NBCWA Workshop: Becoming the Author of Your Own Life (Memoirs)

In mid July, as part of the NBCWA Writing Festival, I attended a workshop with my mom: Becoming the Author of Your Own Life (Memoirs) with Elisha Rose, who has written two memoirs herself, I Am Worthy and the prequal Time to Wake Up My Love, about addiction, truth, lies, secrets and love.

    It wasn’t quite what I expected. I mean, I was thinking that it would be a workshop on how to write a memoir, and it was, but with some specifics versus generics. It wasn’t even a workshop that I wanted to take for myself because a memoir isn’t anywhere on my radar, but My mom has been talking about writing her memoir for several years, and I wanted to support her journey (and nudge her along), and thought that this workshop would be a great for that. And we got some mother-daughter time.

Elisha’s presentation was well organized with main Talking Points interspersed with Writing Prompts and Deep Thought questions. Elisha talked about the cost of memoirs, the secrets that they tell, wisdoms the world would be without if your story isn’t told, and how to be the main character of your own story. She asked us to think about where you are in life, why your story matters, and are your happy with where you are.

It was a great workshop. Until she lost me at the end.

Part one: Why memoirs are.

              Question posed by Elisha Rose: If your story had never been written, what wisdom would the world miss? And what is wisdom? It’s the balance of intelligence with love because intelligence without love is just arrogance.

              We all know people who are arrogant—those people who impart knowledge but leave you feeling less-than afterwards. And we all know people who are wise—elders with infinite patience teach you in ways that uplift you.

Prompt: Where are you in the story of your life right now?

              Exhausted. That’s where I am. I’m tired of Fear. Tired of not doing things that I want to do because I’m too afraid. Regarding writing, I’m afraid of failure. What if I’m a failure, and what if people hate me? And why am I so afraid of people considering my writing time as unproductive time? Probably because I LOVE writing, and it feels a bit like a guilty pleasure. This one probably also stems a bit from small comments made by adults in my childhood. “Writers don’t make any money.” “Don’t write thinking you’ll be an author. Writing is just a hobby.” (This one was said by someone who wrote great poetry himself.)

              It would have been more kind if someone had said, “OK. What are the realities of being a writer? Is getting published hard? Rejection is okay—what do you have to do to keep trying (and then encouragement to keep trying). And what do you have to do to become one? How do you make your dream a reality?”

This is now something that I try to do for my kids. I would rather encourage their dreams and push them to be real about them in order to succeed vs pushing them to be real about them to discourage them from trying.

My Dream was to be a travel writer. Fear kept me from doing either traveling or writing, at the start. Life choices, none of which I regret, have made this Not the Time. Maybe retirement will see fulfillment of that dream. In the meantime, I’m blogging more (which is writing), and I’m currently sitting with a group of writers, listening to the clack of keys while I write longhand [except for right now while I type this in, of course]. And it is productive.

I’m at a place in my life where I want to have no regrets, even if that means Revising, Editing, and Proofreading my Bucket List. And I’m at the age where I don’t care what people think. Or so I tell myself.

Part two: Secrets and Shame 

According to Elisha Rose, it isn’t Fear that holds us back. Shame holds us hostage because we are ashamed. We are ashamed of the things that we do wrong, the things that go against the values of our upbringing, and the things that make us different. “They’re all going to laugh at you.” (the movie, Carrie, and Adam Sandler.)

And Shame? Shame stems from pain. The pain of criticism, the pain of regrets, embarrassment, and self-doubt.

But we’ve all made shitty mistakes, she says. Being unkind to a friend, failing to communicate well, being unprepared for something important. Rolling a car on a gravel road when you were sixteen, for example. Marrying the wrong person (not a mistake I’ve made) or spending too long in a relationship before getting out.

We just need to be honest about it. And who, Elisha asks, is more honest about their pain? An unhoused addict, or an “influencer”? Be honest, she says. Regrets fester into shame, so not having regrets lead to letting go of shame.

When you are honest, you are unbound form the secret, and therefore free from the shame. That is the Why of a memoir. Catharsis. Because you matter. You can’t keep secrets and be free. You can’t keep secrets and be the main character of your own life.

Secrets cause damage: isolation, disassociation, and silence lead to intensification, and onward to cyclical trauma (think Generational). Elisha spoke of how the generational trauma that she experienced as a child kept her quiet in class, afraid and ashamed of her dyslexia, something she proved to have risen above by openly asking for help spelling words while writing them on a flip chart in the workshop. Until she let go of her secrets and her shame, her work ethic, self confidence, and self worth suffered.

She describes trauma as what you make of a situation. Picture yourself as a mountain, she suggests. Trauma is someone throwing rocks at you. Maybe they’re pebbles that you can ignore, or maybe an avalanche starts. Or maybe the rocks are as big as boulders. Do you let the water flow around them? The expression “it’s all relative” when talking about hardship makes more sense now.

Prompt: What is our most painful memory, and is it a secret?

