I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and already has breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.
I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.
I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, his moist eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.
"Coffee?"
"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"
This makes me smile. An alkie. Knew it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.
"How ‘bout some herb tea?"He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”
"I didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”
“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”
"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”
“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "
I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, weird.
When I put the pie in front of him, he's staring at me.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is?
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."
"How do you know my name?"
"Good pie," he says cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips. "I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie...and a long, long pair of legs. " He drops his eyes as if he can see mine hidden by the counter.
And I know who he is.
I step back and my arm bumps the hot coffee urn. His damp eyes are faded green, front tooth crooked. I swallow hard and feel like a jolt the burning pain from the hot pot on my arm.
The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.
I can't believe it. I'm queasy with the thought. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.
"What--what happened to you?" But I know. Booze, probably drugs. He's been skidding since he left.
The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us. Finally he says, "I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?"
The crunch of eighteen tires sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. A moment.
I glance toward the door and whisper, "I...I have to work."
He nods and moves out from behind the counter.
A heavyset guy strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to closed. Serve him coffee, put a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.
I can see the young guy in him now, the Michael I used to know. His white hair almost black, the dip of his right shoulder, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.
"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the crackling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Michael who's watching it all.
Then I freeze. Beth. He's gonna wanna see Beth.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Second Day, Fourth Look
I like to read through a piece I'm working before I head off to bed and change what I can, but usually my brain is dead. More important for me is reminding my subconscious that there's a story developing.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and already has breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.
I let my eyes flick to his wrinkled, face, his faded green eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.
"Coffee?"
"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"
This makes me smile. But my back's turned so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.
"How ‘bout some herb tea?"
He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”
"I didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”
“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”
"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”
“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "
I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, something's weird.
When I put the pie in front of him, he's staring at me.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is?
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."
"How do you know my name?"
"Good pie," he says. "I'd die for a good piece of pie...and a pair of long, long legs. " He drops his eyes. And I know who he is.
I step away from the counter and my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn. The creases around his eyes, the crooked front tooth. I swallow hard and burning pain jolts through me. The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away from the coffee pot.
"What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.
We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me. I can't believe it. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.
"What--what happened to you?"
"You still look great in a pair of jeans." The ragged thread of his voice hangs between us.
The crunch of 18 tires outside, the spit of brakes, the cold drip of melting ice on my hip, his hand dropping the dish rag into the sink. A moment.
I glance toward the door and whisper, "I have to work." He nods and moves out from behind the counter as a heavyset guy strides in.
I serve coffee, put a hamburger on the griddle, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms. I can see it now. The white hair less wavy than it used to be still holds the familiar shape, the dip of his right shoulder lower than the left, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.
"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the frying burger right in front of me beginning to smoke. I flip it and glance back at Michael who's watching.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and already has breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.
I let my eyes flick to his wrinkled, face, his faded green eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.
"Coffee?"
"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"
This makes me smile. But my back's turned so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.
"How ‘bout some herb tea?"
He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”
"I didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”
“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”
"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”
“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "
I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, huh, something's weird.
When I put the pie in front of him, he's staring at me.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is?
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."
"How do you know my name?"
"Good pie," he says. "I'd die for a good piece of pie...and a pair of long, long legs. " He drops his eyes. And I know who he is.
I step away from the counter and my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn. The creases around his eyes, the crooked front tooth. I swallow hard and burning pain jolts through me. The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away from the coffee pot.
"What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.
We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me. I can't believe it. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.
"What--what happened to you?"
"You still look great in a pair of jeans." The ragged thread of his voice hangs between us.
The crunch of 18 tires outside, the spit of brakes, the cold drip of melting ice on my hip, his hand dropping the dish rag into the sink. A moment.
I glance toward the door and whisper, "I have to work." He nods and moves out from behind the counter as a heavyset guy strides in.
I serve coffee, put a hamburger on the griddle, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms. I can see it now. The white hair less wavy than it used to be still holds the familiar shape, the dip of his right shoulder lower than the left, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.
"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the frying burger right in front of me beginning to smoke. I flip it and glance back at Michael who's watching.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
Second Day, Third Fly-Thru
***Okay so this is where I have to think about exactly who this guy should be.
He could be her brother, her lover, her son, her husband, her father, her uncle, a stranger who just reminds her of someone. Okay so if this story is about wanting to blow this town, what would the worst thing be for her? That his appearance might force her to stay.
And who would do that? First thought that he is Beth’s father of course. Come back to see her, perhaps even to lay claim to her. And if this is true, wouldn’t she immediately recognize him.
Oh. What if he looks like an old man, done in by drugs and living on the street? She doesn’t recognize him because his hair has turned white and he’s rail thin and gaunt. She’s hated and resented him for years but here he is in front of her pathetic? Try this.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on the Desert Highway, just down the road from Clancy's Oil and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, , head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a tattered plaid jacket and polyester pants. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon’ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.
I let my eyes flick up to his wrinkled, sun-burned face, fading green eyes, crooked front teeth. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck old geezer. Seeing more of them every day. "Coffee?"
"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"
This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea and place it in front of him.
"How ‘bout some herb tea?"
He digs through the assortment, triumphantly holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”
"I didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”
“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”
"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”
“I been there, done that. Got my pie? "
I turn away to get that last piece for him and think, huh, there's something about this guy.
When I put the pie in front of him, he's staring at me.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is? He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."
"How do you know my name?"
"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and our eyes meet.
And I know who he is.
I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head.
I swallow hard and then the burning pain jolts through me.
The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my arm, I scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me to ice maker near the sink. Grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with crushed ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.
I can't believe it. This is an old man with white hair, a network of wrinkles across his gaunt face, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.
blah blah blah here is where they confront and reveal and she decides what her course will be.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
_______________________________________________________________
Have a lunch day and need clean hair. More later...
He could be her brother, her lover, her son, her husband, her father, her uncle, a stranger who just reminds her of someone. Okay so if this story is about wanting to blow this town, what would the worst thing be for her? That his appearance might force her to stay.
And who would do that? First thought that he is Beth’s father of course. Come back to see her, perhaps even to lay claim to her. And if this is true, wouldn’t she immediately recognize him.
Oh. What if he looks like an old man, done in by drugs and living on the street? She doesn’t recognize him because his hair has turned white and he’s rail thin and gaunt. She’s hated and resented him for years but here he is in front of her pathetic? Try this.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on the Desert Highway, just down the road from Clancy's Oil and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, , head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a tattered plaid jacket and polyester pants. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon’ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.
I let my eyes flick up to his wrinkled, sun-burned face, fading green eyes, crooked front teeth. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck old geezer. Seeing more of them every day. "Coffee?"
"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"
This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea and place it in front of him.
"How ‘bout some herb tea?"
He digs through the assortment, triumphantly holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”
"I didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”
“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”
"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”
“I been there, done that. Got my pie? "
I turn away to get that last piece for him and think, huh, there's something about this guy.
When I put the pie in front of him, he's staring at me.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is? He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."
"How do you know my name?"
"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and our eyes meet.
And I know who he is.
I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head.
I swallow hard and then the burning pain jolts through me.
The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my arm, I scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me to ice maker near the sink. Grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with crushed ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.
I can't believe it. This is an old man with white hair, a network of wrinkles across his gaunt face, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.
blah blah blah here is where they confront and reveal and she decides what her course will be.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
_______________________________________________________________
Have a lunch day and need clean hair. More later...
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Dare ya two!
Okay so I've got a start going here. 438 words, half way to a thousand, but that's irrelevant right now.
I have setting: Starkville Luncheonette at night.
Question: Luncheonette open at night??? Won't worry about that right now.
Got characters: The narrator, don't know her name, who has a daughter and she seems to be one in a line of waitresses. Doesn't want that for her own daughter. Like that. That works. And a stranger who gives off mixed-signals. Wearing a jacket and shorts. No car. Homeless? Is this a fantasy thing? NO!
Story problem 1 (what does the main character want?): She wants out of her rut and her town and into a new life that's the opposite of what she has.
Story problem 2 (plot and main arc): Don't know yet. What does this stranger offer her? Does he have the capacity to offer her anything? Is he dangerous? If not what could he teach her?
What stands in her way? Not enough money, lethargy, lack of education, her mother??? An old boyfriend?
Theme: Hmmm... obviously wanting a new life, to get out of the rut she's born into. But that what she wants . What's the theme? How does this idea apply to me? Rut. In a rut.
What might the quotation in the prompt give me: It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself. –Salvador Dali
Words not used from the prompt: -DYSPEPSIA-FLUCTUATE-ETON JACKET-ICE BOAT-REVERBERANT Do the suggestion anything? I got pie. Could I sub flatulate for fluctuate? That goes with dyspepsia. Eton jacket? Can I change his plaid one for the eton? Would this girl even know what that was? No. There's hope maybe for reverberant....
Possible key words: Escape, freedom, self-actualization, taking action...
Okay lemme see what going to happen.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back in the day when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts comes in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I slip take my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon''ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth. Nice cheek bones. Ditto mouth, though his lips are a little cracked, even flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water.
"Coffee?"
"You got herb tea?"
Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"
"I walked. I been walking all night." Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy.
"Walked from where? Nothing out here."
"Louisiana."
"You a hobo?"
"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.
"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."
"I'm not. I'm staying."
"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guy's kind of nice looking, but weird too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave. When I put the pie in front of him, I meet his eyes and he meets mine.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is? Why would I...
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it."
"How you know my name?" He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on. Jail?
"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and again our eyes meet. And I know who he is. I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head. I swallow hard and then a searing pain jolts through me.
The man leaps over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my burned arm, scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around and stops me, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to tub of crushed ice near the sink. He grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with the ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
___________________________________________________________________
Now if Ron Carlson were here he would NOT let me stop . I haven't told who this guy is yet or what he's got to do with Kelly. But I don't know, not yet. And since this is public, I'm giving myself permission cogitate. And I'm thirsty and I need to check the mail and do a couple things...
I have setting: Starkville Luncheonette at night.
Question: Luncheonette open at night??? Won't worry about that right now.
Got characters: The narrator, don't know her name, who has a daughter and she seems to be one in a line of waitresses. Doesn't want that for her own daughter. Like that. That works. And a stranger who gives off mixed-signals. Wearing a jacket and shorts. No car. Homeless? Is this a fantasy thing? NO!
