Santa's Presents

Okay, proud Auntie is doing her double D (due diligence). My 11 year-old nephew is a writer. (He must take after me.) Here is the memoir he wrote for English:

On Christmas, 2011, I woke up at 7:15 by myself: a miracle for me, who never wakes up before 8:30. As I came down the stairs, I heard snoring. Loud snoring. I knew my mother was asleep so I started to tiptoe. As I looked on the table, I saw 3 things: a big Bionicle, a little Bionicle, and a cat bobble-head with...cat-treats? I looked at my stocking above our paper tree and I saw a huge candy cane sticking out of the top. I viciously snapped my stocking FROM where it was hanging and vigorously took out the candy. I had 20 sticks of gum, 3 chocolate marshmallow Santas, 15 Hershey truffles, an enormous candy cane, beef jerky, and some really nice headphones.

As I started eating my beef jerky, I opened the box my small Bionicle was in and automatically started building it. When it was done, it looked like a wasp/human mutant. As I took out the pieces for the big one, my mom woke up.

“Oh my gosh, you're awake.” She yawned. “Did Santa come?”

“Yep, he did,” I answered.

“Great, did he eat his milk, fudge, carrots, and cookies?” she asked.

“Let's see.” I opened the fridge and looked inside. On the bottom was the plate with all the treats left on it.

“No he didn't,” I responded glumly.

“Oh well, what did you get?” she wondered.

“A big Bionicle,” I said, pointing to the pieces on the floor. “A little Bionicle,” I said pointing the Bionicle I had just built. “A cat bobble-head with cat treats,” I said, pointing to the bobble head. “Some headphones,” I said, pointing to the little clear box. “And candy!” I finished.

“Cat treats?” she pondered.

“Yeah, they're little multicolored fishes!” I exclaimed.

“Sweetie, I think those are candy,” she corrected.

“Even better.”

My mom began making coffee in the coffee pot, adding water and the disgusting brown Starbucks beans. I truly don't know why anyone would drink that stuff, but hey, it sure makes her a lot nicer.

“Mom, you need to check out your stocking.”

Her stocking was fat with goodies. It looked way fuller than mine. I wondered what that red-suited man could possibly be bringing my mother.

I handed her the giant green stocking with the gold reindeer on the front. “I think you got more than me.”

My mom was really slow checking her stocking. She loves to drive me crazy. Carefully, she pulled out two Santa candies, three Hershey kisses, and a pink t-shirt.

“Aha!” I chuckled. “Now I see why your stocking looked like it had so much more than mine.”

My mom just laughed.

“Well, this proves something, Mother.” I knew I was being kind of a jerk, but it was Christmas so she couldn't get too mad. “I must have been much better than you this year.

The Things My Grandma Taught Me

My grandmother taught me about love. Not with words. Grandma needed no words. She taught me instead with smiles and tisks, with crisp ten dollar bills and a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum in every birthday card, with lip-stick stained kisses. Peck, peck. And with hugs. Squeeze tight, then release.

Love needed no pretention. Not with Grandma. Not when there was chocolate and Thanksgiving stuffing and shopping sprees to Toys-R-Us where I could buy whatever I wanted. Not when all I really wanted was a little blue suitcase with a picture of a little girl in a little pink dress with little pink letters that said, "Going to Grandma’s."

She taught me every weekend when I came to visit. "Did you bring your suitcase?" And I would lie on the floor as she rocked in her special chair, reading every page of the paper or knitting or watching Phil Donahue while my mother was at the doctor somewhere. Because I didn’t realize my mother was sick. Not then. Not while my grandma was teaching me all about love, telling me stories about her lost little triplets, about Great Grandma Clara, who I never met, but I feel like I did, by pushing back my bangs and calling me beautiful, by the gleam in her eyes when she talked about my grandpa, or held his hand in the big hospital bed in her living room where she tended to him after his stroke.

There, she taught me all about love’s endurance. Through sickness and health. For eleven years, day in and day out, she took care of her beloved husband. And though he was paralyzed on half his body and could no longer speak, grandpa could still sing Goodnight Irene.

He could say a host of swear words too, which grandma tolerated with a tisk and a smile. Because grandma was a lady. A true lady.

And she taught me how to be a lady too.

