Tag Archives: the crazy

This Crazy Idea

I’m a busy woman. Most of the people I know are busy people. I’m trying to be a writer. A real writer. Many of the amateur writers I know are trying to be real writers.

We have supportive communities (two in my sidebars come to mind–looking at you, Red Dress Club and Studio Thirty Plus), but what I hear, time and time again is how we’re not getting the constructive criticism and feedback we need. ¬†Carrie, who writes over at Views from Nature, sparked a rousing discussion on this topic over on the Red Dress Club‘s site yesterday. It got me thinking.

I work a 52 hour week. I have a small child with me at work, and I still have to parent him when I get home (thankfully there I’ve got backup!). My weekends are full of family and social and housekeeping obligations. We had two tough years financially, and there’s no money for classes–even if there was time.

I’m not alone in this. I know I’m not.

I’m kind of banking on that.

I don’t know exactly how to get it done, but I want to know: is anyone else out there interested in a serious critique group? A focused group? Accountable to it’s members? The Red Dress Club had a good model when it first started up, but I know it had trouble maintaining itself, and eventually it got phased out.

And I remember. I had a hard time keeping up with it, too.

So, let me know. Let’s brainstorm. DM me on the Twitters (my handle’s on the right). Email me on the gmails (moveovermarypoppins). Leave me a comment (comments are yummy). Skywrite if you must. Or one of those planes that pull banners: twin lobsters, only $9.99! I always read those.


driven to madness

when the hour arrived
in which she chased the leftover curry
with caramel sauce straight from the jar–

the rugs were still rolled up
because she couldn’t bear to put them down
with the awful sofa still in the room,
which turned out to be a blessing
because the dog took the moment
of her planned departure
to vomit copiously on the living room floor.

get the fuck out!
her angry finger pointing to the yard
and retreating between-legs tail

then the damn dog wouldn’t come back in,
and she had to pee
so bad
just a trickle was beginning to soak her panties

which were the shifty ones
that always ended up slipping down
pooling below her ass cheeks
unless her jeans were too tight–

she maybe lost her mind a little.