Nanowrimo Again!

I forget if this is my third or fourth Official #Nanowrimo. I am starting my fourth novel this year, though, and all but one of my novels began life as a book in a month challenge.

I never finished a manuscript until I found Nano. Weirdly, I also never finished a manuscript until I had a baby. Mostly, the baby taught me how precious little time I really have, and Nano taught me how to use every  scrap of time well.

So, thanks to my babies and thanks to Nanowrimo.org for making me into a novelist.

Couldn't have done it without y'all.

m

October 27 book signing

I was a late addition, so I'm not on the poster, but I'll be signing books at Rick's place cafe in Monmouth from 2-4 pm.

I hope to see you all there.

M

Tuesday Reading Recap and Book signing 10/27

I did NOT expect a standing-room only crowd at my very first reading. You guys are AWESOME. I am humbled and flattered.

If you missed the reading, you have another chance. I was invited at the last minute to be at a book signing with Barbara Freeman and another author at Rick's Place Cafe (123 N. Main Street in Monmouth) on Saturday, October 27th between 2-4 PM. I'd love to chat about writing, sign a book for you or generally hang out around some writers.

See you then!
m

Oct 23, noon, Maren Bradley Anderson Author Reading

T-minus one day.

Yeah, I'm freaking out a little. :)

I am speaking/reading from my book Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store tomorrow (Oct 23) at noon at WOU.

I am alternately torn between wanting a packed house to hear me read my spectacularly funny book and hoping no one shows so no one will know what a fraud I am.

Either way, I hope you'll show up and that you'll laugh in all the right places. :)

m

The WOU Writing Department Presents:

The Starving Artists’
Brownbag Lunch Series

Calapooia Room in Werner from 12-115PM


Tuesday, October 23, 2012 – Maren Bradley Anderson

Maren Bradley Anderson is a writer, teacher, podcaster, blogger, and alpaca rancher who lives in the Willamette Valley in Oregon. She teaches Literature and Writing at Western Oregon University and just published her first novel, Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store: A Novel about Sex and Politics.

Updated information on Jen Violi

Tuesday, October 30, 2012 – Jen Violi

Jen Violi is a writer and a book coach, and the author of Putting Makeup on Dead People. Her heartfelt and funny debut Young Adult novel is a story of transformation — how one girl learns to apply lipstick to corpses, and find life in the wake of death. Jen was a finalist for the 2012 Oregon Book Awards and the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association called her prose "crisp, refreshing and effortless" when they shortlisted her novel for the 2012 PNBA Book Awards.

T-minus one week to the reading

Today is the first reading in the Starving Artists series at Western Oregon University. I am going to see Miriam Gershow read today.

Next week, October 23, it's my turn.

I had a dream a week ago that Kate Ristau introduced me. I stood, walked to the podium and opened my book...to find that there were no words, only gobbledeegook printed in red letters. As Kate valiantly stalled for me, I turned page after page, looking for any readable words as the audience became more and more restless.

At least I am guaranteed to not have that problem--in this universe, printed words don't change.

I do have a fear of a too-lightly attended reading. My husband has agreed to be there, and so have my parents. I'm giving my students extra credit to show up. Beyond that, who knows?

I suppose if no one shows up, I can't embarrass myself too much.

I am practicing reading my passage, but I think what will help most is watching Miriam read today. I like having models to follow when I am doing something unfamiliar.

By the way, I am going to post a recording of me reading to my website, either in front of the audience or one of my practice sessions, after the reading.

Plus, I'm going to have a copy of a short story available for people who come to the reading.

Plus plus plus, I am going to talk about my journey to self-publishing at the reading.

I hope to see you there today and next week!
m

Story Beasty Newsletter!

Hi Everyone!

I am starting a writing newsletter. Below is a link to the first issue. Very soon, I will have a form on this blog and on my other websites where you can sign up for the newsletter. For now, if you want to see more of the same, please comment below or contact me.

Write now!

http://us2.campaign-archive2.com/?u=161bf3c9d788608eae9d08486&id=c07282fb20

m

Full list of the Starving Artists' Brownbag Lunch Series

Hi, Everyone!

Here is a full schedule of the reading series I am a part of. Please come see everyone you can. I am reading on October 23, 2012.

Thanks again to Kate Ristau for organizing this series!
m

***

The WOU Writing Department Presents:

The Starving Artists’
Brownbag Lunch Series

Calapooia Room in Werner from 12-115PM

Tuesday, October 16, 2012 – Miriam Gershow

Miriam Gershow is a novelist, short story writer and teacher, as well as the Assistant Director of Composition at University of Oregon. Her debut novel, The Local News, was called “unusually credible and precise” and “deftly heartbreaking” by The New York Times, as well as “an accomplished debut” (Publisher’s Weekly) with a “disarmingly unsentimental narrative voice” (Kirkus Reviews).


Tuesday, October 23, 2012 – Maren Bradley Anderson

Maren Bradley Anderson is a writer, teacher, podcaster, blogger, and alpaca rancher who lives in the Willamette Valley in Oregon. She teaches Literature and Writing at Western Oregon University and just published her first novel, Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store: A Novel about Sex and Politics.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012 – Jen Violi

Jen Violi is a writer and a book coach, and the author of Putting Makeup on Dead People. Her heartfelt and funny debut Young Adult novel is a story of transformation — how one girl learns to apply lipstick to corpses, and find life in the wake of death. Jen was a finalistfor the 2012 Oregon Book Awards and the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association called her prose "crisp, refreshing and effortless" when they shortlisted her novel for the 2012 PNBA Book Awards.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012 – Wendy Willis

Wendy Willis is a poet and the author of Blood Sisters of the Republic. An Adjunct Fellow at the Attic Institute, Wendy has published in the Alhambra Poetry Calendar, as well as in Poetry Northwest, Clackamas Literary Review, and elsewhere. Wendy is the Deputy Director for National Programs at the Policy Consensus Initiative and the National Policy Consensus Center at Portland State University.



Tuesday, November 13, 2012 – Scott William Carter

Scott William Carter’s first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a “touching and impressive debut” and won the prestigious Oregon Book Award. His newly released Young Adult fantasy novel, Wooden Bones, chronicles the untold story of Pinocchio. In his other life, Scott works as an instructional technologist at WOU.



Thursday, November 29, 2012 – Alison Hallett & Erik Henriksen

Alison Hallett and Erik Henriksen are journalists for the Portland Mercury. Alison is the Arts Editor and Erik is a Senior Editor; they both contribute to Blogtown and have published on topics ranging from videogames to films to otters. Together, Erik and Alison put on Comics Underground in Portland, a quarterly local comic book showcase.

A local review of LASCTS.

http://pqasb.pqarchiver.com/statesmanjournal/access/2753321071.html?FMT=FT&FMTS=ABS:FT&fmac=021fb6380704db7038aceda8c569e291&date=Sep+2%2C+2012&author=&desc=Local+lit

Mark your calendars! Reading Oct. 23!