Story problem 1 (what does the main character want?): She wants out of her rut and her town and into a new life that's the opposite of what she has.
Story problem 2 (plot and main arc): Don't know yet. What does this stranger offer her? Does he have the capacity to offer her anything? Is he dangerous? If not what could he teach her?
What stands in her way? Not enough money, lethargy, lack of education, her mother??? An old boyfriend?
Theme: Hmmm... obviously wanting a new life, to get out of the rut she's born into. But that what she wants . What's the theme? How does this idea apply to me? Rut. In a rut.
What might the quotation in the prompt give me: It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself. –Salvador Dali
Words not used from the prompt: -DYSPEPSIA-FLUCTUATE-ETON JACKET-ICE BOAT-REVERBERANT Do the suggestion anything? I got pie. Could I sub flatulate for fluctuate? That goes with dyspepsia. Eton jacket? Can I change his plaid one for the eton? Would this girl even know what that was? No. There's hope maybe for reverberant....
Possible key words: Escape, freedom, self-actualization, taking action...
Okay lemme see what going to happen.
_________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back in the day when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts comes in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I slip take my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon''ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth. Nice cheek bones. Ditto mouth, though his lips are a little cracked, even flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water.
"Coffee?"
"You got herb tea?"
Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"
"I walked. I been walking all night." Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy.
"Walked from where? Nothing out here."
"Louisiana."
"You a hobo?"
"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.
"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."
"I'm not. I'm staying."
"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guy's kind of nice looking, but weird too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave. When I put the pie in front of him, I meet his eyes and he meets mine.
He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Know who he is? Why would I...
"Kelly, com' on. Think about it."
"How you know my name?" He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on. Jail?
"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and again our eyes meet. And I know who he is. I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head. I swallow hard and then a searing pain jolts through me.
The man leaps over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"
My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my burned arm, scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around and stops me, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to tub of crushed ice near the sink. He grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with the ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.
Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
___________________________________________________________________
Now if Ron Carlson were here he would NOT let me stop . I haven't told who this guy is yet or what he's got to do with Kelly. But I don't know, not yet. And since this is public, I'm giving myself permission cogitate. And I'm thirsty and I need to check the mail and do a couple things...
Dare ya!
Thinking about writing a post for here this AM by either commenting on my need to spend time on my novel or complaining about spaced-out grocery baggers who love to put bottles of tea on my tomatoes?
OR should I ignore the blog and go write a story (begin one, edit an old one, get back to the novel instead of blogging about getting back to the novel?)
Then bam! Why not write a story here using the prompt I posted today? Do it all real-time, warts and all?
First thought: If I do it here, won't I be mortified if it's crap?
Thought 2: And it will be crap because it will be first words, first thoughts.
Thought 3: But what if in the end it has juice ? I won't be able to send it out, will I?
Thought 4: Aren't I the one who preaches about "disposable fiction?" Get over yourself, Gay.
Disposable fiction? Have I mentioned this concept here? Let me do that briefly.
Like so many writers, especially writers who are just figuring out how ugly courier really is, I used to think that any half-way decent thought, sentence, paragraph return was precious if I actually managed to produce it. I'd cling to it as if it had been written on clay tablets. I'd totally rework a story around that one surprisingly lyrical bit so I could keep it. The result of course was convoluted crap.
And that's exactly the way to become a convoluted crap writer. Not my overall goal.
So at some point, over time, I came up with the idea of thinking of my initial writing as "disposable." This wasn't easy because I was so afraid that if I wrote a good line or created an evocative image, I'd never come up with something quite as good ever again. But that's nuts. Not only does a writer come up with reams of stuff, it steadily gets better the more you toss out there.
So with all that in mind, I'm going to write a piece of throw-a-way fiction in this spot. I'm not going to worry about if it's good, going to be good, going to get me into Smokelong. I'm just going to see what happens. For the fun of it. For the hell of it.
I'm going to use the prompt I posted at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles today and I'm going to set a timer. 20 minutes. I'm not going to edit it now. When the bell rings, I'm going to quit. Step away from the words, regardless of how shitty they are. And come back to them later. I can always throw them away.
Here's the prompt:
Then bam! Why not write a story here using the prompt I posted today? Do it all real-time, warts and all?
First thought: If I do it here, won't I be mortified if it's crap?
Thought 2: And it will be crap because it will be first words, first thoughts.
Thought 3: But what if in the end it has juice ? I won't be able to send it out, will I?
Thought 4: Aren't I the one who preaches about "disposable fiction?" Get over yourself, Gay.
Disposable fiction? Have I mentioned this concept here? Let me do that briefly.
Like so many writers, especially writers who are just figuring out how ugly courier really is, I used to think that any half-way decent thought, sentence, paragraph return was precious if I actually managed to produce it. I'd cling to it as if it had been written on clay tablets. I'd totally rework a story around that one surprisingly lyrical bit so I could keep it. The result of course was convoluted crap.
And that's exactly the way to become a convoluted crap writer. Not my overall goal.
So at some point, over time, I came up with the idea of thinking of my initial writing as "disposable." This wasn't easy because I was so afraid that if I wrote a good line or created an evocative image, I'd never come up with something quite as good ever again. But that's nuts. Not only does a writer come up with reams of stuff, it steadily gets better the more you toss out there.
So with all that in mind, I'm going to write a piece of throw-a-way fiction in this spot. I'm not going to worry about if it's good, going to be good, going to get me into Smokelong. I'm just going to see what happens. For the fun of it. For the hell of it.
I'm going to use the prompt I posted at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles today and I'm going to set a timer. 20 minutes. I'm not going to edit it now. When the bell rings, I'm going to quit. Step away from the words, regardless of how shitty they are. And come back to them later. I can always throw them away.
Here's the prompt:
PEPSI-DYSPEPSIA-FLUCTUATE-ETON JACKET-ICE BOAT-BLUE GOOSE-STARKVILLE-LUNCHEONETTE-PONDER-REVERBERANT
It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself. –Salvador Dali
It's 7:30: GO!
___________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not a one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back in the day when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and aand old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millioneth time when a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts come in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I take my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon''ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth.
"Coffee?"
""You got herb tea?"
Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"
"I walked. I been walking all night."
Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy. "You a hobo?"
"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.
"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."
"I'm not. I'm staying."
"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guys kind of nice looking, but wierd too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave.
"Good pie," says the guy. He holds his fork like a gentleman. I'm surprised because for some reason I'd thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.
___________________________________________________________________
7:52. Buzzer went off but I had to finish my thought. Will check this out later and see what I've got
___________________________________________________________________
I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not a one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back in the day when she worked the counter.
The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and aand old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.
I'm wiping down the counter for the millioneth time when a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts come in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I take my own half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.
"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"
"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.
"Lemon''ll do." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth.
"Coffee?"
""You got herb tea?"
Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"
"I walked. I been walking all night."
Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy. "You a hobo?"
"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.
"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."
"I'm not. I'm staying."
"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guys kind of nice looking, but wierd too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave.
"Good pie," says the guy. He holds his fork like a gentleman. I'm surprised because for some reason I'd thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.
___________________________________________________________________
7:52. Buzzer went off but I had to finish my thought. Will check this out later and see what I've got
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Kris came in first and so did I!
Actually, it's not official yet because I haven't heard from Women on Writing, but good friend Madeline emailed me a congrats so I beat it over to WOW, and WOW (now I know why they call it that), I won first place. This is sooo cool.
Go here to read about WOW's Winter 2009 Flash Fiction Contest, then scroll down and you can read, "Beyond the Curve." I want to thank Janet Reid for choosing my story, a literary agent with FinePrint Literary Management. I'm honored!
Kris Allen, Adam Lambert, & AI : Should we care?
I'm a fan of Kris Allen. Downloaded everything he sang on American Idol to my ipod along with the works from Adam, Gokey, and Matt. A couple Allison's, two from Anoop-dog and two from Lil Rounds. Total playlist? Fabulous. Who makes me smile the most? Kris. So do I care who won? No. Should you? I have no idea, but here are my thoughts.
Adam Lambert is undeniably the dominant performer with the "whole package." He's the Elvis, the Robert Plant, the Freddie Mercury, the Steve Tyler of NOW and as Paula is wont to say: "You're the icon, you're iconic, icon, iconical, you, take it in, this is your moment...." And she's right. If he wants it, he'll have it because the music industry needs someone like him. Rock and Roll needs him too, to shake things up, to make it all fun again. Does Adam Lambert NEED American Idol? He hasn't needed AI from about half-way through the competition, and it's to his great credit that he's taken the whole thing seriously.
Kris Allen is "winning" in all senses of the word. He's got a winning personality, charming and disarming; he's got that face, that lopsided mouth, those clean-cut good looks; and he's got the talent, a voice with shading and variation if not the amazing range of Adam (most don't). Kris is relatable. Kara commented on it, that he makes you feel as if he's singing to YOU. And then there is the artistry thing. Not to take anything away from Adam because he has artistry too, but Kris possesses a passion for the nuance, the rhythm, the emotion of the songs he sings and that relates people of all ages.
Does Kris Allen NEED American Idol? From the moment Jamie Foxx said if Idol doesn't work out they could do something together, Kris's future in the industry has seemed assured. He works hard, he respects the music and the music listener, he has passion, he's "winning."
It doesn't matter who wins because it really IS about the journey, the contestants working their way through AI boot camp up on all those 52-inch screens across America. And to us, the watchers, rooting for our favorites, hoping they give us one more great performance, seeing how passion makes a difference in the little moments and how nerves play out and that there is both justice and injustice on AI and in life, and it's how one handles both that makes the difference.
These guys, Adam and Kris, they're class acts.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
LAW & ORDER: Easy to obsess
Read in the LA Times the other day, there's a possibility that the "mothership" of Dick Wolf's television franchise, the original Law and Order, may not be picked up for next season. Panic set in! Sweat popped, tears sprung, hyperventilation not far behind. NO!!!!!
I can't go a whole day without a hit of L & O. Love my Law and Order. All those flawed and clearly-delineated characters, all that fabulous writing, all of Jack McCoy!