              When asked what title we will give the next season of our lives in relation to our most painful memory, I was feeling hard-pressed to find a memory painful enough to be memoir worthy. Oh sure, I’ve done some stupid shit (I was in my twenties once upon a time after all), and some of it I feel bad about to this day (to be fair, I still have the odd nightmare about the first time I returned a library book late as a child), but does any real shame come from it. I mean, I’m not going to tell you about any of it (at least not today), but more because it feels a little more First World problem and less what will the world think of me?

              This prompt was hard.

Part three: The Main Character and Self Trust 

              That being said, it’s all relative.

              And the important thing is that whatever your trauma or shame is, be Authentic. Be Yourself. Be the Main Character of your life. Instead of Becoming, think of Being.

              The main character doesn’t ask for permission to be themselves.

The next few prompts asked Why we want to tell our story, Why our story matters, and what is the Why to being the Main Character in your story?

I personally cannot find a great answer to these. Like I said above, I have a lot of first-world problems. The best I can come up with is that if one person were to read my story, I hope that it would make them laugh. I hope that it would inspire them to be themselves—to hold onto their own values and to express themselves as they feel fit. To have more self worth that I ever did.

But as I sit here typing this up, I can say that there were times I was authentic to myself. As a teen I wasn’t cowed by peer pressure to drink, cheat on homework, or steal. I never really fit in because I didn’t wear the styles of the day, or makeup (in a time when it was caked on). The first bit was a hold on values. The second may have been a bit of laziness, but more likely is the refusal to change who I am just because Cosmopolitan told me I was worthless if I didn’t wear blue eyeshadow and tease my bangs up high.

Elisha asked us, what are we willing to become? What do you have to give up becoming that? Do you love what you do, and what does being more mean to you?

Self love equals Authenticity. I love that I put boundaries in place on people who expect me to be perfect; I’m never going to be perfect, and trying to be makes me so anxious (this may be topic for another post). I can be kind and supportive to others, but only if I’m also taking care of myself.

Towards the end of the evening, when discussion was opened up, Elisha asked, what is your self-trust price tag? One participant replied that she doesn’t have one; you can’t buy her—you have to earn her trust.

Elisha then suggested that we don’t act cheap (in the dating world). What exactly does that mean? A lot, and honestly, this, too, could be another essay for another post (she was hinting at dress and actions). But quickly, for me, what it boils down to is this: when I became of dating age, my dad told me that if a guy came to pick me up and honked the horn instead of coming to the door, I wouldn’t be going out with him. I was worthy of someone coming to the door.

How do you be more in your own story, she asks. All I wrote down was “The strengths I wish I’d had.”

As you can see, I’m still struggling with all the prompts. I’m still not here to write a whole memoir. Maybe I’ll do a few essays on what determines your self worth, or on how to be yourself and not give a shit about whatever anyone else thinks.

I’m just here for my mother. She’s the one with a great story to tell, and this is my way of supporting that process.

Part four: The Cost of Honesty, and lost. 

What do you lose, Elisha asks, when you write about your trauma and your shame?

She actually asked and answered this earlier in the evening, but I feel like it closes this post well.

What did she lose? Everything. Your family, your friends, whoever is affected directly by your Authentic Honesty, will be the first to reject you. They’ll project their own trauma and insecurities and shame onto you. But once you’ve been honest and said it all, what are they going to be able to say about you? So, long story short, Elisha Rose is Free, and therefore she is Happy. Her fears surrounding her memoir were of being rejected, but the happiness that comes about by being rejected by the Wrong people and being accepted by the Right people, is freeing, and she is happy. (She’s probably not going to the family Christmas dinner, but you don’t have to dig too hard online to find stories about why this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though.)

 

And then, this is where she lost me.

Elisha described herself as a masculine woman. I never once looked at her or listened to her words and thought masculine woman. Strong, yes; absolutely and without a doubt.

She summarized the facilitation of the abuse that she suffered as being permitted by her mother being a weak feminine woman, and her father being a strong masculine man (one not being able to stop the abuse of the other).

Elisha calls for a balance of the masculine and feminine in both men and women, and sure, that’s not necessarily wrong. But stopping abuse, in my opinion, has less to do with masculine and feminine, and more to do with strength. Saying that you have to be more masculine to be strong is insulting and dangerous; I’ve known strong femininity, and I think we need more of it.

This is a whole other essay, too.

In the End 

However you look at it, memoirs are stories that give the world some information, insight, inspiration, and even representation that it would be without had they never been written.

If you write a memoir, what is the wisdom that you impart? If you write a memoir about your suffered childhood abuse, does it help others like you feel not so alone? Does your memoir put your life into perspective?

I’m still, decades later traumatized by Angela’s Ashes, and I still think about it when my own life sucks at a particular moment. Sure, my garden sucks, but I didn’t starve; I don’t depend on my garden for survival, so I’m not suffering; I’m just frustrated. Perspective.

Which brings me to another internal thought:

Must all memoirs be melancholy and morbid, harrowing and horrendous? Are there any inspiring and wise memoirs that are also funny and make you feel good?

