Ready...Sit...Pitch! Part 2

SIT...

The All Write Now Writers' Conference 2016 was plumb chock full of what Val does best: SITTING!

The Pony nabbed a great table, just inside the door from where blog buddy Sioux, our nervous passenger precious cargo was handing out registration packets. We had a great view of the podium for Opening Keynote Speaker Jill Marr, of the Sandra Djikstra Literary Agency. We were one table back, which I think is better than being right up under the speaker's nose. Of course I had the best seat, facing the front, with a chair at my left saved for Sioux, and The Pony on the other side of that, facing the front and the rest of the ballroom.

We had enjoyed our table for two about 20 minutes, when a diminutive gal asked if the seats were taken. Nope. She left an empty chair beside The Pony, and took the next one. Kind of at the front of the table, where she swiveled her seat to look toward the podium. She was a bigwig with a hair-cutting chain, and talked briefly about a conference which she had just attended in Texas, with 7000 other hair folks. They had taken up five hotels just by themselves, she said. I refrained from asking her if she knew The Butcher of Seville, my nemesis at Terrible Cuts, who makes my hair longer when she cuts it.

Sioux joined us just before the ceremonies began. And shortly after her, an odd couple. I mean no disrespect. One of the couple was not odd at all, a young lady who ended up placing in the Middle Grade Fiction contest. But the other one we'll just call "Pat." I'm pretty sure they were not romantically involved, and not related. The first because...well...it was Pat. And the second because they got along too well. I have no gripes about sharing the table with them at this opening session. We'll get to my raised dander a bit later.

We had some prize drawings first, which nobody at our table won. Bunch of losers, we were! Funny how our opening keynote speaker Jill Marr won the very first prize! I cry shenanigans! Not really. But Even Steven certainly has a sense of humor. Rather than rest on her $10 restaurant gift certificate laurels, Ms. Marr took the podium and enlightened us all on elevator pitches.

Your elevator pitch should be:

Concise-brevity is key
Clear-no acronyms, know the audience you're speaking to
Compelling-make them want to find out what happens
Conceptual-so they can imagine it
Customized-have a couple of pitches ready, depending on your audience
Conversational-the audience should be comfortable, not hearing a recitation

Nobody was more illuminated than Val! So much for that pitch I had spent all summer about 15 minutes perfecting. Even though we would be allotted 5 minutes in our pitch sessions (foreshadowing, people...don't make me whack you over the head with this pertinent fact), it appeared that Ms. Marr is a big fan of a brief elevator pitch. Or, as she pointed out, the length depends on which floor you're going to, and it's probably not the 42nd. So I had some trimming to do before 1:28 p.m.

As part of her program, Ms. Marr encouraged people in our audience to come up front and pitch. The one she deemed best would receive a critique of their first 10 pages. The first volunteers were quite nervous. Some read from a note card, voices trembling. Others recited their pitches like bible verses memorized by the kids Tom Sawyer traded his fence-whitewashing swag to for tickets. As more and more pitchers were persuaded, they grew bolder, seeing as how lightning didn't strike, and rotten tomatoes were not thrown. Even those whose pitches were gently tweaked by Ms. Marr were not scarred.

Then our very own SIOUX volunteered to pitch! She controlled the crowd like they were freshly-shorn recruits on the first day of basic training. Without the profanity. Almost. You see, in Sioux's pitch, as in her WIP WTF (that stands for Work That's Finished, right?) there is a major plot point involving a penis. And believe you me, Sioux was NOT withholding the penis from this crowd! I will not go into detail, because that is Sioux's WTF, not mine. She might want to share her penis on her own blog. So we'll just leave it hanging, with my only comment being that Sioux's penis was real, and it was spectacular, and in fact, it--nuh nuh nuh! Thought you'd get it out of me, didn't you? But my lips are sealed on Sioux's penis!

After our opening session, we all scattered to various other sessions to sit some more. Did I mention how good I am at that? The walking to and from, not so much. But the sitting I can do like a champ. The Pony and I both ended up at Jill Marr's session of "Generating Suspense in Any Genre." Let the record show that there were not many topics involving nonfiction, so I went to the ones that seemed like I could parlay into my own selfish needs. I think I have succeeded in generating suspense about Sioux's penis, so the session was worthwhile.

Among the things I learned about generating suspense were:

1. Introduce the protagonist and a few of the supporting cast so the audience will care what happens to them. Then introduce the antagonist, because a villain will raise the stakes.

2.  Don't pose the dramatic question too early, but early enough. About 1/6 of the way in. However...in a mystery or thriller, pose it in the first few pages.

3. Build tension with small losses and small gains. Use a series of minor battles.

4. Foreshadow.

5. If the dramatic question is a test, have false success. Revel in a victory, then pull the rug out.

6. Make your protagonist fail. It helps the audience root for him.

7. Don't give away the reveal until you do!

8. Ticking clock adds suspense, especially for a mystery or thriller. It can be an illness, the end of summer before school starts again, some kind of deadline.

