Comedy Central Writers' Block Video Clip

I'm just going to admit that all of my earthly belongings, including my brain, is packed in cardboard boxes this week.

Lucky for me, these writers are willing to share what they know about the topic of writers' block...

Stella
Writer's Block
www.comedycentral.com
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Let Those Cookies Cool

It was a dreadful accident... but I realized it one nanosecond too late. I'd just sent the e-mail that would change my life forever -- the one that said "hello"... without the "o".

"Hell!"

I tell you this somewhat crass and very incriminating story to illustrate a point: Spell-check doesn't always catch everything. Which means... we need to let our cookies cool.

My journalist-friend, Annette, told me this: "If you wouldn't pull fresh baked cookies out of the oven and bite in-- why send out writing when it's fresh?"

Because of my hellish e-mail, I agreed with Annette. Over the years I've learned a few tips for letting my writing cool:

• Give pieces I'm submitting for publication at least 24 hours to cool, but not so long I lose interest.
  
• Pick up the piece again when I'm not in a sarcastic mood.
  
• Send it to a writer-friend for a second opinion if I'm really unsure.
  
• Don't hit "send" until I know it's the absolute best I can do (no fair comparing myself to John Grisham, though, or I'd never send out anything).

As far as typos, apparently they can be forgiven. My church-friend who received the e-mail never said a word about it. Except I noticed her husband did preach a sermon about the torments of Hell the next Sunday...

****
What about you? Have you found a specific way to let your writing cool?
****
B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith editorest.

Mount Hermon... A Magical Place

Mount Hermon Christian Writers’ Conference was something I planned to do… you know, after I moved to Hollywood, cast myself as Dolly Parton, and produced my debut film with Matthew McConaughey.

I’d read all about M.H. Most of the authors I admired/stalked got started in this magical place. And I thought, “How nice. Maybe some day after I (a) get a life (b) get a manuscript (c) get a shorter list of lame excuses… I’ll go.”

The truth was… I was terrified.

Then it happened. In a moment of what could only be described as extreme delusional insanity, I submitted an essay to Cec Murphey’s Mount Hermon scholarship competition.

The delusions continued when I learned I was one of the “winners”. This was better than a role in Hollywood, I thought. Plus, now I could skip the wig and implants.

Then I realized… I had to write a book proposal.

I’ll spare you the next several months of despair, gloom, and chocolate. Ultimately I did share my proposal with an agent beneath the beautiful canopy of California redwoods. Then I trudged back to my gorgeously furnished room, looked in the mirror, and saw the booger hanging out of my nose.

I wish I was making that part up.

The next part I am also not making up: I still do not live in Hollywood, do not look like Dolly Parton, and do not film with Matthew McConaughey. I do, however, have a contract with the agent I met at Mount Hermon – which only goes to prove that M.H. is, indeed, a magical place.

For more information about Mount Hermon Christian Writers' Conference, visit www.mounthermon.org/writers

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and the editorest of www.realteenfaith.com. She was in no way bribed or compensated for this post... Mount Hermon really is just that amazing.

Truth vs. Fiction

Instructions:

1. Walk to car.

2. Open door.

3. Insert finger between hinge.

4. Close door.

If you followed the above instructions -- I envy you. Because I would rather follow them than do what I did last week.

Two words: house hunting.

Don't kid yourself. It's not as fun as it sounds. Unlike other types of hunting you don't get to shoot at anything.

Even when I really really wanted to shoot I didn't get to. Not even in self-defense. Not even when the Realtor endangered my life by slamming the golf cart brakes so hard that I turned into human graffiti on the outside of her office.

Not even when I asked her, "Does this house have an alarm system?" and she answered, "It sure does. It's the box right here."

"I don't see any buttons on it," I said. "How does it work?"

"Well," the nice brake-slamming Realtor said, "If you hear someone breaking into the house, you pull this cord and the box chirps at you."

"It chirps at me?"

"Yes. Just to let you know someone's breaking in."

"So... I pull the chord to let myself know someone's breaking in?"

"Exactly."

People have been known to do strange things under stress. I begged. I cried. She finally took me back to her office.

Then the brake-slamming Realtor closed our meeting by handing me a piece of paper.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's a lease. For the house."

"The house that chirps?"

"Yes." She nodded.

I told her to go follow instructions one through four.

