My husband grows sunflowers. I write about them.
Sunflower or wheel of life?
Sunflower or large hypnotic eye?
Staring into the middle of the
Seed swirl pattern
You could be sucked to the center
Of the universe.
Sunflower or sun?
The night was dark. Remind me never to include the preceding sentence in a story.
As part of the summer reading program at the library where I work, I recently had the privilege of judging a flash fiction contest. When I say privilege, I mean it, absolutely. I admire anyone who works up the nerve to put her writing out there. I experienced a little thrill of discovery from getting to see all of the entries. I read some great pieces. And I learned some lessons I hope to remember in my own writing.
My advice for contest entries, based on my limited judging experience:
First, stay away from the obvious. Since the summer reading theme centered around night-time, one of our contest rules stated that the word “night” must be used in the opening line. I saw the same thing over and over. “The night was dark.” Okay. “The night was dark.” Nights generally are. “It was a dark night.” Okay, I get it. When I read an opening line about a protagonist who never allowed a hint of night to show itself in her house, it caught my attention. The story immediately stood out from the preceding few.
Second, pay attention to the rules. As I mentioned above, we required the word “night” in the opening line. One writer didn’t include the word anywhere in the submission. It didn’t matter how good the story was, it didn’t qualify for the contest. It was flash fiction. We gave our writers 250 words to tell a story, and many of them fit an entire arc into this small framework. If you’re given a word limit, stick to it. The 1,000-word masterpiece of yours won’t fly in a 250-word limit flash fiction contest. No matter how good it is, it’s not so good that the judges will suspend the rules and declare it the winner. In my case, I wanted to devote my limited time to paying close attention to the writers who followed our guidelines. I didn’t even read the 1,000-word story, because I felt it would waste time I didn’t have.
Third, and closely related to following guidelines, pay attention to genre. We received one proselytizing religious essay. It would have been appropriate for an essay contest, but not a fiction one. We received two poems. I wasn’t averse to narrative verse, but for me to consider it as a possible winner in a fiction contest, it needed the narrative part.
Fourth, proofread. Especially in short works, errors announce themselves. (I know I’ll see mistakes in the this blog post ten seconds after I click “publish.” As I said, I’m trying to learn here, too.) On my first read-through of the entries, I eliminated a couple of pieces I liked story-wise because they were full of typos and grammatical errors.
Fifth, don’t take it personally. I’ve heard this again and again, but it hit home when I was the one evaluating the work of others. I was collaborating with a co-worker on the judging, and as we discussed the merits of different pieces, we didn’t always agree. Both of us also stayed open to the ideas of the other, and I was able to see some of her points. We eventually settled on a winner we both felt deserved an award. But I can now verify that a different judge will see things differently. Just because you didn’t win one contest doesn’t mean you won’t do well in another. Heck, I was so happy to see how many people were making the effort to write and taking the risk of sharing their creative work, I wanted to give awards to everyone. But we only had a limited number to give out. Some good stories didn’t win, and I hope their authors keep trying. This leads to…
Sixth, “honorable mention” means something. It’s not a participation ribbon. I gained a whole new insight into how honorable mentions are awarded. After my co-judge and I agreed on the first-place winner, each one of us had grown attached to a story from the stack that we couldn’t stand to let go unmentioned, because they were so good. The contest was close and we agonized over a winner. So we each named one honorable mention.
To sum up, I’d have to say you can improve your odds in a writing contest considerably by paying attention to some basic principles. Out of a stack of a few dozen entries, I was able to narrow it down to ten or so finalists pretty quickly. Those ten finalists made sure they followed the guidelines, proofread their work, and included the elements of a story. These simple things put them ahead of most of the field.
A few years ago a thought occurred to me that I believed was an original and clever insight on my part. I was discussing standardized testing (one of my pet subjects) and I said something to the effect that I cared more about what questions kids ask than what answers they give. I’ve repeated this a few times over the years with modifications. “Your questions say more about you than your answers.” “We need to teach students to ask questions more than to give answers.” Always attributing the quote to myself. That all ended yesterday, when I was reading up on Voltaire and came across this:
“Judge of a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”
Oh. I suppose a few billion people before me did have the opportunity to stumble across this bit of wisdom. What makes it even richer is that within an hour of reading the above sentence from Voltaire, I chanced on the following quotation from Alfred North Whitehead:
“Everything of importance has been said before by somebody who did not
discover it.”
