Sandra Rose Hughes

I have been working at this publishing game for several years now. I have had plenty of failures, and some successes. My successes have until this time been on a fairly small scale with local newspapers, small literary journals and of course, this blog. All told, I've probably made $400 over the past 4 years between the KVSUN and my blog earnings. Not bad. However, any of my attempts to break into something bigger have yielded no result. Just last week I got a rejection from a Children's magazine. They at least told me why they were rejecting my story, which was a tale about Ladybug the dog, that I had completely fallen in love with as soon as I wrote it, but which they said didn't have enough conflict to interest children and lacked emotional impact. That stung for a few days...but I appreciate the feedback. Come to think of it, I've never gotten positive responses from any of my submitted children's writing. I think part of it is that there don't seem to be ma

It's been a slow year for me for submissions. It feels like many things have happened that have affected my writing. Last year, I was sorting through my grandfather's death, and then a few months later the suicides and upheaval at my school were awful. It seemed like I didn't like very much of anything I was writing, and when you don't like what you're writing...it is hard to get a groove going. Teaching high school is unfortunately all-consuming and most of my creative ability has been used up in lesson planning, play-directing, and creating the hated Yearbook. I haven't been creating enough new work to get really excited about sending in very many pieces. However, it has not been a completely dry year. This month, I had my poem (it's so dark and painful that I'd rather not publish it here), "Grandpa's Clothes," published in the Lit. Magazine, Midnight Screaming , and I just recieved word from "Whistling Fire" that they have acc

I hate Halloween. Don't get me wrong, I think cute costumes are awesome and I think Trick-Or-Treating can be a fun community activity. But since I've become a high school teacher, I've started dreading this day. Vampires and zombies don't scare me. I don't like fake blood everywhere, but other than just looking tacky, it doesn't really bother me. But you know what does? When teenagers and children dress up like pimps and whores. Now that frightens me. Sex trafficking is a gigantic problem in the United States and all over the world. Pimps, Madams, and anyone else who profits from the sexual exploitation of women, men, and children are, as far as I'm concerned about the lowest human beings on the planet. It doesn't get much more disgusting than that. And yet my high schoolers are dressed today as pimps and whores. Lovely. In my eyes, dressing as a pimp is akin to dressing as a child molestor. I see them dressed this way, and I KNOW they are not thinking a

My husband introduced me to the book, _A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich_ a few years ago. It takes you through the exhausting, life-threatening day of a man living in a Siberian work camp and if you can get through it, it's well worth the read. I felt a little like Ivan today...okay, maybe it's a huge stretch to compare my life to a Siberian work camp, but occasionally it feels just a little bit like that. So here was my day today. The alarm clock woke me and Anthony at 4:15 AM. The trailer was 45 degrees F. Anthony got up when the alarm went off, but I was so tired and cold that I slept in until 5:00. I stumbled out of bed and put on 2 pairs of socks, sweat pants and a jacket. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, brushed my teeth, and fought the desire to crawl back into the warm bed. Around 5:10 AM, Anthony left. He has an hour commute to work. I spent 20 minutes on the computer and was upset to realize that my family had a girl's night planned for tonight which

I first met my dog at the Animal Shelter in Southlake. She is a large black labrador with yellow eyes. She lay quietly in her kennel, staring hopefully out the gate. The workers must have had a soft-spot for her, because they pointed her out to me and made a big deal about what a great dog she would be. I liked her quietness and how grateful she looked to be let out of the pen and played with. She was about one year old, but she seemed to have a deep sadness and fearfulness. She looked around warily, though it was clear she wanted attention. She was clearly undernourished and her ribs and hips stuck out sadly. I took her outside and she ran around a little, but still seemed reserved and loathe to leave my side. At one point, she stood up on her hind legs, put her front paws on my shoulders, and looked deeply into my eyes with this desperate, "Please, please, take me home and take care of me," look. I promised her I would take her home and take care of her and put meat on her

My Creative Nonfiction writing workshop ended last week. It was only a month long, but I feel that my writing grew a great deal in that time. I wrote about love, marriage, family, death, coming to terms with loss, basically all those BIG topics in life. I struggled to portray my friends and family honestly but kindly. Overall, I am really glad that I took the workshop. Our teacher, Ann Beman, had great suggestions and was very supportive and helpful. And to think I almost didn't sign up! None of my fears were grounded and I think I have worked through some of my insecurities about my writing. The class was so encouraging, I have even submitted a few new pieces to literary journals. I will keep you posted on whether or not I get accepted.

