My First Reading

It's the fourth writer's group meeting and I've finished my first draft of the picture book/short story I've been working on for a month. The last couple of scenes were like slowly yanking out my own teeth with pliers, but I got it done. I'm exceedingly proud of myself for finishing a draft even if it is a child's book.

After we write for an hour, we go around the table talking about how we're doing and what we learned and what we need advice on. Today, I leap in to go first because I can't shut up. I'm in between wanting to rip out of my eyebrows in frustration and gleaming with pride.

The biggest issue I face is whether to turn it into a chapter book or rewrite it as a picture book. The word count is more than double the limit for a picture book. I'm too descriptive and I know it, but I can't help myself. I like living out the story through the eyes of my characters.

They ask if I'd like to read any of it. Since I've already mentioned the "dark moment" to them that poses a dilemma of age appropriate writing, I read that one paragraph aloud. This is the first thing I've read out loud to this group. Ever. I will never forget the apprehensive expressions they all wore after I read the last sentence. This is a children's book? Their verbal response confirms the silent shock on their faces. I have written a grim fairy tale.

I am not ashamed. It feel like I should be, but I'm not. When I get home, I do the dishes. Then sit down to email all three of them the rough draft before the task escapes me (and before I start feeling self-conscious about it). I research Grimm's Fairy Tales. Based on the word count range in those tales, my story does have a category.

Since I still have the images of a picture book in my head, I make a plan of attack to write a "Disney" version that might be easier to sell. Everything I read about writing a picture book tells me that it needs to be 1,000 words or less. The Brothers Grimm did not follow this rule. Cinderella, Snow White, even Hansel and Gretel, all pushed the 3,000 word mark.

Later, I'll edit the first draft and see if it has a place in the world. If not, I'll buy a pretty bound book of Grimm Fairy Tales and slip into it's binding a story untold.

Coffee Shop of Horrors

I'm sitting in a Dunkin Donuts reading my iPad with a yellow jacket pummeling itself into the window next to me. There are no other available tables and I've closed my coffee for fear of attracting more attention.

There's a newspaper at my left, but if I miss I will scream like a little girl and then flail with the newspaper until it's dead. I don't want to make that kind of scene. I'm in a nicer town in Connecticut. Default option "Kill it! Kill it now!" is out. Instead I shrink in my chair and pretend my heart rate doesn't resemble a job interview.

Losing track of the flying insect, I find myself more agitated. Is it on my head? I scratch my head periodically. Reaching up catches my transparent reflection in the window making me jump. I have a whole hour before I can drive five minutes down the street to pick up my husband from work.

Several other little bugs have been detected in my paranoia and take up residence next to my head on the glass. After ten minutes of writing, I'm relaxing and that's when the striped offender reappears bobbing along the window. He is still trapped in this sweets factory with me.

In my head, I announce "I'm done!" as I flinch again. Throw my iPad and phone into my bag and don't bother to put my coat on. Outside I can enjoy my Dunkaccino in the safe 40ºF weather. But I don't get up. I blame my addiction to the internet. It makes you do irrational things.

Forty-five minutes left. The territorial dance continues. If only that bug knew the weather outside, it would sit down, shut up, and enjoy the coffee. Why can't it just find a nice lump of sugar somewhere? I would dump sugar on the window ledge right now if I thought it would work. I can share. Not my coffee, because that would just be too tempting to wait until the unsuspecting wasp crawls inside the cup. I'd shut the lid, shake it up, and drown it in the syrup. I'm a heartless, honey-loving hypocrite.

Half an hour to go. I've researched yellow jackets and determined they are of no use to me. They produce no honey and don't pollinate very well. Still don't want to be the only maniac flailing in the shop. My shoulder muscles are aching from the tension. The fruit flies keep me company while the bee is at large across the room again. Maybe he found the sugar or a syrup spill. I should wash the table and the windowsill, and the walls. The cab of the car is getting more enticing even though the evil bee hasn't touched me once.

There's a spider on the outside of the window pane. You're on the wrong side, I think, even though he has his own smorgasbord. Then the bee whizzes past my face towards the line of patrons. When did you get behind me? If I use the bathroom now, I can hold it for another hour and a half till I get home, right? Uncertain. I've consumed a lot of coffee in the past five hours.

My reason for being in this house of horrors surfaces next. I came in here to use the internet, which I can no longer concentrate on. Writing does not require the internet. Conclusion: I don't need to be here. You've won this round foul trespasser.

In less than a minute, I'm packed up and out the door just in time for ten kids to walk in. I check the ground to make sure I didn't step on the lady bug trying to escape this wretched place when I came in. I'm clean. I pass a ball of lint that looks like locus on the sidewalk. Other than every creepy crawly being on my mind I've escaped with minor psychological effects, but as I open the car door and step in I realize I forgot to pee.