A Couple of Reminders

There's lots of good reading on The Writing Game blog. We have one more story that will still come in, but I can vouch that the ones that are up there are wonderful! Come take a look.


Tomorrow is the deadline for projects for World Nutella Day, which is the brainstorm of Sara of Ms. Adventures in Italy . This was a delicious challenge for me - to play, you just make a recipe, picture gallery, or any other project that uses Nutella (otherwise known as the hazelnut chocolate elixir of the gods) and send your project, along with a picture, to nutelladay at nutelladay dot com. Go to Sara's blog to get all the details.


And finally, I've entered Jenn the Leftover Queen's monthly Royal Food Joust. The voting began yesterday, so if you would be ever so kind to support me in my culinary quest for fame and fortune please vote for me here. You'll have to log in (ie. register) in order for the voting page to come up. My entry was Eggplant Lentil Stew with Charred Onions and Yogurt served over Cinnamon Cashew Couscous and can be found here.

Button, Button, Who's Got the Button?

I have a favor to request. A plea. Okay, I'm begging. I'd like to learn this button thing. I'd like a button for The Writing Game. I might like to make a button for other things. In looking at the code for other buttons, I've figured out some things, but getting the images, etc., has me flumoxed.

If anyone can help me out in this quest, I'd be very grateful. I might even be induced to send you a Michigan kit of various things Michigan. And actually, we have a LOT of cool things in Michigan.

So, if you can please, please help me, please e-mail me at jenshaines at aol dot com.

My artistic muse will be ever so happy!

The Idiocy That Was the Michigan Democratic Primary

Several of you left comments or wrote and were confused as to why my vote didn't count in Michigan.

So was I.

I mean, by the day of the primary I understood, intellectually, why my vote wouldn't count, but I didn't understand the idiocy of the Michigan Democratic Party's actions in terms of why my vote wouldn't count.

Basically, the situation was this: Michigan didn't like having a late primary date. Both Michigan parties felt that it was time that Michigan broke the stronghold of the influence of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and Nevada. And you know what? I agree with that part.

Because I believe our primary system, and our national elections system in general, is irreparably broken. But that's fodder for another post.

In any case, the Democratic National Party apparently has rules that the Republican National Party does not. The DNC's rules are that no state aside from Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina and Nevada can hold a primary prior to February 5th. But Michigan decided to, and so did Florida. And the delegates from both states were stripped for the National Convention. We should have had 156 delegates. We now will have none, 17, or 34 (at least those are the numbers I've heard bandied around - if anyone wants to correct me on this, I'd be delighted). All the major national Democratic candidates said they would not campaign in Michigan for that reason. To avoid offending New Hampshire and Iowa, and to be fair to the rules of the DNC, Barack Obama, John Edwards, Bill Richardson and Joe Biden withdrew their names from the Michigan ballot. Hillary Clinton, Chris Dodd, Dennis Kucinich and Mike Gavel remained on the ballot (apparently, these candidates care less about fairness). Since Dodd and Gavel had withdrawn by the time of the election, that left Michiganders with three choices - Hillary Clinton, Dennis Kucinich or a strange category called "Uncommitted." We couldn't even do write-ins, even though a write-in slot was listed, because no candidate had registered to be a write-in candidate.

This created a huge mess for the absentee balloteers, because the Michigan Democratic Party neglected to mention this fact until after many of the absentee ballots had already come in. The only way to support Barack Obama or John Edwards, for example, was to check off the "uncommitted" box and hope/pray that a. Michigan would actually be given a few delegates, b. that the Michigan Democratic Party would deign to acknowledge that not every Michigan Democrat wanted either Hillary Clinton or Dennis Kucinich, and c. that the folks who went to the convention as "uncommitted" delegates actually voted for the candidate you wanted - which is anybody's guess, because the votes for Obama, Edwards, and even those who want to draft Gore (yes, they're still out there) would all be lumped together.

So, because I really, really believe in the importance of voting, I voted.

But as you might have guessed, since neither Ms. Clinton nor Mr. Kucinich are my candidates, I didn't really have a say. And it stinks, as far as I'm concerned.

