Nikki Loftin

Archive for the ‘Essays’ Category

Christmas Letter

Merry Christmas Eve, Blog Friends!

It’s cold in Texas today and getting colder — beginning to feel (at last) a bit like Christmas. I got a stocking stuffer this week already — an essay of mine will appear in The Ultimate Christian Living anthology, out next March. Yay! (Of course, Santa may have to work a little harder next year — what I asked for was a book deal)

To all my friends, family, and cyber-stalkers: I hope you all get the gifts you asked for. Here’s a little something to read while you’re wrapped in your blanket/Snuggie/arms of a loved one. Grab some hot cocoa, and have fun reading Nikki’s Christmas Letter (as usual, written by Dave. Thanks, Dave!).

Stay warm, sing carols, and hug everyone you can. Tonight’s Little Baby Jesus Night — it doesn’t get any better than this.

Hello, My Name is Nikki and I Write…

Give me a second and I’ll tell you, as soon as I figure it out.

I suppose I spend most of my time writing children’s fiction. So, when people who want the short answer ask what I do, I say that. (Actually, I say Middle-Grade Humor for Boys, although that’s not entirely true. My current WIP has a female protagonist). But I also send off an essay every, well, um, every week or so, to a literary journal/magazine/contest/anthology. Yeah, I know. That’s a lot of essays. And a whole bunch of them have seen print. So I’m an essayist?

Of course, I also have three (count ‘em!) puppet plays coming out in an anthology in January, and four children’s short stories that will go public sometime in 2010. So there’s that children’s fiction thing again… but the one title I never presumed to give myself is the one I’m wrestling with today: poet.

Gulp. That’s a tricky word. First, it sounds really pretentious to use it to describe yourself, and unreal. Like a joke you would write on your application for unemployment. Also, I don’t write THAT kind of poetry. You know, those poems that seem to be everywhere right now, that remind me a tangled balls of yarn made out of words. They’re just a mess, to me. Of course, that could be because I’m too thick to untangle their meanings. Very possible.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is this: I have had another poem accepted by a literary journal: Front Range. I am delighted, and humbled, and confused. Poets, to me, are rare creatures. Special, in a “not at all like me” sense.

I’m not sure real poets read vampire romances and books of fart jokes and drink strawberry margaritas.

What do you think?

A Nice Surprise + Werewolf Abs

A perfect weekend. Yesterday we celebrated Dave’s birthday with a dinner at Eddie V’s and a night in the Hyatt Regency on Lady Bird Lake in Austin — free babysitting courtesy of Aunt Lari. Yay Lari! Yay free babysitting! (Of course, we took a side trip to the Alpha & Omega gallery to see Dave’s and my mom’s photos in their current exhibition. Gorgeous.) Today began with a walk on the Hike and Bike Trail, brunch, a trip to the bookstore, a movie at the Alamo Village and then… contributor’s copies in the mailbox. A short anecdote/essay I wrote about my awesome grandma is in the December issue of Presbyterians Today. A nice surprise!

(What movie, you ask? Um, that would have been New Moon. I have two words for you people: Team Jacob. I have never felt more like a nasty old cougar in my life, and I don’t care. Middle-aged women gasped out loud in the theatre when he took his shirt off the first time, and giggled every time after that. Really, a pretty horribly acted movie, if you were thinking about the acting. Which I wasn’t. I was thinking about the abdominals. Yummy.)

Writing About Grandma

Last night, my Grandma fell and broke her ribs. Well, only two of them, but that’s enough when you’re 89. This is the Grandma I keep writing picture books and essays about (that’s her with her stapler in this month’s Skirt! essay). We’re beyond close. She taught me to bake cookies, to hang laundry, to cuss for the pure joy of it.  So of course I spent most of the day with her (she’s with Mom in Austin right now, but she had an appointment that couldn’t be shifted).

On top of the painkillers, Grandma has senile dementia/Alzheimer’s, so most of the day was spent in a very short conversational loop. But I had the chance to read my October essays to her — making your Grandma giggle is like making a baby laugh, pure joy — and watch TV with her between catnaps. You’ve never watched the cooking channel until you’ve watched it with Grandma; she kept muttering “I wish she would wash those vegetables she’s using,” and “She’s not going to rinse that fish?”  and “You’d think a professional would know to tie that long hair back.” (You might want to think about that, Sandra Dee. The health department will ding you for the hair.) Lunch was my homemade cajun ham and bean soup, fresh cornbread, and my dark chocolate walnut cookies. I’m pretty sure it tasted better than whatever that Barefoot Contessa was making. At least Grandma said so.

When she napped, I read the perfect book for a day with Grandma — A Year Down Yonder, by Richard Peck. I laughed, I cried. His Grandma was wonderful and terrible, mischievous, loyal, cussedly mean, and determined to make things right.  It made me wonder how many authors out there are writing picture books and novels about their dear, obstinate, peculiar Grandmas. I know I can’t seem to stop writing about mine.

It’s All About Me

Okay, let’s just get this out there: Everything I write is autobiographical. I’m not going to tell the lie I learned in my graduate school writing workshops. I don’t make all this stuff up. Not really.

Well, I mean, of course I make it up. But what I’ve been noticing more and more is the things I write that are at least semi-autobiographical (ie: the characters in them are recognizably me/my family/friends/pets) are the only ones that get published/win prizes. So, sure, I’ve written some cute little stories about bears sailing boats in a regatta, which were unbearably bad, and a few other similar things that will stay moored to my hard drive forever.

Bringing a writer into the world? That’s a fear parents don’t have, but they should. That their children will someday grow up to be writers who love their parents so much they want to immortalize them forever in print (yeah, that’s the angle!), or love writing and being published so much they don’t really care how Mom or Dad feel about it (um, that’s probably closer to the truth).

