My Short Story Won Honorable Mention

Lady Glamis(Michelle Argyle) of The Innocent Flower Blog held a short story contest and my story made the Honorable Mention list. I'm really excited because short stories are not my usual thing. The story is a good example of the fact that story ideas can come from anywhere. I thought up this story as I went with my son on his field trip one day. I think the bus driver might of thought I was flirting with him because I did keep staring at him. He was really young and I thought it was strange - so I kept thinking about reasons why a young guy might become a bus driver.


Here is the story for those who are interested in reading it:

Anomaly

     Eyebrows raised in surprise, never failed to amuse me as mothers and children entered the bus and shuffled past. Apparently, male drivers under the age of thirty are an anomaly in the school bus driving industry. A detail I failed to consider when I applied for the job. The fact that I already had a Class B drivers license didn't quite compensate for my age or my appearance.

     I've always considered myself to be average in the looks department, but it seems they're just appealing enough to make me a target for teenage girl flirtations – two strikes against me. If the district hadn't been so desperate for drivers I'm not sure they would've hired
me. Grade school was deemed the only option – specifically field trips.

     Another thing I didn't take into consideration was the noise. When the short, balding man sitting on the front row during training asked if we could wear earplugs, the answer was surprising, but it didn't phase me at the time. One week on the job and I broke the no earplugs rule.

     Who knew a bus full of children and their moms could be so...irritating...intrusive...over-whelming? I'm referring to the mothers not the kids. Mothers of all shapes and sizes yammering away to each other is actually louder than the excited chatter and
laughter of children. Ear plugs, and the knit hats I wore to hide them, became a necessity.

     A pudgy faced, middle aged woman with the no-nonsense look of a teacher, tapped me on the shoulder.

     “I believe we're all here now and ready to go,” she informed me. “I assume you know where we're going.”

     “Of course,” I replied, trying to sound pleasant as I pulled the doors shut. We're always informed of where we're going before hand so that we can study the best routes and make sure we don't get stuck in construction, but teachers rarely fail to ask this. Usually it doesn't bother me, but I felt a little irritable – probably from lack of sleep.

     I glanced in the rear view mirror before easing out of the school parking lot. Automatically I reached up and rubbed the dark stubble on my face. When was the last time I had shaved? Too often this past month I'd been up late, and morning had come far too early.

     I took one more quick look in the mirror as I turned onto the street. I wanted to make sure my green and purple striped hat still fit snug over my ears. But something caught my eye. No not something – someone. Over the sea of talking heads our eyes met. Immediately I looked down at the road. As I waited for the light to turn green I felt a compulsion to look up. Our eyes met again.

     When my supervisor came up with the brilliant plan of having me drive for field trips he forgot one thing – mothers are women. Women like to flirt. Most of the time it's harmless chat – they flip their hair and like to see if they can make me laugh. I imagine it gives them a
small thrill to remember their younger days, and although I've been pinched a few times the flirting was superficial. Not once have I wanted to pursue anything.

     She broke eye contact with me and tilted her head towards someone sitting next to her. From my location the top of a blond head was all I could see. I watched her smile at something the child must have said before she looked up again. The smile was still on her face, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

     A honk from behind jolted my attention back to the road. The light had turned green. I focused on the road and tried to avoid the mirror, but I couldn't help myself. Every time I looked up I found her. I couldn't make out the color of her eyes, but it didn't matter. The
color wasn't what compelled me to keep looking. The heartbreaking despair I saw in them touched something familiar, deep within me. It was like I was looking in the mirror and seeing my own eyes from a year ago reflecting back at me. This was a woman in pain. A pain I felt I understood.

     She looked to be in her late twenties, with shoulder length blond hair that perfectly matched the color of the child's hair sitting next to her. Her bangs were long and off to the side like so many women wear them these days. Attractive, but not showy. If she hadn't been
staring, I probably wouldn't have noticed her. She spoke to no one but her child, and no one spoke to her.

     Pain is an interesting phenomena – especially emotional pain. So many of us are suffering from it in one degree or another, but we hide it. We're expected to hide it, and those who don't, break some sort of unspoken law forcing people to avoid them.

     Not all people avoid it though. I've discovered there are a few, a
precious few who see it and don't turn away. I'm still not sure which is harder to face – those who turn away or those who don't.

     Up until a year ago I was without question the type who would've avoided it at all costs. Now – I didn't seek it out, but my knee-jerk reaction wasn't to run from it either.

