Yup, that's my name

In print. In a real, live, hold-in-your-hands book.

Brain Stew

This week's F3 prompt is all about music. It reminded me of a super-short piece I wrote early one morning--before coffee--that I never really fleshed out. But I figure I'll share it here anyway.

Brain Stew

            “Mmm, that smells good. What it is?” Jenny entered the office kitchen on a Monday morning, dreading the day ahead, stomach grumbling. A Lonesome Cup of Coffee just wasn't enough in the morning.

            “Banana Pancakes. Maybe it'll help me feel like it's the weekend.” Marsha used her fingers to spoon the jumble of words into her mouth, crunching the letters with gusto. “Oh my god.” She moaned. “Jack Johnson is a genius.”

            Jenny was jealous. She scrounged around the refrigerator, but all she found was Cherry Pie in the back. She was not in the mood for a mini-skirt wearing, roller-skating kind of day. She stood up and sighed as Frank walked in.

            “Good morning, ladies.” He used his deep radio announcer's voice and waggled his eyebrows, looking over the top of his plastic frame sunglasses. His suit sleeves were rolled three-quarters of the way up his forearms, and his collar was flipped up. Jenny ignored his white pants and turned away, guessing he probably ate Buttermilk Biscuits for breakfast again.

            The day sped by in a craze, with clients and meetings and bosses wanting more, more, more. She didn't even get to stop at lunch for Peanut Butter and Jelly, although she was slightly thankful for that, as the refrain—Jelly, Jelly—usually stuck in her throat for the afternoon, coming up unannounced during a meeting, causing embarrassment while she tried to turn it into a cough.

            On the drive home after work, she stopped by a fast food restaurant. While she didn't hold out any hope her Milkshake would bring all the boys to her yard, it at least made her stomach stop grumbling. She supposed it was the most she could ask for.

"Fireworks" Is Published!

Part of an anthology: Off the Rocks, Vol. 15.

WOO HOOOOO!!!!

In search of a book...and finding more...

Needed to return stuff to Target, checked their book section (where I found the first in the series). Not there.

Decided I needed to stop by Victoria's Secret to see if they had my favorite sports bra back in stock, checked the bookstore on my way. Going out of business. (And VS didn't have the the bra.)

Discouraged.

Figured I should check B&N before actually going in, they had it in stock. Success!

After I paid for the book, I realized B&N is now offering a second part to their receipts: a "B&N Recommends" list. If you like this book, you may also like...[list five titles here]

Very cool. :thumbs up:

University, here I come!

First day of school! First day of school!

Need. Help. (Or just drop the idea altogether?)

It seems apropos that while I'm trying to figure out how the hell to write something longer than 100 to 5,000 words, Chuck Wendig over at terribleminds put together a post on creating a novel. Unfortunately, I'm stuck between numbers one and two...and it goes all the way to 25. Gulp.

Mulling over the possibilities: Unrest

This week's F3 challenge deals with the theme of "Unrest." I am surprised to discover I am having difficulty with this. Isn't "Unrest" pretty much the underlying theme of every story? Every life? There's always unrest, fear, tension, anxiety. Shouldn't I be able to translate the general anxiety of my everyday life into this? (Is my anxiety the reason for this "writer's block"? I fear I'm worrying too much about it...oh, the irony....)

I did manage to craft this, though. At least the imagery made me laugh (before I discovered that many, many others came to the same conclusion; damn you, Google, for popping my bubble).

I don’t watch the news anymore. Murders. Mayhem. Wars that don’t cease. That, or the fake-pretty anchors—robots?—talk about debt ceilings and S&P and recession 2.0, all stuff I can’t quite grasp. They are telling me I need to be afraid, but afraid of what? What does it mean for me if the government raises some ceiling? You're telling me I need to about the bureaucrats jumping around in Congress, raising the roof to some gansta-wannabe beat with their hands in the air, like they just don’t care?

Goal: Write Today

I suppose this is a form of procrastination. I want to write a little bit before school is back in session (Aug. 22). So I decided I'd use my self-help book, You! Can! Write! A! Novel!

Instead, I'm cruising Facebook and writing a blog post. Hey, a blog post is still writing, right?

Hmm, I don't think I'm buying that.

Writing a novel: How does one even begin?

I have this idea. Is it enough to write hundreds of pages about? I've only ever tackled short stories. They are so much nicer, neater. Quicker. Succincter. (Is that even a word?) (You know you have problems when you start using non-existent words.) (And multiple parentheticals.)

There's this book. A cheesy book. A do-it-yourself-and-get-rich-quick kind of book. It's called something like "You! Can! Write! A! Novel!" Okay, maybe I threw in some extra exclamation points. Whatever. You get the point. (Points?)

At the bookstore, I picked it from the shelf. My cheeks burning, I read the back cover. Intrigued, my eyes darted around the bookstore to see if anyone was watching as I furtively opened it to read a few lines. It was interesting. Interesting enough, anyway, that I snuck it between the other few books in my arms as I strolled--ever so nonchalant--to the checkout counter. I tried reading it that afternoon, but soon tired of the Take Action! Now! Pick Up Your Pencil! And Write! exhortations.

But that was before my idea. Now I actually have something to write about. (Maybe.)

I'm thinking about picking the book up again to see if its exercises and exhortations will actually prompt me to DO something with this possibly novel-length story. (Maybe.)

How about you--have you tried writing something novel-length? How did you do it? Did you use a cheesy self-help writing book? If so, which one? If not, why not?

Vacation

It's a little cliched, but I could use a vacation from my vacation. My son and I joined my significant other's extended family for a vacation in SoCal that included Disneyland, downtown LA, the beach, a wedding and a brunch at a beach house. Time to get back into the groove: I didn't write a single drop this summer.

"Helen..." has arrived!!

WOOO HOOOOOO!

Find her story here.

"Helen..." is on her way

Received word tonight that the publication of "Helen Finds Her Voice" has moved up from mid-August to the beginning of August. Whooopeee! Stay tuned...

Hands

"Hands" is published!

Check it out at 6tales, story #4.

Happy reading!

