A question on the forums had me dragging out my first book to see how far I’ve come ( or not *gulp* ) in my writing. It was definitely eye opening. I took some pictures. Check out this behemoth. I wrote it back in the early 90's when I was around 14. I’m having issues trying to date this ( I never wrote dates on anything. And there are about 4 10-30 page outlines I had done of the story previous to writing this draft which is throwing me off on the dates. ) I got inspired by Twin Peaks which was inspired by old movies and my ms bares a lot of similar themes ( both with old movies and Twin Peaks ) - There are serial murders, and a quirky detective, lots of strange folklore, an amnesia theme, and a sort of horror/surrealism. It took a year or two to write ( dates evade me. ) But the final result is a block of paper almost as high as your average Dr. Pepper can. Lol. Ew that yellow paper, you can tell I just grabbed anything because chapters written after look older. But I had a habit of grabbing any paper I could find. I’m really going to have to transcribe it onto a computer or something - Some of the paper is so cheap, ditto the pens that some of the words are pretty faded. Notice how I tabbed the chapters, I kinda like that. I’m terribly organized so I not only tabbed the chapters, I named them to keep track of things. There are 44 chapters. In later drafts I tried to whittle them down to 32 but they ballooned up to 53. Every time I got rid of something it seemed like some new character took it's place or a new scene filled the gap. The shortest chapter is 3 pages long and the longest chapter in the world - look at that sucker was - 665 pages. A novel within a novel. One thing that made me nostalgic for the time when I wrote this was how into the writing I got. I wrote so much so fast that the ink would run out in my pen and rather than search for another I’d grab anything that I could find- in this page it happens to be a navy pencil crayon - and kept going. Gah! The dedication. Here's the pen starting to fade - but it picks up and - says Nice to meet you Farrell is now in navy pencil crayon. And rather than loose momentum - here's the next page in pencil crayon ( lol ) - - *Groan* That dialogue! So cheesy. Notice the random note at the top of the page to remind me of something I missed. Ragged Robin, a flower, happened to be some important clue in the serial murders. Not quite sure what's it doing on this page. At first glance over my story, I cringed ( and am still cringing over that dialogue ) , then I kinda gave myself a break. It wasn’t the day and age ( for me anyway ) of computers, or backspace, erase, or delete. I just flooded the page and to hell with coherency. Plus, I wasn’t the best student in the world, I wouldn’t know an adverb or modifier if they angrily bit me on my skinny behind. On the page below, I circled and underlined some stuff. Note how I was doing the present tense thing back there ( doesn’t sound half as good though. It sounds very script-y. ) And apparently I loved hammy ideas - - lol. - Also, I loved the dash. Rather than indent a paragraph I just used a dash, same for the start of dialogue which I never bothered to use quotes on. And I hated speech tags ( huh, still do ) so they didn’t always show up, clouding who the hell was speaking. Notice the circled Help...me that's actually supposed to be a thought but there's no distinction. I didn't bother printing in italic. I attempted a second draft of this story and got as far as the 26 chapter - 600 pages in, oh I didn’t tell you how long this book was - 2178 pages. I decided to hunt up some paperbacks to show you the equivalent size wise. I chose some hefty horrors approx 400-500 pages a piece, but despite the fact that there are four paperbacks - I’m still 90 pages over them in length. I would love to say I got much more word concise but when I attempted a second draft - it wound up running almost parallel in length. Which doesn’t sound too bad until you learn that I ditched five characters, lots of scenes and I developed a nastier habit than the dash. Instead of using the dash I wrote everything in a huge block on the page. No paragraph indents, no distinction in dialogue patterns just words. That second draft is more unreadable than the first draft. Fortunately this all took place in the early to mid 90's. And I've gotten better with my layout, word choices and hopefully grammar. Good things I noticed - despite my awful spelling, fluky grammar, and tendency to slip into present tense - were those quirky touches I love which I thought had only come about recently. A lot of things didn’t work but I love that I tried and that I keep on trying. - Here’s one line - Just wanted to show everyone that even a bad, overwinded draft is better than nothing. I'm glad I kept it all these years. There were times when I wanted to burn it or throw it out but it's shown me that I was on the right track in finding my style, there were many years when I wanted to cave but somehow that same quirky voice has fought it's way through. And at the very least it's shown how much I've grown in my writing.
It’s cold out. But time for Pug to do his duty. He blinks big soft eyes at me as if to say, out there? Yes there. Small scoot with foot to help him out. The snow is thick. We’ve shoveled trenches from the house to the gate at the driveway. The pug paces in the trench like a solider. The walls of the trench are pee-stained. From the pug, the shitzu, the boston terrier. The pug takes his time. Then puts his face in the snow, the yellow snow, and emerges tongue out of his mouth doing a wild shimmy. Yuck, stop tasting pee! I yell. His computer-like-brain ( monkey with a broken abacus ) sorts the info while he aligns for a counter attack pee. He turns right no-not good enough more to the - leg lifts, he stumbles a bit. Steam wafts and the walls cave a little. He trots for the door, blinking threw snowflakes. Old fool, I say. But fondly.