Marley & Me, perhaps. Until it isn’t.

 ~

NBCWA Salon: Romance

 This has been an incredibly busy month!!

I have so many notes on so many things, but I'm thinking I'll finish posting the Story first.

The last Saturday of the Writer's Festival held more events than one could attend; I did all the salons for the day (easy peasy--they're all at the same location), which gave me the opportunity to work through the story I started at the Horror Workshop.

So, without further ado, here is the next instalment, very minimally edited 1st draft (hand-written with little revising etc. typing it here). [##] denotes writing sprint time before breaks. This was a long salon, and it is taking forever to type this up...

You can find the other instalments here: Horror (1), Sci/Fi Speculative (2), Contemporary / Women's Lit (3)

    Lisa May decided to turn left, away from the 'Hood to the right, and away from the park behind her.

    The squirrel was gone. The man who'd been following her was screaming and rubbing his eyes. "Oh Gawd, that burns so much!"

    "Stop rubbing your eyes, maybe." Why did she engage? Would she come to regret that?

    "Chico! Agh! CHICO!"

    Dude was rolling around on the ground now, so Lisa May headed left towards home. She could always detour if buddy decided to resume following her.

    But he didn't.

    She took a route that circled the long way around her block just in case, didn't see anyone following, and walked in her front door.

    "Mabel, I'm home!"

    Always acknowledge the roommate when you get home. You never know what they're up to.

    The two cats that lived with Lisa May stalked into the hall, meowing for food. Poor things probably only had half a bowl of kibble left.

    Lisa May fed the cats (more), showered, fed herself, and opened the newest Jennifer Crusie / Bob Mayer collaboration. Time passed and imaginations.. 

[ugh I don't know what to do here]

    What she wouldn't do for a guy who was more secure than her ex, Lance (who was more like the beige boyfriend from Crazy for You). She was pretty sure Lance found ways to sabotage her life so that he could swoop in and fix it. Or keep her dependent on him. And when she pushed back and caught on, he just got overtly controlling.

    His dream, Lance's dream, was the house with the picket fence, two point two kids, and wifey at home making dinner and spreading her legs at his every whim.

    No. Thank. You. Lisa May had told Lance repeatedly. NO. No kids, no giant house, no being a SAHW.

    She liked being independent. Oh sure, she'd like a partner. But someone who encouraged her to be her best self, and someone who'd work with her, and who she could work with, not for.

[15]

    Spencer was in pain. Not just his eyes. Sure, those were burning like hell, but his heart was breaking. The love of his life just pepper sprayed him in the face. And, because pepper spray for humans was illegal but bear spray was not, and because his face was on fire more than any other time he'd been peppered, he was guessing she had used bear spray on him. 

    He was following her through a wooded park, after all. And sure, he'd been following her with the intent to scare her, but that was his job! Scare her so much that she ran back into her ex-boyfriend's arms, married him, cleaned his house, cooked, had kids.

    He groaned. If she was having kids, she was having sex. With another man. A man not Spencer. He might not be liking his job today.

    Chico popped back onto his shoulder. "Dude, what the fuck did she hit us with? That was NOT regular pepper spray!"

    I'm in pain, Chico. So. Much. Pain."

    "It burns, for sure," Chico said.

    "No, it's not that. I mean, yes, my face is on freaking fire, and I think it was bear spray, but my heart. I feel like I've just been dumped, which is stupid, because like, I'm not her man. Well it just is."

    Chico stared, unblinking at him. His little furry head tilted a fraction of an inch. A millimeter, really. Still enough to signify confusion.

    "Can I feel a new level of admiration for Lisa May?" Spenser asked. "I mean, here we are trying to Scare her, ad she's the one torturing us. Amazing, really!"

    "I don't think I'd use the word amazing," Chico replied.

    Spencer wiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks, and finally noticed that Chico was fine. And wet. "How are you not dying? And why are you all wet?"

    "Oh, uh..." Chico glanced around, looking anywhere but at Spencer's swollen eyes.

    "Did you port yourself into a lake? Without me?"

    "Would you believe me if I said my tail twitched me away all on its own?"

    Spencer blinked. Or thought he did. Tried to. "No."

    He started walking in the direction Lisa May went. At least, he thought he was going the same way. It's not like he'd been able to see where she went. Or scent her trail.

    "Come on, Rat."

    "Rat? Don't call me rat! It was an accident, I swear! I'll twitch us to the lake right now if you want!"

    Spencer paused. "Make it quick, and then twitch us right back to Lisa May's street. I still have a job to do." He'd been hoping to avoid Scaring her at home, but now he'd have to. Her fault, really.

    "Do you think she went home?"

    Spencer tried to sniff out the smell of her shampoo. He would like to say that his Hunter senses were working, but his nose was so full of snot that he didn't think he' be able to smell dog vomit if he fell face first into it.

[20]

    Lisa May woke to one cat on her pillow, tail in her face, and the other cat on her chest, eyes boring into her with demand.

    mewroup. Soft. But brooking no argument for non-compliance.

