February Seven Day Story — Day Three

Posted on February 12, 2014 by kingmidget

Today’s word was … shipwreck.

 

Spaces After the Period

When we first met I wasn’t so impressed.  I had always gone for the prototypical bad boy.  Tattoos and wild hair, leather jackets and a Harley, nonchalance and indifference.  I hardly knew how to act when you were so nice to me.  Holding a door open, offering your hand to help me out of the car.  In those initial moments, though, all I could see was the physical you.  Two inches shorter than me.  Hair already thinning.  And a button down shirt.

I couldn’t believe my sister thought we could be right for each other.  And when you started talking about your mother’s corned beef, it was all I could do to stifle a yawn and claim an impending illness to cut the night short.  Something held me back.  I gave it a shot.  I gave you a shot.  This strange thing happened by the end of the night.  After dinner, while we walked along the river, you slipped your hand into mine.  Suddenly, it was just there.  And it was warm.  And right.  No man had ever held my hand before.  Not like that.  All those Zachs and Codys and, yeah, Joe, my god, Joe.  They held my hand in the throes of mind-blowing sex.  It is one thing those tattooed losers have going for themselves.

But they never held my hand just to hold it.  To provide comfort.  And you did.  I didn’t even realize I needed it until that night.  It was one of those things you taught me, usually without a word or gesture.  It was the way you were.  The way you could just touch me and I could then see things in a way I had never seen them before.

I should have run that first night.  I mean, seriously.  You, a quiet Jew, who was comfortable with your G-d.  Me, a snarling and assertive atheist, scornful of believers in anything.  See what I did there, I spelled it your way.  To honor you.

You were eight years older than me.  All those bad boys had been, always, younger.  Some of them barely legal.

You had a job.  I had art.  You paid your bills.  I didn’t know how much mine were.

You were an anchor.  I was a kite.

So we walked and we talked.  At the end of the night, we parted ways.  I went back to my apartment where I would have to move the drop cloths and dried brushes to find a place to sleep.  You, back home to your mother.  I shuddered when you told me that, but your hand was still in mine so I couldn’t go far.

When you pulled lightly and brought me closer to you, I almost laughed as you closed your eyes and brought your face to mine.  There was something about your innocence and purity that sucked me closer while screaming at me to flee.  The peck on my cheek, not on my lips, that first night, kept the screams at bay.

I cursed my sister for what she had gotten me into.  What horrible misfortune was going to befall me if I saw you again?  Would I be sucked into a world of quiet dinners with the folks, afternoons at the symphony, and semi-expensive sedans that I would have laughed at in my prior life?

You called me the next day, but I couldn’t find the phone so you left a message.  “Ummm.  Hello, this is Mitch.  Mitchell Steinbaum.  Ummm … I was just calling to say hello and thank you for a wonderful evening.  Ummm … I’ll call you later?”

I never deleted that message and I listen to it now when I need to hear your voice.  I still laugh, even through the tears, that you had to tell me your full name.  As though I had gone out with more than one Mitch the night before.  It was that uncertainty and the uncomfortable hesitation in your voice that pulled me even closer.

I thought about waiting for your call, but I couldn’t.  We talked again while I lay in my apartment eyeing the wall of white where only the week before I had begun to apply the colors of a falling sun, and you pushed paper across your desk while filling my head with your words.  Hours passed.

And then days.  And weeks.  And months.

We didn’t see each other again for five days and by the time we did, I ached.  I couldn’t’ believe it.  How you had wormed your way into me with such simple, small gestures.  I cursed my sister again.  I called her and asked her what the hell she was thinking.  She just laughed and said, “I knew it.”  By the time you picked me up, I felt like the lone survivor of a shipwreck, rescued after days of hunger and thirst.

Halfway through our second date, you fed me your line.  Only I knew it wasn’t a line.  For you it was the truth and it was heartfelt.  Dinner was wrapping up, there was only another swallow of wine left in our glasses, our dishes had been cleared, the bill had been paid, and you leaned forward.  “You know, we’re like the two spaces after a period.”

“What?”  I leaned forward too, bringing our faces perilously close.  “What are you talking about?”

“You and me.  We could be like those spaces.  You know, a sentence ends with a period and there are two spaces.  We’re those two spaces waiting for the next sentence to begin.”