Indeed.
“Oh no. I forgot my book!” That was me, in the salon where I had taken my son for a haircut. Imagine it said in a tone of real panic, because it was. I was reduced to reading a fashion magazine while I waited. Not reading didn’t seem like an option. There was printed matter in front of me, after all, even if it wasn’t my first choice of material.
“Do you have something to read?” This is me any time I’m taking a road trip with my kids.I ask this the way other moms ask “Did you pack your toothbrush?” I try to remind them, as well, if we’re going some place with a waiting room – doctor, dentist, etc. “Bring a book; we might have to wait.” My kids and I have serious discussions about what they’re going to read next when one of them has just finished a book. These are the among the most joyous conversations of my life.
I found the greatest purse at a yard sale. It’s big enough to fit my wallet and a book. I try to keep a book with me most of the time. I know people who claim they don’t have time to read. But I’ve finished many a chapter while sitting outside a school, waiting for a kid to come out the door. Also, I read while I eat breakfast. And on my break at work. I’ve even been seen cooking dinner with a spatula in one hand and a book in the other. I don’t burn too many things. Thank goodness I’ve never caught a book on fire. Yet.
I don’t usually use a blog post only for a link, but I believe everyone needs to read this brilliant essay by Ursula K. Le Guin. And then, if you haven’t already, read some of her books. My favorite is “The Left Hand of Darkness.”
An excerpt from the essay: “If we thought of all fictional genres as literature, we’d be done with the time-wasting, ill-natured diatribes and sneers against popular novelists who don’t write by the rules of realism, the banning of imaginative writing from MFA writing courses, the failure of so many English teachers to teach what people actually read, and the endless, silly apologising for actually reading it.”
Read the whole thing here:
I meant to have this done and posted yesterday, but life had other plans for me. Squeaking in just before Father’s Day is over, I present you with a list of books featuring dads.
Beautiful Boy by David Sheff. In this memoir, Sheff speaks about the pain of having meth as a rival for his son’s devotion. He questions his parenting. He sees his hopes raised and dashed repeatedly. And then there’s the effect on his other kids. As any parent of more than one child can tell you, any decision you make for one has ramifications for the others.
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. Eggers is a brother who filled a father’s role. He was only 21 when his father and mother both succumbed to cancer within a few weeks of each other, leaving Dave in charge of his 8-year-old brother. This memoir had me laughing and crying, often at the same time.
Love in the Driest Season by Neely Tucker. Neely Tucker, a white American journalist, recounts the story of how he and his black wife, Vita, relocated to Zimbabwe, where they volunteered at an orphanage and fell in love with a little girl who they believed might have AIDS.
Plainsong by Kent Haruf. Written in spare, but beautiful prose, this novel introduces us to small town high school teacher, Tom Guthrie, who is raising his two sons by himself. Meanwhile, he’s dealing with a student who bullies, a student who is pregnant, fellow teacher Maggie Jones, and wait – how do two bachelor farmer brothers come into this picture? Read and find out.
Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern. What started as a Twitter account turned into one of the funniest memoirs I have ever read. At 28, Halpern lost his job and moved back in with his 73-year-old dad. “Remember when you used to make fun of me for being bald?…No, I’m not gonna make a joke. I’ll let the mirror do that.” People who get the vapors over cursing should avoid it. Despite being extremely salty, Halpern’s dad does seem to have his son’s best interests at heart, in the end.
Silas Marner by George Eliot. In today’s world, Silas Marner would never be approved to adopt a child. But in Eliot’s novel, the reclusive miser turns out to be a pretty good father to the little girl who wanders into his life. Father and daughter both learn love really is more important than money.
