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.

Small Town

An old college friend of my boyfriend's was in town this weekend and invited us over for dinner at his parent's house. Let's call my boyfriend "Bob," and let's call his friend "Tom." Tom also invited another old friend of his, a woman involved in a local charity. Let's call her "Sally." I happened to realize recently that Sally was my neighbor--I pass her vehicle, peppered with stickers promoting the charity, almost every morning as I take my son--let's call him "Zane"--to his dad and stepmom's house. Let's call Zane's dad "Joey," and his stepmom, "Jessica."

We arrive at Tom's parent's house, located in the lower foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains, and Zane is delighted to discover that Tom not only brought his son, but his son is a whirlwind of talkative fun. Zane disappears. I'm pretty sure his evening involves hiking in a wash, splashing in a goldfish pond, surfacing to eat spaghetti and garlic bread, and watching both Lego Star Wars and Justin Bieber videos on YouTube. Not surprisingly, he falls asleep--hard--on the ride home.

While the kids are off terrorizing the local wildlife, the adults make small talk. I'm not good at small talk. It's usually awkward and forced, and I'm relieved that not only are Tom's parents easy to talk to, but his friend Sally is a hoot. We drink wine and eat crackers and cheese and laugh on the couch while watching the sun set. We discover that we are both divorced, and that, sometimes, divorce is a really good thing. I talk about how, at first, the transition was hard, but once my ex found someone new, got married and had a baby, it got so much easier. Sally says--wait! Is it Jessica? I nod, surprised, and we burst into gales of laughter, interrupting the other conversations and garnering strange looks.

I explain through a mouthful of crackers and cheese that Sally knows Joey and Jessica. She adds that she was at the their wedding and recently went hiking with Jessica.

I immediately review what I said. Oh my god, did I say anything that was too mean, too bitter, too casual? Did I say anything that, if it made its way back to Jessica and/or Joey, would sound crass or judgmental or angry? The divorce may have been a good thing, and I may be glad that my ex is now happy with his new family, but we had 11 years of a sometimes-difficult and not-always-healthy relationship that was not all peaches and cream, and I've been known to "open mouth, insert foot." Satisfied that I behaved appropriately, I re-join the conversation.

Later, gathered around the dining room table, I mention something about one of Bob's nieces. Let's call her "Andie." Sally says--wait, I played soccer with Andie. She lists Andie's mom, sister and then, surprising us both, since he's not really in the picture, Bob's brother.

Yes, she knows Bob's family. And mine. And she lives behind me in mid-town. And yet we didn't meet until last night at an out-of-town's friend's parent's house in the foothills. Although the Tucson metro area is close to one million people, it still really is a small town.

Tucson Festival of Books

I feel blessed to live in the same place as the Tucson Festival of Books. From the Arizona Geological Survey booth (my personal favorite, where I finally found the giant art that my walls need--seven gigantic satellite photo posters of AZ, what color and texture!) to the panel on GLBTQ Poets and Identity (regardless of gender or sexual orientation, how does one use language to create an identity--or not? does language cage or free one's identity?) to the discussion on The Writing Life: Making Time When You Have None (time? what's that?) to the children's play area (if only my son were with me!) to the food court (yay Tucson Tamale Company for keeping it tasty and gluten-free!), there was something for everyone. If only my favorite author could be convinced to travel here for the Festival.

You'll have to excuse my use of exclamation points. Today was a good day.

!

Take home notes:

• Arizona is awesome in the spring. 70 degrees and sunny--total perfection.
• Tucson is a wonderful blue island in an ocean of red. Apparently there's a petition making the rounds to recall Gov. Brewer. You bet I signed it.
• My friend Becky is really awesome.
• Collective found poetry can be fun. Thank you, Eric Magrane.
• Use writing as a reward. I did the dishes--yay! I get five minutes of writing. I did the laundry--yay! I get 10 minutes of writing. I cleaned the toilets--gross! I get 45 minutes of writing.
• Also from Eric Magrane: choose a spot on your wall and write on it every time you pass. Okay, so maybe you rent and writing on the wall is impossible. Put up a piece of paper. A dry erase board. Chalkboard paint. This really resonated with me. I just might do this.
• In finding time to write, be a madwoman. Be dogged and flexible. 
• Your first draft is really just your notes to yourself.
• Reading counts toward your writing time. 
• Did I mention Tucson Tamale Company? The Madison is the BEST. Red pepper masa, black beans (I think they spice them with crack), cheese...I can't get enough...
• Kore Press--small, locally owned, women-only press--is awesome. Maybe someday they'll publish something I write. 
• Identity isn't something that can be summed up in any one word. And perhaps our search for identity is really only something introduced to us by the constraints of the English language and our particular society. Some languages aren't structured in the same way ours is--subject, noun, verb, predicate. In some languages, it isn't necessarily possible to ask: Who am I?
• TC Tolbert is inspirational.
• Drew Krewer's poem inspired by the HSN was priceless.
• Tolerance isn't enough. Acceptance is vital. Celebration is even better. And celebration starts with each individual.