Confessions of a Proofreader

Salk Institute: Modern Architecture

One of my duties at work is to proofread. This comes in handy for my self-employed architect significant other, who realized early on in our relationship that I actually enjoy reading and editing--even gigantic, jargon-filled pieces about Modern architecture. (Don’t get me started on the unnecessary capitalization of Modern. Apparently it’s important. Don’t mess with it.)

Recently, I was editing a long piece and began making organizational changes to it. Then I realized there was a rhyme to my SO's reason, so I wrote “stet” above my marks. (For those of you who aren’t proofreaders, stet means “nevermind; I'm an idiot," or, officially, "let it stand.")

Apparently, I have poor penmanship, as the response was: "What’s this about a slut?!"

Terribly Entertaining

If you like writing, humor, liquor and trucker-like cussing (or, really, any one of those), go check out Check Wendig’s site, TERRIBLEMINDS.

Not only does he offer sound writing advice, but he does so in a way that’s bound to make you snort your bourbon out your nostrils.

He’s an entertaining, whiskey-soaked cheerleader who manages to convey the tedious, difficult like of a freelance writer in a way that makes you actually want to sit down at the computer and type like mad. He exhorts his readers to try their hands at various genres and modes of writing, and he, most importantly, tells it like it is: crazy, fun, exhausting, difficult, wonderful. 

With weekly flash fiction challenges, interviews with interesting authors and great giveaways, he hooks his readers and brings them back again and again.

He offers several e-books at a great price, but honestly? Even though I’ve bought them (gotta support our writers!), I haven’t actually read them (yet; I'm still figuring out the whole e-book thing). I’m more interested in what he brings to my desktop on a day-to-day basis. What new, mad insight will I be privy to today?

F3, Cycle 40: Photo Challenge

Yes, after not posting for 6 weeks, I'm posting twice in one day.

According to this week's challenge, we had to write a story less than 1000 words based on this photo.

I'm glad I was able to participate this week. I enjoyed this.

Wires

You don’t like to leave the safety of home. Too many animals crowding around, these humans who think they have too much on their plates, who think the world would come crashing to a halt if they weren’t connected to everyone and everything through inescapable wires that permeate the masses, permeate the earth’s crust, permeate your skin. Wires are all that’s here, all that’s left, the only border between life and death. Hospitals try to erase the smell of death, but all they do is cover it up, like a candle lit in a recently used bathroom, making a noxious mix. Death is still there, creeping around the corners, slouching behind vending machines, hiding underneath nurses’ desks, visible only through the corner of your eye, waiting for you to lose attention, for your mind to wander, waiting for you to focus on something else, then it sneaks in through wires. Wires that snake through your great-grandson’s mouth, skin, veins. He’s no bigger than your hand, no bigger than your heart. Born too early, wires are the only thing keeping him on the earth. She should have stayed in bed, she should have eaten better, she should have listened to your wheezy and broken breath as you risked the wires to telephone her. But when does your family listen to you? You lost relevance years ago, you lost relevance when your wife died and a part of you died with her. Wires are just ropes, binding us all here till our last breath. When will his last breath be? When will your last breath be?

News of the (My) World

Spotify has hit America. When will a subscription launch that allows discovery of new artists combined with one's library? I do like it, don't get me wrong, but I want Pandora-like qualities, too. Sigh. Someday. At least now, I'm able to listen to some beautiful music while writing. Go check out The xx.

I have a couple ideas for stories running around my head. I need to work on them, now that three out of the four submittable stories in my files have been accepted for publication. Yes! My first-ever short story, a chick-lit humor piece, has been accepted for publication. I'll have two pieces online next month. Very exciting stuff.

And summer school is ending, which means I can begin focusing on the blog again. At least, until fall semester begins.....

Oh my goodness gracious me

It's only June 2, and I'm already overwhelmed with the summer semester requirements and the mad dash at work to finish projects for a particular client before their fiscal year end. I have started trying to write in a journal each night before bed; this way I can help discharge the day's stress while also meandering about my character's thoughts and developments. It's a somewhat schizophrenic journal--on one hand, I'm cranky and irritable and writing all kinds of vitriol and, on the other hand, I'm dancing around the meadow's my characters' minds. Hmm...

Writer's Workshop

It's a warm spring day in Tucson, Arizona, and a line at the local community college stretches from the front of the theater to the parking lot. Only one college student staffs the check-in table, and he moves slowly, sifting through the piles of folders in front of him and encouraging each person to fill out a stick-on nametag. Most of those in the line are gray-haired, and many know each other. I feel out of place.

There are a few younger folks, most younger than myself. In their twenties, maybe. I am impatient, I don't want to miss any part of the workshop. My backpack, stuffed with a netbook, two notebooks, a water bottle and some luna bars, hangs heavy on my shoulders, and I need to sit down, take it off, give my neck a rest. I have knots in my neck and back from the last two weeks of work, knots that are like cement and make sleeping and sitting a painful chore.

I do, finally, make it inside, where an arctic blast of air conditioning freezes my blood. I thought I prepared for this--cargo pants, sneakers, a sweater--but even with the hood on my heavy-duty sweater up over my head and tied under my chin, I am shivering. The first speaker drones on and on in academic terms about how a story needs to go somewhere and has to be interesting to the audience. Duh, I think, and I leave early, shivering my way out of the auditorium into the bright, warm sunlight.

The next session is much better. The presenter speaks in simple prose, and his workshop is on--no surprise here!--simple prose. How to write a story in three sentences. Simple sentences. Noun, verb, object. He makes us write a character study first, walking us through, step-by-step. I like steps. This makes the anal part of me very happy. Then we get to pad our sentences, making them bigger and longer and more elaborate. This is fun. Except for when some folks volunteer to read theirs, and other yell at them--in angry, disrespectful tones--to speak up. (The presenter would have chided me for that last sentence, the way I dropped a clause in the middle of it. That's not simple. Sorry. I have an inner Faulkner that tends to come out, unless I keep a short lease on him. Tough to do. And sometimes--I'm sorry--I just don't want to.)

I am on edge, the caffeine from my morning coffee having nowhere to go. I don't normally just sit, absorbing information. I go, and go, and go some more. I see a few former classmates, and we walk to lunch, where we talk about writing and the last semester and share stories. This, I like. This connection with people who understand.

