Class canceled for tomorrow -- Tuesday, Sept. 28

Our class for tomorrow -- Tuesday, Sept. 28 -- is canceled. We'll pick up where we left off on Thursday.

Thank you!

Pendulum, UPG's Literary Magazine, Accepting Submissions

Pendulum, the literary magazine of Pitt-Greensburg, is now accepting submissions for the Fall 2010 issue. The editors are looking for poetry, prose, artwork and photography. Multiple submissions are fine (no more than three please). All writing submissions should be kept to 1,000 words or fewer.

Submissions can emailed and attached as Microsoft Word documents, then sent
to UPGPendulum@gmail.com.

New Novel from UPG Writing Program Graduate (Our First-Ever!)

Dave Newman, a 1993 graduate of the UPG Writing Program, has a new (and first) novel out now. His novel, "Please Don't Shoot Anyone Tonight," is a crime and coming-of-age story set in nearby Irwin, Pa. It's the first-ever book by a UPG Writing Program grad. Ever. Check it out here. And for more about Dave, visit his website here.

National Undergraduate Lit Mag Seeks Submissions

Here's a great chance for you lit-writer types. The inaugural edition of Catfish Creek, a national undergraduate literary journal based at Loras College, needs submissions. The details:

Catfish Creek, the national undergraduate literary journal of Loras College, is pleased to announce the release of its inaugural edition, slated for Spring 2011. Catfish Creek is intended as a showcase for undergraduate writers from across the country and around the world. We are welcoming submissions of fiction, poetry, and literary nonfiction.

Any student currently registered in an undergraduate program is eligible to submit. If we accept your work, we will ask for proof of your current enrollment.

Our reading period is September 1-November 15. Any manuscripts received outside of that time will be deleted unread. Simultaneous submissions are welcome as long as we are informed if the work is accepted elsewhere.

Submission Guidelines:
All submissions should be sent electronically, as MS-Word (.doc or .docx) or RTF attachments, to Catfish.Creek@loras.edu. Please specify the genre of your submission (poetry, fiction, nonfiction) in the Subject line of your message.
Ex: Fiction submission—“Story Title”

For more submission guidelines please see our website:

We are excited at Loras College to be starting a new tradition, and equally excited to read the incoming submissions. Welcome to Catfish Creek!

For Art and Everyone -- A Clothing Op-Ed Model: Adam Matcho's Cow Suit

The Reason Cows Do Not Like Halloween
by Adam Matcho

The one-piece cow suit was a little short in the legs. The elasticized ankles barely met the top of my socks and the cheap, black-and-white polyester made my neck itch. This would be my work uniform for the next month. Management thought it was a festive Halloween marketing plan. I tied the cow-bonnet strings under my chin, and knew I had to get a new job.

My ears were now pink and floppy. My tail was fringed and hard to control. I could deal with this. The udders, though, were a problem. They were convincing and flesh-toned and hung right at my midsection. I’d spend the month of October with my bellybutton, hips and pelvis tucked behind four shiny pink udders that jiggled when I walked.

This was still, of course, American retail. In the spirit of seasonal democracy, management allowed employees to pick their own costumes. We could wear whatever we wanted, as long as our store sold it. The only condition was, once we picked our costumes, we were stuck with them. Much like the store’s return policy, all selections were final.

I liked cows. The cow costume had realistic, squirting udders. I thought, how lucky. Then I studied myself in the bathroom’s dirty mirror and remembered luck had never been kind to me.

The customers weren’t kind either.

“That is udderly ridiculous,” some man in a Steelers sweatshirt said. His whole family thought it was hilarious. His fat, little son thought so too and went through the store yelling “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.”

After the fifth time, I thought it wasn’t so funny.

“Dad,” the boy yelled. “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.” Then the boy, who was probably eight or nine, knocked a bin of body parts on the floor. Hands, feet and arms were all over the aisle and his dad grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

The boy stopped yelling and got down on his hands and knees and began putting the appendages back in the bin.