    "Fine."

    Lisa May got up, peed, and padded downstairs to feed the cats, only to find dishes full of kibble and pancakes on the griddle.

    "What the fuck?" Lisa May whispered with alarm.

    Mabel didn't cook. She'd changed the locks, so Lance's key shouldn't, wouldn't, wor.

    "Oh, hey," a deep voice said behind her.

    Behind her.

    She grabbled the closest thing at hand, turned around, and kept her arm moving until the spatula hit the side of a face. A very red, very puffy, crimson, teary-eyed face.

    "Ow!" The man put his hand up to his head. "That stings!"

    She moved to hit him again, and this time she'd get him with edge, maybe cut him a little, but he grabbed it out of her hand.

    "Okay, now you gotta stop doing that," was all he got out before the rolling pin in her other hand connected with his temple. His eyes glazed over, or at least she thought they did. Hard to tell with lids so puffy they were already almost completely closed.

   Well, if this wasn't the guy who was following her last night. How did he get in? She'd have to ask another time because this time, the rolling pin did its job and down he went.

    "Well, now he's just going to love you even more," said someone from above her, which didn't make any sense at all.

    "What--who--where are you?" Lisa May turned in a full circle twice, looking all around, but not only could she not see anyone, now she was dizzy. Maybe Mabel had a friend over? Which would be weird. Oh. No. Maybe it was the squirrel. Lisa May started laughing.

    "Squirrel. No sense. Makes no sense at all!" Sure, there'd been a squirrel on Dude's shoulder last night, but really, even if there was a squirrel in her house right now, it wouldn't be talking. That would be crazy.

    "Not as crazy as not flipping the pancakes before they burn."

    Lisa May turned. And yes, there very much was a Fucking. Furry. Squirrel. On her counter. Nose twitching. Staring at the pancakes like he wanted to devour one like he'd never had food before in his life.

    Okay. Squirrel. Talking squirrel. She was NUTS.

    But, the squirrel was right. The smoke alarm would be going off soon. She pried the spatula out of Dude's hands, and she flipped the pancakes. Blueberries glistened up at her, their sugars carmelized. Her absolute favourite. Some strange man, who'd followed her home with his pet squirrel, had made her favourite.

[20]

    Spencer came to slowly. He kept his breathing even and his eyes closed. Always assess the situation before you give yourself away. He heard the clink of cutlery on Corelle. Smelled fetid cat breath--oh goody, he could smell again, He cracked one eye open. The black cat stared into his eyes, its pupils a vertical slit, and its eyelids narrowing with displeasure, like it had been staring into Spencer's soul, and it didn't like what it had seen.

    "Oh, look who's awake." Chico. Chico was talking, so things couldn't be dire.

    "These are really good," said the most wonderful voice in the world. The voice of an angel. The voice that drove his dreams into erotic spaces. He tried to push himself up off the floor, and realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

    So, not the voice of an angel. The voice of someone who could look after herself. Spencer's heart melted.

    "I, uh, hoped they'd pass muster," he said. His stomach growled. Hungry. Oh, he was so very hungry. "Can I have some of those?" Spencer asked, hoping she'd cut his hands loose. Or feed him by hand. Yeah, keep his hands tied.

    "You could feed me by hand. Keep my hands tied,"

    "No."

    Okay then.

    He had a headache. And he had to pee. And his hands were tied. Maybe loosed hands would be better after all.

    "Uh, small problem," he said. "I really need to avail myself of your facilities."

    "Avail yourself of my facilities. Who talks like that? Like, seriously? Are you trying to sound all hoity-toity? Are you too delicate to say PEE?"

    Spenser rolled his eyes. Not a comfortable thing to do with swollen eyes. Useless lake water; wasn't helpful at all. "I have to pee."

    "Maybe your squirrel can hold an empty bottle for you."

    Chico snorted. 

    "Dude. Chico. Come on. I'm about to make a puddle here."

    Chico sighted, waited a beat, and twitched his tail. Next thing Spencer knew, he was standing in a very pink bathroom, hands-free. He did his thing, and was just zipping up his pants when he was twitched back into the kitchen. Not standing, and not hands free.

    "Chico, what the he..."

    Lisa may, love of his life (even if she didn't know it yet), had Chico by the scruff of his neck in one hand, and a death grip on his tail in the other. The tabby was nose-to-nose with the squirrel.

[20]

[I have notes here to add some back-and-forth chatter about washing hands, and feeding by hand.]

    "What the hell?" Dude said, exasperated. Lisa May really needed a name for this guy. Referring to him as Dude was so impersonal. Actually, maybe Dude worked for now. She still held the squirrel in her hands. Problem, because she couldn't eat more of these incredibly delicious, very fluffy bluberry pancakes that had blueberries in them and were so fluffy. The squirrel was so soft.

    "What the fuck? Did you drug the blueberry pancakes? That is so wrong."