9. Shorter chapters keep readers moving.

10. There is no need to write how someone gets from the car to the house. We know how people do that.

After about 20 minutes of presentation, Ms. Marr said we would use the rest of the time to answer general questions, or specific questions about people's WIPs. A lady behind me had the BEST SOUTHERN ACCENT EVER! I didn't even care what she said, I just wanted to hear her talk. Seems she loves prologues, but Jill Marr says other agents hate prologues, though she herself enjoys them as well. We had several examples such as the girl killed at the beginning of Jaws, and whether that was a prologue or the beginning of the novel, since who she is doesn't matter, and she's a device introducing us to the police chief. Then talk turned to epilogues. Some people were downright surly about how they feel cheated when they don't have all the ends tied up in pretty bows. They think the author wants to sell sequels. One guy said he was so mad that he copied the writing style of an author, and wrote his own epilogue, which he put on his blog. And people asked him where he found it, because they thought the author had written it.

For the next session, I went to hear Keynote Speaker David Armand talk about "Life Writing: Personal Stories and Memoir." I got there early, secured a seat in the back, and watched the room fill up around me. Blog buddy Donna came in and sat at the table in front of me. Some random dude sat down beside me, and said, "I'm going to need to cut out of here at 11:30." Like he had to have a reason to sit beside Val! Then he looked at the info that went up on the screen, and asked me something that was probably rhetorical, but was most definitely sarcasm, laced with incredulity. I just raised one eyebrow for him, because I wasn't really listening, but rather looking around for David Armand, who looked nothing like the lady standing at the front of the room, but was wearing a red-and-white trucker cap and blue plaid shirt. I'd seen him sitting in the hall earlier, before the session.

Well. Seems that Val is such a good sitter that she needs to pay more attention to where she is going to plop her ample buttocks next! I was in the wrong room! ME! Who was even there last year, and knows the names of those rooms, and had printed out a floor plan! I got up, making sure to tell the random dude that, "I might be back. I'm going to see what other sessions there are." See how clever I was? I did not admit my idiocy, but made it seem like his comments on the looks of this session had spurred me to seek something more substantial.

Next door I found David Armand. He talked about his own memoir, and how the publisher of his three other books told him, "Memoir doesn't sell unless you're famous," and didn't want to publish it. He went on to mention several memoirs that have hit the best seller lists, like Jeannette Walls's "The Glass Castle," and Mary Karr's "The Liar's Club" and "Lit." And Cheryl Strayed's "Wild." How none of them were famous, just regular people when their books took off. And how James Frey's publisher didn't want to publish his novel, "A Million Little Pieces," as fiction, and told him, "This would be great if it was memoir." So James Frey just said it was memoir. Then had the Oprah debacle, even though people thought his book was great, until some dead people in it came forward and said they were very much alive, and this was not a true story. He never had any success with his following books, because people felt fooled, and wouldn't buy them. Mr. Armand encouraged everyone to write their life story, because even though they might think, "Nobody is interested in this," some people really are. Then somebody asked, "Isn't it true that it's almost impossible to get a memoir published if you don't have a platform?" And he agreed. But said the reward is in writing it. And maybe self-publishing.

David Armand kept us until right at 12:05, when the sessions had been ending at 10 minutes before the hour. I didn't want to get up and leave, because I was interested. But some folks were getting antsy. He said he would stay and answer more questions for anybody who wanted. I went out and found The Pony hanging around the door to the opening-session ballroom where lunch was being served. We went in and SAW THAT OUR SEATS WERE TAKEN BY PAT & CO.!

I know that seats are not reserved. That there is no reason to sit in the same place you sat in the morning session. But most people do! Like George on the white sofa with his glass of grape juice and bowl of nuts watching Breakfast at Tiffany's with a kind family who allowed him to cheat on his book club assignment with their rented video...I wanted my seat back! But NO! Pat was sitting in my seat! You could ask any of my past fellow faculty about Mrs. Thevictorian's lunch chair peccadilloes, and you would find that Val always expects her seat to be left available for her.

Not only did I have to sit at the front of the table, and swivel my neck to see the speaker...but our table was filled with the weirdos attracted to my magnet! I don't mean to be unkind. But this was a different kind of crew than what I saw at the AWN conference last year. These table folks were perfectly polite and sometimes charming. But not my fellow Backroadsians. We had Pat in my chair (!) with Friend between us. Then on the other side of Pat was...um...Chris. Not truly the paramour of Pat, as on SNL, but one who might have been. Except in our case, Pat had the long flowing hair, and Chris had the short dark bob. And a jacket zipped up to the chin, like Bazooka Joe's turtleneck. Next to Chris was Tim Kazurinsky. Not really. But a dead ringer. He was...how you say...like The Pony to the 10th power. Not really good in social situations. He talked about his writings as we politely remained hostage. Next to Tim was a little slip of a girl, age unknown, but perhaps in the 15-18 range, who kept her head down and several times ran out of the room. In fact, right before these exits, I'd hear a thump under the table, and a, "No! Stop!" from Chris. I don't have a clue what was going on, but I'm glad Sioux was sitting next to Thumper, not me.