I stood there and tugged at the legs of the cow suit, which were now working their way up my calves. I watched the boy. When he looked up at me, I stuck my tongue out at him. I thought he would think it was funny. He gave me the finger.

After they left, I told my coworker, who was dressed as a fairy, about the incident.

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“It’s true,” I said. “He whipped me off. His dad was right there.”

“Well that is just udderly ridiculous,” she said and laughed.

I decided I hated my fairy coworker and walked to a back corner in the store. I figured maybe I could stay away from people back there among the fake flaming lights and fog machines. My cow suit glowed under the blacklights and I was trying to see if my tail was glowing, too, when I felt a tug.

“Cow. Look mom, a cow,” said the blonde, pigtailed child as she once again pulled on one of my udders.

“Oh, wow,” the mom said as she rounded the corner. “It is a cow.”

The little girl squealed and laughed and started jumping up and down. I smiled and tried to step backwards to free myself from her grip. It was starting to get uncomfortable. She readjusted her grasp on my udder and kept repeating the word cow.

“She just loves cows,” the mother said. “Her pappy has cows and she just loves to help take care of them.”

The woman’s voice became animated as she finished the sentence, as if she was speaking to her child rather than another adult, as in me, a six-foot-tall guy in a cow costume. Her small daughter continued to yank and jump and repeat the word cow.
“Ouch,” I said insincerely, almost like it was a question. The mother looked down at her daughter and gasped.

“Oh sweetie, leave the cow alone,” she said and pulled at her daughter’s arm.

Between the two of them, I thought I would be pulled off my feet. I forced my weight in one direction and the mother and daughter tugged in the other. It was some vile game of tug-of-war with my poor udder caught in the middle.

“Honey, no,” the mom said.

“Cow! Cow!” the little girl yelled.

I looked toward the front of the store for the fairy, but she was ringing people out at the register.

Finally the mother wrenched her daughter’s hand free.

“I’m sorry,” she said three times.

I assured her it was okay and smiled and waved goodbye.

As the little girl fanatically waved back and yelled, “Bye, mister cow,” she knocked over the bin of body parts the boy from before haphazardly placed on the edge of the shelf.

I rushed over.

“It’s okay,” I said and quickly bent down and began cleaning. “I got it.”

“Thank you,” the mother said.

The little girl waved again and I stuck my tongue out at her. She laughed.

Assignment: For Thursday

Find at least five professional sources in your chosen field/subject area. These should be sources you'll interview. (Consider access and relevance. Consider target audience/magazine.)

Bring your list to class on Thursday.

We'll review interviewing and research techniques.

Internship Opportunity: Social Media Writer

Technology Publishing/Paintsquare is seeking a motivated student intern to assist with social media initiatives. Obtain hands-on experience while earning college credit in a fun and casual environment at our office in the heart of Pittsburgh’s exciting South Side neighborhood. Interested candidates should send cover letter, resume and 1-3 social networking profiles to Pam Simmons at psimmons@paintsquare.com.

Duties:

• Monitor postings and interactions on social media platforms
• Comment and contribute to the growth of our current social media tools used (Twitter and Facebook)
• Measure and enhance the impact of our online social media strategy
• Develop creative ways to promote the company utilizing social media

Qualifications:

• Completion of at least one year of undergraduate studies desired
• Must be self-starting and able to work independently
• Excellent written and verbal communication skills
• Creative thinker
• Experience with Facebook and Twitter is required
• Experience with MySpace, Orkut, LinkedIn, blogs or mobile apps is a plus
• Experience in communications, marketing or journalism is helpful.

Benefits:
* Build your resume
* Letters of recommendation upon successful completion of the internship

Compensation:
Unpaid and for academic credit(s) only
Hours per Week:
Flexible

Query for Clothing Pieces: Fashion Week

Here's a format:

Dear Editor (Name):

I hope you'll consider my op-ed piece, "Title" (Word Length -- a.k.a. 500 words), for possible publication in (Publication Title).