I've been invited to read at the WOU "Starving Artist" series. Yahoo!

I will be reading from Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, and other works. Plus, I'll talk about my road to self-publishing, etc.

Save the date!

October 23, 2012
12 noon
Calapooia Room
Werner University Center
Wester Oregon University

(brown bag your lunch...remember, we're starving, too.)

m

Proportion or “Killing the Darlings…again”

--Summarized from Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. By Browne and King--

Sometimes, I am enjoying a book when I come to a passage and think, “YAWN.” The plot grinds to a stop, or an action which should take a moment takes pages to describe, and I am suddenly reminded that I have to switch the laundry or wash the dog or trim my dinosaur’s toenails.

Or, occasionally I’ll be reading along and have to stop because I get lost in the action. Where did that character come from? He wasn’t holding a sword before. I don’t understand. At that point, I either re-read until I understand, wrecking the pace of the story, or I fling the book at the wall and stomp off to vent my frustration on some unfortunate inanimate object.

What happened?

This is a problem writing instructors call “proportion.” To oversimplify, it’s a matter of focus. Usually, a piece that is labeled “out of proportion” means that the author has decided to either indulge in a long description for its own sake (and to the detriment of the pace of the story), or, on the other end of the scale, omit description that would be helpful to the reader.

Both of these are sins of a writer who is not thinking of his or her reader. When you are writing a first draft, you should NOT think of your reader, but when you are editing, revising, polishing a draft, you should imagine your reader peeking over your shoulder. If she starts yawning or tapping you to ask “What’s that mean?” you need to adjust the proportions—the focus—of your details.

Now, all asides—chunks of information—should do something beside impart information. Usually they reveal character, set a scene, develop a subplot, or give the world of the story some depth.

However, many writers write about the things they love (“darlings,” if you will). If you’ve ever talked to someone who is in love, whether with a person, an object, or a hobby or passion, you’ve seen a person glaze over and wax poetical, usually about something you don’t give a hair for. Isn’t that boring? Don’t be that guy.

However, proportion can be a tool to manipulate your readers’ expectations. Mystery writers are experts at this, spending time developing characters and objects that lead the reader away from the actual criminals and murder weapons. These are called “red herrings,” but all the writers do to create them is focus on providing details on something that isn’t actually important. Most readers won’t notice this kind of manipulation, unless you pull a machina ex deus on them.

One last way to control proportion is by using point of view (POV). Every character notices and describes different things, so a writer can use different characters to control information. Imagine the difference between a scene described by someone watching a horse auction for the first time versus an old horseman standing next to him. Which is going to notice the slight limp of the animal in the auction ring? The writer needs to pick the point of view when deciding how much the reader needs to notice the limp.

To sum up, detail and description needs to work just as hard as the rest of your writing. If you have a chapter on the natural history of whales, as Mody Dick does, then you better be Herman effing Melville. You need to construct a balance between the focus of your descriptions, the purpose of those passages, and the attention span of your readers.

(By the way, you probably aren’t Herman effing Melville yet, but it’s good to have goals.)

Exercises:

1. When you are editing your work, first, let it sit a few days so you can gain some distance from it. This will help you look at the story with some objectivity. Then print out a copy (so you can resist temptation to fiddle with it) and read it as if you were a reader, not a writer. Mark everything that seems interesting, lively, intriguing to you as a reader.

2. Then, look at the parts that you did not mark. Why is that stuff there? If it doesn’t interest you as a reader/writer, why would it interest your reader? Is it needed? Can it be cut or dovetailed into another part of the scene via dialogue or a beat?

3. Then, re-read and look for parts where there is not enough description. Do swords suddenly appear? How did they get there?  If the reader needs to know about the intricacies of carburetor tuning to understand how the killer got away, you need to find a way to describe that unobtrusively. 

Another way to be more productive

Trying Something New with Daily Writing Quota http://t.co/paQ3jqCI via @JeffAmbrose13 Well put, everyone could use this advice! -- Vencenzo Izzo (@whatnottodobook)

Since I have kids, too, writing time matters more than number of words.

M

Here's some writing process for you...

Here I am working on pudding plotting my current novel. Each card is a beat.

Editing: Characterization

In the last post, I wrote about how writers often explain things in a chunk of prose that they could demonstrate in a scene. This is the old "show, don't tell," mantra.

Another way that writers tend to "show" too much is when they are introducing characters. Most of us want to tell our audience everything about new characters as soon as they walk into a room. 

Why is this a problem? Why shouldn't we get our reader up to speed on a character as soon as possible? 

It's because part of the pleasure of reading is the act of discovery. The pleasure of meeting new people is to figure out who they are. Real people aren't going to hand you a typed paragraph explaining what they would do in a given situation. Everything if they did, it would probably be wrong. Characters shouldn't be introduced by paragraph, either, and for the same reason. 

Character descriptions are inherently less interesting than the character's actions or dialogue. These things can actually demonstrate qualities that would otherwise just be packed into a paragraph of prose like so many sardines. Let the characters flop like fish on a deck. THEN I'll know who they actually are. 

Also, if you give a reader a character introduction, the reader will then expect that character to behave according to that definition for the rest of the story. The reader will feel cheated or betrayed if the characters strays from this definition, and may flip back to the page when the character entered the story and say something like, "No, wait. It says here that she NEVER liked sardines! Why does she like them now?" 

In this scenario, the curtain has been drawn back and you, and that big faker Oz, have been exposed. Good writing doesn't call attention to itself (which is WHY you are supposed to kill your darlings--more on that in another post). Making your readers notice a character straying from the guidelines you set for him, is a way to call attention to yourself. 

So, how does a good writer introduce a character without committing any of the above sins? Here are some things to try:

1. Define the new character through the observations of another character.

Trudy hated to admit it, but Calvin was charming, witty, and slippery as an eel worming his way through an oil spill. She was glad she wasn't the one signing the apartment lease, but she worried that she might have to call Calvin to fix something in the future. She didn't like the idea at all.

2.  Use the character's dialogue or actions explain it all.

Benny walked past the ashtray and flicked his cigarette butt onto the hotel lobby carpet and walked away from it as it smoldered. He glared at the broken elevator as if it had timed its malfunction to his visit. Then he began hefting himself up the carpeted stairs, muttering "Mother*****r" every third step. 

3. Use the characters POV to describe something else. 

Ginny had never been in a cathedral before, so she stood in the middle of the nave, head tilted so far back her mouth hung open, like she was drinking from the streams of colored light pouring from the windows. There was nothing like this in Eastern Oregon. She dropped her backpack onto the floor and was instantly embarrassed by the clatter, so she plopped into the nearest pew and pretended to pray,

When you introduce a character, you don't have to give up all the goodies at once. The reader just needs to know enough about him or her to get us started. Notice, I didn't give physical descriptions in the above examples, but I bet you have a picture in your head for each of them. I would further wager that your pictures are pretty close to what I have in my head. 