Lunch was a sandwich buffet, much better than last year's boxed "Walmart-style sub" as The Pony described it. We had two breads (three if you're the kind of person who makes a sandwich on cinnamon swirl bread, though I, myself, am not) and turkey, ham, and beef deli meat. Also condiments of mustard and ketchup (which I avoided so as not to wear them to my pitch session later) and tomatoes, pickles, cheese, macaroni salad, three kinds of big cookies, and water or tea. And apparently SODA, as discovered by Sioux, over by the fruit station. The Pony trotted over and grabbed me a Diet Pepsi (ptooey!) so I had a dash of caffeine in my system for later.

The Pony told me later that Sioux had put her pasta salad on her sandwich! That, Madam, is an abomination! I can only hope that he was mistaken. He was, however, watching Sioux quite closely. As evidenced by his comment to her that, "You have something on your collar." Which, as she pointed out, was incorrect, since her blouse did not HAVE a collar! It was a peasanty affair, with a bit of a scoop neck.

"That was NOT on my collar! It was a piece of macaroni on my upper boob!" And Sioux elaborated on the upper-boob, mid-boob, and lower-boob regions on the chestal area of moderately-aged women. Though in my neck of the woods, the lower-boob region is referred to as "waist-boob."

Really, though, Sioux should be flattered, because it's not every day that The Pony actually attempts to HELP SOMEONE!

After the lunch address, which ran late by about 10 minutes, it was time to stop our sitting and go somewhere else to sit. Sioux and I stayed in the ballroom, because PITCHES were about to start. More on that tomorrow! After the pitches, it was time for the final breakout session before the awarding of awards for the writing contest.

The Pony, Sioux, and I all three ended up in Jill Marr's "Storytelling-Exposition vs Dialogue." I found out that it is NOT a compliment if somebody tells you that your book reads like a screenplay. Because screenwriters put down a couple of sentences for the setting, and then the rest is long sections of dialogue. And that if you can turn three pages of your book without seeing any dialogue, that is not good. We also discussed how an accent can be expressed with a couple of key words without long strings of hard-to-decipher Gaelic or other lingo. Because with those key words, you get the drift, and imagine the voice in that accent. Also, cliches are something to avoid (!!!). As before, the majority of the session was composed of audience questions, which I think was great, because we can read writing advice online whenever we want, but how often can we pick the brain of an east- or west coast literary agent here in Missouri?

Here are a few specifics from this session:

"You can't eat ice cream that ain't in the freezer, and by "ice cream" I mean "dead stripper." Your interpretation of that is as good as mine, but it comes from Chuck Wendig's blog, terribleminds.com. This was from an article, "25 Ways to Make Exposition Your Bitch."

*write a zero draft and hack away what you don't need

*create a different draft for each character, then sprinkle in details later

*DON'T have two characters talking about something they already know. Example: "Sis, I know you don't like vanilla ice cream..."

*fold exposition in like ingredients in a batter

*you can use newspaper clippings, artifacts, epitaphs, journals for the info to come out

*out with the info dump, in with the info bullet

*use exposition to break tension

Let the record show that near the end of this final session, Sioux and I made sure The Pony gathered up his stuff and hoofed it down to the ballroom to reclaim our seats for the final sitting! That's because Pat was also in our breakout session, sitting right in front of Val. Magnetic attraction and all, I suppose. We (alright I) wanted to make sure that I had my rightful seat so as not to swivel to watch the proceedings.

The Pony was successful, having marked our territory with his folder and conference swag bag (he says I am not allowed to speak those two words out loud ever again). Good thing, because Pat was hot and heavy on my heels as we entered the ballroom. I think I heard an audible sigh as I plopped down in MY seat. Perhaps medium-plussed, Pat sat at my right hand. Friend soon joined us, and the diminutive pony-tailed hair professional reclaimed her morning chair. I was not sorry to see that Chris, Tim, and Thumper had graced another table with their presence. I suppose because we only had two seats left now, not three.

Tomorrow: PITCH.

Ready...Sit...Pitch! Part 1

READY...

The day dawned bright and early on Saturday morning, as Val and The Pony prepared to hit the road for the All Write Now Writer's Conference. Actually, that cliche must be amended to the day dawned early, because it was definitely not bright when we left the homestead.

I asked Hick to set the alarm (he needs to do SOMETHING to pull his weight around here while I am tied up with drinking 44 oz Diet Cokes and eating Super Nachos and fiddling around on the innernets) for 4:30. Then I said I needed to be up a little before 4:30. So he woke me at 4:27. Technically correct, though not what I had in mind.

I showered and woke The Pony and prepared our breakfast of two boiled eggs for me, and one for The Pony. Don't you worry about The Pony's feeding habits. He was planning on McDonald's a half hour later. We packed up our slush pile papers and our conference schedules and hit the road. We took that winding pig trail that Hick had his hissy-fit about last weekend. The sky was all pinky-purple beautiful, but I cautioned The Pony not to look! He was driving, you know, and we had light fog that was keeping his windshield wipers busy.

