One Day prize pack giveaway!

By Julie

A few Thursdays ago, I had the pleasure of attending a press screening for One Day, based on David Nicholls' novel (NOT by a woman, but we award a few honorary tiaras around here, ya know). I'm launching a new blog soon where I'll be reviewing what women WATCH, and will likely start off with this delightful film, which opens in theaters Friday.

That's all I'll say about the movie right now. In the meantime, we were lucky enough to score a prize pack to give away to one of our readers. All you have to do is leave a comment here on the blog telling us what your favorite beach read of the summer has been and we'll enter you in a completely random drawing.

We'll announce the winner through a post here again late Thursday. Deadline is noon Central Standard time 8/18/11! Please be sure to leave an email address or sign on in such a way that we can notify you by email or watch for the announcement so you can send us your mailing information ASAP after the announcement. (U.S. mailing addresses able to accept FedEx deliveries only, please!) We'd love if you'd let all your friends know, too! You don't have to be a regular visitor at What Women Write, but we sure hope you'll come back and check out what's on the table again. (Teaser: one very special guest coming up soon! Aspiring writers won't want to miss it!)

The prize pack includes: a beach bag, towel, nail polish, novel, journal, cosmetic bag, and a bookmark. Can you say FUN!? And if you haven't read ONE DAY yet, check it out. I haven't read it, but loved the movie and hope to read it soon!

A Little Help with My Friends

by Elizabeth

I bought that dress probably eighteen years ago at an estate sale in Oak Lawn, a neighborhood of then-crumbling Craftsman cottages in the heart of Dallas. Never had the opportunity to wear it. (No, I have not been invited to any Mad Men parties, thanks for asking.) So when Pamela suggested we dress up to attend a premiere of The Help, there was no doubt in my mind I'd be dolled up. The only question was whether or not I'd be able to find the pillbox hat I'd fashioned to go with the dress. (I know I once made a hat, but like I said: no memory of wearing the outfit. I must have been very bored the summer of 1993.) I combed through the crammed storage space upstairs, re-searched my closet shelves, couldn't find it. So off to Hobby Lobby I went, and the resulting chapeau, I have to say, was superior to the one I crafted almost two decades ago. Put some ice in my glare and I could've been Hilly.


The rest of the group was game, too. I will eventually wheedle the price of Joan's hat out of her, but I know Kim and Pamela trawled thrift shops, as I did for my shoes. Susan borrowed a vintage sweater set that once belonged to my grandmother and, with her spot-on hairdo, showed up as the brunette incarnation of the character Celia. Julie got off a plane and onto the toll road, no time to run home and change, but her daughter Emilie sported Julie's mom's going-away dress from her 1960 wedding. And her hat was adorable.

What the other women in the group might not have known before is that my closet provides not only for 1960, but also, depending on the age of the wearer, stuff for 1536 and 1620 and 1817 and 1874 and 1925, not to mention the leftovers from my teenage years which allowed my daughter to rock her '80s party at school last winter. A quick drive out to my mom's house, and I can garb it up from the 1950s, too. I'm still sick that the 1776 dress I once owned was lost to a faithless borrower.

I love dressing up into history. I have to be honest: I had trouble suppressing the character that was begging to arise, and only the sense of decorum the other Women possess kept me from standing in front of the movie screen, making fake announcements "on behalf of the theater" prior to the show. I had my bad drawl dancing on my tongue's tip, and more than one "y'all" with more Southern sugar than Texas warrants escaped despite my lukewarm efforts to rein it in.

What's better still, is that it was a movie that was a book. A book, by the way, that is unique to our Group of Six in that we universally enjoyed and appreciated and were awed in its reading. I cannot think of another single tome that every one of us read and admired. Joan and I overlap a lot, but there are books she's stuck in my hand with a glow in her eye that met with a yawn, and vice-versa. Same for the others, around and around. But Kathryn Stockett did it for us all. As did Viola Davis, and Emma Stone, and Bryce Dallas Howard, and Octavia Spencer, and Allison Janney, and everyone in the cast. Excellent work by all, and get thee to the theater, not to mention a book store.