    Lisa May's head felt like it was going to roll off of her shoulders, and like it would plop onto the floor, and somehow she'd be left standing there looking at it, which didn't make sense, and nothing made sense, and why was the squirrel purple squirrels weren't supposed to be purple and oh boy.

    Spencer watched Lisa May sway. Watched as she let go of Chico's tail. Watched as the black cat appeared from out of nowhere to grab Chico's tail in its teeth. The tabby stopped nosing Chico's nose, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

    "Eep!" was all Chico could do. Sure, usually the squirrel squeaking was enough to make cats let go of him; most didn't know what to do with shrieking squirrels, but not this time. Oh, no siree. Lisa May would not have sissies for cats. Of course she had courageous cats who did a better job than some protection dogs he'd met in his time.

    Lisa May, hands now free of squirrel, stubmled backwards. Her hands groped behind her. Fuck. She was digging in the knife drawer. Concerning. Chico's eyes widened in alarm. Lisa May didn't come out with a knife though. The EpiPen. Oh thank god, she grabbed the EpiPen. Spencer really had to find out what she was allergic to.

    Wait. Why was Lisa May grabbing an EpiPen? He made her favourite blueberry pancakes the same way he'd watched her make them. Had he not noticed if she used cinnamon instead of nutmeg? He'd put in a little extra. Was she allergic to nutmeg? Oh, god no, he didn't want to kill her. He loved her!

    She stabbed herself in the leg. Breathed in deeply. 

    Oh. OH. Adrenalin. She was trying to undo the sedatives. He was not being very good at his job:

    Scare the girl. Woman. Scare the woman enough that she goes back to her ex. That's the job.

    Not follow the woman, get pepper-sprayed (bear sprayed, specifically), break into her house, drug her, make her think she's going to die alone...

[20. End Romance Salon.]

BMBR: Harmless Women by Rebecca Sharpe

I was a victim of "Just one more chapter" on this one, and now it's way past my bedtime.

Excellent thriller about a woman who steals, her victim who isn't what she thought, and a third woman searching for her daughter.

5/5

NBCWA Workshop: Contemporary, Literary, Women's Fiction Writing Salon

 The second Writing Salon from a week ago saw more writing sprints (which are freaking awesome), and since the genre focus of this salon was again different, there's a bit of a genre shift in the continuation of our story.

Part One (Horror) can be found here, and Part Two (Speculative/Fantasy) can be found here.

We did fifteen minute [15] sprints, and I'm not going to edit much as I type (no time, and I want to make this story bigger later, so yay, first draft)!

[15] means the break between sprints, and other comments in [these brackets] are my bracketed notes in the sprint. And yes, the writing sprints are long-hand. Have fun!

[Make the numbers cool]

    Seventeen. That's how old Lisa-May was when her world changed forever. Twelve, the grade. 4921, The house number. May 7th, the date. 

    Specifics forever burned in her mind.

    She'd been walking home from school, a month shy of graduation, a week away from eighteen, and a day away from the weekend.

    The day had been warm with the clouds trapping the heat of a pale sun. Muggy and mosquito-ridden, and unseasonable. Lisa-May [this thought was Not written down--it's current, and I am seriously rethinking using a hyphenated name. In longhand I can scribble LM or L-M quite quickly, but typing out Lisa-May is starting to suck. Lisa May. Lisa-May. Yeah, I'm dropping the hyphen.] was feeling overdressed. Not for the neighbourhood because you could never be overdressed for this part of town. You could be wearing four layers of clothes, finished off with puce coveralls, a grey-haired wig, a hairy wart glued to your chin, and food splattered down the front of your body, ad the inhabitants of this part of town would still try.

    [Later--input a why--inhabitants locked here except for the children. Prison? Camp?]

    Lisa May thought of taking the wooded path home instead of the cracked sidewalk. Was the sidewalk the edge of the 'hood? Or was it the edge, the border, of the woods? Tales of monsters that ate children in the woods were told, but Lisa May didn't know of anyone who'd actually gone missing in the woods. 

    Was that because nobody actually went missing in the woods? 

    Or was it because no one went in the woods? Maybe it was like how kids went missing less in general because parents turned into Helicopters, hovering machines that made it impossible to disappear, even if you wanted to.

[15]

    No, Lisa May was feeling overdressed regarding the weather, but naked in relation to the neighbourhood. She looked with longing at the woods. She'd take a bear over a man. It would be a quick death. Better than the alternative.

    One of her classes in grade six had been on How to Avoid the Gaze of Men. It was a girls' only class, and she didn't know what the concurrent boys' only class was. She thought it's title was actually How to Protect Your Woman, but it should have been How to Treat Women with Respect. Or something like that.

    Wasn't that a funny sentence to parse. How to Protect Your Woman, not ALL Women. And wasn't that the way of the world at the moment? [A backwards slide into an era that benefited Men at the expense of Women.] put this later

    Men watching other men beat up their wives, girlfriends, sisters even, and not doing anything because those wives, girlfriends, mothers and sisters didn't belong to them; they belonged to the men doing the beating. No right to interfere in that.