The next session is back in Antarctica again. I don't want to go, but I'm bored sitting outside, so I brave the cold. The author is funny. She talks about her experiences as a Chicana growing up in California, the roundabout way she became a writer. She says something offhand about her last two books--YA books, "Gossip Girl for Latinas"--and how, when writing them, she had a whole team behind her. Focus groups and everything. Really? That's how best-selling YA novels are made? With focus groups to ensure that what's written will sell?

Unsettled and unsure, I made my way to the next session. Oh, good. It's an author who set his book in Tucson, and I've seen this book a few places recently, including Poets & Writers magazine. I'm excited to hear him talk about character development. But he uses a scene from his novel as his study for the class, a scene that includes a child and is disturbing to me. I leave the room. It's the second time today I've left a session early.

I head to the bookstore and find a couple books on writing that interest me. I have a hard time buying these books; I don't have much money, and it always feels sort of strange to be buying books with titles like, "You Can Write a Novel!" and "Finding Time to Write!" (A Seven-Step Guide to Writing a Best-Selling Novel!), but the authors have some interesting things to say, more interesting than I've heard in the workshop today, and I think maybe they'll inspire me.

I head to a local coffee shop, intent on using my remaining time on learning something, anything, writing-related. I dive into a book, and find a lot of food for thought. This, I like. This time and space to think about and absorb ways to bring regularly scheduled writing into my already-overfilled life.

In musing over the day, I realize this seems to be my general experience at workshops or book fairs or even lunches put on by local professional genre writing groups. An author speaks, usually about the same thing--character, plot, motivation, story arc--and it's becoming a drone to me. Like the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons. I worry this is a bad thing. Shouldn't I be open? Isn't that how one learns? By listening and being humble? If I think I keep hearing the same thing and it's nothing new to me, am I closing myself off from something important? Am I thinking I'm better than I am?

Okay, maybe I did learn something today (from the book I perused in the coffeeshop). The author suggested going back through journal entries to see if you can glean a theme from them. See what seems to be most important to you. (Then write about it; use your stories as a way to explore that theme.) I realized the majority of my journal entries are about doubt. I'm unhappy; am I making the right decision? What do I do about it? Should I stay where I am? Or leave? And I look back at that last paragraph in this blog post, and realize I'm doing it again: doubting myself. And then I wonder: is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that okay? Should I continue trying these workshops? Or should I leave?

Bad News & Good News

Earlier tonight, I wrote a post about getting some bad news. I was going to post it tomorrow. But then, good news came, and I had to post tonight :)

BAD NEWS (But really, good news, because every rejection is another step closer to publication, right?):
I received a rejection letter for an incredibly short piece I submitted to matchbook for their ad stories. Great idea: short stories told through Google ads. Total of 70 characters, including title & byline.

Exhausted at Midnight

Lovers fell asleep, intertwined.

They didn't even brush their teeth.

By: Angie Brown

Now, for the GOOD NEWS:
"Fireworks", a piece that I started last spring and made major, major revisions to over the winter and this spring (exhausting myself in the process!) was accepted for publication in the 15th volume of the Off the Rocks Anthology, which is a print publication by the NewTown Writers of Chicago. Oh my goodness, I'm so excited!! It's my first fiction piece to be published in print (a micro-fiction piece will be published online in August).

WOO HOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

Bad Books: Pushing Through

It used to be, I'd pick up a book--usually mainstream romantic comedy or some sort of historical adventure--and check it out. If the back was interesting and not too cliched, and the first sentence or paragraph hooked me, I'd give it a shot. If, within the first chapter, the author bored me to tears or lost my interest or jumped on the cliche bandwagon, I'd stop reading and immediately chuck it on the table next to the door to join the rest of the "return to library" stack.

Not anymore. At some point in the last couple months, I heard or read the idea that even bad books can help you write better. Plus, I was getting more and more disgusted with the mainstream books that used to be my sustenance. And so, I began my slog through too many bad books.

Some were eye-rolling bad. Some I wanted to like, but I found I kept getting distracted by something--anything--else ("Squirrel!"). Some made me mad.

But the most interesting bad book I read (which incited all of the above emotions, sometimes all at once) was Pulitzer-prize winning novel "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay".

Now, don't jump down my throat for disliking this book. I know, I know--a bunch of folks thought it was, well, amazing. In general, I'm not a big fan of "literary" novels. They are usually depressing and/or deal with topics I simply won't read about (child abuse, for example). I want my novels to be entertaining--mind candy, you know? (At least, I used to. My tastes are changing, but that's a whole 'nother post.)

All right, so.

This book came highly recommended by a bunch of folks I know. Basic premise: two Jewish cousins in NYC (one recently escaped from Poland) begin writing comic books just as WWII is beginning. The first few chapters were fascinating, totally sucked me in. The next few chapters, not so much--but I wasn't ready to put it down yet. It still held some sense of interest. But I could tell my interest was waning. More often than not, the book was facedown on the side table, rather than in my hand. I kept wanting to pick up a different book. Instead, I found myself surfing the 'net. I'd push myself to go back and read some more. But it just became incredibly bogged down by the sheer detail of the whole comic-book thing. I kept getting so bored.

Once the characters go see "Citizen Kane" and think about new ways to frame their stories, I realized part of the issue I had with the book was that it was written from strange angles, and, at that point, I became delighted with the idea that the author was using the structure of the story to support the comic book theme of the story. Scenes would be written from a point of view that seemed off, until I realized he was trying to focus on a particular, comic-like way to portray something.

Okay, that is so not eloquent. But I can't put it into words. Argh. But I've really been into structure supporting theme lately, so that was cool.

Anyway, that discovery was not nearly enough to sustain me through the rest of the story, which kept getting more and more melodramatic and unbelievable (I guess more of that comic-book theme seeping in?). In the last bit of the book, a new character--a child--is introduced, and the kid was so well-written, I thought maybe the story would finally get somewhere.