For perhaps clearer information on the DNC's ruling on Michigan, please see this article.

Okay, and for something a bit lighter...

This is a last gasp reminder for The Writing Game. I'm still having people join, although I'm disorganized enough that I can't list them today. I'll list the final group some time early next week. If you still want to join, please check the rules here, and send me your ideas by midnight tonight, GMT -5, to jenshaines at aol dot com.

"Idoling" Away My Time

American Idol is a microcosm of all that's bad, and a little of what's good, in the U.S. right now.

I swore I wasn't going to watch it this season. First of all, I don't like watching TV. I mean, I actually do like watching TV at times, but mostly I feel the way I do when I eat cotton candy - I'm sluggish from too much sugar, and I didn't really enjoy the experience enough to merit that much sugar in the first place. And committing to watching American Idol is committing to spending many, many hours in front of the boob tube.

Secondly, I'm pretty sick of watching Randy, Paula, Simon and Ryan all make the same jokes, do the same things, make the same comments, etc. And I hate the audition segments, because I think, for the most part, they're cruel.

But I kept hearing hype that the singers this year might be the finest ever, and when Simon came on board and said that yes, he'd felt last season was weak, and yes, this season has enormous potential, I decided I had to check it out.

Mainly because I love music. And I love working with kids, and seeing these (mostly) quite young folks work so hard for their dreams can be inspiring. The music can be great, too, once you forget about Sanjaya. I end up watching the auditions to find out about the life stories. But as I said, I really don't enjoy the parts where the Big Three make fun of some poor, delusional, half-baby who doesn't have a clue of his or her utter lack of talent, so I was in and out of the room, reading sometimes, coming to the computer sometimes, etc.

Here are some things I took away, though:

1. The producers and big business who are fighting the writers during the writers strike are idiots. We so need interesting, well-scripted shows on TV. And writers deserve to be paid in the same way that the other artists who work on these productions are paid. Period.

2. If you want to see the whole "self-esteem" movement gone dramatically wrong, just watch the audition segments. Some of these kids are truly out there in terms of gauging their own talents. And the self-confidence of others is staggering, even when it shouldn't be. One young woman came out brimming with herself. She was eighteen. She delivered some nice singing, a la Carrie Underwood, whom she made no secret about being compared to. At the end of her audition, Simon looked up at her and said, "You're okay. But you're not as good as you think you are." And I say, "Thank you, Simon Cowell." Why? Because...

3. What kind of nut case parents are out there who feel that they need to coddle their adult children and guide their every direction and dream? Examples: the dad who gave his son a key around a chain, and carries a heart on a chain around his own neck, which he'll give to the boy to give to a girl when he marries that girl. This child is NINETEEN, and dad doesn't want him to even have a kiss until the wedding night. And sonny boy doesn't question this at all. Saving yourself for marriage - great - but a kiss is just a kiss. I'm sorry, but saying that sexual chemistry doesn't come into marriage at all is just wrong, and you can't have a thing, if you don't have that "swing."

Then there are the parents who gave their lovely, if completely non-singing, son both thumbs up in terms of his singing. And this young man is in his early twenties!

Then there are the mothers who let their children rant and rave and hit their butts to show Simon where he can kiss them on national television and the wimp head parent just stands in the background, smiling, while her daughter is rude and abusive.

And don't get me started on stage mothers or fathers who push an unwilling child into the spotlight to win lots of money for the family.

Okay, rant over.

The good parts? The kids who are truly talented, who understand the audition process, and who have worked hard to get to this point. These kids have given things up in their lives and they understand that this is a privilege, not a right. Watching the kids who will be in that final ten growing over the season will be like watching a small slice of the American dream unfold.

But, all in all, I'd rather read.

Remember, tomorrow by midnight is the last chance to join The Writing Game. Brillig, Sognatrice of Bleeding Espresso and Alex Elliot of Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting have all joined the rest of the crew since yesterday. Won't you join us, if you haven't already?

