Published at Last

While I've been bad about writing here, I do have (sort of) an excuse. And it's an exciting excuse. On top of the full-time job waiting tables and the part-time job freelance writing and editing for an education program, I have taken on another title: contributer to Augusta's local weekly paper, Metro Spirit.

Yesterday my first article appeared in the paper in yellow boxes across the area and on the Spirit's website. I am giddy. Here's the link: http://metrospirit.com/index.php?cat=1993101074450312&ShowArticle_ID=11002108071835366

I will continue to write for them on a part-time basis, covering stories of Augusta interest, and building my resume and knowledge of the real (not virtual) publishing world. I'll include links to my stories on this blog and prod you all to read them. Perhaps (fingers crossed) this could lead to a full-time, paying gig. At last, I have some good news!

Waiting Tables

Now that I'm in Augusta, I have found myself a semi-real job so that Dave and I can get serious about buying a house (and so that we can afford food). I am waiting tables at a really nice French bistro called Bistro 491, working nights four times a week.

It's been a challenge these past few days getting back into the restaurant schedule, especially standing for six hours straight. Hopefully the money will be good and it will allow me enough time and energy to pursue writing. I will try to update the blog regularly (I know it's been a little while), however, it may take a few weeks for me to adjust.

This is a short, wimpy post, I know. But I'm not going anywhere. Things are just changing - for the better this time!

Cheers.

The Saga of Job Hunting

Searching and applying for freelance writing jobs has only reinforced for me the idea that it's not what you know, it's who you know. And in an age when so many jobs are listed online, and no personal contact is ever made, finding a job as a new writer seems next to impossible.

After deciding to really make a go of this whole freelance thing, I have applied for forty or fifty jobs. (I haven't added them up, though. It'd be too depressing.) In my excited, naive state, I initially thought that my education and experience with writing in and out of school would really help my chances. The whole Brown University, having-written-a-book thing seemed unusual in a good way. Now, though, it seems unusual but not all that helpful.

What these people who are looking for writers really want is to know you before they hire you. Ideally, they would know you personally or as a friend-of-a-friend. The next best thing is to know you via the publications for which you've already worked. It seems like the writing sample itself ranks far below the title of the newspaper or magazine that appears over it. And if your writing hasn't appeared in anything familiar, your potential bosses aren't willing to read much further.

Now this is all speculation, of course. I don't actually know what they are thinking when they hire one person and don't hire another. I would know if they actually ever wrote back... but don't get me started on that. It just seems like this huge catch 22: employers want you to have extensive experience with well-known publications, but you can't get jobs with those publications (or any for that matter) without extensive experience at well-known publications.

I guess the only way is to keep trying and to hope that someone will take a chance on a brash, young kid with big dreams.

Cheers.

Brainstorm

While never drawn to fiction writing, I suddenly have a new idea for a book in mind. I'm going to use this space to work through the beginning stages, to see if it's really something I should spend time on. If you read this, thank you! I hope it's not too journal-ly for a blog. Also, please give me feedback if you have any.

After reading two wonderful books - Year of Wonders and The Red Tent - and watching a lot of episodes of a Discovery Health show - House of Babies - during my recovery, I am intrigued by midwifery. Thus, the subject of my book was sparked.

So, a book about midwives. I was thinking it could be a little like The Hours meets As I Lay Dying. It would move from character to character every chapter, with each character coming from a different period in time. They could all face different problems, both social problems and difficult childbirths. They would all, obviously, have different personalities.

One midwife could be working around the time of the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament), a la the Red Tent. Or maybe it should be in a little bit different time period to distinguish itself. Anyway, it'd be a long time ago. I think this would be a good way to show how women have had to face similar struggles for thousands of years.

The second midwife could be from the seventeenth century, perhaps living with the first English settlers in Plymouth. I recently read a little blurb about Puritans and sex (yes, they can coexist in the same sentence!) that talked about how they were not quite as prude as we think they were.