This clothing-centered piece is timely for Fashion Week, which runs through this Thursday in New York.

(Include any bio information if you've been previously published. Otherwise, go right to...)

Thanks very much for your time.

Sincerely,

You
Contact Info

Art's "Wow I'm Fat"

Wow I’m fat
By Art Lindsay

I could feel the sweat begin to bead on my forehead as I shifted through the clothing on the rack. “I hope no one sees me. Just pick something and get out of here,” I told myself. The people in the store looked at me strangely. Things weren’t going well. I had no clue what size would fit. A size ten seemed big enough.

I walked toward the fitting room and I could feel the heat coming off my face. At this point people had to be suspicious. The dressing room attendant directed me to an open fitting room. I quickly tried to put the skirt on and to my dismay it didn’t fit. It was nowhere close to fitting. And at that moment I knew things would be much more difficult than I had imagined they would be.

It was Halloween and I had decided to go as Sarah Palin. I thought it would be a simple costume. I would just get a skirt and a blouse, and find some cheap heals at the local discount clothing store. Little did I know that finding these items would leave me self-conscious about my looks and weight.

When I got home I was shocked at the size difference between men and women’s clothing. The skirt I had bought was a size 14. Four sizes larger than what I thought would fit comfortably. My blouse was a XXL. This was a leap from the usual medium I wear in men’s sizes. The heals were a size 12. And the make up? Don’t even get me started on the price of make-up, girlfriend!

I looked at my costume in disgust. I remembered multiple shopping trips with my girlfriend and her complaining about her weight and looks. After every shopping trip I had been on with her she would be filled with anger about her looks and weight. And she was a size ZERO! I had always thought that she was being ridiculous and selfish. But now I knew why she was so upset all those times.
“She’s a size zero and upset with her weight. I’m a size 14!” I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror. I began to obsess about losing weight. The knot of anxiety grew in my stomach. When I put on the clothes I never thought about how ridiculous I looked. All I could thing about was my weight and if I looked proportionate in the clothes I was wearing. I eventually told myself to have fun and to not hold myself up to these ridiculous standards.

It was easy not to hold myself to the standards of what a woman should look like. I am a man, and women’s clothing doesn’t fit me well for mainly that reason. But the experience did enlighten me to the standards our culture places on women and their looks. Every magazine in the grocery store check out is full of images of slim, slender, beautiful women. How could a woman not look at these magazines and think, “Wow, I’m fat.”

As fashion week starts, and the hip and wealthy around the world celebrate wafer thin freaks of nature strutting down the runway. For the first time I can see past what is being presented on the surface. Presenting women with images and standards they can never live up to is good business and the prices on vanity items continue to go up.

The last time I went shopping with my girlfriend things went better. As she became disheartened about her looks I actually understood what she was going through. Instead of dismissing her frustration as ridiculous I asked her about the unrealistic standards women face in our culture. It sparked a good debate and in the end she looked at me as though I wasn’t just a caveman that merely cared about sex and football. I just hope she doesn’t judge me for being a size 14.

Melissa's "My Mom's Fur Coat"

My Mom’s Fur Coat
by Melissa Marullo

It hung there fancy, sophisticated, and mature, teasing me with its beauty. The blended shades of brown and white with brown buttons that could barely be seen underneath the fur overwhelmed me every time I looked at it. It hid between a blue pant suit with silver embroidering and a red heavy winter coat, both of which resided in plastic garment bags for protection.

Against my face it was soft and itchy. Against my arms and body the beige lining was silky and smooth. Anytime I pulled it out of its spot in the closet, I’d get a whiff of my mother’s perfume mixed with its natural smell that I can’t recall enough to put into words other than objectionable. You couldn’t wash it or else it would be ruined.