#1 Ladies don’t swear
#2 Ladies always wear lipstick.
#3 Ladies never shout.
#4 Ladies always cross their legs or ankles.
#5 Ladies pray. Ladies go to church. Ladies give their thanks to God for the good things in their life, even when it’s hard to find the good things.

Because a lady is strong.

And my grandmother taught me strength as well. She taught me strength in silence, in hard work, in doing what needs to be done, in taking care of those you love. No matter what.

She raised three of the strongest ladies I ever had the privilege to know. She lost five girls, first the triplets, Jane, Jean and Joan, then my mother, Susie, then my Auntie Patti. But my Auntie Barbara stands in testament to that strength, for just as my Grandma Irene took care of my grandpa, my Auntie Barbara took care of my Grandma Irene.

I want to take a moment, just a small moment, to thank my Auntie Barbara, without whom my grandma might not have been so comfortable, so loved, so nurtured as she traveled to meet Jesus.

For even as grandma’s mind began to wander, she was happy. In her own way, I think she was thanking God for all the good things in her life, and God was answering her back in kind, with a thousand happy daydreams. I know in my heart her family was waiting for her on the other side. I know this because my grandma taught me about family too.

She taught me with every detailed Christmas letter, with every photo propped in every nook and cranny of her house of all her kids and grandkids and great grandkids, of all her and nieces and nephews and brothers and sister. And anytime anyone would tell her, "Your family is beautiful," she’d smile and say, "Not a coal in the bunch."

She taught me too by way of pie, pumpkin and peach and cottage cheese, cherry and berry and tangy lemon meringue. Because grandma Irene’s pies were magic. Everyone knew.

It started with Great Grandma Clara’s special cup. You couldn’t get the crust right without it. Then you added a pinch of love, a dash of lady, a teaspoon of strength. And wallah. All the aunties and uncles and cousins would come at three o’clock to play cards and drink coffee. Every special thing about my grandma was wrapped up in those pies. And if you ever tasted one, you knew just how special she was.

I have to wonder if she’s up in heaven now, surrounded by my grandpa, their girls, Uncle Harold, her mother and father and all the other wonderful people who helped to make her so special. I imagine her, legs crossed, lipstick on, eating a slice of Grandma Clara’s pie and smiling down on all of us with every ounce of the love and strength she quietly taught to me.

To Editor? Or Not to Editor?

An attendee at a writing conference once asked me if I thought it was absolutely necessary that she procure a freelance editor for her novel.

I asked, “Are you serious about publishing your novel?”

The truth of the matter is, the publishing world is a needle in a haystack game. Agents and editors receive thousands of manuscripts monthly, from writers, just like you, who are hoping to break in. In order for your novel to stand out, it needs to be as perfect as possible. It needs to be polished, error-free, with prose that sings. It needs to be publication-ready.

I know, it’s an oxymoron, right? How can your novel be ready to print if it hasn’t been accepted for print?

Many writers believe that an agent or editor will see the merit in their work, agree to take it on, THEN sic their staff of in-house editors on the task of scrubbing that manuscript clean. I wish it worked that way. It doesn’t.

Most publishing houses do not budget for copy or developmental editing. They budget instead for acquisition editing, which is a whole ‘nother ballgame. Acquisition editors look to acquire (that pesky needle in a haystack thing again). And if you want them to acquire your project?

Well, aside from the basics, such as following submission guidelines with immaculate care, making sure your manuscript is properly formatted, etc, it needs to be clean. The plot must be tight. The characters must leap off the page.

Self-editing is only the first step of the process. A writer needs impartial eyes. That could be your best friend, your mom, the cashier at the grocery store. Every set of eyes you have reading your manuscript is another step toward perfecting your work.

That being said, you might need a little extra guidance than what your neighbor, Bobby Jo, can provide. One solution is to join a critique group. Not only do you benefit from others reading your work, but editing other writers' work helps you become a better self-editor. It helps to teach you what to do and what not to do in your own writing.

But is a critique group enough?

I’m an editor. I realize that an editor advising you to hire an editor might seem a little fishy. But I am a writer first. And as a writer, I emphatically advise you to hire an editor.

Writers approach writing from an entirely different perspective than an editor. A writer is all about the art, the craft, the beauty, the meaning. An editor is all about taking the art, craft, beauty, and meaning, and helping the writer mold it into a concise, marketable, publishable final product. Editing is an analytical. Writing is not.

