Life is Hard

by Docena Holm

            This paper will be my thoughts on what I’ve learned about writing from the conference, Project Writeway, speaking to my daughter’s class, and attending my youngest daughter’s poetry reading.

Project Writeway

            From January until the middle of April, I participated in a writing contest through the blog Throwing Up Words. The starting challenge was to submit the first 150 words of a novel. There were sixty entries. Fourteen of those entries were chosen to move on to the weekly challenges. Every week there was a writing challenge, a vote on the entries, and then one-to-two entries would be invited to join the at-home challenge. There were ten challenges. Each week I was challenged to write or revise a piece of a specified number of words. Each week I worked and revised and asked family members for input and was stretched in my writing abilities. Each week I hoped I’d make it on to the next challenge. Each week I stayed in the contest. I dug deep, wrote genres I’d never written before, cut words, and grew as a writer. I found my voice. I learned that I’m not humorous, that I like to hunt for the hurt but not to the truly hateful or wicked. The most personal challenge was an essay on why I write. I’ve included it here.

                        “Can teenagers love?” asked my oldest daughter. She’s dated a young man for over a year. I loved a boy in high school. He proposed. I said no and left for college      where I met my husband.

                        I write to be forgiven.

                        After a three hour elementary school concert, we found my second daughter hiding under a table, crying. When classes weren’t performing, the rest of the school waited together in a large room.  The noise, the bodies, the smells were all too much for    her. At other times, the seams of her socks, the buzz of fluorescent lights, lumpy oatmeal       on her tongue, my anger, her tantrums, me shoving her out the door to get to school…

                        I write to understand.

                        My son worships his dad. They wrestle, joke, torch a stripped lug nut to change a tire. To become a man, my son sleeps in a tent on the frozen snow, endures his dad tickling him for an entire minute, and hauls himself up on his chin-up bar when he goes in or out of his room.

                        I write to relate.

                        I review Shakespeare lines with my fifth grader, proofread papers for my 9^th grader, sort through pennies with my son for a merit badge, write down my five year-old son’s stories about monsters, and relive moments of my senior’s life as she prepares for college. I listen to my children’s successes, failures, heartaches, joys. I teach them that the only person they can control is themselves. Still, there are suicide bombings, earthquakes, sexual abuse, cancer.

                        I remember the pain of a broken heart, the rage of childhood, being left out of wrestling matches between my dad and five younger brothers. I write because I remember. I write to fix a world I can’t control.

I discovered that I don’t write to be published or to fulfill some artistic need. I write to relate to the world and to explain my world. In the last challenge there were three finalists. I won! I won Project Writeway, Season 1. And the prize—a critique of 2000 words of my novel from Carol Lynch Williams’s agent, Stephen Fraser. Carol was a cheerleader for me and e-mailed asking who I would submit to if Stephen didn’t want the manuscript. I was sure this was my big break. Stephen e-mailed me the very day he received my 2000 words. He gave me a critique. Not a contract, not a request for more, not my dreams come true. So I looked forward to the conference for ideas on how to revise my manuscript and work for Stephen Fraser as my agent, as Carol advised me.

Read, wRite, Revise

            I love being a part of this conference sponsored by the Department of Literacy at Boise State and SCBWI.  Even though I was the conference coordinator, I was still able to attend most of the sessions. I learned from Alane Ferguson that you always write about your demons. Hers is the murder of her friend. I learned from Gloria Skurzynski that rejection doesn’t kill you or she’d be dead fifty-nine times. I learned from Sherry Dismuke and Susan Martin that creating a simple poem about a feather can reveal my conflict with writing and that I miss taking education classes. I learned from Alane’s writing intensive that the story needs to grab the reader right from the beginning with action, but more importantly with a connection to the main character. I learned from Matthew Kirby that plot is form and that following the form/formula is what we should do as writers. We all have unique stories to tell because we are each unique. I also really liked how he shared that Martine Leavitt told him to give himself permission to think of writing as a career.

            I decided after the conference and the Project Writeway Challenge that I know how to write. Now I need to give myself permission to think of writing as my career and devote time to it. And I need to dig deeper.

Life Is Hard

            My oldest daughter who is a senior asked me to come and speak to her adult living class about my career as an author. The theme for my presentation was “Life is hard.” We read to have problems solved. Writing is hard. I write to solve problems. I read some of my entries from Project Writeway and was reminded that I really liked them. I am a writer. Why do I have to keep relearning that? Because life is hard, and while rejection doesn’t kill me, I have to choose each time if I will let it make me stronger. I think the class enjoyed the presentation. I wanted to relate it to their lives and doing hard things. That’s what writers do—relate.

Poetry Café

            The poet Malia Collins conducted writing intensives last week with my youngest daughter's fifth grade class. My daughter read me her poems before the poetry reading. She created beautiful, striking images. I was impressed. At the Poetry Café, the students took turns reading a poem they created that week. A couple of the students wrote very depressing poems about hard lives. Then my daughter read her poem and it was rich with images from our home—the smell of cinnamon, the clattering of the keys on the computer as I type, the sharing of books in our home, camping. I learned from my daughter that you don’t have to write about deep, dark, hideous things to be a good writer. I also learned that my career is being a mother.

