Writer Freaks

Taking a Break

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 20:25:00 +0000

Hello Fabulous Writer Freaks Fans!

Writer Freaks will be taking a break! Life is a crazy thing and we are pretty crazy already. So, we are going to take a break for a bit to pursue some new projects and develop some new ideas. But don't worry! There's plenty of achieved items for you to sift through between now and then.

Keep on writing!!

The Writer Freaks

AND THE WINNER IS...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 03:18:00 +0000

Writer Freaks is please to announce the winner of our first ever contest, the Rub-A-Dub-Dub Massage Envy Giveaway. Congratulations to:

ANNETTE!!

You will be contacted on Facebook so that we can send you your prize! Thank you for your support!

- THE WRITER FREAKS-

Massage contest...One more chance to get all rubbed up :-)

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 17:26:00 +0000

Hello lucky duckies! Great news! We're extending the length of the contest til February 14, because we know you all want to get your chances before the big V-day :-) Contest details and rules below. Come take a shot at winning a massage! Who doesn't need a massage these days?

Image Courtesy of steamingstone.com

No, it’s not a bath. It’s even better. We know that the holidays are so stressful and it leads into the dreaded tax season. Of course in between these things is the pressure of Valentine’s Day. We try to get the best gift for our loved one. We need a break! You need a break! So, the collaborative think tank that is Julie and Stephanie is giving away a gift card to Massage Envy to one lucky loyal Writer Freaks reader. That’s right! You can go and have your stresses rubbed away. You can relax, take a break, decompress from the holidays, and get rejuvenated so that you can take on the world, or take over the world. Either way, Writer Freaks would like to help you out on your way to world domination and self control. And if you would rather win this so you can gift it to your sweetie, we won’t tell. Our lips are sealed. Here is what you need to know:

Rules

One entry per person
Contest begins February 4^th, 2013 and ends February 14^th, 2013
Winner announced on February 14^th, 2013
“Like” us on Facebook (or have already “liked” us) at www.facebook.com/writerfreaks and comment on one of our fabulous blog posts with the word “Massage” at the top of your comment. To have your comment qualify for entry, you cannot comment anonymously. Please keep it clean or we won’t be able to post your comment and your comment won't count for entry.
When the Winner is announced, we will send you a private message on Facebook that you must reply to with your mailing address, so we can send you your Rub-A-Dub-Dub gift card in the mail.
As much as we LOVE our family and are so thankful for their support, it wouldn't really be fair to have spouses or immediate family participate. If you are the parent, sibling or married to a sibling of a Writer Freak (Stephanie or Julie) you can't win this one. Wow that sounds weird-- married to a sibling. Qualifier: Not your own sibling, that'd be really gross. We're talking brother and sister-in-laws, people. You totally knew what we meant. Damn those squinting modifiers. Anyway-- immediate family-- no. Everyone else-- cousins, aunts, uncles, miscellaneous black sheep relatives, cats, are welcome. Okay maybe not cats. But everyone else, come on over to the blog! We love to hear from you.
Must be 18 or older to enter.

Good luck! We look forward to reading your comments! May the odds be ever in your favor!

Julie Simmons-Wixom and Stephanie D. Birch

Writer Freaks

Roll of the Dice

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 13:00:00 +0000

I am such a slave to my own emotions. I wish it wasn't that way, but in the end, I think this mode of operation actually helps me write with a whole lot of heart. Either way, sometimes I feel like I am in a bumper car getting hit from all sorts of other cars without any time to hit back. Yesterday was one such day. It is hard for me to be a positive person. I'm not naturally a positive person. That whole "ray of sunshine" thing is so hard for me to encompass. My husband is one of those "everything is wonderful" kind of guys. In that sense, we are total opposites and we complement each other well. It all balances out.

Image Courtesy of rationallyspeaking.blogspot.com

But getting back to yesterday. What if you knew you had a 95% chance of getting something you really want, but a 5% chance of it being not exactly what you want or maybe not at all. Those are good odds, right? Wouldn't you take that bet? Wouldn't you roll the dice? Well, I did and know I am waiting. Waiting to find out if that 95% will win out. And while I wait, I cannot help but feel as though I am doomed to get that 5%. Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? I know other people do it too. We choose to focus on the negative and not on the positive regardless of the odds. See, in the end I know logically that I will win. I know, but man does my subconscious like to play with me.

I figured something out though. That 5% that my mind inevitably wanders toward? I use it. I write about it. Doom and gloom might not be what some people like to hear, but man can I write about it. And I think most can relate to it. Everyone has all been there before. Feeling negative is all a part of the human condition and if you think about it, most of the greats use it too. Edgar Allen Poe, my favorite writer, used a lot of doom and gloom. He is the grandfather of Gothic literature, after all. Even great writers like Tony Morrison, Terry McMillan, and Joan Didion use gloom and doom scenarios. So I guess the only real loss is if I feel these things and fail to let it fill the pages I craft in some way. So, that is just what I am going to do. I am going to take all that focus on the 5% and write like a mad woman about something similar. I'm going to kill it. I'm going to let this negativity and pain shine for all to see. So hold on, buckle up and be prepared. Because this girl isn't going down. No, no. She's just going to show you what it looks like to use it for triumph.

Stephanie D. Birch is a crazy writer who uses every part of her experiences to craft a story. She would even write you a story about how she always dropped her ice cream on the floor as a kid with so much heart it would make you feel the entire gambit of emotions. If you want her to write something just for you, contact her at www.stephaniedbirch.com

Head in the clouds

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 17:42:00 +0000

I've been in sort of a daze the last few days, and part of it is because I discovered a new (old) addiction. I've always been a big reader-- writers who don't read don't make any sense to me, live vegetarians who hate vegetables. But I've had a rough time lately getting the time to really read. This week, though, I found a new thing. I can download books, especially classics, for practically nothing, and then read them on my giant phone which is almost like a Kindle. I have a phone that is so big people laugh when they see it and ask me how I use it as an actual phone. But it's great for reading, and even though I have always been staunchly old school when it comes to reading actual three dimensional paper books, I realized this week how handy the phone is. Because it fits in the back pocket of jeans and I can whip it out and read while I'm standing in the kitchen waiting for coffee to brew, or browning meat, or folding clothes. I don't even need two hands.

Anyway--- I'm not abandoning my ideals of an actual flesh-and-blood paper book or jumping on the technology bandwagon, but I have read three books in three days. Consequently, I have done no writing. There are downsides too, major ones. I'm like an addict, like one of those crazy people that gets so hooked into video games that they just have a heart attack all of a sudden. Okay maybe it's not that bad, but it's a little crazy how much I love reading. It always cracks me up when people put down reading as a hobby. It doesn't feel like a hobby to me. Building little models of stuff or gluing macaroni to things is more hobby-ish in my head than reading.

All this reading left a big store of useless but entertaining thoughts in my brain that I've been bursting to share with someone. So here they are, in no particular order:

There used to be this show on television called Medium, with Patricia Arquette. This is in no way an endorsement of that show although I really like it, and I spend a lot of time when I'm not reading, cooking, doing laundry, cleaning, writing, changing diapers, etc., thinking about it. Okay mostly this thinking time is when I'm in the shower, but don't let that debase it for you. I sometimes have my most awesome epiphanies in the shower. Anyway in that show when you die, you are wearing what you were last wearing in life. The main character, Allison, doesn’t seem to see naked dead people that I can recall, so I’m assuming the universe defaults to your last living person outfit. I was in the shower thinking about how if that’s true I hope I don’t die in my sleep or wearing my laundry day outfit with the non-sexy boring white cotton panties and mismatched bra and ill-fitting t-shirt and holey jeans that are holey from real actual age and not fashionably holey. I don’t think I would like that for eternity.

And maybe it's just me, but I sometimes think about what would happen if I died unexpectedly, or if the zombie apocalypse started very suddenly at night when everyone except the zombies was asleep. Zombie apocalypses in movies seem to start quite suddenly without much warning, like a tsunami. I think I would wake up pretty quickly but without shoes and a bra on I don’t know how long I would survive. I never feel prepared without a bra on, but even if I wanted to be in a constant state of impending zombie preparedness, I couldn't sleep in a bra.

I think zombies would go for me pretty quickly if I was ever caught off guard. I have the mad ninja skills and all but I’m also a realist and I don’t know this for a fact but I’m pretty sure that I taste delicious. I know this from mosquitoes. Those sucky little fiends love me. Love. I am a delicious tasty treat that even the hard core heavy duty cancer inducing chemicals designed to kill mosquitoes on contact have almost no effect on them. They think that DEET is like savory seasoning on my skin, making me even tastier. So even though nothing except mosquitoes has ever taken a nip of me and come back for more, like the alligator in Captain Hook or the bear in that movie with Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin or the man-eating sharks that once they get a taste only search for human flesh, I’m pretty sure one little nip and I’d be a goner.

Although maybe that would be more true in the case of a vampire apocalypse of some sort, but generally vampires are more sophisticated and intelligent and they know that if they wait awhile I would be all full of blood again and so they’d keep me around, maybe on a chain in a golden bikini like Princess Leia in Star Wars, and take a sip every once in a while. Or I’d be like a really fancy kind of wine, like Champagne, where they’d bottle and sell my blood because it’s just so darn tasty. I’m not trying to be vain or anything. I’m just being honest—my blood is really good stuff, which might be an asset to vampires but would probably be my doom when it comes to zombies.

But back to the realm of reality. The show Medium and other unwholesome shows like CSI and Bones and Castle also make me worried, not just about dying without a bra or shoes but having something criminal happen to me, like getting murdered. I probably watch way too many crime dramas. Anyway, then I would want to be fully clothed because it would be super awkward should the likes of Nathan Fillion (from Castle) come to the crime scene. I wouldn’t want him to see my giblets. But if I was in super good shape, with rock hard abs I wouldn’t care probably. Which is a good reason to work out, or one of the most random and far-fetched reasons to work out ever. It's also a good reason to always have painted toenails and nice smooth legs and sexy underpants on at all times, because you just never know. When I lived in Hawaii I only ever wore flip flops and shorts and a tank top with a bikini under it, because I was constantly ready to go swimming or surfing. Almost all the time. I don’t think I owned other clothes—actually I know I didn’t because when we came to Seattle for Christmas one year I had to buy a coat and long pants when we got there, because there were none for sale on the island. But anyway at least I was always ready to go swimming, and that’s how I feel about being murdered. I just always want to be prepared—that’s not morbid, it’s just good sense, like a Boy Scout.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is currently unavailable for sane, rational conversation. Email her here if you want non-sane conversation or random ramblings of an otherwise preoccupied psyche.

Reset, restart, don't give up... again

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 16:46:00 +0000

Photo courtesy of Tumblr

Two days ago, my universe imploded. Thanks to one of my alpha readers, I realized that my manuscript is a complete ripoff. Well, okay, that's a bit dramatic. It's not a complete ripoff. But when I saw the similarities, that's how I felt. Like a fraud and a ripoff artist. This happened completely unconsciously, by the way. I would never intentional steal someone's intellectual property. And this wasn't plagiarism like copying directly from their story. No, it just crept in. There’s this author who I really love, and I consciously am aware of deep admiration and a little bit of style and genre mimicry. I’ve read all of her books, most of them several times. And now I realize my favorite book of hers was so closely incorporated into my own manuscript that it is impossible to ignore the similarities. There are more than one plot similarity, and a similarity of language that I probably picked up from reading so many of this author’s books.

