Our ‘Inspired Writers Group’ has an interesting project for the next meeting, the query letter.
E-gads, the horror of the query letter.
I’ve written dozens, actually the same one dozens of times.(Ah, only kidding, I change the titles.)I’m not an expert because they sure haven’t gotten me any book deals.
So, is it the book or the letter?
Hmmm interesting thought.
Like American Idol, is it the try-out or the singing? So what if you suck while doing the acappella thing in front of the judges but your voice is really great. Do they hear the voice or latch onto the sucky part? Part of me says you are not going to Hollywood because there are lots of good singers that don’t screw up the try out, and part of me says give the bitch another chance.
It’s the package I guess…good try-out, good voice, good song…Hollywood all the way.
So, good query, good voice, (yes writing has a voice), and good story, the whole package. I get it.
Funny thing though, I don’t watch American idol anymore because I’m writing all the time. I’m working on my try-out and my song.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Two short stories, two points of view, which is better?
An Afternoon Walk
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot before me, I wondered how much I was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where I stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. I tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
I wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, I was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As I approached the down slope I noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones I didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late it is young wives I often see pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because I saw no one I assumed the visitor was like me, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road I wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once I came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when I glanced their way. So I dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of my walking was interrupted by my weaving among the stones, the sound of my steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When I walk there I contemplate often the tears shed which I imagine replenish the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. I thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; I saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly I backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That I imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled me. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As I hurried back to where I had begun my walk I felt embarrassed because I had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into my own heart because I knew I would not walk in that cemetery again and I would not tell my mother how I came upon my father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
An Afternoon Walk
By
Carolynn Pianta
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot Anne wondered how much she was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where she stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. Anne tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
Anne wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, she was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As she approached the down slope she noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones she didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late Anne noticed young wives often pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because she saw no one and assumed the visitor was like her, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road Anne wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once she came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when she glanced their way. So she dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of her walking was interrupted by her weaving among the stones, the sound of her steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When she walked there Anne contemplated often the tears shed which she imagined replenished the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. She thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; she saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly Anne backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That she imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled her. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As Anne hurried back to where she had begun her walk she felt embarrassed because she had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into her own heart because she knew she would not walk in that cemetery again and she would not tell her mother how she came upon her father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot before me, I wondered how much I was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where I stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. I tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
I wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, I was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As I approached the down slope I noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones I didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late it is young wives I often see pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because I saw no one I assumed the visitor was like me, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road I wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once I came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when I glanced their way. So I dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of my walking was interrupted by my weaving among the stones, the sound of my steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When I walk there I contemplate often the tears shed which I imagine replenish the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. I thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; I saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly I backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That I imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled me. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As I hurried back to where I had begun my walk I felt embarrassed because I had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into my own heart because I knew I would not walk in that cemetery again and I would not tell my mother how I came upon my father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
An Afternoon Walk
By
Carolynn Pianta
Behind a stand of sugar maples, the sun balanced on the horizon like a brillant beach ball poised to slip over the edge. Shimmering through the trembling red and orange leaves, the late afternoon sunlight made the trees look as if they were ablaze. It had been a cliché of a day, the kind New England is famous for. So exquisite was the flawless visual snapshot Anne wondered how much she was going to have to pay for such an unforgettably perfect moment.
Rimming the dirt road where she stood was a single line of gravestones, each standing sentinel, as the first in their row, each row dozens deep. They looked like soldiers standing at attention. Anne tried to count them but they disappeared beyond the slope of the land like a floating flock of seabirds drifting down and out of site into a trough between two waves. On the far side, toward the bay, hundreds rose up out of the trough and floated as far back as the civil war. That was the old part of the graveyard where the forgotten are remembered during the special days which honor duty and death as if they are brothers.
Anne wasn’t looking for any particular stone or a familiar name, she was just walking along the rows of lives now gone. As she approached the down slope she noticed a car parked by the side of the road. Scanning the sea of stones she didn’t see anyone standing head bent visiting a lost loved one. Of late Anne noticed young wives often pouring out their hearts to futures lost from war. But because she saw no one and assumed the visitor was like her, walking and taking in the solitude but in another part of the hallowed place.
Drifting off the road Anne wandered among the stones to avoid the car just in case someone was inside. Once she came upon a couple in a red Toyota enjoying each other in what they thought was privacy among thousands gone. A live person walking by their car window caused quite a reaction when she glanced their way. So she dodged the car and wandered deeper among the dead.
The rhythm of her walking was interrupted by her weaving among the stones, the sound of her steps muffled by the soft lawn. It was as if the world had gone silent in prayer.
Like a whisper, a heartbroken voice floated up from the depths of stillness; it was weeping. In a cemetery the sound of loss and loneliness, as an accompaniment to pain and suffering lives in every breeze. When she walked there Anne contemplated often the tears shed which she imagined replenished the earth. But this time the sound of crying was real, the sadness tangible. She thought, how senseless, another young wife or another mother anguished by tragedy. A few steps further; she saw someone lying on the grass, embracing the ground above a grave. It was a man. Leaning against the cold headboard of polished granite a picture of an old woman. Slowly Anne backed away and hurried from a moment meant not to be shared.
That she imagined the sound of weeping as that of someone young and someone female puzzled her. An old man sobs for a past connection gone, a young woman weeps for one never made; their tears come from a different kind of loss but emanate from the same kind of sadness and bewilderment.