To conclude

            At every conference I attend, I seek to be renewed as a writer and figure out if I should keep on doing it, if writing is too much of a sacrifice of time away from my family. After my experiences over the past few months, I know that I have two meaningful careers: mother and writer.

This past weekend was our annual SCBWI/BSU Department of Literacy Boise Children's Literature Conference, Read, wRite, Revise. Even though I was the conference coordinator, I was still able to attend the sessions. It was so inspiring. 

Alane Ferguson fills the room with her enthusiasm and encouragement. She inspired many writers this weekend including me.

Gloria Skurzynski, her mother, has been writing and publishing for years and is still writing. I learned that she was rejected 57 times before she sold her first book. She told Alane, "If rejection kills you, I would have died 57 times!"

Kate Testerman, the agent and owner of kt literary, moved to Colorado for love. She is the agent for Maureen Johnson who wrote Scarlett Fever. Good book.

I met Sarah Tregay 6 years ago at our 3rd Boise conference. Her first novel, Love and Leftovers, came out this year.

Kate Kae Myers adjusted from writing novels for adults to teen and her first novel, The Vanishing Game, came out this year.

Matthew Kirby, the author of The Clockwork Three, said the phrase which most inspired me this weekend. He took it from Martine Leavitt. "Give yourself permission to think of writing as a career."

Neysa Jensen, the new Regional Advisor for the SCBWI Utah/Southern Idaho Region, did a fabulous job with the conference. I've had the privilege of helping her since she organized the first Boise Conference in 2003.

My writing buddy and friend and finalist in Project Writeway, Monelle, continues to encourage me. We both plan on making great improvements to our manuscripts.

Pre. First 150 words of novel, 60 entries

 Nicole Shanti 

            You can learn a lot from listening. And it’s safer.

            So I don’t ask. I don’t speak. I leave the form on the kitchen counter for Mom to notice later when I’m not around.

            Her back is to me as she leans towards the computer screen as though her need to hear from Chris will produce an e-mail. Her shoulders droop and the click of the mouse signals that she’s moved on to searching the internet for stories on the latest natural disaster.

            I spread peanut butter onto slices of Mom’s wheat bread.

            “Marti. We’re waiting,” Dad calls from the front room.

             I plop on the peach jam, flip the top slices on, and stuff the sandwiches in bags.

            “Now.”

            With a pop, I open a lunch sack, and drop my sandwich inside. Mom doesn’t flinch. She won’t join us until she’s sure the world hasn’t ended, yet.

1. 200 Word scene with words: simplicity, plant, cookies, jam, squirt, bulldozer, and someone has to get slapped, 14 entries

Caliente

            Andrew leans against a bulldozer at his construction job by one of the many Eegee’s in Tucson where we’re meeting for lunch. Even with sweat down his front he’s adorable.

            Waves of heat prickle my ankles. I’d love an eegees. The simplicity of frozen ice with a squirt of flavor. A brain freeze with a sugar rush. Except I’m saving for college.

            Inside Eegee’s, Andrew points to a man-sized rubber cactus plant with cartoon eyes and one hooked arm holding a sign for a new flavor. “How about cactus-mango?”

            “No.” I tap my sack with a jam sandwich and cookies. I’m not going to be the reason he  doesn’t go to college.

            “I wish you’d stay here,” Andrew says.

            I shake my lunch at him. “I wish you’d apply for college.”

            “My parents didn’t tell me I had to move away,” Andrew says.

            “Don’t bring up my parents.”

            “Liz. Don’t leave. Tell them you’re going to the U of A.” Andrew slurps his slush. I want to hit it out of his hand, make him see it’s not my parents. It’s me. I want to go away.

            Instead, I slap the rubber cactus.

            “Watch it,” the cactus says and groans.

2. Paranormal haiku

Sweetness

Stench of rotten eggs

Devour goat hearts, two teeth marks

Keep farm dogs inside.

3. 400 Word Historical Fiction

Sun Dance

            When we heard talk of Butch Cassidy’s funeral, we rode two days to Price. Momma was determined to track down my missing brother John even if it meant a show down with Butch Cassidy himself, dead or alive. At twelve I was the man of the house with Pa working the mines at Telluride and John following after Butch Cassidy and his Wild Gang. I was not gonna be left behind.

            “Least I can keep an eye on you, Brigham,” Momma’d said when I was waiting ‘bout a mile out of town in the blossoming sagebrush, begging to come along.

            Soon as we got to Price, Momma hitched up the horse and we walked right up to those coffins sitting out for everyone to see. Momma stood there for a good five minutes looking over the body with its bush of light hair until a woman in a frilly dress was weeping so loud, Momma couldn’t stand it any longer.