My mother’s rabbit fur coat was my favorite thing to try on. I liked to pretend that I was getting ready for an upscale party, all dressed up, keeping warm with my real rabbit fur. Young and naïve, it didn’t bother me that it came from an actual rabbit, and I didn’t realize what someone had to do to get the fur, so excuse my ignorance. It was definitely expensive, and I know this because anytime I put the oversized coat on, my mom would scold me and tell me not to ruin it.

I would never do anything to destroy it. The coat was too elegant, exquisite, and precious. Not to mention, I knew I would grow into it one day. I would be old enough to go to a fancy party, and the coat would be appropriate to wear. It was something I wanted but couldn’t have, not yet. My mom doesn’t know what happened to this article of clothing that I adored so much.

I last remember wearing it when we lived in my house on Beech Road in Plum. We moved twice since that house, my mom assumes she lost it in the move, or threw it away since it was older. I only wore the jacket once when I was finally old and tall enough, and I can’t remember where I actually went in it. I do recall though, after that one time of use I didn’t desire it as much. I didn’t feel the yearn or the need to wear it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere special enough to go. Maybe we thought by that time it was just too old to wear. Or maybe it was because once I finally had it in my possession, that I no longer craved it.

I might have realized that it wasn’t that great. It didn’t make me fancier, it didn’t make me rich, and it didn’t make mature sophisticated parties appear for my attendance. It was just me in my mother’s old rabbit fur coat. Looking back I wish that my expectations were met. In my eyes, it was and always will be beautiful. I’d like to have the coat back as a memory of what it was like as a little girl playing dress up, without any worries, and wanting to be older.

Rachel's "If the Shoe Wins"

If the Shoe Wins
by Rachel Kuskie

I’m superstitious about shoes.

I don’t collect shoes, or compulsively buy shoes, or feel that “the shoes make the outfit.” I drive, and the most important thing I wear is not my shirt, not my helmet, not my seatbelt. It’s the shoes.

When I race and lose, I blame my shoes. I couldn’t feel the pedals well enough. My left foot slipped off the break and I left too soon. My right foot didn’t hit the gas soon enough and I left too late. I shifted wrong. I was watching the lights but got distracted by a bug flying across the windshield. When anything goes wrong, when anything goes right, when I see the other racer’s win light go on, I blame my shoes.
The red New Balance had too much tread, it felt like there was 6 inches of rubber between my foot and the pedals. The black and pink Nikes were shaped wrong, they pushed my toes too closely together. The pink Pumas were obviously made for walking, not driving. The plaid Converse were the wrong color. Basically, they were all bad luck.

After collecting too many losses it became a ritual. I would come home and think about the day of racing, run through every mistake, every possibility, and every ten-thousandth of a second during the day, the weeks, sometimes the months of losing. Then I grab my “racing shoes” and throw them in the garbage. The next pair will make me win.

Then, I found them. The perfect shoes. They don’t match my outfit, just my car. A pair of bright yellow Converse All Stars to match the yellow of my Corvette. In those shoes I can feel the pedals just right. Feel the vibration of the engine from the tips of my toes to my hands gripping the steering wheel. Feel just the right time to go. In these shoes I don’t think about the twist of anxiety in my stomach before the race begins, or my hands slipping on the steering wheel from nervous perspiration, or the piece of hair I can’t get out of my face before every race. In my shoes I don’t need to think about what to do or how to race. I get in my car, do my burnout, stage the car, watch the yellow lights drop, and go. Watch my yellow shaped “W” win light turn on. Watch the yellow flash of the camera go off while I stand in the winner’s lane. Collect some green cash. Go back next week and do it again, in the same shoes.

And after several years of drag racing experience I have learned: if the shoe wins, wear it.

