Heptadecagon

I sat in the front office, grading papers. My colleague, Ken, walked in, the usual coffee cup in hand. "You write that Great American Novel yet?" Ken knows all about my "other" life as a writer. In fact, he's been a great champion of the cause, since he himself dabbles in photography. Over the last several years, we've been co-conspirators in a plan to bring creativity and arts to the scientific world of the Biology Department. "Nah," I said. "I've never had plans to do that." I stated the truth. A long time ago, when I first put pen to paper and began writing, I never even considered that one of my stories would ever become the next Great American Novel. My intention then was to write something that somebody enjoyed. At the time, my mom read what I wrote, and she liked most of what I produced. Her approval served as an incentive to keep writing. So I did. As I progressed in my years, I still wrote, but again, not in pursuit o...

The first writing class I enrolled in outside of high school or college billed itself as a workshop. Which meant that each week, one person's writing would be read and critiqued by six other strangers sitting around the conference table. To this day, I'm not entirely sure what possessed me to think that I could survive a class like that, but I went ahead and not only survived--I found a family there, too: The Plot Sisters still meet every two weeks to read and critique each other's work. Since that fateful day in May 2012, my reaction to being critiqued has changed. In the beginning, I would cower at the side of the table with an explosive heart rate and sweat on my brow, while now, I find myself looking forward to everything my cohorts have to say. And by everything, I mean everything. Even on those days when the ladies look at me, eyes bright and energetic, and say, "This piece needs some work." Because that's why I'm at writing group, right? To get...

You wanna know how the 17th day went? Have I ever told you that I cannot not write? Well, it's true. I say I'm not going to look at my draft, and then I go back--AGAIN--just because I have some time and I find myself adding a few words here and there. Writing. Not thousands of words writing, but writing nonetheless. What is wrong with me? (No, don't answer that. I don't even want to know what your hypotheses are.) And that, my friends, is why I added 1402 words to my story yesterday. (Thankfully, these were well-written, thoughtful words. They added VALUE to the draft. And they made me love it just that little bit more.)

I don't get really irritated that often, but I'd say I'm a bit ruffled today. Here's why. I signed up for a webinar a month or so ago that promised to help a writer understand the ins and outs of a query letter. Now, I've already started writing and sending out query letters, but I thought that the letter for at least one of my books ( Beyond the Trees , in particular) could benefit from a major overhaul. And included in the price of the webinar was the promise of a query critique by the agent giving the seminar. Score! What a deal! I'd done some research...the agent seemed knowledgeable and well-respected. I couldn't wait to see how she deconstructed my letter. I kid you not. I was ready to take the heat, as they say. Blast the letter, and I will rebuild! (I'll warn you now that this is a very predictable post.) Her reply arrived yesterday. The short email that accompanied her attachment said this: Dear Christina, Thank you for taking my webinar!...

What happened on this day? I have no idea. I just went back and looked at my blog and realized that a post here didn't occur. I thought I said I planned on blogging every day all year. Did I forget this day? Did it slip between the cracks? Did I live it all within another universe? NO IDEA AT ALL. Or, am I teasing you and just pretending that I missed this day, when really I wrote this post simply in an attempt to mess with you. You'll never know. What a story prompt...