            Soon as I was satisfied that the other dead outlaw wasn’t John, I watched the people shuffling past. Lots of women were sniffling and weeping. A man with a wagon full of straw drove by and then drove by again. On the third pass, when the straw twitched like a kid was hiding about to pop out, I told Momma.

            We rode out of town to a stand of stubby pine trees with a boulder big enough to hide us and the horse. Momma kept one hand on my shoulder, gripping it like I’d a mind to run away. The other hand she kept on the gun in her apron.

            “What we waitin’ for?” I asked.

            “Hush up or you’ll be cleanin’ out the barn with a fork.”

            Then I saw the wagon, the one with the straw. The man driving the wagon was talking to himself. Whistling came from the wagon, but the driver’s mouth wasn’t puckered in a whistle.

            “Hush there, Butch,” the driver said in a harsh whisper.

            “I’m dead, remember” said a muffled voice.

            “Good riddance,” said the man. “Though I’ve never known a better man or a better thief.”

            “Mighty nice of you,” the voice said. “Shame I had to die. I had so much more livin’ to do.”

            That’s when Momma jumped out from behind the boulder and pointed her gun.

4. 400 word scene with middle grade voice

Big Foot         

            I whiz around the ice rink, stuffing the gloves that Mom made me bring into my pocket.   “Move those big feet,” Caleb, my younger brother, shouts as he races past.

            My feet have grown two sizes in two months. I had to get the biggest skates you can rent.

            “High five,” Caleb calls. We bump knuckles and then …

            Wham.

            My chin meets the ice.

            I nod at Caleb to keep going and get up to find a bench. Ice isn’t exactly cushiony.

            Mom skates up to me. “Andrew, what happened?”

            “Fell on the ice.”

            “Your feet get in the way?”

            “Not even. It was Caleb.” I lift my chin. Mom’s face turns white.

            “Where’s your glove?”

            I pull it out. She makes me hold it on my chin. I don’t tell her I’d been wiping my nose with it.

            “We gotta go,” she says.

            “I just need a band aid.”

            “We’re going.”

            “That needs stitches,” Mom says as we leave.

            I shiver. By the time we get to the hospital, my hand shakes so bad I can’t keep the glove in place.

            Caleb stays out front staring at a Disney show.

            The nurse makes me get on a scale and takes my temperature, although that’s clearly not why we’re here.

            She leads us to the trauma room.

            I’ve never had stitches before. Never been hospitalized. Never broken a bone. Now I’m in the trauma room.

            “Growing boy.” The nurse taps my shoe as I lie on the table.

            Mom squeezes my arm. “Want me to hold your hand?”

            I shake my head.

            The doctor pulls open a drawer, rattles around, says something about a 30 gauge needle. Like a shotgun?

            I stare at the ceiling.

            I won’t cry.

            “You’ll be fine,” the doctor speaks in that high voice used for littler kids than me. “A shot, a few tugs, and all better.”

            A tear leaks out. Warm blood runs down my neck.

            The doctor pokes a needle near the cut. Now I wish Mom would hold my hand. She doesn’t.

            After the burn of the 30 gauge and more than a few tugs, I’ve got four stitches poking out of my chin like an off-center goatee.

            “See, that didn’t hurt,” the nurse says as she cleans me off.

            “Except for you poking me,” I say.

            When I come out, Caleb raises his knuckles. “High five.”

            “Not even,” I say.

5. 300 word personal essay about why I write

CeeMee Right

            “Can teenagers love?” asked my oldest daughter. She’s dated a young man for over a year. I loved a boy in high school. He proposed. I said no and left for college where I met my husband.

            I write to be forgiven.

            After a three hour elementary school concert, we found my second daughter hiding under a table, crying. When classes weren’t performing, the rest of the school waited together in a large room. The noise, the bodies, the smells were all too much for her. At other times, the seams of her socks, the buzz of fluorescent lights, lumpy oatmeal on her tongue, my anger, her tantrums, me shoving her out the door to get to school…

            I write to understand.

            My son worships his dad. They wrestle, joke, torch a stripped lug nut to change a tire. To become a man, my son sleeps in a tent on the frozen snow, endures his dad tickling him for an entire minute, and hauls himself up on his chin-up bar when he goes in or out of his room.

            I write to relate.

            I review Shakespeare lines with my fifth grader, proofread papers for my 9^th grader, sort through pennies with my son for a merit badge, write down my five year-old son’s stories about monsters, and relive moments of my senior’s life as she prepares for college. I listen to my children’s successes, failures, heartaches, joys. I teach them that the only person they can control is themselves. Still, there are suicide bombings, earthquakes, sexual abuse, cancer.

            I remember the pain of a broken heart, the rage of childhood, being left out of wrestling matches between my dad and five younger brothers. I write because I remember. I write to fix a world I can’t control.

6. 400 word dystopian scene

Will I. Am     

            I am no longer Will.

            My teeth vibrate from the tremble in the earth and the cold. The wool blanket the man-lady threw at me last night won’t cover my toes and my chin.

