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3 Ways to Expand Your Literary Network

By on November 26, 2012 in creative writing, inspiration, quarter-life crisis, true story

Note: this post originally appeared on Cville’s WriterHouse blog.

When I moved to Charlottesville a year ago, I spent my first three months holed up in my townhouse, writing furiously. Four hundred pages and zero social interactions later, I knew something had to give.

Writing is a solitary endeavor, but the extrovert in me was losing it. I clung to the salespeople at Belk because they sounded so genuine when they asked how my day was.

“Great!” I sobbed, clawing at their sensible lapels. “I just moved here from New Jersey, and it’s really great to be in this mall with all of these people and bright lights!”

I’d moved to Charlottesville to get uncomfortable, to shift out of my corporate routine and into a creative one. But I discovered something in those first months: writing without company felt less like a kick in the ass and more like a blanket of isolation and despair.

I shook my post-verbiage shell shock by connecting with my local literary community.  In this season of Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to be surrounded by caring, supportive writers, and I want to share three easy ways you can do the same.

1. Take a Class

Nothing gets conversation moving like shared experience. In-class prompts, readings, and homework assignments not only sharpen your skills, they also offer weekly connections to like-minded writers.

Classes at Writerhouse gave me a respite from the dark and lonely places in my mind, the fear of the hours it takes to get a few words peppered on the page. I’m a real addict—I just finished my third non-fiction class—and the people I’ve met have been just as special as my education. Some of us even meet outside of class to continue writing together. Bonus!

2. Get Social

November is winding down, but NaNoWriMo is still in full swing. National Novel Writing Month is the perfect time to introduce yourself to writers in Charlottesville and across the country.

Twitter is a lonely writer’s paradise in November, when @NaNoWordSprints challenges writers to write as much as possible in given time frames. Take on their prompts, including key words and plot twists, and you’ll get involved in the conversation fast.

You should also search #NaNoWriMo on Twitter. You’ll discover a list of writers who encourage one another, and you can follow and engage with those who share your interests. I recommend starting with @CvilleWrimos.

3. Share Your Story

The easiest way to expand your literary network is to simply introduce yourself as a writer. Too many people hesitate to share their interest in writing, defeating themselves with ideas like “I have a day job, so I’m not really a writer,” or “I haven’t published anything yet, so my work doesn’t even count.” Self-criticism comes standard with a writer’s temperament, but it shouldn’t stop you from owning your art.

As soon as you say to a new acquaintance, “My name is _______, and I am a writer,” a world of connections will open to you. Everyone knows someone who is a writer, especially in Charlottesville, and once you share your passion with the world, the world will come to you.

Your Community Is Waiting

One year ago, I faced a long, dark winter without many friendships and too much angst about my work. Now I meet for weekly lunches with a tight-knit group of women, and we hold each other accountable to our writing goals. I’ve met journalists and essay writers, storytellers and poets, and I quietly thank the passion that binds us. If you’re reading this piece, I suspect you share it too, and once you start looking, you’ll find us everywhere.

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This is the paaaaaaart of me where I publish something in an honest-to-God newspaper

By on November 12, 2012 in art, true story

I wrote an article for our local weekly paper!

Here it is: proof that I can spend 20 hours on something that takes five seconds to read.

The piece is about a Charlottesville non-profit that installs sculptures all over town. It was really fun to learn more about it, and especially fun to drink sparkling apple juice with the yogis who coronated their friend’s work. Three cheers for the arts and local editors who trust a stranger when she claims to know how to write.

 

 

 

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One Year Ago Tonight

By on September 19, 2012 in mindfulness, true story

It’s been one year since I packed one more box, bought one last sandwich, and drank one more cup of coffee on the Jersey Shore.

My dad and I ate breakfast at a chrome-slicked diner. I asked for jalapeños in my omelet and the waitress to take our picture.

My mom and I met at Dunkin Donuts.  My sister, who works behind the counter and triggered my habit years ago, gave me her signature Vanilla Spice, perfectly tempered with sugar and cream.

We sat by the window and looked out at the sea and didn’t say much (for once). A postcard family in a donut shop. I was about to ruin the picture.

But even eleventh hour nerves could not cloud the impatience of  long-distance love. The moment had been a long time coming. The time, I knew, was now.

I drove away slowly and felt my heart heave.