On the 13 miles of bad road that we got onto after the pig trail, we crested a hill and saw a deer standing in the middle of the road staring us down. It wasn't a big deer, but neither was it a little Bambi fawn. A small buck, maybe a 4-pointer, that ambled on across as The Pony hit the brakes. "They kill people, you know." The Pony agreed. Nobody wants a 100-pound animal crashing through the windshield, crushing your cervical vertebrae.

The Pony is, for the most part, a much-improved driver. He's good on the highway, having logged many miles between Backroads and Oklahoma. On twisty two-lane blacktop, however, he chooses to drive slowly on the straightaways, and accelerate in a curve. We made it to our pickup point without major trauma. A man wandered along the right shoulder, making a move to cross in front of The Pony to head for the truck stop McDonald's where we were picking up blog buddy Sioux.

"Brave man walking!"

The Pony agreed. He got us parked, and I went inside to make use of the facilities while he bought himself a sausage biscuit meal. As we walked out, I saw Sioux pulling into the lot. She came to The Pony's car carrying a cooler. I figured she might be serious about that "have a drink right before the pitch" advice she's been touting all over the Blogosphere. I didn't mention it, though, because Val never wants to be the reason somebody is pushed off the wagon. Or ON the wagon.

The Pony was already sitting behind the wheel, having strapped on the ol' feedbag. Sioux said she was going inside, so I gave her directions to the most important room in the building. The Pony continued to chow down on his second breakfast.

"You can always trust the bathroom habits of moderately-aged women to give you time to eat."

He considers himself a bit of a philosopher, it seems.

Sioux returned momentarily, and we all buckled up and took off down the highway, headed for adventure. The ride passed quickly, only an hour and five minutes. The Pony had us at the conference location by 7:20. He parked the Rogue and declined to walk inside with us, saying he would be following in a few minutes. It can't be that he was hoping not to be seen escorting a couple of moderately-aged women, do you think?

I made use of the 1st floor facilities, planning to meet The Pony in front of the elevator. Sioux took off up the UP staircase to check in for her volunteer duties. Always a giver, our Sioux. I think she may have been hoping to dress up in a dog costume, but they put her to work in her regular clothes behind the registration table. The Pony was sitting (okay, lying) on the padded bench in front of the elevator. When some people came in, he sat right up. Maybe he DOES care about people and what they think if him.

A blond lady who looked vaguely familiar and seemed somewhat official smiled at me and said, "Are you going to win again this year?"

"I don't know. It's always hard to repeat, heh, heh." How else was I supposed to answer that? Inside, I was thinking, Why not just put a hex on me, lady? Jinx me, why don't you? Because that's not the kind of thing I'd ever ask anybody, even to make small talk, though I might wish them well and comment on their previous win. I'm sure she meant well.

Jinx turned back around and looked at the elevator, as did the other handful of men and women who had trickled in. Seems they were bigger rubes than The Pony and I, since he had to tell them, "I think one of you might want to push the button." A man did, and the doors opened up. I was shocked that The Pony had HELPED PEOPLE!

We waited for the elevator to come back down. Which didn't take long, because The Pony pushed the button. Once we hit the 4th floor, Sioux handed out our conference folders and took our slush pile papers. We went into the ballroom, and picked a table by the door and the podium, saving a seat for Sioux.

Tomorrow: SIT.

Every Party Has Its Pooper

Last Sunday we took a road trip in The Pony's little car, to see how long it would take him to get to the writing conference we're at today, this very minute, sitting and awaiting the bestowing of awards. Hope that didn't jinx anything!

As with every trip we've ever taken, whether to a basketball camp in Mississippi, a casino on the river, a Christmas Eve party at my sister the ex-mayor's wife's house, a Thanksgiving dinner at my mom's, a trick-or-treating quest (we live out-of-town, you know), a 10-hour college recruitment drive to Oklahoma, a day at the Science Center, a night at a Missouri Mines Historic Site to watch fireworks, or simply a jaunt to Walmart...Thevictorian family has a pooper

Okay, the trips to and fro do not exactly constitute a party. Perhaps we should say Every Trip Has Its Tripper. Someone to stir up ire and toss a monkey wrench into the works, before we even get the party started. As you might assume, that Tripper is Hick. Oh, don't worry. You most certainly are not making an a$$ out of you OR me when you jump to assumptions here.

Before we even left the driveway Sunday, Hick had started tripping.

"Go out the back way and turn right and go through Little Junkytown and turn left and you'll come out on D Highway, then turn right and it'll take you straight to the interstate."

"Um. I told him we're taking our blacktop road to K to D to Y to the highway. I drove it when I visited my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel, and it took me 30 minutes. When I took the OTHER shortcut you told ME, it took 35 minutes. In fact, you wanted me to go this way, but you said, 'You'll get lost. You'll never understand it.'"

"Well, you wouldn't."

"So why are you telling him this way now? YOU won't be with us Saturday morning. I told him the quickest and easiest way I went. Three main roads."

"Whatever. Just take me back now, then."

That's Hick's answer to everything. He'll take his directions and go home if he can't be in charge. I was riding shotgun with The Pony, and Hick sat behind him. He had a load of room, what with The Pony pulling his seat forward to drive.