This is the reason for alpha readers. These people (in my case) are friends and family who volunteered to wade through my manuscript and tell me honestly what they think. And the reader who brought up this major flaw saved my life. Because not only do I not want to pitch a manuscript that is similar to another, I don’t want to plagiarize on intellectual property, even unintentionally. My characters are unique and I love them, and the story itself, despite some of the plot point similarities, is also unique. But I have to fix those details, and I could have walked into a very bad situation, especially if I’d been set on self-publishing. I could have even maybe been open for a law suit, though I don’t think my story is close enough to warrant that.

Photo courtesy of Icanhascheezeburger.com

I could just say to hell with it and throw away the MS entirely. I could start over. I’m a writer. We do that. I’m not sure if I want to, though. This could have been the first in a potential series that I have already started planning out. This would have been the first book. Am I really done with this story? Can it be salvaged? I think so. But if I weren’t getting honest feedback, I may never have realized this oversight. And that is huge.

I've read that when you're listening to your first readers, you have to be able to sort through and find the real essence of their critique. Everyone will find something they don't care for, but if more than three readers notice a flaw, it is incumbent upon the writer to fix that portion of the story if they can. Because if three people noticed it, many more probably will, and it is most likely indicative of a weak point in the story. Writers can't be all about the whims of the people, but we're storytellers, and we want the story to be good and make sense and speak to the reader in some way. Maybe even change them. It's a lofty goal but I don't want to reach for it by standing in another author's footprints and following their trail. I want to blaze my own path. So I go back to the drawing board once again, determined to eradicate derivation from my beloved manuscript. A lot of my friends chimed in and encouraged me, and that shored up my determination all the more. I'm actually looking forward to the next revision. Revision is usually my least favorite part of writing. But today, I feel good. Bring it on!

Julie Simmons-Wixom is becoming an expert at falling down and getting back up. COMMENT below on your own experiences, or email her for a more in depth discussion on the ontological necessity of man's existential dilemma.

Murphy's Law

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Courtesy of www.cartoonstock.com

We have all heard it before. We've all conveyed its message to others. Really it is like magic, a spell, a superstition if you will. It is called Murphy’s Law. According to Wikipedia, Murphy’s Law is, “is an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: “anything that can go wrong will go wrong.”’ You've been there, right? You get pulled over and ticketed the day you forgot your wallet at home. You bought a book and someone gives you the same book as a gift the next day. You swear you never get sick and then end up in the ER in isolation for a rare and potentially incurable disease. You run out of clean underwear they day you go to the gym. You wear flip flops the day you go into for your pap smear. Ugh! Those cold strip-ups! Whatever the case maybe, everything goes wrong.

It got me wondering, what is the opposite of Murphy’s Law? Anything that can go right will go right? Hmmm. Is that the whole illusive “power of positive thinking” mumbo-jumbo? They've repackaged it now and it is called The Secret. Some say it is a matter of putting out the right energy into the universe and getting the same kind back. Me? I call it trusting in God. Either way, I think the concept is the same. It is a fabulous counter to Murphy’s Law, but I think we need a different law. Yes! One that states, when you think something bad will happen, you get a surprise twist instead. Maybe it is a writer thing, but I love a good twist. Although, I am sure readers appreciate them too. This law could be called the Gotcha Law. It would be epic! You get pulled over on the day you left your wallet at home, but instead of a ticket, the cop only wants to show you his Gangnam Style Dance and get your input. You bought a book and the next day someone gives you the same one, but your friend accidentally left an embarrassing picture of him in women's stilletos and a clown hat inside the book that you can rib him about for the next ten years. You wear flip flops the day you have your pap smear, but instead the doctor gives you his socks and has to go through the rest of the day barefoot. You get the idea.

I really don’t want the Gotcha Law to be a made up thing. I want to see this happen! Let’s start a movement! Oh yeah! It’s going to be epic!

Stephanie D. Birch likes to start grassroots movements to get people to not take themselves too seriously. She enjoys public displays of humor and would willingly make herself the butt of a joke just to see others laugh. Want to laugh with her? No? Then laugh at her. She doesn't mind.

Planting an Apple Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Picture Courtesy of Library of Congress

I’m a nutty girl. I like quotes from famous people. I hang on their wisdom like it is a life raft in the middle of a stormy sea. I started thinking about how much I like quotes yesterday on MLK Day. He said one of my favorite quotes, “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

You see, there are all sorts of craziness in the world. I think it speaks to our character that we choose to act in the same manner, even when everything else is falling apart. There is a Zen to this philosophy and it is a Zen I strive for everyday. Stay true to yourself. Don’t give into the fanatical thoughts and action of others, even of the world. In the end, those feelings and thoughts do nothing for us.

So I write for the sake of writing. I write because it is cathartic. I write because it is who I am and what I do. The world might think I am crazy. They might tell me to quit, but I won’t and I can’t. The world tells me that I should be concerned with politics and current events. The world tells me that I should focus on what kind of car I have, what kind of home I live in, what kind of clothes I wear. The world tells me this is important, even though it isn’t. That makes what is REALLY important at war with the world’s ideals. The world is raging and waging war with my ability to plant my apple tree.

Apple Tree Picture Courtesy of
David Luther Thomas

But besides my wars, there are other storms. Everyone goes through their own war every single day. The mother with the special needs child who stands up for their child in public, even though the world says, “just shut up and deal with your hand.” The person with a chronic disease or illness that refuses to let it knock them down. They push through even though their body begs them not to. The man with a family to feed who lost his job in this lousy economy. He refuses to take no for an answer even though there are no job listings. The person reading as many self help books as they can in an effort to learn to forgive someone who wronged them in such a terrible way. The woman struggling with her weight and despite the fact that the pounds won’t shed, she continues to work out and eat right. The person diagnosed with a mental illness trying to find emotional balance even though their family continues to tell them it is simply “an attitude problem.” I could keep going because there are so many brave people in the world. These people are my heroes. These people are staying true to their character while striving to be better people. These are their wars and they battle them bravely.

MLK would be proud. These heroes are planting their apple tree while the world is falling apart, while the world is telling them not to. I would go one further. They are not only planting their apple tree, but they are also fertilizing it and well. And that tree? Well, it’s going to grow into a beautiful tree, dripping with fruit for other people to savor. And you know what? These are the people that will leave us with quotes of wisdom for us, for our children, for our future. These everyday heroes will leave a legacy. It is this part of humanity that I connect with. My heart is tender toward them. I am honored to know them. I believe in them. They are my hope and provide me with an example to live by.

I hope that I can stay the course. I hope I can ignore the cataclysmic events in my life and in the world. I hope I can find my tree, plant it and learn to give it the nutrients it needs as time goes by.

Thank you to all of you who plant their apple trees, even when the world is fighting against you. I want you to know that whether I know you or not, I love you.

Stephanie D. Birch finds inspiration in the battles of the ordinary and not-so-ordinary. Even if it isn't successful by your standards, she begs to you accept that maybe it was all along. Your wars and lives are a beautiful mystery. She is honored to know so many amazing and inspiring people. To contact her, visit www.stephaniedbirch.com or email her at birchwordnerd@ymail.com

The Ant-y Diaries

noreply@blogger.com (JulieKathleen) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 15:04:00 +0000

I don't like to be negative or badmouth-y. I believe in karma. But I am done being Miss Nicely Nicely*. I mean it. I'm coming out. No, not like that-- just out as a hater. I have to get this off my chest. So here it is. Ants are jerks. Little tiny six-legged jackwagon-y poop-faced fiends. I know it sounds harsh, but it's true. Anyone who says different has been brainwashed. Probably by the government.

Photo courtesy of cozypad.com

They think they can just come on in whenever they want and make themselves comfy. Who even knows what they're doing? They march in these crazy lines and run into each other and I stared at them for like a half an hour and you know what? I didn't see them carrying a freaking thing. Supposedly they are so super strong that they could get together and lift up a whole house if they wanted to, with their tiny disgusting ant arms, but they just go back and forth and even with my 300 mm (super big camera lens) I can't tell what they're doing. I feel like they are just trying to tick me off. They're like hey, let's make a line and march around like jackwagons, and not even eat any food, just to annoy the crap out of whoever lives here. My house is pretty clean, but we have kids so you’ll find the occasional crumb or stray pea or Cheerio or Hot Pocket lying around. Ants are supposed to go bat crap crazy for crumbs. These ones don’t. They’re in the sink, on the counter, marching, marching, forever marching, but not swarming around anything in particular or carrying around crumbs.

So I did some research and tried some stuff to get rid of them. Now I’m not saying this is true, but I have a suspicion that some internet savvy dude is sitting in his mom’s basement, eating Cheetos and laughing his ginormous butt off as I spray vinegar all over my house until it smells like pickles, and then sprinkle cinnamon in the corners like a complete nut job. I believe stuff people write on the internet. Maybe I am gullible, but I expect people not to lie all over the place and then put it in a website where God and everyone can just go read it whenever they want. I’m trying to kill the ants or at least convince them to find some place else to do their marching and mouthing off. I feel like all I've really done here is season them and make them more delicious to whatever thing eats ants. I hope it's not spiders. I hate ants, but I don't think I would invite spiders over to take care of the problem, like the old lady that swallowed the fly. That is a freaking nutso song by the way. The Little One has a book with the song in it, and it's pretty disturbing and morbid. I feel weird telling my 19-month old kid about this crazy old lady who swallows a variety of animals and insects and stuff until she finally dies. So I changed it-- I just say "da dum da dum" instead of "perhaps she'll die" and then at the end, when she eats the horse and it goes "she's dead, of course" I just say she's full. Because she is. Full of animals. It's a cracked out song. But anyway I know that when one thing that comes in to kill another, which seems like a good natural food-chain kind of extermination, it's a bad thing. That happened in Guam and now there are no native birds there. For realsies.

Anyway, back to the ants. I researched further with my super awesome internet research skills. I'm really good at internet research, in case you don't know me personally. I do it all the time. One time, I had this friend who had something really weird happen to her, and I offered to investigate for her. The person thought she had been irradiated by nuclear waste or green gamma Hulk rays or something, but then I found this blog for her. Oh yeah, it's funny. Anyway, turns out if you eat a lot of black licorice, you have very green irradiated looking doodies. So my friend felt way better and vowed never again to eat anything with Blue #5 in it or whatever, because #5 affects your number twos.

Anyway-- ant research. I discovered that there are some sick maniac housewives running around on the internets as well. They comment back and forth to each other over the various ways to feed stuff to ants that make the ants explode and die painfully from being turned inside out by some chemical reaction that happens in their stomachs. And they are LOL-ing and ha ha-ing all over the place at the thought of exploding zombie ants. As I said, I hate ants too, I think they are jackwagons who just want to crawl around in my cereal and sneak into my bed at night so I can have nightmares about things crawling all over me or getting inside my ear and living in my brain. But I don’t want to see them turn into zombie death ants or explode or anything. That’s just cruel, and kind of sick.