For hours I sang under my coffee breath. Southern Crossing, a mix CD: it took my mind off tears. I listened to songs I’d known long ago and watched the mileage climb.

Gray skies and rain across PA, down the spine of West Virginia. The clouds looked like they do today: blurry backslashes floating through trees.

I came into Charlottesville after night fell. I got twisted around, turned a U in a lot. When I found my development, the storm had passed; I slipped up a hill toward a back row of houses. My new numbers hung on featureless siding, bronze digits shining beneath a wet porch lamp.

I parked in a spot intended for residents. My bag grew weightier as I climbed the stairs. I stood at the door and paused a moment, inhaling slowly, tasting in the air.

Three hundred miles from life as I knew it, shivering trees shucked rain off their leaves. Families moved behind closed windows. Mountains hunched in looming darkness. And light spilled out beneath my new doorway: a puddle, a promise, around my feet.

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When They Asked for Donations, This is Not What They Meant

By on September 7, 2012 in humor, true story

Last night I went to a party.

An open bar and buffet combo kicked off Year Four of the Future Fund, a giving circle in which Boyfriend participates. It’s a very progressive, very democratic approach to philanthropy that works as follows:

1. A group of hip young people contribute several hundred dollars each.

2. Said people vote on the category of charities they’d like to support that year. (Past examples include heathcare, “the youth”, etc.)

3. These hip young people solicit grant applications from local charities in said category. Thanks to the magic of pooled resources, these grants usually hit the $50,000 mark.

4. With infinite patience, the Future Fund grants committee culls applications to the Top Three.

5. Everyone votes for their favorite, and the winning organization makes good on their proposal.

Pretty awesome, right? I sat in on a meeting last year and realized there is no way I could ever do it. We debated some basic formatting questions about the application, and it took our committee three hours to make two decisions. One of which was still up for debate.

Anyway, I spent last night hobnobbing with some beautiful, infinitely patient Future Fund members and eating an inordinate amount of cheese.

A local DJ killed the turntables, gold and fuschia lights sparkled overhead, and a high-velocity fan blew everyone’s hair into glamorous, shining waves. Whilst surrounded by people who looked like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yours Truly managed, via humidity and a poorly-executed ponytail, to look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
God bless everyone else, without whom we would have neither non-profits nor functional democracy. Amusement was my charitable donation for the evening.

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Couch for Sale (Unicorns Not Included)

By on August 9, 2012 in design, true story

When I first moved to Charlottesville, Boyfriend’s blue leather love seat was parked in the middle of the living room. It was functional, sure, but I had my own couch which, for complicated reasons such as comfort and aesthetic appeal, I demanded we keep.

As a result, Big Blue here needed to go.

Boyfriend advertised it on Craigslist, but over the course of several weeks, nobody bit.

This surprised me, since our other unseemly items of furniture sold in a few days, if not hours.

“Do you think you made it too expensive?” (Clearly the fault lay with Boyfriend.)

“Is $100 too much?”

I shrugged.

Boyfriend looked thoughtful. “Does it matter that the recliner doesn’t, you know, recline?”

“I don’t think that’s a big deal.”

“What about the scuff marks?”

“Um–”

“Or the awkward shape? The shape is pretty awkward.”

“Wait, did you say all of this in your listing?”

He laughed.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’m the marketer, after all.

What we really needed was a way to grab attention while simultaneously distracting potential buyers from the couch itself. I used my refined Photoshop skills to make the most obvious improvement:

 I can’t say this for sure how effective these photos would have been (very), because the couch sold about an hour after I made them. When the two neon-spandex-sporting undergrad girls came to pick it up, I couldn’t help but think somehow, someway, the unicorns had done the trick.

 

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Because With Me, Everything’s a Production

By on August 7, 2012 in true story

Set a course quickly. Realize that you will be wrong, and plan on making course corrections often.”

Journalist Carl Richards said this in reference to long-term financial planning, but I think it’s true for most long-term, goal-oriented endeavors. In my case, it’s true for Doctor Derby.

A few months ago, I announced that I would merge this site with my new marketing communications business. In time, however, I discovered that creative essays and goofy blog posts clouded the aim of my professional content. My site felt unfocused, and I became tentative, unwilling to write the sort of true-life stories that powered my blog in the past.