Feeling dark. My poems are coming out weird and dark. Skull-Castle My head, My castle, My torture chamber cavernous, cobwebbed, carved with jaguars Conclusions all dark Watch the monsters sink beneath my eye moat. Epitaphs Tongue like a tombstone carver’s chisel gouging dreadful things: how are you? Slamming all advent doors. Pleasure-wrong A tongue bridging between mouths as ash from a corpse blows red across the water A thought-bred briar rose blooming/pricking rejoice Blood petals rejoice
When I first heard of Nanowrite ( which I think was last year ), I was like uhuh, not for me, who could write 50,000 coherent words in 30 days? I’m lucky if I can manage 10,000 coherent words in three weeks. But this year I thought - what the hell, what have I got to lose. I signed up maybe five days before it started and hadn’t even settled on a project. I was currently tinkering with my Doll’s novels and thought about trying that out and even entered that as my project until I read the rules - ( Yes, first things first, Peach. Dive in then read the rules. ) - You must start from scratch. Not wanting to ditch an entire chapter, I dusted off a screenplay, ditched most of the characters, scenes, outcome - lol. Not much left but the idea and main character - perfect. With a couple days to go, I cranked out a 17 page outline. Nanowrite is kinda like setting out on a cruise there’s a lot of fanfare before hand, ticker-tape curls thrown and bon voyagies. Imagine Elvis Costello crooning his approp ‘Everyday I write the Book’ and when the shiphorn blew at midnight - cast off time - ah, the excitement, the adrenalin! My fingers flew across the keyboard. The next day I couldn’t wait to get started again and update my word count. For the first week I seemed to operate on a pure high. It was part the novelty of belonging to this cruise-like, clubby atmosphere - I’m with nanowrite! Part the sharing of a similar experience - look at all these people who want to write a book - how cool is this! Mainly, though it was being immersed in a fresh project. Second week the novelty begins to wear off. Not necessarily a bad thing. Can anyone write a book on a high of sheer novelty? Whoever you are out there, let me know. I hit some rough patches. Some might scoff how can you call them rough patches if you consistently made your goal each night and more than your goal. Because some of that writing was done down to the wire. Seconds to the clock an hour left to midnight and I’m taping away, my the little-turtle-that-could pace - a hour and a half = 1 page ( if I’m lucky. ) I practically pulled my hair wondering what comes next. Outline aside, I still had to come up with fresh dialogue and little things on the fly. And there were moments of complete chicken-little panic noticing glaring inconsistences. I forgot my mc smoked and given his position in quarantine he should be going up the wall. Some characters are supposed to go to the bathroom ( don’t ask but it’s essential to the plot ) and they’ve been holding it for over a week - lol. And then I’d write some winning sentence that made me wonder if I really knew what I was doing. A real hum-dinger like -‘ the creatures’ appetite was so fierce they were resorting to cannonbalism.’ Mmm -Yes, I suppose that’s where they shoot themselves out of their paddock with a cannon. Well, at the very least it’s good for a laugh. But what have I learned? Firstly, a routine. Which is definitely not to be under rated, Before, I merely wrote whenever I felt like it letting precious days slip by. Weeks even, dare I admit months? But I had the time just nobody to push me. Secondly, I discovered when my best writing times are - afternoons ( when I can spare them ), and late evenings. Thirdly...Oh, to Hell with the numbers. Here’s the list. * Daft Punk can add a David Lynch-like twist to your writing. * Love your first draft - it’s the diamond before it gets cut so don’t be so hard on it! * Keep your forum chat to a minimum. My best writing days were the ones I didn’t go on the internet. * Attempting the lambada, in the middle of writing a scene, just because the song came on, is mere procrastination. * End your writing day in the middle of a scene and even in the middle of a sentence. It’s so much easier to start the next day filling in a scene. By the time you’re ready to begin a fresh one you’re already in a groove. * I’m off track, my creatures have planted a vegetable garden and for the last five pages I’ve forgotten their big mysterious project. Panic time? No. I keep going. I decided if the problem doesn’t work itself out to cut and paste for the second draft. * Open a document a day. For Nano, I named each one Nov 1, Nov 2 and so on. It made keeping track of everything easier, plus, I wasn’t as tempted to reread what I wrote the day before. Oh, also, at the end of the day copy and paste the last few sentences so you’ll know where to start in the morning. * Don’t tell a lot of people you’ll be busy writing. As soon as they think you’ll be unavailable for a while they’ll panic and become extra pesty. * Laugh don’t cry at your flaws - Cannonbalism - lol. * Argue with yourself later. Normally, I could spend fifteen precious minutes tinkering with a simple line like - “Write that symbol.” Arguing, shouldn’t it be, draw that symbol? Put the second option in brackets and power on. * Set a writing goal. Nothing absurd like I will write a 600 page historical novel about African bush tribes in two weeks. Be practical. How much time can you spend a day writing and what would be your average output for that time be - three pages a day? Five hundred words? Pick it and stick with it. Always undercut - that way you’ll be jazzed when you surpass it. Overall, I discovered I’m still that kid who loves a gold star. Maybe everyone in Nanowrite is that kid beaming over a badge for a job well done. I think that’s what’s been missing. I’m so busy trying to write a novel, tell my story and have it be perfect that I haven’t even allowed myself to feel pleased about the actual act of writing of conquering small goals. The more I give myself kudos for getting stuff down on paper, the more I put on paper. Whether or not it's garbage is worry for another day -
Decided to try out Nanowrimo this year and I'm feeling jittery and nervous. That same feeling I got in track and field just before a sprint. You'll never make it! Well, I never did get a ribbon in running. Standing long jump was my specialty. God, I hope there's no writing metaphor in that?! I have no idea if I can keep up my writing goal especially since I'm going in on this with my usual mode-of-operandi - fly by the seat of my pants. I'm not sure that's the smartest position but I do have a loose - read extremely flimsy - outline. Technically how I roll is to sit down jot some ideas about the scene before actually writing it. I haven't got a pov yet. I'm torn between using the I pov because I think perhaps it might be easier but I don't especially like I pov so I'll probably fall back on deep third. I can feel those filter words creeping up on me already - Phineas felt this Phineas felt that. I don't even have a location nailed down. I initially picked a farm in Minnesota but I know doodlysquat about Minnesota so I'm considering some unnamed town in Canada and fake my way through - only trouble is I need a government contamination squad to swoop down. Me thinks Canada wouldn't be as fast on the ball as the U.S. Two days to go - Arghhhh!
