Writer Crews

5 Tips for Attending Writer's Conferences #1. Attend Writing Conferences             This may seem obvious, but it is an important first step to take in your writing career. Show up. Even if you have an MFA, you can learn a lot at conferences. There are conferences on writing in general, like the Willamette Writer's Conference.  There are also more specific genre-focused conferences, like those for Romance Writers, Children's Authors and Sci-Fi. Google and you will see there are hoards to choose from.  #2. Volunteer at Conferences       Volunteering gets you behind the scenes, meeting and networking with people who have probably been in the industry long before you. If you listen in, you may just learn something. Besides, you can usually get a discount on registration costs. Show up with a smile, be flexible and try to be helpful.  #3. Take Notes       Listen to others more than you speak. You are the...

When did you start writing? When I was ten years old I was given a journal for Christmas, a pale blue and yellow plaid cover packed with lined papers perfumed with possibility. It immediately became my confidant, secrets whispered from my pen onto the loyal paper. When a boy liked me, or when my sister got me into trouble, it was there to take it all in. Spotted moments throughout the next seven years dot the pages. It had taken my entire childhood to fill it, still, at the last page, I gasped.  The end came too soon. That last page felt important. I weighed and deliberated what I would write on that page, a summary? But I wasn’t done yet. Elation came with a new journal. I was older now. I knew to not only write about the hard times, because looking back, I seemed to complain a lot. It taught me to be, reflective, thoughtful, self-aware, and deliberate in life and in words .  I’ve filled eight journals since then.          ...

3 Steps to Becoming a Writer: 1. Write. Every day.  2. Find your people. Make google your friend. Try searching for women’s writing groups, local workshops, classes, even festivals. There are tons of groups on Meet-up, one at my local library and several at the local bookstore. If you can’t find a writing group that suits you, create one. It is inspiring to be around other wordmongers. You will write more when you find people who you can relate to, people who “get” you, and people who won’t judge you because your mind is always on your story. They are out there, hiding in their pajamas behind their laptops or under their full spiral notebook. I began a local writing group by putting an ‘ad’ out on a phone app called Nextdoor. I called out to women writers in my neighborhood. They peeked out from the bushes, climbed down from the trees, dropped down from the sky—they came!  We are a dozen strong with four of five hardcore participators. We still don’t have an off...

Fall is my teacher. Leaves scatter across the roadway. Fall, "Learn to let go." Winds shift direction. Fall, "Change is swift, exciting." Leafless trees shake off the unnecessary and slow down. Fall, "Pay attention." Colors warm as temperatures drop. Fall, "Beautiful inconsistency." Rain, a daily companion. Wet hem on jeans, a jolt. Raindrops on the window... Fall, "Fresh views."  Hot tea, cinnamon, steaming soup. Fall, "Sunshine is inside." No razor, warm tights, blankets, knit caps, pretty scarves, boots, cushy socks, winter coats, fires... comfort, a creation. Fall, "A lesson in self-care." Yellow, orange, brown, diverse, electric charge, Fall waltzes in, unreserved extrovert, and declares, "Be yourself with abandon!" Fall, my favorite teacher.

When Winter Comes When Winter comes I will open my arms and pull her into my embrace blue lips white hair the twinkle in her eye We will giggle together over warm tea admire each other through the window My frosted friend has been away too long We will catch up on the sled down the hill mingle before the fire When Winter comes I will greet her With Glee We are family ❆ Winter and me

Words I love Pop Popped into my head You can pop a cap Pop a bubble in a bath Pop a lid on it Pop one off Pop over to see a friend Pop your ears Pop music Pop goes the weasel Pop star infusion Pop a pill Pop an illusion Pop in, pop out Popcorn, Hop on Pop I like pop. I can even drink it.