Instead, we get an ending that seems as arbitrary as any other point in the book when the author could have ended it. To make matters worse, the kid ends up getting abandoned by the guy he thought for eleven years was his father--he (the dad) leaves in the middle of the night to pursue his lifelong dream of living in CA and writing for the movies. Sure, it makes his "dad" happy and, sure, the kid realizes the other guy, the one he gets along with better, is his real dad. But that doesn't mean the sensitive kid isn't going to be hurt by this choice!

I was mad. I threw the book on the floor. I invested how many hours of my life on this?

And then I couldn't get the book out of my mind for the next three weeks. And now I'm writing a blog post on it. And that made me think: isn't that sort of a measure of a good book? One you can't get out of your mind?

Negotiation

After a couple weeks off, due to end-of-semester stress, I was able to participate in this week's F3 challenge.

Prompt: Write a story of a negotiation and have your characters use at least two tactics
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1000 words
Deadline: Thursday, May 19th, 2011, 4:30 pm EST

Negotiation

"Aw, but Mom--" my eight-year-old son's voice trailed off into the kind of high-pitched whine only a dog could hear.

"Doesn't matter. Not gonna happen." I put the dozen (non-cracked, I checked) eggs in the shopping cart and pushed forward. Onward. Must not cave.

His shoulders slumped and his feet dragged. He deliberately flapped his camo flip-flops in an annoying shuffle while his lower lip extended out and down. His blue-and-white striped shirt and clashing purple shorts dripped with misery and his tangled blonde hair--in desperate need of a haircut--covered his eyes. A good thing, in my opinion. I didn't need to see his pleading blue eyes almost fill with tears.

I turned the cart into the cereal aisle, bracing for the next wave of beggary. He saw the sugar-coated treats in neon boxes and perked up, skipping with tall shoulders and bright eyes.

"Mom!" He stopped, starting at the Cocoa Puffs.

"No."

"But, what if--"

"No."

"I'll be good. I'll have a good attitude for the rest of the day. I'll even help you with dishes." He turned his eager face to me, holding the giant box aloft like a triumphant soldier returning from war.

Oh, negotiating, are we? Two can play this game.

"I don't know about that. You know I don't like sugar cereal." I paused.

"I know." He hung his head in mock discouragement, but his eyes peered up at me.

"You know, I like the idea of help with dishes. And the garbage needs to be taken out. The recycling, too." I leaned against the cart.

"I can do that, Mom. All of it." He put on his serious face.

"Your room is a mess, too."

"I'll clean it. And your room, too."

I laughed. "I don't know about that."

"Seriously, Mom, your room is a mess. You need to clean it." He wagged his finger at me. I wondered where he got it from. I shook my head.

"I'll get to it," I told him. "I'm too busy cleaning the cat litter box and your bathroom."

"Okay, I'll clean my bathroom, too."

Ooh, an offer to clean his bathroom. Gold!

"Okay. But not Cocoa Puffs. You can get a box of LIFE cereal." I pointed to the better choice.

"Two boxes." He put his dirty hands on his little hips and tilted his head. "One box of Cocoa Puffs is worth at least two boxes of LIFE."

I sighed. "Okay. Deal."

He stuck his hand out and I took it, shaking once. He skipped down the aisle, thinking he got a good deal.

I knew better.

What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

What if...

...the sun exploded?
...the moon disappeared?
...every star was a portal to another dimension?

Memoir: Overdone?

Part of the reason I wanted to pursue studies in fiction (besides the fact that I get glowing reviews for my non-fiction and not-so-glowing reviews for my fiction, indicating a need for betterment), is the idea that the memoir, which (in my limited experience) seems to be the thrust of most creative non-fiction classes--wait, where was I? Too many tangents and parentheticals.

Where's my wine? Oh. Right next to me. Okay.

Um. Memoir. Oh--totally overdone. Completely, totally, overwhelmingly overdone. I was browsing at at a bookstore the other day (nothing more fun than swimming through stacks of new books, drenching yourself in the singular smell of ink and paper and ideas) and every other book was "Random Expressive Noun: A Memoir". C'mon, really?

So when I saw Brevity's post about a memoir-within-a-memoir, I had to read the full NY Times review. The author really summed up my feelings about the memoir. Go read it. It's good.

I'm going to return to my (much-needed) wine now. Ahh, time and space to finish reading a book tonight. Can't wait.

Another submission

I submitted my second-ever non-fiction piece for publication. That's always such a fun feeling; it's somewhat addictive. Where else can I send my piece?!

Of course, my first-ever non-fiction piece was immediately selected for publication. But it was an ultrarunning magazine with low circulation, and the piece was a (humorous) race report. (Which I know wish I could go back and re-write!)

Fingers crossed on this one. It's a 620-word story told through a phone call. I've been focusing on telling an entire story, not just a vignette, in my short-shorts, and I feel pretty good about it.

Oh, wait, that reminds me. This is my third non-fiction piece submitted. I submitted a non-fiction piece to my local community college's publication, and it was rejected (boo!). I felt pretty good about that one, too. I suppose I shouldn't take my feelings about a piece into consideration, ha!

Semester: (almost) complete

Final lit paper: check.
Final lit discussion posts: check.
Final fiction submittal: check (see previous post re: PDR).
Final nonfiction class/potluck: check.

All that's left is a final individual conference with my non-fic instructor on Thursday evening. This will be followed by joining my co-workers at a company-sponsored suite at the Padres game. Time to cel-a-brate!

I get two weeks of peace before All. Hell. Breaks. Loose. with my summer semester.

At least I'm beginning to incorporate running into my weekly routine again. Sort of. Well, if you can call walking with a few jog strides thrown in "running," which I do. It's the idea of going out at sunset, when the clouds are yellow and orange and blue and purple and pale with delight, and the breeze carries the scent of creosote and rocks, and spending anywhere from 30 to 90 minutes with only myself as my company, steadily moving through the desert or downtown or my neighborhood, is a stress-relaxer and meditation-inducer.

Sigh. Here's hoping my hamstring will begin to behave and I can really run again.

Coming Home

As a single mom and full-time employee, the idea of undertaking the pursuit of a college degree can be daunting. Add the idea of Honors College on top of it, and it take the idea of overwhelming to a whole 'nother level.