Photo Credit: Brandon Muncy at Kvsun.com Sometimes I get the feeling that I am not in Kansas anymore. I was raised in the suburbs where semi-identical houses line up row by row. Everyone had a two-car garage, a little patch of lawn to mow and a small backyard area big enough for a pool and maybe a dog or two. My parent's house in Bakersfield was in a nice little cul-de-sac conveniently located near a good high school. Other children in the neighborhood were close to our age and many of our neighbors took their street very seriously. On the Fourth of July, neighbors would buy firework packs and everyone would sit together to watch while the teenage boys and adult men lit them. Spectacular Christmas light displays appeared the day after Thanksgiving and disappeared by New Years Day, like clockwork. On Friday nights in the summer, one of our neighbors would light a firepit in their front yard and the adults would bring out their lawn chairs and sit and talk while the children played

"Schools are going to be all run by computers now. It won't be long before everything is on that internet. What will you do instead of teaching?" My mother-in-law and I were driving to exercise class together. We had been discussing my neice's education in the car when she posed this question to me. I was a little taken aback. Linda is not affiliated with education in any way. She doesn't even have a computer, so I have no idea where she is getting this idea. I am a high school teacher who knows how to use the internet and I highly doubt the entire education systen will transition into completely virtual teaching any time soon. But there is no arguing with Linda, so I shrug and say, "I'm going to be a stay-at-home mom." "Oh, you won't want to do that forever, Sandy. You'll have to do something when the kids grow up." I sigh. Why is she making me think fifteen years in the future? I have enough to think about in this decade to wor

The following piece is one I have been working on as part of my nonfiction creative writing workshop through the Los Angeles Review. My white Dodge Shadow was parked at an angle outside the Bakersfield beauty salon. I'd always been a lousy parker. The chipped paint and the black gash on the passenger side made it stand out among the shiny new silver and white cars it shared the lot with. "Are you clean?" asked Renee, my mother's hairdresser. I stared at him, slightly offended. "When did you wash your hair last?" he said impatiently when I didn't respond right away. "Yesterday." I said. "So it's dirty. We'll have to wash it." With a frown, he led me to the sink and started washing my hair as my twin sister Carolyn waited nearby. She wore jeans and a button up shirt, but her hair was done already, and Renee had placed her veil perfectly on her head. Her cell phone kept ringing and she looked worried. "Sandy, it's

The Dream I Had Last Night. I found an adventurous man who fell in love with me on the way to the lobby after my twin Carolyn and I had gotten lost at 4 in the morning back on the way from the spa. He helped me find my way past the small chinese woman who was making clay slabs which my Carolyn had refused to stop sticking her hands into and who had given us directions which Carolyn ignored and then she danced away where I couldn't find her. The adventurous man helped me search for the white-towel clad twin of mine, but I do not think she wanted to be found. So instead he led me back down the lobby through all the hidden parts of the hotel where chinese laborers made clay tiles and wove bed linens and cast suspicious glances at my foreign eyes, as he explained that he could never leave the hotel. I was going to leave, with or without Carolyn, and so we kissed and kissed and kissed the tragic kisses of people who will never see each other again. I walked out of the hotel alone.

Well, I did it. I posted my first writing assignment for my writing workshop which I have been greatly enjoying. I spent all weekend thinking about what to write. I wrote my piece on Monday, let it rest for a few days and then revised it and posted it today. If you hear a high pitched keening coming from the Lake Isabella area, it's me succumbing to writing anxiety. Now here is the part of the blog where you choose your own adventure. If you don't want to listen to me whining, proceed to Roman Numeral I. If you want to listen to my whining, don't mind a repetitive use of the word "sucky," and would like to see a picture of Carol Burnett, proceed to Roman Numberal II. I. I am feeling a little bit of anxiety about my first writing assignment. II. You asked for it. I tried to make my writing evocative, uplifting, truthful, interesting, relatable, etc. But now that I read it after it's been submitted to the online forum where everyone else in the class has posted

Starting this week, I get to take a one-month online writing workshop hosted by the Los Angeles Review. The class is on the subject of nonfiction creative writing. I have had a lot of fun writing humorous nonfiction to be published in the newspaper or on this blog, so I am excited to see where this class will take me in the world of nonfiction writing. I hope my writing is not too hyperbolic. I do have a tendency to exaggerate or "stretch" the truth for dramatic effect. Maybe they will tell me this is bad...or maybe it's good? I don't know. It took a courage for me to sign up for the class. As soon as I heard about it, I wanted to do it, but I just...didn't. What if they think my writing is terrible? What if it's more work than I can do or will do? What if everyone else in the class has really amazing work and mine is just terrible? It's interesting because if this were a swimming class or a pottery class, I wouldn't even worry about it, because I know