A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley. In this novel, the setting is a Midwest family farm in the 1970s. But the seemingly average Cook family is living out a 20th-century version of Shakespeare’s King Lear, complete with the division of the estate, the exile of one daughter, the love triangles and the onset of patriarchal madness.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Atticus Finch is one of the greatest literary fathers of all time. He is wise and kind and understanding of his children, while holding expectations of the same behavior from them. Then there’s his courage in standing up for the underdog. “Truth, justice and the American Way” – Superman, or Superdad Atticus Finch?
The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig. This novel, set in 1909 Montana, is narrated by the oldest of widower Oliver Milliron’s three boys. Their father hires a housekeeper through a newspaper ad, a housekeeper who brings along a character of a brother, and a mystery.
Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell. Though Ree Dolly’s father is more talked about than shown, the reader certainly comes to know a lot about him. The things we find out right way are: he has drug charges pending against him, he has put up the family home as bond, and he can’t be found. It’s up to 16-year-old Ree to find him and thus save the home.
I like to eat, probably a little too much, and sometimes the wrong things. But some comfort foods are so…comforting. One even inspired a little poem.
Ode to a Grilled Cheese Sandwich
Comfort on a griddle
That’s what grilled cheese is
Golden toasted warmth
Full of the forbidden
Things that make you feel so good
Salt and butter and fat
But it’s solace that sticks
To your ribs, the next best
Thing to a hug from your grandmother
A grilled cheese sandwich is the
Stolid best friend of the food world
Securely there, always, unchanging
Sometimes this bare thought is enough
I could have a grilled cheese later
If I feel the need
For Mother’s Day, a list of some books featuring moms:
American Mom by Mary Kay Blakely. The former Ms. Magazine editor’s memoir of raising her two boys. It’s insightful, touching and real. I once heard Blakely tell a funny story about this book’s title. She said she wanted to call it “Raising Terrorists,” but bowed to her publisher’s wishes and called it “American Mom” instead. One day, running late to a book signing, she was pulled over for speeding, and had to explain to the police officer how she was on her way to sign copies of her book American Mom. At that moment, she said, she realized how smart it was to listen to your publisher.
Beloved by Toni Morrison. In this post-Civil War novel, a lost soul reappears. Sethe, a former slave, is consumed with mourning for the young daughter who died years earlier. One day, the daughter’s spirit arrives on Sethe’s doorstep in the form of a young woman. Through her we see the ghosts of slavery are not easily banished.
Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen. How do you report spousal abuse when the spouse who beats you is a police officer? You don’t. You pack up your son and sneak away with him, doing your best to build new identities and become untrackable. I think this novel has one of the best endings I’ve ever read. Not tidy, though.
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. The mother in this novel, Enid Lambert, comes to a realization: “What you discovered about yourself in raising children wasn’t always agreeable or attractive.” Still, Enid dreams of one last family Christmas with their three grown children before the health of her husband, Alfred, declines too much. Their kids’ lives are falling apart in different ways, and Enid’s campaign to bring them together reveals the weaknesses and the strengths of their family ties. There are power struggles galore but also acts of incredible love and self-sacrifice, which gives them a lot in common with many real-life families.
The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacqueline Mitchard. Why did I read this novel when my children were young? Do not read this if you have young children. Read this if your children are big or you have no children. A very busy mom loses one of her three kids. Poof – he vanishes. It’s a good book, a compelling read. Disturbing if your kids are near the age of the one who disappears.
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler. This was the first Anne Tyler novel I ever read. What I love about Tyler’s characters is how close they come to self-awareness without ever quite arriving. Pearl raises three children on her own after her husband leaves, a piece of trivia she neglects to mention to the children. He is traveling salesman, and the youngsters go on for a while thinking he’s simply away on business. The three kids grow up with a fair amount of sibling rivalry and do their best to create the next generation of family messiness.
I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots by Susan Strait. Upon her mother’s death in 1959, teenager Marietta Cook – tall and strong and blue black – leaves her home in Pine Garden, South Carolina, a place forgotten by time. She heads to Charleston to seek her future. The novel follows her life through the birth and raising of twin boys, right into grandmotherhood.