10 Brilliant Quotes by Children's Authors on Writing: 10. So the writer that breeds more words than he needs is making a chore for the reader who reads.  - Dr. Seuss 9. If writers wrote as carelessly as some people talk, then adhasdh asdglaseuyt[bn[ pasdlgkhasdfasdf.   - Lemony Snicket ,   Horseradish 8. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.  - Roald Dahl 7. …I’d write about places I knew something of and people that spoke everyday English… - Gilbert Blythe (Anne: The Sequel) 6. Don’t write about Man; write about a man. - E. B. White, Charlotte’s Web 5. I don’t necessarily start with the beginning of the book. I just start with the part of the story that’s most vivid in my imagination and work forward and backward from there. - Beverly Cleary 4. I do my best to simplify and refine, to be logical and harmonious. But I a...

http://www.upworthy.com/2-famous-sisters-struggled-with-mental-illness-1-survived-heres-how In encourage you to watch the Upworthy video with Mariel Hemingway.  One of my favorite quotes from the video: "As a community the more we talk about it the more we address it, the more we deal with it in our everyday lives the more healing we can offer everybody... it is about reaching out and that is the message I want to give everybody, keep talking about it." I've written a novel where one of my main characters deals with depression and suicide.  It's a weighty issue that needs to be brought more into the light.  There are ways to connect, ways to help bring this subject to the forefront. I met an author recently who really speaks to the heart of mental illness and is great at creating a community of similar people around this topic and more: Check out on twitter:   @ JulieBipolar or at JulieFast.com Her Blog:     BipolarHappens.com/bhblog Also, "Out...

Go time.   I've written my entire life:  journals (aka diary), essays (aka college assignments), poetry, novella's, Nano-Wrimo... I've edited, revised and polished... then done it again.  I've taken college courses to the point where I've debated a second master's degree, I've attended hours of meetings with Willamette Writer's, PDX Writer's, Portland Women's Writers... I've saturated my life as much as I can to achieve those 10,000 hours.   I've written stories upon stories upon stories... only two complete novels and I love them both and I'm ready to pitch.  (That was a run-on and I know it- but it belonged together and I like breaking rules).  The Willamette Writer's Conference is happening the first weekend in August.  I'm ready.  I'm pitching my Women's Contemporary Lit/Romance - beta readers opinion vary on where it lies - the title is "Twisted Disposition".   It’s about a teacher who creates chaos ...

I've done it!  I've signed up for the monthly writing race to 50k words.  I have to admit... I've written way more than that, but I'm a re-worder, edit-crazed, self-doubting author.  It will be a great challenge to begin a story and not stop till I'm 50k words in.  Looking forward to the write-in's... hoping to meet some kindred spirits or at least a few people that are writing group worthy.  Now to go choose a genre, and begin my outline.  Let the journey begin!

Dreaming of Summer Already When summer comes floating in  She’ll bring her carpet bag brimming with a hodge-podge of seasonal honeyed medicines The light of yellow sun will pop out first to shine upon our faces To shine upon problems, those that were stuck in shady places And if I can’t handle the enlightenment she will disperse An umbrella is stashed in her sunlit purse She’s got lotion to soothe and protect me Wind tucked in a pocket to whip-up energy Hot sand for a warm place to ground myself, or warm up with a friend Summer is my mother She comes to tend

~ Writing to Evoke Emotion ~ Hand hovers, hesitates, a shadow on the pale paper below Then dives, a reckless raven into hidden holes, hollows dipping ink congealing into creation Words turn into serrated black claws ripping their way across the white page dark moments exhausting the pen black blood of emotion I should be afraid to write them - but my will is to pull your heart out and show you it beating, dripping, in my pale palm So you may see it feel it perceive the pain that I write My only real fear is that you won't.

Spring Cleaning When the light returns What seeds I’ll plant And then nourish in the year ahead A seed planted is hope born for growth and future treasures The gifted grin bringing forth rows of smiles The melody embedded, creating a day of mindless humming A clean house reaches like ivy over the barbs of my worry, softening, serene A completed project like vinegar on glass gleans accomplishment Time for myself sprouts a happier woman, who in return blooms to enrich the lives of those who pass my garden Fertilizing the soils of my life Tucking in seeds that support my growth Dewey petals capturing life’s succulent essence I flower, I open To nature’s bounty A flower, reflective of all beauty

Cold Change The icicle cracked from the eave Dropped direct Pierced, cleaved Life into two distinct halves Before loss and after Tick There Tock Gone A second to mark a lifetime Lost loved one Innocent sheen on life smothered under a shroud Chill coated skin, Sorrow frosted soul Reality is a heavy nipping cloud A mist that will never rise Wherever you go, whatever you do It clings to you Raw ice

Afternoon and the convention halls are quiet. I’ve chosen to occupy the opposite end of the center, away from all the writers who love to talk. I want to write today. A few whispering women pass by on their way to the restroom, also on my end of the hall. I’m sitting in the “Laptop Lounge”, a cool name for an area with little stools, a long shelf and plugs in the wall. My back is to the hall. I get to face a dark blue wall for inspiration. At least my back is turned, allowing me to avoid all eye contact and feel alone. I like to be alone when I write. But I’m not alone. The bright recessed lighting overhead casts a hard shadow of my own hand writing on paper. My shadow is always there – but usually it contains itself better. I can’t seem to escape the smell of coffee. As much as I try to avoid grouping people and making blanket statements, I’m beginning to hypothesize that the one common thread among writers, beyond the love of words, is drinking coffee. I smell it...