On that note, here’s this week’s publications: Check out Skirt! magazine, the new essays section. Mine is called Coming Out of the Craft Closet. Also, The Hole Story is out in this month’s issue of Texas Co-op Power, just open the .pdf file to page 25.

Who knew my life was this interesting? Now off to do laundry. (Okay, I’m probably just going to read the Al Capone Does My Shirts book, but it’s laundry-related, right?)

A VERY Good Week For Me

Well, hello intrepid blog readers! I haven’t posted anything but good news recently (a welcome change from the usual diet of whining, moping, and cursing the agents/editors/children who don’t appreciate me adequately, n’est-ce pas?) — so why stop now?

I am happy (more like peeing-my-panties ecstatic) to announce that my essay, Coming Out of the Craft Closet, has been chosen by the very wise, very discerning, very fabulous editors of skirt! magazine to appear in the October issue!

For those of you in the know, this is the essay I wrote about my mother’s constant attempts to make me love crafting as a child… and my resultant, absolute detestation of all things handmade. Um, she hasn’t seen this one yet.

Quotes from Beta readers: “This is hilarious! Mom’s gonna kill you!” — Lari, another daughter.

“Wow! This is really good. Has your mom seen this yet?” — David, my loving husband.

I think it’s okay. I mean, Christmas is pretty far from October, right? She won’t hold a grudge.Will she?

Oh, God. What have I done?????

My Dark Secret

Okay, I’ll admit it. I like Miley Cyrus. Well, one of her songs anyway. You know the schmaltzy one, It’s The Climb? Yeah, I know. If I belonged to Mensa, they would yank my membership. I’m a little afraid my more sophisticated friends (all two of them) might judge me harshly. But my writer buddies? They’ll understand.

In fact, I think this song may have become the unofficial anthem for the unpublished novelist. Go ahead, writers, listen to the song. Watch the video. Own the lyrics. Be Miley.

Update: My essay, Homemade Doughnuts, came in third in the Houston Writer’s Guild essay contest! A little bit of glory, but no cash. Still happy –seems there were HUNDREDS of entries.

And there’s more: My essay, titled The Best Days of Our Lives, will be included in the March 2010 anthology, A Cup of Comfort For Mothers!!! (Up until today, it was a finalist — but I made the cut. Woo hoo!)

Does This Essay Make Me Look Fat?

My mom and I still go shopping together. I know many of you will think that’s sad, but let me tell you one thing: it’s hard to find a shopping buddy who will honestly tell you when you’re offending the Gods of Fashion. Think about it. Do you think your husband will answer the question “Does this make my butt look big?” with any degree of honesty at all? Not if he wants to stay married, right?

Well, I am discovering that it’s as hard or harder to find a writing buddy/critique partner who will tell you when your writing needs to lose a few pounds, or step onto the treadmill, or go back into the closet and start all over again. For one thing, those types of comments have to come from somewhere beyond friendship, from love and respect, and a deep desire to see the one whose work you’re critiquing succeed in a massive way. There are crit buddies, and there are crit buddies. And the good ones are the ones who sometimes make you cry… and sometimes make you write another thousand words in an afternoon.

That’s why I have decided I will do anything, up to and including donating a major organ, to keep my best crit buds happy.You know who you are, people, and now you know that you have me right where you want me: in your debt forever.

Just don’t tell me my essay is “fantastic” when it really needs to lose twenty adverbs.

Good News For Everyone!

Hi, y’all ! Yesterday was something special.

First off, my talented photographer husband got a great boost: his photo was chosen as the Austin winner of the Scott Kelby Photo Walk 2009 Contest! Check out his photo here. He could win even more, but he says not to hold my breath.

Yay, Dave!

Then, I got a nice email informing me that an esssay I wrote is a finalist for the Cup of Comfort for Mothers anthology. I’ll know for certain in a month or so, and I’ll post more if it all shakes out. If so, publication is set for spring 2010.

Yay, me!

And to top it all off, it rained buckets yesterday! A real, thumping-it-down gullywasher. The driveway looks like the Grand Canyon this morning, but we don’t care.We’re in the worst drought in a century down here, and we need it.

Yay, rain!

Also, I’m writing up a storm. I’m halfway through a humorous story for 3-5 graders. It’s short, <2,000 words…. anyone want to be a Beta reader for this one? I’ll have it done in a couple of days — I started it a month ago, or so, and it’s finally all coming together.

Here’s prayers for an even better week next week!

This Is Why I Distrust Facebook

Urg.

So, last night, I invited some close friends/neighbors over for a lovely dinner party. I made a new recipe my brother taught me in Ohio last week — “white sangria.” This consists of 1 bottle of riesling, 2 cans mango and/or peach nectar, some cut up mangoes and strawberries, and an undetermined amount of both peach schnapps and triple sec. Suffice to say, it is a dangerous drink.

Dangerous enough that I felt brave enough to do my very first Facebook post…. before I went to bed.

So this morning, you know who had commented on my Facebook post, right? Yeah, it would have to be my pastor. Why, oh why, did I ever agree to “friend” him? I should have known something like this would happen. Off to church now, where I am relatively certain the pastor will be preaching on the dangers of strong drink.

He should just preach on the dangers of Facebook.

On the writing front, I sent off three new essays yesterday to some different markets. I have decided to spend this summer revising Perfect Mischief… and I’ve even found an ultra-cheap camp to send my kids to for a week so I can actually write!

Now, I’m off to convince my 6 year old that he cannot simultaneously brush his teeth and wear his Optimus Prime Voice-changing Helmet.