If I could I would just scoop them all up and take them to a nice field in the country somewhere, or maybe a farm where they could live out their days making friends with wise cracking owls or little pig ingénues a la Charlotte's Web. These are city ants, though, so they might not make it in the country. They might end up like the Donner Party, freezing and having to eat each other to stay alive, in which case my magnanimous act of charity would be a total waste because they would be dead anyway. The exploding deaths would be less trouble and use less gas money, frankly, if they're going to die anyway. But in the end I decided that I just want them to find another place to live, out in the yard and not in the house. So I put vinegar and lemon juice and cinnamon and chili powder on baseboards, which are supposed to encourage them to go somewhere else. The house is starting to smell like salad dressing and the ants are still far from gone and the internet-savvy computer geek is now wiping his greasy, Cheeto-powder-covered hands and settling in to add more tips to the already hilarious website o’lies he’s created and I’ve fallen victim to.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, ants are now invading even my computer. I imagine these are very smart ninja computer programming ants. They seem to be trying to get inside the computer mechanism and actually rewire my computer. As it took me about three hours to fix the television from the split screen picture-in-picture thing after Little One got to the "momote" control, I doubt I could undo any tiny ant rewiring, and I simply refuse to buy them a new computer.

I don't know if I will be able to make myself try some of the sick and inhumane exploding techniques next. Maybe I can just do it to a couple of them just to scare them in hopes that they may just realize I am serious and give up. But what if the ants are smarter than people, and rather than doing the entire Jonestown reenactment, they will see a few of their jackwagon ninja ant comrades explode and stop eating the Kool-Aid and just pack up their tiny pants and go live on a farm of their own free will?

*Note: Nicely Nicely is a reference to Guys and Dolls. I didn't spell anything wrong, I swear. I meant to do that.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is working on becoming an expert in ant relocation. If you are interested in talking to her about ant cruelty, email her here. Oh, and leave a comment below, just for funsies.

Thief in the Night by Stephanie D. Birch

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 14:00:00 +0000

To all our Writer Freaks loyal readers,

I don’t typically write nonfiction, but there was this thing that happened to yours truly not too long ago that I had to write down and share with you. I tried submitting it to a literary rag, but they rejected it. Par for the course. Besides, I don’t think it was really the kind of subject-matter they were looking for. So, I thought I would share it with you. Let me know what you think. ;-)

Thief in the Night – A Nonfiction Short Story

by Stephanie D. Birch

Courtesy Luiz Adriana Villa A., Noche de Lune llena

It was a cold evening and typically I would have spent such an evening cuddling by a roaring fire. Instead, I spent the evening cuddled up against my husband on the couch with my two adorable, yet fiercely protective Weimaraners watching crime dramas on the television. It was some sort of crime drama marathon and it sucked me right in. I was enthralled in these fictitious crimes, cheering the FBI onto catching every sociopathic suspect in a hoodie with dark sunglasses. Why did they always wear hoodies? The only picture I could remember of a suspect sketch in real life was the Unabomber and I suppose he fit the description. But the criminals in these crime dramas were ALWAYS sinister looking. It made me think of a news story I once watched. Kids were asked what a stranger looked like and they described these grotesque individuals, not ordinary people. Apparently Hollywood hadn’t received them memo on that issue yet; not all criminals looked shifty. But the portrayal of shifty, sinister criminals made for better television, that’s for sure. The characters were intense, as was the plot. I found that I had stopped blinking I was so riveted.

With every episode, I grew more jumpy. Adding to my jumpiness was a paranoia, of which I squarely place the blame on the crime drama and the episode's content. A car would pass by our house shinning their headlights into the kitchen window. My fear would rise, bubbling up at the illumination of the room. It casted shadows everywhere and shadows made me think of ominous what-if scenarios. Could it be someone with a flashlight ready to break into my home? I tried my best to compose myself and I thought I had done a pretty good job at it. Soon, we switched off the television and made a dash for the bedroom. The week had been hard on us both and it was late. Those crime dramas had sucked us in so much that it was now well after midnight.

I mindlessly went about my evening routine. I fluttered around the house locking all of the doors and windows even double checking them. I knew I was being ridiculously paranoid, but I just needed a little assurance that we would be safe for the night at least. I changed into my pajamas, and turned down the bed. Utterly exhausted and ready to drop, Jake and I brushed our teeth, staring at each other bleary-eyed in the mirror. My electric toothbrush hummed loudly in my head. It was kind of like white noise and had started to lull me into my dreamland dissent, albeit prematurely. I realized I was falling asleep standing up, so I snapped my eyes open and saw Jake now finished brushing his teeth and on his way into bed. One dog slept snugly in her crate and the other hopped up on the bed and peacefully coiled around Jake’s feet. I slid between the covers and, with a thud, plopped my head against the cool soothing surface of my pillow. I love the very first sensation of slipping between the sheets, and this night was no exception. I flipped off the lights and stared at the ceiling for just a moment before I began to drift. Soon, enough I could hear my husband’s rhythmic snoring and feel my dog’s dreamland twitches vibrating against my consciousness. Breathing deeply, I turned on my side and snuggled my head into the crook of his shoulder, my happy place. I drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour, fluttering my eyes open from time to time. In my brief lapses into slumber, I dreamt vividly of our crazy, inhospitable neighbors. The dreams were a mix of that crime drama from earlier and my real-life crazy neighbors. They were looking shifty and sinister, just like in those shows. Then, in the space between my dreams, I suddenly saw it.

The entire room lit up with bluish light glowing for only moments and faded into the recesses of the backyard just outside our bedroom window. Perhaps, I thought, I imagined it. I began to shut my eyes when the room lit up again. This time I sat straight up in bed. My heart raced, beating in my ears and giving away my position just like the intense music in those crime dramas. I waited, sheets pulled up to just under my nose, to see if I could see it once more. Then, again! There it was! Light flooded the room. It looked like someone was in our backyard with a flashlight. My dogs weren’t moving. They always heard every little thing. If someone was in our backyard, surely they would have heard it by now? Why didn’t they bark? Unsure of what to do, I shook Jake by the shoulder with such force as to wake him up as quickly as possible.

“Jake! Wake up!” I loudly whispered. “I think there’s someone in our backyard!”

In a complete daze and barely seeing anything, Jake slipped on his glasses and stared at me in confusion. “What are you talking about?” The room lit up again and this time you could plainly see it originated from the backyard.

“Look! Did you see that? Oh my god! Someone is in our backyard!”

“Okay. I saw it that time.” The light flooded our room again, and at this point I was utterly terrified. Jake, still half asleep, acted on my next absurd suggestion out of a knee-jerk reaction to being so startled out of sleep.

“Go get the gun!” I demanded, my voice dripping with fear. I took my position near the window, just behind the backdoor.

I peeked out the window from the very edge of the frame, half hiding behind the backdoor. The dogs were still asleep and soundly at that. I was growing increasingly irritated by the fact they weren’t protecting the house like they were suppose to. Jake was in the closet unlocking the shot gun. I could hear two unmistakable clicks as the shells snapped into the barrel. He cautiously navigated down the hallway and to the living room when he started to laugh while I screamed, “There is it again!” Confused and frustrated that he wasn’t taking this seriously, I demanded to know why he was laughing, “What’s so funny?” I hissed and his laughter filled the house, trickling down the hallway and into the bedroom as he walked back toward me.

“I saw it too! And this time it was in the front yard. Unless we are on some sort of FBI watch list and they are taking our house in raid, nobody is in our backyard.” He laughed louder as he saw it again. I was thoroughly confused and still peeved at not being taken seriously, plus I was still terrified. Jake marched back into the bedroom and reached for the handle to the backdoor just behind my back. “Don’t open it. You don’t know what is going on out there!” I protested, half scowling at his laughter.

Ignoring my pleas, Jake swung the backdoor open all the way. The back yard was vacant. I couldn’t see anyone in it at all. My eyes darted back and forth trying to find any hint of movement. There was nothing, nobody. Even the hen house in our backyard was motionless, the chickens all fast asleep inside. But suddenly, I saw it. The night sky lit up with a brilliant electric blue and in the distance there was a low rumbling building. At this point I felt like a complete idiot, but I recovered quickly by following my husband’s lead, laughing hysterically at our backyard invader. Leaning over and kissing me on the forehead Jake asked, “What did you want me to do? Battle Zeus with a 12 gauge?”

Me and my over active imagination.

Stephanie D. Birch is a Name-that-Greek-God Champion. Her hobbies include crafting her own lightning bolts, then hiding behind bushes and jumping out at people to "zap" them wearing nothing but a gold plated leaf tiara and a toga. To hear more of her incredible stories, real or not, visit www.stephaniedbirch.com or email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com

© 2012-2013 by Stephanie D. Birch. All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Stephanie D. Birch.

The Starving Artist Paradox

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 16:16:00 +0000


How I feel when I write....

Writers like to say stuff like, “I write because I have to, for the sake of writing and because it is my art form. I am not interested in monetary approval.” Which is partly true and partly crap. Yeah, I’m gonna write forever, even if a million people go on my blog and on Facebook and tell me I suck and I should quit and take up knitting and underwater basket weaving and forget about being a writer. Even if they lock me away and take away my writing implements, I will do like Geoffrey Rush playing the Marquis de Sade in the movie Quills, and write with whatever I can. If you get that reference, you are saying to yourself ew, gross, please don’t write in your own doodies. That is crossing a line. Maybe so, but I won’t stop writing. Ever. No can do. I tried other stuff a lot, and let me tell you—there is nothing worse than having a job you hate and saying to yourself nope, not worth it, hate this crap job, never wanted to be a (fill in the blank), don’t know why I’m here, because it’s the middle of the night and the middle of my 12 hour shift and instead of napping like a sane adult, I’m in the break room writing fiction on the back of old call sheets that happened to be handy.

Yes, I must needs write, but also if one writes a book on one’s computer and nobody reads it, does it make a sound? Probably not, but then unless it is a children’s book that makes noise, like the potty time book we have for the little one that makes a flush sound every time you turn the page, books don’t make a lot of noise. So that old riddle or Confucius-y thing doesn’t really apply, but you get what I mean. I’m a writer, and I’m not going to pretend like I don’t want to be published. And I’m a researcher—I love the internets and their vast sources of information. I’m stellar at self-diagnosis that goes all the way to Harvard School of Medicine and the Mayo Clinic. None of that Web-MD stuff for me. I’ve successfully (mis)diagnosed more than a few crazy illnesses. But after my bout with monkey pox I researched enough on publishing to realize that writers need readers these days even before becoming a published author, which means an author platform, which means a successful blog. The theory is that publishers look at your blog numbers and go holy cow, people already hang on this chick’s every brilliant word for free. Let’s make ‘em pay for it. And it would be awesome if I were the kind of very pure un-materialistic person who didn’t care about having a successful writing career, but I’m not. I’m not actually super concerned about the amount of money I make—I don’t really want to be crazy rich, because chances are I’d end up getting one of those big houses like in the movie Scream, and those are just beacons for serial killers to come hide in closets and stab me in the neck with an ice pick. And I’ve survived way too long to go out that way. I really want to get something published someday. I think I’m a good writer. Not Shakespeare or anything, but I can put some words in a sentence and I think people get the idea.