Juno’s Daughters by Lise Saffron. A mom and her two daughters who live on an island in Washington state find a summer of interaction with Shakespearean actors transformative.
Life Among the Savages by Shirley Jackson. There was more to Shirley Jackson than making us confront our worst natures. This memoir of life with her children and husband is laugh out loud funny. It is several decades old, however, so be prepared to cringe over all of the smoking and the lack of seatbelts.
Mother on Fire by Sandra Tsing Loh. This memoir will resonate with any mother who has found herself drowning in navigating the waters of kindergarten enrollment. Though it’s not quite so treacherous where I live. You will laugh as you recognize yourself and other parents in the anecdotes she recounts.
Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott. Lamott’s memoir of her first year of motherhood. She speaks truth in ways most of us are too wimpy to. Also, she’s very witty.
Please Look After Mom by Kyung-Sook Shin’s. This is the tale of an elderly woman who vanishes one day from a Seoul train platform. From the first pages, it’s apparent Mom has been gradually disappearing for years, as her children have grown busy with their own lives and her husband has paid her little attention.
The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio by Terry Ryan. Terry Ryan’s memoir is a tribute to her resourceful mother. While her alcoholic husband invested his wages in liquid assets, Evelyn Ryan kept her family of 12 afloat by composing advertising jingles for contests as she did the ironing. She converted her facility for language into money, cars, appliances and grocery shopping sprees while bequeathing her children the legacy of a can-do spirit.
Room by Emma Donoghue. This novel introduces us to a mother struggling to survive in extraordinary circumstances. Five-year-old Jack has spent his entire life in one room, just he and Ma, who makes sure Jack exercises, learns to read and eats the vegetables Old Nick brings on his otherwise unwelcome visits.
Shadow Tag by Louise Erdrich. Not until the end of this novel do you discover who the real narrator is. Erdrich takes the concept of unreliable narrator to new heights. Much of the book is written in the form of excerpts from the diaries of Irene America, a Native American artist, wife and mother. Diaries is plural, because she keeps two: the one she wants her husband to find and read, which is at least partly fictitious, and the real one that she keeps under lock and key. The effects of their parents’ relationship games on the kids is not insignificant.
Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang. I read this book maybe 12 years ago and it stuck with me. Chang tells the life stories of her grandmother, her mother and herself. Her mother was a young woman during the Cultural Revolution. May you live in interesting times indeed. Small personal moments of heartbreak and triumph are magnified by surrounding large historical events.
Is there blood? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Is something on fire? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Does someone need CPR? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Are the police here asking to question me? If they are, tell them I’m not home and let me get back to my writing.
I have had my home office for nearly three years now. It’s the place where I’m supposed to be able to retreat to focus on my writing. Yet, no matter how often I repeat it, my family can’t seem to understand the following statement: “If the door is closed, this means I’m writing and you shouldn’t interrupt me unless there’s an emergency.”
Their ideas of emergency and mine don’t overlap much. To me, an emergency means someone needs immediate first aid. Needing a band-aid doesn’t qualify. Needing driven to the hospital does. Fire – that’s an emergency. My husband informing me he bought the wrong brake light for our van? Not so much. My daughter wanting to know if we have any hot cocoa mix? Nope. Not. An. Emergency.
With the current state of my life, I’m managing to spend about two to three hours per week here, so it’s not as if I’m checking out for days at a time.
Here’s what’s an emergency. My imminent trip to the hardware store to buy a lock.
I lived for a couple of decades without television (my husband’s preference, but it was okay with me.) But now I have high speed internet and Netflix instant streaming, and I’m catching up on things I missed. Star Trek Deep Space Nine for instance.
I’m in season three, currently. I have just seen what life will be like in the U.S. in 2024, due to a time travel mishap involving three of the crew. Here are a few of the things we can look forward to in 12 years:
Cell phones will disappear. Nobody has ’em. Bureaucrats will go back to using paper forms. Computers will expand in size and be built into consoles. All citizens will have iris scans on file, however. And “the net” will be around as a source of information, if, you know, you have one of those consoles.
Nomadic Noesis 