I've had the pleasure recently of reading several manuscripts in our group. I'm looking forward to adding a couple more to the checked pile, hopefully by year's end. The ones I've read so far would be terrific on the big screen, and I would love to have to shop for an outfit for the show. (We are all of us fascinated by history, and our work shows it.)

But ladies, are you listening? I want you to include me as an extra when you get the contract. Promise me? I probably already have something to wear.

To Be Fearless

By Susan

What makes a person skydive, or change careers, or stand up for justice when the world tells us to look the other way? Where does confidence come from, enabling us to be fearless?

Confidence can be infused in us, by parents, by peers. When we receive praise for a job well done, or are paid a high salary, or are loved by those around us, we are confident. Yet true poise comes from within. It is a combination of the head, which tells us we are right, and the heart, which makes sure we feel right. It is more than validation from others. It is a self-belief and assurance we know deep in our core. I am a good writer. I can do this. I am fearless.

In my past life as a sales and marketing executive, I never walked into a meeting thinking that there was anyone in the room who knew their stuff better than I. I carried myself that way, because I believed it- even when I was wrong. After the devastating financial crisis of 2008, when markets crashed and jobs disappeared and I was left unemployed, I admit: I lost some mojo. I stepped into non-profit work, hoping to give back. To serve others. To find myself. I also decided to do what I loved: to write.

Yet I found in the immersion into the world of words that I didn’t know anything about being an author, and my lack of confidence showed. I spewed out sentences and paragraphs and chapters on paper. I threw them away. I panicked if anyone wanted to read them. I cowered, hiding, hoping no one could see my inadequacies. I was not the same woman who walked brazenly into an executive meeting. I was like a child, stumbling into a new world that I knew nothing about. I was full of fear. I lacked confidence in my work, in my research, and in my purpose.

Somehow, I pushed forward, made friends, and put myself in the company of other writers. I gained a little mojo back. A little voice inside my heart told me you’re really not that bad. I could finish a passage and not only feel that it was good, but know that it was. Confidence. It was coming back, and it was coming from within. Then I passed it on to trusted readers and got that external feed that tells me I’m okay. It kept me going. It gave me purpose.
Now that I have completed the manuscript (I use the word ‘completed’ here loosely) I am thrust into another world riddled with fear. Agents and editors. Publishing houses. Contracts and business negotiations (or at least, the hopes for that). The end goal is to have my book sit on a shelf in a public place for others to judge, to buy, to read, and to love. What are you thinking? That familiar internal voice tells me. You can’t do this, it’s too scary. My old friend Fear has returned.

But this time, it’s different. It is a motivator. What is there to lose? Fear is transforming into Courage, and Courage feels good. Moving forward never felt so scary, but I press on. Is there still Fear crouching behind my Courage in the attempt? Of course. But for me-- and for you too—we won’t know the outcome until we try. It's not a matter of if, only when.

Hats On!

by Joan

I’ve always wanted to wear a hat. But I have bad hat hair.

In my curly days, wearing a hat would leave me with a flat top and frizzy sides, much like Larry the Stooge. Now that it’s straight, I haven't found one I'd venture out in. Until now…

If any of you follow us on Facebook, you’ll know that we’re planning a special field trip this week. Most of you know our fond affection for a little book called The Help. It all started when Pamela interviewed Amy Einhorn. (Most things start with Pamela and that’s why we love her.)

We all fell in love with the book, which is rare for our group with our unique tastes. We discussed the characters as though we knew them personally or would meet them one day. If I’m not mistaken, we were all sharing ideas about who would play which part in the movie, long before we knew the option had been sold.

When Pamela let us know (see, I told you, it all starts with Pamela) there would be a preview in our area, she sent us an email: “I vote we all go together in period dress. I have pearls!!! And a nearby Goodwill!”

Later, she’d pepper her emails with little tidbits like, “Dressing in period clothing is NOT optional. :) Well, I guess it is, but still....”

And after she'd purchased the tickets for us, “He mentioned they'd be at will-call and I caught something about y'all who dress up in southern '60s style getting preferred seating. Just sayin'.” (Later she admitting to fudging that promise, just a little--okay, a lot.)

Judging by the texts and pictures flying back and forth between us, I’d say the two of us are the most excited about dressing up. I found two options for dresses and waited until this weekend to choose, based on shopping for shoes, hat, purse and jewelry.

