An Impromptu Friday Feedback: 59 Reasons to Write and then some. . .

Five short years ago, I was still just a writer aspiring to be published.

Two critically-acclaimed, traditionally published books later, I hate to tell you, but I am merely the same thing.

Out on submission as we speak, trying to find not only the right editor for my current manuscript, but the whole publishing team that is needed these days to rally behind same, and this single, particular work of writing.

It aint easy. In fact, if I had the energy, knowing what I know now, I'd add a whole slew of chutes to THIS POST. 

The good news? I'd also add a whole slew of ladders.

Like the tween & teen readers I've met, who have been inspired to read or write (!) by my stories!

A reader named Francesca who was waiting for
her namesake book to come out. <3 b="">

Like the astoundingly caring educators I've met who spend their days AND NIGHTS wracking their brains for new ways to inspire students to read.

Like the Teachers Write! campers I've met, whose manuscripts I've started to read, many of whom I believe will be in the next crop of published MG & YA writers. . . or the crop after that. 

The beauty of writing, I remind myself, is there is no age limit or time cutoff. We have all the time we have.

At any rate, Teachers Write has been an incredible and inspiring part of MY writing life and now I am part of this beautiful book that Kate Messner made happen, and it's one of the great honors of my life.

59 Reasons to Write. Out this week!!!

And, this morning, I noticed on twitter that there's a whole #59Reasons hashtag developing, so I thought, why not jump on the bandwagon! So here, in honor of #59Reasons, is an impromptu Friday Feedback giving you yet a 60th reason to write. If you've been here before, YOU KNOW THE RULES. If not, please click on that link and read em. I will read and provide feedback on any excerpts received through Sunday morning.

Now, for something not usually seen here, I'm posting two of the possible openings for my piece of women's fiction most often referred to as SWIM BACK TO ME. I have a third, but am not posting it here now. You'll notice the first is more prologuey (yes, I made up that adjective) and the second right into the story. . .

So, does one hook you more? Make you want to keep reading? What works? What doesn't? You know the drill. And, if you're working on a piece and struggling with the same questions, I invite you to do the same. Although, I warn you (and myself!) that exercises like this usually invite an equal amount of writers arguing for each version. We shall see! 

p.s. I'm including the opening quote because I love it so much.

Sometimes God calms the storm. At other times, He calms the sailor.

And sometimes He makes us swim."

-Author Unknown

Choice One:

            The air is brisk, the sky, of an Ansel Adams photograph. Charcoal bestrewn with gray clouds, backlit by an ivory moon. Leaves rustle in the silhouetted tree branches above.  

            Below this moody sky I drift, on my back in a maroon one-piece, irradiated by the hot-white pool light which reflects the artificial turquoise of the liner. A mist of illuminated steam swirls at the water’s surface.

            Here I am, floating. 

Here I am, serene and breathing, soaking in the calm, relative-perfection of my life. 

            Here I am, content and grateful. 

This is me, in August. An expert at this ritual, at this state of being. After fifteen years of marriage and motherhood, this is my rote, my order, my routine.

And, if I knew better, I would stay here. I wouldn’t move a muscle. I would not get out.  Because, in a few short weeks, everything will be different.

Everything will be undone. 

***

Choice Two.

The phone is ringing, Richard is in the shower, and I have mayonnaise on my hands.

I can’t ask Cassie to answer it because she’s already running late which is ridiculous since it’s the first day of school. Of course, I’m not ready either, am still laying fake turkey slices between bread slices, a water bottle squeezed under my arm, a veggie chip snack bag gripped in my teeth. So, I let it ring.

            “Cassie,” I yell, dropping the chips to the counter and shoving the whole mess into her lunch bag, “Let’s go!”

            She appears, flying down the hall in a Little Miss Grumpy t-shirt, a pair of frayed jeans, and her new Steve Madden lace ups adorning her sleek, 5-foot-6-inch frame. She has make-up on, a new privilege permitted by us now that she’s in tenth grade. She’s done a good job – a hint of green eye shadow, some smoky eyeliner, and a pale blush gloss on her lips. Her long, corn-silk hair is just-brushed, splays about her shoulders, errant strands lit by filtering sunshine and static-charged rise around her head. She’s a lovely girl, my daughter, if difficult and moody at times, and, as always, the moment I see her, my morning’s anger and frustration melt away, and I want to hug her and tell her how beautiful she is. Of course, I wouldn’t dare.

“No meat, right?” She snatches the bag from my hand and kisses my cheek which actually takes me by surprise. She seems to scowl at me way more than anything these days.

“Right,” I say as if I could forget. She’s reminded me at least a hundred times in the past few weeks.

“Great! Thanks. I’m likely staying after. I’ll text you,” she says, and is gone.

            The front door slams and reverberates leaving this memory: Cassie's first day of kindergarten, her grip on my hand on the way to the bus stop, the only thing that belies her confident pace, her pigtails bobbing above her favorite yellow sundress with the white daisies and big blue bow in back. The bus arrives, and she suddenly buries her head so forcefully between my thighs, she nearly knocks me over, given I’m not anticipating. How Richard laughs and comments, captured on video forever, that, if she could have, she’d have jammed herself right back up into my womb. “So, fearless Cassie’s not so fearless after all,” he says, moving the camera to settle on my frazzled face after I’ve finally pried her away and hustled her sniffling up the steps of the bus.

The recollection fills me with a momentary, overwhelming, sense of loss. It’s one of the last times I remember her being anything but arms’ length with me. 

xoxo,

gae