Moment #1 10:00 a.m. I’m sitting in a row of tightly packed convention chairs, cozy in my hat, sweater and jeans. The presenter tells us all to look around and be here now, so I have to stop deliberating over the necessity of another coffee or not and focus. The first place I look is up, cause whoever looks there? There could be a suspended monkey cage above me and I’d not notice, well, maybe if I’d had that other coffee I would. The ceiling is from the seventies, all squares and recessed lighting. It’s morning but the lighting glow is like that you’d find in a Vegas Casino where you can’t tell the time. The floor confirms my hypothesis of the seventies time frame, covered in bright blue, red and gold geometric shapes that made me dizzy when I walked in. To my right are two men who are totally different from one another. But what catches my attention first is that the man furthest to the fabric covered wall is drinking coffee and I’m envious. I love coffee – but ...

One lingering moment is all we have. Most moments build the foundation of who you are, yet have no haven in minds memory. Some moments though, you remember. They aren’t all significant, the one’s you remember. Some just pop up. Some hang there. Some are etched. Some moments choose you and hang on. Some moments, you choose to hold onto. I don’t have the best memory, but there are moments when I remember to make the choice. There was this one moment, in college, sitting on the floor in my apartment. I can't recall if I’m alone, but in my memory I cannot see another face. I'm sitting on the floor of our shabby two-bedroom, and that was with five of us in that small space. I’m writing, doing crafts, delighting in doodling, feeling lighthearted and lackadaisical. The music is what I remember most vividly. It was loud. It was the Cranberries. The song was simple. Slow. At the moment, it was meaningful to me. Regardless, I closed my eyes and tried to imprint that...

Today I had the extreme honor of listening to third graders read their fictional stories. And I loved every minute of FBI baby brothers, Giant BFF's, and talking teddy bears. During one such conference I took pause - to marvel at the power of one sentence in the hands of a child. The boy was still writing his story but would occasionally stop to read aloud to me. He stopped reading mid-sentence at one point and began writing frantically, only taking a moment to fill me in, "He doesn't get back to earth with this sentence, but he does escape from the alien monster." I just smiled back, because where did that alien come from? Last I'd read with him, a few minutes prior, there was only a rabbit riding on the back of an electronic magical horse. Wow, that's one sentence. A sentence in the hands of a child, holds the potential of all things created - and yet to be imagined. A sentence in the hands of a child, is putty for little Gods - building new worl...

Death is only part of life. I know this So how can it shock me We were all here just a minute ago Complete, the circle of my family Time was counting down our bliss Death is only a part of life We know this The black cloud on the horizon Didn’t come in the order presumed It struck around - a chaotic tornado, ripping away our young The old were ready, the adults resigned The children, they were our protected Death was to meet with us first - our song had been sung His song Was on the tip of his tongue Death is only a part of life. Why did I believe it would care of our strife When great waves wash away a great many more Then earthquakes, floods and war Still The children should be last A selfish plea to the universe Take us all as I know you must But leave our children behind us

Oh I'm gonna ruffle some feathers now... Now that I've touted the value of higher standards, I should remark on their worth. They are valuable to every teacher. He/she will have a goal, a guide to aim for, a benchmark for evaluation and goal setting. Every student is different: some low, some mid-range, and some high and they arrive at your classroom door in September spanned in a broad degree of varying levels. It is a teacher's job to take each student from where they are when they enter your classroom and move them forward. For student A- that journey may have to begin with single-digit addition, for student B- it may be double-digit addition, for student C- it may be multiplication. The goal is to move them forward. The standards are a guide for that journey, not an end-all-be-all, or a list to maneuver students through without their true understanding or when they already know the material. Take them from where they are and teach them more. St...