My decision was made early when I came upon these spectator pumps. Later when I found my hat (see above!), I texted the price to Pamela and asked if it was worth it (not printing here because Elizabeth and my husband would have a heart attack). With her hearty approval, I paid for my hat, wondering how I was going to keep the thing on my head, and only worrying a little about the unlucky viewer who would sit behind me.


Tomorrow night we’ll be watching the movie together, laughing, crying, and revisiting our old friends on screen. I’m not sure who’s up for Wednesday’s post because we’ve been switching days around a bit, but I imagine there will be pictures involved and a blow-by-blow description of our hats being yanked off by short, unlucky viewers.

If you get a chance to see the movie, stop by and let us know what you thought! And if you were also inspired to dress the part, share your pictures!

The Forest for the Trees

By Kim

I started writing The Oak Lovers (then called Knight of the Brush) around the time of my youngest daughter’s birth. As you can see by this recent picture, that was quite some time ago. This snail’s pace is rather alarming considering that my past two novels were finished and ready to submit within a year. I can be prolific. Really.

Writers’ block isn’t the problem and the delay certainly doesn’t stem from lack of enthusiasm for the story. My biggest obstacle may be just the opposite. I know far more about Carl and Madonna Ahrens than I could fit into 100,000 or even 200,000 words. I floundered for years because I wanted to tell the whole story.

Over the last few years I’ve learned to see the forest for the trees. While still sometimes painful, I can recognize and slaughter my “little darlings” to make room for elements of the story that make my novel about more than a neglected artist and his muse. Many Canadians have never heard of Carl Ahrens, but I would be hard pressed to find one unfamiliar with William Lyon Mackenzie King or the Group of Seven. Carl was a friend of the former and an enemy of the latter. Better to play that up and leave out the time he made maple syrup with his kids, no matter how sweet the story. Most Americans know about the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Carl and Madonna saw the damage from it first-hand. That’s surely more exciting than the summer Carl spent as a game warden in the Kawartha Lakes region. (No, I don’t expect you to know where that is.) Arts and Crafts aficionados are a passionate bunch, and will likely be thrilled that Carl and Madonna’s courtship takes place at Roycroft and that Elbert Hubbard makes several appearances. Even there I sacrificed Carl’s friendship with Alex Fournier and W.W. Denslow, fearing that few people would know who they are.

It’s been challenging to take a highly personal story and be objective enough to find the marketable nuggets, to take those nuggets and transform a life story into a believable and compelling plot. Forbidden love, betrayal, tragedy, adventure – these are things that keep people reading. I’m in the homestretch now and I hope by the time I finish, I’ll have delivered all that and more.

I’ve often wondered how other authors who write about real people decide what to put in and what to leave out. (If you’re one of them, please chime in!) If you know of authors who have successfully transformed a life story into a page turner, please show them some love and tell us about it.

What matters most

By Julie

Some of you may already know I received The Call last week—a phone call from my dream agent offering representation. I was, of course, beside myself with excitement.

In the last several years, I've practiced my craft and paid my dues by writing several manuscripts—one full and two halves that never saw the light of day, and one I hoped would garner an agent and book contract but didn't. I've always dreamed of a traditional book contract negotiated by a reputable agent and seeing my name on a book spine alongside the logo of a highly regarded publishing imprint. It seems I may be one step closer to that dream, and I can't wait to see where things go.

But today's post is about what really matters.

I've been winding down the summer with my girls. One already started full-time band camp last week, four weeks ahead of school start, because that's how we do it in Texas. After a month away on various trips, the other ended up with a month to relax before her senior year because she's no longer in band and her job shifts only occur here and there.

Between getting the younger one out the door in the morning, making sure she's sleeping enough, taking enough water, eating enough breakfast, arranging carpools, and so on, my older daughter and I have enjoyed some rare hanging-out time. We enjoy listening to music, talking about books or movies, running occasional errands, and so on. Also walking the dogs.

We wait until 9:30 or 10 p.m., sometimes even 11, before venturing out with our little maniacs—two rescued girls who slumber around the house all day, then burst through the front door as if they've been in straightjackets or something (which they definitely have NOT). If it's 110 degrees during the day, it might have cooled 10 or 20 degrees by then, making the temperature a balmy 90 … or 99, as it was last night when we walked.