    That was not a world that Lisa May wanted to live in.

    She wanted to live in a world where ALL men protected ALL women. 

    Maybe if there were no men, women wouldn't even need protection? Well, not counting from the bears in the woods, she supposed.

    Monsters. Not bears. That was the creature in all the stories. Monsters.

    Monsters of no consistent description.

    What, then, were the men of the 'Hood, if not monsters themselves, preying on Women?

    Not children, though. Children were off limits. That was an unwritten rule, and it was also law.

    Rules were broken, and laws were bent.

    Not here. Here, the men of this neighbourhood were careful to stick to women. Not children, and not Underaged Women because those were still children in the eyes of the law. But children Lisa May's age could easily be mistaken for women. It's not like you were going to be carded before they touched you.

    But there were stories of men in other neighbourhoods who bent the laws. Who invited girls for dinner.

[15]

End of salon, and Lisa May's childhood is getting dark. Not sure where I was going with that, exactly.

NBCWA Workshop: Sci-Fi / Speculative Fiction Writing Salon

 I attended four events the other day, and this was the first.

The facilitator had us do writing sprints: fifteen minutes of just writing, five minutes of talking about it or asking questions or reading what we've got.

What I learned? I can get a page to a page and a half written (single-spaced long-hand) in fifteen minutes, so if I have fifteen minutes, I don't have an excuse to not write.

I continued with the story that I started in the Horror Workshop, which can be found here, and since this was a Speculative Fiction salon, there's a bit of a genre shift from Horror. [15] denotes the end (ish) of a 15-minute sprint. Note that I've typed up what I wrote with minimal edits or proofing

    Spencer l'Amoind was in love. Which was wonderful. With a human. Which was bad. He'd Followed lots of women-folk--human, Fae, demon, or whatever you can imagine.

    Where he was from, most Hounds referred to women as Females, but he hated that term. It was so objective, and could refer to anything from babies to children to adults, and he wasn't that much of an ass. If you ignored the part about him being a Hound: following, harassing, and often terrorizing women-folk for money.

    I mean, a guy's gotta eat, and buy flea-ridden blankets to keep him warm in his rat-infested, rent controlled apartment, which he also had to pay for, somehow, right? And it's not like he thought he was a good guy, even though his mama did. He was a good guy, but his job didn't make him appear so, and if he bought into the whole "you are what you do" thing, then he was not a good guy.

    But he wanted to be.

    H did have limits. No minors. "Underaged Woman" was the dumbest thing he'd every heard. Those are kids, and he didn't Follow kids. He also didn't rape or kill. One could terrorize just fine without raping or killing.

    And Spencer had Terrorized lots of women of all kinds. Fae. Demon. Dragon. Even a Kelpie once, which was hard because he wasn't a great swimmer. Kind of an important skill if you're stalking something that can hold its breath forever.

    Demons were his favourite because they were challenging. Dragons, well, he only Stalked and Terrorized one dragon, and he'd almost died. He was successful though, so now the offers kept rolling in, but he wasn't enough money to cover the stupidity of the idea, so, No.

[15]

    He was currently following a human.

    Humans were the easiest, and he felt bad for how easy. They just had to think, and they were afraid. It was almost not satisfying, and therefore boring, but because it was so easy, it almost made him feel like he wasn't such a bad guy because he didn't have to do the absolutely crazy shit that some of his colleagues went for, like actual rapes and torture and  (usually slow) murders.

    And this current human was the one that he was in love with. Inconvenient, for sure. Just. So. Inconvenient. He was being paid a moderate sum to make her so afraid to walk home in the dark, so afraid to walk home at any time, that she'd marry the worm paying him to Terrorize her, and she'd stay home, submit, have his babies, etc., etc.

    To clarify, Spencer's client wasn't a Worm. Those guys were into Following themselves, and didn't need Hounds. No, his client was just an Alpha-Bro Podcast fan, worm of a human male. Dude wanted a trad-wife, and he wanted this woman as his trad-wife (stupid term), but she was independent and happy living in her clean house with her two cats. He wanted her scared enough to never leave her house. His house. Dude probably wouldn't let her have a choice in where they lived.

    Spencer may have known how happy she was with her cats because he was thorough in his preparatory Stalking. Very, very thorough.

    Lisa May. Spencer breathed her name, and stubbed a toe on the root of a tree.

    She stopped. Again. Held her breath so tightly. He could see that in the set of her shoulders, and in how stiffly she held herself. So still, that Spencer wondered if she was in fact human, and not maybe Fae or part Fae.

    Chico made some noise on the other side of her, drawing her focus so that she wouldn't notice Spence getting closer on her left. But still behind her.

    She was definitely wary now.

    But, was she scared?

    Spencer wasn't trying to be noisy, but he also didn't hide his footfalls, giving Chico a chance to climb a nearby tree without being heard. Then they were both silent.

    Lisa-May started walking again, and this time with fortitude. Bravery. Not something Spencer expected, but something he appreciated. She was holding herself like she was supposed to be there. Which gave him pause.

