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!!!!!!!!!!!