Yes, I wouldn't have to go cold turkey. It's syndicated on TNT. But, OMG, even with umpteen seasons, eventually I'll have seen them all and just as it's happened with Jerry and the gang, I will grow slightly weary from repeated viewing.
I can't go a whole day without a hit of L & O. Love my Law and Order. All those flawed and clearly-delineated characters, all that fabulous writing, all of Jack McCoy!
Yes, I wouldn't have to go cold turkey. It's syndicated on TNT. But, OMG, even with umpteen seasons, eventually I'll have seen them all and just as it's happened with Jerry and the gang, I will grow slightly weary from repeated viewing.
I might die before that happens, but what if I don't?
Actually, I haven't seen every episode yet. I'm keeping track. I printed a list from TV.com of every episode of L & O. I'm working my way through, one episode a day, from 1990 with George Dzunida, Chris Noth, Michael Moriarty, and Richard Brooks through 2009 with Anthony Anderson, Jeremy Sisto (most cute since Benjamin Bratt), Linus Roach, and Alana de la Garza, AND of course, Sam.Watching all these episodes has been tons of fun. Some of the shows haven't lived up to its own high standard, but that's to be expected after so many years on TV, but over all the writers, producers, directors, and stars deliver high quality drama episode after episode. And there are some jewels: "Who Let the Dogs Out?" "Bodies," and several others I forgot to highlight on my list. Maybe the next time through.
BUT I hope it stays on the air. With each new cast change the show has twisted and turned and yielded fresh new situations and some damn good TV times.
Monday, May 18, 2009
GIMME A HINT! Who won?
Robert Swartwood has announced the winners of the Hint Fiction contest launched on his site and at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles. Check out his blog for the top twenty and of course the big winners!
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Week That Was...
On the HINT FICTION front, I hear from Robert Swartwood that he's forwarded the finalists to Stewart O'Nan in the adventure competition of the new genre "hint fiction." He should be announcing the winners soon on his blog.Digest of last week's Chronicles here. Quick links to posts by Sean Lovelace, Bill Ward, K. C. Ball, Rumjhum Biswas, and myself. Still open to post submissions. Email me at flashfictionblog@everydayfiction.com .
Also I've been honored with an invitation to be a guest speaker at one of Kerry Madden's classes at Vromans in Pasadena this coming Thursday. We'll be talking about flash fiction and how it's impacting craft of writing, all to the positive.
Kerry is the author of Up Close: Harper Lee, a biography of the author of To Kill A Mockingbird. You can meet her in person on Sunday, May 24 at 4:00pm when she signs her new biography at Vroman's Bookstore 695 E. Colorado BlvdPasadena, California 91101.Check out the foreward to Up Close at Kerry's website.
Friday, May 15, 2009
It came to this: Me at Flash Fiction Chronicles
Yep! I ran out of posts from other writers and have to put myself out there. I don't really mind. I have a few old posts about angst and frustration that I'm sure will touch some writer who's worried she just isn't good enough. The one today discusses Talent and Skill; which does a writer need more ?
Lack of talent has always hung over my head, the idea I've got none. Growing up I sometimes felt a spark of clear thinking in the creases inside my cranium, but most of the time, it seemed to me I knew nothin'.
I was under the miscomprehension that if I had no talent--writing for me, but it could be anything a person wants to do--I might as well not bother trying. Even if I had a little talent, I shouldn't bother because there are geniuses out there who wake up in the morning, sit down at the computer, and spin marvelous tales without effort. After all, every book I picked up at the library seemed to be filled with whole worlds that sucked me into adventure and drama, dissolving my hours into days.
I'm older now, and I hope just a little wiser. I realize even Shakepeare had to work at writing. What I didn't see back then, couldn't see, was that there are other components to the whole creativity gig: effort, perserverance, desire, practice. Who knew it was such a complex thing? Not me. Sometimes I look back over the years and wonder just how many times the mummy tape circled my head because that's how I felt, paralyzed, unable to move forward, my whole body wrapped in thick gauze.
But we grow up and when I finally figured out how doing something over and over again would actually make me better at it, I began to push myself. I never had done that before. Stick to it? Even when I got antsy, worried, tired, bored, frustrated, and disillustioned?
I did things okay without too much exertion and for way too long, I never understood that doing things "okay" isn't enough. I get it now. To be good at something, really good, I can't get lazy. I can't let myself become satisfied with meager effort. I have to push myself, challenge myself, discipline myself. Yes I do.
But in that mix, the other lesson I've learned is to remember why I write. The answer is because it's fun. It's like finishing a Sunday crossword puzzle, but better. It's like winning 1st place or getting an acceptance, but better. Sometimes, when characters take over the story and hours melt into days, it's even better than sex.
Read more at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
Lack of talent has always hung over my head, the idea I've got none. Growing up I sometimes felt a spark of clear thinking in the creases inside my cranium, but most of the time, it seemed to me I knew nothin'.
I was under the miscomprehension that if I had no talent--writing for me, but it could be anything a person wants to do--I might as well not bother trying. Even if I had a little talent, I shouldn't bother because there are geniuses out there who wake up in the morning, sit down at the computer, and spin marvelous tales without effort. After all, every book I picked up at the library seemed to be filled with whole worlds that sucked me into adventure and drama, dissolving my hours into days.
I'm older now, and I hope just a little wiser. I realize even Shakepeare had to work at writing. What I didn't see back then, couldn't see, was that there are other components to the whole creativity gig: effort, perserverance, desire, practice. Who knew it was such a complex thing? Not me. Sometimes I look back over the years and wonder just how many times the mummy tape circled my head because that's how I felt, paralyzed, unable to move forward, my whole body wrapped in thick gauze.
But we grow up and when I finally figured out how doing something over and over again would actually make me better at it, I began to push myself. I never had done that before. Stick to it? Even when I got antsy, worried, tired, bored, frustrated, and disillustioned?
I did things okay without too much exertion and for way too long, I never understood that doing things "okay" isn't enough. I get it now. To be good at something, really good, I can't get lazy. I can't let myself become satisfied with meager effort. I have to push myself, challenge myself, discipline myself. Yes I do.
But in that mix, the other lesson I've learned is to remember why I write. The answer is because it's fun. It's like finishing a Sunday crossword puzzle, but better. It's like winning 1st place or getting an acceptance, but better. Sometimes, when characters take over the story and hours melt into days, it's even better than sex.
Read more at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tania's on Frank O'Connor Short Story Award List
GREAT News for all of us who follow Tania Hershman through her blog. She's on the Frank O'Connor Award long list with her collection of shorts, The White Road and other Stories published by Salt Modern Fiction. Being on ANY list that highlights quality writing is an honor...and an indicator that an author is being read, recognized, and appreciated. And what great company she's keeping: Mary Gaistskill, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Alex Keegan to name just a few of the 57!
You can find the Long List at The Short Review. And that's the other reason that Tania can be appreciated, not just for being an excellent writer, but for promoting short fiction at The Short REVIEW, an online e-zine dedicated to short fiction.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Swartwood's HINT FICTION picked up by Norton
Soon to be found on the pages of a Norton anthology will be Robert Swartwood's HINT FICTION phenomenon. The internet is shaking our foundations with the new and innovative. Congratulations, Rob.
Meanwhile there is work to be done. The finalists for the first-ever HINT FICTION contest must be selected and forwarded to Stewart O'Nan. He will then choose a winner.
Rob will need to fill the balance of pages in the anthology and I'm sure he'll be looking for submissions in the near future so keep an eye out for the word.
Monday, May 04, 2009
FRESH BLOOD in the shadow of Disney
Here I go again, name dropping, but I WAS in the shadow of Disney Studios in Burbank on Saturday afternoon. Literally. However, my business had nothing to do with mice. I moderated a Sisters-in-Crime LA sponsored panel called "Fresh Blood" of emerging mystery/suspense writers at the Buena Vista Branch of the beautiful downtown Burbank library.
Eva Batonne's heroine in Diva is a tough cop from St. Louis who finds herself caught up in the fake death of a singer in Malibu. The author discussed how the contrast of Joan Lambert's midwest upbringing with the world of glitzy L.A. helped her to test her character's vulnerability and determination to succeed. Diva, categorized as a police-procedural, crosses into romance, metaphysics, and contains depth of language that flirts with literature.
In Mirrorball, Jack Maeby's protagonist, musician Jimmy Mack, spent the disco era trying to break free from the anti-psychotic meds after being released from a psychiatric hospital. The author, a musician himself, drew upon his observations of the music business to create his unique character as disco narrowed the job market. Mirrorball is a crime-fiction suspense which contains gritty realism about how difficult it is for those treated with certain medications to live a normal life.
Point Surrender, written by Pam Ripling who also writes under the name Anne Carter, is about a school teacher who after a painful break-up seeks refuge in her brother's newly-purchased lighthouse. Amy Winslow begins to restore the rundown structure and soon discovers that the ghosts of the past are threatening her future. Again genre is stretched to include romance, mystery, and paranormal suspense as the author reveals her protagonist's strengths and vulnerability.
And a lively discussion it was. The panelists, each representing a different branch of the mystery/suspense genre, offered insights into writing engaging characters, using setting as character, and how most writers today feel more free to cross genres and sub-genres.
The "fresh blood" included Eva Batonne, author of Resurrection Diva, Jack Maeby who wrote Thorazine Mirrorball, and Pam Ripling/Anne Carter, cross-genre writer extraordinaire, writer of Point Surrender.
The "fresh blood" included Eva Batonne, author of Resurrection Diva, Jack Maeby who wrote Thorazine Mirrorball, and Pam Ripling/Anne Carter, cross-genre writer extraordinaire, writer of Point Surrender.
Eva Batonne's heroine in Diva is a tough cop from St. Louis who finds herself caught up in the fake death of a singer in Malibu. The author discussed how the contrast of Joan Lambert's midwest upbringing with the world of glitzy L.A. helped her to test her character's vulnerability and determination to succeed. Diva, categorized as a police-procedural, crosses into romance, metaphysics, and contains depth of language that flirts with literature.
In Mirrorball, Jack Maeby's protagonist, musician Jimmy Mack, spent the disco era trying to break free from the anti-psychotic meds after being released from a psychiatric hospital. The author, a musician himself, drew upon his observations of the music business to create his unique character as disco narrowed the job market. Mirrorball is a crime-fiction suspense which contains gritty realism about how difficult it is for those treated with certain medications to live a normal life.
