• Carolyn Crist
Beginning Track Manager, and Detailed Overseer

• Nancy Dunham
Mid-Career Track Manager and Volunteer Coordinator. She’s also ASJA’s new volunteer coordinator.

• Dorri Olds
Advanced Career Manager and nicknamed the “Social Media Guru” for the entire event.

SAVE THE DATE! May 18–19, 2018
ASJA’s 47th Annual Writers Conference

Note: The 2018 conference will be held at a new venue this year: Sheraton New York Times Square Hotel, 811 7th Avenue at West 53rd Street, New York City. The conference Members Day is May 18 and the Open Day is May 19.
I am excited to be taking this work on! My dad always said, “If you want something done, give it to the busiest person and they’ll get it done.” ASJA is filled with hard-working freelance writers who are accustomed to nutty deadlines and being adept at multi-tasking. I’m honored to be part of this amazing team led by ASJA president Sherry Beck Paprocki.
I am thrilled — absolutely gleeful — that my proposal for the conference theme has been chosen! It is based on the three tracks: Beginner, Intermediate and Advanced levels.
The 2018 theme is:

Navigate, Motivate, Captivate

I will be serving as the Advanced Track chair. It is an honor to have been chosen. ASJA has helped me find success as a full-time freelance writer. I work in my home office with my beloved dog Buddy James at my feet. Thank you, ASJA! 

We Are Seeking Conference Panel Proposals • Deadline is Nov 10th

The NYC Conference’s theme for 2018 is Navigate, Motivate, Captivate. This year, we’re featuring three tracks for beginners, mid-career writers and advanced storytelling techniques.
We are currently soliciting proposals for panels and workshops that will inspire, motivate and empower journalists, nonfiction and literary nonfiction writers at all stages of their careers. Emphasis will be put on professional development as it relates to these three tracks of freelance writing, such as workshops on pitching, making new career moves, finding increased income, querying book agents, and publishing in all aspects such as books and magazines.
What We Are Looking For In a Session Proposal
We prefer workshops that focus on craft and those with a “how-to” aspect. We want single session leaders who are experts in their field and savvy in social media. We’re seeking panels that offer real service to our attendees. In particular, we’re looking for diversity in panelists — racial, ethnic and cultural backgrounds, sexual orientation, age, gender identity, marital and parental status.
If you’re interested in speaking, please complete this form.
Please note that we are unable to offer monetary compensation for travel or presenting. All participants must be available during the entire two days of the conference, May 18 and May 19, as scheduling will be at the discretion of the conference committee.
Deadline: November 10, 5:00 pm ET
 

Writers: If you are interested in joining ASJA…

Visit the Society’s website:
• About ASJA
• Who is Eligible to Join
• Member Benefits
And, if you do decide to join, please mention that you heard about ASJA from me! I’ll be much obliged.

Track Chair Bios

Carolyn Crist, a freelance journalist with stories that have appeared in AARP, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Atlanta Magazine, Anesthesiology News,  Reuters, Tales of the Cocktail, U.S. News & World Report and WIRED. She is also an adjunct journalism professor (of convergence journalism, photojournalism and travel writing) at the University of Georgia and co-owner of Pixel & Ink Studio in Athens, Georgia.
Nancy Dunham is a freelance writer whose clients include People magazine, AARP, Automotive News, USA Today, MoneyTalksNews/MSN, Woman’s World, A&E Real Crime blog and other national publications. Dunham was a newspaper reporter, magazine editor and publisher. She is also a founding board member of the Association of Healthcare Journalists and lives in Alexandria, Va.
Dorri Olds is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in book anthologies, newspapers and magazines including The New York Times, Marie Claire, Woman’s Day and The Forward. Her social media following includes over a million views on YouTube. As a full-time freelancer she divides her time between writing personal essays, pop culture articles, service pieces, movie reviews and interviewing A-List celebrities. She is currently working on a book about misogyny and rape culture.
“ASJA is so fortunate to have these prolific writers agree to work together to make this upcoming conference one of the most relevant conferences available to freelance writers and authors in the industry,” says ASJA President Sherry Beck Paprocki. “As ASJA moves to a new conference venue next spring, the tri-chairs promise to deliver important content for all writers—whether they are just starting out in the profession or they have long-time writing experience. We are looking forward to the months of planning that will create a must-attend conference next spring.”
 
Here is one of my personal ASJA Success Stories:
ASJA is so worth the cost of membership. Every year that I attend the annual conference in New York City, I make back much more money than I spent. Last year, during speed pitches, I met the lovely Woman’s Day editor, Maria Carter. We hit it off immediately. She has published three of my personal essays and is a dream to work with. Thank you, ASJA!