Lauren's "Bird Has Flown"

Bird has Flown
By Lauren McCloskey

My mother is an Avon consumer. Through her, I am also an Avon consumer. When I was twelve I started to browse the small magazines in search of the perfect clear lip gloss. Yes, clear lip gloss. I never understood make up until after high school. Nonetheless, one winter evening during the eighth grade, my mother came home with three of the newest Avon catalogues. She told me I could pick out a few things for my Christmas stocking. In the final catalogue, I found a ring. It was silver, wrapped around the finger and at each end there were wings. Two beautifully crafted wings that hug the finger for the low price of $19.99. Thanks to my mom, the winged ring was in my stocking that Christmas. Unfortunately, the ring was too big for my finger. Disappointed, I placed the ring in a jewelry box and forgot about it for years.

Now fast forward to 2009. I moved into my first apartment and took everything I owned. Every single trinket, all plastic Wal-Mart bags of random oversized t-shirts and each Rubbermaid storage containers took the five hour car trip from eastern to western Pennsylvania. Once it all reached my room, I sorted through it all. In a faded white ring box there were mismatched earrings, broken necklace clasps and the winged ring! I reunited the ring with my finger and it triumphantly fit perfectly.

That afternoon, my jewelry staples were made; three rings for each hand. The lineup was as follows; left hand: ring finger graced by a spoon ring, middle wore an intricate design with a diamond in the middle then pointer finger donned the winged ring. Right hand: ring finger protected by my high school class ring, middle dressed with a Celtic knot and pointer finished with a wrap around heart ring.

This gang of rings was a family and even traveled overseas with me. Summer 2010 they all made their European debut. Along with holding on to hand rails and Euros, they also held the hand of a Spanish man, Ish. Ish liked my rings but he liked the winged ring most of all. He told me in Spanish with his fantastic accent that the winged ring was most beautiful and rare. He had seen nothing like it prior to our encounter. He called me his pajarita, or little bird because I was always excited to go out, talked a lot and ate like a bird. Though I completely and utterly disagreed, he liked the nickname.

One night in June after a series of cervezas, bright lights and dancing, Ish walked me home. Down one of his shortcuts, I caught my hand on a chain gate down in an alley way. My winged ring was bent off my finger and fell to the ground with a tiny crash. Ish picked it up and handed it to me. In my attempt to bend it back around my finger, the two wings snapped directly in halves and again fell to the ground. I was devastated. Ish knew I was heartbroken. He lifted up my hand and kissed the sun tanned print of the two wings on my finger. I looked at him, smiled and told him in Spanish that it was okay because I am happy where I landed. In a foreign country with a beautiful man.

Megan's "The Gray Shirt"

The Gray Shirt
by Megan Stewart


I lent her a bag of clothes. I didn’t mind because 9 months earlier, I had lost all of mine to fire. So, the selfish desire of keeping them all to myself didn’t faze me. They were only things and they wouldn’t last. They were all larges and some were donated. They would hang off my back or flow from my waste, so that I never needed to suck in, which always felt uncomfortable. But, I figured she would need them to cover herself more than I did. She had a brace wrapped around her torso and circling her neck.

“Wow, Meg. I’ll probably wear these every day,” she said with this overly cheesy smile, which almost distracted me from her ocean blue eyes.

She threw her shirt off quickly to try them on. The mobility was shocking for a girl in a body brace. She had a sports bra over the brace because her breasts were pressed down and pushed to the sides. It must have been made for an old woman. It was huge and clipped in the front, so she could easily get it on and off. She threw on a gray, short sleeved shirt with a hood that was on top of the pile. The gray was swished with black in a horizontal direction. This was her favorite. I laughed to myself. This gray shirt was donated to me after my house burnt down. It was my favorite.

For four months, Britt must have worn that shirt twice a week. It was big enough around her body so that the large bulks of plastic from the brace were barely seen in the back. The front came down into a wide V. She would wear tank tops underneath because she didn’t want the metal bars to show in the front. Even though her body was oddly hidden, everything about her face was clearly pleasing. Her hair was a bright, shining blonde that hung oddly over the bulkiness on her back. I always noticed the thickness of her pretty hair before I noticed the brace. Her eyes were brighter than “pretty blue eyes” and more noticeable than anything else about her. She had an unspeakable joy and never spoke of the pain. She had fallen fifty feet from a rope swing in September.