Writing Game Redux - Want to Join Us?

At the beginning of November, I posted the following challenge:

1. Create a list of things that you'd like to write about (ideas for stories)
2. Create, in a little more depth, three characters
3. Create some sort of conflict(or if you're feeling generous, a couple of conflicts and your victim co-author can choose which one he/she likes)
4. These will then be switched randomly by moi, and we will each write a story based on the ideas of a blogging buddy.

Ten brave victims writers came to play. It was great fun and a couple of the participants, Gunfighter of The View from Here and Wholly Burble from Rocking Chair Ruminations, are working on making their pieces into longer projects. Hooray!!!

So my new proposal is this: Send me those same lists to jenshaines at aol dot com by 11:59 pm, -5 GMT, Friday, January 18, and I will shuffle said lists and send you someone else's lists by Monday, January 21st. Then sharpen your crayons or pencils or clean your keyboard and GET WRITING.

We'll post our final efforts on Friday, February 1st.

No, there's no winner, nor is there a prize for a winner, but we're ALL winners when we write. Right?

Our first ten participants did a wonderful job and it was so much fun to read their efforts! I'd love to see us double our numbers for this round. Let's write some fiction, Baby!

Roaring at Writing Game Buddies

Lovely Carol, of Northwest Ladybug, gave me this wonderful award, for which I'm very grateful! It comes at a particularly good time for a whole variety of reasons. Thank you, Carol!


So here are the rules:

List three things you believe are necessary for good, powerful writing and then pass the award on to the five bloggers you want to honor, who in turn should pass it on to five others, etc. Let's send a roar through the blogosphere! (The image above can be copied and pasted onto other blogs.)

Three qualities I believe are important for good, powerful writing:

1. Discipline. What I mean here is that you need the discipline to sit down with that manuscript over and over again until you get it just right. (This is the part I hate the most, and therefore I most admire writers who do this beautifully, like Charity of Writing Wrongs).

2. Honesty. Write what you know or research what you want to write. Be clear and honest with your characters, your voices and your settings. Don't be afraid to make your characters do something awful, if the story warrants it.

3. Write your passion. Write what gives you passion in life. When I say "passion" it might even be something you hate, but then know absolutely why you hate it. Passionate writing will trump anything that's anemic. Always. I don't care how much beautiful imagery you use, if you don't have passion you ain't got nuttin'.

Here are some bloggers I think deserve the "Roar for Powerful Words" award. It's actually a group, and it's actually a group of more than five. These are the brave souls who took me up on my Writing Game challenge at the end of October/beginning of November, along with their posts:

1. Anno of Anno's place. Anno was given ideas by Leslie of My Mommy's Place and she turned it into a wonderful story of love and betrayal, called "Storm".

2. Gunfighter of The View from Here. Gunfighter gave us a slamming start of a suspense series (while fighting off the flu no less!) with ideas generated by yours truly. His wonderful piece is called Gunfighter of "A Murder in Washington, DC".

3. Leslie of My Mommy's Place. Leslie took the ideas of SMID of Soccer Mom in Denial and turned them into an untitled Leslie of story of bittersweet internet intrigue.

4. SMID from Soccer Mom in Denial. SMID took Anno's ideas and turned them into a lovely story about an artist breaking away from a difficult mother in SMID from "Be True".

5. Veriano of Haikuku. I really want to encourage everyone to read this one for two reasons - 1. This entry came a little late and was missed on the Writing Game day itself (November 12th) and 2. This is the debut offering of my very own DH's blog! Veriano took Wholly Burble's rollicking ideas (I've had the pleasure of working with Wholly Burble in my online writers group for over five years now, and her ideas are always rollicking!) and turned them into a suburban mother's escape into her rock star wannabe past in "Strut at 40".

6. And finally, Ms. Wholly Burble herself, of Rocking Chair Ruminations. Gunfighter, who never does things halfway, gave WB a very specific group of historic characters to work with, and she did them proud with a Revolutionary War story that she now plans to lengthen into a novel: "The Road Home".

The Writing Game - It's HERE!