****

One thing I love about writing a newspaper column is that I get to make stuff up. Part of this column is truth, part of it is fiction. Which parts do you think are true?

For you fiction writers out there -- how much of your fiction is based on a true story?

I'd love to hear from you.

****

B.J. Hamrick is the editor of Real Teen Faith.

iMistake: What's in A Name?

Americans were visibly shaken last week when Steve Jobs made his (first ever) marketing error – naming Apple’s new product after a feminine hygiene item.

Jokes spread faster than bacteria in the seventh grade boys’ locker room– “Does the iPad come with wings?”

(Just so you know, I’m still buying one. And I wish it WOULD grow wings so it could get here faster…)

So while I stare at my computer screen and hope more zeros appear in my bank account (I can dream, right?), I’m doing some thinking: If Steve Jobs can mess up with a name… is there any hope for me?

Only you can answer that question. And these:

* How do you name a manuscript?

* What’s the most creative title you’ve seen?

* And for those who work in the publishing industry: How important is the title if you want to grab an editor’s attention?

Maybe we could get a conversation going here. And who knows… it might save me from accidentally naming my first book The Taming of the Loo… or something equally embarrassing.

****

B.J. Hamrick is the editor of Real Teen Faith.

Publishing & Platform

…If you or anyone has any advice for me related to how to get started in Christian non-fiction writing (publisher suggestions, writing suggestions, anything...), please share! I feel like now is the time to step out in faith and get started, somehow…

Haelie

Hi Haelie!

I love your question. I think you’re totally off to a great start by creating a blog. I say that because a blog is a great way to test out ideas and see whose needs your non-fiction can meet. The best way to do that is to ask yourself a couple of questions about what you want to accomplish:

First – Who do you want to reach?
Second – What are your qualifications and how can you grow them?

After you’ve determined your audience and its needs, you can begin blogging about those topics. (Incidentally, you may notice that your blog already runs along a particular theme.)

As you blog you can also think about magazines and other publications that reach the same demographic. For instance: I manage realteenfaith.com– so it’s a natural outflow for me to also write for Susie Magazine and similar outlets.

When you publish in various venues, you are building your publishing credits. This is something publishers love.

Of course, that isn’t the only way to get started with non-fiction. Excellent writing can overcome a lack of a platform with some publishers. But in this economy, almost all publishers want to see writers (especially non-fiction writers) growing a platform through social media, magazine articles, etc.

(Here’s my view on it: I am doing myself a favor by building an audience. I’m not doing it just to get a publisher’s interest – I’m doing it because I want my books and articles to reach as many people as they can for the glory of God.)

I'm looking forward to the other Scribble Chicks jumping in with advice about the other aspects of publishing you mentioned.

God bless you as you write for Him!

BJ
Editor, Real Teen Faith
www.realteenfaith.com

17 Simple Steps to Surviving a Writers' Conference

It's my birthday today! (Nothing like shameless solicitation of comments.) So I'm taking a break and sharing with you 17 *simple* ways to survive a writers' conference:

1. Be sure to accidentally leave your cell phone at home. That way you won't be able to talk to anyone for an entire week -- most importantly you will die at the thought of not being able to speak with your fiance for 7 days.

Furthermore, don't bring a calling-card or change for pay phones. This enhances the death-like feeling of fiance-withdrawal.

2. Schedule the first leg of your airline ticket so that you have only 30 minutes to catch your plane in Chicago. This is highly profitable, as it helps you lose pre-wedding weight without going to the gym. (*Gasp... run.... gasp... run...*)

Following step # 1 (leaving your cell phone at home accidentally) in combination with step # 2 (leaving only 30 minutes to run to your plane in Chicago) is especially helpful, since you will soon realize there's no way to contact the conference shuttle to tell them you... missed your flight. You have no cell phone.

3. When you finally arrive in California, be sure to tell the airline how grateful you are that they sent your luggage to Massachusetts. They especially appreciate it when you raise your voice and wave your hands wildly as you thank them.

4. Make the other people riding the conference shuttle wait irritably as you "thank" the airline.

5. Get stuck in the air-conditioningless shuttle on the highway for at least an hour. This helps you become acquainted with the conference faculty and students who are also stuck in the shuttle.
Editors for big publishing houses especially appreciate it when you tell them your life story, including how you wrote your first book complete with crayon drawings at age 2. Be sure to tell them you feel that same book would be perfect for their publishing house. After all, it's already illustrated.