GHASTLY To-mourn/tomorrows sulphur laden clouds dead trees black limbs filtering burned bulb of sun sick pools floating apocalyptic babies who grin, stare-stuck into forever amputated from yester-era futurepeek...hellyuh GIRL LANDING A foreign body is lovely you think finger-climbing up twin hills plunder valley cleft tangle in thicket entwine and orbit cosmic fall in reflecting -self -reflecting mark your claim watch it shift from under your grasp no path for your trumpeting footprint TENDER ABUSE tender abuse this tongue of flame saying, speaking, ordering do something about yourself after the words brand a seal enclosing a scored heart he becomes chill as wax smoking silence has frozen him grotesque as a half melted saint
Am I nailing it when I fullfill what I want to say? This thought came to me while contemplating a critique on someone’s story ( not here ) and then working on my own. I found myself doing what I was shaking my head at. Guilty! During the dialogue exchange, the physical reactions had been reduced to stock motions; he laughed, he grinned, he raised an eyebrow, he looked. Simple phrases that in the end dragged the story down an ordinary path. The occasional interesting event or phrase would catch my eye, but for the most part the author coasted on ‘what I want to say.’ Using ‘What I want to say’ is not necessarily a bad thing. In the paragraph above I used vague phrases like ‘occasional interesting event’, ‘catch my eye’ and ‘coasted.’ I grabbed for them like a cook grabbing for familiar ingredients. In fact a good many writers feel relieved - I know I do - just by discovering what they want to say and getting it down or paper ( or word doc. ) But ‘what I want to say’ can often lead to cliches. In one self published story that I read recently, I found a cliche and a tired phrase in nearly every sentence; greatest idea since sliced bread, without a hitch, out this jam, truly wished a loved one was there ( during a moment of crisis ). And on and on. The writer was saying what he/she wanted to say without going deeper. By the end of the story, I felt as though someone had written it with a Mad Libs, fill-in-the-blanks form. Can a writer write a novel and publish it by saying ‘what I want to say’? Definitely. But should he? Are you finishing it or did you you nail it ( get it right. ) Why not go deeper and discover what you really want to say. I’m going to pull apart opening sentences to two well-written books, Lolita and Z is for Zachariah, to show you what I mean. Let’s start with Nabokov, now, imagine he’s a newbie whose first drafts could be posted for critique. Here’s the end result, what he’s striving for - Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. But, lets say he starts by putting down a sentence that gives his opening chapter the general idea he needs - Lolita was the most important person in my life. No snickers. Whose to know genius doesn't start this way. And this could be his ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it does what it’s supposed to. But then he thinks about it and admits, okay, it’s to the point but rather drab, and it feels familiar. Everyone has someone important in their life so why should the readers think the mc feels something special? And by its vagueness Lolita could be a mother, a sister, an aunt or a friend. I need to clarify the relationship. See, by continuing to ask questions - Why is this revelation special? How does Lolita affect the mc? The writer is really asking - is this what I really want to say? He’s going deeper and deeper until finally, he tweaks the sentence - Lolita had me, body and soul. Maybe this is the author’s ‘what I want to say’ moment, or as it’s clearer than the previous sentence, maybe it could be the author’s ‘what I really want to say moment.’ Then again he could think meh, body and soul is an ordinary phrase I want something special. He goes deeper, asking more questions. What am I trying to convey? The mc’s obsession/ focus for Lolita and his lust. What is a symbolic focus? Light is an element, a focus point. It’s also a spiritual symbol. Aha. And lust begins in the loins. Fire is also an element. Lust is a heat. Light and fire create an echo by their similarities. Now, echo the sentences to highlight that connection. Lolita fire loins light life. Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Vladimir Nabokov. I’m not saying this is how he did it, heck these lines could’ve been the first thing he wrote down, but it makes for an interesting experiment. Going deeper is not just about swapping vagueness for clarity. It’s about finding what you really want to say by how you want to say it. It’s the very conception of your writer’s voice. If Lolita’s not your thing lets try the same go-deeper experiment with an amazing Ya book. Here’s the end result - May 20, I am afraid. Someone is coming. That is, I think someone is coming, though I am not sure, and I pray that I am wrong. - Z is for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien. A great opening. But let’s say Robert in his first instinct types out his general idea - I’m trembling like a leaf because I saw someone up on the ridge. Perhaps he looks it over and tweaks it - I’m trembling like a leaf because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Maybe he’s having a ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it’s showing fear and the cause of it. But he’s not satisfied. It’s not really what he wants to say. Often what you really want to say has to challenge convention to truly nail it. He cuts trembling like a leaf, it’s cliche, plus, he wants to use the telling word 'afraid' so there will be no doubt in the reader’s mind. He reworks it. I’m afraid because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Still unsatisfied, he asks himself what is wrong with the sentence. He reads it out loud. What do I want to convey? Fear. But also confusion in the reader. I want to draw it out. How can I do that? I have to chop up the sentence. I’m afraid. Still not right but what’s wrong with it? She’s afraid, that’s serious business. Aha. He’ll remove the contraction - I am afraid. Much better. I am afraid. I thought I saw someone on the ridge. Now the following sentence doesn’t mesh well. It must be reworked. He asks himself questions about fear, and why she’s afraid. Because she saw someone/ thought she saw someone. Keep it simple. Let’s focus on the person and remove the ridge as unimportant. Now she’s just spooked. There in is the truth. Fear comes by movement, being certain you saw something first before the doubt. The next sentence has to be as assuring as the first. I am afraid. Someone is coming. I won’t go deeper on the rest as you can see where it’s going. These exercises are mainly for fun but they do allow writers to see, by breaking it down, just how the author came to craft these amazing sentences. Going deeper, asking questions, is something to keep in mind even when writing the first draft as it will keep it clearer, cleaner.