This story came from the ideas of Veriano from Haikuku:

Story Ideas:
- Unambitious, unsatisfied thirty something wondering if this is all there is to life.
Characters:
- A sharp private detective who is ambitious and wants to work for progressive causes and who also needs to pay the bills.
- A seven year old who wants to go home. Now.
- Someone who now has enough money to retire and who has just given up their prior job.
Conflict:
- An old girlfriend / boyfriend happens by unexpectedly and asks a question.


Spide, Sam Spide


I was sitting at my desk on a Tuesday night. I had closed up shop for the day and was reviewing the material for the DiGregorio case. The pictures were clear. Yeah, she was right. He was cheating. The same story among thousands, in this town of Hollyweird.

I was sick of this crap. When was Erin Brockovich gonna knock on my door? Greenpeace? Even the American Civil Liberties Union for Chrissake. Was it so wrong of me to want a little morality in my future? A little chance to mean something in this way-too-short life we’re given?

Sure, I had enough dough to take me to Brentwood and back. Yeah, I had enough of a rep now among the starlets and the agents and the producers. Star backing out of a contract for “exhaustion”? Trophy wife maybe not being such a trophy after all? Questionable investors on a big name film?

I’m your man. Sam Spide. Yeah, Spide, not that other “Sam.” And believe me, this name sucks, when you’re a private dick. And I am. A private dick, that is.

One of the best dicks you’ll ever know.

But despite this, despite the fame and the fortune and the cash, despite the romps in the hay with girls half my age who can’t spell their own names, I can’t attract the cases I really want. No one wants Sam Spide to dig up the dirt on the Governator. No one wants Sam Spide to dig deep into the latest pork project. No one wants Sam Spide to find out why the Anaheim City Council won’t give the green light to an appropriately green project.

Oh, no. I’m just Hollywood’s lackey.

And as I was about to reach into my desk drawer for my little silver canister of something good, there was a knock on the door. Could it be? Was this finally my call to what I wanted - my chance to be a real name for liberal causes? Could this be my ticket to an interview on The Daily Show? A chance for a mention on The Huffington Report? Or (drool) a chance to meet… (gasp) Samantha Bee? She may be married, but what dame isn’t these days?

But no. I got up to answer the door. And there she was. Walking into my life just like she walked out nine years ago.

“Hello, Sam,” she said in that voice that sounded of honey dripping through liquid smoke.

She was a cool drink of water, alright. All 5’8” 120 lbs. of her packed into a mauve pencil suit, that showed off all the right curves in all the right places.

“Jasmine,” I was speechless for once. “It’s been a long time.”

“Um, yeah. Can I come in? This won’t take long.”

I took her in, my eyes taking a snapshot of every pore. “Yeah. Sure.”

But she didn’t move. She looked to her left, out the door and out of my vision. “I said it won’t take long.” And she put her hand out to whoever was on the other side.

And taking her hand was a much smaller hand, followed by an arm attached to a little redhead, the spitting image of her Mom, and dressed in an array of colors that reminded me of jello shots on a Saturday night.

“But Mommy. I. Want. To. Go. Home. Now.” The little lady pulled on Jasmine’s arm, and she meant business.

I went behind my desk and sat down, pulled out my little canister of something good and took a long swig. Jumping Jehosovat. Jasmine had a Mini Me.

Jasmine came in, despite her daughter’s protests to the contrary, and sat herself down in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. “Sam, Jasmina – “ Jasmine waved to the little girl. “Jasmina, Sam. Sam’s an old friend of mine, Baby.”

“Tough shit,” the little angel whined. “I want to go hoooooommmmmmeeeeeee.”

“Now, Darling, you know we don’t use language like that.” Jasmine drew herself up, her posture as stiff as an ice sculpture in February.

“But Daddy does. All the time.” Jasmina squatted down in a corner of my office and started to pull tiny dolls from a tiny Prada bag. And I think it was a real Prada. She began playing, and I felt like Jasmine and I might be off the hook.