6. Get a cool roommate, and a really stinky dorm mate. For instance, be sure that the person next door is going to snore so loudly you can hear her before you enter the building. Your roommate will be your new best friend when you offer her earplugs.

7. Thank the airline again when your luggage finally arrives... hours later. Do a happy-dance when you find all of your belongings are still inside the bag... including (drumroll please) your cell phone.

8. Call your fiance and forget that there's now a 3 hour time difference. Keep him up 'til 2 a.m. That way he won't be able to stay awake during class tomorrow.

9. Get to know some really awesome and talented writers (funny pictures to come) by seating 7 people in a car designed to fit 3. Duck every time a police car comes by. Then call your chiropractor.

10. Realize you are not a really awesome and talented writer. Choose to chicken-out and not talk with editors OR agents about your books... this especially good for the future of your writing career.

11. Come to your senses when your "mentor" gives you a swift kick in the rear and asks why the heck you're not presenting your book to editors and agents.

12. Meet with a really well-known literary agent over dinner, have her tell you she loves your pitch, then get back to your room and realize there's something hanging out of your nose. (I am not making this up.)

13. Sleep through most of the last day of workshops because you are too tired to lift a finger (other than dialing your fiance's phone number, of course).

14. Plan to have a nine-hour, overnight layover in the Denver Airport. Thank the cleaning lady when she gives you 3 emergency-survival blankets and a pillow.

15. Wonder how many people have slept on that pillow and if they had lice. Then decide you don't care because you're pretty sure you're not going to make it through the night anyway.

(At 2 a.m. in the Denver airport, going out and laying on the runway as the red-eye flights land is a pretty tempting way to end your life.)

16. Be told that it's illegal to get off the airplane when it's not the final destination on your ticket.
Actual conversation with airline attendant and me:

Me: "I have a layover in my fiance's town. I'm getting off the plane there and not getting back on for the last leg of the flight. Can you tag my bags for [name of fiance's city]?"

Airline Attendant (AA): "Ma'am, it's illegal for you to get off the plane in [name of fiance's city]."

Me: "Hypothetically speaking, if I were to get off the airplane in [name of fiance's city], what would happen to my bags?"

AA: *WINK* "Well ma'am, hypothetically speaking, if you got off in [name of fiance's city] your bags would go through to your hometown and you could pick them up the next day."

Me: "But it's illegal for me to get off before my hometown?"

AA: "Absolutely... illegal Ma'am."

17. Get off plane in [Name of fiance's city].

****
B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editorest.

On Dieting and Writing

With the assistance of my doctor (aka The Nazi), I’ve been on a health kick recently. Natural foods. Whole grains. High protein. Basically – if it tastes like dirt I’m allowed to eat it.

It all started out okay with some natural trail mix – no preservatives. I though it tasted pretty good until my boy read the ingredients– raisins, almonds, pumpkin seeds... “Hey,” he said. “You bought a squirrel’s paradise”.

Appropriate since I was feeling a little nutty. (There’s something about nibbling on the close cousin of a pine cone that makes me want to cave. That, and the fact that I can see the Krispy Kreme “Hot Now” sign from my apartment window.)

But I’m staying at it. Why? I want to be healthy, and right now this is what it takes. I don’t do it for me. I do it for my family. I do it for health. I do it for longevity.

OK, I do it for my rapidly expanding waistline.

You see where I’m going with this.

Writing isn’t always fun. There will be days when you want to throw down the keyboard and walk away. Days when you feel a little nutty. Days when one more moment tediously editing sounds about as appealing as eating a pine cone.

When those days happen, try to push through. Do it for the people you want to reach. Do it for their hearts. Do it for yours.

Now where did I put that phone number for Papa John?

****

****
B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editorest.

Finding a Writing Topic

I believe it was Erma Bombeck who said she learned early in her writing career that there were two people she could safely make fun of: herself, and Hitler.

I can relate. There are a lot of funny things I could tell you about people I know, but I've found that writing about my friends tends to alienate them from me.

For instance, I would love to tell you about the time my sister almost ran over me with her car.

Or I would love to tell you about the time my dad's pants split while he was preaching a sermon.

Or I would love to tell you about the time my friend's pants fell spontaneously around his ankles while he was standing at a zoo exhibit.

Or I would love to tell you about the time my friend Anna spurted coffee out of her nose all over the celebrity she was interviewing for the newspaper.

