One Little Elephant

I heard about a writing contest - flash fiction with a prescribed opening line. The prize wasn't much, but for some reason I got fired up about it. I rushed home and spent hours writing a flash fiction tale.

Then I went to the website and read past winners. I know. I should have done that before I wrote the story, but like I said I was fired up. Having read the past winners, I felt pretty good about my chances.

The next day I showed the story to my husband who called it "adequately good" which means "yawn". So I spent TWO DAYS improving it. I layered in action, romance, personification, sensory elements, etc. I struggled to make each and every word count. My daughter read the improved version and was more encouraging than my husband had been.

Feeling good about my story, today I took the time to read some of the previous finalists (before I'd read only the winners). That's when I realized I'd been wasting my time.

You see, the reason I'd believed I could compete in this contest was that the previous winning entries were not works of extraordinary writing. But after reading many of the finalists from previous contests I was stunned. The difference in the quality of prose, plots, and characters between the winning entries and the finalists was profound, with the finalists' work being far superior to the winners' work. And honestly far, far superior to mine.

So what did the winners have in common? Their stories dealt with controversial issues. That's when I realized the contest, though billed as a writing contest, wasn't wholly about writing. It was also about promoting the sponsor's ideologies.

So lesson learned: I waste my time and energy when I fail to do my homework.

Something that's helping me write today: a quote. "Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." - Thomas Edison

But apparently it offends others so the original post for this title has been removed while I consider whether it is more important to be honest or "nice".

Something that is helping me write today: (or perhaps keeping me from writing?) How honest should I be in my work? And what responsibility do I have to others if my 'truth' makes them uncomfortable?

I worked a temporary job this summer: long hours, good money, sent the oldest off to college without going into debt (Yay!). But the job left little time to write, keep house, or be the doting wife and mother my family is accustomed to. Consequently, the entire family was adamant that they wanted no permanent job in my future.

Cool by me!

So following some time spent digging out of the mess caused by the housekeeper/errand-runner/life-coach/woman-of-all-jobs being busy elsewhere, I'm finally back to writing. After being away from it a while, writing again feels a bit wobbly but still just as delicious.

But it's not honey unless it attracts flies...

I keep running into people who claim to heartily support my choice to stay home to cook and clean and write, but then shoot tiny guilt-inducing arrows at me for doing so.

Is it because in their minds writing isn't real work, that the words "writer" and "housewife" are really secret code for "woman on perpetual holiday"?

Is it because they see my joy and wish they felt that way about how they spend their days? Very possibly. But they chose their own path, so why begrudge me mine?

Is trying to understand their motivations even worthwhile? Regardless of the whys of their behavior, beyond asking them to stop loading their bows, I have no control over the arrows they choose to loose. What I do have control over is my vulnerability to those tiny guilt-dipped arrows. In the end, their poisoned barbs can only pierce what's already been weakened by my own insecurities. So I suppose I'll simply work on me.

Something that's helping me write today: This absolutely gorgeous September day and the knowledge that, generally, even if I had the power to alleviate another's unhappiness by giving up my own happiness, doing so wouldn't be healthy for either of us.

I am a Dr. Pepper addict. So today is a bad day for me. You see as I sat enjoying a Dr. Pepper while watching the evening news I saw something on the screen which means I won't be buying my beloved Pepper for a long while to come - if ever again.

The Dr. Pepper Company is making record profits. Yet they are soooo greedy that they are cutting the wages and benefits of the very folks who produce their products. This impacts not only the families of the workers who lose a portion of their income, it affects the entire economy of the community to which they belong.

If the Dr. Pepper worker can no longer afford to take his family to a Friday night ball game and buy his kid a hotdog, the guys vending the hotdogs, cleaning the stands, taking the tickets, and manicuring the field earn less. SOOOOO when those vendors/cleaners/ticket-takers/groundskeepers go to church on Sunday their tithes are less, their Sunday suppers are more frugal, and they may be driving home on threadbare tires. That means the town's mechanics, grocers, and pastors all have less as well. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people suffer the consequences of the Dr. Pepper execs' greed. And I suspect those heartless execs congratulate themselves on causing all this pain by giving themselves fat bonuses from their enormous profits.

It makes me SICK!

So here's to you, Dr. Pepper Company. Thanks for curing me of my Dr. Pepper addiction. Not one more dime will I knowingly spend on your product until your execs grow a conscience.

So what does this have to do with writing? I don't know. Anyone care to stretch for some sort of meaning?

Something that's helping me write today: The boiling of my blood caused by a monumental sense of betrayal that the company I have spent so many dollars, days, and calories on has turned out to be a villain of the highest order.