Your prompt:  Find a spot in your writing where a new character is introduced via a chunk of descriptive prose. Re-write the prose using one of the three options above. 

Cheerio!

m

Book signing on Friday June 29 at WOU

On June 29, from 2-5 PM at the WOU bookstore, I will be selling and signing copies of Liz A. Statton Closes the Store. This is part of a larger vendor fair.

Please come visit me!

M

Editing--Show and Tell, part 1

I have heard "show, don't tell," at least a thousand times from writing teachers, gurus, workshop leaders, etc. However, just like those who warn against hyperbole (*w*), these teachers often didn't bother to explain what they mean by "show" or "tell," or why one is preferred over the other.

I think as students taught to be writers of nonfiction, we are trained to write summaries so much that we assume that shortcuts are not actually twisty weedy tracks, but the main roads of good writing. We begin to apply these shortcuts  to our own writing instead of creating something memorable.

For example: "He was sad."

When we tell our readers how our characters (fictional or not) are feeling, we are being lazy. No one is going to remember that sentence, and they won't feel sad, either.

On the other hand:  "He snuffled into a tissue damp with tears as he stared with wet eyes at his dead dog."

Here the writer does NOT tell how the character is feeling, but it is evident. In fact, not only do you know that the character is sad, you know how sad, for how long (enough to wet at least one tissue) and why. Plus, if you've ever had a pet die, you instantly empathize with the character.

Make your words work. The second passage does so much more than state a feeling: it gives action (crying), it gives a character sketch (he loved the dog), and it implies a story (why is the dog dead?). And it's only one sentence. One sentence that doesn't TELL you that the man is sad. It SHOWS you how he's feeling.

I am reading Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, Second Edition: How to Edit Yourself Into Print by Renni Browne and Dave King, which I am finding useful. (I will post a link to it in the sidebar). I like their concept of "RUE," which is "Resist the Urge to Explain." Simply, let your characters move, and don't explain why.

In non-fiction, the onus is on the writer to spell out his meaning to the reader. In fiction, the writer gives hints to meaning and the reader spells it out for herself. This is why two people can have wildly different interpretations of fiction (as they do for art, music and other art forms). The art is in the ambiguity. Let the ambiguity be, but leave me a trail of fat breadcrumbs in the forest.

Your prompt for today is to look at a piece of your writing and find a spot where you have told the reader how a character is feeling. Re-write that scene without the emotion words, and make the character do something that reveals how she is feeling. 

Please post your exercises to the comments below.

Go write! Have fun!

m

Paperback Liz A. Stratton for sale at Amazon.com!

It's true! 

Here is the link to the paperback book.

 

 Other places to purchase it include: 

Rick's Place Cafe

123 E Main Street

Monmouth, OR 97361

(503) 838-4912

Second Chance Books

307 South Main Street 
Independence, OR 97351

(503) 838-5279

Western Oregon Univ. Bookstore (Starting in July)
345 Monmouth Ave N 
Monmouth, OR 97361 
503-838-8300

If you know of a bookstore that might like to carry this title, please contact me.

002 – Writing Process Overview

Okay, so three days a week for blogging is too ambitious. I always aim too high. However, I still have lots to say, so I will commit to at least one post a week on the topics I listed before. I say we dive in. Here we go!


***

The Writing Process Overview

Once upon a time, when writing was taught, students were given professional examples of writing, taught grammar, and then were sent back to their lonely rooms to produce a final draft. The only grade was given to the final product, so this model of writing instruction has been named the "Product" model.

It didn't work extremely well. Students were shown examples of masterly-crafted works and taught some mechanics of language, and then were expected to re-create the masterworks. It's a bit like showing an art student a Renoir, and that one can apply paint with a brush, and then sending her out to make her own masterpiece. There was some instruction in the middle that was missing.

Another model of teaching writing is called the "Process" model. It focuses more on that middle part. Teachers who use the process model recognize that not only is there a middle part to writing, but that this middle part is worth studying and teaching.

Every writer is different and has a different process. There are people who write fifty drafts and are never satisfied and those writers who sit down once and produce camera-ready final drafts (these writers are drafting in their heads, but more on that later).

Basically, the writing process can be broken down into the following steps:

    1.    Creating
    2.    Drafting
    3.    Revising
    4.    Editing

All writers go through these steps, although not all writers go through them in the same order, or give them the same attention. The point is that each step is a valuable part of writing, and if each is not addressed, the final draft will suffer.

In the next weeks, I'll address each of these in detail, with examples and exercises.

This week, your assignment is to consider your own writing process. How do you approach, attack, and complete a writing project? What steps do you take? What works and what doesn't work?

That's all for now. Go write something.
m

"Writing" Thread--Introduction

As I said in my earlier post, I want to write tips for writers that I would normally give during my writing classes at the university where I teach. These posts will be categorized under "Writing" so you can search for them easily.

I am also going to write them in the order I would discuss them in a class, so that each post will build a little on the knowledge presented in previous posts. However, each post will stand alone, so if you just need a little help with style, you won't need to go back and re-read the post on brainstorming (unless you'd like do, naturally). 

Below is  a list of a few of the things I hope to write about this summer: 

1. Creating--that is, brainstorming, games, listing, and other ways to turn on the creative juices
2. Drafting--writing fast, locking up the editor, and other ways to get that first draft out. 
3. Revising--Editing, proofreading, "re-seeing" your writing
4. Style--those things which separate "good" from "Great" writing 
5. Grammar--the mechanics of writing, mastery of which creates clear meaning. 
6. Vocabulary--When to use the $5 words and when not to (and what they mean)

Also, I hope to make these posts fun. This one isn't so much fun, so I should throw in an example with an aardvark or something. Nah, that would be trying too hard, and you smart people would see through that ploy. 

This is finals week at the University, so by Friday, I hope to be free of teaching obligations, so I can post on a more regular schedule. Here's hoping!

Until then, here is your writing prompt for the week:

What is the single biggest obstacle between you writing as well (or as much) as you'd like? 

You may post your response to the comments below.

Send me questions via Twitter (twitter.com/#marenster) or FaceBook (facebook.com/marenbradleyanderson). 

m

Blog Relaunch Post #1: Why and how this blog is changing

I have had this blog for years now, and I have a few loyal readers, which is very nice. I began this writing blog in 2009 after I won my first NaNoWriMo.org contest. I felt the need to write about writing because I had just finished my first novel manuscript, but I didn’t have much more focus than that.

Well, that’s going to change. With the launch of the paperback version of Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, I want to build a better platform for my writing so that you will tell your friends about this fun writing blog, and then they will go buy a copy of my book. Honesty is good, right?