Yes, I would love to tell you about all of these things-- but as you can imagine, it would alienate me from my friends.

(So... as you can see, fodder for good stories is everywhere. As long as you get permission, or change the details of the main character and story enough that your friends don't recognize themselves.)

If you could, what would you love to write about? Here's some practice at that mostly-fiction...

B.J.

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editorest.

I Am Resolved

It's that time of year again. No, I'm not talking about the time of year to get your flu shot. I'm talking about the time of year to make your 2010 resolutions. And if you're like me, there will be 2010 of them.

At the top of the list, of course, is losing a few pounds. When I was in my teens, losing those pounds was as easy as wiggling my pinkie finger a few times to kick start my metabolism.

When I wiggle my pinkie finger now, the chub waves back.

For this reason, I've developed an exercise program for 2010. If you're looking to lose a few pounds, please feel free to target the following problem-areas with me:

The Double-Chin

The solution:

The best workout for the jaw is to talk. A lot. However, if you're like me and you're already about to lose your job for talking too much, a good alternative is to chew on something crunchy. (I have already purchased potato chips for this purpose.)

Thick Thighs

When you work a desk-job, everything you eat migrates to your thighs.

The solution:

Sit in your chair with your feet on your desk. Over time, gravity will pull your fat toward the floor and reshape your legs. This way, you will look skinny from the front.

Big Belly

Trying the whole ab-crunch thing can be time consuming and painful.

The solution: Maternity clothes. These can be purchased at any retail outlet. It doesn't matter if you are male or past child-bearing age. Maternity clothes will still fit you.

Finally, don't forget to take your flu shot this year. Or, you could skip it altogether. If you're like me, you might be one virus away from being your ideal weight.

****

Writing Application Questions:

• How do you plan to trim the writing-fat this year?
• What are your 2010 writing resolutions?

The North Pole & Writers' Conferences

OK, it’s official. B.J.’s lost her mind. What three things could The North Pole and The Writers’ Conference possibly have in common?

1. The Elves

There are A LOT of busy little elves at the writers’ conference. Hundreds of them, in fact. Many of these elves have worked just as hard as you to pull together ideas, pitches, and projects. And they’re working just as hard to get the attention of editors and agents.

But before you stand on your head and jiggle your bell-clad toes, pause. Remember – not all attention is good attention. (Do you REALLY want to be remembered for all time as the elf who wrote his own name in lights on the floor of Santa’s workshop?)

Like your big elf ears, your writing will stand out on its own. Get out there. Share your work. People will notice it for its own merit.

2. The Frivolity

What do you get when you put 300 extroverted elves together?

300 karaoke rounds of Santa Got Run Over by a Reindeer.

Do yourself a favor: enjoy the frivolity. Hang out with people. Don’t refer to it as “networking”. Build relationships because you WANT to, not because you secretly hope to add everyone to your mailing list. And definitely not because you’re hoping the elf with the pointy toes will jab them into the editor at his publishing house and the editor will notice you and publish your brilliant piece of writing that you created while you sat in that boring session about run-on sentences.

3. The Sleigh Ride

Folks, anyone who tells you a writers’ conference isn’t a crazy ride is selling something.

Your emotions will swing from exuberant to exhausted in the span of about three hours. You will be so tired of people that you will want to move to the South Pole just to get away from it all.

Do yourself a favor. Take a break. Skip a meal. Walk through the woods. Ask yourself why you are doing this. Get back to why you started on this crazy ride.

Because when it comes down to it, we aren’t really working for Santa. When we figure it out, we realize it’s about something much, much bigger.

We all just want to be the best little elves we can be.

****
B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editorest.

When You Can't Write Your Own Story

"Don't do it, little girl! Don't go in there!"

I couldn't believe my ears.

Was the lady next to me in the dark theater seriously telling the main character in The Chronicles of Narnia not to go into the wardrobe?

Obviously this woman was scared of what would happen to Lucy as soon as she touched the door handle. And rightly so. But I still wanted to scold the lady for shouting. Clearly... she didn't understand:

Without the wardrobe there would be no story.

You probably see where I'm going with this.

There is nothing more frustrating than being a writer who cannot write her own life story.

Today I cried out to God to heal a situation in my life. Like really, really cried. Desperate tears. As I told Him about my anxieties, I felt His response... without the wardrobe there would be no story.