     We reached our destination and I actually felt disappointed. Our connection broke. I swung the doors open and the children and mothers began filing past. Some of the children smiled shyly at me. Usually I like to acknowledge them with a few winks or high fives, but my attention was being pulled elsewhere. I watched her in the mirror drawing closer. She and her daughter were nearly the last ones to amble down the aisle.

     Indecision plagued me. Should I look at her or not? Should I talk to her? I felt her purse brush my arm and I couldn't keep from gazing up at her with an eager smile.

     She didn't even look my way.

     She followed her daughter down the bus steps and into the museum without
a backwards glance. She had a nice figure – curvy. I like women who have a nice curve to their hips. My breath left my body and my shoulders slumped. The edges of my mouth began to feel stretched and foreign and I realized the smile was still there. Idiot! No other
word fit me better at that moment.

     I shut the doors and prepared for the wait. People often wonder what a bus driver does while they wait. I can only tell what I do – homework.
I take evening classes at the university where I'm studying to be a mechanical engineer. My wife, Lacey used to tease me about how highfalutin' my major sounded. Lacey had loved to use words like highfalutin' – she enjoyed the way her mouth felt when she said them. She would've got a kick out of my being an anomaly.

     I opened up my bag and managed to push the woman and her eyes from my mind. I set to work trying to solve the physics equation that kept me awake half the night. Two hours later I looked up – surprised to see little faces peering in at me. I felt like a fool and I'm sure it
reflected in my smile as the children and mothers shuffled past me.

   This time when she moved by me our eyes met briefly. I wasn't an idiot – something was definitely happening between us. Her face looked flushed and her shoulders drooped. I had to force myself not to reach out to comfort her. The daughter had her mother's brown eyes with the same interesting gold flecks – only hers didn't hold the sadness.

    She sat closer to me this time. Only three seats back. On the return drive to
the school a cacophony of noise rose up around us, but I blocked it out. There was only the road, her eyes and the beating of my heart.

     It'd been threatening to rain all afternoon with dark clouds hovering above. As I pulled into the school drop-off circle that threat came to fruition. Fat drops of rain pelted the roof and splattered on the windshield. I brought the bus to a stop and the kids giggled when
steam surrounded us. The bus emptied quickly as children and mothers rushed to the cover of their cars.

     She kept her head bowed until the bus had emptied completely and then she
stood up. My pulse beat in tandem with the fall of their footsteps. I couldn't bring myself to look at her. I could've misinterpreted the whole situation and I didn't want to lose my job over a misunderstanding.

     “Mom, can we go to McDonald's,” the little girl pleaded.

     “Sure honey – after we get your brother.” Her voice was lower than I thought it would be – mellow and soothing.

     What was I thinking? The whole thing was ridiculous. She had two children,
maybe more and she most definitely had to be married. The little girl passed by and gave me a wave.

     “See ya,” I called.

     I could feel her next to me. I willed her to go past, yet I prayed for her to speak.

     When I felt a pressure on my shoulder, I instantly glanced up and grabbed the piece of paper dangling from her fingertips. Our hands touched, our eyes met and then she fled out the door. I watched her until she disappeared around the corner of the school building.

     Slowly I unfolded the paper. Had this really just happened? She'd hastily scrawled her name and phone number in red ink along with a message that caused my heart to both leap with joy and thud painfully when I read it:

    Don't worry. I'm a widow.

      I refolded the paper and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. The bell had rung while I read the note. Children began escaping from every opening. Cautiously I eased the bus forward and moved out of the drop-off. Once I'd turned onto the street leading to the district parking lot, I checked the time. I needed to hurry if I wanted to eat before my first class of the evening began.

     “Julia,” I said aloud.

     I liked the way the tip of my tongue brushed against the roof of my mouth when I said her name.

Maybe I'm Not A Writer

I think most of us have heard the saying: Writers Write. You've probably even said it to someone else - I know I have. I've even said it to myself a few times to help motivate me to get my butt into the chair and write something. But what if you just don't feel like writing today, and maybe today turns into tomorrow and tomorrow turns into a week or longer? Are you still a writer?

Mary Pearson author of The Adoration of Jenna Fox(really good book) gave the keynote address at the WIFYR conference I attended last week and "Real Writers Write" was her main theme. When Mary was in high school she just knew that she was destined to write a book and be published. Twenty years went by and she still hadn't written that novel. Writers Write. 

No matter how cliche it sounds, there's no way around it. Writers do write. No one is going to write that novel for me and if they did it wouldn't be mine anymore - they wouldn't be able to write what I could've written. So because real writers write I bought a notebook the other day.