But...as a total Type A personality, it's hard to pass up on the idea of Honors College.

So, today, with some trepidation, I met with an Honors College adviser. Who was awesome. And welcoming. And funny. And a fellow Creative Writer who also happened to be a mom.

It was like coming home. Totally opposite of meeting with my English Department adviser ("You're transferring? With all your Gen Eds? Okay, we're done." *Thwack* goes the stamp and on to the next student...). The Honors adviser listened as I said I'm a non-traditional student and wary of taking on more than I can handle. She reassured me that Honors work is not extra work, but rather an opportunity to meet with like-minded folks who are interested in taking a subject to the next level (what? You mean, no slackers?! *gasp* Community college, while beneficial and I am truly grateful for, certainly had it's fair share of non-caring students). Then she called the Honors Dean in (who used to be in the English Dean) and they sat there filling me in on the various English professors--their quirks, their foibles, who was good for someone with my personality--and who wasn't. 

I now know that the classes I'm enrolled in for the fall semester (including one Honors course) will be right up my alley, and the professors are the type I love ("Here's exactly what I want from you to give you an A"). I felt like I wasn't just a number--I was an important person, with important needs, and they wanted to meet those needs and make me happy.

And happy I am.

Yay!

Earnest Fiction

Recently I was trying to figure out what was wrong with my fiction. I finally settled on the idea that it's too damn earnest. So when I heard a new journal called Printer's Devil Review was seeking submissions of "thoughtful, earnest fiction" that focused on "the inner lives of characters: their intimate challenges and relationships" from non-published or emerging writers, I got excited. Sounds like a good fit, especially for a particular story I've polished in the last couple months. As part of my fiction class this semester, we had to submit a story (in class, in front of our peers, so they see us do it). Tonight, I submitted "Fireworks" to PDR. Yay!

*Fingers crossed!*

PS They aren't affiliated with any organization and are running it solely on volunteer efforts & their own cash. Check out how you can help!

What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

What if...

...your toddler was a genius?
...your spouse was a genius?
...you were a genius?

Courtroom Drama

Really? A courtroom drama? [whine] But I don't wannnnaaaaa!!!![/whine]

Sigh. Okay. I'll give it a shot. I make no promises.

Prompt: THEMED WORD LIST – money, foolish, kneecap, trace, widow
Genre: Courtroom Drama
Word Count: 1000 words or less
Deadline: Thursday, April 21st at 4:30ish.

Judge and Jury


"Foolish child." The mother spit the words out, each syllable clipped with disdain. "You think you can get away with sneaking out and taking my Lexus?" Not a strand of blond hair moved from her chignon as she turned and jerked the front door open. She looked back over her Armani-clad shoulder and narrowed her icy blue eyes. "You'll wish I had broken your kneecap instead."

Julia slumped in the rocking chair, one leg thrown over the wooden arm, her sliced-and-diced jeans exposing more than they covered. She picked at the chipped black polish on her right thumbnail before putting the nail in her mouth to chew it off. Better to have ragged nails than to cry. She pushed her edgy black hair out of her eyes and got up, determined to do something--anything--to get away from here.

She didn't have enough money to catch a bus. Her mother already cut off her allowance for some other made-up infraction. Balling her hands in her red hoodie's pockets, she stomped down the hallway to her room. It was no good slamming the bedroom door. No one was around to hear her. Not anymore.

She heard the front door open again and shut with a bang. Dreading what she'd see, Julia poked her head in the hallway. The witch was back, and even more mad than when she left five minutes earlier. Even the navy blue suit and pearls were threatening. Some times more than others, Julia missed her father's gentle ways. She could use a hug right about now.

"You know, I'm not through with you, missy." Her mother stood in the darkened hallway, french-manicured hands resting on her bony hips, not a trace of grief evident in her posture. The picture of perfection. The opposite of Julia.

"Before you open your mouth, Mother, I have something to say." Julia advanced, tired of the berating, tired of the yelling, tired of being blamed for her father's death. Her mother, unsure of what was happening, took a tentative step back toward the living room.

"What makes you think I took your car?" Julia crossed her arms over her chest.

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You think I don't keep an eye on the odometer?"

"Do you keep a log of the miles? Do you write down the number on the odometer every single time you park the car in the garage?" Julia was calm.

"You think I don't notice when the gas level is lowered?" Her mother's voice shook.

"Do you mark the level on the gauge each time you use the vehicle?" Julia softened her voice.

"The floormat was dirty!" Her mother's voice increased in volume.

"It was raining yesterday. Was it not? Did you not have to walk from the car to your office--and back? In the rain? In the outdoor parking lot?" Julia advanced again. Just because her mother was now a widow was no excuse for the way she'd been treating Julia.

"What do you think you are doing?" Her mother stumbled into the living room and rested one hand on the couch to balance herself while pointing the other hand at Julie. "This is inappropriate. I know you took the car, and you are grounded for the rest of the school year."

"Just like that?" Julia sighed.

"I'm the lawyer, judge and jury in this house." Her mother straightened and headed to the door, shoulders square, voice cold. "Just for that, young woman, I'm also canceling your cell phone contract, effective immediately."

Julia could hear the gavel echo. Convicted and sentenced without a fair trial. Just because she was at the wheel of the car when struck by the drunk driver who killed her father, she had no rights. None at all. She just had to wait one more year. 18 and she'd be free to grieve on her own.

Higher Learning

I never claimed to make the right choices in life. Or the healthy choices. But I made some interesting choices, that's for sure.

My grandmother didn't make it through high school. Neither did my mom, aunt, uncle, sister, biological father or myself. Only one aunt and my grandfather managed to obtain a high school diploma.

My mom got her GED in her early twenties. Later, she chose to go to community college, back when we lived in California, where school is--or, at least, used to be--cheap. She got her two-year degree and managed to maintain a 4.0 grade average.