I’m really just trying to get someone with a big snooty nose in the air and a monocle to read my story and be like hey, I want to print that out and sew the pages together and take a super cool picture of something esoteric for the front of it, and give it to people in exchange for money. Blogging and Facebook aren’t my career, but writing is. And I am getting nowhere. Wait, scratch that. I am getting somewhere—I am getting a big pile of no thank you letters. And those are so not as fun as thank you letters. It’s crazy because even though my online persona or whatever—the stuff I share online and my blog—is about me, the stories I write are fiction. I’m not a memoirist—Augusten Burroughs can have it. I’m James Frey when it comes to writing about my own stuff if it’s meant to be published—the truth just isn’t that fascinating, so I would just end up embellishing, making it more interesting, and if you call that a memoir it’s actually a big old fat lie in the literary world. I want real live publishers to take me seriously. The “blog to book” concept works, I’ve done the research. But still, it’s awkward to self-promote.

I’ve read a lot of books by writers about writing and publishing. There are the legendary stories of rejection, from Sylvia Plath to Ernest Hemingway. Stephen King was writing for a long time before he published anything, and it was way before the internets. "Getting published" for writers is akin to winning the lottery or being drafted into the NBA, neither of which I’m delusional enough to think would happen to me. I mean, I have insane amounts of ninja basketball skills, but I’m only five eight on a good day. If I wear my kicky boots I can be almost six feet tall. Which is awesome good fun because I feel like a giant and I do my queen wave, looking down on all the tiny people from the great heights of my giant-ness, but they wouldn't work for playing basketball.

Terra Nova-- in case you wondered, this show was awesome

The dilemma I'm having right now is a crisis of faith in the blog-to-book idea and also the idea of getting a publisher interested in my fiction writing based on this blog. I want people to publish my manuscript and make it a book, but my manuscript has nothing to do with Writer Freaks. So every now and then I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I want to be an author. Authors write stories and get paid for them and they are unapologetic about it. Stephen King isn’t sitting around going man, it sucks that people read and enjoy my stories, and make them into movies so all the crazy stuff that I dreamed up is right there on a giant screen to scare the ever living pee out of people. He’s not like wow, wish I’d kept that stuff to myself and just continued working night shifts at a laundry factory (he used to work at a place where they did mass amounts of laundry for like hotels and hospitals and stuff, and he lived in a trailer). (Side note: I have a teeny crush on Stephen King. In case you didn't notice.) So if he’s not ashamed of being successful and published, why should I feel bad because I want the same thing? And yeah, it may make me a jack wagon to say this, but I want to get paid for it. Not for Facebook or for the blog, but for my fiction stories. I actually work really hard coming up with stories and characters and plot lines and stuff. It is a lot of work. I think that’s why I hate reality television with such a vengeance. Because it’s just people acting like their real jack wagon selves and getting paid for it, while other people actually write and act and build sets and point cameras and stuff, and put a lot of work and effort and special effects into making a creative, interesting show, and people are still glued to The Apprentice like hypnotized orangutans. I mean they cancel great shows like Terra Nova and Stargate Universe and freaking Firefly (I'm still pretty super bitter about these) in favor of these stupid reality shows. Grrr.


Way better than this show...

Maybe the way I’m describing writing as a career sounds like a vain and empty pursuit, because my end goal does involve money. It's the Starving Artist Paradox. I'm not looking to get paid become famous for some blog I write. The avenues to reaching that big cherry end goal of publication these days involve a lot of self-promotion. I read this one blog that I really like, Insane in the Mom Brain, and the woman who writes it seems brilliant and funny and a total gem of a human being. She just wrote a blog about how she doesn’t want to be popular or promote herself or get money for her blog. I admire her. I agree with her about not wanting to be fake internet famous. But when she writes a book, I’m sure people will be knocking down her door to publish it and give her bunches of money, which she will probably give away because she is one of those pure people that good things just seem to happen to. She talks a lot about how everyone is all up in her grill to find out how her blog got so damn popular. It seems like she got popular with zero effort, and the rest of us poor slobs are just wandering around in cyber space like blind hippopotamuses, occasionally stepping on someone else and crushing them and then saying oopsie, my bad. I think we all wish it were that easy, and that's why people are constantly bugging her about the secret of her success-- to avoid the hippo tromping the rest of us are doing in an effort to build an “author platform” which does indeed require that nauseating self promotion.

I hate to measure success. Actually I hate measuring stuff, because math was invented by some sadistic torture dude to make me crazy. But my dilemma is this: I write because I love to write, I'm passionate about it, and because I can't NOT write. I like to think I'm pursuing a higher form of writing-- the kind that isn't about publication or monetary gain. The Starving Artist Paradox. We're not supposed to want to get paid. But really, no one reads books and says, "Good book, but I wish this person had never published it. I feel sickened at the idea that this author had to promote themselves and submit their manuscript and jump through all kinds of hoops so their book could be available to the public."

It bugs me because when I write something that I love, that I think is good, that I'm interested in, I want other people to read it. But then if I'm being honest, I also want to be able to earn some money from people reading it, too. Back to Stephen King, who once he got an offer of publication on a story, didn't say, "No, I just wrote that for the people. I want no sullied rewards. I am a pure artist who needs nothing; no food, no shelter, no grand things like clothes and health insurance. I scoff at your offers of cash for my stories. I will not be tarnished by monetary gain."

Do I write for money? No. I do not write blogs with key words in mind, or so that they'll go viral, or so a million people will read them and I'll be internet famous or something. I don't write fiction stories with the thought that I have to make them "marketable". I'm writing a story that I love, that's interesting and unique and makes people think. Telling the story is the goal—telling a story in a way that affects people, and makes them think, and dream, and stays in their head for weeks after. I want to create characters that people are interested in, that they want to read more about. I want them to be sad when they’ve finished the book because they are sorry it’s over and because they want more. I want them to relate and feel better because they’re not alone in the world—someone else, even a pretend someone else, has felt the exact same way. Maybe I do want to help people a little—to be entertained, to feel a part of something bigger, to realize that the world isn’t such a lonely place. I want to connect with the readers. I want them to have a sense of who the characters are, as if they are real people that the reader feels like he knows and understands. I want every word to be the perfect word. That’s why I want to be published. And I feel okay getting paid for it, because writers need to live too. And pretending that we don’t need money, that this whole pursuit of art and writing is just for our own benefit—that’s not the whole truth. The Starving Artist Paradox sums it all up-- we none of us really wants to starve, after all. That's why it's a paradox, right?

Julie Simmons-Wixom isn't currently starving, but she is looking for publishers. Anyone? Anyone? Contact her here if you want more information. But for the rest of you Starving Artist types, leave a comment below if you have anything to say on the Paradox or if you just want to voice your very strong opinion that they never should have cancelled Firefly.

Your Name Here

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 22:17:00 +0000

Sometimes I think--no, I know--that I am some kind of special. In other words, I’m a weirdo, oddball, fruitcake, odd bird, crazy, strange. Basically I’m exactly what this blog claims: a freak. I am really okay with this and, as a matter of fact, if someone called me one of these things, I would probably thank them because being normal is on my list of things I never want to be. Normal sucks. It’s boring and would make for boring stories to read. I mean, how many times would you read a story about a woman that woke up, ate, worked and went home, all the while feeling happy. The answer is none, zero, zilcho, nada, squat. Nobody would read that. It's our quirks that make us interesting and provide great writing material. I choose to wear purple, not black. I choose to embrace my inner ice cream flavor and that isn’t vanilla.

One thing I love to think about are names for characters. Okay, just names in general. It is one of my many, many quirks. I love names that mean something. I love names that are funny. I love names that rhyme. I love names. Really, it’s true. One time, Writer Freak, Julie told me about a time when she was picking up her child from school. There was another parent there yelling out her child’s name to get their attention. What was that name? Emesis. Yes. That’s right! Emesis. At first I laughed. Then, I started to think about the poor kid. Finally, I wondered if the mother’s pregnancy centered around massive morning sickness. Whatever the case, this was one of the most epically bad names I have ever heard. It BELONGS in a book!

Now that you know that I love a good name, it is about time I let the proverbial cat out of the bag. I name everything. Seriously. EVERYTHING. Okay, not everything. My wood stove is still the wood stove (thought? Maybe I name the wood stove liar. As in, liar, liar pants on FIRE. I will revisit this later.). But I name a lot of things. Some names I stole from television and books, other names I came up with all by myself. I’m fairly certain it drives my husband crazy. My TV is named Stevie; this one is stolen straight from an episode of FRIENDS. My laptop has a green skin and I named it Kermit. Our big desktop is named Scooter the Computer. My green Hummer has two names: General Waverly (from my Favorite Christmas flick, White Christmas) and Sarge. My husband’s truck is named Newbie, because it was the first brand new vehicle we have ever owned. My Kitchen Aid is named Julia (after the great Julia Child). My leaf blower is named Rubin (after The Hurricane himself). I even let other people join in the fun. My mom named my iPhone Irene. My nephew named one of my chickens McQueen. My husband named our oldest dog, Remington. Okay. So a dog needs a name, but he still named it before I could, which is impressive. I named our second dog Scout, after the main character in my favorite book, To Kill A Mockingbird. Her middle name? Sonner (sounds like honor with an s). Now say the two names together. I’ll wait for you to figure it out. Funny, right? Well, that one backfired on me because she is JUST like Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, full of spunk and energy and a total Tom boy. Plus, she is such a weirdo and a funny dog. I blame my naming skills. So as you can plainly see, I like to give things names. And I suppose that given my profession, this is a good skill to have.

It takes me months to land on a good name for a character in one of my books. It just HAS to fit and sometimes those characters develop over time. So, inadvertently I change a character’s name a few times before I find the right one. It makes me wonder if I am the only one name-obsessed in the writing industry. What is the “normal” process for finding a character’s name? Or is there one at all? Do I want to be normal? My way seems to work for me. And normal is boring. I’m thinking that a normal name would be something like Bob, Steve, Mark, Mike, Jane, Ann, Mary, etc. Those names are great. Really! They are! But not for my eccentric mind. I would choose something like Hoyt, Magnus, Colonel, Kennedy, Lara, Charlize…you get the picture.

So my challenge to you? Do something weird! Be eccentric! I recently read a quote from a 90 year old woman columnist somewhere on Facebook that said, “Don’t wait until you are a senior citizen to be eccentric. Wear purple now.” What’s your purple?