Point Surrender, written by Pam Ripling who also writes under the name Anne Carter, is about a school teacher who after a painful break-up seeks refuge in her brother's newly-purchased lighthouse. Amy Winslow begins to restore the rundown structure and soon discovers that the ghosts of the past are threatening her future. Again genre is stretched to include romance, mystery, and paranormal suspense as the author reveals her protagonist's strengths and vulnerability. These panels are organized with great efficiency and care by Gayle Bartos-Pool. Check out her website.
Friday, May 01, 2009
HINT Fiction: For subbers, the wait begins
For everyone who submitted to Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction Contest, your "briefs" are being prepared for trial, the preliminary judges (Rob and me) are polishing our gavels, dry-cleaning our robes, adjusting our glasses (on our noses and on Scotch-soaked coasters). We're ready to find the best "HINTS" and send them up to the Supreme Court, in this case, best-selling writer Stewart O'Nan.
We're writing new law here, kind of. Genre-bending, at least as far as length is concerned. The buzz around the net is mostly positive curiosity, "Hint" being a new sub-sub genre, a story--or rather the hint of a story--in twenty-five words or less. Is it a fad or a legitimate endeavor? Will fiction this short get life or the axe? Or will it be sent on to a court of appeals?
I suppose it depends on what comes out of the 200 + submissions made via the comment section at Rob's blog. Some are probably quick attempts to join an A-list of sorts, to be one of the first; others will be sincere efforts, each word carefully chosen for both its literal and figurative meaning. If they are brilliant, perhaps we're seeing the beginning of a new abbreviated kind of story-telling. If not, well, I still have my pet rock.
Be assured, though, the briefs will be carefully, respectfully culled, ranked, talked about, argued over, and finally, presented to Chief Justice O'Nan.
And while the jury is out, the submitting writers must wait to hear what the final verdict will be.
We're writing new law here, kind of. Genre-bending, at least as far as length is concerned. The buzz around the net is mostly positive curiosity, "Hint" being a new sub-sub genre, a story--or rather the hint of a story--in twenty-five words or less. Is it a fad or a legitimate endeavor? Will fiction this short get life or the axe? Or will it be sent on to a court of appeals?
I suppose it depends on what comes out of the 200 + submissions made via the comment section at Rob's blog. Some are probably quick attempts to join an A-list of sorts, to be one of the first; others will be sincere efforts, each word carefully chosen for both its literal and figurative meaning. If they are brilliant, perhaps we're seeing the beginning of a new abbreviated kind of story-telling. If not, well, I still have my pet rock.
Be assured, though, the briefs will be carefully, respectfully culled, ranked, talked about, argued over, and finally, presented to Chief Justice O'Nan.
And while the jury is out, the submitting writers must wait to hear what the final verdict will be.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
HINT FICTION CONTEST ends today!
What's short and sweet and black and white all over? Answer? Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction Contest. What is it exactly? Here's what Rob says at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles:
Check it out the whole article here. Then visit Robert Swartwood’s blog for the HINT FICTION CONTEST, judged by best-selling author Stewart O’Nan. Prizes include a $25 gift certificate to Amazon and a copy of The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008 and who knows what else?
Deadline is midnight April 30th. That's today!
Me, I want to coin a term, so I’m going to do it here and now: those very, very, very, VERY short stories should be called Hint Fiction. Because that’s all the reader is ever given. Just a hint. Not a scene, or a setting, or even a character sketch. They are given a hint, nothing more, and are asked — nay, forced — to fill in the blanks.
And believe me, there are a lot of blanks. What is the word limit of Hint Fiction? Well, if a drabble is 100 words, and a dribble is 50 words, then how about we say Hint Fiction cannot be anything more than 25 words. One of the biggest hints in Hint Fiction is the title. It’s like the setup to a joke, and the “story” is the punch line. Without the one, the other won’t work.
Check it out the whole article here. Then visit Robert Swartwood’s blog for the HINT FICTION CONTEST, judged by best-selling author Stewart O’Nan. Prizes include a $25 gift certificate to Amazon and a copy of The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008 and who knows what else?
Deadline is midnight April 30th. That's today!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Plugs! London Eye and the Chronic
Edie Montgomery has written a nice review of my story, "The London Eye" at her blog abunchofwordz. This is so cool to me. Like I'm a real writer or something. Made my day. Made my month! Thanks, Edie, for the kind words.
And Bill Ward, writer extraordinaire has done the same for EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles. Can't tell you how wonderful it is to see writers I admire checking out the blog and writing that we are accomplishing our mission: a discussion of quality flash fiction and how to do it! Here's a list of Bill's stories online.
Davy’s Toy Box at Every Day Fiction
Cloning the
King at Big Pulp
The Unbelievable Non-Adventures of Gasbert and Zephyr at Every
Day Fiction
20,000 Light Years to Lilliput in Darwin’s Evolutions #2
Cloudcutter at Every Day Fiction
Gandolo of the Watchful Eye at Every Day Fiction
Junkyard Rats at Every Day Fiction
Priority Won at Every Day Fiction
An Imperfect Swordsman at Every Day Fiction
Mightier Than the Sword in Flashing Swords # 9
Thursday, April 23, 2009
What's Wrong With Me and My Comfort Zone
Didn't make the finals of The CWA Debut Dagger 2009 Contest sponsored by The Crime Writers' Association in the UK. Disappointed? Yes I am because the fifty pages of WHAT CAME BEFORE seemed pretty good to me.
Of course, I wrote the dang novel and mine is a typical authorial response. It's either adorations for one's own work-in-progress or clear unadulterated loathing. But I don't hate this novel. I love it and I've been back at work on it. There's no reason I can't get this sucker finished. None. Other than fear of finding out it is, after all, shit.
But I've learned to accept rejection as part of my personal scheme of things. I'm comfortable with rejection. I can deal beautifully with it. So does that mean I'm more comfortable with failure than success? Is it possible that there's a deep groove in my programming that keeps me locked down when the prison gate is wide open? How can that be? Or is it just as simple as FEAR.
Is it the only thing that stands in my way of getting this novel ready for submission? I complain of daily distractions from my REAL life, but there's only one reason I haven't edited it, shaped it, laid in the good thematic, pay-off, symbolic stuff that's in my head. FEAR. I have it in spades.
The question is, is it fear of failure...or success?
FOF
But the novel's not bad. Really. And I have to keep remembering my plan, a small step (or chapter) at a time.
What about FOS?
Natalie Goldberg once said that the closer we get to breaking free of our comfort zones, the more deeply-buried fear will fight back. So maybe all this angst is a good thing???
Special NOTE: I may need to keep making these declarations of inadequacy for a few more days. It's obnoxious. I know that. But what's a public forum good for if I can't use it to browbeat myself into action?
Of course, I wrote the dang novel and mine is a typical authorial response. It's either adorations for one's own work-in-progress or clear unadulterated loathing. But I don't hate this novel. I love it and I've been back at work on it. There's no reason I can't get this sucker finished. None. Other than fear of finding out it is, after all, shit.
But I've learned to accept rejection as part of my personal scheme of things. I'm comfortable with rejection. I can deal beautifully with it. So does that mean I'm more comfortable with failure than success? Is it possible that there's a deep groove in my programming that keeps me locked down when the prison gate is wide open? How can that be? Or is it just as simple as FEAR.
Is it the only thing that stands in my way of getting this novel ready for submission? I complain of daily distractions from my REAL life, but there's only one reason I haven't edited it, shaped it, laid in the good thematic, pay-off, symbolic stuff that's in my head. FEAR. I have it in spades.
The question is, is it fear of failure...or success?
FOF
- No one will like it.
- I can't sustain it.
- I'll write myself in a corner, fall into an abyss, get lost in the maze, give up.
- I will offend African-Americans, Hispanics, the Japanese, and whites since it's an LA story and has to be authentic.
- I will fail at authenticity.
- I will constantly repeat myself.
- I will write something so ridiculous that there will be a plethora of holes in walls throughout the world from readers hurtling my tome across the room.
- I will be embarassed and humiliated.
- I will be discovered as a phony, poseur, a pretender.
- People won't read it. (Well, the main reason to date is no one will read it because it's locked up in my computer while I'm busy taking naps and playing Spider Solitaire).
- I can't write anything longer than 2000 words that will sustain interest.
- Basically, I suck.
But the novel's not bad. Really. And I have to keep remembering my plan, a small step (or chapter) at a time.
What about FOS?
- If I succeed with one novel, I'll never be able to write again.
- Everyone I know will think they're in it.
- I'll be sued and ridiculed.
- I won't be able to get anything else done.
- I'll fail at booksignings and have to replace everyone's books because I've misspelled my own name.
- I'll offend book sellers and fans because I suffer from foot-in-mouth disease.
- I'll have to lose weight so I'll look slick and successful and won't get tired on book tours. (Ixnee on the an-pay akes-cay.)
- I won't be able to wear black because it'll be too hot in Tallahasee.
- Oh, worse! I'll have to leave my house and be kind to mean people.
- I'll be permanently out of my comfort zone!
Natalie Goldberg once said that the closer we get to breaking free of our comfort zones, the more deeply-buried fear will fight back. So maybe all this angst is a good thing???
Special NOTE: I may need to keep making these declarations of inadequacy for a few more days. It's obnoxious. I know that. But what's a public forum good for if I can't use it to browbeat myself into action?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Painting in new Faraway Journal
See my illustration for the story Silent Signs by Olga Zilberbourg in Volume 2, Issue 3 of Faraway Journal. http://www.farawayjournal.com/documents/Faraway_Volume%202_Issue%203.pdf page 61.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Contest: HINT FICTION
Visit RobertSwartwood's blog for the Hint Fiction Contest, judged by best-selling author Stewart O’Nan.
Prizes include a $25 gift certificate to Amazon and a copy of The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008.
Read more about Robert's take on HINT FICTION at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
Deadline is midnight April 30th. Enter now.