            And Rissa is gone.

            I should have thrown a punch, kicked a groin, yanked that man-lady’s rifle out of her hands before I let them separate us.

            Yet that animal carcass hanging outside my jail—no, holding room—of the main lodge and the five or so women I’d seen, gave me hope that this community would be safe—at least for Rissa.

            We left the last community in the middle of the night. As soon as Rissa started strutting and bending over and using that breathless voice around the food guard, I knew we had to leave. Sure, she got us stockpiles of beans and creamed corn and oatmeal packets, but that guard was looking for something other than food.

            The door bursts open. I jump up from the mattress, my hands in fists, my jaw tight.

            A body slams into me, then arms are around my waist and this person, this girl is soft and trembling.

            “Chris.” Her voice is high, over loud. She pushes away.

            When Dallin found Rissa and me huddled in a demolished gas station, licking out the glop from a can of chili, he said family members could join their community. I had to pretend to be his girlfriend’s missing brother and Rissa had to be his sister.

            The man-lady stands in the doorway. “This is Chris?” A gun rests in her arms like she can take me down between the eyes before I blink.

            “I’m sorry, Chris. This is Leah.” The girl holds onto my arm and her hand chills me through my jacket. She faces me. Her eyes are warm and brown and wet with tears. “We help each other. We have to.”

            We walk past the man-lady—excuse me, Leah—with her gun, past the carcass, and away from the lodge where they’ve got Rissa. I stop. But if I’m this girl’s brother, Rissa means nothing to me.

             “You’re home,” the girl says, loud again, and then leans into my arm, her chest brushing against my jacket. “Dallin sent me. Rissa, your sister. She’s there.”

            Now I want to be Will. Not this girl’s brother. And I don’t want to owe her boyfriend anything.

7. 500 word romance scene with a kiss

Cassafrass

            Dallin stands on my front porch with a boutonniere box. Inside is one white rose surrounded by carnations the same color as my dress. The sun is setting behind the two story house across the street like an orange half peeled.

            “Dallin.” I don’t know what to say. I thought Mom told him she changed her mind about prom, that I had to babysit Sam instead. And my makeup—it’s run off my face from crying.

            But I’m still wearing my pinkish-melon dress with a full skirt to the knee, wide straps for sleeves, and of course, a sweater to cover my shoulders.

            “Wow, Cassie,” Dallin says. “You look…Wow.” He’s in the doorway. Sam wraps his arms around Dallin’s leg.

            I notice now that he’s not in a tux. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with jeans and one button undone. His white undershirt shows at the top. I want to give him a hug but not with Sam around.

            I try to pry Sam off Dallin’s leg.

            “I just came to give you these.” Dallin shakes the flower box. I reach for it, but he pulls back.

            “I get to put it on you.” He walks into the house, sets the box on a bookshelf, and pops off the top. Sam continues to hang onto Dallin, but tilts his head back to watch.

            Dallin’s fingertips brush the inside of my palm as he slips the flowers on my wrist. I get warm shivers.

            He smiles, showing straight teeth except for the middle top one that’s at a slight angle.

            “I should leave.” Dallin backs up.

            “You could…” My voice cracks. “Stay.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I’m sure.”

            Mom would not approve. Except why should I do what Mom wants when she made me miss my prom?

            After three stories, a trip to the bathroom, and two drinks of water, Sam is in bed and Dallin is sitting next to me on the worn love seat.

            “Cassie?” Dallin fiddles with my fingers. I think he’ll hold my hand. He doesn’t.  

            “Yeah.” I keep my voice at a whisper so I won’t scare him away.

            Mom says the surest path to sex is being alone with a guy, taking clothes off, and being horizontal.

            Dallin leans forward until our foreheads touch. “When your mom called, she made it sound like you changed your mind. That you didn’t want to go.” His warm mint breath tingles against my lips.

            I almost stop breathing. “I wanted to more than anything.”

            “I hoped…That’s why I came over,” Dallin says.

            “I’m glad you did.” I close my eyes.

            “Me too.”

            My chest is tight.

            Now.

            My lips open a bit.

            He’s so close. If I move we’ll bump noses.

            I take a quick breath and his lips are on mine. Soft. Warm. Sweet.

            I may not know how my mom could make me miss prom. I may not even know exactly how it works when in a horizontal position. But I know I like kissing.

8. 600 word scene of a fairy tale retelling

Storyteller

            In my tree high above the forest floor, a fluff of snow drifts through the barren branches and settles on my hand, soft as a swan’s feather, cold as loneliness.

            I sew and wish I was playing at hide-and-seek with my brothers.

            They would count. I would run until my breath tore at my chest, then climb a tree until the branches were no thicker than my finger. With my cheek pressed against the rough bark, I waited to hear their song.

            “Six brothers catch little sister.”

            I would shriek when a brother climbed and caught my ankle.

            “Did you see me? How long did it take? Let’s play again,” I said as my brothers covered their ears.