In a recent forum discussion on setting ( not here elsewhere ), I noticed a lot of writers seem to think setting is not all that important to the story. I was flabbergasted. Others argued it was necessary but not the end all/be all of a story. As I was trying to argue my belief that Setting is not only important but extremely essential, I realized I couldn’t articulate on the fly, I had to think about it. Interestingly enough I had just finished a book by Debbie Macomber called Mail-Order Bride, a Harlequin romance ( don’t groan ), which can be used to make my point. Now for arguments sake if setting is merely a location as generic as say a home, or even as generic/specific ( if that’s possible - a location but not quite exact ) as Alaska than a writer who is working on a romance could build her characters - fiesty woman, stubborn hunk and plot - mail order bride and decide after where she wants to place them. She could even go as far as to tweak them to fit the location. For instance if she’s toying with location she must keep in mind that the cowboy would be wearing less than the Alaskan man. That Utah scenes might take place more outdoors than Alaska. And while the cowboy is clean shaven the Alaskan man might have a beard to protect him from the weather. The writer could even split the difference admitting the rustic cabins in either location are pretty much similar, each with the proverbial roaring fires. But what has the writer really done? She’s allowed herself to fall ( comfortably ) into the slot of genre and pretty awful genre as that. Why is this? Let’s take Mail Order Bride as an example. Here’s the story - Two Great Aunts, resembling the Baldwin sisters’ on the Waltons, brew up liquored tea, and an idea to get their great-niece’s mind off of being dumped at the alter. The idea is to send her off to Alaska under the guise of a paid vacation while waiting for her is a man whose mail-order bride ad they’ve answered. She is so drunk on her aunts ‘special’ tea that she goes through with the ceremony. In the morning however she’s horrified by her whirlwind marriage and tries to escape. He likes what he sees and plots to keep her. Now for the most part it’s a pretty generic idea that knows no bounds, it can happen in the 1800's or for this book, the year 2000. It can take place in the west or Alaska. Instinct, lead her to choose Alaska, and it’s a good choice. You can isolate the characters, the weather can stop the woman from fleeing, there are rough crews out there making her idea to travel alone dangerous. And here’s the big one; the cold can be used as a metaphor for her behavior. Oddly enough out of that list the obvious are used, the metaphor ignored. That is how setting can become cardboard backdrops. She’s picked the obvious things about Alaska: a beard, the cold, the isolation, and lack of travel. She’s even tossed in Indian friends, knitting for tourists, a mysterious fever epidemic. In the cabin there are quilts on beds, dinners are rich stews, and nights are composed of Scrabble games. But nothing is wrung from setting it has stayed completely on the surface of Alaska. Everything you expect has been covered. In fact without the cold any isolated place on the planet would suffice. Now what if to fix the book we added more detail. We could add descriptions of glacial waters, the aurora borealis, history of the town and people, detailed description of culture and fish recipes but would the story become better? Relatively speaking - yes. However, if nothing links back to the character, plot and theme, if the writer misses the opportunity to expose this place as an echo of deeper value, than the story remains in mediocrity. Here’s the kicker - all the detail in the world is not going to matter until you realize the setting must interweave character, plot and theme. First of all, the writer had good instincts to place this story in Alaska had she dug deeper, a better story might’ve emerged. Had she linked Alaska to the barren feeling of the heroine, the isolation of the hero, worked in the freeze out on her emotions, the beard not just as protective shield against frostbite but a shield against love than symbolically cutting it would’ve been to let down his guard. But every opportunity the writer had to go deeper she flubbed it by turning the beard cutting into a cute compromise with a look-he’s-a-hunk moment. The isolation was also a plot ploy and nothing emotional was culled from it. This is why certain genre can be destructive, the writers play it safe. In fact you could easily say Mail-Order-Bride has no theme, no character and no plot. What it has is an idea, stereotypes, and a formula. I’m being hard on her, I know but she can’t complain, she’s a bestseller. Now, here’s an example of how Setting links to character, plot and theme and delivers the payoff. Take We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. ( I haven’t read it but I’ve seen the movie - there are several differences but it’s pretty close * spoilers upcoming if you haven’t seen or read it. ) There is an important setting scene in the movie in which Eva decides to redecorate her office. She glues maps, postcards old travel memorably up on the walls. The travel items are not just part of her past but future. She loves to travel. In the time it takes her to retrieve her husband to show him her handiwork little Kevin as destroyed the room by squirt gunning paint all over the walls. His act of ‘violence’ with a ‘weapon’ has not only destroyed memories but a future. At the end of the book she is stuck in her hometown facing the repercussions of Kevin’s actions and ironically working at a travel agency to make ends meet rather than traveling. Details are not as important as links. The travel theme is a link, the gun and the sight of sprayed walls are a link ( later the exterior of her own house will be doused with red paint - the anty is upped from the isolated and enclosed behavior of her son to everybody in town is now aware forcing her not to live with it - as she accepts the ruined room - but deal with it by scraping the paint off her house. ) Now, what if the writer had focused merely on details, not links. Well, then Eva could’ve decorated her office with paisley wallpaper. Kevin could have scribbled on the walls with Magic Marker - see, the difference? Details are an issue, yes, but the right details- the links are more important. When you break the links, the impact of the story fails.