Finding Voice

Ugh. The first version of that last post was just plain stiff. Completely unoriginal. Totally trite. I tried revising it, and it sounds a little better now, but really?! How forced can I sound?

This got me thinking about voice and flow and how I can write in a way that feels and sounds good—all the time. Do I need to take the time to write and then revise even my blog posts? Why can’t golden nuggets of beauty just drip from my fingertips every time I sit down to type?

Okay, enough whining.

Voice is incredibly important to any developing writer. Anyone can write a book or a short story or life experience, but the only way to distinguish what you wrote from what the rest of the masses have written is to bring yourself into the piece—your thoughts, desires, fears, hopes, unique viewpoint.

Yikes.

When I Googled “voice in writing,” I found Holly Lisle’s article, Ten Steps to Finding Your Writing Voice. She sums up exactly what I’m thinking, hoping and fearing about finding voice. (On a side note, the rest of her website seems pretty interesting, and I look forward to sifting through it soon.) Go check it out.

In the meantime, I will keep practicing and thinking and writing, and hopefully, that will eventually lead to a voice that sounds like, well, me!

Favorite New Author

Funny. Witty. Genuine. Charming. Emotional. Cute. Expansive. Real. Adorable. Conflicted. Courageous.

Thanks to Flashlight Worthy Books, I recently picked up Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan.

The book is set in a town that unreservedly accepts all its gay, lesbian, transgendered and bisexual citizens. The setting is almost a futuristic tale of what America could be, if only we could move beyond bigotry and into a place where the it's okay that the star quarterback is also known as Infinite Darlene, the school's most outrageous drag queen. The plot itself is about love, and loss, and acceptance--and is exactly what I look for in escapist fiction: true emotion that makes me say, "That's exactly it," while making me giggle. So what if my giggles (okay, snorts of laughter) garner strange looks from nearby friends, family and/or strangers.

The voice is strong, the narrator secure in who he is and the main characters are lovable, if fallible. Not all the conflicts are resolved by the end of the story (entirely too soon for me), which left me right where a good book should--wanting more.

As I was reading it, I was struck by how the book reminded me of another one of my favorites, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (no, I haven't seen the movie yet). When I Googled David Levithan, I was not surprised to find he was one-half of the writing team for Nick & Norah. I also discovered that he is currently an editor, as well as an author, and previously worked at Scholastic on the Baby-sitter Club books (which I wasn't allowed to read it, but managed to, on occasion, sneak a book or two home from the library and read under the covers by flashlight...um, I hope my mom isn't reading this...Hi, Mom!).

Although Levithan writes young adult fiction with high-school age protagonists, the two books I've read do not come across as YA. Maybe I'm just a teenager at heart?

He released his first book for adults, The Lover's Dictionary, in January, and I look forward to reading it (in 3-6 business days, depending on how quickly Barnes & Noble gets it to me).

I wish I could be David Levithan when I grow up! What author do you wish you could be?

Polly's not talking to me

So I have a deadline in two weeks for a fiction story. A few weeks ago, I thought--no problem. In a previously written story, a supporting character had caught my attention, and I wanted to know more about her. I figured my next story would be all about Polly.

Polly's not talking to me.

She's dead silent. Not even a tickle of inspiration or a sparkle of an idea. Polly's on vacation, somewhere I can't reach.

So, now what?

Unfortunately, it's all gone. There's nothing inside me. Not even a hint of a story to begin about any character for any reason.

I can't be the only writer this has happened to. What did you do to get the juices flowing again?

102 minutes

Where were you on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001?

Thanks to Flashlight Worthy Books and their list for Best Books About 9/11, I just picked up 102 Minutes: the Untold Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers.

It focuses on the disaster as experienced through the eyes and ears of those who were within the towers during and after the plane crashes.

I like a good disaster book and reading about the tenacity of the human soul to survive incredible conditions, but I've steered clear of anything to do with 9/11. It's too recent, too close to home. There are too many conspiracy theories and too much politicizing of it. Reading about a volcano explosion on a distant island, or a catastrophic flood that occurred 100 years ago is much easier.

