This little girl is worth reading again. I am busy this week editing. Sooooo for your repeat pleasure, I dug this out of archives. Enjoy, it is better the second around.
A while back I was caught up on a thread that morphed from a discussion as to the need a Women’s Fiction workshop at RWA Nationals next year in NYC. (At this printing, the Women’s Fiction Chapter will hold a workshop for its members at the RWA-Nationals in New York City in June.)
Okay, so I weighed in, and then sat back and watched bits and pieces of responses, i.e. there should have been a WF workshop at the last Nationals; how can we insure a good workshop next year; who would run it and what would the format be?
The subject continued threading its way across space, twisted itself into a braid and became a new topic. Somewhere between should there be a women’s fiction workshop and who should do it and the last time I checked … it became … who wants to read about old farts having sex?
It might actually have been … who wants to read topics about old farts?
Did I just compress a five-hour discussion about the value of the older writer, the aging heroine, the issues of the baby boomer who still spends all the money into … who wants to read about old farts having sex?
Yes, I did. And I didn’t do it to be a smart ass either. I did it because as a vintage lady in my prime, I’m tired of labels.
What happens when Dick and Jane and their dog Spot turn … what 50? Okay, be daring. Dick and Jane become 60? They should therefore; (a) commit suicide as it is indecent for anyone over the age of 40 to have sex and enjoy it; (b) take themselves to a nunnery or monastery; (c) devote the rest of their life to good works and leave the fun stuff to the new writers; or (d) none of the above.
What? Because there is a rash of YA writers and a larger rash of YA agents is no excuse to get depressed. It’s good stuff for my grandkids to read. Don’t get carried away over new trends. When the current in the river changes, lean into it and it will take you safely home.
If I am fortunate enough to meet these talented, successful women at a conference or in line at the shoe store, I would take a minute to introduce myself.
Hello girls! I am an old fart. I am a crabby, old fart with a “tude” beginning with a capital “A.”
Once upon a time I played by the rules. I did my time as a responsible citizen, protested at the right rallies, made beans for a living and told myself it was romantic.
I am a grandmother who was once a hippie. Yeah kids, granny wore cut offs, long straight hair, went bra-less in tie-tied T-shirts, loved loud music and ate cold pizza for breakfast.
All my main characters are New York City women. They live in my old neighborhoods in Brooklyn, and all over the five boroughs, they could be Italian, Irish, Jewish, Greek, Dominican or a mixed bag. My characters live in my head and I love doing strange and wonderful things with them.
I don’t care how old a writer is as long as I like her story. If her heroine is a young girl who lives on a farm and falls in love … one more time with feeling … and falls in love with the older rancher across the valley … who am I to doubt her ability to tell a damn good story?
With or without categories, sub-categories or labels, we are women who love to write and love the process of telling a tale to make you smile or cry.
Yes, and since I followed this loop all day, I also gathered a dozen or so more web pages of writers I want to read.
Gees Louise …
what a way to spend the day
fOIS In The City
Follow this link to the "crab."