            If only I could sing now.

            Cold drives through the branches I’ve lodged as a roof between the limbs. The slanted floor is a shingle from the robber’s den where I found my brothers before they flew away.

            I huddle over my precious shirts.

            Ice bites at my neck, burning with its cold cruelty.

            If I could laugh, I would repeat my brothers’ joke.

            “Why did the swan cross the road?”

            “To peck off your head.”

            That was a good one. I keep the laugh in my belly.

            If I could speak, I would count aloud my stitches. Three shirts are done. Half of what is needed to free all my brothers. Half plus the ultimate sacrifice for a chatty sister.

            I stitch the seven petals using Poppa’s reel of thread. With the end knotted, the blood-red stitches transform to the pure white of the star flower.

            A limb whips across my back and flies away.

            Where do my brothers fly? Surely they do not miss my chatter.

            Chase never said, “Stop talking.”

            He found me in a tree where I’d fallen asleep, my legs swinging off a limb.

            “Are you all right?”

            I shrieked, a high piercing pitch with a drop like the scream of an eagle.

            “I won’t hurt you,” he said.

            I didn’t know what he would or would not do.

            He waited below and whistled, mimicking my scream. I stayed until my legs and bottom were numb. As I descended, my gown caught on a jagged limb and tore.

            “I’m Chase.” The young man stood and bowed.

            “Anice.”

            “Your dress is torn.”

            “It is.”

            “You don’t say much.”

            My laugh burst out of my mouth.

            After that, when I hid from my brothers, I whistled and if Chase answered back, we met and talked until I heard my brothers’ song.

            If only I could laugh now.

            Hiss. Crack. Roar. Wind flies down in a fury and seizes the shirts. I snatch at a sleeve, a collar. One flies over my shelter.

            I can’t lose it. A shirt takes an entire year to sew. I stuff the two shirts, star flowers, and reel into my bodice.

            With one foot, I search for a foot hold. I hear a whistle: high and sustained with a drop.

            Chase.

            I must not answer.

            I slip, my bodice catching on a twig. The last two shirts fall out.

            I clutch at the tree.

            “I hope this is not all you were wearing.”

            I must not speak.

            “Anice? Is that you? You know I won’t hurt you.”

            The reel of thread bruises my chest. Of course. A way to stay silent.

            I pull myself back onto the floor of my shelter and with shaking fingers, thread the needle. I pierce my flesh. The bottom lip. Then the top. The stitches disappear as I tie the knot at the corner of my mouth.

            I descend.

9. 750 word beginning of a YA murder mystery

Mary Multnomah

            At the bridge next to the falls, Susie's hair blew behind her as smooth and white as plain butter cream icing, the sweetness on top of a cake.

            The rest of the choir members stayed in the spray of the falls, but I huffed and gasped for breath as I followed Susie and Tom up the asphalt path. I'd heard Tom talk as we changed into our tuxes before the performance on our choir trip through Oregon. He said he'd hook up with her again on the bus as we drove all night to get home. 

            Couldn't she see? See that Tom only wanted her body. He didn't appreciate her voice. If her hair was like icing, her voice when she sang was like pudding in the middle of a layered cake. It's richness moistened your lips, covered your tongue, and became part of you.

            Before the last switchback at the top of the falls, I leaned against a boulder. But then I heard her words, her pain. She was pregnant. He said she'd better take care of it. That he didn't need this now when he had a full scholarship. That he'd jump off the falls right then if she didn't promise. Or that maybe she should jump. I heard the scream, the cry of desperation.

            I ran around the boulder. Susie was gone.

            I charged. Tom hit the falls. His arms and legs flopped like an empty pastry bag until he disappeared to the bottom, 600 feet below.

17 Years Later

            When Kelsey ran, she could deal with what was ahead. One step at a time. Even in the heat of the desert. Today, at the beginning of the cross country season, she ran with her team on Mount Lemmon, an elevated oasis of trees. 

            As Kelsey neared the turn before the last mile of the run, sweat prickled under her armpits, glued her hair to her forehead, and squelched between her knees.

            "Hey, ice princess," Porter called from behind. "Swish that white hair this way. Might cool me off."

            Kelsey unwound her elastic and whipped her hair at Porter.

            "That's what I'm talking about." He grinned.

            Kelsey slowed, her feet flat against the trail. If Porter wanted to continue to run with her, he'd slow down. If he didn't, she'd given him a chance to pull ahead. He stayed.

            Kelsey slipped the water bottle out of her back pouch and squirted it over Porter's hair, already dark with sweat.

            "After this, we're going to the water park," Porter said. "You could come."

            "I'll ask," Kelsey said. She wanted to. But was it worth the lecture about how men cause nothing but pain?  Her mom never said that's what happened with her dad, but that's what Kelsey guessed.

            She squeezed the last drops of water into her mouth. In the parking lot a few runners pulled sports drinks from a cooler in the trunk of the coach's car. Instead of high fives and checking hydration, the coach stood with her arms crossed talking to a woman whose white-blonde hair hung down her back in soft waves.

