. That sort of plummet reminds me of stormy writing moods.

We are ecstatic when we write an outstanding piece or receive an acceptance from an editor; our mooods soar and we are on an emotional high for awhile. A rejection can plunge us into despair.

The answer is to get up, not give up. Your determination will determine your success.

I witnessed determination in action at McDonald's today. The cutest two year old, saucer-faced boy with dark hair and bright red cheeks was overheated from heavy play at the park. He stood beside his grandma who was second in line behind a poky dad with three undecided kids. The little guy kept tugging on grandma saying, "I tursty."

She assured him she would get him a cup so he could get a drink. He waited and waited, then he walked over to the soda fountain, reached up and retrieved a teeny paper ketchup cup. Every time someone passed by or came to fill their cup, he handed his "cup" to them and said, "I tursty."

We laughed everytime he suckered someone into filling his mini paper cup with a sip of THEIR favorite soda. By the time Grandma came he had quenched his own thirst. That little tyke was determined, and you should be too.

Write a poem, perhaps about the weather. Don't write poetry, you say? Start by writing a 99 word essay. Faye Adams, Missouri's senior poet laureate, instructed us to do this at the St. Louis Writer's Guild meeting Saturday. You will be amazed at how 99 words can evolve into a poem if you do two things, go back and eliminate the unnecessary words and then put slashes in where you think line breaks should be. It is an amazing technique. It doesn't have to rhyme. In fact, prose poetry is in these days.

All of you out there saying, "I can't write poetry!" start with a sip, like the little guy did, and keep refilling your little cup until you have a fizzing full poem. April is poetry month. Are you up to the challenge? I will share a poem later in the week that I wrote and submitted for Father's Day.

I am linking up with Lisa at Writing in the Buff for book blurb Friday. In 150 words or less, use the picture prompt to write an engaging back of the book blurb.

The Crook in the Tree harbors more than a lovely wild rose. When the Fifth First Bank on Fourth Avenue gets robbed, two armed guards give chase through the residential area. The wiry bandit avoids capture when he suddenly disappears, seemingly into thin air on Sixth Street.

His hideout happens to be the tree house of the ten year old, terrible Thomas triplets. The three boys’ shenanigans are decidedly worse than being captured. Will they spring the crook in the tree, or out of the tree?
86 words