Anyone know of any good poetry magazines? I'm in Canada and found the Malahat review which is really good. I also ran across one on the internet Mudfish but I'd have to order it. Jill Hoffman is the editor and I really loved her book of poems Mink Coat that I got last week at a used book store.
Usually I check out the contest theme. Sometimes it sparks a good idea, sometimes not. But if I go with it and start a story I - A. - never finish it in time or B. It's always too long and I can't enter. Today C. happened - I finished it! and ( wonders never cease! ) it was short. I've finally made a deadline and kept a word limit! Definitely a cheesy smile moment -
I was collecting new critiques on my old story Thunderbolt - and the consensus was - who is the narrator? I decided to clean up the story and give it a proper narrator. Here's the old version if you want to see the difference - http://www.writingforums.org/entry.php?b=63325 I think this version turned out pretty good. Not sure if I wandered out of the pov though. I struggle with that. Thunderbolt Collie got himself a roomie last week. Some white boy. Short, thin, he got pretty blonde hair but a big ugly-ass scar runs jagged cross his face like a thunderbolt. Nearly spoilt his good looks. Only nearly, cause Rudy-T and his gang a’ hussies, well, they jus don’t care bout stuff like scars or tats, or nothing. All they see is that nest of blonde curls topping that pretty little head, and soon some brick-red hand is gonna swoop down into that nest and make its home there. I bets two packs a’ smokes that hand will belong ta Rudy-T, Collie, who think maybe he’d like to keep that fine piece o’ sugar - ha, I see that eye-twinkle, bet first on himself with a great whoop, showing his gold front tooth, then he switches, maybe - Grotto, yeah, he stick with Grotto. Grotto, he somehow get all the pretty ones. He got technique. Be nice a moment like a snake charmer, next he got that snake round the neck, trapped in Grotto’s basket. Ha! Ha! Collie dubs him Thunderbolt, heard his real name once, think maybe it wer some watery, no-good name like Alan. But when those eyes hurl through you like a sickle, he need some biblical hammer of a name like Ezekiel - so Thunderbolt will do. Some just call him Goldilocks, or Goldfish or Scar until that reeper look hit ‘im, and a name like Goldilocks fades like dey memory of a woman’s kiss. He be a Thunderbolt, never mind that he slim, and pretty. We’s sitting at the caf table, Collie’s got one arm wrapped round his tray, though nobody stupid enough to steal even a wandering glance from Collie, let alone a fast scoop. He eat kinda dainty. Little spoonfuls, chewing with his huge eyes like elephant egg marbles rolled up. Today he be thoughtful. “I seen me Thunderbolt before, can’t place where. But ooh it buggin’ me. It stuck in there like a froze movie with some star grinning his teeth. And his name floatin’ away on a bubble - eh? You know?” Collie say this with his mouth full of mashed potatoes some slid off his gold tooth and it look like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Saw him take out an ‘natomy book from the library yesterday. Think that fish like to look a’ naked folk without their skins on?” Collie had been there, he like to follow that Whitebread. He point to the page with the hang dog pecker on it then he say to Thunderbolt - “looky here, I see what interest you, now. Ha!” But Thunder-B doesn’t rile so easy, Collie will have to try harder. “Here, he comes now. You tell him Collie , no-white ass punk sits at this table. Tell him.” Josiah points his spork at Collie, real serious. Thunderbolt got his head down, not meek, but watchful like wary dog, he in lead with other cons winding through the maze of tables, but they fall away, filling empty spaces on benches till there’s only Thunder-B left. Collie waves to Thunderbolt. “What you want to be so mean for, gotta be friendly. He, my roomie, might come in handy.” Collie grin an’ give a hearty chuckle. Yeah, I’s gets his drift, handy - like he could be trading Bolt for a carton o’ smokes or home brew. Thunderbolt drops his tray on the table, drops himself down on bench, don’t look at us cons round him with our skin, dark an shiny as shoe-polish. He hook a finger in his mashed -taters and put it in his mouth. “Hol’s Pen?” Collie starts. “No.” Thunderbolt turns his slice of bread like record to see label, picks it up then takes big bite. Butter smears on his lips like gloss. Rudy-T takes notice from a table yonder and blows him a lil’ kiss. “Musta been State. State pen?” “Never been to jail. I told you that before.” “How’d you get that nasty scar than whitebread? Hmm?” “They got knife fights in suburbia now?” Meegar say and we all be laughing over dat one. “Lemme guess some Corvette-driving, manicure-flashing, big shit catches a little shit like you, humping his gold-card- carrying wife, and cuts you up.” “No.” Thunderbolt is one cool cuke. “C’mon aren’t we roomies. You can tell ole’ Collie. We sharin. ‘Bout all we got. Eh? Swapping da shit. Ha!Ha!” Collie got a wheezy laugh. Usually, everyone laugh when Collie laugh, not Thunder-B. “It’s shoot the shit.” Thunderbolt corrects. “Be friendly, Thunder-B. I’s friendly who tells ya not to walk down past Hurky and his boys on way to the store or he’ll jack yer shit. Who tell ya not to take shower near Rudy-T huh? Who tell ya how he got here, an show ya snaps