            It couldn't be, Kelsey thought. Not my mom. Kelsey leaned forward and sped up, running on the front pads of her feet. Her mom never ventured up any mountain or climbed stairs or rode the elevator.

            "We have to go," her mom said, clamping her hand on Kelsey's sweaty neck.

            She shivered with the cold of her mom's touch.

            "Kelsey." The coach patted her arm. "We're going to miss you."

            "What?" Kelsey looked from her mom to the coach.

            "Susie, your daughter is a great runner," the coach said. "Make sure she keeps it up in Oregon."

            Oregon? Kelsey knew her mom hated the heat of Tucson almost as much as she feared heights. She complained about getting sweaty as she walked from the house to the car. The A/C bills here cost more than keeping a diesel truck full of gas in Oregon. It was too hot if you could cook an egg on the sidewalk. Not that her mom would want to, not with all the cockroaches. There weren't any cockroaches in Corvallis, where her mom was from, except for Kelsey's dad if he was still there. That had to be the reason why her mom had never gone back to Oregon, never taken Kelsey to meet her grandparents.

            Could this be about her dad?

            Bring on the pain, Kelsey thought.

10. 99 word Flash Fiction

La Luna

I made a choice.

53 days. I didn’t speak when my parents announced the plan to keep our family together.

36 days. I kept my mouth shut on the day we arrived at the cabin, our ark in a wicked world.

2 days. When Dallin came for me, I left my family, without speaking a word.

0 days. I did not believe the world would end. Mom and Dad ended my world when they took us away.

——-

Light streaks near the moon. My parents were wrong. It will pass us by.

 My parents were right.

“This is the end.”

So Ann Dee, Kyra and I

are excited about announcing the winners of our very own Project Writeway.
(Let me put on my plunging neckline dress, my 6-inch heels, a lot of eye make up and say)

This year’s winners receives the biggest prize ever in Ann Dee, Kyra and Carol’s time of doing Project Writeway.

He or she shall receive:
A first chapter CRITIQUE by the amazingly kind and terrific agent STEVE FRASER.

And here is our PROJECT WRITEWAY WINNER!!!!!

Docena Holm

I made a choice.
53 days. I didn’t speak when my parents announced the plan to keep our family together.
36 days. I kept my mouth shut on the day we arrived at the cabin, our ark in a wicked world.
2 days. When Dallin came for me, I left my family, without speaking a word.
0 days. I did not believe the world would end. Mom and Dad ended my world when they took us away.
——-
Light streaks near the moon. My parents were wrong. It will pass us by.
My parents were right.
“This is the end.”

And our Play at Home Winner is Leisha Maw!

Getting abducted by dark elves is a problem. My problem. They took me when I discovered my mom’s illness was really mental slavery. Now I’m stuck in their realm where being human is illegal. Having powers that melt others’ insides is illegal, too.

Accidentally marrying their prince? Um, yeah.
Guilty. So guilty.
Now I just have to master powers I didn’t know I had, decimate a regime that makes Hitler look like a pansy, and restore my mother’s mind—all while trying not to fall for my husband.
It’s a good thing I’m human; they’ll never see me coming.

CONGRATS GIRLS!!!!!!
You played long and hard and it paid off.

Here are the newest set of rules, Winners. Yes, there are more–

Please send your first few pages here– throwingupwords@gmail.com.
I will be able to make sure that your beginnings get to Steve without sitting in the slush forever.

Your work must be submitted properly, meaning– 12 point font, double spaced, 1 inch margins. Make sure you have a cover letter and throw in a SHORT synopsis.
On your cover letter, make sure you include your name, your contact information–including email address–and the title of the novel. Also, make sure you put if this is a YA, MG or PB AND put word count.

NOTE: No more than 2,000 words. If your first chapter ends before the 2,000 words (mine always do), stop there!
If you think, “It gets interesting in chapter three.” Well, that’s not the book to send.
Make sure you are sending Steve your very best work.
PLEASE make sure you send your work to us by Sunday, April 15, 2012 at 7 pm.

And yahoo!
We’re done with this season of Project Writeway and I am taking off this sequined gown and my pantyhose now.

PS Tomorrow, Ann Dee explains the way the judging worked.

1. My voice: I found it.

2. Realizing that my writing is serious and I can't do humor.

3. Understanding that my writing is literary.

4. Learning that I can get inspiration for my writing in dreams and during the middle of the night.

5. Support of family: my immediate family has endured my obsessing about the contest, countless hours I've spent on the computer, begging them to read my drafts and give me suggestions, encouraging them to vote (right now!). My extended family have e-mailed, offered encouragement, cheered me on, and my mom gave me time to write over spring break and got excited with me when I won the fairy tale retelling contest.

6. Support of friends: many e-mails, facebook responses, conversations, and encouragement. Thank you so much.

7. Writing buddies: my neighbor and friend, Monelle, is also in the final three. It's been so nice to chat with her about our entries. I gained a new friend, Kim. She was in the Top 4 and sadly got out. I loved all her entries.