So here I stand on the threshold of all He has for me. My fingers grasp the door handle... my heart pounds. Unlike Lucy, I am somewhat aware of what is ahead.

I walk through this door on purpose.

As I take my first steps everything inside of me screams, No! Don't do it little girl!

But my heart argues. My heart knows that... without the wardrobe there would be no story.

Jesus -- let this be Your story.

****

B.J. Hamrick loves this blog and Real Teen Faith.

Dear Writing Mentor, Sir --

I used to think that an adult waiting to get an edit back on his book was like a child waiting to get spanked. The kid just wants to get it over with, but he wishes he could skip the event altogether.

In my old age I've become more optimistic:

I now realize that waiting for a writing critique is more like waiting for a doctor's report.

For a few days the patient sits around and worries that there's a tumor and he's going to die.

Then he KNOWS there's a tumor and he's going to die.

Soon dying is all he can thing about. So he eats a lot of chocolate-covered donuts, because he realizes there that if he's going to die, he might as well die happy.

50 pounds later, the report comes back.

"Sir," the doctor says (because he is a polite doctor), "There is a tumor."

"A t-t-t-umor?"

"Yes. Non-malignant."

And though the patient is fat from chocolate-covered donuts, his ears still work.

He realizes he isn't going to die.

He realizes he is now a FAT patient who isn't going to die.

And he says, "Kind doctor sir, would you please take the tumor out? Would you help me take the tumor out? Would you make me a new man? And would you do liposuction to remove all this fat you caused in the first place?"

So, here's a note to say thanks for helping make me a new man. Err... woman.

And... could you do liposuction to all the fatty writing I added to my book while I waited for your report?


Sincerely,
B.J.

How to Advance Your Writing Career

It's amazing how quickly apartment-life ages a person. When I moved into this complex seven months ago, I was active, healthy, and 23-years-old.

Now I'm lazy, fat, and just scored 73-years-old in one of those "find your true age" tests online.

Is it just me... or am I graying prematurely?

Despite the stress of loud parties in the apartments beside us, robberies in the apartments beneath us, and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts in the store across the street, I've discovered that apartment-life is actually good for one thing: my writing career.

Here's why:

• I can't sleep -- because when our 19-year-old-neighbor is not having parties, he's banging nails into a log outside our window (I'm not making this up). What is he doing -- anger management? The only thing I can possibly do to manage my anger at 2 a.m. (besides ring his neck) is -- you guessed it -- write.
• I can't exercise -- because it's not like I'm going to go jogging around the complex when there are armed robbers on the loose. So I -- you guessed it -- write.
• I can't clean house -- because it's a small apartment and you can only scrub the porcelain so many times before the acid in the cleaner eats away at the potty seat and your husband falls in. So I -- you guessed it -- write.
• I can't eat -- because according to my physician's scale, I weigh 7 pounds more than I did seven months ago. That's one pound per month for my math-impaired readers. I can't afford to gain any more weight or people will start asking me when the baby's due. So I -- you guessed it -- write.

So even though I'm lazy, fat, and 73-years-old, my writing career is advancing.

I just hope I live to see the rest of it.

Curing Writers' Block

One of my friends recently told me that Charles Schultz, the creator of the famous Peanuts cartoon strip, claimed that his hardest work of the day was when he stared out the window.

"Wouldn't that be fabulous?" my friend scoffed. "I wish I had the life of an artist."

Then my friend glared at me.

I knew what my friend was talking about. After all, anyone (like me) who has time to stare out a window must live the life of luxury.

I don't stare out windows anymore. I used to, as a kid. That's when I developed my best story ideas – in those quiet hours. Then people started to worry about me. They convinced me that I was either:

a) Mentally ill

b) Vitamin D deficient

c) Going to jail some day because I was a freeloader who refused to do actual work

So in an effort to prove that I was stable, healthy, and independent, I decided there would be no more staring out windows. I would multitask. I would do household chores while I thought.

This was all great in theory, except for the time I accidentally cleaned my mom's rug with bleach instead of carpet cleaner. Or the time I accidentally washed my sister's pants with the ballpoint pen. Or the time I (accidentally?) fed the dog refried beans instead of dog food (hey – they smelled the same, but the results were definitely different).

Unfortunately, this pattern has continued into my adult life. I can no longer think while staring out a window. I have to have some sort of fabric-altering, household goods-damaging chemical in my hands.