"We are NOT taking you back. We planned on going to lunch at the Throwed Roll Restaurant, and we're going."

Hick showed us by pouting.

"He can try that way, but we're NOT going out the back way, because that alone took me ten minutes to go two miles, because of all the potholes and the sticks that crazy guy puts in the road. So we'll take the county road to your Little Junkytown. Then you can tell us from there until D."

"Do what you want."

Funny how I figured it out, and The Pony's Garmin kicked in about a quarter mile before we got to D. We were fine, and I reveled in the irony that the trip Hick's way took 35 minutes. We hit the interstate, all systems go. Five miles. Ten miles. Still not a peep from Hick. I turned around.

"Are you done pouting yet?"

Hick glared at me from the back seat, his jaw set. Just a scowl, and the glare from his glasses. I turned to The Pony at the wheel.

"Well, Pony, I guess the answer to THAT question would be 'NO.'"

The Pony steered his Nissan out around a heavily-loaded flatbed trailer. It carried 20 or 30 large gray concrete or metal saucers, tied down with 4 x 4 lumber and chains.

"Look at all those giant dog dishes, Pony."

"Is THAT what they are?"

"No. But I can call them whatever I want, because nobody is going to say I'm wrong, heh, heh! ARE you?" I tossed over my shoulder to taunt Hick.

"Um. Mom. I'm pretty sure he's asleep. Just like he was last time you asked him about pouting."

"He's not asleep. He's just being all passive-aggressive, trying to ruin this trip like every other trip we've ever taken."

"Mom. Look at him." The Pony nodded his head towards his rearview mirror.

I turned to get a gander at Hick with my own eyes. His mouth was hanging open, his gray goateed chin gaping about two inches below his gray mustache.

"Oh. He looks just like that nutcracker from the Mr. Peanut commercial!"

"I know! That's exactly what I was thinking!"

Every cruise has its cracker. And our cracker is Hick.

Trollin' Facebook for Dead Folks

Hick has taken up a new hobby. Trollin' Facebook for dead folks. He kept it a secret at first. But I'm onto him now. I should have seen it coming. At least it might cut into the construction boom over in Hick's old hobby, Shackytown.

Tuesday morning, Hick had to leave early for work. They've been putting in a new bathroom, and he had to shut off the water to work on it before 1st shift started. He did the same thing Monday. So at 5:20 a.m., Hick sat on the edge of the bed and sighed heavily. "I think I'll just retire in December." Let the record show that this has been his plan for several years now.

"Okay. I really have no desire to talk about it right now." Because, you see, having just retired, but not yet drawn my first check, I really can't be concerned with Hick's dislike of earning a living. Off he went to work. Up I got since I couldn't go back to sleep. I had an appointment anyway at 9:00 (still earlier than I've been getting up) with the optometrist.

By 7:46 a.m., I had an email from Hick.

"Val. I am going to try and come home at 11 and go to a funeral. [This Lady's] daughter was killed in a wreck. Yo probably won't be home but was just letting you know. Good luck at the eye Doctor and I did not feed Jack."

Yes. Hick has his own way of getting a message across. I had never heard of the woman he typed of. First thing I did was go to feed Puppy Jack, but he was as plump as a Butterball turkey, so obviously he had fended for himself. Then I wondered how Hick could just take off work for a funeral of somebody not a relative. Doesn't work that way at MY work. Whoopsie! I'm not working anymore! Have you heard? And why would Hick want me to get lucky at the eye doctor?

The Pony drove me to the appointment, because I was having my eyes dilated, and driving is kind of frowned upon after that, even though Iron Man Hick declares that he drives himself home EVERY TIME after he has HIS eyes dilated, and HE only has ONE EYE. Okay. He has two. But he can only see out of one. Fireworks accident, 14. On the way, I sent a text to Hick.

8:41 "Jack was fat like a snake that swallowed a turtle. I did not feed him. Don't know how you can get off for a random funeral."

9:01 "Well I see your phone works and it is not a random funeral she was killed last week and I had already told my boss that I was going if nothing was broken"

9:02 "How do you even know her?"

9:03 "I grew up with her and her mom was my Sunday school teacher"

9:03 "What do you do, comb the obituaries for a way to get off work?"

9:04 "Ya no I saw it on Facebook Friday and I have heart"

9:07 "You have a knack. A knack for getting out of work."

9:09 "Are you at the Doctor's yet"

As a matter of fact, I was, and I had been called back for preliminary testing with the eye-puffer machine. I didn't see his text until I had the exam, picked out new glasses, and got left in another exam room for the pupil dilation inquisition.

9:53 "Yes, I am getting my eyes dilated."

The Pony and I did the weekly shopping after my appointment, and arrived home at 12:30 to see that Hick's Trailblazer was parked under his precious carport, and my Acadia was missing from the garage.

12:34 "Where are you?"

1:25 "I at the funeral I drove the new car"

1:27 "I thought it was at 11:00. That's a long funeral for someone I never even heard you mention in 26 years!"

