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This. Woman. Sounds. Like. A Cunt.
(From an Irish writers' retreat round-robin email. I have never been and never will go on a writer's retreat unless I'm paid to, but I almost won a week there a few years ago - had a lucky escape by the looks of things - and I've been on their mailing list ever since.)
"Join me in October for a workshop that I believe will inspire you to write...and live!"
And I will teach you how to die.
All About Writing! is limited to a maximum of 12 participants on a first-deposit-in basis.
Please form an orderly queue.
*
Susan DeBow, a writer whose work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Family Circle, The Christian Science Monitor, The Cleveland Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine, BBW Magazine, Poets & Writers, The Writer, Science and Spirituality, Notre Dame Magazine, The Baltimore Sun, The Cincinnati Post, Cincinnati Women's Magazine, National Review, Cincinnati Connection Magazine, The Western Star, The Xenia Daily Gazette, Sasee, Magnolia Review, Scrivener's Pen, Electric Acorn, (I believe you are confusing me with someone who gives a fuck about Susan's desperate publication record in small-town local papers) among others, has a degree in Communications from Ohio University and has taught many writing workshops. (I'll just bet.) She is an award-winning writer and poet. (So am I. Where's my fucking teaching job?) Her first novel, Cleaning Closets, will be published by the Vanity Press Summer 2007.
For taste of her writing and workshop style, here's her resume:
- Youngest but tallest of three girls in family
- Grew up in Norwood, Ohio. Could kick a mean kickball.
You're so fucking wacky, aren't you Susan? Such a likable tomboy.
- Could run fast and jump high. Won broad jump championship several years in row
- Head majorette and twirled fire baton. Never burnt others. Only myself.
I thank God I wore my corset, else I fear my sides would split.
- Went to college. Met husband first week. His hair was longer than mine. Is this sort of thing still even worthy of comment? Married him after dating two of his roommates.
SLUT
- Got married. Saw my baby niece. Thought she was cute. So I told my husband I wanted one of those. Had four. Stayed home. Raised kids. Read a lot.
If only she'd stayed there. But no.
- Sold real estate because people said I would be good at it. Got brokers license. Made decent money. Hated job.
Wrote feature articles and columns for Cincinnati Magazine during 1998 and 1999.
- Published a magazine called the Cincinnati Connection in 1989. Magazine dealt with the people in real estate. Wrote and edited articles. Worked out of my basement. Got sick of working with and by myself.
As others were soon to get sick of working with you ...
- Became Director of Marketing in 1989, the largest real estate office in Ohio. (It's like some sort of Coen Brothers tragedy) Was resident psychologist.(Is this a joke? I genuinely can't tell.) Also took donuts to meetings. Became very popular. Helped run company with the owner. Became more who the owner wanted me to be instead of who I wanted to be. So I left.
- Got another job. Ended up being CEO for a computer software company. Could do it in my sleep. Wanted to fire the owners but thought that might not go over too well. Company failed, presumably.
- In 1997 my mother died of guilt. Responsibilities and focus shifted. Wondered when I was going to do what I thought I was called to do? Write.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Quit business world, entered writing world.
Began writing a column called "Crossroads" for county paper. Worked on finding my voice. GGGAAAHHHHHHHHH
Summer of 1999. Went to writing conference and got validation I am a writer. YOU'RE NOT. Was told I was good enough to move on to bigger and better things. Was lied to.
Visited Ireland in September. By myself. You are a hero to millions. Travelled and went to writer's retreat and learned my voice had gotten stronger. No, just louder.
Changed name of column to "Writing Out Loud" because that is what I felt like I was doing. Developed website.
I live in Maineville, Ohio, and am still raising kids, but fewer of them.
Please, please die. |
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