Sometime between June and blistering July, I decided to build a brand-new website that I would dedicate solely to my professional work. As a result of several months’ tinkering, I am pleased to finally introduce:

If you’re an artist, a fellow freelancer or a small business owner, I hope you’ll visit my gallery of free tools and creative branding ideas. As a freelancer, I learn something new every day, and I’m excited to keep sharing my insights with you. To learn more about the site, visit this page or click on the image above.

And now that my professional site is up and running, I can’t wait to reclaim Doctor Derby as a humor blog. Stay tuned, dear reader–I feel a story coming on.

 

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Call Yourself a Blogger and What Do You Get?

By on June 13, 2012 in creative writing, notes, true story

The chance to guest post!

DeeDeesLivingWill is the journal of DeeDee Stewart, the creator and performer of Dirty Barbie. She began the playwriting process through entries on this site, which is an awesome read for anyone who enjoys storytelling, humor, Southern childhoods, or  wonders what it takes to prepare for an international theater festival.

In yesterday’s post, 3 Things I Learned While Shouting ‘It’s Awesome and Dirty But Not Like You Think!’, I shared some highlights from our PR campaign for DeeDee’s one-woman show, Dirty Barbie and Other Girlhood Tales.

WriterHouse is Charlottesville’s home for everybody who wants to sharpen their craft, drop in on writer talks, seminars, or connect to the creative community. It’s a wonderfully intimate space (complete with coffee machines and classrooms), and the non-profit encourages writers of all abilities to share feedback and company in this often lonely craft.

Authors, editors, and other accomplished creative folks offer their insights on the WriterHouse blog, so I brought my A game for my guest post, 5 Free Virtual Tools to Help You Keep Your Focus. Needless to say, my A game includes anthropomorphic squirrels.

Also a lot less sleep.

I went to bed at 3:30AM. Because I wanted a new site design.

As much as I liked the minimalist aesthetic of my last site facelift, I had a few problems with the landing page and couldn’t resolve them in my chosen theme. As a result, I decided to choose a new one. As I learned in March, this process can take as long as a secondary education. On the bright side, I will share the upshot of this hair-raising process in a tutorial soon.

I woke up half an hour later because I had a dog on my legs and a cat on my head.

Boyfriend and I are pet sitting, so our normal animal-to-human ratio (1:2) is way out of whack (3:2). Technically this doesn’t relate to blogging, but you can bet I’ll blog about it soon. (Hint: it might sound like this.)

In sum, dear reader, check out those excellent blogs, and I apologize for any visual weirdness on mine. I promise I’m losing sleep over it.

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PR Is What Happens When I’m Making Other Plans

By on June 5, 2012 in creative writing, true story

Once upon a time a girl fell in love and quit her job and moved 300 miles to live with the boy with whom she fell in love. She kept her blog and her couch and four boxes of books. She made plans with broad strokes: to sleep in a few days, then fix up her office and write her first novel. She envisioned a parade of clamoring agents.

After reorganizing their house with corporate comedown neurosis and nurturing fear of blank Word documents, the girl questioned her original “goals.” She still loved her boyfriend and enjoyed her new city, but artistic impulse stalled like a broken current. She began to suspect it might never come back.

Then the girl’s birthday rolled around, and her boyfriend bought tickets to see a play. “The playwright’s a blogger, just like you, and I hear she’s pretty funny,” he said. The girl closed her computer and suppressed a yawn; she’d wished for a bowl of brownie mix.

A few days later, they went to the show. The girl found herself chucking, then laughing, then crying. She felt the words moving under her skin, a story hot and cold and told by a master. When she stood up to applaud, she heard gentle buzzing, like stage lights or a far-off generator.

“You’re smiling,” he said when they left the theater.

“I want to go home and write.”

*            *            *

Seven months later, the girl knows a few things. She knows she needs people to feel well adjusted, and she knows that great novels are hard to complete. She talks of herself as a writer/consultant, a marketer who likes great ideas and design. She says these things and knows there’s no knowing. She tries not to worry about it.

At the gym one day, she recognizes a woman: blonde hair and big eyes, a megawatt smile. It’s the playwright from the show.

They talk a little and sweat a lot. The girl learns the show will come back to town. She decides she must see it again.

Then a stranger thing happens than two almost-strangers bumping into each other in a very small city. The actress hears that the girl is a freelancer, and she needs someone to promote her show. Would the girl be interested?

