A school-day bully discovers what happened to one of her favourite victims.
(selfie by Leanne Dyck)
I walk the schoolyard seeking my prey: the weak, the freak--those who, due to their appearance or behaviour, stand out as "other".
Space Cadet is my favourite quarry. She seldom ventures into my kingdom; she knows what awaits her there.
"Stupid! Baby!" I led the chant as she escapes into the resource room.
Hidden away, her special teacher attempts to help her catch up.
Between classes, she aimlessly wanders the hall staring at her feet or with her nose in a book. She's a zombie who crashes into locker doors or is tripped and falls. In class, she never raises her hand. When called on, she supplies another wrong answer in a muffled, vacant voice.
My minion and I take pleasure in her torture. It's an easy game. We stab her heart with clever comments. Then we sit back and watch the blood flow. Day after day, we chip away at her.
Sure there are others we toy with but they quickly develop ways and means of defence--effectively ending our fun. Space Cadet remains our helpless victim.
The teachers don't care. They're blind to her pain.
One even tapes a kick me sign on her back. He's the first to kick her but not the last.
We laugh; she cries; he doesn't care.
"You have to learn to laugh at yourself," he tells her in class.
***
What became of Space Cadet? Is she awash in some back alley somewhere her arms embroidered with needle marks? Is some slob keeping her in the style she grew accustomed to, thanks to me? Is he quick with the back of a hand or a kick?
We are in a large North American city. It could be L.A. or T.O. We are drawn into a large bookstore. Biscotti and espresso are served in their cafe; best sellers adorn their bookshelves. The place is packed. I mean, literally, wall-to-wall people. Now I see why. It's a book signing.
Who knew all these people could read?
Is Space Cadet, correction, Lyndi Wimpell one of those standing in line? Is she waiting to meet and greet the author?
I've searched everywhere and she's not among the eager readers.
A stack of books is loaded on a table. A woman in a business suit quickly scribbles her name as her fans gush. Two broad-shouldered well-dressed men stand slightly behind and on either side of her. Are they her henchmen? Her bodyguards? Her publishers? Her editors?
I reach the front of the queue and buy a book--Tame Your Bully by Lyndi Wimpel.
Well, look at that, I did contribute to society. I created a famous author.
Let's leave...
Sharing my author journey...
I started the year with 14 submissions in slush piles. Of those, 3 were rejected.
From January 1st to last February 17th, I've sent out 17 submissions. Of those, two were lost in cyberspace and four were rejected.
So, in total, I have 22 submissions currently in slush piles.
Before the end of March, I'm planning on sending out at least five more. This means revisions.
What does that look like?
Here's an example...
There I am self editing a manuscript, when I'm caught by a phrase. It reads like silk, smooth. But it isn't faithful to the narrator's voice. Re-write.