She puts the bag of clothes back in the back of my car, which was filled with junk. I was in the process of a move into a secure home for the first time since the fire. It was December now and the brace was off.

“I won’t need them anymore and they were too nice to keep from you,” she said.

I peeked into the brown shopping bag and saw that gray shirt sitting on the top. I wanted it now. I hadn’t cared in September if I had any of the clothes or not. But now, even though it was already big and possibly more stretched out, I wanted it back. It may have smelt like hospital from all of the visits she took.

Maybe it would smell of bandages and ointments from the wounds she had healing underneath. It didn’t smell like donated clothes or smoke anymore. I wanted it back.

Charles' "The Hat"

The Hat
by Charles Simpson

I wake up every day and my routine is always the same. I do the 3 S’s (Shower, Sh*t, Shave) and then I get dressed. I usually grab whatever shirt is the closest, and cleanest, combined with my baggy blue SilverTab jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. I put my black Nike no-show socks on slowly as I adjust to my new state of mind. I search my disheveled room for my all black Nike Airmax LTDs and then make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. After a big cold bowl of Frosted Flakes and chocolate milk, it’s time for my day to start. Before I walk out of my place I grab all the essentials like my SlimClip wallet, my keys, my Blackberry, and my cherry Chapstick. Finally, as I make my way through the door I’m always reminded by the bright sun that I almost forgot the most important thing: My hat. Every day I do the same little routine and every day I always almost forget my beloved hat.

It’s weird that something so crucial to me is almost forgotten, but once I put my favorite hat on I remember why I love it.

When I was twelve, a homeless man once told me, “There’s nothing like a good hat, sonny!” Well, okay, I never actually talked to any homeless people, but I can imagine that would be the kind of wisdom a homeless man would give. His advice would be a seemably useless statement that I would initially laugh hysterically at, but then the more I think about it the more I would realize that his statement couldn’t be any more true.

My favorite hat is a simple fitted black hat. No crazy brand names on it, no stupid logos or symbols, no goofy hippie-tastic designs, no frayed brims, no Velcro or plastic fasteners. Just a plain black ha, PBH, size 7¼ that I’ve worn any time I’ve done something good or life altering. I won my first paintball tournament, I went to my first days of high school and college, I went on my first date, I met my best friends, I met my current girlfriend, and I’ve taken every final in the past 7 years in my plain black hat. If I’ve done anything significant, and I like to think that I have, I’ve done it in my plain black hat.

If I were Popeye, my spinach would be my plain black hat. Anything that is impossible becomes possible, anything big and scary becomes small and funny, any challenge turns into an accomplishment, Pepsi turns into Coke, smelly things start to smell like freshly cut grass, and anything lame becomes awesome whenever I have my PBH on. Even as I write these words, PBH is at work. This article would have normally been just okay, but now my hat has made it super cool! Well, at least I think so. And now as I gaze and reflect about my experiences with PBH, I realize it won’t last forever.

Will I be able to wear my hat when I propose? Will I wear it when my first child is born? Will I have it when I finally get that nice six-figure job? Will I wear this hat while my kids grow up? Will I wear this hat when I die? I realize now that it isn’t the hat that makes things happen, I make it all happen. I make my life what it is and I control what I do and how I feel. Do I really need this hat? Or does this hat need me? I make my own way and my hat is just on my head enjoying the ride.

Maybe I won’t wear my PBH today. Then again, you can never be too sure. Let’s go hat, we’ve got things to do!

Examiner.com jobs

Check here for hyper-local writing opportunities with The Examiner.com/Pittsburgh:

Become An Examiner.

And check out one of our UPG writing program grads, Rachel Lipko, who's a Travel Examiner at Examiner.com and a travel writer for CollegeJolt.com: Rachel's Bio

Class Follow-Up

Remember when we were thinking up new ways to spin the how-to-lose-weight story? Here's one: The Easiest Diet In the World.