If I were to write a fairy-tale, my princess would be able to handle sleeping on rocks, much less a pea. If my princess slept a little fitfully her first night in the castle because of some pea-sized lump in her mattress, she certainly wouldn’t embarrass her hosts by mentioning it. My princess wouldn’t need to be rescued- She’d be smart enough not to get abducted in the first place. My princess wouldn’t need to marry into money to keep her kingdom wealthy- She’d manage money wisely and set up an economy that encouraged thriving businesses. My princess wouldn’t marry some prince just because he came along and climbed a glass mountain or killed an unsuspecting monster or any of those silly things. She would know that just because a prince was the strongest warrior- it wouldn’t always make him the best husband, or the best king. My princess would pick a prince who was smart, wise, kind, and generous...if she decided to get married at all. She would wear sensible shoes so she could run if

Grandfather, how could you become so small When I need you to be big? You were so tall when I was a child. And I was safe with you. Grandmother, how could you become so angry When I need you to be joyful? You used to laugh when I was a child, And I was safe with you. Father, how could you get so sick When I need you to be healthy? You were so strong when I was a child, And I was safe with you. When did you all shrink? How could you? Now I’m the big one… Now I’m the joyful one… Now I’m the healthy one… And now you’re all leaving me behind.

The Past Adventures of Idiot Woman: Dating Disasters Part 2 This is the last half of a story that began with " The Past Adventures of Idiot Woman: Dating Disasters." I've told this story for the past few weeks to family members and friends when I mentioned that I was blogging about it. My wonderful sister-in-law Meghan , who I love dearly is married to my brother who I also love dearly, and is carrying a baby who I already love dearly though I have not met her yet, responded with this comment, "I don't have a lot of awful date stories, that can probably be attributed to the fact that I wasn't really asked out all that much, which is sad in and of itself. Are you feeling sorry for me yet? Ha Ha!" Well, I'd just like to say to Meghan and any others who didn't date around very much...don't worry, you didn't miss much, either. If you're willing to date crazy people, weird people, cheap people, or people you don't know very well, it b

Not too long ago, I wrote the post, "Can Stripping in your Car Lead to True Love?" about the night I met my now-husband Anthony at the Yule, a Christmas Banquet held by my college (California Baptist University) every year. I met him during my sophomore year. What I haven't told you about yet was my date for the Yule msy freshman year. I don't quite remember how I met Isaac. I think he was in the cafeteria, eating his third serving of food. For some reason (I guess I was feeling brave that day), we started up a conversation. He was a good-looking guy with black curly hair and deep brown eyes. He was very tall and masculine- probably one of those guys who started growing chest hair in the 6th grade. Isaac was a great conversationalist. I ended up sitting at his table for his fourth serving of food and talking to him for the next hour and a half. He talked about really interesting things, and as he talked or listened to me talk, he would stare directly into my eyes wi

In the life of a trailer dweller, few phrases inspire more fear than the utterance, "the toilet tank is full." With those words comes blame and recrimination. "Did you put enough water down the tank, Sandy?" "I always put enough water down the tank, Anthony - maybe you didn't!" And after a few more rounds of the blame cycle, my husband will volunteer, like a true hero. "Fine. I'll deal with it." "Oh, good! I'll cheer you on. From inside." For any of you non-trailer dwellers, you lucky people with toilets that actually flush, let me explain how the toilet tank works. Basically, our trailer bathroom sits on top of a 20-gallon septic tank. When you use the toilet, you push a lever with your foot which opens a hole directly into the tank and sends all the bodily fluids and solids and a lot of water down into it. Theoretically, the bacteria and the water in the tank will break down the solids and they will move out of the traile

My husband Anthony and I had just come back from a visit to his parent's place. They have about 15 acres of land. It is a nice property with one small residence, an above ground pool, an orchard, a large vegetable garden, a grape arbor, a flower garden, and rocks and weeds. A lot of rocks and weeds. It was my husband's dream that someday...when his parents built a larger home on the property, then we would move into their small residence (which was originally only meant to be a garage but they ended up living in it for 30 years) and eventually build our larger home on the property. At that point, the garage/house would actually be used as a garage. Anthony and I had only been married for two years. We lived in a 2-bedroom rental a few miles away from his parents. Rent was cheap, and the house was hideous outside, but inside we'd created quite a comfortable little home for ourselves. A home where I felt safe and happy. Anthony often discussed the "move-up-there-and-bui