As a smart kid--"You may be booksmart," I remember my mother snapping at me as she waggled her finger and chased me around the dining room table for some infraction likely involving my well-laid-out lawyer-speak to dismantle whatever argument for consequence she was proposing at the moment, "But I have common sense!"--I was dismayed at my mother's ability to manage straight-As. I was the straight-A student. She was disrupting the natural order of things. If she had both book smarts and common sense, where did that leave me? Because, as we all knew in the family, I was rather lacking when it came to common sense (along with patience, kindness and selflessness; let's just say I wasn't exactly a virtuous woman, as outlined by Solomon). I vowed I would go to a four-year university and be the first person in my family to graduate with a for-real four-year degree. And I'd do it with straight-As, to boot.

When I was 17 and in the throes of adolescent angst exacerbated by the lines fed me by my fiance--"Your family doesn't care about you, like I do..." or "They don't love you, like I do..."--I wallowed in my self-pity while drowning in the pleasures of all-consuming infatuation. I ignored school. I skipped class. I got a--gasp!---C in Chemistry. When my mother discovered my transgressions and offered the choice of dropping out and obtaining my GED, I jumped. A C might as well be an F. And I get to be a grown-up already? Let the party begin.

And so, I followed in my mother's footsteps: high school dropout, married at 17, young mother (her: 19; me: 24), early divorce (her: 20ish; me: 28), community college later in life. She did remarry and become a stay-at-home mom, something I didn't--haven't, won't--do.

Why should I let being a divorced single mom get in the way of my college degree dream? Spring semester, 2009, I started at the local community college. Two-and-a-half years later, Friday, April 15, 2011, I received word from the University of Arizona that I'd been accepted for the fall semester. And into the Honors College, no less. (You think I'd do it without a 4.0 GPA?)

Yes, I am an official Wildcat. I can root for the football team and have it mean something. I no longer have to clients who ask what school I went to, "Oh, you know--the school of hard knocks," and laugh as though I have no care in the world. No, I can say, with pride: "The University of Arizona."

I'm the first in my biological family to do so. I may be 33, a single mom who is looking at at least another four years to complete a simple Bachelor's degree and another few years after that for my MFA, but, by God, I am going to a four-year University where I will eventually obtain both my Bachelor's and my Master's degree in Creative Writing.

In addition to learning about literary analysis, rock formations, more higher algebraic functions than I'll ever want to know and how not to get into a workshop fight with a fellow (idiotic) classmate, I learned I'm not going to worry about the 4.0 GPA part. Some things are worth putting an effort into--time with my son, time with my partner, a clean cat-litter box--and other things aren't. I'm damn proud of how far I've come and how well I've done it, and now it's time for a new chapter.

Maybe I learned some common sense after all.

What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

What if...

...California fell off the west coast?
...your kid fell off his/her bike?
...your spouse fell off the face of the earth?




...your birthday was today? (You'd be in the company of Thomas Jefferson and my Uncle Les and, well, me!)

Fight Like a Girl

This week's F3 prompt: the pugilist...

Prompt: THEMED WORDLIST – Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1500
Deadline: Thursday, April 14, 2011 about 4:30 pm.

Fight Like a Girl

His fist came at my chin, slow-motion, I could see the blonde hairs standing up on every knuckle, the blonde hair that was a pale imitation of the cheaply dyed hair on his over-oiled head. Why do Huffy's men have to be such pugilists? Really, a gun'll do you better every time.

I leaned back, way back, Matrix-style, setting my right hand on the sticky alley pavement to support my lowered body and giving thanks that I wasn't wearing a Matrix-style trenchcoat that would only get in the way. A half-undone sequin dress provides much better maneuverability, even if it did catch the streetlight and possibly bring attention to us.

Where'd my date go? He wouldn't want to have missed seeing my dress shredded. It's the most he'd've seen of me yet. Two weeks of me dodging his advances had left him frustrated. He deserved to see what he could. It's the least I could do for the guy. Lord knows I wished I could've let him convince me to do the naked dance. The man was hot.

Still hyper-aware, the slight breeze caused by the hooligan's arm passing over my barely clad body gave me goosebumps. I tucked my body inside itself, then arched up in a breakdancer-style move, courtesy of Paulie, my brother who fancied himself a b-boy back in the day. I swung around to the rhythm of Run DMC, my black hair flying out, a steady beat in my head keeping time with my blood, and I lifted my left leg approximately chest height to catch the thug in the lungs. Too bad I wasn't wearing my stilettos. Would've torn a hole in him instead of just giving him a barefoot-size bruise. Where'd my shoes go?

He heaved backward. Good. I hate guys who think they are champion fighters, boxers with no one to brutalize except women they meet on the street. Okay, so I'm no ordinary woman, but still. Whatever happened to the spirit of chivalry? I really rather prefer men who defer to women. Makes my job much easier.

Deep breath. I advanced, coming after him like a bad nightmare, relentless in my forward motion. Jab, twirl, step, turn, duck, bob away from his never-ending, completely predictable moves. It was like dance practice, but boring dance practice for a routine you've done a million times before. Slide, shuffle, slide to the right. Clap your hands and do-si-do.

He fell, exhausted, heaving and holding his over-extended gut. Maybe at one time he was fit, a real boxer. But not anymore. He's no match for a professional. I gave him one last kick in the kidneys for good measure, then bent my knees and leaned real close to his bleeding ear.

"You give Huffy a message for me, got it?" I used my most threatening voice, somewhere between a hiss and a growl.

He nodded.

"You tell him Nat's back in town and back on the job. You tell him he sends another one of you after me, and I won't content myself with a beat down. I'll string the next guy up from ear to ear and then come after Huffy and make him wish he'd never been born."

He grimaced. God, you throw a couple of cliches at these bruisers and they take you seriously. Huffy really needs to upgrade.  

"Got it?" I smacked his oily head for good measure.

He groaned.

I stood up, found my discarded purse and strived for nonchalance as I walked away, barefoot and torn up. And I'd lost track of my so-called date to boot. Jones was gonna have my head. I screw up my chance at being a legitimate bodyguard by losing the hot shot they'd assigned to me. Fat lotta good trying to rise out of the gutters'll do for me. Maybe I should go back to freelancing. Ugh.

I sighed, then froze. A shadow approached, and I crouched. Really? Another one? I blew my bangs out of my eyes. God, I wish this night was over.