When I read both the official and reader-submitted reviews on Amazon, I became intrigued. The words "fast-paced," "easy to read," "vividly rendered," "unflinching," and "Sad, but education and interesting," caught my attention, and I reserved the book at my local library (along with nine others, based on various lists from Flashlight Worthy Books -- really, go check it out, it's a great website).

I picked up the book last night, and although I was exhausted and ready for bed at 10, I couldn't put it down. I read until my eyes--against my will--closed at about 11:30, and this morning? I wanted to pick it right back up again.

While it's a little hard to follow all the people they name, the authors do a good job of keeping the reader grounded in location (although I do get a little confused between the north and south towers). They based the book on 100s of hours of interviews, phone transcripts, text messages, e-mails--real communications that occurred, which makes the story all the more heartwrenching.

I find this book particularly relevant. I didn't experience the immediate TV news cycle that morning, like many in America. On 9/11, I was stuck near the top of the Santa Catalina Mountains, just north of Tucson, at the end of a weekend camping trip. A two-lane road winds up from the desert floor to the pine trees, and it was under construction just above Geology Point Vista, which is about two-thirds of the way up (an hour to an hour-and-a-half away from mid-Tucson). The construction crews were only permitting one lane of cars through the construction zone at a time, which meant waiting 30 or more minutes for a pilot car to arrive. I was scrambling on a nearby boulder, when a crazed woman tumbled out of her old VW van, screaming, "They've bombed the Twin Towers! Terrorists are attacking us!"

"What?" I looked at my husband. He shrugged. We went back to playing on the boulder. But then we noticed a buzz from the other folks waiting in line. People were talking, turning on their radios. We went down to our car and did the same. Every station was reporting the same thing--terrorists had attacked the East Coast.

Surprisingly, the best coverage came from the local alternative radio station. The morning hosts, normally wanna-be Howard Sterns, turned into professional newscasters, focusing on the facts of the events, rather than the emotions or the misinformation that seemed to be prevalent on other stations. I spent the the next 90 or so minutes glued to the station to glean more information. It wasn't until almost two hours later that I finally arrived at my in-laws' house and was able to actually see the devastation. By then, cable TV had settled on a few clips that showed particular scenes over and over again.

I've often wondered what happened to the people of Morgan Stanley. From about February of 2001 until about three weeks before the attack, I worked for a local branch. Every day, I called headquarters at the World Trade Center to deliver numbers. I sent a daily package of paperwork to them. I knew they were on the upper floors, and I wondered if any of the people I had talked to made it out alive. I hope to find out more as I get further into the book, which is allowing me to finally "see" what happened in chronological sequence. I hope the remainder of the book is as good as the first few chapters.

Early Morning Routine

"I didn't realize it went that far," your boyfriend tells you in your dream after you relay a particularly humorous story to a captivated audience.

You reply, "I'm a creative nonfiction writer. I'm allowed to take liberties."

###

First, the particularly humorous, slightly exaggerated story in my dream never happened (a threesome? really?). Second, I haven't decided yet which direction I will focus on come next January -- fiction or nonfiction. And, third, it's a bad day when I start dreaming every night about a particular subject in that detail. My brain can get a little obsessive (like the time I spent 14 months as a totally bored receptionist with nothing to do but Minesweeper games all day and then my brain would go nuts, and I would complete entire expert-level games, step by step, down to the last two squares--which one has the mine? d'oh! that one, crap--in my head as I fell asleep). I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But I hadn't realized how much I'm eating, sleeping, breathing, dreaming writing right now.

I made a commitment to get up 45 minutes earlier each morning to allow time and space and quiet and solitude to write (I hope my eight-year-old son continues the sleeping-in trend). To become better, one needs practice, right? Right.

This is the second day; yesterday I did manage to get a couple pages in on a piece I'm writing about domestic violence. But I can't seem to get it to be about more than the situation. I can't find the story in it. What did the protagonist learn from this experience? What is the character arc, the change?

Unfortunately, my deadline is Thursday to be distributed for workshop. Which means I may submit the crappy-but-complete humor piece titled "Things I learned from my relationships." I'm not sure my class is ready for a piece about boobs, penis size and vacillating sexual orientation. They seem a little, um, staid. Conservative. Suppose it could be fun to shock them.

Coffee tastes extra satisfying when it's imbibed pre-sunrise. The house is dark, and quiet, with nothing but the swoosh of the heater and the crackle of one cat eating breakfast and the other cat's purr. I'm ensconced in my Poang chair with my feet up and my (brand-new!) Toshiba mini on my lap. I think I can get used to this.