My other impetus is as a writing teacher. I have taught writing for 15 years, and I feel the need to offer advice to all you lovely people. There are so few good writing texts out there that are actually readable--you know, enjoyable reads. Ironic, isn’t it? (btw, Bruce Ballenger's books are notable exceptions). I thought I’d try my hand at making the old new again by making the cracker-dry and boring, berry-luscious and scintillating.

So, here is my plan for summer 2012:

• Mondays – My posts will focus on Writing (brainstorming, drafting, creating, chaining up the editor, letting the muse in)
• Wednesdays – I will post on Editing and Revision topics (letting the editor out of her box, style, word choice, craft)
• Fridays – I’ll relate my Independent publishing experiences.
• Updates and cool stuff will be posted whenever the mood strikes me.
• I’ll explain all these in more detail in future posts.

To be honest with you, three scheduled posts a week is ambitious for me. This summer I am working on a new book (of course), and I have two little girls, an alpaca farm, a novelling class, and all sorts of other irons in the fire. However, I have to be busy to be productive (Want something done quickly? Ask a busy person to do it.)

So, please tell your friends! Not only will I be giving away all that knowledge you normally have to pay college tuition for, I’m going to attempt to deliver said knowledge in a pithy, interesting way.

Damn the torpedoes! Full steam ahead!

m

Writing Advice from an Academic

I don't normally re-post other blogs, but this one was nicely done. Points 1-3 pertain to any writer whereas the rest is for teachers specifically.

Enjoy!
m

http://ayjay.tumblr.com/post/24096337753/a-few-thoughts-on-academic-time-management

Novel in a Month-Summer Session!

The Spring session of the Novel in a Month class was so much fun, we're offering it again during Summer Session!

The class will be held at Rick's Place Cafe in Monmouth at the following times:

Wednesdays 7:30 - 9:00 pm
June 27 - August 1, 2012
Registration Fee: $50

Registration Fee with required book $75 (students can buy the book themselves or the instructor will bring it to the first day of class for an addition $15). If you want to buy the book yourself, find it here.

If you are interested in this class, please fill out this form and email it back to me at andersm@wou.edu or mail it to me at:

NIAM
c/o Maren Bradley Anderson
PO Box 305
Monmouth, OR 97361

If you mail the form, you may include your check, or you can bring it to the first day of class.

If you are interested in taking the class for course credit, please visit this website: http://www.wou.edu/provost/extprogram/creditoverlay/writingnovel30days.php

Class size is limited to 20. Early registration is recommended!

* Do you have a great idea for a book, but haven't gotten around to writing it?
* Perhaps you have no idea, but do possess a deep, burning desire to write.
* Maybe you are convinced you don't have time to write a novel.

Really, who has time?

Lots of people! Every November, hundreds of thousands of people participate in National Novel Writing Month by pledging to write 50,000 words of a novel in thirty days.

In fact, our instructor, Maren Bradley Anderson, has "won" NaNo for three years by writing over 50,000 words in thirty days.

Write Your First Novel In Thirty Days is a 6-week class aimed at people who want to write a novel by participating in the deadline-driven, community-supportive atmosphere. The class will focus on:

* preparation for writing a book-length first draft (including idea generation),
* completion of the book-in-a-month challenge,
* and end with a workshop on what to do with a freshly written novel.

The emphasis of this class is not quality, but quantity. Without a completed first draft, the writer cannot revise a better second or third draft. In this class you will get that elusive first draft.

You can write the first draft of a novel in just thirty days!

I hope to see you this summer, fellow writers.

Last chance for $10 pre-order price on "Liz"

I have in my hot little hands right now, the final proof copy of Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store.  This means that I am very close to "releasing" the book.

So, I am offering one final chance to pre-order the book by filling out this form and sending me a check for $10 or $12, depending on whether you need to include shipping. Then, I will order the books, SIGN your copy, and mail/get it to you.

Once I release the book,  the price goes up to $14.

Happy day!
m

BIAM class update!

The class will be held at the best coffee shop in town, Rick's Place -- 123 Main Street East, Monmouth, OR  (503) 838-4912  Here's a map. 

Also, here is the official webpage from WOU's Department of Extended Programs:
http://www.wou.edu/provost/extprogram/creditoverlay/writingnovel30days.php

You can either sign up today, or come to the first meeting next Wednesday!

See you there!
m

College credit available for the Book in a month class

You read right!

You can take my "Write your book in a month" class for actual college credit at Western Oregon University! It would show up on your transcript as "ED 805."

Here is a reminder of what the class is all about:

***

Write Your First Novel In Thirty Days! - Spring 2012

Wednesdays, 7:30 to 9:00 p.m.
Dates:     April 25- June 6
Location: WOU
Instructor: Maren Bradley Anderson
N/C Fee : $50 est.
(1) Credit Fee: $100

 Class size is limited to 20. Early registration is recommended!

    * Do you have a great idea for a book, but haven’t gotten around to writing it?
    * Perhaps you have no idea, but do possess a deep, burning desire to write.
    * Maybe you are convinced you don’t have time to write a novel.

Really, who has time?

Lots of people!  In fact, our instructor, Maren Bradley Anderson, has written three novel manuscripts by writing over 50,000 words in thirty days.

 The class will focus on:

    * preparation for writing a book-length first draft (including idea generation),
    * completion of the book-in-a-month challenge,
    * and end with a workshop on what to do with a freshly written novel.

The emphasis of this class is not quality, but quantity. Without a completed first draft, the writer cannot revise a better second or third draft. In this class you will get that elusive first draft.

You can write the first draft of a novel in just thirty days!

Write a Book in a Month Class Details!

Press Release and Details for the Book in a Month class I will teach at WOU through Extended Ed.

***

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE   
April 6, 2012
Press Contact: Maren Anderson
andersm@wou.edu

WOU offers “Write a Novel in a Month” Class.

Write Your First Novel In Thirty Days! - Spring 2012

Wednesdays, 7:30 to 9:00 p.m.
Dates:     April 25- June 6
Location: WOU
Instructor: Maren Bradley Anderson
N/C Fee : $50
(1) Credit Fee: $100

 Class size is limited to 20. Early registration is recommended!

    * Do you have a great idea for a book, but haven’t gotten around to writing it?
    * Perhaps you have no idea, but do possess a deep, burning desire to write.
    * Maybe you are convinced you don’t have time to write a novel.

Really, who has time?

Lots of people! Every November, hundreds of thousands of people participate in National Novel Writing Month by pledging to write 50,000 words of a novel in thirty days.

In fact, our instructor, Maren Bradley Anderson, has “won” NaNo for three years by writing over 50,000 words in thirty days.

Write Your First Novel In Thirty Days is a 7-week class aimed at people who want to write a novel by participating in the deadline-driven, community-supportive atmosphere. The class will focus on:

    * preparation for writing a book-length first draft (including idea generation),
    * completion of the book-in-a-month challenge,
    * and end with a workshop on what to do with a freshly written novel.