of my most, beautiful ma - huh? You best be friendly Bolt or I gon sell you to Rudy-T for a carton. Eh? Mighty temptin. Now, you gon tell us, how you got that scar?” Thunderbolt’s still chewing his veggie-supreme, still sipping his Kool-Aid. Threats roll off him, like beads o’ water in the shower, like the whistles following those beads o’ water in the shower room. “I did it myself.” “Yo-self!” This hit Collie hard, he reeling, not that it take much to blow Collie’s mind. “Why you wanna cut yerself? Mess up that pretty face. You outta yer head, Thunder-B?” “Some crazy-ass woman.” Meegar mutters. “It’s always a woman. Wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t for that - that lousy, stinkin whore- ” Gobs fall from Meegar’s mouth. He a mess. Collie stop lookin’ a him. Look back at prettyboy. “How come?” Now, Josiah’s looking at Thunderbolt different like. He got maybe respect, for this white-boy that cut up his own face, an nearly spoilt his looks. Something psycho about that. Josiah got to admire that, they kindred motherfucks, now, cause psycho be stamped all over his shrink-form. Or so he says. Nobody really see Josiah as psycho, least he no crazier than anyone else you don mess with. “I was angry.” “Hhhrmph. Never cut my own face jus cause I’s angry.”Collie stirs the last little bit of mashed potatoes before scooping it up and putting it in his mouth.“Cut up a fella who made me angry, not me-self. Hhhrmph.” He have last say cause he get no arguments, most everyone agree with Collie, don’t nobody understand Thunderbolt, not at all. * * * Later that night, after lights out, when them guards shoo us back into our cages, us birds with clipped wings, I gets out my mirror so I can see if Collie gonna try anything tonight on Thunder-B. I gots a bet with Meeger. I say Thunder-B gonna put up a fight. Meegar bet that fish will float - he’ll roll on his back for Collie an takes it like the last roomie. Wailing. Collie swing his mammoth leg up and thump the top bunk where Thunderbolt is trying to sleep. Not as hard as he could though, I seen him launch his last roomie into orbit. Din quite catch Thunder-B’s reply he got his damn head under the pillow agin. “You don’t sound very friendly Thunder-B. You don know roomie protocol. You s’poused ta say, evening Collie, what’s up.” “What the Hell do you want.” Now if Collie be a good roomie, he’d pull Thunder-B down off his top bunk and shake him till all those smart-ass comments fly out o’ his head an never come back. That’d learn him. But I’m guessing Collie be thinking of Grotto, gotta be a snake charmer to get his hand around this one cause he say - “Now, now that ain’t friendly like. Someone gonna think you real sourpuss, Thunder-B an give you ‘nother scar to add to your collection. You got ta learn to be sweet n’ sociable. Lets start with how come yer here. I told yous alls ‘bout my armed robbery. Now it’s your turn.” “You didn’t tell me alls about it.” Thunder-B was really begging for a smack. “What?! You callin me a liar. You sayin I didn’t buy no ski mask at K-mart, you saying I didn’t go into the Royal Bank on Eastchester avenue with Harlan and Mack and stick a saw-offed shot gun in that ole lady’s teller’s face and watch the sweat jump out of her pores like I be waving a blow-torch, huh? You saying I didn’ hop in a green Trino driven by cousin Ernie, that shit-head, who crash us up on William street, and we spill out o’ there like rats from a garbage heap while them pigs be raining gunfire on our ass.” Collie shape his fingers into guns, he’s shooting at the top bunk. He need to catch his breath cuz he’s all outta ammo. His lungs heave like bellows. “You’re pissin’ me off, roomie.” He grumbles. “Sorry.” “You ever shoot rats in a garbage heap?” “No.” “Betcha you never kill nothing in yer whole life.” “I’m in for manslaughter.” “Eh? You! Ha!” “It’s true. I killed a man. A lawyer.” “Well, ha! Ha! A lawyer, eh? In your wet dream, Thunder-B. In your wet dream!” Collie rolls chuckling lookin’ all cozy. Nearly made me laugh - His roomie - a murderer? Ha. Collie was the murderer, not Thunder-B. “Did I eva tell you Roomie ‘bout my mama. How she believe God’ll throw thunderbolts, javelin style at anyone who gets away with murder. Law don getcha, God will.” Collie got a smirk in his voice. He laughs, and it comes up from deep down like a roll o’ thunder. Considering Collie been in jail four times and one for manslaughter already, he probably think this big pile o’ hooey, and don’t care what Thunderbolt think. But Thunder-B, he offer anyhow, “Maybe he will, Maybe he won’t.” “You got a pretty voice Bolt. Betcha you were one of them - whatchacallim? Them boys in church carrying candles and wearing nightgowns.” “Altar boys.” “Eh-ya!” Thunderbolt likes music, plays the guitar, dabbles with this n’ that- can play anything, Collie believe this like gospel, and spread the word at lunch -...
* Short poem I'm working on after being caught at my grungiest during an introduction. Ha. Chipped polish Sum of me today; Chipped lilac nail polish, Lank hair, Feeling like a squirrel has taken fussy residence in my chest. Over there is a woman with satin nails and satin hair no squirrel, but a smile that suggests a song bird flutters in her heart - Sum of her. What can I do? re-polish fluff kick out the squirrel, coax in canary birds? Why must I always feel like the chipped polish? - Something must be done about it.
