Entering Contests

July 28, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

Deborah Luskin, from Live to Write- Write to Live, gives us a brilliant look at contests and judging from the inside out. She confirmed what I believed along, while submitting an excellent manuscript helps get you noticed, but who wins is subjective. Strive for excellence and a story that will move the judges.

Live to Write - Write to Live

In 2005, I won a local writing contest; as a result, I’ve frequently been asked to judge it. (image: http://www.pixabay.com)

Like many writers, I’ve submitted short stories to contests, hoping that my work would win and fearing that my entry would be far outclassed. But I’ve not entered many contests, mostly because I figured if I had to pay someone to read my work, I’d do better investing in an editorial reader to give me meaningful feedback.

I have submitted work to contests with no entry fee – and I’ve won prizes: both money and recognition, but neither fortune nor fame. In 2005, I won a local writing contest; since then, I’ve frequently been asked to judge it. This has given me a new perspective on contests and how winners are picked.

At first, I was one of five judges. We all read all the entries, then met to decide…

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Why I Write

July 27, 2015June 25, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 13 Comments

Chuck Wendig’s FLASH FICTION WRITING CHALLENGE: WHY I WRITE

Photo Courtesy of humintell.com

As long as I can remember, I loved putting words to paper, expanding on the great mysteries or the miseries of my young life. It was a way to get my point across without being shushed.

Introduction to the magic of words came early for me, as my mother was a voracious reader. She belonged to more than one book-of-the-month-club and even as young children, we were fortunate she passed the books to us, without censorship.

In between those many pages, I met a world of different people. Their words painted vivid pictures and gave breath to the hopes, fears, and dreams of a girl. In spite of her love of the written word, my mom repeatedly warned me, “Don’t ever put anything in writing; you don’t want others to see.” Perhaps mom’s voice was the words from her books.

It would come later as a young, naïve girl before I understood the damage others could do when words are misconstrued, distorted, taken out of context or endure the deep cut of betrayal. I learned the hard way and after that hid my words away.

I’m an average woman, professional in background, a mother, grandmother, wife, friend, and a writer. I write now because I have a voice, and I can.

I write for catharsis, a purging of past sins, regrets, hopes, and dreams.
I write to share what knowledge and experiences I’ve acquired with those I love, hopeful they’ll be spared a wrong turn or learn the joy of sunny days.
I write to voice my opinion, my values, the very things I believe make the world, and us better people.
I write not that, in the end, my singular voice matters more than others do, or will move mountains, but perhaps, it will become one of many and create a chorus of positive change.
I write to expand my imagination and free my demons; we all have them.
I write to bring pleasure and encourage others to stretch their word wings, tell stories, real or imagined.
I write to leave a legacy to those I leave behind. Egotistical perhaps, but I want to surprise them. “That was mom? Sheila? She did that?” I don’t want to be forgotten or remembered only in faded photos or as the name on a bronze marker.

I write because I believe words have power. The power to move people, change them and change the world. After years of writing by a stream in a cow pasture, hiding my words from the world, between the pages of a worn-down journal, I have found my voice, and so I write.

10 Things to do When You Don’t Feel Like Doing Anything

July 19, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 4 Comments

Failure does not sit well with me. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and often keeps me awake at night, analyzing every nuance of why. The mere threat of failure has always been a call to action for me. So, when I am unable to write or complete a 31-day challenge as I’d planned, I find it hard to accept.

My girls grew up on the adage, “Where there’s a will, there is a way.” And, when things got tough, I told them, “Figure it out. If you can’t go around the obstacle (whatever kind), go over it, under, or through it. You can do whatever you set your mind to do.”

I still believe those are good words of encouragement for anyone. But (you knew there was one), I’ve discovered that advice, like most things, it’s easier said than done. That reality has never been so apparent as in the last two weeks.

Although not often, I’ve shared in previous posts, my struggle with a chronic autoimmune disease and how the last two years have been, particularly, tough. Recently, however, I felt as if I was finally getting my feet back under me and then, I lost my footing, literally. Yep, I fell and injured my lower back and hip. I’m thankful I didn’t break anything, but ambulation has been increasingly difficult and the pain, unrelenting. Needless to say, my desire to write has waned. Thirty minutes in a chair and my body starts to scream.