And remember when we were thinking up possible markets for Meghan's piece? Try Lemondrop. There's also a list of demographically-appropriate blogs in the Lemondrop (a service of AOL, btw) blog roll.

Assignment for Tuesday, Sept. 14

Re-read Sharon Olds’ “My Father’s Shirt,” and Patricia Hooper’s “Wearing My Son’s Shirt” plus selections from Brevity (see post below).
*******
Assignment for Tuesday: A short (500-700 words), essay-ish vivid piece about wearing someone else’s clothes. Or about your favorite piece of clothing. Or a piece of clothing you always wanted and never had. Tie in to Fashion Week/season for possible publication. E-mail to lljakiela@gmail.com by Monday/11 p.m. Workshop Tuesday.

For Next Week's Writing Assignment

We'll go over the assignment in class. For now, prep by reading Chapters 1 & 2 in Jacobi (if you haven't already) and two pieces from Brevity magazine -- "The Watch" and "I Can't Stop Thinking About That New York Skirt."

Yes, it's fashion week. :)

How To Get a Job Writing How-2s: Blogs

Looking for your perfect audience? That ideal demographic?

Visit the blogosphere for new publishing opportunities.

Today's tip: Check out Lifehacker -- a site loaded with how-to tips to make any life better. They take post/submissions.

And check Problogger for a current list of blog jobs. Note how many of these are desperately seeking HTEs.

That's right. How-To Experts.

Like this one for a house-and-garden expert at eHow, for instance.

Perfect!

Assignments: Week 2

Workshop/revise How-To Pieces

Read in Jacobi: Chapters 1 & 2

Megan's How-To Piece

Megan Stewart
Magazine
9/5/10
How to Wait for Sex
Are you tired of laying face down, wondering why you gave it up again? Guy
after guy, and you still can’t get it right? Try to just wait. Does that
sound impossible? It’s unheard of to wait to have sex because it’s the
20th century. But, if you’re tired of looking for love in all the wrong
people and body parts, here’s how to get it right.
Consider it in the beginning, the getting-to-know each other period. Maybe
you’re at the bar and he just bought your drink. Maybe you’re at a school
function or activity. Try to sneak it in the conversation…after the “I’m
studying English Writing” and before the “I had a rough past
relationship,” say you are saving yourself. This way, you will filter out
the jerks (Warning: there may be a lot of them, but they are worth
eliminating). A guy that wants you for the evening …out.
Think STDS. If you happen to fail on the first step, and the guy is having
drinks at your apartment, or he’s inviting you to his tiny dorm room after
class, remind yourself that if he’s trying to take you easy, he’s probably
taking others easy. Guys that are blunt to get you alone at night are not
ammeters. Who knows who they may have been with and where they have been.
According to the American Social Health Association, one in five people in
the United States has an STD and two-thirds of all STDs occur in people 25
years of age or younger. Write those statistics on your hand.
Think babies. Okay, so condoms are not 100% effective. According to "Facts
on Reproductive Rights," from the National Organization for women the pill
fails 6.2% of the time, the condom fails 14.2% of the time, the diaphragm
fails 15.6% of the time and spermicide fails 26.3% of the time. So, if
this guy is taking you home on a one night stand, he’s probably not ready
for a baby. And are you? Now tattoo those statistics next to the writing
on your hand.
So, if you got through the first three steps, and now you are in a
relationship with a man who respects you and wants to wait too, it’s time
to really practice some self control.
Focus on the solid part of your foundation. Instead of putting sex in the
midst of this new relationship and letting it consume you, focus on other
things. The illumination period will come. He will burp and fart and he
may notice the hair on your face or the stretch mark on your hip while
you’re in your bathing suit, will you still be attracted to each other
now? If he still loves you, with every character defect and physical
defect, he may be a keeper, and this could be beautiful.
Show your love in a different way. Things are really going good. You can
live with him and he can live with you. So, focus on showing each other,
without sex. After all, if you want something serious, after a long
marriage, you better have more than physical desire because things start
to hang a little too low when you get old. Try going out golfing and to
the drive-in, instead of movies at his apartment till 2am.
Think of a reason not to wait. In the moment, you just want to. It’s just
like when you are trying to lose weight. In the moment, the cheeseburger
and the fries look like they would just hit the spot, but in the big
picture, is that the best decision? The reasons to wait to have sex will
outweigh the reasons to do it. You’ll meet you’re perfect man, so why not
wait?