Deadline is midnight April 30th. Enter now.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Saturday LIFE Assessment
FLASH FICTION CHRONICLES
The new EDF Flash Fiction Chronicles has been launched with some excellent posts and I'm finally getting into a routine with getting it out there. Still open for submissions, of course, from writers of flash, published or not. The blog will hopefully be an archive of articles on writing from a variety of perspectives. When we have enough posts to warrant the set-up, I plan to add a page to the blog that will be organized by topic rather than by date only. This way if you are struggling to get writing on any particular day, you can click on that index page and go to a list of articles on motivation or process and hopefully, this will be the tilting point to get you typing away at a work-in-progress or a brand new story.
But we're not ready for that yet.
WHAT CAME BEFORE
What's that all about? Oh, yeah. The neglected novel. January saw me swearing to the keyboard that I would put in the hours to shape the 400 pages I've produced on that project, yet after I prepared the first fifty pages for a contest or two, I set it aside once again for the sweet pleasure of writing short.
What I have to do is decide, do I finish my opus or ignore it? Decide. Listening to Tony Robbins a few years ago, I was struck by the simplicity of one of his "tenets." Decide, he said and I'm paraphrasing here, is to choose one option and cut off all other possibilities. The root of the word "decide" is to "cut off." I liked that. Could life really be that simple?
Can we really just decide to follow a path and then do it thereby achieving a goal? This must be what determination is, to raise the priority of one activity over others in order to finish it to the best of our abilities. The question is, can I do it for the novel?
Why not? I've kept writing for years despite much floundering, shit product, and little confidence. If I can still be at the computer, writing and talking about writing, then I must have that determination. I just need to decide where my focus is and follow through.
So I'm going to decide. My focus needs to be the novel. I've gotten myself published in the short market which by the way I regard as a wonderful accomplishment. I've met the goal to submit to the new anthology at Sisters in Crime. I'm almost finished with a piece of flash I've promised to one more person. I must stop trolling for motivation to write something short and gear myself for the long journey to Novelland.
I'm going to do it. Starting? Today! And as Tony probably didn't say, no ands, ifs, or buts. Except maybe I should do that index page for the Chronicles because then I'd be searching out the motivation blogs and reading them I'd feel motivated...
The new EDF Flash Fiction Chronicles has been launched with some excellent posts and I'm finally getting into a routine with getting it out there. Still open for submissions, of course, from writers of flash, published or not. The blog will hopefully be an archive of articles on writing from a variety of perspectives. When we have enough posts to warrant the set-up, I plan to add a page to the blog that will be organized by topic rather than by date only. This way if you are struggling to get writing on any particular day, you can click on that index page and go to a list of articles on motivation or process and hopefully, this will be the tilting point to get you typing away at a work-in-progress or a brand new story.
But we're not ready for that yet.
WHAT CAME BEFORE
What's that all about? Oh, yeah. The neglected novel. January saw me swearing to the keyboard that I would put in the hours to shape the 400 pages I've produced on that project, yet after I prepared the first fifty pages for a contest or two, I set it aside once again for the sweet pleasure of writing short.
What I have to do is decide, do I finish my opus or ignore it? Decide. Listening to Tony Robbins a few years ago, I was struck by the simplicity of one of his "tenets." Decide, he said and I'm paraphrasing here, is to choose one option and cut off all other possibilities. The root of the word "decide" is to "cut off." I liked that. Could life really be that simple?
Can we really just decide to follow a path and then do it thereby achieving a goal? This must be what determination is, to raise the priority of one activity over others in order to finish it to the best of our abilities. The question is, can I do it for the novel?
Why not? I've kept writing for years despite much floundering, shit product, and little confidence. If I can still be at the computer, writing and talking about writing, then I must have that determination. I just need to decide where my focus is and follow through.
So I'm going to decide. My focus needs to be the novel. I've gotten myself published in the short market which by the way I regard as a wonderful accomplishment. I've met the goal to submit to the new anthology at Sisters in Crime. I'm almost finished with a piece of flash I've promised to one more person. I must stop trolling for motivation to write something short and gear myself for the long journey to Novelland.
I'm going to do it. Starting? Today! And as Tony probably didn't say, no ands, ifs, or buts. Except maybe I should do that index page for the Chronicles because then I'd be searching out the motivation blogs and reading them I'd feel motivated...
Sunday, April 05, 2009
I'm such a TWIT for Flockage
Yes, I've succombed to the lure of vanity--of having my first thoughts broadcast via the net over the face of the globe--by joining Twitter! But I tell myself I've done it for a good cause. Not for me, oh no! But for the general good of Flash Fiction Writers Everywhere! I'm a mere conduit for all that discussion, right?
My secret self wonders, "Sure, Gay, you're doing it for THEM. Like you know what THEY need, but we know your dirty little secret. You want more pages on Google. You want people to flock to you!"
No. Really I don't. (You believe that?)
Most of us want "flockage," though many deny it. It's human nature to desire attention. Flock to EDF's new Flash Fiction Chronicles at TWITTER. And of course visit the new blog itself at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
ATTENTION! CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Start some flockage of your own
Flash Fiction Chronicles would like to post your article on writing. Find out more at Submit a Blog Post.
My secret self wonders, "Sure, Gay, you're doing it for THEM. Like you know what THEY need, but we know your dirty little secret. You want more pages on Google. You want people to flock to you!"
No. Really I don't. (You believe that?)
Most of us want "flockage," though many deny it. It's human nature to desire attention. Flock to EDF's new Flash Fiction Chronicles at TWITTER. And of course visit the new blog itself at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
ATTENTION! CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Start some flockage of your own
Flash Fiction Chronicles would like to post your article on writing. Find out more at Submit a Blog Post.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
An Important thing to remember about writing: Patience
There is nothing new or special about feeling it necessary to apologize when a writer hands a new piece of work to a friend or fellow writer. We all have that impulse initially. What we read "out there" is polished, professional, perfect, and we're NOT. Or at least that's how we think when we are new.
The higher one's standards are the more difficult and treacherous the terrain. There's only one way to deal with the universal problem of being embarrassed and humiliated by our own inability to get something we're proud of in a short period of time.
Patience: Have faith in the process because it is a process. None of us have the gift of words flowing perfectly the first time through the tips of our fingers.
We need to let go of that expectation and tell ourselves: This draft is just fine right now. I'll fix it later. Just get what's coming NOW down now and worry about making it better the next time through. You see, THE NEXT TIME THROUGH, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, OVER AND OVER again is what makes a piece finally not be embarrassing and humiliating to ourselves.
The willingness to go back and look our "mistakes" up and down and fix them, refine them, reedit them, spell check them, etc. that's the path that leads to writing bliss.
Writing is a Process. The rough draft is about content...making it up.The second draft is about structure...making sense.The third draft is about language...making it clear.The fourth draft is about perfection...making it publishable.And that's just the big drafts, not counting all the little drafts in between.
As Malcolm Gladwell states in his book, Outliers, it takes over 10,000 hours to be come an expert so there's no reason in the world to apologize that you haven't reached perfection yet.
And if that doesn't make the point, then hears what Sean Lovelace put on his blog today after seeing David Sedaris at a reading:
And you asked for nachos, Sean? They're not only for snacks anymore.
The higher one's standards are the more difficult and treacherous the terrain. There's only one way to deal with the universal problem of being embarrassed and humiliated by our own inability to get something we're proud of in a short period of time.
Patience: Have faith in the process because it is a process. None of us have the gift of words flowing perfectly the first time through the tips of our fingers.
We need to let go of that expectation and tell ourselves: This draft is just fine right now. I'll fix it later. Just get what's coming NOW down now and worry about making it better the next time through. You see, THE NEXT TIME THROUGH, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, AND THE TIME AFTER THAT, OVER AND OVER again is what makes a piece finally not be embarrassing and humiliating to ourselves.
The willingness to go back and look our "mistakes" up and down and fix them, refine them, reedit them, spell check them, etc. that's the path that leads to writing bliss.
Writing is a Process. The rough draft is about content...making it up.The second draft is about structure...making sense.The third draft is about language...making it clear.The fourth draft is about perfection...making it publishable.And that's just the big drafts, not counting all the little drafts in between.
As Malcolm Gladwell states in his book, Outliers, it takes over 10,000 hours to be come an expert so there's no reason in the world to apologize that you haven't reached perfection yet.
And if that doesn't make the point, then hears what Sean Lovelace put on his blog today after seeing David Sedaris at a reading:
Sedaris read only works-in-progress. In fact, he had just written many of these drafts, and explained that giving readings is how he works and reworks material. He actually stood there with a pencil line-editing the pages as he read aloud. Very cool, and I hope my students noticed the process. I also hope they heard
him say, “My essays need about 12 revisions. I usually give revision #9 to my editor.”