I'd also love, for similar reasons, to bring in a midwife from the Victorian era. Although, maybe I should focus on another part of the world instead of the West. India perhaps? This reminds me of another favorite book, Holder of the World. Again, this could help show similarities between women from different places and times.

Finally, to connect this story to modern women, I'd like to have one of my midwives living within the last fifty years. It could sort of tie the whole thing together.

So, what do you think? Would it be something you'd like to read?

Cheers.

Mongolia Lost and Found (Part Three)

(again, written by Bill Shields)

There is still no verbal understanding, so raised voices and vigorously jerking arm motions are our only means of communicating our demands. They are very mad but stop short of any physical attempt to get us on the buses where most others reside. We even resort to a little laughing and smiling to give an air of superiority that is intended to push them over the edge. We think that they have surrendered as they lead us away from the buses and toward a ticket counter where we assume they will return our bags. No such luck.

They are now pointing toward the conveyor belt that normally takes our bags to a place only God and Confucius knows. Now they are smiling. We recognize the international translation for ‘if you want your damn bags so bad go find them yourself’. To their surprise and visible consternation Cho and I think this may be the appropriate end to a lousy day, so we decide to take them up on their offer.

There is a low ceiling so we duck-walk down the conveyor and through the hole at the end that leads us under the airport. There is a rubber slide that descends into an enormous cement warehouse that is full of carts with luggage of every size and color. The carbon monoxide is so thick you can literally watch it move with the wave of a hand. I can’t believe anyone actually survives working in this environment. We begin our search.

It is amazing that within a fairly short time we find our luggage at the bottom of a cart and proceed to pull and kick our luggage free. Now it is back to duck-walking up the conveyor belt and back out into the main airport. Our hosts are still there and their dismay at our success is only exceeded by their knowledge that our life has been cut short by consumption of lethal levels of carbon monoxide. Back to the buses we go.

All is quiet – but only briefly. The young Slavs have decided it is time for a sing along. I have been watching this smiley group of young people now for some time trying to categorize their nationality. It is impossible and I finally decide why – they are gypsies and call no single place their home. The men are all incredibly handsome and the women beautiful. Their upbeat nature seems natural and can only mean one thing – they have no rules. The rest of us are a package deal. They care not and proceed to dance and sing. It is obvious joy and their intent is to spread that among the rest of us whether we want it or not.

It is impossible not to participate and we are relatively sure that the words do not involve any gypsy curses or death wishes to all non gypsy-like civilizations. I am watching the North Koreans and they are clearly uncomfortable with joy and looking for an exit. In the end even they succumb, but cover Kim Il-Sung’s eyes so he cannot see they are enjoying themselves. This is a macabre scene and visions of Hans Solo walking into a Martian bar appear in my head.

It is now about 9 PM and we are whipped as we pull up to the hotel...Cho and I locate our tour agent and declare we will not be staying in this hotel. Voices are raised once again and we think they are telling us that we aren’t even really supposed to be in China so they cannot let us go. We smile, shake our heads that we understand, and then we leave. To our surprise there is no pursuit...We drag our luggage across the street to a Holiday Inn...

The next morning we arrive back at the Bates Motel and board the buses with the living dead. Even the gypsies are a little subdued but maybe they are not morning people. The North Koreans look rested because this has probably been a holiday for them compared to their usual digs. And they have been given time to regain their composure and stone looks.

The trip back to the airport is quiet and uneventful. We do not have to go through immigration because technically we were never really in China in the first place. We actually board the plane with no further delay and I am mildly surprised that there is no livestock aboard. We are off.

The Jungle Gym

Whenever I'm in a new, uncomfortable, bizarre, or slightly unusual situation, I try to look at my environment as a writer would. I pretend that I am working on a story. How would I describe the characters? What are their backgrounds? Why do people do the things they do? This technique has gotten me through some sketchy stuff, and I recommend it highly.

