Writers in the Storm

I admit it.  It’s hard to accept criticism.  Oh, you think that’s obvious?  Not to me. 

I’ve always been good at accepting constructive criticism - at work - at home.  Okay, maybe not so much with from my husband, but I try to take something away from the input from everyone else.  I pride myself on not having much ego.

Except, apparently, with my writing. 

I’m not saying that I argue a lot with my crit group members over their suggestions.  Ninety percent of the time I can see that their way is better, and I adopt it with gratitude.  For example, on my last book, they changed where the book began about 7 times before they were happy with it.  You know what?  They were right. 

Then there was last night.  I’ve been buzzing through this book, proud of the fact that I’m writing clean, emotional chapters, and my crit group seems to like it.  I’m happy.  No, I’m ecstatic.  But last night, I ran into a wall. 

We worked on a new concept Fae learned, called “Conflict Lock.”  It is wonderful tool, but I’d challenge anyone to be objective enough to do it for their own WIP.  Fae and Jenny were helping me find my Protag and Antag’s one goal for the book, and their conflicts.  Not easy.  We didn’t agree on what they were at first, and it felt like they were attempting to take the book in directions I didn’t want to go.  Did they not get it after all this time?  Hadn’t they read the chapters I’d worked so hard on? 

It was like Chinese water torture . . . the first thousand drops or so are fine, but after that, it gets irritating.  Finally we finished.  I’m bruised, but happy that I have that done, and happy with the results. 

Then they started talking about another aspect of the book that they felt I should delve into.  I didn’t want to.  Nope, dang it, not going there!  Why?  Cuz I don’t WANNA!  I did everything but throw myself on the floor, kicking and holding my breath.

Did I say I was good at criticism?  Small ego?  Yeah, right.

My first airplane ride was to Tahiti for my honeymoon.  I had a good leash on my nervousness because every time I looked out the window I saw I little blinking red coastal light.  After a couple of hours my new husband asked me how I was doing.  "Great!  If we crash I can get us to shore."  After all, I had been a lifeguard in high school.

At his expression of disbelief I leaned forward so he could look out the window and see the blinking coastal light.  "See?  We're hugging the coast of Mexico."  When he finally stopped laughing, he explained that light was the wingtip light.

Well, I'm much more savvy about flying these days.  As I get ready for "the trip of a lifetime" I'm not nervous at all about the seventeen hour flight time.  After all, I'm finally going to see the pyramids I studied about in sixth grade.  To get ready for this trip I've seen a travel doctor--enough times that you might think we were dating to look at my calendar.  I've had six shots and four more to go, as well as live virus typhoid sitting in my refrigerator for when I get up enough nerve to swallow it.

My travel buddy and I went with another friend to Mexico last month as a "trial run."  The challenge was to avoid all medical scenarios beginning with "travelers."  I'd been practicing at home--without much success--washing my hair without getting water in my mouth and brushing my teeth with only bottled water.  (Heck, I saw Sex in the City!)  I should have gone to Mexico sicker than a dog based on my practice skills.

But when it's life or toilet, you do pay more attention.  Only one time did I forget about the toothbrush and, at my scream, my friends rushed bleach to the bathroom so I could rinse my mouth. Thank goodness the hotel delivered liters of purified water to our room every day.  I forgot to take the steri-pen, which I'd purchased for the big trip.  Didn't get to practice there, but I practiced when I got home.  (Uh-huh, wing tip light.)

We'd all been eating healthier this year and took advantage of the kitchen in our place.  I had despaired of a week without salads, but we found organic lettuce and decided to take a chance.  Actually we were able to purchase many organic vegetables and a produce cleanser that the grocer guaranteed would remove 99.9% of the bacteria.

Good thing our little apartment had seven sinks.  We had lettuce and veggies soaking the requisite 20 minutes in every one of them.  Through three rotations!  But it was worth it.  Of course we all took little capsules of activated charcoal, which snags toxins in your digestive tract.  Nobody got sick and we ate very well and even managed to lose weight.

I'm going to bask in that success before I share the latest self-inflicted hurdle to the big trip.   It's way better than the wingtip light.  And it all started when I saw Sex in the City 2.

By Sharla Rae

Writers live, eat and breathe writing, but imagination and creativity is something that migrates into every aspect of our lives. Here, under the topic of Other Obsessions I’m pleased to talk about one of my other obsessions. My doll collection.   

I love my collection because it’s not the usual type with only antiques, Barbies or artist dolls. I collect dolls from all over the world in their native costumes, many handmade. That’s not to say that I don’t have a few of the other types. I do.

Another thing that makes the collection unique is that like my writing, it’s from the heart. While some of the dolls are quite valuable now, value or potential value isn’t how I choose them. If a doll touches something inside me, they earn a home in my doll cabinet. Like old and familiar friends, each and every one has its own story. Some, I admit have been gifts from friends who know me and my collection well, but most have arrived via my travels.

My husband started the whole thing. He’s Chinese and one day in the autumn of our first year of marriage, he took me shopping at an Asian grocery in Des Moines, Iowa. Amidst the cans of lychee and bamboo shoots, I spied a beautiful Korean doll sitting all by herself. Something about her made me smile and want to dance. She’s in a sitting position with a long string instrument across her lap, and her dainty, individually-sewn cloth fingers lay on the strings. The store owner said she was a wedding singer.

Believe it or not, I didn’t purchase the doll. I’ve always been practical and like most newlyweds hubby and I watched our pennies. But a couple months later on Christmas morning, there she was, my first Christmas present from my husband. He’d remembered, and he couldn’t have given me anything I would’ve liked better.

I now think of my little wedding singer as the First Lady of my collection which has grown to around 180 dolls representing 44 countries. These include, of course, a few novelties like my Star Trek Barbies, a few antiques and art dolls.

I’ll probably be talking about particular dolls once in a while. But right now, I’m going to relax on the sofa with a cup of chamomile tea and imagine great romances for a couple of them. I wonder . . . Is there a mysterious hero hidden behind the one with the ghastly African mask over his face?