The emphasis of this class is not quality, but quantity. Without a completed first draft, the writer cannot revise a better second or third draft. In this class you will get that elusive first draft.

You can write the first draft of a novel in just thirty days!

Maren Bradley Anderson teaches literature and writing at Western Oregon University. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including having a film she wrote chosen for the Mid-Valley Video Festival in Salem. She has written three novels’ first drafts in 30 days each. She lives on an alpaca farm near Monmouth, Oregon.

Book in a month class!

Ok, writing nerds! 

I'm teaching a "Write a novel in a month" class through DEP starting April 25! 

If you don't take my class, you aren't allowed to whine to me about never finishing your book. 

$50 N/C, $100 1 credit. 

Message me for more info.

"Liz" Prologue #2--Vote for your Favorite

I'm cheating.

Instead of re-writing the opening to Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, I'm going to include a prologue. 

Specifically,  a chunk of action from the middle of the book to give the readers a taste of what's coming.

So, I've decided to post the two possible prologues here and let you all vote for your favorite. Which of these would draw you, readers, into the story the most effectively?

Please comment below, message me on twitter @marenster,  email me at marenster@gmail.com or comment/vote on my facebook page.

Here is the second option. Thanks for participating!

maren

***

Prologue #2

"Ms. Stratton, please," The debate moderator was standing, pleading with his eyebrows. The television cameras glinted in the back of the room, broadcasting to the whole country, live.

"Robert, I'm sorry, but these two patronizing assholes-I mean Candidates-have no business running for President. They are up to their armpits in dirty money, direct profiteering from this sticky, smelly mess of a war. They have no intention of ending it because they are making too much money and they have no moral fiber at all." The Green Party candidate started clapping, but Liz shot him a withering look that made him stop.

"Well, what do you propose?" sneered Senator Ostrem. "Negotiating with the terrorists? That'll work."

Liz glared at him, but he did not cow like McNerny. "Fine," she said. "You want a stronger tactic? You want a tactic that will work? You want a strategy that will guarantee an end to the war, no matter which of us takes office in January?"

"I'd love to hear it," said Ostrem.

"I spoke to a barracks full of women near an army base who said that they'd sacrifice anything to end the war. Absolutely anything. At the time, I couldn't think of anything they could give up that would change things, nothing that would convince the powers that be that the population was serious about ending the war. But I now know what needs to be sacrificed to end the war."

"What's that?" asked Senator Beckinger smugly. "Television? Eating out? Driving to work?"

"Sex," said Liz.

The room was suddenly quiet. Then someone tittered. Then the whole room roared in laughter. Liz waited until they quieted down, working out in her head how this spur of the moment plan would work. Finally, Robert McNally, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye said, "Ms. Stratton, would you mind explaining how giving up sex will end the war in Mesopotamianstan?"

"I'd be delighted, Robert," Liz said sweetly. "Firstly, let's review something. What do men love? Fighting and sex and maybe a sport or two, in that order, I believe. If you take one of those things away, the man becomes unbalanced. I think that given a choice between sex and fighting, men will choose sex. It's that simple."

Robert McNally blinked at her. "You're serious," he said. "You're seriously suggesting that women start a sex strike to blackmail men into ending this war."

"Blackmail is such an ugly word, Robert," Liz said.

Senator Beckinger was chuckling. "Well, it wouldn't work, you know," he said. "I mean, my wife likes our, um, recreation. Certainly too much to give it up for the war."

"Oh? You're willing to bet on that?" asked Liz. "She's never 'closed the store,' so to speak, to get something she wants?"

The Senator looked uncomfortable. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"Ha-ha! That's your answer!" laughed Governor Ostrem. "You pussy-whipped bastard!"

"Oh, Governor. It's not like you've ever passed legislation to help out one of your mistresses,
especially the one who dabbles in speculative real estate?" Liz had to remember to send her research department to Hawaii as a thank-you present.

"Robert," she said, turning back to the moderator. "I am saying that if each woman in this country got a headache every night, if she were on the rag for weeks on end, if she suddenly needed to see her sick mother for a month, if she closed the store to her husband, those men would very much want to know how to open it again. And if the same thing happened in Mesopotamianstan, this war would be over in the matter of weeks-if not in A week."

The cheering that rose from the crowd had a perceptively higher pitch than earlier in the evening as only the women were applauding. The men in the room and in the television audience had a moment of dread as, just for an instant, they considered what it would be like if, indeed, every woman in America decided to ignore them. Then they tried to laugh it off, but checked their stashes of porn once they got home, just in case.

"Liz" Prologue #1--Vote for your favorite!

Hello Loyal Readers--

I have decided that Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store needs a prologue. This is because I went to a writer's conference a couple years ago and heard a very popular "story doctor" say to never, ever start your story with someone driving in a car. To date, that is the way I have begun ALL of my novels.

[palm to forehead]

In addition, I've always, always struggled with the beginning of this book. It's the beginning because, well, it's the beginning. However, good stories don't start any earlier than they have to.

So, I'm going to cheat a little. I think this story needs a prologue. Specifically, this story needs a chunk of action from the middle of the book to give the readers a taste of what's coming. I'm not afraid of "spoiling" the surprise for anyone: the fact there's a sex strike is on the bleeding cover.

So, I've decided to post the two possible prologues here and let you all vote for your favorite. Which of these would draw you, readers, into the story the most effectively?

Please comment below, message me on twitter @marenster,  email me at marenster@gmail.com or comment/vote on my facebook page.

Here is the first option. Thanks for participating!

maren

*****

    Prologue 1

Liz A. Stratton, Presidential candidate, peeked from behind the curtain. In front of her stood a crowd of thousands of horny women who had given up sex to show support for her effort to end the war in Mesopotamianstan. They expected her to say something that would inspire tham and keep them from going to bed with their husbands or lovers (or both) until the war was over.

But Liz kept thinking about that...that...MAN (a Secret Service agent no less) who was currently in her room on the bus waiting for her, she supposed as she left him...naked and half-crazy with desire. Honestly, she didn't know whether she was going back to him once she was done with the crowd.

What could she possibly say to those women to keep them on track if she wasn't even able to contain herself?

She slumped in a folding chair and flipped through her talking points, not reading them. She was thinking of Dion's floppy hair, his sexy sunglasses, his lopsided grin, what his cock must look like. She sighed and swore.

Maybe this sex-strike thing was more trouble than it was worth.

LIz Blog #2--Rush Limbaugh

Liz A. Stratton is the host of Spare Me!, a daytime talk show, and the Presidential Candidate for the Women’s Action Party. (She’s also fictional, but don’t tell her that!)

Follow Liz’s adventures in the novel  Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, and keep watching this blog for Liz’s posts (they will be listed in the sidebar). 

It should be no surprise that Rush Limbaugh is my nemesis. That I hate him and all he stands for with every inch of me. That 90% of the sputum that flies from his lips makes my hair stand on end. That should go without saying.