Stephanie D. Birch is the nuttiest flavor of ice cream of all the 31 flavors. She wears purple when everyone says she should wear black. She stands up when she sould sit down. She tells the truth when others would remain mute. She is bold, creative and just this side of crazy. If you want to join her, comment on your eccentricity. To contact her, visit www.stephaniedbirch.com or email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com

I believe

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 14:00:00 +0000

I’m struggling to remember an attribution for a quote. I’m too lazy to go searching for it—Google didn’t have the answer, and I’m out. But I think it’s from a movie. Paraphrased, it’s this: People don’t change. They get better or they get worse, but they don’t change.

Photo courtesy of Sean MacEntee

I think it’s nice to believe that people will change. That a person with bad habits, like someone who has a problem with fidelity, will suddenly experience a change of heart and be true to that one love of his or her life, forever. That someone who makes cutting little remarks meant to take down other people’s self-esteem—those sneaky insult/compliment types, where they’re like all wow, I love your sweater, it really brings out your eyes and hides the fact that you have a giant ass—will suddenly be nice as pie and sincere and never say jackwagon things that make you want to punch them in the face. I don’t believe they will change, but I always hope. I never really learn. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, because just because they verbally crotch punched me once doesn’t mean they will do it again.

I wish I could talk people out of letting those un-changer types crotch punch them repeatedly. It would save so much trouble if people knew that they were going to get hurt ahead of time. It’s not realistic. If someone I loved and trusted implicitly had sat me down and very earnestly explained to me that I was making a huge mistake right when I was in the middle of making a huge mistake, I’d like to think I’d be different than 99 percent of people and I would have listened. But I know myself. I wouldn’t. Because it’s not how people work. It’s not really how the world works. We all have to make mistakes and get hurt or there would be no need for breakup songs. Or love songs, for that matter, because we’d all be practical and smart and logical and we’d listen to older, wiser, more experienced folks and save ourselves some trouble.

So here’s to making mistakes and having faith in people even when they don’t deserve it. Here’s to getting out there and making that mistake, even if it hurts like hell, because I tried. I put myself out there and tried. Here’s to rejection and cruelty and letting it all roll off my back. Here’s to silencing the voice inside my head that says can’t, won’t, don’t even try. To cutting out the vocal chords of those who would pull me down or push me down or tell me that it’s not worth my time or trouble. Here’s to silencing the negative me, my naysaying and faithlessness in human nature. Screw the unbelievers. I believe in change. I believe in trying. I believe. I believe. I believe.

What do you believe in? Can people change? Is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results really the definition of insanity, or is it just persistence and determination? Leave your comment below or pigeons will (might) poop on your head.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is a true believer. Email her if you want to talk more.

Ringing in 2013: Resolutions and Other Nonsense

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 22:24:00 +0000

It’s New Years Eve. Yup! Soon we will see DUI checkpoints all around town; the bars will be packed full of people partaking in a fair amount of good cheer, and noise makers will sound around the globe at the stroke of midnight. Happy New Year! And what is in store for us in 2013? Well, usually we pick a litany of goals, call them New Year Resolutions and then promptly fail at keeping them within roughly a month. Why do we do that? I blame commercials and celebrities, and well, I blame anything other than my own lack of commitment and motivation. Because who really wants to blame themselves? I’ve heard the saying that when you point the finger, you have three fingers point back at you (Don’t worry. I’ll wait while you try it). But you know what I say? When you point the finger, that person better take the blame because your hand easily looks like a pretend gun and you talk them into playing Cowboys and Indians with you and act crazy by hollering, “bang! bang!” Kind of like when you were a kid, but you can’t play that anymore because it isn’t politically correct, which kind of sucks because I liked playing that game. I was awesome at gun draws, but whatever. I digress.

So, picture this. You are sitting at home watching your favorite show and that Weight Watchers commercial comes on with Jessica Simpson or Jennifer Hudson saying just how easy it was for them to lose weight through Weight Watchers. We get inspired and want to lose weight too. We think, yeah. This will be easy, but then it isn’t at all. Why? Well, if I had a bunch of money like those two celebrities, maybe losing weight would be easier. I mean, in real life we don’t have nannies, a personal trainer, a landscaper, an interior designer, a personal assistant, and a private chef. We work hard! Some of us work 80 hours a week, keep a clean house, make meals for their family, keep their yard maintained by themselves, and figure out how to organize their own social calendar just to name a few of the things we normal people do. With all these responsibilities, it is no wonder that we fail. So, I have a proposition. Yes, a radical solution to a complex problem.

I say we start a campaign to get celebrities to fund just one of these “life helpers” to us, the little guys. Give me your personal chef, Jennifer Hudson. Give the next person your nanny, Jessica Simpson. I bet you it will make losing weight through Weight Watchers that much easier. What a concept!!

I think I need a red hooded cape like this

But in all honesty, we should really take it easier on ourselves regardless of the resolution or maybe we should go for something totally insane. I mean it. I’m going to resolve to organize a flash mob in 2013. Or maybe I will create my own alter ego and spend some time in the shoes of said alter. I think my alter ego should wear a cape like red riding hood, or a tiara. Nah. Tiara’s are a sign of refinement and that is something I am definitely not. Although I think my alter will have a job at an organic applesauce shop and will talk with extreme exuberance about the various varieties of apples and smell of cinnamon-y goodness. My alter will wear hemp shoes and carry a leather purse—a walking contradiction. Should I mention that I already own the hemp shoes? Oh how fun! But really, I guess I should probably decide what I want to resolve to accomplish this year because 2013 is breathing down my neck. And I’m torn about what to choose. Regardless, I’m going to try to be realistic, or maybe not. Because succeed or fail, I will have one thing to fall back on, an epic 2013 resolution.

Happy New Year!!

Stephanie D. Birch has served pancakes in the Flapjack Olympics. She plans to flip again in the 2013 games with has no plans to retire. She has not used performance enhancing substances to attain her pancake flipping sports career.

Holiday musings and other craziness

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 18:17:00 +0000

I felt like writing something today and sharing it with y'all. I'm off script, because it's not my day to post but it's also the Sunday before Christmas so I'm thinking most people are busy anyway, so what the heck.

My best picture face

I’ve got another face growing on my face. You can’t see it yet but I can feel it, hovering there under the surface like the gopher from Caddyshack, waiting to emerge and mock me. It always happens near the holidays, when there’s the highest chance of photographic evidence. I’ve managed quite sneakily to ensure that there aren’t many photos of me in existence by being a photographer and having the nicest camera that no one else (conveniently) is able to use. I hate having my picture taken. Not because it steals your soul—it does, but that’s not why. It’s because I always make a weird face in pictures because I hate posing. I like silly or goofy pics but if you want me to be serious forget it. I have a look that’s one part boredom, one part confusion and just a dash of defiance and mild constipation. Fun for the whole family.

Super cool poser type kid :-)

Little kids like having their picture taken (not babies though—babies are the cutest but super rude about photos) and beautiful thin people, but everyone else pretty much hates it. I know because I walk with a camera most of the time, and about ninety percent of adults will say no please, I hate having my picture taken. And since digital cameras were invented, if I do convince someone not to flip me the bird for five seconds so I can snap off a shot, they always want to see the picture after it was taken and then they want you to delete it because they always think they look fat or ugly and they don’t appreciate me saying that it’s not the camera’s fault if they are fat and ugly so why should I delete this picture that I took? People actually hate that comment.

This morning it is so windy and stormy that I’m quite concerned for the poor little elves and reindeer enslaved by a so-called jolly fat man. They shouldn’t be out in this kind of weather. And I know always in pictures and storybooks it’s all beautiful moonlit nights and lots of stars and whatnot, but in reality they must hit bad weather more often than not. And why no one ever protests this whole fiasco is beyond me. Where is PETA? Where is OSHA? Where is CPS? Okay so I don’t know who is in charge of protecting elves. Legolas, maybe. Or is that crossing mythical genres? I don’t know.

Totally good elf protector

But anyway I feel sad thinking about poor Dasher and Dancer and Rudolph. Not Prancer though, he seems like kind of a jerk, based on the movie. And Comet and Cupid and Vixen but not Donner either, because he makes me think of the Donner Party which not only wasn’t a fun party but even though I know Donner probably doesn’t eat human flesh I can’t be sure so he’s out of luck on the sympathy front. Zombie flying reindeer would be exceptionally dangerous during the zombie apocalypse. Anyway, Donner is out. Blitzen too, because he sounds like a big football player or Nazi but I’m not sure why. I hold him responsible for leaving Rudolph out of the Reindeer Games. It seems like something Blitzen would do.

I think about things like this near Christmas time. Because I’m concerned. Because I care. Because I don’t actually like the idea of flying reindeer and fat men in my chimney. That sounds sort of dirty. But really. What if the structural integrity of my roof is compromised by the weight of the sleigh and the reindeer and an obese man jiggling his belly like a bowlful of jelly around on top of it? And who jiggles jelly, anyway? I just spread it on toast without shaking of any kind. That seems uncalled for. And not very merry. And this is a merry time of year, despite people who try to ruin the merriment.

Normal reaction to me with a camera

When I say Merry Christmas, I mean it. I am not politically correct. I think people who throw major fits about that kind of thing are jerks. Because I don’t say “Merry Christmas” in a way that secretly means “Screw you and your stupid beliefs, you should believe what I do and I don’t really want you to have a merry anything, I am just saying it to be a jackwagon.” If I wanted to call you a jackwagon I would. I would just walk right up and say hey you are stupid and I hate your face. But I don’t. Merry Christmas just freaking slips out, people! I say it because I think you look like a nice person and I want to wish you some cheer. All you gotsta say is hey, I’m Jewish, and I will be like cool, Merry Chanukah friend. Or hey, I’m Chinese, and I’ll be like happy December or whatever, I respect your beliefs and I think you're cool, and my words were only meant to convey my sincerest well-wishing on you today. It’s like when you say happy birthday to someone and instead of saying thank you they’re like I don’t celebrate birthdays. Okay, jackwagon, I retract my good vibrations that I was sending your direction, and am now sending you a voodoo curse that will cause a rash on your giblets. Because obviously that’s what you want and deserve. You’re welcome.

Crazy hair elf type kid

I Googled all the holidays in December, so here’s a list:

Ramadan (Muslim)
Eid al-Fitr (Muslim)
Saint Nicholas Day (Christian)
Eid'ul-Adha (Muslim)
Fiesta of Our Lady of Guadalupe (Mexican)
St. Lucia Day (Swedish)
Hanukkah (Jewish)
Christmas Day (Christian)
Three Kings Day/Epiphany (Christian)
Boxing Day (Australian, Canadian, English, Irish)
Kwanzaa (African American)
Omisoka (Japanese)

The guy who has to put up with me

I have to say I’m actually all kinds of curious now about all these holidays. Boxing Day sounds fun and sort of violent, which I’m okay with. Fiesta of Our Lady of Guadalupe sounds like an awesome party with good eats. Maybe I’m generalizing but ever since I decided that Cinco De Mayo is about the best party ever because it involves mass quantities of delicious Mexican food, I have been all over anything that has a built-in excuse for tamales and margaritas. Epiphany Day sounds like a time when everyone should walk around with a giant light bulb over their head that periodically lights up every time they have an epiphany. That would be awesome. Anyway. Happy holidays in a very sweet, sincere, politically correct way to all my friends and their diversity. And please don’t yell at me if I accidentally throw you a Merry Christmas once in a while. It’s spoken with the best of intentions, I promise. Because if I say that to you I love you or at least like you a little, and wish the very best for you all the time, not just in December.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is most likely completely toaster-strudel nuts. You can email her or just leave a comment about her craziness. She likes it.

