Freeday

Today feels like Friday. I drove with windows down, music loud, and a sunglass-wink to the sun. Today is Tuesday, but it's the feeling that matters. Everyone sighs. Friday, on occasion, is even more enjoyable than Saturday. There are multiple reasons this applies to my life, four of which are:

1. I have no class on Friday.

2. "Friday" is the only day of the week with the letter i in it--my favorite letter (yes, I have a favorite letter, and I know it is looked down upon by teamwork-enhancing motivational speakers).

3. It is the day before Saturday (aka. a day filled with hope, anticipation, and growing smiles...and frantic traffic).

4. His Girl Friday, is a fabulous Cary Grant movie. His Girl Saturday just doesn't have the same ring.



The sun shines through my half-closed blinds and screams "good morning!" between bird-tweets and rooster-crows (or at least imagined rooster-crows). I relish the natural alarm clock only because my electronic alarm clock is hidden, smashed, or on silent. It's Friday.
"What do I want to do today?"
Ah, such open-ended beauty. Friday is my sworn "no-homework" day (unless I enter a state of desperation). I can do whatever I want (until I think of things I can't), stay up as late as I want (because tomorrow's Saturday! No alarm!), drive wherever I want (gas-funds permitting), and sing as loud as I want (but I do that anyway, Friday or not). It is because of these glorious options that I have nominated Friday as a blog-day.

I am trying something new: consistency.
Not consistency of food or liquids (sit in my Swallowing Disorders class for more information on that), but regularity, stability, dependability, reliability (yes, I used my thesaurus).
I'm attempting to post on a consistent basis, partly to keep myself writing on a consistent basis. When I don't write for a while, I'm forced to wade through elusive words and absent descriptions, squeezing the sponge of decent wordage. I don't like squeezing that sponge, I'd rather have an overflow. I don't like sponges much at all (unless they're sea sponges because they resemble brains).



In no way am I limiting my writing to every 7 days. I will write when I'm inspired and I won't force inspiration (is that even possible?). But I hope that, in announcing and taking on this endeavor, I will choose to act upon moments of inspiration that I have frequently shoved aside and let fade.

So toast-and-jam to a new goal. We set them to break them, but the process still molds us and I don't mind being clay for a time.

First Winner

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I won my first contest.

I say this only because, in my exuberant joy, I can't recall ever winning any other contest before. Not one that I desperately wanted to win. Sure, I've won a few inconsequential "contests" here and there: a packet of sponges in Bingo, a baby-blue plastic hat in a work-out gym raffle (it ended up being too big ), and a school sweatshirt that looked better on my friend who now has it for good. The biggest prize I ever won was the "jackpot" graduation raffle--school ring, graduation announcements, cap and gown, and diploma frame.
Of course, I won this after I'd purchased all these items. Refund? Certainly not! But I digress...

I am the first place winner of the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest.


I know you've all heard of it, who hasn't? It's famous. I don't even need to explain because you are sitting on your side of the computer exclaiming in awed "ooh"s and "wow"s, right?
No?
What a shock. Alright, I shall indulge you this once, but don't you ever forget the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest after this.

Essentially, the contest focuses on the opening of one's book. In the world of writing, authors must grab the attention of editors/agents/bookstore browsers (etc) in the first five minutes and persuade them to keep reading. In "Hook Me", us authors-to-be *giggle* send in our first 1,000 words and a back-cover blurb (that juicy snippet on the back of a book screaming for you to open its pages). Three professional judges take a look at your chunk of work and give it a score out of 60 (following a list of intense criteria, of course). After this, your two highest scores are taken and averaged.

So I sent in the 1,000 words from my most recent novel and waited anxiously for an entire month (oh, the drama). The e-mail arrived. My breath caught. I double clicked and these bright red words met my nervous gaze:

CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU ARE OUR 1ST PLACE WINNER

I read the word "1st" about a hundred times before I allowed myself to squeak, dance, laugh out loud, and throw my hands in the air. None of that is an exaggeration. I believe I may have even allowed myself an on-the-spot rap about "I can't believe I won" (this, coming from a girl who doesn't even listen to rap).
Then I looked at the number of contestants (41) and calculated my chances of winning. With atrocious math skills and six failed attempts, I came up with the approximate number: 2.5% chance of dominance. Two percent. And I won. My score? 60. Double the shock.

Do I sound prideful yet? None of this is written with the intent to brag. It is written in pure, ecstatic joy. I'm shocked, amazed, befuddled, in awe, and forever thankful to my best friend, Christ, who gave me the opportunity to join this contest, and who gave me the words to write. He won the contest and then laughed and let me think it was me.

The significance of this contest is not in the prize money, not in the title, and not in the certificates. It is in the fact I won a contest that judged what I love to do. It judged my writing--something in which I pursue perfection more frequently than breathing. After the smoke cleared, I was told that I'm "up-to-par". Hope and motivation are renewed with fresh vigor.

In a day when "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" is the contest-to-win, I am perfectly content with my yellow and fluorescent-blue print-it-yourself certificate.



And my $50 Amazon gift card might as well be the world.

,

Stress of a Single Dollar Job

Sometimes, the things that are most funny are truths that you don't realize until someone else points them out. This paragraph from Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller made me laugh every time I read it (at least three time). Because it pertains to writing (and just because it's funny), I wish to share it:

Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.

And again, I find myself laughing...