And you asked for nachos, Sean? They're not only for snacks anymore.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Every Day Fiction April Calendar
EVERY DAY FICTION'S April Table of Contents
Apr 1 Leigha Butler Riding in Circles for Love
Apr 2 Patsy CollinsThe Scent of Lilac
Apr 3 Brian Dolton Atacama
Apr 4 John Lander Gallows
Apr 5 sn wright The List
Apr 6 Nicholas Ozment Pixelated Peasants
Apr 7 Stephanie Scarborough Leopold’s Monocle
Apr 8 Frank Roger The Glitch
Apr 9 Benjamin Jacobson The Apple Tree
Apr 10 TW Williams Glass Houses
Apr 11 Oscar Windsor-Smith Pigs Could Fly
Apr 12 Gustavo Bondoni Dangerous Skies
Apr 13 Joseph Freeman Flash Fiction
Apr 14 Ty Johnston The Way the Sunlight Lays Upon Her Hair
Apr 15 Dave Macpherson The Angels of Merciless
Apr 16 Stu Andrews Twenty Years
Apr 17 Mark Dalligan Bag Lady Blues
Apr 18 Bret Bass Tren del Fin del Mundo
Apr 19 Michael Tracy Mr. Sterne
Apr 20 Joshua Scribner Wish Limits
Apr 21 Emanuella Martin Road Kill
Apr 22 Pam L. Wallace Potion Woes
Apr 23 Jonathan Pinnock Opening the Box
Apr 24 Rodello Santos Conceived
Apr 25 Wayne Scheer Starting Over
Apr 26 AJ Brown Losing Grandma
Apr 27 Sarah Black The Windows Shatter Boise
Apr 28 K.C. Shaw God of Worms
Apr 29 Jerry Constantino 23 Down
Apr 30 Tim Love The Economics of Despair
Apr 1 Leigha Butler Riding in Circles for Love
Apr 2 Patsy CollinsThe Scent of Lilac
Apr 3 Brian Dolton Atacama
Apr 4 John Lander Gallows
Apr 5 sn wright The List
Apr 6 Nicholas Ozment Pixelated Peasants
Apr 7 Stephanie Scarborough Leopold’s Monocle
Apr 8 Frank Roger The Glitch
Apr 9 Benjamin Jacobson The Apple Tree
Apr 10 TW Williams Glass Houses
Apr 11 Oscar Windsor-Smith Pigs Could Fly
Apr 12 Gustavo Bondoni Dangerous Skies
Apr 13 Joseph Freeman Flash Fiction
Apr 14 Ty Johnston The Way the Sunlight Lays Upon Her Hair
Apr 15 Dave Macpherson The Angels of Merciless
Apr 16 Stu Andrews Twenty Years
Apr 17 Mark Dalligan Bag Lady Blues
Apr 18 Bret Bass Tren del Fin del Mundo
Apr 19 Michael Tracy Mr. Sterne
Apr 20 Joshua Scribner Wish Limits
Apr 21 Emanuella Martin Road Kill
Apr 22 Pam L. Wallace Potion Woes
Apr 23 Jonathan Pinnock Opening the Box
Apr 24 Rodello Santos Conceived
Apr 25 Wayne Scheer Starting Over
Apr 26 AJ Brown Losing Grandma
Apr 27 Sarah Black The Windows Shatter Boise
Apr 28 K.C. Shaw God of Worms
Apr 29 Jerry Constantino 23 Down
Apr 30 Tim Love The Economics of Despair
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Flash Fiction Blog Launched
The last couple weeks have been loaded with things to do, launching the new Flash Fiction Blog for Every Day Fiction, finishing up a long short story , and turning...one more year young. But the new blog has had most of my attention.
I'm such a fan of Jordan Lapp, Camille Gooderham Campbell, and Steven Smethurst who are the brains, beauty, and brawn behind the innovative e-zine Every Day Fiction. Not only do they supply a new story every single day without fail to their readers, they offer a community for writers and readers alike and constantly stay relevant.
Their mission is to maintain "a magazine that specializes in bringing you fine fiction in bite-size doses. Every day, we publish a new short story of 1000 words or fewer that can be read during your lunch hour, on transit, or even over breakfast" and this is exactly what they do.
Additionally EDF sponsors a forum at their website that gives writers and readers opportunities to exchange ideas, learn more about writing itself, and form friendships and support groups. The forum is home to a writing group that is private so writers can post drafts of their work for imput from other writers. Anyone can join, but the posts are not public so they can be then submitted to various venues.
Recently they launched Every Day Poets to give writers and readers of verse the same opportunities to produce and enjoy verse.
And now there is EDF's Flash Fiction Blog where writers can post their thoughts about the art and craft of writing flash fiction. This exciting new venue lets fans of EDF writers read about the trials and tribulations of their favorite authors as well as giving fellow writers the opportunity read and share with their peers. Check it out soon and click on "Submit a Post" if you have something to say, whether you are published or not, whether you are a writer or reader, all ideas are welcome as long as they involve the writing and reading of FLASH.
If you have any questions for the editor, that's me, and you can contact me at flashfictionblog@everydayfiction.com .
I'm such a fan of Jordan Lapp, Camille Gooderham Campbell, and Steven Smethurst who are the brains, beauty, and brawn behind the innovative e-zine Every Day Fiction. Not only do they supply a new story every single day without fail to their readers, they offer a community for writers and readers alike and constantly stay relevant.
Their mission is to maintain "a magazine that specializes in bringing you fine fiction in bite-size doses. Every day, we publish a new short story of 1000 words or fewer that can be read during your lunch hour, on transit, or even over breakfast" and this is exactly what they do.
Additionally EDF sponsors a forum at their website that gives writers and readers opportunities to exchange ideas, learn more about writing itself, and form friendships and support groups. The forum is home to a writing group that is private so writers can post drafts of their work for imput from other writers. Anyone can join, but the posts are not public so they can be then submitted to various venues.
Recently they launched Every Day Poets to give writers and readers of verse the same opportunities to produce and enjoy verse.
And now there is EDF's Flash Fiction Blog where writers can post their thoughts about the art and craft of writing flash fiction. This exciting new venue lets fans of EDF writers read about the trials and tribulations of their favorite authors as well as giving fellow writers the opportunity read and share with their peers. Check it out soon and click on "Submit a Post" if you have something to say, whether you are published or not, whether you are a writer or reader, all ideas are welcome as long as they involve the writing and reading of FLASH.
If you have any questions for the editor, that's me, and you can contact me at flashfictionblog@everydayfiction.com .
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tattoo Highway, new Flash Fiction Blog, and Slush Life
So much has happened over the last two weeks that I'm behind like a mother. Most important I did want to say that my story Losing Ground is out this month in Tattoo Highway, a very cool lit-mag on the net. Che-che-check it out. And thanks to those of you who read it and sent me those kind words of encouragement. Love you guys.
Every Day Fiction is launching EDF's Flash Fiction Blog with an inaugural piece from Sarah Hilary called "Historical Flash - (Re)living the Moment." Future blog posts are coming from Jordan Lapp, Camille Gooderham Campbell, Stephen Smethurst, KC Ball, Jason Stout, Dave McPhearson, Alexander Burns, C.L. Holland, DJ Barber, and more including yours truly.
The site is owned by Every Day Publishing which publishes Every Day Fiction and Every Day Poets, 365 days a year.
Flash Fiction Blog MISSION: Our goal is to help in the growth of quality flash fiction for writers and readers online and in print. This site is dedicated to the discussion of the art and craft of flash fiction, fiction in general, and the issues of writing, marketing, and publishing today.
BTW, I'm kind of the editor.
And slush life. I have a couple more posts to make here about avoiding the bounce out of the slush pile, but they'll have to wait until next week.
Friday, March 06, 2009
From the Slush, does anyone know what flash is anyway?
In her essay in The Best of Every Day Fiction, editor extraordinaire and slush mistress Camille Gooderham Campbell writes, "Despite its appeal as a quick read, flash fiction is not simplistic. Quite the opposite; it can and should be one of the most demanding literary forms, with a need for perfectly crafted prose, a complete story arc in a tight space, and an immediately engaging hook."
As I read submissions in the slush pile at Every Day Fiction, I realize that many writers do not have an understand of what flash fiction is. Camille's definition is a great place to start.
BUT FIRST, WHAT FLASH ISN’T.
Flash is not some accidentally thrown together words that seem to flow through a writer's fingers without much thought. Yes, it's true that some writers are skilled enough, and/or gifted enough to not have to edit very much, maybe even just proofread, but believe me, that's not me and I'd take any bet that that isn't most of you out there.
Flash is not a prose poem.
It’s not a vengeful spew about killing someone without developing character and complexity.
It’s not an extended paragraph used to set up a punch line.
It’s not an anecdote-slice-of-life-guess-what-happened-when-I walked-out-to-get-the-newspaper-the-sun-was-blinding-and-I-tripped.
It’s not an article, sermon, op-ed piece.
It’s not an obituary-like report on someone’s life.
SO WHAT IS FLASH?
Good flash is governed by the same reader expectation as any other fiction writing. Check Aristotle. Check Robert McKee. Check Chris Vogler. Heck, go read the bliss man, Joseph Campbell. Readers expect certain things and Camille tells you what they are: a hook, a story arc, and strong prose.
I want to add on more thing, good flash like all good writing should have some point to make, a reason for being that somehow, in small or large way, reveals a universal truth, a moment that brings to the reader a smile, a laugh, a tear, a "Yep, ain't that just the way life is."
So when thinking about writing flash, it would be helpful to keep in mind some of the words and phrases that should apply to any piece of flash:
Words you don’t want associated with your flash:
Crafting perfect prose, if that's even possible, NEXT.
As I read submissions in the slush pile at Every Day Fiction, I realize that many writers do not have an understand of what flash fiction is. Camille's definition is a great place to start.BUT FIRST, WHAT FLASH ISN’T.
Flash is not some accidentally thrown together words that seem to flow through a writer's fingers without much thought. Yes, it's true that some writers are skilled enough, and/or gifted enough to not have to edit very much, maybe even just proofread, but believe me, that's not me and I'd take any bet that that isn't most of you out there.
Flash is not a prose poem.
It’s not a vengeful spew about killing someone without developing character and complexity.
It’s not an extended paragraph used to set up a punch line.
It’s not an anecdote-slice-of-life-guess-what-happened-when-I walked-out-to-get-the-newspaper-the-sun-was-blinding-and-I-tripped.
It’s not an article, sermon, op-ed piece.
It’s not an obituary-like report on someone’s life.
SO WHAT IS FLASH?
Good flash is governed by the same reader expectation as any other fiction writing. Check Aristotle. Check Robert McKee. Check Chris Vogler. Heck, go read the bliss man, Joseph Campbell. Readers expect certain things and Camille tells you what they are: a hook, a story arc, and strong prose.
I want to add on more thing, good flash like all good writing should have some point to make, a reason for being that somehow, in small or large way, reveals a universal truth, a moment that brings to the reader a smile, a laugh, a tear, a "Yep, ain't that just the way life is."
So when thinking about writing flash, it would be helpful to keep in mind some of the words and phrases that should apply to any piece of flash:
surprising, fresh, original, intiguing, new
compelling content, unique situation, interesting choices made by characters, anchored by time and place, has conflict, has tension, active protagonist, action not activity, complexity not complication, delivers an ending that is unexpected but inevitable
precise language, clear distinct voice, specific detail
Words you don’t want associated with your flash:
bland, mundane, vague, trite, dashed off, trickery, passive, predictable, nothing happens, no sense of place, unclear, not cohesive.
Crafting perfect prose, if that's even possible, NEXT.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Slush Life- What sinks to the bottom
The craft issues of content, structure, and language a writer must consider when submitting a manuscript are extremely important, but first I want to share some easy-to-learn check-list items that will help to keep your piece off the bottom of the slush, the use of proper formatting, attention to grammar and spelling, and taking the time to proofread. Awareness of the importance of these three steps in the preparation of a story or essay for submission is one sign that an author takes his work seriously.