"Are these yours?" Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy held out my four-inch Jimmie Choos. I stood up, reluctantly. Where'd he been hiding the last few minutes? At least he wasn't dead. My job was still safe. For the moment.

My heart fluttered, damn it. "Yes." I tore them from his grasp, relentless against the betrayal of my hormones. I balanced on one foot, then the other, to put them back on. I pulled the hem of my dress down and the top of my dress up, wiggling my hips while trying to look at least halfway decent. "Let's go."

I sashayed off in a huff, leaving Adonis reeling behind me. There's more than one way to bring 'em to their knees.

Broken Wine Glasses

What does it say about me that I've broken two of the six wineglasses given to me, er, I mean, given to my boyfriend, for Christmas?

Apparently, I need heavy-duty wineglasses. Or plastic wineglasses. Or maybe I just need to stop drinking wine.

Yeah, right.

With nine credits worth of classes, 40+ hours of work, one son, no spouse, two cats and a neurotic tendency to have to KEEP. MY. HOUSE. CLEAN., there's no other way to wind down at the end of the day.

Except maybe with valium. Or xanax. Hell, a vicoden'll work if there's nothing else.

But I think red wine--good for the heart!--is a better choice than addictive painkillers.

I think the culprit is my cast-iron sink. First time I've ever had a cast-iron sink. It's destroyed three of my sturdy ceramic bowls, two salad plates and one dinner plate. The mugs are still managing to hang in there, but there are chips and cracks in all four.

I try to be careful...I wash and rinse the glasses gently, yet the cracks are still appearing. And today, the second one broke.

Sigh. Maybe I just need to start budgeting for ongoing wine glass purchase.

Dammit.

What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

What if...

...you followed a disappearing cat?
dog?
bird?
tree?
car?
person?
star?

Into the Wild

This week's F3 challenge: write a short story about being caught with your pants down. Now, all I can think about is that silly American Idol song about pants on the ground...

Excuse the, er, scatological nature of this particular story. Pants down and all, you know, this is where my brain went...
Prompt: Someone is caught with their pants down
Genre: Any
Word Count: I don’t honestly know what 1500-1800 words looks like, so let’s say keep it to less than two 8×11′s.
Deadline: Thursday, April 7, 2011 A.D., on or about 4:30ish.

Into the Wild

I don't know why my bowels have to move--urgently--every time I go hiking. Is it the fear of being in the wilderness, away from all that is known? Is it some sort of primal reconnection with my hunter-gatherer ancestors? Perhaps it's just that my gut is as obstinate and ornery as the rest of me.

I sigh and readjust my position. I managed to find a good couple boulders to squat against while doing my business, and the pine trees above provide shade. I life my head and smile against the feel of the sunlight filtered through the forest. I feel better than last time, when I was exposed on a ridgeline, with the caress of the mountain breeze against my vulnerable backside.

At least I know to be prepared. There's an entire roll of toilet paper in my backpack. If only my quads weren't burning from being stuck in this ungainly position, this would be a nice rest. I can hear the soft gurgle of a nearby stream. The birds have paused in their chirping, and all is silent. It's a little eerie.

I call out to my companions, thinking maybe they are approaching.

"Private business here!"

No response. Huh. I shift again, trying to relieve the pressure from a particularly pointy part of the boulder beneath my right butt cheek.

"Hello?"

Still no response. My forearms prickle and I reach for my backpack, thinking I'll grab the pepper spray I keep handy. The backpack slides away from me.

Shit.

I freeze as something big drags the pack across the sun-dappled pine needles, something I can only see a shadow of before my pack disappears.

My pepper spray is in there. My toilet paper is in there. I'm stuck, with my pants down, in the middle of the wilderness.

What if it returns? What if I'm the next thing it grabs? I look around for a stick, anything big enough I can use to defend myself.

I hear a low growl, and I grab the nearest thing--a 12-inch twig. Lotta good that'll do me.

I lift myself off the boulders, praying the numbness in my ass will disappear so I can run. So much for cleanliness. One-handed, I try to hoist my underwear and pants back up into position.

Before I can complete the task, a tawny hide appears. It's a mountain lion, slinking low across the forest floor, skimming its belly across the needles and almost blending in.

I drop my pants and take off, tripping over the clothes entangled around my ankles and rolling to a stop on my belly.

I throw myself on my back.

The lion pounces.

No Flash Fiction This Friday

I tried. Really, I did. 

I checked this week's F3 prompt. I researched "pulp fiction." I found lots of really cool covers. I learned that "pulp" refers to the type of paper (pulpy, cheap) that these magazines were printed on. I discovered that Indiana Jones is considered pulp fiction. I thought--well, I can write something like Indiana Jones. 

I listened as my son watched Disney's recent version of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" in the background. I contemplated its pulp fiction characteristics: over-the-top heroes and villians, sorcery, magic, adventure. It was missing the scantily clad damsel in distress, though. Which is good. An eight-year-old doesn't need to watch a movie with scantily clad damsels, regardless of said damsels' distress levels.

I thought about ways I could turn the genre on its ear. I'm resistant to the whole "woman needs a man to rescue her" storyline we perpetuate in our culture. Maybe I'd put a man in distress and have a woman rescue him. 

Or what about lesbian pulp fiction? I did more research. Turns out the women always "got what was coming to them" in the end. I didn't like that. Maybe I'd give my heroine(s) a happy ending.

I opened my word processing software. I watched the cursor blink, mocking me. I waited a day, to see if ideas would appear. I stared at a blank page during my work hour. I turned on my computer at home and tried again. No luck.

I turned off the computer and snuggled with my son while we watched "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". Again. Still no ideas. But it was a good way to spend an evening, even if it was the second time watching a silly movie with a thousand plot holes. The eight-year-old's giggles were worth it.

I did homework. I went to class. I went to my other class. And then I woke up, and it was Friday, and I still didn't have a pulp fiction piece. 

But I tried. That counts for something, right? And, who knows--maybe someday the research will germinate and a little flower of an idea will start to grow and something crazy or wonderful or fun will blossom from this little exercise.

What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

What if...

...you woke up and the world was empty of all humans? (ooh, maybe I'll use that for F3's "pulp fiction" challenge this week...)
...it stopped raining?
...you were a bear-trainer? lion-tamer? tiger-restrainer?