As you might imagine, there was no response from Hick. He has never mentioned going to Sunday school. Or living by this woman. He didn't get home until after 3:30, and he was wearing jeans, New Balance, and a plaid polo shirt.

"Where have you really been?"

"I told you, to the funeral."

"You wore THAT to a funeral?"

"I was one of the most dressed up people there! Some of them were in SHORTS!"

"And it took you from 11:00 until 3:30 to go to a funeral? What was this, a New Orleans style funeral parade?"

"I had to wait in line to pay my respects. It was a loooong line."

"Why haven't I ever heard you talk about these people."

"I don't know. I guess you don't listen. I lived by them when I was THIS HIGH." Let the record show that Hick held his hand off the ground at about the height of a 3-year-old's head.

"I though you lived in the town down by my grandma's house when you were that age."

"We moved next door to them when I was in 4th grade."

"And you were only THAT TALL? Fourth-graders are 9-10 years old!"

"Oh. Well. THIS HIGH."

I think Hick has been on another one of his spy missions.

What If Val Is the Weirdo, Not the Magnet?

You know that odd things happen when Val leaves the homestead. Sometimes even when she doesn't. For years, the assumption has been that Val is a Weirdo Magnet. Seriously. How many of YOU have had a woman follow you through Save A Lot, rubbing your arm, telling you that you are SO PRETTY? Or a man walk up and stuff a wad of money into your hand? Or a diminutive lady reach around your shoulder and push your button while playing slots in Oklahoma? Or a man keep hitting his hand on your butt in a dead-mouse-smelling post office? Or a woman in Walmart insist that your name is Jane (even complaining to the checker), and that you are lying when you say that it's not? Stop me. Before it gets any weirder.

On Saturday, The Pony and I will be going to the All Write Now Writers' Conference in Cape Girardeau. We went last year, and reaped success. I noticed that there were no weirdos attracted to me there. Everyone seemed perfectly normal. Nothing odd happened. We were ALL magnets, right? And no weirdos got in. I'm sure that's it. But over the past few days, I've been wracked with doubt.

WHAT IF I GET TO THAT CONFERENCE, AND LET MY WEIRDO FLAG FLY?

Surely that won't happen...will it? The Pony and I are picking up blog buddy Sioux on the way. Okay, it's not like she'll be standing on the right-of-way with her thumb out. We have an arranged meeting place. Surely Sioux will be Julia Sugarbaker to my Cousin Allison, and tell me if I've got a big ol' bird on my head. Stop me from embarrassing myself. Won't she? Surely Sioux won't be Suzanne to my Julia, and let me twirl and twirl down the runway of life without informing me that my skirt is tucked into my pantyhose. Will she?

Yes, I am hoping not to embarrass myself at the conference. I have signed up for a pitch session with agent Jill Marr, of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency. That's because she represents humor. Hopefully, she HAS a sense of humor, and doesn't take ol' Val too seriously. After all, our Val is a bit of a country bumpkin. Like Marla Hooch in A League of Their Own. Except Val doesn't have her dad around to warn anybody interested that "my gal ain't so pretty as these girls." But, like Marla Hooch, Val can get the job done. She even has TWO eyebrows. And she reveals nothing.

I'm not really nervous. I'm sure Jill Marr puts her Crocs on one foot at a time, just like I do. Holding onto the china cabinet that houses her grandma's ruby red depression glass dish set. I hope I don't make HER nervous! I daresay she's never faced an 11th grade biology class of 28 students first thing after lunch, reintroducing them to district expectations after they've spent four hours swinging the world by the tail, practicing hands-on career skills that will make their living.

What's the worst that could happen? Can Ms. Jill Marr get me fired? No siree, Bob! Because I don't even have a job! Retirement has made me bold. What can she do, let her eyes glaze over when I start my pitch? Let me tell YOU, Ms. Jill Marr, I HAVE faced an 11th grade biology class of 28 students first thing after lunch, AND taught them about the phospholipid bilayer! I HAVE SEEN EYES GLAZED OVER! That does not scare me.

On the flip side, I have had those students eating out of the palm of my hand. Sitting on the edge of their seats. Silently soaking in the knowledge as I poured it out, like 28 thirsty sponges. Transfixed. All eyes (that would be 56) on me, as I elaborated on the intricacies of that phospholipid bilayer, its vital role as the cell's gatekeeper, pointing to each part of the structure I had so painstakingly drawn during my plan time in tri-color dry-erase marker. And at the end, a question! A young lady on the front row, daring to raise her hand for clarification, waiting to be called on, to ask, "Do you color your hair?" Well, Ms. Jill Marr. You may not have 56 eyes, but I'll cut right to the chase. Yes. I color my hair.

I'm actually looking forward to that conference. I think I'll do fine. I'm technically proficient enough, I'm valedictorian enough, and doggone it, people tolerate me! And do you know what? I once won 89th Place in the 80th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition, Memoir/Personal Essay category!

I'm going places! Weirdo or not.

And under my real name. Kathryn Cureton.

Pitching Is Not Just For Writers' Conferences

If you checked in here for a post on pitching your book to a literary agent, you'll be sorely vexed. As opposed to happily vexed. Nothing here is about that, but TOMORROW it will be!