Awesome/Fail List

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 12:46:00 +0000

The time of year people classify as ‘the holidays’—basically from the last week in November until after January 1—is filled with events, ideas, traditions, both good and bad. The Writer Freaks have decided to compile a list of things we love and things we hate about this time of year. Things that make us do a happy dance, and things that make us have face-melting breakdowns like in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when they open up the Ark and everyone’s face melts. We were going to do a pass/fail but it got confusing because when you say ‘pass’ it sounds like you’re passing on something, not like it’s a passing grade. So anyway, this is our Awesome/Fail list for ‘the holidays’. We hope you enjoy.

Awesome: Classic Christmas movies—White Christmas, Miracle on 34^th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life
Fail: Remakes of Christmas movies or any new ones on the Lifetime Channel starring Melissa Joan Hart, Jenny McCarthy or Mario Lopez.
Awesome: Christmas lights and decorations, especially when you sneak into people’s yards and pose inappropriately for photos with their inflatable decorations.
Fail: Christmas light displays so blinky and bright they induce seizures and draw traffic from miles around
Awesome: Christmas baking and eating
Fail: Christmas calories and pounds. Actually that’s an epic fail. We hate feeling like we shouldn’t eat all the goodies, but they’re so delicious and they come around only once a year and especially stuff like Julie’s grandma’s famous fudge and her pecan balls (plus ‘balls’ – hee hee) that we only get a shot at once a year. We feel like we would gladly forego any treats for the entire year just to be able to eat whatever we want at Christmas.
Awesome: Watching kids open presents and be so super excited
Fail: Watching kids freak out, fight, throw fits, and generally meltdown because of over-stimulation and too many goodies coupled with the fact that they know Christmas is only once a year and once it’s over, they don’t know what to do with themselves. Much like birthdays or getting married, it’s like a huge letdown when something you’ve been waiting for and anticipating for an entire year is over.
Awesome: Christmas trees and inside Christmas decorations
Fail: When the cat runs up said Christmas tree and knocks it over, or when the dog thinks the ornaments are for chewing and ends up latching on to chew, buts get a piece of the light strand and gets shocked. Or how about when the cat eats your Christmas garland and throws it back up on your bed.

Awesome: Christmas Carolers in old time-y clothing, hot cider, cookies and joy at the local Main Street tree lighting.

Fail: Seeing a bunch of middle aged women performing a dance routine to “Gangnam Style” in the middle on the town during the tree lighting festival.This really happened. Ugh.
Awesome: Making up words to various Christmas songs or making fun of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” with your friends and family until you get mega belly laughs. Stephanie’s favorite is the fact that this song demands that you bring some figgy pudding and that guests won’t go until they have some. Such a demanding crowd!
Fail: Hearing Lady Gaga’s version of White Christmas. That doesn’t induce laughter, it just makes us sad. Especially when she adds her own weird verses about snowmen and their coal eyes. When normal people talk about snowman eyes it isn't weird, but when Lady G does it... well, it's a little creepy.
Awesome: Christmas light hunting with the family while cuddled in blankets in the car with a thermos of hot cocoa.
Fail: Living in a neighborhood where there are not outside Christmas lights.
Awesome: Finding the perfect gift that says, “I really love you a whole lot” without breaking the bank.
Fail: Over-indulged children and adults that get all the latest electronic gifts, diamond jewelry and really, who gets a new car for Christmas? Come on! Seriously? If anything, we want that giant red bow that comes with the car. Can we get two please?

What are some of things that are awesome of totally fail for you during the holidays? Share one with us. We can all laugh, commiserate and just plain ol’ have fun reading your light-hearted lists.

Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanza, Happy Chanukah, and for the Politically correct folks out there, Happy Holidays from the Writer Freaks.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 15:17:00 +0000

The Mayan calendar ends in two days, and there are massive amounts of concern about it floating around on the interwebs. I should care, but I don’t. Because I’m finished. It makes me shaky to say that, but it’s true. I finished a manuscript. A full, novel-length manuscript.

Also hard to make but super cute

Analogies make me happier than a tick on a wet hound dog, and this writing project for me was like having a baby. For those of you that have had a baby, you know that the whole nine months thing is total crap, because it’s actually forty flippin’ weeks, which is a lot of time to feel uncomfortable and host a sweet but parasitic alien in your midsection. It seems like it takes forever and it goes so slow because there are billions of little cells that have to grow, and it’s pretty complicated. Writing a novel is like that. You have to cook it up right or it’ll come out all weird and misshapen. It takes a long time. And when you write that last sentence, you feel relieved and conflicted and you want to cry and laugh and take a really long nap, all at the same time. Because you know that now that it’s complete, the real work starts.

Writing is what I do because I love telling stories and because I can’t not write. I’m compelled. But writing is also a business these days, and that part smells like a skunk that crawled under the house and died and then summer comes and heats everything up and trust me, that is some bad stink. If I wanted to go into business I would have gotten my MBA and I’d probably be floating in loads of money right now. I’d be like Scrooge McDuck and have all of it converted to gold coins and put in a giant vault that I could swim around in. But I would give it away too. I have all kinds of things that I could do with money, but mostly I’d end up buying stuff for people and giving it away. And probably starting a non-profit ninja school, so I can have my zombie killing ninja army all ready for the apocalypse. Oh and I’d make a bunker and fill it with stuff, like beans and rice and Twinkies, for the end of the world. Because that’s coming up too in a couple days and also I’ve been watching way too many doomsday preppers shows. I like the idea of prepping for a zombie apocalypse more than an entire world destruction type scenario. But anyway. Not the point. The point is, business is not my strong suit. I have to get someone to draw a cover and print out the pages and sew them together and hand them out in exchange for money and stuff, but the idea is so boring and annoying and makes me pull my hair out that I want to cry. I spent a year making this darn manuscript baby and now I have to put shiny Hello Kitty stickers all over my baby and sell it. Ew. And that’s the feeling you get after you’ve completed a novel.

I allowed myself some time this week to decompress and work on other stuff. After you have a baby people are generally super nice to you and considerate, and they bring you ice packs and Top Ramen and don’t make you do housework or anything. So I took sort of a mini-break, (ish—as much of a break as someone with three kids can take) and didn’t write for a few days. I let my brain rest. I’ve actually finished manuscripts before, but bad ones. This one is actually good. I wrote one when I was nineteen, but I realized that how bad it was about a year after I wrote it. Like over-the-top, melodramatic horrible. And when I was twenty-five I wrote another, and that one was closer but still derivative and trite and unrealistic. And it wasn’t fantasy fiction or sci-fi, so unrealistic is bad if your genre is chick lit. In the meantime I wrote a lot of short stories, and those are easy and they flow really well. And I enjoy writing them and they only take a few weeks from start to finish, so if they’re terrible I don’t feel bad for wasting a year of my life writing something terrible.

But anyway. This one is done and it’s not awful. I’m actually willing to let people read it. And I’m blogging again, which is good. Stephanie has been carrying the Freak load here for a while, with me having a death in the family and then a novel-finishing breakdown, but I’m ready to start talking about the next phase in this process. The end of the world can wait—now I have a book to get published. Which is almost scarier.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is not a medical professional in any capacity and her pregnancy advice should be largely ignored. But if you want to discuss novel pregnancy and birth, email her at juliekwixom@gmail.com.

Have you finished any huge projects lately? Comment below, and tell us all about them.

The Best Advice I Ever Learned Came From my Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 14:00:00 +0000

Remi and Scout are
wise beyond their years.
Everything in life is just past
the fence, so enjoy the ride and
go for it!

I like advice. Typically on my terms, but I enjoy good advice. I read a lot of articles online and do research on just about everything. I even researched the Consumer Reports best rated toaster. That is how crazy I am. Now if someone walked up to me and said, this is what you need to do, I wouldn’t listen because to me, it is all in the respectful delivery, the wisest words, the most informative terms. And as a writer, it is important for me to listen to the advice of other fellow writers. This is why I love books like Bird by Bird and The Zen in the Art of of Writing. They are dripping with advice and I try to incorporate it in my writing as much as possible, but sometimes advice can be bad thing. We must learn to take what we like and leave the rest.

You’ve met this kind of person: the person who HAS to tell you how to do something that, in their view, is the "only" way or the “right” way. They bend your ear and insist you listen. They insist they know best. And as you sit there listening to their unsolicited advice, you realize that if they took their own advice, it would do them a world of good. And you marvel at how these people don't want to take advice from anyone else either. And you? You end up irritated and angry over all of it. If anything they drove you far, far away from wanting to take their “advice.” So you see, advice can be good and bad. But recently I learned something important and it rocked my world. I learned how to live the best life. It was the best advice I ever got and it came from my dogs.

Scout Sonner Birch

Remington Trailblazer Birch

My dogs trust their instincts. They know when someone isn’t a good person because they pick up on cues that humans are otherwise too preoccupied to spot. They sleep when tired; they play hard. They love getting out and going for long walks. They love a good tasty treat. They love to cuddle up on the bed; they get excited when their humans come home. They love with their whole heart and forget about my mistakes as if they never happened. They do not judge, they do not care about money or what kind of car I drive. As a matter of fact, they don't criticize my writing either. Just so long as I vow to love them with my whole heart, they will be always be there and they do it with a happy wag of their tail. And so it is with my writing process. If I get out and walk, if I indulge in an occasional tasty treat, if I rest when I need it and play hard (meaning write with all my heart), I will get to where I need to be in life and with my writing. Hands down my dogs have provided me with the best life advice ever.

Thank you Remi and Scout. You sleep at my feet and cheer me on to write more, to write better. You are my example to live by and I will do my best to be a good human and heed your advice.

Stephanie D. Birch is a Weimaraner-loving nut that would willingly lay down her life for her fur babies. If you don't know why being owned by a dog is such an amazing thing, email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com. She is currently working on a children's series entitled Remi and Scout's Short Tails.

To the Victims and Families of the Sandy Hook Elementary Shooting

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 22:29:00 +0000

The Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Connecticut has rocked this nation, but none so much as the families directly affected. Our thoughts are with all those involved in this shooting. Your loss is being felt everywhere and we grieve for you knowing it isn’t enough. Enough would be to turn back the hands of time to protect your young children, the staff members, the innocents. There are no words that can adequately express our sorrow because we know that yours is greater. This terrible thing that has ripped through the heart of our country will never be forgotten; your pain will never be erased. Instead, we vow to stand by your side, to be your shoulder to cry on, to embrace you with what comfort we can offer, to be your friend. Today we remember the victims, their lives and the families torn apart by this senseless tragedy.

Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families during this difficult time.