Success!

Oh my goodness gracious me. I did not expect that to happen so quickly. After receiving a rather nice, personalized rejection letter from First Stop Fiction yesterday afternoon, this morning, I received the email that every writer hopes for.

6 tales, a ("fledgling," according to Duotrope's Digest) e-zine aimed at showcasing short stories, accepted "Hands," the micro-fiction piece I submitted last week. They will publish it in their August 2011 issue.

WOO HOOOOO!!!!!!!

Submission

No, not as in surrendering one's power. As in, submitting one's work to various publications. Which, I suppose, is sort of surrendering one's power. It's out of my hands now; it's up to some unknowable, unnamed "Editor" to decide whether my piece strikes his or her fancy at the particular moment of the particular day he or she happens to read it.

Sigh.

It's slightly stressful. But also wonderfully relieving.


I took the step today of submitting a fiction piece--a 5,000 word piece that drained the life out of me over the last year--to the literary award offered by my community college. Buoyed by the hope intrinsic in the action of letting go, I also submitted it to various online publications. And then I threw another piece, a flash-fiction piece, at a couple other publications. Why not? *shrug* (Thank goodness for duotrope.)

The frightening act of submission is saying--here you go, world. I believe this piece is at a point where, if it were to be published tomorrow, I wouldn't be (too) embarrassed by it. (Because a piece is never really done, right?) But letting a piece float into the atmosphere of our universal, communal spirit also provides a sense of freedom. I can focus on other things now. At least, for the moment, anyway. Give it four months. When I still haven't heard back from the editor and I'm wondering if anyone will ever love me, we'll see how I feel.

Star Wars

Okay, so I don't know enough about science fiction to do this week's F3 challenge. But can I give an ordinary scene some sort of sci-fi vibe? Can I use these never-before-seen words in a (somewhat) accurate context? Let's see...

Prompt: THEMED WORD LIST, thanks to 75 Words Every Sci-Fi Fan Should Know – Stellar Engine, mind food, needler, superluminal, and wetware  

Genre: Sci-fi themed pot-boiler
Word Count: Under 1500 words
Deadline: Thursday, March 24, 2011 4:30 pm EST

STAR WARS
This really is good mind food, Amy thought as she spooned Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey into her mouth. Just a few bites, and she already felt perkier and better than she had in days. It didn't matter that she was eating it for breakfast. Whoever said it was a cliche for a heartbroken woman to eat ice cream obviously came from a different galaxy. Ice cream really does make the universe a brighter place. She snuggled deeper into her worn leather seat, her slippered feet resting on the metal square that substituted as a coffee table. All that was missing was a cat (or two) and sappy music playing in the background while a montage of her life with Brian flashed on the TV screen.

Ah, Brian. He had the capacity to burn through her heart like a needler, a blazing burst of concentrated light shearing through what little strings she had left on her sanity. He had the audacity to explode into her previously humdrum single life just a few months earlier with the energy of a stellar engine, bringing a much-needed vitality. He whisked her to another dimension, made her feel as though it was okay to hope for something more. To think that maybe the ordinary was anything but.

She wished she could move at warp speed, a superluminal wave of energy through the atmosphere. Maybe then she could get away from the the slow-motion farce that made up her life. Amy sighed.

Brian had been larger than life, an unreal hologram downloaded into the wetware of her brain that she needed to force quit. His betrayal hurt more than she would admit.

Her spoon hit the bottom of the ice cream pint. Already? She dragged her protesting body off the chair and dumped the empty carton in the trash chute before changing out of her pajamas and into her spacesuit. She couldn't keep the crew waiting much longer. She had a ship to repair, thanks to the traitor she had trusted.

What-If Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless

I thought it might be fun to begin collecting "what-ifs" as a way to help myself (or anyone else) in the future when it seems as though you've hit a brick wall. Maybe these prompts can get inspiration flowing again? They are meant to be silly, true, not-true, crazy, sane, unbelievable, depressing, optimistic, etc...

What if...

...the moon exploded?

...a next-door neighbor was actually a CIA operative?

...someone went to work one morning to find the doors chained shut and the boss gone?

...wind really does bring about change? 

Contribute your what-ifs in the comments section.

Changing Wind

It seemed apropos this morning that while I was revising a short story titled "Dust Storm," the wind howled outside my corner window. In the darkness of dawn, desolation leaked into my corner study, invading my body and jumbling up my insides.

My story deals with themes of abandonment and despair, and the protagonist, Ally, must make a choice: continue the same lonely path (which would keep her safe) or choose a brighter future (which may bring danger to her doorstep).

Currently, Ally's keeping herself in the same situation, where she's stifled, scared, yearning, lonely and, well, safe.

Have you ever questioned choices you've made and realized you may be outgrowing those choices? Realized you may want more? Even if it's not safe?

Perhaps in the future, Ally will be ready to make a different choice.

Flash Fiction: On My Way Home

Inspired by the caffeine-fueled compositions written by my friend, Becky, I decided to have some fun. I thought I'd maybe do a "Flash Fiction Friday" kind of thing here, but Googled it first to see if someone else had already had the idea. Of course, they had. But I found this great site that gives a prompt each Friday, and I decided to give it a go.

Prompt: THEMED WORD LIST – road, beer, luck, coin, pot, gold, rainbow, snakes
Genre: Open
Word Count: Under 1000 words
Deadline: Thursday, March 17, 2011 4:30 pm EST

Written in about 11 minutes, here is: On My Way Home

On a back road in the desert, winding through undulating cliffs of sunset—red, orange, pink, yellow—brilliant in one section, pastel in the next, muted and gray following, I am on my way home, to a bright and shining city of gold, where reality is suspended and improbability is taken for granted. Where rainbows dance at night and luck shines on everyone and beer is free—as long as you keep putting money in the pot. Where, amongst noise of laughter and music and coins falling from the sky, vendors shout their wares, passing out pamphlets that promise a good time with the prettiest girl in town. I am on my way home, I am on a mission, a one-man vigilante squad, intent on eradicating these snakes that peddle the human flesh, as though a human is something that can be bought or sold.