Mostly, however, I can ignore him. Mostly, his hate-filled speech rolls of my back like greasy oil of his head. 

But not this week. 

The healthcare debate has taken a strange turn lately. The threat of crossing the beams of church and state (usually dismissed by the likes of Limbaugh) has derailed the process of insuring the American people because of birth control. Rush is just the pinnacle of a great mountain of stupidity surrounding the debate up to now. 

Ms. Sandra Fluke, a law student at Georgetown University (a Jesuit university), was denied in a request to testify at a  congressional hearing about how the government should make insurers cover birth control. She did testify at an unofficial hearing held by Democrats where she declared first that the university's lack of birth control coverage was harmful, and second that she, herself, used birth control. 

On February 29, Limbaugh said on his show, "What does that make her? It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute. She wants to be paid to have sex. She's having so much sex she can't afford contraception. She wants you and me and the taxpayers to pay her to have sex"(1 ).

If that weren't enough, he then said, "If we are going to pay for your contraceptives, thus pay for you to have sex, we want something for it, and I'll tell you what it is: We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch" (2 ).

Four days later he " publicly apologizes ." 

My favorite part of his apology was this: "I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke." 

So, was this attack aimed at all women who would like to control their rates of reproduction and have this treated like the health condition it is and have it covered as such in their health insurance? 

All of those women are sluts and prostitutes, too, and he wants us to post our sex lives on YouTube? I have half a mind to call on all women to do so. And every lady who hypothetically might do this should hypothetically send Rush a bill for the "service." 

Rush has successfully taken this debate out of the sphere of whether the government should force institutions to pay for insurance which covers medical treatments like birth control which are counter to their religious inclinations, and transported it all the way back to the original debate about birth control: should women have sex before they get married, and should they be able to control when they have children whether married or not?  

A recent New York Times article revealed that half of the women under 30 years old who have children have them out of wedlock. Some conservatives have pointed to this statistic as an indicator of our decent into the pit of moral anarchy. However, no matter how I chew on this statistic, I can't help but think that more available birth control could do nothing but decrease the number of out-of-wedlock births.  

As of this writing, 26 advertisers have abandoned Rush's show. I hope the rest follow. 

The First Amendment protects free speech like Rush's from legal repercussions within limits that he often tests. The First Amendment does not protect him from social backlash. I say we backlash that asshole until he dries up and blows away in the wind. 

Spare me!

Liz A. Stratton

Liz Stratton Blog #1--TVUS

Liz A. Stratton is the host of Spare Me!, a daytime talk show, and the Presidential Candidate for the Women’s Action Party. (She’s also fictional, but don’t tell her that!)

Follow Liz’s adventures in the novel  Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, and keep watching this blog for Liz’s posts (they will be listed in the sidebar). 

Dear Reader--

My esteemed biographer, Maren Bradley Anderson, has asked me to write a series of blog posts in order to promote our book Liz A. Stratton Closes the Store, and my campaign for President of the United States!

I said, "That sounds like fun! Let's do it!" Then she gave me a deadline, and I said, "Oh, really? Okay." 

I think a brief introduction is in order for those of you who don't know me. My day job is as the host of Spare Me!, a very popular talk show. This year, though, my best friend and head of the Women's Action Party convinced me to run for President of the United States. I'm still amazed that I agreed to this crazy adventure, but I’m loving it!

So, here it is, my first campaign blog post! 

I’ve only just announced my candidacy. I will go into our talking points in great detail in later posts—stay tuned for my views on the glass ceiling, freedom for the uteri, and ending the war in Mesopotamianstan—but for now I want to talk about a serious issue and one woman’s successful effort to stop it. 

The Virginia State Legistlature has approved a bill which requires a woman to have an ultrasound before she could have an abortion. Previous versions of the bill stated that she might have a transvaginal  or abdominal ultrasound, and the woman would not be “given a choice” as to which was used. Sometimes transvaginal ultrasound is necessary to detect early pregnancies.  

So why legislate the use of ultrasounds? This was clearly an effort to put one more invasive obstacle between a woman and her legal right to decide if and when she wants to bear children (although this assumption may be misguided).

The good news is that the section about the transvaginal ultrasound was removed in part because of Rep. David Albo’s wife, who refused to have sex with him—for one night—after watching a television segment about the bill. Don’t believe me? He told the whole story to the House of Delegates. In short, he was trying to “put the moves” on his wife when a news story about the bill came on the television. His wife suddenly turned to him and said, “I have to go to bed,” and left him on the couch.  

He changed the wording on the bill the next day. 

Ladies, if one senator’s wife can change a bill by getting a headache for one night, imagine what might happen if all women in the country were to band together for a common cause? 


Just imagine. 


Liz A. Stratton

Another successful sex strike!

Thanks to my friend Susan McNerney (http://www.northernword.com) for tweeting this to my attention!

http://www.theatlanticwire.com/politics/2012/02/ultrasound-bill-ruins-night-sex-virginia-lawmaker/49161/

John Hudson Feb 24, 2012

 

"Virginia's proposed ultrasound bill requiring a transvaginal procedure prior to an abortion got a lot of women angry this week. Turns out, one of those women happened to be married to a GOP lawmaker and she made him pay for it in the sack."

(or not so much, as it were)

hee hee

m

Free Story #4 "Slow Rodeo"

This is one of my favorite shorts.  It is based on a real rodeo event, in case any of you haven't heard of "Bull Poker." 

--m

“Slow Rodeo”

by

Maren Bradley Anderson

Casey wasn’t 100-percent sure that he could actually ride a bull, but he was damn sure he could sit at a card table in a ring with an angry bull longer than the other jackasses who had signed up.

“Shee-it,” he’d said to Amber, his sweet little girlfriend. “If that nut-sack Charlie thinks he can do it, I sure as hell can, too!” She had batted her eyes at him adoringly as he hitched up his Wranglers and sauntered to the sign-up desk. There was time for three more Silver Bullets before the Bull Poker began, and Amber sat on his lap for an entire round of buckin’ broncos. Casey hadn’t gotten any from her, yet, but he figgered that with beer and Bull Poker, tonight was the night. He slid his hand between her knees possessively. She put on his hat and bounced as she cheered for the cowboys.

Amber wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed, but she was in beauty school and thought that Casey’s job selling real estate was glamorous. He didn’t quite have his license yet, but he was planning on taking the test sometime in the next couple years. He was making enough to make the payments on the sweet truck he bought as soon as he got the job from his Daddy and to pay his part of the rent on the apartment he shared with his buddy Art. Plus a little to show the ladies a good time, too. He caught a wiff of Amber’s hair and smiled.

He was so focused on the girl on his lap, that Casey didn’t hear the loudspeaker announcement calling the Bull Poker contestants. Art slugged him in the shoulder. “Dude. That’s you and the other dummies.”