Yesterday, I noticed the new theme for this weeks short story contest - Plan B. Last weeks Downtown through me for a loop. The city were I live has a pretty interesting albiet rather scummy downtown. Nothing spectaculuarly interesting but I do recall one drunk sitting in his apartment window threatening to drop empty beer bottles on the pedestrains below. Of course that was on a lively day. This week, however - Plan B revived an idea I had jotted down but forgot about because I couldn't pull it together. I was up till two in the morning writing the story.
** Some language ** The second short story I wrote- a humorous post apocalyptic vision. It’s long, but I’m hoping for some critique or comments NOT IF Tom sat on the barren museum steps scratching Lotto tickets. There was a dwindling pile of cast offs at his feet, whirling down Fifth avenue in pairs. The winners were pinned, growing wrinkly under a sweaty beer bottle. This could be it, he told himself, this could be the big one. Excitement fizzed within him, as the third 50,000 dollar symbol appeared. “I won!” He shouted, jumping up. “I won! Hot diggity-damn I won!” Hot diggity damn - where did that come from? Nobody congratulated him. He danced up and down the steps in celebration losing a flip flop and nearly his pajama bottoms. Making a quick grab for the droopy waist, glimmers of sparkly Square Pants Sponge Bob winked between his knuckles. Come on candy muncher where are you at? Get a grip. There’s nobody there. Killjoy. He hurled his beer bottle into the street and let the breeze carry off his winning ticket. Okay, take it easy, he told himself squeezing his head, it’s just a relapse. You’re fine now, not like before. Not like last year, when he shot hockey pucks of empty tuna cans down Wall Street, complete with running commentary, wore a diamond tiara and matching earrings, found a stick of dynamite and launched a Cadillac into orbit over 82nd street, smeared stale peanut butter over himself and ran naked through a shopping center, and finally hot wired an ice cream truck and roamed the empty streets of New York, hoping the monotonous, tinkling music would coax someone to come running. Anyone. Nobody came. Face it chump, there’s nobody left in the world but you. How depressing. He didn’t even like himself much, but with others around there was a buffer, he could preen, at least I’m not a total whack-job like so-and-so. Plus, there was always hope that each following girlfriend, taking him on as her own personal project would someday wave her magic wand and eureka - he’d become suave and cool. The ex-Mrs. Harding had given up after two years of wand waving. Her diagnosis - hopeless. Recently, he pulled himself together, as much as anyone can when they realize - okay, they’re the last person on the planet. Everyone else was vaporized by some mysterious oxidant, virus, who-the-hell knows, they all crumbled to dust like freaking cigarette ash. While he, Tom Harding had been spelunking. Ha Ha, spelunking sounds so rigorous and sporty, what he did was flail around in a cave, stumbling after a couple of pros, who unfortunately wound up buried in the rumble that had reduced a cave tunnel to cascading chunks. Tom had crawled out the only survivor, not just of the cave in - but whatever triggered the rumble. He wasn’t as cool as Charleton Heston in the Omega Man about it, he cried, okay - bawled. But shit it wasn’t even exciting. Bring on some taunting zombies, he was all ready for them. Found himself an AK-47 and tried it out. Nearly deafened him, but what the hell. He left the museum steps, and pushed a shopping cart heaped with junk er - treasures, bemoaning his transient state. A bum, that’s what I’ve evolved into. Before ground zero, he’d been relatively, successful a manager at the Brew Ha-Ha café, and by night he designed cd covers, though Vivian thought he’d lacked ambition. What the hell was wrong with being a manager? Anything more might’ve brought trouble, of which he was a lightning rod for: When he took up jogging, first day, he wiped out on some monster turd and broke his ankle, when he took a glass of Coke instead of wine at a party he started rumors that he was a recovering alcoholic and got talked into joining AA, when he bought a shirt he thought was cool ( how was he to know he didn’t have any taste, he was between girlfriends at the time ) he bumped into his ex-wife wearing the same top at a party. Not good. Of course there was an upside to the end of the world, when he fell into an open manhole, there was no one around to laugh their ass off over it, but then again there was no one to help him out, either. He was convinced that there was or could be someone out there as lately a phantom with a sweet tooth had begun swiping candy from the bottom racks in the convenient stores, hardly waiting to tear them open, just mindless gobbling. He was torn between hope - woman! - and despair - some stupid animal. He pushed his cart, with it’s one crazy wheel, back home towards the Plaza hotel. Muttering to himself, he bent, picked up a flipped baseball cap to add to his cache and rummaged in his junk til he found just the right spot to put it. As he rolled his cart off the curb, a stuffed gorilla fell out, diving head first into a puddle. Shouting incoherently, he picked up the gorilla , sobbed a minute, set him back in his perch up front, then hung onto the pushbar. Be cool man. Whistle. He whistled. His calm didn’t last and turning foul, he shook a fist at the Heavens, snarled at the sex shops. A nagging feeling pushed him on ... “I’m going, see! See! Sheesh, get off my back!” He passed the remains of Hot Tamale - an ironic name considering the fate of the boutique... On New Years eve Tom was feeling ambitious and decided to set off a batch of fireworks, unfortunately, he was half tanked when he decided this and misjudged the angle of several earsplitters which sputtered off into a boutique and set it ablaze. He staggered off to the fire station, hijacked a fire truck and came back sirens blaring, bashing through a couple of garbage cans that had been awaiting pick-up for over a year. Then, he spent two hours figuring out how to hook up the hose. Turning it on full blast, he was caught up off his feet and waved about, like he was bronco riding an anaconda. He was knocked out cold and woke up with water still