*            *            *

And that is the story of how I came to be the publicist for DeeDee Stewart’s play, Dirty Barbie and Other Girlhood Tales. The show goes up in just two weeks, and we have some really fun stuff planned. I am SO excited to be part of the process, and since the world of PR is new to me, I plan to blog about it. In other words, prepare for the deluge–and if you’re in C’ville, you should buy your ticket before they sell out. :)

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My (Recent) Life in Pictures

By on April 13, 2012 in creative writing, true story
Lest you think I’ve died (or forgotten my promise to make some changes around here), I haven’t! I am deep in the midst of a professional makeover. Think Princess Diaries or Mean Girls or She’s All That but imagine the main character keeps her glasses and eyebrow hair and geeks out about marketing in cyberspace. It’s like that!
Soon enough I will reveal a pretty, polished website, complete with snappy blog posts and hip consultant services to boot. Until then, allow me to share some special moments from these past two weeks.
1. Road trips.

I visited my family in New Jersey for the holiday. Not only did my car survive the scary rattling sound in its engine (bless you, Shell station service man!), I discovered a scenic route with vineyards, verdant fields, and a significant number of cows.
2. A tricked-out Easter.
As Jon Stewart recently noted, Easter kicks ass. This year, my Peeps obsession skyrocketed when we discovered these beautes in unopened shells from 2010.

Later, I hid and hunted Easter eggs with three twenty-somethings and my mom. Before scouring my childhood backyard, we took a sentimental picture:

3. Guest visits.
When I returned to Virginia, I brought a dear friend with me. We spent the day at Yogaville, an ashram nestled in the hills of Buckingham county. In the LOTUS Shrine we meditated on religious synchronicity and the eight limbs of yoga.

We also ate butter cream frosting by the spoonful. Thank goodness for innovative cupcakeries.

So that’s the scoop. For now, I’m back to copy and coding—beauty is pain, as they say. I wish you a weekend as happy as a dog in sunshine!

(That’s really happy, by the way.)
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Qu’est-ce Qui Se Passe?

By on March 20, 2012 in humor, true story

Thank you, middle school textbooks, for making me believe that all Parisians wear 90s crewnecks and eat hoagies the size of their torsos.
I love non-Americans. If I hear an accent in a coffee shop or on the street, I will sidle over and creepily eavesdrop until I identify its origin.
“I think he’s Italian,” I hiss at whoever I’m with. “Maybe Spanish.”
“что она делает?” The stranger cups his latte protectively.
“Or Russian!” I raise my finger triumphantly. “Doesn’t that sound like Russian?”
Of course this is a rhetorical question. My friends are miles away by now.
In sixth grade, I elected to learn French. I stuck with it all the way through my senior year AP exam, when I laughed audibly into the tape recorder and failed to conjugate anything more complex than qu’est-ce qui se passe? because truly, I had no idea.
Perhaps the universe meant to punish me for my failure as a polyglot. While past employment and general obsession won me a number of non-American friends, only three were French. And they weren’t even friends, really.
The first was my high school French instructor, Mr. McCormack. He regaled our classes with authentic French videos and short, twisted stories featuring balloons and little boys who were actually ghosts; he described his European childhood as that of a five-year-old who trotted to the town fountain to sail a toy boat on sunny afternoons. It sounded so charming, so quaint, so like storybook Madeleine. Assuming Madeleine grew up, had a sex change, moved to the States and became inexplicably fond of Nascar.
French persons #2 and #3 were a married couple who worked at my old office. The woman was tall and elegant, a sweet-spoken scientist with wide eyes and covetable shoes. Her husband was funny. When the marketing candy jar was empty, he poked his head into my office demanding “gooms”. When I asked what the hell he was talking about, he rewarded me with flailing hand gestures and exaggerated chewing.
“Gum?”
“Gooms.”
“Gums?”
Furious nodding. I handed him a packet of Trident Mangoberry, the only unconsumed edible in my desk drawer. “Please keep it,” I said as his eyes lit up. “Think of it as back payment for the Statue of Liberty.”
He popped in a piece and started chewing. “Theese ees terrible.”
“I thought it might be.”
He made a face. “You are terrible.”
Then we laughed and laughed…
Now, sitting by the open window in my people-less office, I long for more international humor. Imagine my delight when yesterday I discovered a video that offers not only a funny Frenchman but tiny baby animals as well.
I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!
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