An opportunity to use the Fake Journalist Perspective arose recently when Lindsay, my almost-sister-in-law, took me to the gym at their parents' country club. It's a great place to work out - there are rows of machines and freeweights, the floor to ceiling windows look out onto the sunlit golf course, and the 9 am crowd is older and quiet. No sketchyness. But it does have that certain quality all gyms have, which got me thinking about their common atmosphere as a writer would.

Why is it that no matter where you are, no matter what time of day you are working out, and no matter how elderly your fellow exercisers are, people always check each other out? I don't mean gym people ogle one another (although there's some of that too). It's more of a subtle, "how fast is she going on the elliptical" check-out. And the worst part is that I find myself doing the same thing! I think, "Let's see. Little miss pink shorts leg-pressed 80 pounds. Hm. I'll do 200!"

This brings me to another observation: there are very few women really lifting weights at the gym. I think many of us fear we're going to get huge, shiny muscles if we try for 10 more pounds. Also, sadly, many women just don't know how to lift properly. So I'm left to myself, lugging around freeweights, gritting my teeth, and sweating EVERYWHERE. Not attractive, you say? That's probably another reason why women are scared of weights.

Thus, I say to women everywhere: you're not going to get gigantic if you lift weights. It's better for your metabolism, your cardiovascular system, and your bones. It'll make you look better too. Don't worry about what the other person is doing. Don't worry about looking like a tomboy. Learn how to do a few things with the right form, and soon, you'll be leaner and stronger, which is tres chic.

Cheers.

Mongolia Lost and Found (Part Two)

We are herded into a room where we wait to board our flight. It is about 9 AM. We look around and see a most eclectic group that will join us on our journey. The smorgasbord includes Mongolians (obviously), Chinese, Russians, North and South Koreans, and a group of Slavic looking young people that are way too happy...It is easy to tell the South Koreans from the North Koreans because they sit at opposite ends of the room and refuse even to make eye contact... In order to dispel any doubts about their political aspirations the North Koreans all sport a large picture of their fearless leader Kim Il-Sung on their lapel. He does not wear a smile either. Their refusal to communicate or look happy confirms their communist convictions. Not a happy crew and proud of it.

The time for our departure, approximately 10 AM, has come and gone. It is now mid afternoon and I find myself beginning to join the commies thinking my glass too is only half full and quickly on its way to a quarter full....None of [the Chinese] speak English so our pleas to determine what has gone wrong go ignored. We see that the North Koreans can speak Chinese and have information on the disposition of our flight. I have convinced Cho to cross the DMZ and address his countrymen to the North. They refuse to answer and literally turn their backs on him. Cho commands a new found display of English as he returns muttering “son of a bitch”. He also displays his patience and fortitude and on his third try one of the Koreans finally tells him our flight has been cancelled due to a snow storm in Ulaanbaatar. It is now 5 PM. We have been waiting for 8 hours, and the Slavic crazies in the corner of the room are still smiling. This is where the fun truly begins.

A Chinese official appears and asks us to follow him to a location unknown. We are guessing that we are in for an overnight stay in Beijing only because that is the standard outcome for this type of situation. Most of this is conjecture because all communication continues to be in Chinese only. We figure it is a good bet to follow the North Koreans, at least until, and unless, they begin to display warlike gestures.

We head toward some buses lined up outside until one of the Chinese officials realizes that we have all previously cleared immigration, so in effect we have already been sent out of the country and cannot be allowed back in. It is obvious they have no idea in hell what they are going to do with us so we are all gathered in the middle of a large room and they surround us with a rope that they are sure will prevent us from escaping and wreaking havoc among the masses. They still refuse to acknowledge that most of the Chinese population has access to the internet and are madly connecting to the outside world even as we stand corralled. Televised reruns of Bonanza no longer carry interest here. But I digress.

Our little group is now getting pretty testy and beginning to show signs of declaring independence when the Chinese decide the best solution is to declare us all persona non grata and take us to a local hotel. It strikes Cho and I that there has been no discussion about our luggage and we have the feeling that a) we may never see it again and b) we are beginning to smell bad. We decide, along with 3 or 4 others, that we will refuse to board the buses until our bags are found. The cold war escalates.