Last week I was proud of myself. I will not clean with any chemicals while I think about writing, I thought. I will just wash the couch cushion covers.

With the bleach safely out of reach, I poured the mild detergent into the washer and watched the cushion covers spin.

Perfect. My story came together wonderfully in my mind while the machine worked.

An hour later I pulled the cushion covers out of the dryer. Oops, I realized. My niece was in need of some new couch cushions. She was in luck, too, because the ones I just dried on hot would fit her Barbie couch perfectly now.

My husband was calm about the whole ordeal. We could use the cushions as cup coasters, he suggested. Or hang them on tiny wires and make earrings out of them.

I rejected his ideas. After all, I would be afraid of losing such an expensive piece of jewelry.

It's been a week, and I feel another bout of writers' block coming on. Last I checked, though, my husband had hidden all the harsh chemicals and disconnected the dryer unit.

If I keep up with this writing business, I may never have to work again.

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editor-est.

Moving up from the Kiddie Table

Every time I look at my legs, I marvel at the fact they can walk. It's not that there's anything wrong with them –- it's just that I didn't use them until I was 12 years old, and that was because I finally told my sister to stop carrying me around.

Hello, my name is B.J., and I have a disease called "The Baby." Statistics show that 100% of families with children have one like me. These kids may learn to walk, talk, and think by themselves -- but their families will never acknowledge it.

I tried the denial thing. I went to college. I got a job. I got married. I acted like an adult. My family even cheered me on. Until I wrecked my car, forgot to feed my husband, left the laundry in the washer for 16 days, and –- well –- generally acted like The Baby.

Recently I decided to have my family over for an intervention. I would prove that I wanted to be an adult. I would serve them lunch, show them my well-kept house, and have adult-like conversation. Maybe they would even let me move over from the Kiddie Table.

About an hour into the family meeting, I was proud of how things were going. Our adult conversation ranged from how lovely my house was, to how nice the weather was, to how pregnant my aunt felt.

"You don't happen to have a pregnancy test?" she asked.

I couldn't believe it. This was the most important day of my life. My aunt was asking me for a pregnancy test. She was acknowledging that I was an adult.

"Why yes," I said. "I do. I also have a little cup for you to pee in. I use it all the time for my pregnancy tests."

I opened the cabinet but the cup wasn't there.

"That's strange," I said. "It was right…"

I turned just in time to see it. My sister was holding the pregnancy test cup, sipping root beer from it.

In the words of Dave Barry, "I am not making this up."

I couldn't speak. There was only one thing I could do: laugh.

I laughed so hard I cried. My aunt laughed so hard she cried. My mom laughed so hard she cried.

My sister just cried. And yelled.

"WHAT were you thinking?" she shouted. "WHO would keep a pregnancy test cup with her drinking cups?"

And silently but truly, we all knew the answer: The Baby would.

****
3 Application questions for writers:

1. Does your place in the birth order affect your writings? (I.E.: I'm the youngest child; I'm the entertainer in the family. Therefore the comedy genre.)

2. What qualities can you add to your characters based on their birth-order?

3. Do you believe any of this birth-order junk?

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editor-est.

Rejection and Dying Roadkill Syndrome

A while back I was hanging out with some kids. They wanted to watch Bambi (insert gag reflex) and after much begging (my begging them not to) I finally agreed.

Everything was OK until we reached the scene where Bambi's mom died and one of the little boys started to cry.

"Don't worry," his older sister comforted him, "Maybe Bambi will get a step-mother."

I love the way children think. They're so resilient. Bambi's mom is dead? No big deal. We'll find a replacement.

Me? I'm not so optimistic. Of course, I am the girl who strung herself over the sofa this week and moaned like a piece of dying roadkill because my ear hurt. I was convinced I was drawing my final breath.

Turns out I had a simple case of strep throat. (Throat? Ear? I think my pain receptors were a little confused.)

Much to my surprise, the strep throat did not kill me. This little fact may clue you into the fact that I'm not an optimist.

What about you?

• Do you find it difficult to feel positive about your writing?
• Do you experience fears and doubts that your words will ever accomplish anything?
• Do you store manuscripts on your computer in hopes that one day it will crash and you won't have to send out your work?

Are you like me? Are you a non-optimist?

I have good news for you: optimism can be developed.

And it must be developed. Because in the publishing world, optimism is like oxygen. You need it to survive. Otherwise you will curl up and die.