The post ASJA Announces Chairs for 2018 New York Writers Conference appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

If I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the procedure.

Lloyd and I were in love the night his condom ripped. “Oh no!” he yelped, his eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can’t get pregnant from one little tear.” At the time, I really believed it.

I was 14 and grateful to have a boyfriend. Lloyd was two years older and that made me feel so grown up. He seemed to have endless time to hang out. He’d dropped out of high school. Lloyd smoked lots of pot and showed me how to sink a basketball into a hoop. He sang love songs in falsetto and everything was better than the year before I met him.

At 13, I’d been gang-raped by classmates. Massive hands had covered my mouth, knees dug into my hip bones. I was pinned on the grass field of a local cemetery. The weight of the boys stilled me from thrashing. Finally, it was over. I pulled my jeans and panties up from my left ankle. After that I ran in a circle, around and around, picking up speed. I heard one of them say, “This chick is nuts. Let’s go.”

After that night, I didn’t stand still enough to feel anything. I kept secrets from my parents because I couldn’t bear the shame—they’d been right to say, “Stay away from those kids.” The humiliation of rape stayed inside. I bounced from one junior-high clique to another until I ran right into Lloyd’s arms.

The night our rubber ripped, we’d made love in the woods. Soon after that I began putting on weight. My breasts were filling out like my older sister’s and I thought, ‘I’m a woman now.’ One morning after a hot cup of cocoa, I felt queasy and ran to the bathroom. When I threw up, I figured it was the flu.

A week later, my mother and I went shopping for bathing suits. Each one I’d picked to try on was too tight. My mother was staring at me. “Are you pregnant?” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a scowl. “Of course not!”

But it got me to thinking, so the next day at school, I told a girlfriend everything. She said, “It sounds like you are. There’s a clinic where you can get tested.”

When I told Lloyd, he teared up. “We’ll get married!” he said.

I began thinking about a cute baby girl. We’d dress her in pink dresses with lace, matching bonnets, and socks. I imagined her face — her father’s mix of Native American and Black, and my Russian Jewish heritage meant her skin would be the color of cocoa and her hair shiny black.

It only took a few days to realize we couldn’t afford the pretty outfits I imagined. I’d been babysitting for a year. Babies need cribs, toys, diapers, and food. My tiny income and meager allowance weren’t nearly enough. Lloyd lived with his aunt in the ghetto section of town. His mother was a chronic gambler and consistently absent from his life. He didn’t know his father.

That same week, my suspicious mother, tipped off by my expanding waistline, scheduled a doctor’s visit for me under the pretense of an annual physical. She had always made appointments for me, so I didn’t think twice when she said, “Tuesday is your checkup.” But unbeknownst to me, she’d requested a blood test to find out if I was pregnant.

The day before the abortion, I sat in math class so it appeared my hands were in my lap but really I held them to my belly. Through my fingers, I explained why I couldn’t have her. She’d wince with shame about her ninth-grade dropout mom. I couldn’t be sure she’d have a father. Would Lloyd stay when we fought over diapers? Would he stay through fights over money? Would he spend the little we had on beer and pot? Such serious thoughts for a 14-year-old but I’m glad I was smart enough to have them.

When I asked Lloyd to come with me to the clinic, he shook his head “no” and wept. He promised he would pay his half of the money. For my portion, I used what I had saved from my clothing allowance. I would have to forfeit the new shirt and pants I’d planned to buy from the boutique I always passed on my walk to junior high school.

After I found out where to go, I took a 30-minute taxi from my home in Port Washington, Long Island, to Hempstead, Long Island, to the Bill Baird Clinic. Everything there looked sterilized — white or metallic — even the receptionist’s coffee cup at the front desk looked shiny and new. Pleasant, smiling people led me around. I was given a thin, sleeveless, cloth robe, slippers, and a locker to put my stuff in. I took off my jeans, Keds sneakers, and orange T-shirt with an ironed-on Stevie Wonder. There were tiny cracks on Stevie Wonder’s dreadlocks from putting him in the dryer by accident.

The doctor said I was three months pregnant and if I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the abortion. Hearing that made me feel dizzy and sick. The nurse told me to lie down on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. She gave me a Valium. I felt numb but noticed goose bumps on my arms. I tried to block out the image of the baby’s face while I lay on a freezing cold table with my legs spread wide. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

Won’t hurt?

It still hurts.

