Judy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad First Draft

No one writes a first draft as bad as mine. They couldn’t possibly! Because of this, I avoid classes, conference sessions, critique groups, or anything else where I’m required to write from a prompt. Before I learned my lesson, I found myself in a few of these prompt-writing situations. Even when I could decipher what I’d written after scribbling, marking out, circling, underlining, drawing arrows from one part of the composition to another, it sounded like chicken you-know-what.

I discovered something interesting in one writing class (a community night-class). A third of the students were, or had been, in a university creative writing degree program. They wrote beautifully. The rest of us wrote clumsily, and had every bad writing habit known to man or woman. But none of the students who wrote beautifully had a story. Notice that I didn’t say: The didn’t have a good story. They didn’t have a story period!!!! Several of us who didn’t write so terrifically had great stories. Mine (The Lady) eventually won a prize.

I will never be a Shakespeare or a Jane Austen, but I’ve worked at the craft and have learned and improved through classes, books, critique groups, reading. I’ve had to do as much un-writing as I have writing. At first, I tried to sound “writerly.” My critique groups kept knocking me down for that. And talk about wordy? I’m the queen of wordiness! The craft of writing is something that can be learned, but if someone doesn’t have a story to tell, then why bother? So, I no longer fret about having the absolute worst first draft in the world. If I have a good story, then I can fix all those things that are wrong with my terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad first draft.




When Your Neighbors Surprise You

What a surprise to see that a neighbor from my Perkasie, PA days has published a book! Frank and Leila Clymer lived next door for twenty-nine years, and if I had to rate them on a scale from one to ten for their “good neighborliness” I’d give them a twelve or more. Among other things, it was impossible for me to get through a half-week’s meals without running next door to borrow something. Also,  I believe my son considered their house part of ours. He was under strict orders not to leave our property without informing me. He was quite good about that except that no matter how many times I told him our neighbors’ house wasn’t part of our property, he’d still go over to talk to Leila without telling me. When my husband died, Leila took him out to buy shoes when I was too busy taking care of all those things that have to be seen to. I handed her my credit card which I hadn’t signed. The shoe salesman forced her to sign it, and so for years I had to forge my own signature on sales slips when I used the card.

I haven’t read Frank’s book, but from the review I see that it is narrated from the view of a young boy growing up in a Pennsylvania Dutch community. He describes life in a small town during the era just before and after the second World War, including his family’s involvement in the war and its impact on the community. I’m sure the book must have some interesting observations, and I wish him much luck.