Googling Your Own Name

First off, I can’t think of any other company name we use as a verb, except for maybe Xerox, which is sooooo last year. According to Wikipedia, "google" was awarded the most useful verb in 2002 by the American Dialect Society. It even gained prestigious entrance to the Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary in 2006.

But I digress. Or maybe not. Shoot, I haven’t really started, have I?

Oh, sweet scattered thoughts, how I despise thee! Hence, the writers block I meant to lead with, which was supposed to eventually lure me into grandiose descriptors of procrastination and activities thereof, including Google (see above) and my brief journey into Wiki-dom.

But I digress again.

The fact of the matter is, I’m cursed with writers block. And while I’ve heard it stated that, to any true writer, writers block does not exist, I’m here to say IT DOES.

"But you’re not a TRUE writer," Some may say.

Then what am I doing here?

"Exactly my point," fair Some replies. "A blog does not a writer make."

I disagree. When I googled "writers block" this evening, the oracle told me I should try to blog--another transitive verb, pre-dating google, that was added to the dictionary in 2004. Not a company name, but a verb all the same, though yet again, I digress. Regress. Progress? I swear to God or whatever else is out there, I’m not drinking. This time.

You see, a second search result on my beloved Google-Magic-Eight-Ball-Oracle (Hmmm...is that what Shakespeare’s witches saw?) informed me that a surefire cure for writers block is "stream of consciousness writing". Hence, the random google/writersblock/Shakespeare/Some/ridiculousness above.

But I digress. Again. Third time’s a charm. (Or is it fourth? Stream of conciousness, can't go back...)

One website urged me to attempt a writing prompt by entering the first word that came to my mind on Google. I googled "Google" of course. Which led me to google other things. Which in turn made me wonder if, perhaps, I should be writing instead of googling. Which, in turn, got me to thinking if I should google "causes of writers block" instead of "cures". Which led me to the first search result. Which, of course, turned out to be google.

So I googled my name instead.

Luck has it that I am the only "Shannon Celebi" in the continental U.S. Even better, I am the only "Shannon Celebi" in the entire world. (Insert evil genius laugh here.) Geez Louise, I knew I married The Husband for a reason.

But what’s even better than that, is I happened to stumble upon a few short story reviews that rocked my world. Not because they were glowing (some said I sucked), but because they made me want to write.

Who knew? The cause and cure rolled into one. Thank you, Google. Thanks so much.

Review #1
Review #2
Review #3
Review #4
Review #5

A Memory Museum

My sister hosted a slumber party for her 10-year-old son and five of his friends this weekend. Crazy, I know. But aside from the stench of D.B. (aka Dirty Boy--parents, they need deodorant well before adolescence strikes--trust me) and a tiny debacle involving the opening and subsequent strewing of every single storage box in her garage, it all went pretty well.

One of the boys, a first time visitor to my sister’s home (aka a shrine to her only child complete with pretty much every art project ever created by said kid), walked into the house and noted the museum de craft.

"Wow," he said, admiring the first grade shadow box and second grade papier-mâché mask, the photo wall of framed school portraits, the six foot banner of the Oregon Trail. "This place is like walking into a memory."

And well, me thinks that probably made the D.B. stench and garage debacle worth it. (Although my sister may tell a different tale--she was the one who went through a bazillion scented candles after all.)

Another Shameless Plug

The audio version of my short story, "Papa Was a Gypsy" is now available at Pseudopod!

You can get it from the Podcast at:
http://pseudopod.org/2010/10/09/pseudopod-207-papa-was-a-gypsy

Warning: Not for the faint of heart!

Shameless Self-Promotion

Hey writers and readers...I'm posting this shameless plug because I recently uploaded the first 10 chapters of my novel, "Everywhere That Mary Went" on Authonomy.com--a place for writers to post their work in the hopes of getting enough "backing" to make it to the Editor's Desk, where it can be reviewed and critiqued by a an editor at Harpers Collins.

Here's the link.... http://www.authonomy.com/books/26675/everywhere-that-mary-went/

If you're a writer, I highly recommend joining...if only for the awesome feedback alone.

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Either way, please take a look at my novel and back it/add it to your bookshelf if you like it...or just leave me some feedback for future editing--which is just as valuable to me!

Much obliged!