Casey slugged Art back. “You mean me and the losers.” He laughed as he set Amber down on the bleacher seat. “Be back with the prize money, sweetie.” He kissed her harder than usual and tossed her a wink as he walked off.

Casey found his way to the spot behind the chutes where the other Bull Poker players had gathered, including his friend Charlie.

“Casey!” Charlie looked relieved to see him. “Is Art coming down?”

“Nah. That pussy’s afraid of hurting himself so he couldn’t fuckin’ study his college books no more.” Casey grinned. “That guy’s got no money, no girl, and no fuckin’ balls.”

Charlie’s grin was weak and jiggly. “What’s up with you?” Casey asked.

“Oh, nothin’,” Charlie said. “Um, didja see the bull?”

Casey turned to look where Charlie pointed. Through the slats of the chute, he could see a small, dense black shape and a white horn poking out. “What is it?”

“Mexican fighting bull,” said a contestant in a black hat.

Casey squinted at it a moment. “Huh,” he said. “Little.”

The bull snorted. A huge huff of air kicked dirt up off the floor. Casey looked at that horn again, curved and blunted, but plenty wicked-looking. Then the bull caught his eye.

Casey wasn’t one for poetics, or turning a phrase without an explicative, or talking about his feelings, but the way that bull looked at him made him feel like all the air’d been let outta his tires. “Shit,” he muttered. “That thing’s evil!”

“Who? Pussycat?” the event organizer asked as he walked up. “He’s hasn’t killed a single person yet. And only three in the hospital for more’n a week.” The man grinned in an unpleasant way. “Here are your waiver forms. Sign ‘em or you ain’t goin’ in that ring.”

“Waiver?” Charlie’s voice did, too.

“No suin’,” the man said. “This is the dumbest thing you’ll ever do, and you’ll do it knowingly and absolving us of any responsibility for your stupidity.”

Casey glanced at the dense text of the waiver before giving up and signing it. He tried to be flip as he handed the form back, but he could feel the bull watching him. The other contestants signed and handed the forms back, too.

“Well, good luck to ya,” the man said and walked off as a clown opened the gate and waved them in to the arena.

A card table and four plastic patio chairs stood in the middle of the dirt arena. Casey’d never really noticed how spindly a card table is until he saw this one standing all alone, a single target in the wide open expanse. As he passed the gate, another clown handed him a heavy vest. He musta looked confused because the clown said, “Safety vest. Need help?” Casey shook his head and pulled it on. He looked at Charlie who had gone white.

“Dude,” Casey whispered. “Why’re you out here?”

“Brother dared me.” Charlie stared at the table. “You?”

“Girl.”

Casey nodded. As a group, they walked toward the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the MC as he galloped around atop his paint horse. “This here is the most reckless sport in rodeo! What we have here is four young men who have all paid $50 for the opportunity to play Bull Poker!”

The crowd cheered, and Casey looked up to see Amber bouncing and waving and Art sitting with his arms crossed looking grim. Casey waved to her and shot Art a look that he hoped relayed what an asshole he was. Casey sat at the table and picked up the cards.

“The rules of Bull Poker are simple,” the MC went on as he cantered around the ring, his horse’s tail bannering out behind him. “Here is the $200 from the kitty!” He handed the money to a clown who tossed it onto the table. “We are going to let Pussycat the bull out of the chute in a minute. Simply put, the last man sitting at the table gets the $200!

“Now, Pussycat hasn’t killed anyone, but he’s put more’n a few in the hospital. These fellas’ve signed a waiver. I’m-a gonna read it to ya now!

“Bull Poker is a very dangerous endeavor. I know that if that bull hits me, I could be broken, maimed or outright killed. By signing this waiver, I hereby declare that I am eighteen years of age, not inebriated, and I absolve this arena and this rodeo company from any responsibility for my stupidity and ill-advised actions.

“Furthermore, I acknowledge that by playing Bull Poker, I am admitting that I think with the lower of my two brains and that this is the dumbest thing I have ever done.

“However, if I win at Bull Poker, I get bragging rights for a whole year, and a special place in the ladies’ hearts. Are we ready to play? Deal the cards!”

Casey shuffled and dealt out some cards. “Five card stud?” he said. He got a nervous chuckle from Charlie on his left, but the other two guys were already focused on their cards. Black Hat pulled his Stetson low over his eyes, but he looked like he was about to faint. The one across from Casey had a blue shirt and the jaw-set of a linebacker.

It was only when he heard the chute open that Casey realized that he had taken the seat facing the crowd. Not only was his back to the bull, but he was the closest one to the chute. 

Staring hard at his cards, Casey listened to the bull as it leapt from the chute and charged around behind him. “Come on, Pussycat!” the MC hollered into his microphone. “We ain’t got all night!”

The crowd gasped and Casey looked up, ready to run, as the bull attacked the clown in the barrel with savage ferocity that Casey had never seen up close. Pussycat’s eyes bulged white as he thrashed his head at the barrel, venting his fury on what he thought was a human being. The barrel rolled away, and Pussycat stood center ring, snorting, head high.

Pussycat met Casey’s eye. Casey swore he heard the bull say, “So, it’s you again?” before it lowered its head, pawed the ground once, and charged the table.

Casey couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He sold real estate, what was he doing staring down 800-pounds of angry pot roast? Okay, maybe he didn’t actually sell the properties—all he really did was fill in paperwork for the agents. But was he even going to be able to do that when Pussycat was done with him?

He noticed that the sounds in the arena had taken on an indoor-pool quality and that Pussycat was charging much slower than he thought possible. Casey looked back at the table and saw all of his compatriots were high-tailing it for the arena fence.  A lopsided grin split half his face as he thought, “Hey, I won.”

Pussycat split the other half.

And stomped on his leg.

And stared him in the eye and spat, “That’s for McDonalds, asshole,” before he flicked the table in the air and trotted off.

Casey opened his eye and watched as the cards and money fluttered down around him like confetti, the arena lights like supernovas. The noises still sounded pool-like but that was because his ears were filling up with blood from his broken nose. The first faces he saw were the rodeo clowns, and they struck him as so absurd that he laughed. Or gurgled, rather.

“Was it worth it?” a clown asked as paramedics gathered.

“Fuck, yeah,” Casey said. “I’m getting laid tonight!”

Free Story #3 "Bangs"

Bangs

I don’t know...hair interests me. If I’d been born a girl, maybe I’d have spent a bunch of time messing with my own hair, braiding, cutting, setting, dyeing. Instead, when I tied bows in my hair like my sister’s when I was six, my father beat me so my ears rang for two days.  So I didn’t do that again. Since then, my hair has been so sort that you’d have to use glue to keep the bows in place, although a little sticky tape works in a pinch.

Now that I think of it, most of my girlfriends were vain about their hair. The first, Becky, had this wave of mahogany hair down to her waist. She wore a clip with feathers in it most days—it was the thing to do that year in Mr. Brewster’s 5^th grad class—but some days her mother took the time to feather Becky’s bangs, transforming her from a seemingly stationary object to a goddess facing a gale with only her bangs sweeping gently across her forehead. 