8. Gratitude for Ann Dee, Carol, Kyra and their helpers for running Project Writeway and for the judges: Alane Ferguson, Mette Ivie Harrison, Louise Plummer, Cait Williams, John Bennion, Claudia Mills, Laurel Brady, and Chris Crowe.

9 and 10. There should be two more to make the list complete. I love to read. I love to write. I was reminded of that again in this contest.

My flash fiction:

La Luna

I made a choice.
53 days. I didn’t speak when my parents announced the plan to keep our family together.
36 days. I kept my mouth shut on the day we arrived at the cabin, our ark in a wicked world.
2 days. When Dallin came for me, I left my family, without speaking a word.
0 days. I did not believe the world would end. Mom and Dad ended my world when they took us away.
——-
Light streaks near the moon. My parents were wrong. It will pass us by.
My parents were right.
“This is the end.”

And I'm shocked by the entry that moves to Play-at-Home because it was complimented many times in the comments and was very smart and clever.

I'm actually on vacation this week for spring break, but I'm going to the library with my daughters to check out a Mary Higgins Clark mystery to get some ideas for the next contest: a 750 word beginning of a murder mystery book.

You can read the contest results here: Throwing Up Words.

This is my entry from last week.

Storyteller

In my tree high above the forest floor, a fluff of snow drifts through the barren branches and settles on my hand, soft as a swan’s feather, cold as loneliness.
I sew and wish I was playing at hide-and-seek with my brothers.
They would count. I would run until my breath tore at my chest, then climb a tree until the branches were no thicker than my finger. With my cheek pressed against the rough bark, I waited to hear their song.
“Six brothers catch little sister.”
I would shriek when a brother climbed and caught my ankle.
“Did you see me? How long did it take? Let’s play again,” I said as my brothers covered their ears.
If only I could sing now.
Cold drives through the branches I’ve lodged as a roof between the limbs. The slanted floor is a shingle from the robber’s den where I found my brothers before they flew away.
I huddle over my precious shirts.
Ice bites at my neck, burning with its cold cruelty.
If I could laugh, I would repeat my brothers’ joke.
“Why did the swan cross the road?”
“To peck off your head.”
That was a good one. I keep the laugh in my belly.
If I could speak, I would count aloud my stitches. Three shirts are done. Half of what is needed to free all my brothers. Half plus the ultimate sacrifice for a chatty sister.
I stitch the seven petals using Poppa’s reel of thread. With the end knotted, the blood-red stitches transform to the pure white of the star flower.
A limb whips across my back and flies away.
Where do my brothers fly? Surely they do not miss my chatter.
Chase never said, “Stop talking.”
He found me in a tree where I’d fallen asleep, my legs swinging off a limb.
“Are you all right?”
I shrieked, a high piercing pitch with a drop like the scream of an eagle.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
I didn’t know what he would or would not do.
He waited below and whistled, mimicking my scream. I stayed until my legs and bottom were numb. As I descended, my gown caught on a jagged limb and tore.
“I’m Chase.” The young man stood and bowed.
“Anice.”
“Your dress is torn.”
“It is.”
“You don’t say much.”
My laugh burst out of my mouth.
After that, when I hid from my brothers, I whistled and if Chase answered back, we met and talked until I heard my brothers’ song.
If only I could laugh now.
Hiss. Crack. Roar. Wind flies down in a fury and seizes the shirts. I snatch at a sleeve, a collar. One flies over my shelter.
I can’t lose it. A shirt takes an entire year to sew. I stuff the two shirts, star flowers, and reel into my bodice.
With one foot, I search for a foot hold. I hear a whistle: high and sustained with a drop.
Chase.
I must not answer.
I slip, my bodice catching on a twig. The last two shirts fall out.
I clutch at the tree.
“I hope this is not all you were wearing.”
I must not speak.
“Anice? Is that you? You know I won’t hurt you.”
The reel of thread bruises my chest. Of course. A way to stay silent.
I pull myself back onto the floor of my shelter and with shaking fingers, thread the needle. I pierce my flesh. The bottom lip. Then the top. The stitches disappear as I tie the knot at the corner of my mouth.
I descend.

This scene was adapted from when Marti was supposed to go to prom with Dallin, but her parents leave to rescue her older brother from college, and she is left home to babysit. I changed Marti's name to Cassie for the scene so I wouldn't have to take the time to explain that Marti is a nickname for Martha.

Cassafrass

            Dallin stands on my front porch with a boutonniere box. Inside is one white rose surrounded by carnations the same color as my dress. The sun is setting behind the two story house across the street like an orange half peeled.

            “Dallin.” I don’t know what to say. I thought Mom told him she changed her mind about prom, that I had to babysit Sam instead. And my makeup—it’s run off my face from crying.

            But I’m still wearing my pinkish-melon dress with a full skirt to the knee, wide straps for sleeves, and of course, a sweater to cover my shoulders.