Flashback: Orwell's Tips for Good Writing

In his essay "Politics and the English Language," George Orwell offers six simple rules for good writing.

These rules are as essential as looking both ways before you cross the street. Memorize them. Live them. Love them. Post them on your fridge. On your mirror. On your forehead. Everywhere.

1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never us a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

Pittsburgh's Small Press Scene

Check it: New Yorker coverage of last year's Pittsburgh Small Press Festival.

Post Your How-To Pieces Here

Please post your how-to pieces in the comments section below. Please read everyone's piece and comment back. We'll workshop these next week. Happy how-to-ing.

Live Mag Links

Trib Fanfare Magazine

34th Parallel

5x5
http://www.pw.org/content

Hot Metal Bridge

Collision Literary Magazine

Pittsburgh City Paper

The New Yinzer

http://www.hotrod.com/index.html

How to Write the How-To Piece

Step One: Choose a topic that’s timely and engaging (or quirky enough to entice readers). Be sure to have a target magazine/audience in mind and choose your topic accordingly. Consider things and subjects you’re passionate about.

Step Two: Choose an approach

You can:

1. Interview an expert
Oprah's Trainer Shows You How
Dr. Oz Makes TV-Watching Healthy

2. Be an expert

Take the step-by-step approach:
How to Make Earrings From Electrical Parts

Play on Seasonal/Timeliness:
How to Update Your Fall Wardrobe for Cheap


Research, conglomerate, and play up your voice:
How to Make Halloween Slime

[Most how-to pieces are bulleted, short, information-loaded. There are exceptions. Here’s an essay approach driven by prominence/celebrity expertise: The Dalai Lama on Compassion

3. Weave a combination of the two
Eat, Pray, Love Beauty Tips


Step Three: Draft your piece.

* Keep it short, but be sure to hit the most relevant/essential points.

* Unless you’re using an essay approach, bullet information when you can.

* Use short sentences. Short paragraphs.

* Be sure your lead’s engaging and conversational.

* Be sure your tone and voice match your target magazine/audience.

* Offer a sidebar that lists additional information/sources. Consider visuals.

Step Four: Revise! Pity the reader!

Step Five: Revise again! More pity!

Step Six: Workshop (then revise again! pity!)

Step Seven: Submit your piece for publication. Be sure to follow the submission guidelines.

Remember, most magazines have months of lead time (unless they’re online, of course). Plan accordingly.

Be sure you’re giving the editor something he/she can use. Ask yourself: is this piece right for this audience? Is it right now?

Technical Notes:
Use AP Style (When in doubt, consult your Stylebook)

Triple-check grammar, spelling, and facts

Choose your experts wisely and be honest about your own degree of expertise in any subject. Even if you’re sure you’re an expert, it’s always good to get other voices in the mix. Don’t slag. Don't be afraid to reach out and do interviews and legwork.

Some Favorite Things

Here are a few online mags -- literary and place-focused ones -- you writer-types might like. Check 'em:

The Rumpus
HTML Giant
KGB Bar Lit
Hot Metal Bridge (The University of Pittsburgh's national literary magazine -- edited by graduate students; includes a wonderful roll of lit-mag links.)
Mr. Beller's Neighborhood (for NYC diaspora, natives, and aficionados.)

Please add on and on.

Post Your Magazine Links Here

Be sure to follow the blog. Then attach your magazine and article links in the comments section below this post.