FORMAT
While incorrect format doesn't necessarily suggest the writing will be bad, it does suggest "AMATEUR." Most first-to-slit-open-the-envelope slushers understand it's their job to read through the end of a submission, BUT once they spot dense paragraphs or a million extra spacings between lines, a prejudice will insidiously try to slither into the reader's brain. Mumbling slush readers wonder if the writer is too lazy to find out how to format or too full of hubris to make the effort to create a professional-looking piece. Mumbles may turn into screams. "Gimme a break! I'm drowning here."
FYI to all who wonder why you never get a hand written note about your work:
Innumerable sites on the Internet have templates for proper formatting and almost every publisher has his own guidelines. If you don't want to sink to the bottom of the slush, learn everything you can about professional manuscript format and use it. Cormac McCarthy and e.e. cummings may be exceptions to the rule, but are you sure you want to risk it?
GRAMMAR AND SPELLING
I know. This is the I-used-to-be-an English teacher coming out in me, but once again, if you are submitting to a publisher, shouldn't your submission demonstrate you can write with assurance using the accepted standards of the language? I'm not saying a rule or two can't be broken. Many excellent writers break basic grammar rules, but they do it for rhythm and impact. On purpose. Fragments? Really? I can do that? Maybe. But first it helps if the writing demonstrates that broken rules contribute to the voice, the action, the pacing of the piece. Not understanding how grammar works or being sloppy with your submission is like attaching an anvil to your manuscript and throwing it off the Continental Shelf. (Maybe that's why it's called a "submission?")
PROOFREADING
A frustrating fact of life is when you finish something and you're ready to move on, you're probably not really finished. I finish writing a post here, and click that little orange publish button. Feeling good, feeling complete. Then I read through the blog as you would read it, and sure enough, I find typos, misspelled words, fragmented thoughts galore. It's inevitable. I can try and catch everything, but it may take two or three readings to get it all. Does it mean it's always perfect? Probably not, but 99% of the simple errors should be gone.
Obviously if someone drafts a well-paced, well-written, well-structured story with compelling characters meeting and overcoming internal and external obstacles, no self-respecting slusher is going to fail to pass it along for a typo, but for most of us, it's better to make the easy things like format and spelling part of our routine because bobbing up to the top of the slush, demonstrating our competence with the big stuff like content, structure, and language, that's just not as easy.
FORMAT
While incorrect format doesn't necessarily suggest the writing will be bad, it does suggest "AMATEUR." Most first-to-slit-open-the-envelope slushers understand it's their job to read through the end of a submission, BUT once they spot dense paragraphs or a million extra spacings between lines, a prejudice will insidiously try to slither into the reader's brain. Mumbling slush readers wonder if the writer is too lazy to find out how to format or too full of hubris to make the effort to create a professional-looking piece. Mumbles may turn into screams. "Gimme a break! I'm drowning here."
FYI to all who wonder why you never get a hand written note about your work:
Innumerable sites on the Internet have templates for proper formatting and almost every publisher has his own guidelines. If you don't want to sink to the bottom of the slush, learn everything you can about professional manuscript format and use it. Cormac McCarthy and e.e. cummings may be exceptions to the rule, but are you sure you want to risk it?
GRAMMAR AND SPELLING
I know. This is the I-used-to-be-an English teacher coming out in me, but once again, if you are submitting to a publisher, shouldn't your submission demonstrate you can write with assurance using the accepted standards of the language? I'm not saying a rule or two can't be broken. Many excellent writers break basic grammar rules, but they do it for rhythm and impact. On purpose. Fragments? Really? I can do that? Maybe. But first it helps if the writing demonstrates that broken rules contribute to the voice, the action, the pacing of the piece. Not understanding how grammar works or being sloppy with your submission is like attaching an anvil to your manuscript and throwing it off the Continental Shelf. (Maybe that's why it's called a "submission?")
PROOFREADING
A frustrating fact of life is when you finish something and you're ready to move on, you're probably not really finished. I finish writing a post here, and click that little orange publish button. Feeling good, feeling complete. Then I read through the blog as you would read it, and sure enough, I find typos, misspelled words, fragmented thoughts galore. It's inevitable. I can try and catch everything, but it may take two or three readings to get it all. Does it mean it's always perfect? Probably not, but 99% of the simple errors should be gone.
Obviously if someone drafts a well-paced, well-written, well-structured story with compelling characters meeting and overcoming internal and external obstacles, no self-respecting slusher is going to fail to pass it along for a typo, but for most of us, it's better to make the easy things like format and spelling part of our routine because bobbing up to the top of the slush, demonstrating our competence with the big stuff like content, structure, and language, that's just not as easy.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
In the Slush at EDF-An overview of what bobs to the top
It's already March and I haven't progressed as much as I'd hoped on "the novel." I've been too busy rewriting and sending out flashes that were written in December for a chapbook competition. Flash is so seductive that it's hard to resist. A piece of flash is controllable, doable within a short period of time. A rough can be written in an hour and the piece can be polished in a day or two. A writer only has 1000 or so words to wrestle with and the end result is much faster than say anything with 80,000!
With that in mind, I decided to make it impossible to give into writing flash for my favorite site, Every Day Fiction making The London Eye my last piece there for a while. I bought a pair of wellingtons, donned my mac, grabbed a shovel, and dove into the EDF Slush.
I've been slogging along now for a week or two and have a few things I'd like to say about the experience and pass along a few clues to those who want to write and submit flash. These are, of course, my own thoughts on the subject, so feel free, anyone out there, to disagree. But maybe something here will turn out to be a new lens with which to see your work.
I've read tons of writing, both as a life-time reader for pleasure and as an ex-English teacher. I feel qualified to do so, but it's not as easy as it might seem. The trick for the slush reader is to find something encouraging to say and to present the negatives in a way that is both constructive and doesn't offend. This is harder than it sounds. Many newer writers are clueless in general and many more experienced feel they have already learned it all. The relationship between a writer and a reader, in the slush and out, is always precarious.
The mucky job:
Sometimes encouragement is easy because the writer writes well, his use of words is precise and vivid or his sentence structure is clear and seductive. Reading this material is fun. And I can praise what the writer has done with his prose.
Sometimes I'm intrigued by the originality of a piece, whether the writer has dropped some weird-morphed creature in a workaday world or used an old-fashioned set-up and pay-off in a fresh way. This also makes saying something encouraging easier.
However, rare is the piece that flows with just the right words AND contains fresh and compelling content and if they do both, the piece may still lack one more element.
A good story should possess strong prose, compelling content and that third element, structure. This seems to be the one aspect lacking in most work in the slush pile. When a piece of writing suffers in all three areas: language, content, and structure, it is almost impossible to figure out what to say.
However, flash is the perfect form to master these three skills because of the length and once it is mastered, any form of writing becomes easier to write...and easier for the slush reader to say, YES!
Crafting flash requires a specific mindset in the areas of language, content, and structure and I'll discuss content that lends itself to flash tomorrow.
With that in mind, I decided to make it impossible to give into writing flash for my favorite site, Every Day Fiction making The London Eye my last piece there for a while. I bought a pair of wellingtons, donned my mac, grabbed a shovel, and dove into the EDF Slush.
I've been slogging along now for a week or two and have a few things I'd like to say about the experience and pass along a few clues to those who want to write and submit flash. These are, of course, my own thoughts on the subject, so feel free, anyone out there, to disagree. But maybe something here will turn out to be a new lens with which to see your work.
I've read tons of writing, both as a life-time reader for pleasure and as an ex-English teacher. I feel qualified to do so, but it's not as easy as it might seem. The trick for the slush reader is to find something encouraging to say and to present the negatives in a way that is both constructive and doesn't offend. This is harder than it sounds. Many newer writers are clueless in general and many more experienced feel they have already learned it all. The relationship between a writer and a reader, in the slush and out, is always precarious.
The mucky job:
Sometimes encouragement is easy because the writer writes well, his use of words is precise and vivid or his sentence structure is clear and seductive. Reading this material is fun. And I can praise what the writer has done with his prose.
Sometimes I'm intrigued by the originality of a piece, whether the writer has dropped some weird-morphed creature in a workaday world or used an old-fashioned set-up and pay-off in a fresh way. This also makes saying something encouraging easier.
However, rare is the piece that flows with just the right words AND contains fresh and compelling content and if they do both, the piece may still lack one more element.
A good story should possess strong prose, compelling content and that third element, structure. This seems to be the one aspect lacking in most work in the slush pile. When a piece of writing suffers in all three areas: language, content, and structure, it is almost impossible to figure out what to say.
However, flash is the perfect form to master these three skills because of the length and once it is mastered, any form of writing becomes easier to write...and easier for the slush reader to say, YES!
Crafting flash requires a specific mindset in the areas of language, content, and structure and I'll discuss content that lends itself to flash tomorrow.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The London Eye up at EDF
Hey guys! My suspense story "The London Eye" is up today at Every Day Fiction. If you get a chance to hop over there and read it, that would be terrific. Please vote too, five stars if you love it, and four if you really like it and so forth. Also please, leave a comment in the comments section of EDF if you can? Thanks!!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
"Spring Melt" Micro Award Nominee for 2008
My story Spring Melt published by Every Day Fiction in June of 2008 is one of the nominees for the 2nd Annual Micro Award.
From the official Micro Award Website:
2ND ANNUAL MICRO AWARD WINNER
“Let x” by Chad Simpson; Esquire.com Napkin Fiction Project, August 15 2008.
OTHER NOMINEES
“Between the Keys” by Robert Swartwood; elimae, July 2008.
“Cracked Open” by Jane Banning; Birds by My Window, December 9 2008.
“Custard’s Last Stand” by Matt Bell; DOGZPLOT, February 2008.
“Ice Water, Here on Earth” by Damian Dressick; Pittsburgh City Paper, September 25 2008.
“Offerings” by Desmond Warzel; Shroud Magazine #4, Fall 2008.
“Silent Notes” by Jessica Hollander; The First Line, Spring 2008.