spurting from the hose and the boutique reduced to one blackened I-beam surrounded by smoking ash. Just another day on Planet Tom.... Instead of going home, Tom settled on another stoop, with another bottle of beer. He opened an old Archie comic book, found the other day in a second hand shop, and started to read. Restless and needing noise , he dug out the See and Say from the corner of his shopping cart, and brought it back to where he was sitting. Pulling the string, he waited. “Mooooo.” Ahhh much better. “Baaaa.” He pulled the string, it snapped. “Shit!” He sent it skittering down the steps. He took another pull off his beer and turned his attention back to Archie. The sky was turning red gold as the sun began to slip toward the horizon, blocked by the jagged edge of the city. A clatter rang out nearby, a can clinking over pavement? A while ago, Tom would’ve chased down the sound to discover it’s source yelling, hello!hello!hello! Now, he merely shifted, rising up on an elbow glancing in the direction of the sound and dismissed it. Probably something he’d knocked askew and now it had fallen. A shadow seeped out from behind a mound of squishy garbage bags, it rose, swelling forth, a creature crawling from the rubble. An ugly snub nosed creature with a sphinx face. Tom froze, the bottle hesitated before his lips. Springing to life, he clamored for the gun in his cart, spilling beer over the gorilla and whooping - “Zombiepocalypse has begun!” He fired. The bullets sprayed wildly spitting up flakes of cement, nailing the shadow, then he lost control and the bullets arched up taking out the street lamp. Chunks fell, one slab conked him, and he dropped into the gutter like a sack of meat. *** Tom groaned. A zombie was tasting him. Shhiiiit. Tasting him! Licking him like a popsicle as if it couldn’t decide wether to eat him or not. He opened one eye cautiously. A dog with a gargoyles face loomed over him. A pug? He propped himself on one elbow. The pug continued to lick Tom’s chin wagging his curly tail. “How did you survive? Wait, don’t tell me you were spelunking too,” He rubbed his dusty forehead and continued guessing. “ ....secret bunker maybe?”He reached forward and fondled one of the pug’s silky ears, before moving over the fat neck rolls till he found a bone shaped dog tag attached to a collar - Mr. Wong. “You’re a package of mystery aren’t you? I don’t know how you survived.... you’re first name is a secret. This is no way to begin a friendship. I’m on to you though ....you’re the one whose been polishing off all the candy.” *** Tom was standing on a ladder hanging pumpkin lights from a marquee in an attempt to decorate the city for Halloween or rather, this block, he wasn’t too ambitious. Mr. Wong slouched nearby in the red wagon Tom fixed up for him. This way, whether he was sleeping or awake, Tom could pull him everywhere he went. He was a tolerant pug who, listened to everyone of Tom’s boring rants, allowed himself to be squeezed into various outfits and hats when Tom got bored and why not, Tom could work a can opener. Suddenly, Mr. Wong was alert and barking. Normally Tom ignored him. But this time he removed his earphones and reproached - “You know there’s nothing there. It’s a psychological effect due to the loss of society and you can’t deal with -“ “Get that ladder out of my way.” Tom wobbled clutching the rungs. Did he just hear... His head darted round, searching til he spotted a raggedy, old man trying to push his over packed shopping cart in front of the ladder , skimming one wheel off the curb into the air. His cart pitched. “Sonofabitch. You damn construction morons, always buggering things up with your digging and orange cones, and ra-ta-ta-ta.” “My God , a person! A person. Mr. Wong do you see him? A survivor. I can’t believe. Do you know how glad I am to see you.” Tom leapt off the ladder, slapped the man on the back releasing...
IS - WAS - A SENTENCE KILLER? I'm starting to think so. Yesterday, in Chapters I flipped through Douglas Glover’s Attack of the Copula Spiders - it looks interesting as writing manuals go. Not that any of them ever really help you creatively, per say, but some help you avoid writing down a dead end. This looks like one of those. The book rallies against the use of dead verbs - to be, was, am, is etc. which the author found an abundance of in his students writing and by circling each dead verb, he could link them into a visual spider hence the title. It’s not that was, am, to be, is etc. can’t be used, it’s that they’re over used. If you look up was in the dictionary - Was means - to exist or live - to take place, happen or occur - to occupy a place or position - to continue to remain as before - to belong, attend, befall ...All of which can provoke a static sentence. I.e. - The bottle is on the bar. I am chief of police. I was at the dance. It can even pull the reins on an active verb .i.e. I was dancing. I was sledding. Retuning my creative mode I began to rethink openings should I enter a scene on a flat statement, creating a stagnant image or a moving one - and wondering how many was's are plaguing my work? I dug up some books to see how the great ones handled verbs and made this list. Here are some amazing verbs all of which could’ve been killed by the virus - was. In Gravity’s Rainbow a man threads himself into a robe Another gobbles down croissants and coffee He sprints towards laughter People gargle wine Pinball machines writhe under their handlers In John Updike’s short story collection - a jet engine is haloed by a rainbow Lake water swallows two bather’s flesh up to their knees A bed is sluing like a boat on a wave Young girls throng a man’s vision A card shark sandbags with three kings A beer to soothe my mouth A woman’s agitation consumes a chrysanthemum ( by her Plucking and rolling the petals ) Hickory trees are clangorous The protoplasm of a house ebbs in stages Margaret Atwood - A mind shambles A car crunches to a halt fingers of snow creep over a road float ( in a hammock ) Bedsprings mourn Couples slither through slush a voice prods a thought is censored a woman clamps her skirt between her knees dancers whizz and careen Angela Carter pistons thrust a train forward A woman beggared herself for love sausages hiss in a pan a woman is unwrapped (undressed ) An opal spurts green flame ( a color in the firelight )