The Writer Freaks

No Offense

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 17:49:00 +0000

That spray tan makes you look like an Oompa Loopa, no offense. Really? No offense? Well aren’t you shocked ‘cause here I am offended.

Some people are easily offended and some aren’t. It is the way of the world, I suppose. Some of the worst offenders are celebrities. That crotch shot of Britney Spears all those years ago was just gross. And we all asked, what was she thinking? Then there was the rantings of Mel Gibson to his girlfriend that would make even Marilyn Manson blush. We asked, what the heck is the matter with you? What about Kanye West’s spotlight stealing of Taylor Swift at the VMA's? We said, come on dude. Really? And the latest? Miley Cyrus’s new short hair cut and scantily clad body at some music performance. Now honestly, I’m not sure why we all think this is such a big deal. I mean, she is an adult. Well, by years on this earth she is, maybe not otherwise. The point in all of this is simple. We all get offended at certain things at certain times. And what we learn is that we all make mistakes, but we leave the really giant ones to the celebrities. It’s more fun that way. But what if it isn’t a mistake? What if it was on purpose?

You’ve probably heard the saying, art imitates life. Sometimes I think this line is so true and other times I think it is a load of hog wash. I mean, have you seen some of the stuff artists produce? While it is pretty, I don’t especially think I can apply it to my life. Once I went to MoMA with my husband. One particular artist placed a bag of kitty litter in the corner and called it art. What?! If I did that, my husband would ask me why I left the kitty litter out and didn’t put it away?! And how is this imitating life? I think it is imitating an inanimate object, but whatever. Needless to say, its meaning was lost on me, but I wasn’t particularly offended by it. There was, however, some art on the bike path at Venice Beach in Southern California that I was instantly offended by. It took me a minute to calm down, but I somehow managed to walk away without going completely postal. I won’t say exactly what it was because its content isn’t appropriate here, but it was bad and it offended me big time. And I think that was the point. They got a reaction and a strong one at that.

What do you think? Creepy or beautiful?

Someone once told me that it isn't art unless people love it and hate it with the same amount of gusto, that if you offend someone, you are on the right track. I have a perfect example. I love this painting my mom had commissioned for me as a gift. It hangs proudly on my living room wall. People have one of two reactions to it: 1.) they think it is the most beautiful painting they have ever seen, or 2.) They think it is dark and creepy. There is no middle reaction with this painting. People either love it or hate it. Another example, I hate when an author kills off one of my favorite characters in a book. Or have you ever read a book where one or more characters disgusted you? Even with this blog, I seemed to have managed to offend a few people with what I write. Recently, I wrote a short story and embellished a family member’s death a lot. My husband said I would likely offend my family. It gave me pause. Should I write it anyway? Does this mean I am on the right track? Passion is passion. You can love my work with a passion, or hate it with equal measure.

I did end up changing my story a bit so as not to reflect this family member in any way, but was it the right thing to do? Artists must stay true to their craft, even at the risk of offending someone. I’m not suggesting that you go out of your way to offend someone. That would be totally malicious and that isn’t a good thing. But we should try to go for shock and awe. It imitates life, like art is supposed to do. Humans are unpredictable, which is why human behavior is so fascinating. And our fascination with human behavior is excellent material for artists of all kinds to imitate in their own medium.

So, go hence forth and create art that will shock and awe. You might offend some people, but it wouldn’t be righteous art if it didn’t.

Stephanie D. Birch is creating an epic board game called Shock and Awe. While it hasn’t been picked up by Hasbro yet, she is making plans to make an infomercial starring a drunk Joan Rivers and perhaps a Kardashian. To hear more shock and awe stories, contact her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com

The epic-ness of being totally epic

noreply@blogger.com (JulieKathleen) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 16:10:00 +0000

So Special K and I were talking about another friend of ours about his habit of using the word “epic” all the time. We love this guy-- (code name: Bambi Savage) but we do tease him. Because he’s all about the epic-ness of things. He really believes it. He really goes with it. He’s sincere in his passion. He talks about love like he’s Daniel Day-Lewis-ing (or I guess, Hawkeye-ing, since Hawkeye is the one with all the passion) his way through life. That’s the only level he accepts. I admire his passion. He would do anything if he believed in it enough. He would go trekking across country or through the woods on a quest. He would write a whole book in a few months, just because it was meant to be written.

That’s what writers should be striving for. Something epic. And sometimes it freezes me. I get so hung up on every sentence I write being completely unforgettable and perfect and amazing that I forget the fundamental first rule of being a writer: ass in chair, write. It’s the only way to get anything done. And it’ll be horrible, of course-- the shitty first drafts, Anne Lamott calls them. Not epic at all. But written down.

Shiny lights

At Christmas time, I get distracted by shiny things. Everything is sparkly and lit up and pretty and amazing. It makes me really happy but I can’t focus. The ass doesn’t stay in the chair. It gets up every few minutes to check the mail and turn the lights on and off (I have a thing about turning the lights on the tree on and off. Not blinky-ness, but just plugging them in because they’re so pretty, but then unplugging them because I’m worried about fires and running up the electricity bill, and then back on again when I say screw it, I love the lights, in an endless cycle) and looking online for stuff the kids would like or at funny animals singing Christmas songs. Not chipmunks though. I hate those little squeaky voices. They make me cry. I’m like a cat. Or like that squirrel guy in the movie Over the Hedge. He’s all hyper and he follows the laser pointer because it’s bright and shiny and gets distracted by cookies. That’s me.If you haven't seen the movie, you should. It's epic.

Nutcracker. Giggle.

Bambi Savage is kind of my hero, even though I tease him. Because when he’s focused on something, he’s pursuing it with his whole heart. I don’t know if he is thinking it’s epic when he starts. But he’s working toward that. And what reward does he get? We give him a hard time. We give him epic loads of crap. He takes it like a champ.

And that’s the fear. It’s not just a desire to write something epic. It’s the fear that people will laugh and think what we write is dumb. I don't think Bambi Savage is dumb or laugh at his writing, for the record. Just his use of the word epic. I want people to love what I write the way I love it. I like to read book reviews, and if they’re good I want to read the book, and if they’re negative I just feel sorry for the poor writer, who put her heart and soul and blood on the paper and had people call it “mediocre and trite”. Ouch.

If you haven't read this, do. It's epic. Link to buy.

All stories, even the epic stories, start out as a first draft. Okay, maybe not The Odyssey. But most stories aren’t epic from the second the writer put pen to paper. They took time. I read somewhere that Hemingway rewrote the ending to A Farewell to Arms fifty-two times. Wowsa. And I also read that he was plagued by doubts and fears and insecurities and was a recluse and an alcoholic and stuff, too. It makes sense, since he was a writer. His neuroses, like most writers, affected everything.

I’m not much for the motivational quotes. People post stuff on Facebook that they think is profound, little one liners about how you should love yourself first, blah blah blah. They make me giggle because the people are so earnest but really, it’s Facebook. But anyway here’s my writing motivation for the week. One—to write with everything I have, giving my heart and soul to the story. Make it epic. And two, not to get distracted. Not by fear or shiny things. To go, and do.

Written something epic lately? Tell us about it in the comment section below. Or write an epic comment.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is a writer and sometimes a cat. Not to be confused with a crazy cat lady. Email her here if you want more information.

ASS-U-ME

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 19:46:00 +0000

It’s a deluge on the West Coast today. There’s no sunny California and it hasn’t snowed in a few weeks here. And contrary to popular belief, I do not ski, snowboard or surf. My hair is not bleached blond. I am not lazy and I am not liberal. Of course, there is nothing wrong with any of these things, but people frequently assume these things about me solely because I live in the Golden State, California. This brings me to my topic today: assumptions.

We assume a lot about people on a daily basis. I am guilty of it as well and quite frankly it can either make for great or really terrible writing. Here are some prime examples of assumptions.

1.) When a homeless person asks for money, they are going to use it to buy booze or drugs.

a. The reality is that we just don’t know what they will do with the money. Now, I’m not saying go hand over your money to a homeless person, but this is an assumption even I make.

2.) A man should put the toilet seat down.

a. Men use the bathroom just as much as women. Why should we assume that the toilet seat should be down (Okay. I know I probably just won over a lot of the men and ticked off the women, but still. It is a valid point)?

3.) Because a book is a classic this validates it as good reading

a. Have you ever tried to read Anna Karenina? My apologies to anyone who loves this book, but I hate it. The author takes several paragraphs to say what he could have said in one sentence. I keep trying to read this book because it is a “classic,” but I just can’t get through it. In my opinion, is terrible reading.

4.) Men think about sex more than women do.

a. Okay. This one might be true in most cases, but probably not in our home. Assume what you will from that statement (wink, wink).

5.) Renters don’t take care of their property.

a. This is outrageously untrue! I have many friends and family who rent and take pride in their homes. I actually think it is a rarer occurrence to have a renter not care about the place they call home and they are the ones who ruin it for everyone else. I also know quite a few homeowners who do not take of their homes.

These, or course, are just a few assumptions, but there are so many others. And the key to using them in your writing is to use them well. Pick a character that is ignorant and always makes assumptions or use assumptions as a way to twist your plot. Get the reader to assume your plot is leading one specific way and then craft your plot twist. Readers love a good twist.

So really, as much as I hate assumptions, I also love them because they are a part of the human experience. Good writing stems from the reality of these human experiences and tells a relatable story using these elements. So, while I recommend not vocalizing your assumptions, put them in your writing instead. It can give your writing the edge of reality it needs. Or is that just an assumption?

Keep on writing fellow freaks!

Stephanie D. Birch loves colloquialisms such as when you assume you make an ass out of u and me. She can cripple you with her super power, writing, in an instant and can leap tall piles of books in a single bound. To learn more about her, visit the About Stephanie page or email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com

Shutting Down the Steelers

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 20:50:00 +0000

Writing is a beast, a beast that I love. But it involves a lot of self reflection and internalizing and sometimes I think that I am the only one who thinks the way I do. I obsess. I fight, not waves, but tsunamis of anxiety. My self esteem is monstrous in that if it were a piggy jar, you would hear a single coin rattling around in there that occasionally slips out of its slot. I also have arguments with the voices in my head that I call the peanut gallery. You could also call them Steelers, because they are very much like an angry sports team determined to blitz the quarterback. In any case, all of these things rear their ugly heads when I write, especially those voices that grow so very loud. They scream lyrical condemnations at me, a barrage of criticisms the likes of which even Jean Strouse would find too ridiculously excessive. And yet, I find the courage somewhere in the depths of my self-loathing and deprecation to write. Sometimes the words flow and other times I stare blankly at the computer screen. I write a sentence, and then promptly delete it. I try another topic; I write a paragraph and then delete it. I write a page of something in a totally different direction, and then obliterate each black letter one at a time. All the while, I hear this voice in my head. I picture a commanding British woman with a hat on, pointing her finger at me saying, you call that writing? Ha!

And apparently I am not the only one to feel this way. On the recommendation of my Aunt Kathie, I started reading this book that has made me feel a whole lot less isolated and I found camaraderie with its author.