    And maybe made him fall in love a little bit more.

[15]

    Lisa-May kept walking with purpose and intent and belonging. She wound around the tree on the footpath. She started swinging her arms with a bit more animation.

    She stubbed her toe on an uplift in the pavement, stumbled, and used the distraction to pull her pepper spray canister from her purse and tuck it into a pocket on her jacket. She loved this jacket for its pockets. For the big, square, hold-everything, easy-to-access pockets on the front. Pockets big enough to hide things. If it had been legal to carry a gun, that's where it would go. 

    Lisa-May kept walking, pretending that she was ignoring the noises behind her, which were getting closer. They were still being weird, too, like magical beings that could move silently or teleport at will. As she neared the exit to the park, she knew two things to be true.

    She had two stalkers.

    They never crossed the path behind her.

    They never moved, or made noise, at the same time.

    The silent one never fell behind, so they could move in silence.

    They were getting closer. 

    Okay, five things. Five things were true. She thought about it some more, but couldn't come up with any more things that were TRUE. Maybe it was only four things that were true. She maybe didn't have two stalkers. She maybe only had one that could fly overhead without a sound to switch sides.

    She stopped at the side of the street and debated which way to turn.

    Left was the way home. Forward.

    Right was back the way she came, albeit sideways and around. Not forward. Not home.

    She didn't want to lead whoever, or whatever, was following her home.

    But to the right was a sketchy part of town. 

    Sketchier than walking alone through the dark park by yourself. Sure, there was more lighting, but there were also more people, and while most people would say that more people was a good thing, the "more people" from this part of town tended to do very bad things to other people, especially women walking around alone. It didn't even have to be night. Or dark.

    Oh. Oh, for crying out loud. Lisa-May was in the Throes of the whole Bear vs. Man Alone in the Woods debate.

    Well, she was not leading anyone to her home.

    And she was not walking into a for-sure assault.

[15]

Spencer and Chico were right upon Lisa-May now. They were Right Behind her. Not that she could see them. No one could. Well, except themselves, obviously, because if they couldn't see each other, chaos would ensue.

    Spencer could feel the anticipation of scaring Lisa-May., the love of his life (not that she knew that). All she had to do was walk Left.

    The love of his life. Why was he scaring the Love of his Life?

    "Chico", he mouthed. "Why am I scaring her?"

    "Money," Chico mouthed back. He flicked his tail and Suspended them.

    "Dude," Chico groaned. "No doubts. We need food. Food costs money. We therefore need money."

    Spencer sighed. Nodded.

    Chico flicked his tail back the other way and unsuspended them. He flicked his tail too far. 

    Spencer sneezed.

    Lisa-May stiffened. Had she heard the sneeze?

    Chico's eyes grew wide in alarm.

    Lisa-May turned around. Not left. Not right. But facing back into the park. Looking right at Chico, who'd moved to Spencer's shoulder.

    "Squirrel," she said.

    Her eyes flicked right.

    Her eyes landed on Spencer's face.

    "Not a squirrel," she said. "Not a human."

    

[15, and end of the salon]

There are definitely parts to this that I want to flesh out more. Add more conversation maybe, and more details. Maybe keep the last thing LM said.

NBCWA: Comedic Writer's Workshop

 I volunteered for the second workshop that I went to for the NBCWA Literary Festival.

This was different from the horror one in that instead of writing prompts, panelists talked about their jobs as comedians / comedic writers, and then asked everyone why they were there, and then offered helpful suggestions based on the answers.

For example, one gentleman does documentaries, and he finds it very dictionary-like in terms of the writing. What hook could he use?

Not one person suggested that he watch Cunk on Earth as an example of a funny documentary. I mean, I'm not saying be that ridiculous if the doc is super tragic, but learn from it, because chef's kiss, really.

What was suggested was to soften the language. Speak with contractions, and lose the grammar.

Because I volunteered and was off to the side, I was skipped in the whole let's go in a circle and tell everyone why you're here thing, which is fine because I was not feeling brave at all today. But if I'd had to answer, it would be this:

• I love writing, and I want to write. I don't.
• Signing up for so many workshops and salons is my way of kicking my but into gear on the writing thing.
• Why the comedy workshop? I like reading all kinds of books (as long as they're well-written), and I have several genres of stories in my head just waiting for a font, and the books I enjoy the most are funny.
• I want to find a writer friend.
• I want all the tips.

And there have been good tips (general and comedy-specific) and take-aways:

• Just write.
• Make it a habit.
• Don't fix your draft as you write; write the whole thing and then go back to edit.
• As I listened to each reiteration of this point, I thought of the pottery teacher that told half the class to make one perfect vessel, and the other half to make 100 vessels. Perfection vs Volume. The Volume group had the better work at the end of it.
• So, don't make the one perfect vessel. Split your work into units. Lines/pages/chapters etc., and consider them like the 100 vessels.
• By the end, will it be good, and then you go back and make the first units as good as the last?
• Write what you know.
• Commercials are not written in a vacuum, and the story only has thirty seconds. Feels like a flash fiction to me.
• Make your own shame funny.
• Write it down. You will not remember it later.
• Keep a notebook on hand at all times, or a notes app in your phone.
• Conflict. All writing needs conflict or it becomes boring (and no, that doesn't mean just fighting).
• Eavesdrop on the messy coffeehouse drama.
• Use humour in the events surrounding the story / dialogue.
• Narrators can be sarcastic.
• Don't attack the person; attack the idea that makes you dislike them.