I took the pork chops out of the freezer this morning and set them on a plate in the refrigerator. This may sound insignificant...but it's not. Taking frozen meat out of the freezer is a promise to yourself. It's a promise that sometime in the next 2 or 3 days...you will return to the meat and actually spend time preparing and cooking it before it spoils. Meat is expensive. Our pork chops came from a local student who raised a pig for FFA. The 1/2 pig that we purchased cost about $4.00 a pound which is not bad when you consider that it was locally raised, killed, and butchered in healthy conditions. For me to actually remove the meat from its frozen security, thereby risking high-quality humane organic $4.00/lb meat to the possibility that I will be too busy to prepare it before it spoils was a big deal. It signifies that I have something very valuable in my life again: TIME. It's been at least 3 months since I defrosted meat. Most of the people I know my age are in the s

There is a scene in the play, "You Can't Take it With You," where Grandpa Vanderhof gets visited by an IRS agent because he hasn't paid his taxes. Ever. When the IRS agent asks him why, the grandfather just replies that he doesn't ever see tax money going anywhere useful and he throws the responsibility back on the agent to explain what they need all that money for. The IRS agent mutters something about the military needing it, and roads and schools, and of course, the constitution. The grandfather argues that the constitution was paid for a long time ago and maybe those other things are important, but he thinks they're only worth about $15.00 for the lot. We sent in our federal income tax forms today. I do often wonder about the purpose of all that money. Roads and schools are good...but doesn't my state pay for most of that? The military is good...but do they really need that much of my money for it? Is my money paying for people on welfare? Or unemploym

I went outside yesterday morning and breathed in the fresh spring air. For the first time in a while the future seemed bright. Is it that the play I'm directing is almost over? Is it that the yearbook is almost completed? Could it be that I finally got enough sleep? Or is it just spring?

I had an unprecedented amount of traffic on my blog this month. So much traffic, in fact, that I began wondering what on earth I had written or done that made so many people visit my blog. A little on-line sleuthing soon delivered some answers. It turns out that President Obama recently presented Harper Lee with a special award for her book _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Apparently "Harper Lee President" was a popular search title on Google for a few weeks, and my blog post, " Harper Lee for President" was in the top 6, so quite a few people clicked on it. What a fun, serendipitous thing to happen. I am still working in my short story, "Alvinia." I am developing the character of Mistress Georgette, who is the primary mover and shaker in the story. She is the character in the story most like me, or should I say, most like who I would like to be. The title character, Alvinia, is a fairly flat character- your general, run-of-the-mill pretty girl with a little spun

I found this in some old computer files. I wrote it during my first year of teaching and forgot all about it. It's a spoof on, "Camp Grenada," by Allan Sherman. Hello Mother, hello Father, I’m a new teacher at Kern Valley School requires a lot of training And they say we'll all teach well when they’re explaining But I was teaching and lecturing When I noticed they weren’t listening they were talking, they were laughing, all my students are so aggravating. All the students hate the teachers And my classroom’s full of creatures from the food that kids have left there All these ants are climbing up on my chair. I went out to see my car, They had keyed it, they’ve gone too far! they egged my house and ding-dong ditched it And they laughed at me when I pitched a fit. Take me home, oh Mother Father, Take me home, I’m bad at teaching! Don't leave me in my classroom where the smell of body odor lingers everywhere. Take me home I promise I will make your meal Or wash your

We are studying Romeo and Juliet in my 9th grade class right now. We had a class discussion on Love at First Sight and whether it existed or not. This led to a discussion of what True Love really is, and that conversation yielded what I feel are some tragic statistics. Out of 50 freshmen, 4 believed in the existence of "True Love," 16 said they didn't know, and 30 said they didn't believe it existed. Where are the ideals of 60% of these kids? They are 15 and 16 years old...isn't that when you should believe in Love? Sadly, I estimate that at least 25% of these students are already sexually active. Perhaps their opinions on love could explain why it seems that they have few morals when it comes to sex. Maybe they think, why wait for Love when it's not real? Of the 4 who did believe in love, they gave some interesting evidence. Also interestingly, these are students who I am fairly certain are not sexually active. #1 said, "I've watched a lot of romant

She kept daydreaming about the gun. There it was, in the little box. The men always kept it loaded, "just in case." When her husband had first brought the gun into the house, she had not been pleased, but that made no difference. She had never liked guns. Now, however, she found herself thinking about them in detail- specifically, the sounds. A bang, and then a silence. The silence is what she was most interested in- being silent, and quiet, and still. A sleep that no alarm clock would interrupt for her. It's not that she was miserable. She was just...tired. It seemed like the harder she worked at her job, the more responsibilities they gave her. Day in, day out, leaving early in the morning and coming home late at night. For years she had worked, and now she was just tired of it. She could have just waited it out until retirement...but she was tired of waiting things out, tired of doing the sensible thing. Tired of being a sheep. She had often thought that suicide was