I bought the notebook for my WIP. I want to finish it, but I can't seem to do it. Call it a block, fear, boredom - whatever - I just can't seem to do it, but writers write. So today I brought that notebook with me to my son's swimming lesson and while he swam I wrote. The notebook also came with us to the park and while my kids played in the sand I wrote. Not one word of it belonged in my WIP, but I filled 6 pages with observations, journaling, descriptions and crap. I was writing and it felt good. 


Maybe I'm not a writer is a thought that's been plaguing me lately, but as long as I'm writing, I'm a writer - right?

What about you? Do any of you ever wonder if you're a real writer?

Does anyone think it's weird that someone would call a 2yo girl(not my little girl) with long, very blond hair "Little Man" - yeah I thought it was weird too (just one of my observations that went down in my notebook today.)

My Brain Is Fried but I'm Hopeful

Wow - what a week. The WIFYR - (Writing and Illustrating For Young Readers) workshop I attended last week was awesome. Tiring, but really awesome.
My instructor was the very informative genius, Dave Wolverton/Farland. If you don't get his Daily Kick in the Pants free newsletter yet, you're missing out. So helpful.

I also had the privilege of reading and critiquing the first two chapters of some really great writers. I'm being very serious when I say I expect to see many of these writer's novels on a bookshelf in the next few years. Great writing and unique stories. 

Here's a picture of my class.

I'm the one in white

In my previous post I focused on the one big negative thing that was said about my writing. I hate when I do that. So many great things were said and I focused on the bad. Do all of you do that too?

There was plenty of good said - Here's a few of the positives:

"Very good use of Voice - it put me in the setting. It was an easy read and I got pulled in even though it seems like a fairytale." (this was from the guy in our class)

"This story is charming and has lovely descriptions."

"Of all the stories we read yours is my daughter's pick."

"All in all, this is a promising story" (this one is from Dave even though he told me to study poetry)

"I'm so excited for your story. I like this young girl who will give away all she has for her family. I like your world and the promise of magic to come. What fun!" 

See, all good things. Come back Wednesday and I'll share more of what I learned. Oh and thanks everyone for all the poetry recommendations and for the advice and encouragement - you're all awesome.

Poetry? UGH!!!

"Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great feeling souls. ~ Voltaire

“Writing a poem is discovering." ~ Robert Frost

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary." ~ Kahil Gibran

"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen." 

 ~ Leonardo Da Vinci

As most of you know I've been participating in a week long writer's conference this week. Today was the third day. It's been really great except for the fact that my children and I have all been sick and yesterday we all got pink eye. Yes, pink eye. So gross. 

Yesterday was also my day to be critiqued and I couldn't miss it so I went with one demon red eye and one normal eye. I took precautions though. I didn't want to be known as the girl at the conference who gave everyone pink eye so I sprayed everyone's papers with Lysol and I used my hand sanitizer often.  Anyway, it's been a crazy but informative week so far. 

But, pink eye was not the main reason for this post. Yesterday I received a lot of feedback on my writing. Most of it was good, but my instructor gave me some advice that has really hit me hard. Basically he told me my writing is good, but not good enough. Since I'm rewriting a fairytale I am going to have stiff competition and Shannon Hale I am not. 

His advice:  immerse myself in poetry. Specifically focus on learning to write beautiful metaphors and similes.

To be honest, deep down I knew this already, but I hoped it wouldn't matter. The truth is -- I have never liked reading poetry. I always hated when my English teachers would make us read it and then had us write our own. I've never been good at it and I have to admit this has really rocked me. I'm not sure if I can do it.

Please help me out and tell me some of your favorite poets.

Poetry? UGH!!! ~ Mary Campbell

Feeling the Motivation Shark

Are you suffering from a lack of motivation lately?

Me too. 

The question is why - and how do I get over it?

 

 Love Office Space - It's profound on so many levels.

Not caring is a big one for me. But do I choose to not care because I'm lazy or

do I really not care? 

And what sort of motivation do I need to start caring?

I'd love to have a robot come clean my house, but I don't think a robot could mother my children or write my stories - although I do feel like a robot lately.

Ahh - that's sweet and so inspiring. Are you feeling more motivated now?

Me either.

 That's it!!! I'm ashamed to admit it, but really the only thing that motivates me is feeling under the gun.

And since I'm feeling that way right now my motivation is high. For the next two weeks I won't be blogging much. I'm attending a week long conference next week and to get ready for it I need to:  clean my house and car, mow the lawn, get car fixed, read and critique the work of 14 people - 25 pages each, find babysitters, entertain children, plan a birthday party, fulfill my church callings and somehow fit in a little writing time. Whew!!! I definitely feel like a shark is on my tail.

So what about all of you - what gets you motivated?