Why don't I write? 

  One reason could be that when I was young, two adults each made a single comment about why I shouldn't write (as a career). Those kinds of comments dig in deep, and I will NEVER tell my children to not go for a dream. I will ask them to plan out all the steps to make that dream a reality.

  Two is that I love it. So much so that it feels like a guilty pleasure. I'll put myself first and go to the gym, or read, or crochet, or have coffee with friends, and I'll be okay about that. But when I'm writing, it's too much for ME, and my brain tries to tell me to do something else. 

So, July is all about telling all the stupid voices to shut the fuck up.

What stupid voices do you need to silence?

NBCWA Workshop: The Graveyard Shift: A Horror Writing Workshop

 I signed up for a lot of the local writer's festival (lots going on in July), and tonight's was as the title says, and hosted by Lizzie Van Bakel.

She gave us three prompts: 
1. Buried alive.
2. Something is following you in the dark.
3. There's a knock on the glass, but not on a window--on a mirror.

Later, I was asked what was up with writing on tiny pieces of paper (because I left my notebook at home and this was in my desk at work); I quite like the process of it, I've discovered.
I was also complemented on how nice my handwriting is (it looks pretty); try and read it. Even I stumbled over it reading it out loud.
Yes, I read out loud. I am forcing myself to put myself out there. 
We were told to write about what makes you uncomfortable; maybe there's a horror story in there...

Without further ado, here is what was jotted down tonight:

    Lisa May walked home the same route every night. Alone in the silence was usual. Company was not. And Lisa May was sure that she had company.

    Her company was behind her, and to the left. Sometimes to the right. But never directly behind her, not even to switch from left to right, which didn't make any sense. And it was switches. For a very short time, Lisa May thought that maybe she had more than one company, but that wasn't right, either.

    The left and the right never made noise at the same time, and one never had to catch up to the other in terms of relative difference. The trade-off was swift, silent, and a well-oiled machine.

    She turned around, and as she looked at the behind her to the left, and to the behind her to the right, and to the behind her behind her, or in front of her now, but definitely not the way forward, she thought of the pictures going around online of the differences between what men see versus what women see when they're walking on a dark foggy street. Men see straight ahead. Like predators. Women see with great peripheral detail. Like prey.

    Lisa May nailed the peripheral vision test for good reason. And, she was using all of that peripheral vision power now. 

    Nothing. Abject silence. And a cool breeze that didn't even dare to ruffle a leaf.

    Lisa May turned around. Forward. The way home, not the way back.

    She stood still. 

    So, too, did her company.

    Maybe her company flew away. Maybe it had just been a bird.

    That walked behind her.

    "Well that makes no sense, Lisa May," she muttered.

    She started walking. Forward. Eyes straight ahead, but seeing almost 180 degrees, like her vision was a wall beside her, pushing on anything that she walked past. Her ears, if they could swivel, would have been turning behind her to hear the other 180 degrees. But of course, human ears don't swivel. They shouldn't. That would be creepy.

    Lisa May paused, took in a deep breath, and held it. Exhaled slowly. No movement. No noise. 

    One step forward on the next inhale. No noise. No company. Well, no evidence of company.

    No physical evidence of company.

    No outside physical evidence of company. Did the hairs standing up on the back of your neck count as physical evidence? Or was that something else? Psychic evidence? A hunch? A third eye?

    Lisa May's neck felt like that time she was in an MRI. One more of the many tests. But nothing else, so one foot in front of the other, Lisa May kept walking. She made it to the next turn of the path. Left, then right, around a tree that no one would cut down.

    Company, behind her and to the left. She focused. Company, on the ground, and behind her and to the left. Then, immediately and without pause, company behind her and to the right. But not on the ground. And not on the left. But definitely the same distance behind her as the Left had been.

    "Maybe I'm being stalked by a squirrel and a bird?" she breathed, quietly.

    Lisa May walked faster. Her company got closer, but this time, only on the Left, and almost imperceptible. She walked faster and with purpose, head held high. Head with the headache forming in the one spot above her right eye. The headache that was the reason for all the many tests.

    She read somewhere that if you walk without fear, chances are less that you will be prey.

                                                                ~

That's as far as I got. A few things to flesh out. There's a sentence on the third piece of paper that's bracketed and marked "later". Is it a bird and a squirrel. Or "not a squirrel! NOT A SQUIRREL OH MY GOD NOT A SQUIRREL!!"? Is it straight up horror of the human kind? Fantasy? Aliens? 

I don't even know yet what follows Lisa May.