As Anne hurried back to where she had begun her walk she felt embarrassed because she had intruded. Slowly disappointment and betrayal tragically burrowed into her own heart because she knew she would not walk in that cemetery again and she would not tell her mother how she came upon her father weeping for another women and a future lost to circumstance.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Our world fell apart
More than a month since adding to this blog, much has happened.
Christmas, awesome as usual, New Years Eve, quiet and very nice, and then our world fell apart, for a bit.
Frankie died.
My wonderful mother-in-law, 93 and with a quality of life most dream about quickly slid away from us and into another world, one I hope is better then this one...which is a lot to hope for because this world has been very kind to us.
We have had great challenges and loses over the years but the death of Frankie is a silencing of wisdom. I will miss her terribly, we all will. I have lived side by side with her for over thirty years and in all that time we have never had a cross word. Amazing really. Good bye sweet friend…see you again someday.
Christmas, awesome as usual, New Years Eve, quiet and very nice, and then our world fell apart, for a bit.
Frankie died.
My wonderful mother-in-law, 93 and with a quality of life most dream about quickly slid away from us and into another world, one I hope is better then this one...which is a lot to hope for because this world has been very kind to us.
We have had great challenges and loses over the years but the death of Frankie is a silencing of wisdom. I will miss her terribly, we all will. I have lived side by side with her for over thirty years and in all that time we have never had a cross word. Amazing really. Good bye sweet friend…see you again someday.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Inspired Writing Group, assignment, One Shot Writing
We call ourselves the Inspired Writers Group. We meet every two weeks, talk about writing and more importantly we write. We share our projects and we read our weekly assignment. Usually we are given a word to fit into a two page piece. This week we have done something a little different. Our assignment: to write a short piece and NOT EDIT.
One shot writing.
I am the multible draft, re-write, edit queen. To write and not edit, (gulp), but I did it. The following is my assignment...no spell checks, no read-through until the end...what you see is what I wrote, one shot only. Do I hang my head, red faced because of errors...no, actually I like it...hope you do to.
My Writing Place
It’s my kitchen table…the end facing double ovens and stove top. I face the island piled with junk mail and macs, (bruised), Clementine’s, (soft). They speak of moments in the produce department with a promise to eat healthy. I end up in the bakery isle…breads and cakes do not go fuzzy in my house.
When I write I stare at cherry cabinets and when the words do not come I think of how lucky I am to have such a nice place to write, and eat, and gather with my family.
My kitchen becomes a meadow in Wyoming, (my novel), the hospice room where my mother died, (my memoir), where I work, (my book of essays), a back alley in Florida, (my book of short stories), and a shelf stacking a dictionary of ideas so numerous, it’s a library of writing dreams.
This is my writing place. During the day the TV is blaring in the other room most of the time when someone else is home and even when someone is not. At night it is a quiet place of dissolving into another world of someone else. With heavy eyelids I write well, with a heavy heart I write my best, with joy I am not writing I am living and from that I sit at my kitchen table, stare at the ovens and remember, and type, and put down how life has made me lucky.
The kitchen…my place to write…is the center of my house, my family, me heart and life’s word count. Double spaced, one inch margins I wonder how many words, how many pages I will get to print of my life before my body runs out of ink and the pages go blank.
One shot writing.
I am the multible draft, re-write, edit queen. To write and not edit, (gulp), but I did it. The following is my assignment...no spell checks, no read-through until the end...what you see is what I wrote, one shot only. Do I hang my head, red faced because of errors...no, actually I like it...hope you do to.
My Writing Place
It’s my kitchen table…the end facing double ovens and stove top. I face the island piled with junk mail and macs, (bruised), Clementine’s, (soft). They speak of moments in the produce department with a promise to eat healthy. I end up in the bakery isle…breads and cakes do not go fuzzy in my house.
When I write I stare at cherry cabinets and when the words do not come I think of how lucky I am to have such a nice place to write, and eat, and gather with my family.
My kitchen becomes a meadow in Wyoming, (my novel), the hospice room where my mother died, (my memoir), where I work, (my book of essays), a back alley in Florida, (my book of short stories), and a shelf stacking a dictionary of ideas so numerous, it’s a library of writing dreams.
This is my writing place. During the day the TV is blaring in the other room most of the time when someone else is home and even when someone is not. At night it is a quiet place of dissolving into another world of someone else. With heavy eyelids I write well, with a heavy heart I write my best, with joy I am not writing I am living and from that I sit at my kitchen table, stare at the ovens and remember, and type, and put down how life has made me lucky.
The kitchen…my place to write…is the center of my house, my family, me heart and life’s word count. Double spaced, one inch margins I wonder how many words, how many pages I will get to print of my life before my body runs out of ink and the pages go blank.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A Warm Thanksgiving
Ms trite says:
Thanksgiving is like the fourth of July being thankful for the harvest, instead of freedom. They both taste good, except it's warmer on the fourth...outside anyway. No doors or open windows can dispel the warmth around our table on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is like the fourth of July being thankful for the harvest, instead of freedom. They both taste good, except it's warmer on the fourth...outside anyway. No doors or open windows can dispel the warmth around our table on Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Page 1
Life is like writing a book.
Sometimes, when the words don't come and the dream is distant, we have to look at the stack of printed pages and trust that somewhere in there is the masterpiece called 'me'. Just search...start at page 1.
Sometimes, when the words don't come and the dream is distant, we have to look at the stack of printed pages and trust that somewhere in there is the masterpiece called 'me'. Just search...start at page 1.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
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