We walk for 30 minutes, usually dropping off the older dog halfway (a Shar pei mix who can't handle the heat as well) and taking the adolescent dog for another round.

A byproduct of this hanging out, these late night walks, is my girl and I have refreshed and renewed our relationship, which was good to begin with but is even more delightful now as she enters her season of passing from child to adult. As the dogs pull us like we are sleds, then finally settle into a calmer lope, we talk about colleges and boys and friends and boys and dreams and boys.

The other night, we returned from our walk, worn out and burning up even at 11 p.m. and 90 degrees. We continued our conversation a little while longer, then she drifted upstairs for bed and I settled in at my laptop for a few more computer tasks.

A few minutes later, I received this text, which I share with permission:

Hey. I just want to say thanks for all you do and all you are. We've had our rough times, but where we are now is wonderful. You are one of my best friends (next to Steph, of course! :P) and I love that! I love you. :) So … Yeah. That is all. Good night. :)


And, of course, after I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, I sent off a response I hope made her feel as good as her note made me feel.

And as I begin the next steps of my writing journey, I am excited, nervous, terrified and dreaming. But more than that, I am thankful. Thankful for this small, but oh, so enormous moment that made me pause and remember what really matters.

Without moments like these, the rest is meaningless.

Photo credit: len.melanson's Flickr photostream / by Creative Commons license

Journey

by Elizabeth

Three thousand miles is a long way. Think of travel from Disney World in Florida all the way to Seattle's Space Needle--three thousand miles and a bit of change. Long way to drive.

My kids and I saw neither the Mouse nor the Pacific in the past couple of weeks, but we did haul the minivan the distance it would have taken to view both. From our home here in Dallas, we headed east on I-20 to Birmingham, where we spent the night and the next morning with good friends, and then drove through the mountains, past some of my favorite rivers, to land near Asheville, NC, for several days at my mother's summer home. After tubing and rafting and gem mining and jet boating, we piled back into the van and hauled the long way (oops) to just outside our nation's capital city, a ten hour trek that ended with burgers and quesadillas with more family before hunkering down with more friends for a long weekend. The next Monday, before the sun came up, kids and I were back on the road to North Carolina again, and after two quick nights there we arose again before dawn for a nearly 15 hour trek home, my mom this time accompanying us. Two weeks, two and a half kids (my son's friend joined us as far as DC, then flew home), four different beds, and too many McMeals later, we are back in town. Whew.

This really isn't novel, though I suppose it could be one. If you were reading the blog last year, or the year before that (have we really been blogging that long? Wow!), you might realize I make this trip every summer. It's a tradition my kids count on. Usually my husband accompanies us at least as far as Birmingham, where we settle down with the grown-ups for marathon sessions of cards while the kids eat pizza in the other room with XBox controls clutched in their gleeful fists. This year, work and schedules got in the way, so the Birmingham leg was limited to the one night (though it was capped with a nature preserve visit where we got close to a gorgeous injured owl, and ended with the best shake I've had in years, the remnants of which I'll deal with this fall, thank you Weight Watchers). So it was the kids and me, books and novels on CDs, and the wide open highway unfolding before us. America.

When I got home, I printed up a copy of Julie's manuscript, the last of our group to read her work. I realized as I soaked it up in just two quick nights (ladies and gentlemen, the book is good!) that the characters undertake a car journey much like the one I had just traveled. In fact, though I was headed back west and they went east, her characters shared over 600 miles of I-30 and I-40 with our journey home. Funny how that is.

There are so many reasons I adore this annual trip. Not least among them is the fact that I get to see our country, see many of the places and trees and roads that my hopefully future readers pass themselves in the course of their daily lives or travels. We covered ten states and the District of Columbia (well, just me; my friend and I dumped the kids at a water park and hit DC alone one day). Even a quick stop for gas exposes me to a potential reader, a potential model for a character, and I relish those encounters beyond the route I follow here at home.

So many stories are about journeys, physical treks from here to there. I love reading novels with such tales in them. I'll likely write novels with such tales in them. And it matters a lot to me, to my self-image, to my belief of what I provide for my kids, that the roads I read about are roads I might have traveled myself.