If you’re in the Portland, Oregon area, make sure to attend the Fertile Ground Festival of New Works where new and seasoned playwrights spotlight their work from February 19-29.

http://www.fertilegroundpdx.org/index.html

Amy Doherty’s “Kookaburra” will be produced on Friday, January 20 at 12PM. “Kookaburra” is a glimpse inside the life of Gillian Henry, a young woman in the grip of life disappointments and family expectations. As the Gulf War Crisis intensifies, Gillian tries to find peace with the spiraling, out of control world and the war that wages inside her.

Emily Lupita Plum is one such person. Emily Lupita is the founder of Strong Plum Studio where she creates her own line of Lupita Watercolors. Her paintings are one-of-a-kind depictions of “a joyful girl on a world journey in search of beautiful moments.”

She also creates glass beads using Italian glass rods and lampwork hot head torch. Each bead is a handmade piece of art that takes gift-giving to a whole new level and she even takes custom orders.

Check out Emily Lupita’s work at http://www.lupitawatercolors.com/

You can also read Emily Lupita’s amazing poetry, writing and about her world travels at http://emilylupitaplum.wordpress.com/

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/14/how-to-write-fiction-geoff-dyer

So I did what most people who feel compelled to write do–I shrugged, went back to my computer and started on the next story.

Another option that many choose is to seek out an MFA program. Many writers have negative opinions concerning MFA programs, stating that “all the work sounds the same” and “they’re a waste of money.”  I seem to be in the minority when it comes to strong opinions concerning MFA programs. I truly feel that workshops and critique groups and writing programs are important for career writers and they should be chosen with care and only utilized if and for as long as they serve the writer and the work.

Mark McGurl has a few thoughts about MFA’s that he addresses in “The MFA Octopus: Four Questions about Creative Writing.” For example, when asked why do people hate creative writing programs so much?

McGurl:

Well they don’t really, not everyone, or there wouldn’t be so many of them—hundreds. From modest beginnings in Iowa in the 1930’s, MFA programs have spread out across the land, coast to coast, sinking roots in the soil like an improbably invasive species of corn. Now, leaping the oceans, stalks have begun to sprout in countries all around the world, feeding the insatiable desire to be that mythical thing, a writer. Somebody must think they’re worth founding, funding, attending, teaching at.

But partly in reaction to their very numerousness, which runs afoul of traditional ideas about the necessary exclusivity of literary achievement, contempt for writing programs is pervasive, at least among the kind of people who think about them at all. In fact, I would say they are objects of their own Derangement Syndrome. Logically, any large-scale human endeavor will be the scene of a certain amount of mediocrity, and creative writing is no different, but here that mediocrity is taken as a sign of some profounder failure, some horrible and scandalous wrong turn in literary history. Under its spell, a set of otherwise fair questions about creative writing are not so much asked as always-already answered. No, writing cannot be taught. Yes, writing programs are a scam—a kind of Ponzi scheme. Yes, writing programs make all writers sound alike. Yes, they turn writers away from the “real world,” where the real stories are, fastening their gazes to their navels. No, MFA students do not learn anything truly valuable.

Never mind that all of these answers are—at least in part—demonstrably wrong. The interest in slamming creative writing programs soars above the niceties of measured assessment and factual demonstration, catapulted there by deep-seated feelings about the nature of creativity, which we all love, and school, which we emphatically don’t, at least not in this context.

To read more of McGurl’s thoughts on MFA programs, click here:

http://lareviewofbooks.org/post/5389807479/the-mfa-octopus-four-questions-about-creative-writing

Writer and blogger, Linda Sands

Linds Sands, writer and blogger at Another Good Thing, invited me and five other friends along for a morning of shopping, creativity and fun! 

All of the bloggers and their friends received $50 gift cards and free reign of the store.

The excitement and creativity was palpable as the shoppers discussed decor, asked for feedback and helped each other find just the right accessories for their homes.

Lulls in shopping were filled with women introducing themselves, sharing the names of their blogs and the exciting paths their creativity had taken them.