I’m doing all I can to work through this latest obstacle, but I gotta tell you, the older I get, the harder it gets. Many people experience struggles in their life, mine is not unique. Suddenly Jamie from Live to Write-Write to Live talked today about Conserving Creative Energy and giving herself a time out. We all need a time out from time to time, if for no other reason than to reinvigorate our minds and bodies. But how do we take time away and still stay engaged? Do we need time to recharge or are we procrastinating? Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference, but when our body speaks, we must listen.

Since my health has given me a run for my money, lately, I developed a plan to help keep me engaged and feeling productive for the short-term.

10 Things to Do During a Time-Out:

Give yourself permission not to write. Sometimes, laying down the pen (keyboard) for a day or two clears the mind and increases creativity.
For a few days, concentrate on the small tasks. Organize your files; read through your social media accounts. On down days, it’s easier to correspond in 140 characters.
Do research on a current work in progress (WIP), how to grow your audience, marketing, or catch up on reading the books you set aside.
As ideas sprout, write them down, then leave them until you’re ready both physically and mentally to see where they take you.
Use the time to edit previous work.
Or, catch up on reading and researching your favorite literary magazines.
Go through your files of short stories and flash fiction and pair them with magazines or contest submissions.
Keep up with your readers by responding to their emails, likes, or comments.
Prop your feet up, close the laptop and rest; listen to music or enjoy the silence. Both of which are known to inspire.
Spend time with your family and friends.

I expect I will be back, as best as I can be, within short order. But, in the meantime, I’m giving myself permission to take a time out if I need one. What do you think about taking a time out? Do you have special methods for dealing with personal struggles? How do you keep writing?

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story. And as always, you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood and Twitter @cofcmom.

Scarred Innocence

July 17, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

Photo courtesy of: writemyessayonline.com & Goggle

My 500Word Challenge: Write about ignorance. Tap that part in all of us that remembers what it was like to be innocent.

You don’t have many places to hide when you’re crammed into a three-bedroom house filled with six kids, one hyper-emotional mother, and an obnoxious stepfather. It takes creativity to find your own secret garden, so to speak.

At eleven, full of imagination and an innocent view of the world, I found mine in the cow pasture a quarter-mile from my house. The sloping hills, dotted black, and white, beckoned me like candy on Halloween. The barbed wire fence became a minor obstacle to scale.

Finding time alone to explore was the tricky part. I had to deal with younger siblings wanting to be the center of attention, homework, and chores, then dodging mom. At the first opportunity, I’d slip out the back door, run over the hill, and climb the barbed wire fence into another world.

The cows, covered in splotches, were fascinating. They had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. It was as if they could see into my soul. Intrigued with this interloper, they paused, chewing cud and waited for me to scale the barrier and join them on the other side. Talking to the cows came easy and boy did I talk.

I told them about my first crush and getting caught shooting spit balls at my teacher. I complained about mom. She seemed blind most of the time. And I gave them all the details about becoming a woman (that’s what my sisters told me happened). To me, it all seemed a bit messy and inconvenient, even if, for reasons known only to God, I felt the swell of pride.

I received the scar, one day, in the middle of my visit. Deep within the pasture, I sat underneath the shade of tall oak trees, the trickle of water as our background symphony, and read to my spotted friends from my journal.

I didn’t hear his footfalls in the tall weeds, but the skittering of nervous feet and snorting, as if in protest, raised my awareness and I turned. He stood a few feet from the tree line staring at me. I knew him by name, only. He was older than I and lived in a shack not far from our house.

The wind stilled and the water’s symphony faded into the background as the sound of my pounding heart took its place. I was in trouble; not for being in the pasture, but for being alone with him and the way, he looked at me. Far down in the field, I was out of sight and earshot from everyone. No one would hear me scream.

The cows, uneasy, stood a short distance from me. My heart beat faster against my ribs as he walked closer. When the cows shuffled their feet, he stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and watched as I sidestepped into the middle of my four-legged friends.

“Mom’s calling me,” I said, turning my back and running. I scrambled up the hill, through the thick grass, dropping my pencil as I leapt onto the fence. My shorts caught on the barbs cutting into my leg as I pulled free and ran toward the safety of home, blood streaking my leg.

It was my last excursion into the cow pasture. I understood the risks I had taken, but the danger of climbing the fence had never been from my four-legged friends. The barbed wire may have scarred my leg, but discovering my tiny space in the world wasn’t safe robbed me of my friends and scarred my innocence.