Today we look at travel photos from Val's weekend trip. Not so much a weekend trip as a Sunday drive. Not so much travel photos as documentation of Thevictorian family meals at Lambert's, the Throwed Roll Restaurant in Sikeston. That's what they call themselves: Home of the Throwed Rolls. So you see, pitching is for ROLLS, too! Though we were more concerned with the catching.

Sunday, we piled into The Pony's Nissan Rogue and headed toward Cape Girardeau. Not to do anything fun like hit the casino. Nope. Never been to that one. We were making a dry run to see how far away the All Write Now conference would be in Pony-minutes. Last year Hick drove, and dropped us off so he could peruse flea markets and thrift stores while we got our award-winnin' on. I didn't forget to mention that last year, did I? That I won 1ST PLACE in nonfiction, and The Pony (only 17 years old then) won 3RD PLACE in fiction? What? You already heard about that? Oh, well. I just can't hear it enough.

The plan also included a trip to Lambert's, which was just another 30 miles or so farther south. Nobody has thrown rolls at us in quite some time. I know I've only been there twice, and The Pony remembers once. I asked The Pony what he would be having for lunch, and he said, "Rolls."

"Obviously. How many rolls do you think you can eat?"

"All of them!" The Pony really, really likes rolls. In fact, he was the first Thevictorian to nab one. We waited what seemed like forever without anybody tossing us a roll. A cart went around, but we might as well have been sitting inside Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard, seeing as how we had none. When another cart appeared about 15 minutes after we had arrived, The Pony, not one to draw attention to himself, stood up and clapped his hands.

The Pony is not noted for his athleticism. A perfect score of 36 on his ACT, but not an athlete is he. The roll was fired from the opposite corner of the dining room. The Pony watched it all the way, right into his eager mitts. HE CAUGHT IT! Most of it. Not through any fault of his own. He nabbed two lobes of that yeasty roll, but the third lobe continued in motion, a good disciple of Newton's First Law of Motion. ROLL DOWN!

Don't you worry about that 1/3 of a roll. A man came by about 30 minutes later, and swept it up in a dustpan/trapper thingy. I'm surprised Hick wasn't tempted to pick it up and eat it. He went roll-less until another cart came by. But he DID catch one for me. I only ate the crusty part, because I've been cutting back, you know. I let Hick and The Pony divide the rest. But here it is:

You can see the magnitude of this behemoth. It casts a shadow as substantial as that of the soda cup. I must admit that I had already partaken of some crusty baking-pan overflow before I thought to have The Pony snap a picture.

The Pony had half a Lambert's Burger. He had planned on a steak, but they were 16 ounces, and he's not that big a carnivore. He ordered a whole burger, but could only eat half. I guess those rolls filled him up.

Hick had the fried chicken, white meat only. It seems he's eaten part of it already.

That's a mutilated roll, not some crazy polar-bear-skin rug laid out in front of him along with some fried okra. Hick had baby carrots and candied yams as his sides.

I had the charbroiled chicken breast (bone-in), with baby carrots and SLAW. You know I can't resist slaw. Oh, and a 34 oz Diet Coke was my beverage. Of course I had been looking forward to the pass-arounds. That's food in a bucket that the dining room staff in overalls carry around and slop onto your plate if you ask. Yep. I went to the website the day before (because we all need a diversion when we're trying to craft our pitch for the writers' conference coming up within the week) and perused the pass-arounds. I had my heart set on some fried taters and black-eyed peas.

Of course nobody came around to our corner of the dining room with THOSE buckets. Or ANY buckets. We were almost done with our meals when Hick finally got the waitress's attention and told her we wanted some fried taters. Of course I had to speak for myself to get the black-eyed peas, because Hick didn't want them.

I think the servers were a bit disgruntled when they came our way. Because they had been called out for not appearing. The black-eyed pea guy was nice enough, but the black-eyed peas tasted like they were right out of the can, except for a rubbery piece of bacon on top, which I gave to Hick after seeing its texture. None of its flavor entered the black-eyed peas. I swear I make better ones at home, still from a can. The Pony agreed, though he didn't taste these on my plate, and in fact has only eaten three black-eyed peas in his whole life, because I commanded him to do it and shoved a spoon in his face on New Year's Day.

The fried taters were pretty good, but Hick was not pleased. He actually lured the tater-slopper over to our table twice. Both times, he said, "Yes, I'd like some fried potatoes. The crispier, the better." Both times, that gal gave him the soggiest, most translucent spuds in her bucket. I know there were good crispy ones in there, because when she put some on my plated, I had four or five crunchy crispy slices. Yes, I gave three of them to Hick. I'm a giver like that. Only the best for my loving husband!

The chicken and the baby carrots were the best part of the meal, followed by the slaw, and then my roll crispin's. Seems like the food was better last time I was there...oh...about 8 years ago. We arrived 25 minutes after they opened, and didn't have to wait, although we got one of the few tables left in either dining room.

I don't think I would stand in line for this.

When It Rains, It Flushes

Woe is Val Thevictorian. Her HTC washed out to sea. Almost.