Whenever I say to my husband, "honey, I'm reading a new book..." he gets this crazed, glazed-over look in his eyes. He knows that this means I will develop some wonderful new idea that I am convinced will change everything for the better....and turn our lives upside down in the process. He knows it is no use to try to dissuade me, I must try the new idea, even if it kills us both. So when I told him I wanted to learn more about investing in the stock market, Anthony wasn't exactly thrilled, but as usual, he let me have the freedom to try it out. And what's the first thing I do? Step knee-deep into a steaming, feculant pile of scam. I even managed to rope my supportive father in with me. My Dad and I both signed up for the "Rich Dad, Poor Dad Stock Success" 3-day workshop, which we paid $200 for the privilege of attending. It seemed like it was going well for the first day. It was all so simple. Learn their system and you can quit your job, make more mon

During my Junior Year of College, I studied abroad at Oxford for a Semester. It has by far been one of the best experiences of my life. You can see above some of the adventures I had. Picture #1: This is me and a friend from my program in the stocks at Warwick Castle. Picture #2: This is me and another friend at Shakespeare's House in Stratford on Avon. I'm the one in the grey sweater. Picture #3: My twin sister Carolyn (La Therapista) and I went to Bath together. I'm the one with the red hat. I had many adventures in Oxford...but the one I will tell you about today has to do with the boy I left behind in America. Anthony and I had met in the December of 2002, the winter of my Sophomore year. You can read that story here at the post, "Can Stripping in Your Car Lead to True Love." Although I knew that I cared for Anthony deeply, I still had mixed feelings about making any sort of commitment to him, especially knowing that I would be gone for 3 months in the fall

At night, the trailer cats wake us up by running under the trailer, chasing and yowling at each other. Sometimes they run back and forth on top of trailer and other nights, mewing to be let in through the ceiling vents. When we let them inside, they are calm most of the time, but if they start running after one another, they can make the entire trailer shake. We have a small herd of trailer cats: three to be exact. There are 30 feet in our trailer, so you would think that would give each cat about 10 feet to itsself, but...they all want to be in the same spot, of course. Bango is the white Calico. She is the oldest, the first, and the head honcho. She keeps the other two in line and is the first to pick a fight. Tail-light is the tortoise shell. She is second oldest, everyone's favorite, and never worries about who's in charge. She just plays. She will play with cats, people, and even dogs. Mystery is the grey one. She is the youngest, the laziest, the scaredest, and the needie

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet" We are studying Romeo and Juliet in class right now, so yesterday we discussed whether we would still be ourselves if our parents had named us something different. I shared with the darlings that my parents had named me Sandy after one of my father's favorite cousins. I have only met my 2nd cousin Sandy a few times, so I don't have very many ideas about who she is- but I got the impression from my father that she was a sweet, caring person. Something else I shared with the darlings is that Sandra means, "Helper of Mankind." I have always taken pride in the idea that I was a "helper." I don't like to see pain or suffering- I want to make the world a better place. One of my spiritual gifts is Mercy, and when I see tragedy my heart breaks every time. I believe that is the sort of person Jesus would want me to be, too- someone who puts an end to suffering and

Dear Spring, I have noticed that you are trying to keep from doing your job for as long as possible this year. The frost is still arriving every morning and just last week, we had snow! This is unacceptable. Why should we be penalized for your tardiness? You had better come soon! I'm sorry, I know how mean that must have sounded. I didn't mean to be so harsh- I really love you, Spring, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. It's just that it's been so very cold lately and we're all getting a little antsy down here. I'm tired of being cold and wet and in the dark. I'm tired of empty gardens and defrosting the windshield of my car. I know you're probably with Summer and Fall, partying it up, but don't you think it's time to come down here now? If you would only come soon, I promise I would plant some carrots in your honor. Sincerely- Sandy

It was already dark by the time I circled the parking lot at the restaurant. I was two hours late and I still had to change into my formal gown. I was afraid to go into the restaurant to put it on in case my date should see me before I was ready to see him. I hoped to find a fast-food restaurant or a gas station nearby to change, but instead I drove past office building after office building with no luck. Time was running out. With a deep sigh- what a long day it had been- I pulled into a dark parking lot and drove to the farthest corner I could find. "Any Hobos out there?" I wondered. "Enjoy the show." It went against at least 95% of my upbringing and training to strip in my car in a parking lot, but I decided to follow the 5% that told me not to stand up a date and suck it up and do it anyway. By the way, formal gowns were not meant to be gotten into easily. There wasn't much room in my tiny, two door car, but I decided to make the best of it. My elbows kept s