Eventually, you will lie on your couch and moan like a piece of injured roadkill. It will happen. Rejection will hurt.

Get up off the couch.

You are not drawing your final breath.

You are not dying.

Your manuscript is only a little sick. Get the help it needs. Go to conferences. Learn the business. Study the craft.

You can do this. Keep writing. Keep improving. Keep moving forward.

And when you are rejected, watch Bambi. Lie on the couch. Moan a while.

Then be grateful. Your life is not as bad as his.

After all, he never got that step-mother.

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, newspaper columnist, and Real Teen Faith editor-est.

On Tweezing and Writing

I always wanted cute eyebrows like the other girls. You know -- the kind that curve and then come down perfectly in just the right spot. But no. My eyebrows wander haphazardly across my forehead like a village of lost caterpillars.

"Don't do it," my friend Amy warned when I told her I wanted to fix my brows. "Don't touch them."

Amy and I have been friends since we were three years old. She has seen the effects of my impulsive self-makeovers.

"Do you not remember the perm that made you look like Richard Simmons?" she asked. "Or the rub-on tan that turned you into a crunchy carrot stick?"

"But…"

"I'm telling you," she said. "Leave this to the professionals."

"Leave this to the professionals," I told myself as I walked into the salon. "Leave this to the professionals." But somehow placing my fuzzy face into the hands of a stranger with hot wax was not comforting… no matter how professional that stranger was.

"Waxing?" the man at the counter asked when he took one look at my caterpillars.

"Yes. How'd you…"

"Right this way."

What happened next is a secret every salon guards more carefully than the government guards its most filthy dirt.

"Lie down," the woman with the hot wax said. That's right. You read that correctly. She told me to lie down.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "What is this? Minor surgery?"

"No speak English," she said. "Lie down."

I made her job easy, because with the words "No speak English," every hair on my entire body stood on end.

What was I doing? I wondered. What was I thinking?

RIP! RIP! Suddenly my face stung like I'd spent 2 days on the beach with no sunscreen.

"Did you leave my eyelashes?" I asked.

Hot Wax Lady eyed me suspiciously as she plopped the mirror in my lap. Shakily, I picked it up and stared.

"You like?" she asked, smiling.

"I… I… I…" I tried to breathe.

It's a good thing I was already on my back.

I'd never seen anything like it. Tiny strands of hair wandered aimlessly above my eyelids. Everything else was gone. Gone.

I didn't like the caterpillars, but they were better than the little line of picnic ants now wandering across my skull.

My puffy eyes welled with tears. How could I ever show my face in public again?

"Looks nice," Hot Wax Lady said. "Seven dollars."

It's been 2 days since I almost slugged Hot Wax Lady. I taught her a few new words in English, but I'm not sure I can repeat them here.

What I can repeat here is that I learned something from all of this. The more I thought about it the more I realized -- my eyebrows weren't the only thing that could be over-waxed.

No, I'm not talking about the hair on my upper lip. I am talking about my words. That's right -- my words.

I don't know about you, but sometimes a little voice inside of me whispers, "Hey you! Your prose is wild, fluffy, and distracting. Rip it out!"

That voice is right. Unfortunately, I take it a little too seriously. My self-edits leave the piece looking like a red, puffy, swollen wordless wonder. The journalist inside of me screams, "Just the facts! Just the facts!" And I obey.

If you're like me and you tend to over-edit, here's a piece of advice: ask someone else to do it for you. Or in the words of my friend Amy, LEAVE THIS TO THE PROFESSIONALS.

But do yourself favor. If that editor says, "No speak English," run out of the door as fast as your hairy little legs can carry you.

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B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, newspaper columnist, and Real Teen Faith editor-est.

The Agent

Recently I boarded a plane and prepared for the longest flight of my life – seven hours from coast to coast. No problem, I thought. I’m sitting in the front row. There’s easy access to the bathroom.

I didn’t count on the Gatorade.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, I was dehydrated. After six days of crying my way through the beautiful sessions at the writers' conference, I had no tears left. I needed to replenish.

The literary agent on the plane home was nice about my emotional state. “One of the editors at the conference really liked your stuff,” he said. "I think." Then he shuffled to the back of the plane while I tried not to focus on my swelling bladder.

Six minutes and six Gatorades later, I knew I needed to use the bathroom. Uhoh, I thought. Getting to the bathroom in the front of the plane was somewhat like trying to gain an audience with the Pope. Only more difficult.