Author and blogger Sandy Coughlin

I had the pleasure of speaking with Sandy Coughlin, author of ”The Reluctant Entertainer” and blog of the same name. A few years ago, Sandy noticed that many people were reluctant to entertain in their own home. She created a blog that offers hosts and hostesses practical tips that are inexpensive and can help alleviate the fear some feel when being hospitable. Her blog caught the attention of agents and publishers, leading to a book deal. Check out Sandy’s work at reluctantentertainer.com.

Thank you Linda, BlogHer and Home Goods for a wonderful morning!

Hope to see you there!

www.kwls.org/

The First Line offers writers a chance to create diverse stories using a common first line. Here is the 2010 Winter’s prompt and an excerpt from my accepted submission.  

Untethered

Until I stumbled across an article about him in the paper, I never realized how much Walter Dodge and I are alike. First, we are both trapped in this one-horse town. The biggest difference is only my students and a handful of waitresses know me, but everyone knows Walter. He’s their very own Boo Radley. Walter, in all his Boo-ness, wanders the streets dressed in a yellow slicker and green hip waders, even on the hottest days of summer. If all you see in passing is a burned dome of scalp, a permanent yarmulke, sitting in the center of his dirty gray hair, you know its Walter. And there’s not a stronger smell in town, not even when the wind catches the pungent odor of the Burton pig farm a mile out of town. Yet everyone in Stockbridge, full of birth-born Christians who have never doubted in their shared God, treat the eye-sore as if he’s the second coming.

The bad economy, in tandem with the controversy spurred on by the close-minded parents at my teaching job in Chicago, has forced me to seek employment any place I can. I called my old boss the day I got the job and told her she was wrong—someone would touch me with a ten-foot pole. I didn’t mention that it’s teaching tenth grade English to farm kids, most who have never finished a book and will never see the inside of a university. I would’ve told her that it was a step below Hades if I hadn’t feared her laughter.

My first spring in Stockbridge was my induction to planting season. Not a boy was present for six weeks. When I counted them absent, Mr. Bird, a fist-cousin to the infamous Larry Bird, a fact he shared during my interview, pointing to a large portrait hanging above the desk of his family at a reunion, the basketball player positioned in the center, made a visit to my classroom to explain how things work in a farm community.

            “We tend to look the other way during planting and harvest season. The daddies need them to help out, drive the tractors and such.”

            “Then how do they learn the material?”

            “More times than not, they don’t. Just do your best to catch them up. And don’t worry about including the assignments when it comes time for grade cards.”

            “How’s that fair to the others?”

            He shrugged. “Most of the other students are from farm families, so they understand and don’t make a fuss. I know it’s not really on the up and up, but you of all people should understand how that works.” Mr. Bird held my gaze until I looked away. It was the first time my situation had been mentioned since the interview and I’d convinced myself that it had been forgotten…

What I was blessed to witness in 2010—the resiliency of spirit; those who have been wronged, choosing to embrace kindness and generosity; those who found the strength to rebuild a weakened body and broken spirit, only to grow even more beautiful and strong; those who offered chances to others, for no other reason than they could; young people, full of enthusiasm and hope, taking that first, shaky step into the next phase of their lives; friends reaching out to those they love, standing firm, feet planted, knowing that sometimes the best thing that can be offered is the knowing that we are not alone; those who understood that sometimes the path that must be followed is only wide enough for one; those who fell, disappointed themselves with their rash choices, and had the audacity to stand, brush themselves off, and move forward.

What I learned in 2010—the healing power of time; the willingness to ask hard questions and wait patiently for the answers; tenaciousness in the face of adversity; humility to apologize when having wronged another; how to ask for help; the joy in helping those in need; the strength to make hard choices; healing laughter; that aging can be exciting if it is done with acceptance and grace; the willingness to grasp opportunity when it arrives, ignore the fear, and follow where it leads; if you keep your feet moving, you’re bound to get somewhere.

More than all of these things, the legacy of 2010 is the sweet, simple truth that in the large scheme of things, we all are, as we are, more than enough.

Happy 2011!