Once, I was allowed to watch the process of feathering her hair. I forget the circumstances, but I remember Becky’s half-hearted protests at having an audience until my rapt attention appealed to her vanity. Then she basked as I watched her mother comb and curl and spray her hair into place. It was like alchemy—how did something as fluid as Becky’s cape of hair become a solid expression of movement? I was in as much awe as I would later be standing in front of a Greek statue of a warrior mid sword-swing.

Becky and some of the other girlfriends let me play with their hair all the time. I ran my fingers through warm locks and let them teach me how to braid, French braid, herring bone. I developed a skill for scalp massage that served me well in high school and collage as a way to break physical barriers between myself and girls. Of course I thought of going to beauty school or barber college, but, frankly, that would have been like my sister majoring in unicorns instead of economics. Besides, I was always able to get a hair fix from some girl at work with a headache.

All was fine until Roberta. Roberta—hair of my dreams. A veritable cascade of curly red hair bounced down hr back as she strode by me at a party. So compelling, I actually excused myself and followed her. Roberta, cute enough in a homey way (as in, one letter away from “homely”). Roberta, round in all the right places, and some of the not-right places. I asked her out to get my hands on that mane.

I don’t’ remember  much about the first date except for the instant I realized Roberta wasn’t going to allow me to touch her hair. She let me kiss her goodnight n her doorstep,  but pushed my hands down when I reached for her head. That lead to a second date, and a third, each ending the same way—a kiss goodnight as she held my hands firmly. I went hom each time adn abused myself while holding a fox tail I keep under that bathroom sink.

Finally, we went on a movie date, and I was able to manouvre my arm across the back of her seat. Gingerly, I geban to play with her ringlets, so carefully that she didn’t even notice. I wrapped my finger in red lusciousness and wondered what she did to maintain such glorious curls. I twirled locks in my fingers and felt myself get hard. Silky. Curly. Lush.

Then, I wanted her to know. I wanted her to know that I was in her hair. That I was into her hair, so I wrapped a lock around a finger and tugged gently. She didn’t even flinch, so I tugged harder. And harder. Finally, I pulled so hard that I felt a little give. Roberta absently shook her head and continued to watch the movie, oblivious. I extracted my fingers, then my arm, when the realization sank in that Roberta was wearing a wig.

I claimed that the movie gave me a headache and dropped Roberta, confused, at her curb. I went home and sat in the dark, twiddling the foxtail in the fingers that had recently held strands of Roberta’s wig. I’d never encountered a wig on a person younger than seventy before. I’d seen them in shops, of course, but I had always assumed that only old ladies and whores wore wigs. Roberta was hardly old and an unlikelier whore I couldn’t imagine.

I wondered about this new type of wig-wearer, the Roberta type, and re-ran our conversations in my head to try to tease out clues about her. I admit that I hadn’t really been listening to her most of the time as I tried not to be too conspicuous, mostly staring at her frothy bangs. Nothing I could remember about the 26 year-old research assistant with four siblings and a penchant for boutique teas screamed “Wig!” to me. I called her up the next morning to apologize and arrange for our next date.

In the days between dates, I thought a lot about wigs. As I said, it’s not like a fake hairpiece was a new concept to me, but for some reason, Roberta in a wig was a revelation to me. Suddenly, I realized that women didn’t have to settle for the hair they were born with. What’s more, I realized that I didn’t have to settle for the hair women were born with. As I walked down the street that week, the pool of dateable women opened up like the expanse of the ocean after traveling down a river your whole life. I was jubilant.

I took Roberta to a nice restaurant that night. Her hair, her wig, gleamed in the soft light and I wondered if it were easier to tend to ringlets if they sat on a stand in front of you than if they sprouted from your head. After the waiter took our order, I reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and began interrogating her.

“When did you begin wearing a wig?” I started.

She blushed to the same color as her fake hair. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a wig, right? I tugged on your hair last week at the movie, and you didn’t notice. And now that I look, I can see where it’s glued down on your forehead.” I reached out and traced a fingertip across her hairline.

She swatted me away. “I don’t wear a wig,” she hissed, casting embarrassed glances over her shoulders.

“Yes, you do.”

“Noo.”

“Yes. Look!” I shot my hand out and snatched a lock and tugged on it. “See? You don’t feel that, do you?” Roberta sat immobile, staring at me as the color drained from her face. “Do you?”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t feel it. Please let go.”

I dropped the hair and sat back, satisfied. “So, when did the wig thing start?” I asked again.

Roberta looked up at me with her big brown eyes, and it suddenly struck me that I had not noticed they were brown before. “Why do you care?” she sniffled and looked away. “You’re just going to leave me now.”

“What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “That’s what men do,” she said. “They find out you wear a wig and they decide you’re damaged, maybe sick, and they take off.” She folded her napkin and started to rise. “I’ll just go now and save you the expense of dinner.”

“You misunderstand me,” I said. “Please sit down.”

Roberta sat and frowned at me. “Really?” she said. “You don’t care that I wear a wig?”

“I think it’s fascinating,” I said, leaning in. “I want to know all about it.”

So Roberta explained about hating her mousey, dishwater-blonde hair since she was a child and discovering wigs via her trashy roommate in college.  She told the story of how she only wore them out on the town at first, and then more frequently, until she actually wore this red one to a job interview and got the job. Now, she said, it was part of her.

I pressed her for more and more information. She told me where she bought her wigs, how she cared for them. She told me her best and worst wig stories. She laughed at herself and at other people’s reactions to her wigs. Finally, over dessert, she was smiling happily as I fondled her wig and dug my fingers down to the mesh pinned to her scalp.

“What’s your real hair like?” I asked.

“Why don’t we go to my house for a nightcap, and you can find out for yourself?” she suggested.

Her hair was just as disappointing as she claimed it to be. Cropped short and mashed under the wig, it curled against her scalp tightly and was exactly the color of a mud puddle. I made her put the wig back on before she led me to her bedroom. That room was magic because Roberta, never one to throw anything away, had a wall covered with wigs. We spent the whole night trying them on and having sex. When I crept out later that night, I stuffed my favorite under my shirt and wore it in the car on the way home.

I am so grateful that I met Roberta because now I can date any girl, even interesting ones with terrible hair. I’ve got about a dozen wigs in play now, one for any mood life finds me in. For example, I enjoy the black bob for the evenings I feel frisky, but the “Loni Anderson” is perfect for those nights of watching 80’s television at home. Of course, I really prefer the real thing, but even a Playboy-quality platinum blonde mane can get tiresome if you date it—her—long enough.  Roberta’s wig is a little tired now, so I have retired it to the spot under the sink: I threw out the foxtail when I got home from Roberta’s that last night.