“Spring Melt” by Gay Degani; Every Day Fiction, June 6 2008.
“A Wizard of MapQuest” by Alex Wilson; Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet #23, November 2008.
From the official Micro Award Website:
2ND ANNUAL MICRO AWARD WINNER
“Let x” by Chad Simpson; Esquire.com Napkin Fiction Project, August 15 2008.
OTHER NOMINEES
“Between the Keys” by Robert Swartwood; elimae, July 2008.
“Cracked Open” by Jane Banning; Birds by My Window, December 9 2008.
“Custard’s Last Stand” by Matt Bell; DOGZPLOT, February 2008.
“Ice Water, Here on Earth” by Damian Dressick; Pittsburgh City Paper, September 25 2008.
“Offerings” by Desmond Warzel; Shroud Magazine #4, Fall 2008.
“Silent Notes” by Jessica Hollander; The First Line, Spring 2008.
“Spring Melt” by Gay Degani; Every Day Fiction, June 6 2008.
“A Wizard of MapQuest” by Alex Wilson; Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet #23, November 2008.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen
HarperCollins Canada is running a promotion to coincide with March Madness-- a tournament which "brings together 64 of the best fiction books on the planet"-- and Syrie James's novel "The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen" is included. 
Syrie has been a friend of mine for too many years to count and if you've got time to vote, please do. If you love Jane Austen, you will also want to order her book. She creates a romance for Jane that may be the genesis of a certain someone's romance with a certain Mr. Darcy.
Every week from now until April 13, you can vote for the books you
think should move forward in the tournament, until there is just one
book crowned as champion.
If you liked ""The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen," please help it along
the road to victory! It only takes a few seconds to vote. Go to
www.hccmarchmadness.ca. Click on VOTE NOW.
If pressed for time, you can skip straight to the 4th category and
just vote for "Lost Memoirs." Please check back weekly, to vote again as the field narrows. The last time "Lost Memoirs" was in a contest, it lost by 12 votes out
of 10,000.... Thanks so much for your support!
P.S. Look for Syrie's The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte on sale 6/30/09
Syrie has been a friend of mine for too many years to count and if you've got time to vote, please do. If you love Jane Austen, you will also want to order her book. She creates a romance for Jane that may be the genesis of a certain someone's romance with a certain Mr. Darcy.
Every week from now until April 13, you can vote for the books you
think should move forward in the tournament, until there is just one
book crowned as champion.
If you liked ""The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen," please help it along
the road to victory! It only takes a few seconds to vote. Go to
www.hccmarchmadness.ca. Click on VOTE NOW.
If pressed for time, you can skip straight to the 4th category and
just vote for "Lost Memoirs." Please check back weekly, to vote again as the field narrows. The last time "Lost Memoirs" was in a contest, it lost by 12 votes out
of 10,000.... Thanks so much for your support!
P.S. Look for Syrie's The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte on sale 6/30/09
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Pleasures of Lab and Coyote
I've had three dogs in my life. A Doxie when I was young. A Saluki when we bought our first house with a yard. And Cinder, the wise and ancient Labrador that is my constant companion. I've loved them all, but I've made it known to anyone who'll listen, that this is it. I'd like to be dogless for awhile after Cinder, well, after... 
My first canine: Taffy. The Dachshund was my dad's choice for an animal. I wanted a puppy who was covered in soft fur all over, someone like Benji or a silky Cocker Spaniel. Needless to say, that wasn't in the cards, but as most dogs have a way of winning you over, Taffotil won me. Eventually she became more my mother's dog than mine--dogs attach to the one who feeds them--but I loved that scurry of hers across the kitchen floor--all that nails-on-linoleum enthusiasm.
Risuli was really Tim's dog. He'd seen a Saluki somewhere and thought, "Now that's a great looking canine." Or something like that. My first impression was that this is a strange breed. Again though the animal won my heart. They have a way of doing that. One of my memories of the regal Risuli is the way he had of sneaking up behind people and just standing there, silent, watching. And when that person, say someone like the meter man, turned around and saw that dog, he beat it out the gate in 10 seconds flat.
Then came Cinder, who started off as Hillary's dog, but eventually became my dog since possession is 9/10ths of the law. Cinder, named by Nick for a road off the 395 on our way to Mammoth was officially Cinder Phoenix Raisin Toyon. She's around, 16 human years old, spending her winter days napping in my old pink sweater, a little blind, a little deaf, and still with the most enthusiastic tail in the continental US.
Rodeo is my daughter's puppy and since she's here, he's here. And he is a kick. He's a Reno shelter dog, a mutt with more coyote in him than Australia shepard, and at less than a year in age, he's got energy that my lab finds, er, more than a little annoying. What I think Cinder resents most is the herding.
It's funny to watch this happen, my 112 year-old-lab giving me a look like, "Mom, where did you come up with this animal?" as she obediently shuffles into her kennel. And Rodeo cocks his head, sniffs her butt, and seems to say something like "I thought you wanted to take a nap since you won't play! I'm only trying to help!!"
Okay enough of that foolishness. If you catch sight of Rodeo as he disappears through a door, your mind flashes on feral-animal-in-thehouse, that slinky lope, that bristly tan fur, but if he's coming at you with that cute little shepard face, ears perked up, blender-strewn splotches of browns and tans, and that grin, well, your heart melts.
He's a good dog. Totally housebroken with just a little too much fondness for sprinkler hoses and the lower branches of camellia bushes. I took him for a walk and found I was much more patient with him than I ever was with Cinder, walking her with a twelve and ten year old in tow, both arguing about who'd get to hold the leash next. Rodeo did well. Listened to my sits, sat up straight, took off on the heel. It was exhilerating, but with all that, I still won't get another dog. At least for a while, although those standard poodles I've been seeing around are pretty cool.
My first canine: Taffy. The Dachshund was my dad's choice for an animal. I wanted a puppy who was covered in soft fur all over, someone like Benji or a silky Cocker Spaniel. Needless to say, that wasn't in the cards, but as most dogs have a way of winning you over, Taffotil won me. Eventually she became more my mother's dog than mine--dogs attach to the one who feeds them--but I loved that scurry of hers across the kitchen floor--all that nails-on-linoleum enthusiasm.
Risuli was really Tim's dog. He'd seen a Saluki somewhere and thought, "Now that's a great looking canine." Or something like that. My first impression was that this is a strange breed. Again though the animal won my heart. They have a way of doing that. One of my memories of the regal Risuli is the way he had of sneaking up behind people and just standing there, silent, watching. And when that person, say someone like the meter man, turned around and saw that dog, he beat it out the gate in 10 seconds flat.
Then came Cinder, who started off as Hillary's dog, but eventually became my dog since possession is 9/10ths of the law. Cinder, named by Nick for a road off the 395 on our way to Mammoth was officially Cinder Phoenix Raisin Toyon. She's around, 16 human years old, spending her winter days napping in my old pink sweater, a little blind, a little deaf, and still with the most enthusiastic tail in the continental US.
Rodeo is my daughter's puppy and since she's here, he's here. And he is a kick. He's a Reno shelter dog, a mutt with more coyote in him than Australia shepard, and at less than a year in age, he's got energy that my lab finds, er, more than a little annoying. What I think Cinder resents most is the herding.
It's funny to watch this happen, my 112 year-old-lab giving me a look like, "Mom, where did you come up with this animal?" as she obediently shuffles into her kennel. And Rodeo cocks his head, sniffs her butt, and seems to say something like "I thought you wanted to take a nap since you won't play! I'm only trying to help!!"
Okay enough of that foolishness. If you catch sight of Rodeo as he disappears through a door, your mind flashes on feral-animal-in-thehouse, that slinky lope, that bristly tan fur, but if he's coming at you with that cute little shepard face, ears perked up, blender-strewn splotches of browns and tans, and that grin, well, your heart melts.
He's a good dog. Totally housebroken with just a little too much fondness for sprinkler hoses and the lower branches of camellia bushes. I took him for a walk and found I was much more patient with him than I ever was with Cinder, walking her with a twelve and ten year old in tow, both arguing about who'd get to hold the leash next. Rodeo did well. Listened to my sits, sat up straight, took off on the heel. It was exhilerating, but with all that, I still won't get another dog. At least for a while, although those standard poodles I've been seeing around are pretty cool.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Preditors and Editors Poll Results
Just checked the final results of the 2008 Readers Poll sponsored by the Preditors and Editors site. Pretty exciting. Thank you to everyone who voted for my stories, all three that were nominated finished in the Top Ten.
In the category for general shorts: Stranger on the Porch tied for sixth place and Dani-Girl's Guide to Getting Everything Right tied for 10th.
In the category for science fiction shorts: The Breach tied for sixth place.
In the category for general shorts: Stranger on the Porch tied for sixth place and Dani-Girl's Guide to Getting Everything Right tied for 10th.
In the category for science fiction shorts: The Breach tied for sixth place.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Shameless Kev is Guest Prompter over at EDF
If you want to do a quick 10 minute writing with an egg timer, Kevin Shamel of To Save the Disco fame, is today's GUEST PROMPTER at my Daily Prompt thread over at Every Day Fiction.
I did a couple 10 minute prompts when my daughter came down to visit this week and both of us came up with terrific starts. We used the same prompt, but went with completely different stories. I liked Hillary's idea better than mine. I hope she finds the time to finish a shit draft and revise.
I did a couple 10 minute prompts when my daughter came down to visit this week and both of us came up with terrific starts. We used the same prompt, but went with completely different stories. I liked Hillary's idea better than mine. I hope she finds the time to finish a shit draft and revise.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Tattoo Highway 1st Place Quickie
My short short short "Losing Ground" just took first place in the "Picture Worth 500 Words" contest Tattoo Highway runs for each issue. Look for Tattoo Highway, TH/18 probably in March. I'm pretty excited.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Me-On Fish Anthology Shortlist!!
This is pretty amazing to me and as my good friend, Sarah, would say, "I'm chuffed." My story has made the (rather longish) shortlist of the Fish Short Story Prize!! This an international contest with over 1500 entries. WOW. Should hear if I make the really shortlist in March. Would make a rather nice birthday present, eh? Another thrill for me is one of the honorary patrons is Roddy Doyle! The Woman who Walked into Doors RODDY DOYLE!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)