“So, you walk out nine years ago and you walk back in married with children.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.” Jasmine examined her long, perfect, fuchsia nails. “So, you getting any, Sam?” Jasmine looked up at me, her emerald eyes sparkling in the LA smog reflected in my windows. “You getting any good cases?”

“Nah, same old, same old. Britney one week, Lindsay the next.”

“Sorry,” the honey-drenched voice purred. “I was hoping Greenpeace had called by now.”

“No such luck.” I took another swig of my something good. I offered it to Jasmine, but she shook her head with the delicacy of a rose petal blowing in a Madrid breeze.

“So what brings you here? You miss me?” Yeah, sure, and horses dined at Nobu.

“Well, I had a question for you, Sam. A job, maybe.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve seen it all, done it all, had it all. I’m married to,” and here she coughed the name into her silk-covered wrist, so that his identity wouldn’t be compromised. “I have enough money, married or divorced, to last me several life times. So, last month, I took the plunge. I quit my job as a librarian.”

I almost dropped my canister mid-swig. “No!”

“Yes.” Tears welled up at the corners of those amethyst eyes, which had seemed emerald only moments before.

“No!”

“Yes!” She pulled a patterned Pucci handkerchief from her identical (though larger) Prada purse and dabbed at the corner of those aquamarine eyes.

“Mommy, I want to go home! Now!” Jasmina had stood up again and was crossing to her mother’s chair. She started to climb onto Jasmine’s lap, but Jasmine gently, but firmly redirected her to the chair next to her, saying:

“You know we mustn’t mar Mummy’s suit.”

Jasmina took the chair next to her mother and folded her little arms and pouted her little lips.

Jasmine folded her arms and crossed her legs and pouted a bit like her daughter. Oh, Boys, let me tell you. It was a glorious sight.

“Yes,” Jasmine repeated softly. “So, I have no idea where to go. What to do. There’s only so many stores in the world. So many spas…” she trailed off. “I mean, is this… is this all there is?”

I nodded sympathetically, and remembered, a searing pain in my left ventrical, just why I’d loved this woman so many years ago.

“So, what do I do, Sam? Where do I go?”

“HOME, MOM, NOW!” Jasmina jumped up and bashed her mother over the head with the little Prada purse.

“Now, now, Darling,” Jasmine shushed her. “We mustn’t muss Mummy’s hair.”

Jasmina kicked my desk and went back to her corner, dumping her dolls out on the floor again.

I thought about the dame’s predicament. It was a tough one, alright.

And then, as the last light of day caught her ale-brown eyes, it came to me. Brilliant. Even if I do say so myself.

“I’ve got it! And it’s brilliant. Even if I do say so myself.” I sat back in my chair and had some more of something good.

Jasmine leaned forward in her chair, her pink tongue licking her lips in anticipation. Jasmina started gathering up her dolls again and looked at me expectantly as if to say, “Does this mean I can get the hell home now?”

I was going to make both ladies very happy. “Here’s the thing, Jazz.” I loved calling her Jazz. That word hadn’t left my lips in nine, long years. “There’s this thing you can get. As a civilian, now. It’s called a library card. You can visit the library any. Time. You. Want.”

“Oh my God! Really? I can go back to the library? Just by using a card?!” She clasped her hands in supplication and a quick prayer escaped her lips. Then she jumped from her chair, ran around my desk and gave my shoulders a quick hug and my cheek a quick peck. “I knew if anyone could solve this, you could.”

Tears streamed down her face, leaving her mascara running in rivulets. “Jasmina! We can go HOME now!” she cried joyfully, and Jasmina ran behind my desk, gave my shoulders a quick hug and my cheek a quick peck.

And before I knew it, I was alone again. Just me, the LA sun setting in the west, and a little swig of something good.

Maybe Greenpeace would call tomorrow, but for today, I had done my little bit for service in this world. And life was good.


For other stories in The Writing Game, just click below!

Singular Saturday on a Sunday

Discombobulated




For more words today, join Jenn in Holland and the Soap Opera Sunday crew for some soapy goodness!

For more words tomorrow, join us here for The Writing Game!