But even as the vacuum sucked out my insides and I imagined my baby screaming, I knew I was doing the right thing. My belly held only the fertilized egg; a fetus that might or might not become a little girl. If I’d let my pregnancy last full-term, I would never have been able to give her up. And even if she was pried from my arms and handed over for adoption, she would never know why her real mother hadn’t loved her enough to keep her. My life and her life would’ve been ruined. I would’ve had to drop out of school to care for her when I was only a child myself.

Our family physician called soon after with the results of the covert pregnancy test. I told her I’d already had the abortion and begged her not to tell my parents, but because I was only 14, she said she could lose her license if she didn’t. My mother was furious when she got off the phone and berated me for lying to her. My father yelled, “Which one of them was it?” My mother slapped him and defended me, “She only has one boyfriend!”

I had never even witnessed an argument between my parents and it felt like my world was exploding. Already so guilt-ridden, terrified, and depressed, I ran to my room. My relationship with my parents worsened after that, and wouldn’t begin to mend until more than a decade later. As the incident became a distant memory, we learned how to forgive each other.

As much as I hated having an abortion, I felt then — and still feel — it was the right choice for me. What if the law had said that wasn’t my decision to make? The terror of telling my parents, my desperation, and strong will, would have sent me fleeing to find another way to abort. A back alley? A wire hanger? I might’ve died. Thank goodness, I had a choice.

The post After Surviving Rape, I Had an Abortion at Age 14 appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

I spent years fantasy photoshopping myself. I wanted to be tall and slim like Giselle, but my ankles were too thick. I was knock-kneed and short. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I tried to wish away the dark fuzz on my forearms. I feared my face was ugly, spending hours studying blond classmates with cute turned up noses and wondering why I was so cursed. My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all.

Mirrors were tricky since my stomach could look blubbery depending on the angle. It didn’t help when others said I was thin or cute. I felt like the Michelin Man.

When I landed at Bard College, I was far away from my parents and felt drunk with freedom. Yet, loneliness plagued me while I studied the confident girls who wore bare midriff tops and tossed their heads back in flirty laughs. When their ringlets of hair bounced, the boys drooled.

Confiding my insecurities to a dorm-mate, she said, “If you act self-assured, you’ll be treated like you are.” I had an impromptu chance one afternoon when my figure-drawing instructor said, “We have to cancel class. The model didn’t show.”

“I’ll do it!” I said spontaneously.

Heads swirled towards me, eyes popped and eyebrows arched, yet instead of losing my nerve, I abandoned my easel and headed to the podium at the room’s nucleus. There was an absence of fear. Instead I was now excited about the room of 20 artists who’d render my body. It seemed like I’d taken a dare to go on a brave adventure.

The teacher told the class to take a five-minute break. When the room cleared he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” My heart quickened when I smelled his aftershave. I smiled and nodded and he said, “I’ll give you a minute to get comfortable.”

In the silence of the empty room, I pulled my black, crew-necked T-shirt over my head. Next I unhooked my bra. The pumping beat in my chest felt like conga drums until I unsnapped my pants. Suddenly I was overcome by an intrusive memory.

My mind drifted back to elementary school when I was nine and on a gymnastics team. “Everybody, line up,” Coach Tepper had said. “Today we’re going to add something new. It’s called a weekly weigh-in.” He held a clipboard as he explained a BMI index and the desired height and weight for a professional gymnast. Coach motioned to what looked like a nurse’s scale.

We all worshipped Coach and did what he said. When it was my turn to step on the scale, I had nothing on my mind but pleasing him. I climbed atop the wiggly scale platform. He checked my height, and wrote on his clipboard with a pencil while I studied his face. Next he moved the sliding metal piece and I awaited approval. Instead, Coach frowned. He muttered, “Hmmm,” like my dad did when displeased. “You’re too heavy, you have to lose five pounds,” Coach said.

I stood frozen, stunned, unable to move. “Step down,” Coach said as he scribbled on his chart. Then he called out, “Next.”

Now, in my college art class, I shook the shameful memory from my head and continued to pull off my jeans. A montage of near-naked, 5-feet-10-inch Victoria Secret models like Miranda Kerr haunted my brain. Thinking of their flat stomachs, I folded my pants and tossed my shorn undies to the pile of discarded clothes while I worried about my belly. It wasn’t flat like Keira Knightley’s or Gwen Stefani’s. Fighting to banish androgynous figures from my mind, I replaced those thoughts with images of voluptuous sirens like Meghan Trainor. My favorite meditation phrase came to mind: breathe in good, breathe out bad.

Read more…

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