First, let me pay tribute to my Aunt Kathie, who is an amazing writer! She has written a book that she had bound, but not published and I really wish she would. She is brilliantly creative. When I read words penned by her, they melt comfortably into the recesses of my imagination, painting a vivid, unforgettable picture. I hold her responsible for my desire to write and I hold her equally accountable for my love of reading. She single handedly turned me into a book worm. I used to hate reading. My parents didn’t push reading very much and the school’s required reading made me want to run screaming to the nurse’s office swearing to a litany of rare and incurable diseases. But my sensational aunt gave me a book she thought I would like, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, and I was SOLD. I couldn’t believe someone could write words so poignantly. I connected to this story on a profound level and I wanted more. And so began my love affair with words.

But getting back to that book my Aunt recommended. It is called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. In the first few pages she called attention to the anxiety, the obsessiveness, and even the voices she hears. What?! I’m not the only person who thinks in such a manner?! I was struck by the similarities in our brains. Could it be that I am amongst the normal in my genre of people: writers? And the answer is a resounding yes. And I for one am so relieved. I feel freedom to write the way I have and now I can turn the volume down on those critics in my head, just as Ms. Lamott suggests. So, on I venture into a brave new phase of my writing career where I sit and stare at the blank page and feel neither pressure nor condemnation. It is my process and I own it outright. Naysayers, consider yourselves kicked to the metaphorical curb. My refuse is there waiting for you to bring them companionship.

Stephanie D. Birch is a neurotic artist of ink and paper and she likes it that way. To hear more about the voices in her head, or to read a sample of her work, email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com

I made up some things to do at family holiday gatherings to entertain yourself. In case you get bored on Thanksgiving.

noreply@blogger.com (JulieKathleen) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 17:46:00 +0000

Always handy

This post is not about writing. Not today anyway. Unless you are writing a prank book. I have more writing stuff to say and lots of updates, but today I just feel kind of goofy and not at all serious, and in that vein I choose to write something a little off topic.

So here's some ideas of ways to mess with your relatives on Thanksgiving. Because it's fun. Because you can't take life too seriously, even when serious stuff happens. I'd rather laugh than cry. I’m not including things like getting drunk and sticking the turkey on your head. That’s been done. Like a lot. Once you’ve seen them do it on Friends about a billion times, it loses its appeal.

Change the words to Christmas songs to make them dirty, because Christmas is constantly stealing Thanksgiving’s thunder. Someday I'll make my version of Frosty The Snowball Man available to the public.

Complicated: Find some dog doody and when no one is looking, steal people’s shoes from the pile by the door and “step” in the poo. Then return the shoes and presto! Someone gets blamed for having poo shoe. Problem: Not everyone takes their shoes off during holiday celebrations, and you’d have to go scouting for poo, unless you brought your own, and the mission could take longer than expected and you could be easily discovered with your hand in the poo cookie jar, as it were.

Simple: Steal one of each pair of shoes from the pile and put them in a linen closet or similar when no one is looking. Bonus: Try to get all the lefts.

When bringing potluck stuff: Make sure the dish is covered, and write a fancy calligraphy label with an elaborate title that includes at least one word that is also euphemism for a bodily function or a dirty act (ralph, pinched loaf, chunder, choked chicken, salami surprise, whatever).

Convince all the children that their parents are aliens and see how many agree to be on your alien destroying ninja team. Bring Nerf weapons and supply the troops.

Walk around wearing a big sweater with big pockets filled with ping pong balls. Drop them out of your pockets occasionally, until people start wondering why the hell there are ping pong balls everywhere. Stick some in a kitchen cabinet for fun, so that the next person that opens it gets balls all over them. This would never work at my family celebration, because there are constantly people in the kitchen. Food pranks are also hard as the grown-ups keep an ever-vigilant watch over the food in my family. I’m not sure why.

Walk around to any unattended water cups and put a little bit of distilled white vinegar in when no one is looking. Do not get caught doing this because when people taste it and spit their water out they will be really irritated, especially if they take a big gulp to wash down the residue from Aunt Mabel’s fruitcake. Be far away when that happens.

Go into the bedrooms and change the times on the clocks. It really freaks people out.

Teach all the kids in the under two set curse words. Wait, that’s mean. Plus in my family we’re the only one with an under two. And he already knows all the curse words. Scratch that one.

Switch the dill pickles with sweet pickles. Not everyone puts pickles on the table for Thanksgiving. But we do. And I hate sweet pickles. So it’s funny when people get an unexpectedly wrong pickle. And it’s fun to say pickle.

There’s this stuff called basting tape. People use it for sewing. I use it to (temporarily) shorten the sleeves on everyone’s unattended coats and sweaters. People loosen their belts on Thanksgiving but who would think their arms would grow too?

Whenever someone sets down their cell phone, move it somewhere else. See how many people you can make completely crazy. Bonus: When people have identical phones, try to swap them around. Don’t let them go home with the wrong phone though. That’s just mean and has the potential for a lot of extra driving/wasting gas.

Stand next to people having an in depth discussion and whisper stuff under your breath. See if you can get someone to stand on the other side of the circle or sit across the table and do the same, so everyone gets super confused.

Bring duct tape to any family gathering. It’s fun and you never know when you will have a chance to use it for something cool. Like….I don’t know. There are so many uses for duct tape. I’ve always wanted to try to tape a small child to a wall with it. But my smallest kid already weighs 29 pounds. I’m not sure it would hold. Plus he’s really wiggly.

Any time someone makes a comment, answer in rhyme. Or with a limerick.

You could have a really entertaining holiday, or just establish yourself as the weirdo of the family. I already hold that position (and trust me, in my family, it’s quite a competition for the title) so I’m good. But I still like to do stuff to make people laugh or sometimes to make them cry (but just a little, and only my little brothers because even though we’re all technically adults, I’m never coping to it or giving up my big sisterly rights to traumatize them whenever possible).

There are so many things at “the holidays” that feel repetitive (people call them traditions) that I feel like messing with people's minds. It’s not that I don’t know how to behave. I do. Don’t blame my mother for any of this. I’m a classic case of nature vs. nurture gone wrong, where the nurture was really good but I still ended up kind of nutso. It’s okay though. I’ve accepted it. And hey, my family still invites me for holidays.

What about you? Got any good holiday style pranking you'd like to share? Comment below-- bonus points for an update after TG on how they worked.

Julie Simmons-Wixom is a social pariah with six fingers on her left hand. If you have a question, email her here.

The Bragger and The Bellyacher

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 16:49:00 +0000

The holidays are upon us! My husband and I had our portrait session a week ago in preparation for our Christmas cards. Hopefully, I get them back this week so I can send them out. And I’m not the only one preparing for the holidays in such a manner. I have no doubt that soon I will be receiving holiday greetings in the mail from loved ones. I love these, but there is one that makes me cringe. As a writer, there is nothing worse than receiving heaps of those holiday newsletters from friends and family alike. Now, don’t get me wrong; I love the pictures and the cards, but the newsletters just HAVE to go. They annoy me, every year. Why you might ask? Let me explain.

There are two categories of holiday newsletters: the bragger and the bellyacher. The bragger is the most annoying. These typically go on and on detailing the exaggerated state of some wonderfully blessed and charmed life. It isn’t realistic. Nobody’s life is so sweet that rainbows and unicorns are counted among their other equally sickly sweet themes for the year. Here is an example of one such newsletter:

The Bragger

Dearest Friends and Family,

This year has been quite a year! Jason is doing wonderfully in school. Yes, our honor roll student has just been accepted to Harvard Medical School. He is very excited about this, as his deepest desire is to be a part of the program Doctors Without Borders. He spends his spare time volunteering at the local church and comes home on the weekends to help his Dad out with household chores. What a son we have!

Dan just got another promotion at work! He has also decided to go back to school for his PhD in Business. Earlier in the year, he surprised me with a trip for two to Hawaii for a week for our anniversary. It was like a second honeymoon. He even got down on one knee and asked me to still be married to him, presenting me with a diamond anniversary band. Wow! What an amazing husband I have!

I have been busy at home remolding our entire house. It is SUCH hard work, but I know it will be worth it! I also started learning another language and have also decided to go back to school for my Master’s Degree. I am also planning a trip to Europe for the whole family. We will leave in a few months. We are excited!

Well, that is what is going on with our family! We hope you and yours had a fabulous year!

Merry Christmas!

Love,

The Disgustingly Perfect Family Where Nothing Bad Ever Happens

Do you see what I mean? I don’t want to know how perfect your life is because the reality is that nothing is THAT good. Who are you fooling anyhow? Personally, I think you are just trying to brag and elicit jealousy in others. So, poo-poo on you!

The Bellyacher

Dear Family and Friends,

This year has been a difficult year for our family. Dan’s grandmother died, and then his uncle. After the shock of losing two family members, our family dog ran away and we have not been able to find him. We miss him very much and the kids are simply distraught.

Janey is struggling in school. We aren’t sure she will pass her high school exit exam. She has failed twice already. If she doesn’t pass, she will have to repeat her senior year. We wanted her to go to college, but we bought a time share and ran out of money to pay for it. We tried to sell it, but nobody wanted it. So, we had to take all of the money out of Janey’s college fund to pay for it.

Sarah is fine I suppose. She wasn’t going to go to college anyhow. We decided to pick our favorite child and that one would go to college, but it is all a moot point now anyhow.

I have been in and out of the hospital all year long. I was diagnosed with a peanut allergy, but I love them too much to give them up. I keep eating them, and I keep ending up in the hospital with anaphylaxis. I’ve lost a lot of pay because of it and now we are facing a pile of medical bills we cannot afford to pay.

Our house flooded recently during a freak cold snap. The pipes froze and our house flooded. Insurance will pay for it, but the dress I bought for the company holiday party is ruined. I tried returning it, but they wouldn’t take it back. Oh, well. I guess I'll go nude.

We are looking forward to next year. Hopefully it will be better.

Merry Christmas, if you can even call it merry.

Love,

The Family That Wants to Depress You, Then Get You Commiserate in all of Their Misfortunes

Do you see what I mean? There is no way round it. You can’t write a newsletter that doesn’t squarely fall into one of these categories. You can rotate it with a good thing, then a bad, but then you just sound ridiculously ambivalent about your year in review. I’ve also noticed that these newsletters almost always have rampant grammatical errors and there is at least one downright hysterical typo. For example, “This year my husband will be assfitting me with the holiday baking. It should be a lot of fun!” Oops! That should have read “assisting.” What a difference a little proof reading makes. Ha!

No really, as much as I complain about these newsletters, I equally relish the moments when I can read and laugh at them. So, send me your best! And maybe one day, as a joke, I will send you my own, but can I write it in a new category? Outlandishly funny? Eh, I’ll just stick to my photo greeting card.

Stephanie D. Birch is a Writer Freak who isn’t above fabricating a story for a holiday newsletter that will inspire, entertain and make you laugh so hard that your drink comes out of your nose. If you want to read her version of her own holiday newsletter, comment below or email her at birchwordnerd@yahoo.com