This is because after 9/11, flight attendants were trained to – in the words of Napoleon Dynamite – use their “illegal ninja moves from the government”. If a person lingered anywhere near the cockpit hoping for a glimpse – just a tiny glimpse – of a “vacant” sign on the door, the crew reacted like the plane was spiraling into oblivion.

This mood fed a passenger camaraderie, somewhat like the Harding-Kerrigan friendship in the 1994 winter Olympics. Passengers were allowed to, in the name of good competition, bash each other in the legs in order to make it the bathroom first.

After about 10 minutes of observing this Harding-Kerrigan dynamic, I could hardly believe my eyes. The competition was over. I could – without risking my life – simply walk up to the bathroom and open the door.

My heart pounded. My feet darted. My fingers grasped the door handle.

So close.

“B.J.,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Please be seated at this time.”

I couldn’t believe it. They were making me sit down. My bladder screamed. My mind reeled. My eyes stared at the carpet.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have thought the bathroom was empty? How could I have let all these people stare at me?

Wait a second.

How did the flight attendant know my name? With all the time-consuming illegal ninja move training from the government, how did he have a spare second to know who was sitting in the front row?

He didn’t.

My gaze wandered to the back of the plane. There he stood – right next to the microphone – the laughing literary agent. The one who could talk anyone into publishing anything had just talked the flight attendant into publishing my humiliation.

In a cruel twist of fate, a 4-year-old beat me to the bathroom. As the door slammed in my face, I realized just how much like the publishing world this plane ride was. Last year an editor loved my work – presented it to the rest of the team – and I was turned down in a later round of decision-making. Just when I was close – so close – I was asked to sit down.

Beware, publishing world. I am tired of your jokes. I am not above your games. My creative bladder is swelling, and if you don’t watch out – things are going to get messy.

****

BJ Hamrick is a journalist, humorist and editor for www.realteenfaith.com.

Writing Saved My Life

It was the summer of 2001, and I was 17 years old. I wanted only one thing that summer: to die. For seven years I'd struggled with an infection that affected my brain and my heart – leaving me depressed, alone, and afraid. I wanted to end it all.

Then I met Annette.

It was an accident, actually. I was surfing the Web one day when I came across Teen Light Magazine, an online journal published by Annette Dammer. I submitted poetry to the
site, and Annette immediately e-mailed me back. "This is great!" she said. "You have a gift."

At first I didn't believe her, but I kept writing. Working for Teen Light gave me something to do on dark sleepless nights – nights when the pain was so great I wanted to die – nights when suicidal thoughts raged through my mind.

Annette's words kept coming back to me. "You have a gift…" The question haunted me - could she be right? What if writing was the reason God had put me on earth? What if my life actually had a purpose? What if I could write to encourage others – even if I had to do it from my mattress?

Slowly, Annette gained my trust. I told her about myself, my illness, and the hopelessness I felt inside. "God is using you," she told me. "Don't give up."

That summer, Annette taught me how to write a query letter. She slammed my inbox with writing-market information. Before long, I started to secretly send out queries. My first article was soon published by Focus on the Family Magazine.

I danced around the living room as the slippery white pages rubbed against my fingertips. At that moment, something inside of me came alive. I knew. My struggles weren't in vain. God was using them to encourage other hurting people through the words He gave me.

It's been eight years since the day I danced around my living room. Eight years since I wrote my first query letter. Eight years, and I've been published over 150 times – each article a gentle miracle from God's hand. But there's another miracle from God's hand: the miracle of my healing. Not long ago, He touched my body and made me whole.

Then the real crisis came. What should I do with my life? What should I do with my new-found health? I spent months on my knees before God, crying out for guidance.

The answer came clearly one cold winter day - go to journalism school.

"Journalism school?" my friends asked. "Are you crazy? Writing is a hobby – not a calling. Why be a journalist when there were so many other jobs out there?"

My answer was simple: everyone has a story. Every story needs to be told.

From the beginning of time, God penned the words of our lives His book. We may not understand why He chooses the tragic – the painful – or difficult moments.

But we'll love the ending – if we'll stick around long enough to see how it turns out.

I'm so glad I did.

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BJ Hamrick loves to live out the dreams God has for her. One of those dreams is Real Teen Faith, a place where she mentors teen writers - just like Annette once mentored her.