            “Wow, Cassie,” Dallin says. “You look…Wow.” He’s in the doorway. Sam wraps his arms around Dallin’s leg.

            I notice now that he’s not in a tux. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with jeans and one button undone. His white undershirt shows at the top. I want to give him a hug but not with Sam around.

            I try to pry Sam off Dallin’s leg.

            “I just came to give you these.” Dallin shakes the flower box. I reach for it, but he pulls back.

            “I get to put it on you.” He walks into the house, sets the box on a bookshelf, and pops off the top. Sam continues to hang onto Dallin, but tilts his head back to watch.

            Dallin’s fingertips brush the inside of my palm as he slips the flowers on my wrist. I get warm shivers.

            He smiles, showing straight teeth except for the middle top one that’s at a slight angle.

            “I should leave.” Dallin backs up.

            “You could…” My voice cracks. “Stay.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I’m sure.”

            Mom would not approve. Except why should I do what Mom wants when she made me miss my prom?

            After three stories, a trip to the bathroom, and two drinks of water, Sam is in bed and Dallin is sitting next to me on the worn love seat.

            “Cassie?” Dallin fiddles with my fingers. I think he’ll hold my hand. He doesn’t.  

            “Yeah.” I keep my voice at a whisper so I won’t scare him away.

            Mom says the surest path to sex is being alone with a guy, taking clothes off, and being horizontal.

            Dallin leans forward until our foreheads touch. “When your mom called, she made it sound like you changed your mind. That you didn’t want to go.” His warm mint breath tingles against my lips.

            I almost stop breathing. “I wanted to more than anything.”

            “I hoped…That’s why I came over,” Dallin says.

            “I’m glad you did.” I close my eyes.

            “Me too.”

            My chest is tight.

            Now.

            My lips open a bit.

            He’s so close. If I move we’ll bump noses.

            I take a quick breath and his lips are on mine. Soft. Warm. Sweet.

            I may not know how my mom could make me miss prom. I may not even know exactly how it works when in a horizontal position. But I know I like kissing.

It's been a tense couple of days. The results were posted this afternoon for the dystopian scene. I've made it to the next round. I was very worried about this last challenge. After I submitted it, I thought about all the things that were confusing in the scene. The next challenge is to write a romance scene with one kiss. Voting will be Thursday and Friday. We all like kissing! So this should be fun. My husband is disappointed I didn't pull out the Bombshell Bra. But the kids are home from school and I don't own one. Too bad.

Will I. Am     

            I am no longer Will.

            My teeth vibrate from the tremble in the earth and the cold. The wool blanket the man-lady threw at me last night won’t cover my toes and my chin.

            And Rissa is gone.

            I should have thrown a punch, kicked a groin, yanked that man-lady’s rifle out of her hands before I let them separate us.

            Yet that animal carcass hanging outside my jail—no, holding room—of the main lodge and the five or so women I’d seen, gave me hope that this community would be safe—at least for Rissa.

            We left the last community in the middle of the night. As soon as Rissa started strutting and bending over and using that breathless voice around the food guard, I knew we had to leave. Sure, she got us stockpiles of beans and creamed corn and oatmeal packets, but that guard was looking for something other than food.

            The door bursts open. I jump up from the mattress, my hands in fists, my jaw tight.

            A body slams into me, then arms are around my waist and this person, this girl is soft and trembling.

            “Chris.” Her voice is high, over loud. She pushes away.

            When Dallin found Rissa and me huddled in a demolished gas station, licking out the glop from a can of chili, he said family members could join their community. I had to pretend to be his girlfriend’s missing brother and Rissa had to be his sister.

            The man-lady stands in the doorway. “This is Chris?” A gun rests in her arms like she can take me down between the eyes before I blink.

            “I’m sorry, Chris. This is Leah.” The girl holds onto my arm and her hand chills me through my jacket. She faces me. Her eyes are warm and brown and wet with tears. “We help each other. We have to.”

            We walk past the man-lady—excuse me, Leah—with her gun, past the carcass, and away from the lodge where they’ve got Rissa. I stop. But if I’m this girl’s brother, Rissa means nothing to me.

             “You’re home,” the girl says, loud again, and then leans into my arm, her chest brushing against my jacket. “Dallin sent me. Rissa, your sister. She’s there.”

            Now I want to be Will. Not this girl’s brother. And I don’t want to owe her boyfriend anything.

 

• Get tips on improving your writing from established and upcoming authors.
• Learn new techniques for teaching students to write.
• Discover publication paths from current YA, middle grade, and non-fiction authors.
• Earn graduate, undergraduate, or in-service credit through BSU.*
• Participate in an intensive writing workshop.
• Hear manuscript critiques from a literary agent or peer group.
• Register by PayPal or at the conference.

WHEN:	Saturday, April 21, 2012 8:00am to 5:30pm
WHERE:	Boise State University 1910 University Dr Boise, ID 83725 Student Union Building Lookout Room