We took a Sunday drive down to the Throwed Roll Restaurant. More on this excursion tomorrow. You drop in ever day, right? Just like it's court-ordered. Let the record show that our tour took nearly six hours. Twice as long as those ill-fated castaways. Oh, there was ill fate all right. Of course it was Hick's fault. You don't think Val would ever be the master of her own fate, do you?

The Pony drove us in his Nissan Rogue. He offered to let Hick drive on the way back, because Hick is not a good passenger. He's not a good driver, either, but that didn't seem to matter to The Pony, who preferred fiddling with his phone instead of paying attention to the road.

Val can take her phone or leave it. In fact, checked it only a couple of times the whole trip, leaving it in the cup holder except when taking pictures of her plate at the Throwed Roll Restaurant. When we got home, Val popped that phone into her pocket, carried in her purse, and made a pit stop. She was headed to town, you know, for her 44 oz Diet Coke.

As I got up from the throne, my tender buttocks, as sensitive as a princess's pea-feelin' back, sensed something amiss with the toilet seat. "Is this seat WET?" Let the record show that Hick had consumed roughly 3 x 34 ounces of Diet Coke at the Throwed Roll Restaurant. That's more that TWICE Val's daily imbibtion. He had planned to visit the rest stop on the way home, but the northbound side declared, NO FACILITIES. On he went, to the next town, and freeloaded the facilities of a Burger King. So it was no surprise that he was already in the house, facilitizing, while Val was putting her sunglasses back in garaged T-Hoe for her town trip. I was in no hurry, having restricted my lunchtime Diet Coke consumption to about 15 ounces. Because of the travel, you know.

I tore off three squares of toilet paper and turned to wipe the seat. After the fact. As I bent to swipe at Hick's carelessness, I heard a PLOP, and my shirt felt lighter. Uh huh. My cell phone, my six-year-old HTC Evo 4G, passed down to me by Genius after he'd had three new ones and mine went kaput, did a swan dive out of my pocket and into the toilet bowl. WTF? I have NEVER in my life dropped a phone into the toilet. Never had a phone get wet. Val's phone has always remained dryer than a Triscuit cracker on a sandpaper napkin at a Carrie Nation Day parade in 1930s Oklahoma.

I grabbed my phone, where it bobbed, just under the surface, not even reaching the bottom yet. I might have screamed. I ran from the bathroom through the bedroom past Hick in his La-Z-Boy, into the kitchen. "MY PHONE! I DROPPED MY PHONE IN THE TOILET!"

The Pony and Hick came running. Faster attention could not have come to me if I had given a STAT page in a Level I Trauma Center.

"Take out the battery!"

"Dry it off!"

"Here's a paper towel!"

"You need rice! Put it in rice!"

"I don't have any rice!"

"I've got the battery! You do the phone!"

"Take out your sim!"

"I don't have a sim!"

"Put it out on the porch in the sun! That'll steam out the water while you go get rice!"

The Pony unwrapped the battery. I unwrapped the phone. I put it out on the porch, and came back in to see The Pony throwing something in the wastebasket.

"I guess I won't be taking THAT ibuprofen. I touched it by accident after I handled your phone. It was laying on the cutting block. And now my hands are wet from washing them, and I can't reach down in the bottle for another one yet."

"Here. Use this paper towel. It's dry."

"Um. NO. I touched it to move it over before I washed my hands."

"It was just a little pee."

"Exactly!"

"In a whole toilet full of water. Not even enough to turn the water a color!"

Am I the only one who finds it amazing that the male of the species, who will reach down the back of his shorts and sniff his fingers to see if he farted or sharted, and/or wipe that finger under the nose of an unsuspecting fellow bro who's having a nap, and who will pick up his own turd and carry it to the locker of his nemesis and flatten it in his enemy's World History book...can get so squeamish about a tiny bit of high-diluted womanly urine? DISCLAIMER: I am NOT inferring that The Pony did these things, because he most certainly did not. But only that I survived 28 years of teaching at the secondary level, and have insider knowledge.

SIGH..."Well, if you've ruined your phone, I guess we'll need to get you another one." Said the man who has twice killed his phones by wearing them on his belt in the rain, and once by knocking it off the holster on his belt and into the toilet.

Here's the patient.

Resting comfortably, sunning himself (sans back and battery after the photo) on the back porch rail, while I was in town buying Gulf Pacific Heart Healthy Low Fat Premium Whole Grain Brown Rice to place in a mini coffin for him. Let the record show that I am not so much concerned about my phone's health as I am about paying the least amount for rice that will probably be ineffective anyway.

Genius is on the case, shopping me a new phone. He said the Samsung Galaxy S7, offered to me by Sprint as an upgrade at a bargain price several days ago, was TOO MUCH PHONE FOR ME. Thank goodness I haven't seen those adds for the toilet-shaped Jitterbug flip phone in a while.

While I was in town, the sky clouded over. "Oh!" I thought. "I need to call Hick and The Pony, and tell them to bring my phone......in...from the porch..."

Yeah. Old habits die hard. Old phones die harder.