I laughed then.  “But there’s only one space after a period.”  I couldn’t help it.  You said it so earnestly, I needed to make a joke.  So early and so unexpectedly, you committed to the idea of the two of us, being a connection in the midst of a story.  Inside, I took a breath and thought maybe, just maybe.  I decided to see what the next sentence said.  I held you with my eyes and leaned further in, but this time I closed my eyes first.  I tasted the sweetness of the wine on your lips and the gentleness that was you.

We began the next sentence that night, but as with everything it was slow and quiet and respectful.  You were always a gentleman.  There was no rush.  No expectations.  Nothing other than letting the words of our story flow naturally and as they would.  When we parted ways again, you left me at my apartment door with a hug that swallowed me into your world, letting me know that there was much more than a single sentence in our future.

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February Seven Day Story Challenge — Day Two

Posted on February 11, 2014 by kingmidget

The first day required the use of “initial.”   Today’s word is “misfortune.” In prior iterations of this challenge, I have stuck with writing about 150-175 words per day. So far this time, I wrote 380 words the first day and 325 words the second day.  And there is so much more I wish I could write right now.  But, I’m holding steady.  I have to wait for the next word, which, even though I’m the one that came up with the words for the challenge, I have absolutely no idea what it is.  The beauty of my age is that I could do something Saturday morning — set up the week’s words and schedule the posts — and by Sunday completely forget the details.

So, here’s the story — Spaces After the Period — with day two added.

When we first met I wasn’t so impressed.  I had always gone for the prototypical bad boy.  Tattoos and wild hair, leather jackets and a Harley, nonchalance and indifference.  I hardly knew how to act when you were so nice to me.  Holding a door open, offering your hand to help me out of the car.  In those initial moments, though, all I could see was the physical you.  Two inches shorter than me.  Hair already thinning.  And a button down shirt.

I couldn’t believe my sister thought we could be right for each other.  And when you started talking about your mother’s corned beef, it was all I could do to stifle a yawn and claim an impending illness to cut the night short.  Something held me back.  I gave it a shot.  I gave you a shot.  This strange thing happened by the end of the night.  After dinner, while we walked along the river, you slipped your hand into mine.  Suddenly, it was just there.  And it was warm.  And right.  No man had ever held my hand before.  Not like that.  All those Zachs and Codys and, yeah, Joe, my god, Joe.  They held my hand in the throes of mind-blowing sex.  It is one thing those tattooed losers have going for themselves.

But they never held my hand just to hold it.  To provide comfort.  And you did.  I didn’t even realize I needed it until that night.  It was one of those things you taught me, usually without a word or gesture.  It was the way you were.  The way you could just touch me and I could then see things in a way I had never seen them before.

I should have run that first night.  I mean, seriously.  You, a quiet Jew, who was comfortable with your G-d.  Me, a snarling and assertive atheist, scornful of believers in anything.  See what I did there, I spelled it your way.  To honor you.

You were eight years older than me.  All those bad boys had been, always, younger.  Some of them barely legal.

You had a job.  I had art.  You paid your bills.  I didn’t know how much mine were.

You were an anchor.  I was a kite.

So we walked and we talked.  At the end of the night, we parted ways.  I went back to my apartment where I would have to move the drop cloths and dried brushes to find a place to sleep.  You, back home to your mother.  I shuddered when you told me that, but your hand was still in mine so I couldn’t go far.

When you pulled lightly and brought me closer to you, I almost laughed as you closed your eyes and brought your face to mine.  There was something about your innocence and purity that sucked me closer while screaming at me to flee.  The peck on my cheek, not on my lips, that first night, kept the screams at bay.

I cursed my sister for what she had gotten me into.  What horrible misfortune was going to befall me if I saw you again?  Would I be sucked into a world of quiet dinners with the folks, afternoons at the symphony, and semi-expensive sedans that I would have laughed at in my prior life?

You called me the next day, but I couldn’t find the phone so you left a message.  “Ummm.  Hello, this is Mitch.  Mitchell Steinbaum.  Ummm … I was just calling to say hello and thank you for a wonderful evening.  Ummm … I’ll call you later?”

I never deleted that message and I listen to it now when I need to hear your voice.  I still laugh, even through the tears, that you had to tell me your full name.  As though I had gone out with more than one Mitch the night before.  It was that uncertainty and the uncomfortable hesitation in your voice that pulled me even closer.

I thought about waiting for your call, but I couldn’t.  We talked again while I lay in my apartment eyeing a canvas and you pushed paper across your desk.  Hours passed.

And then days.  And weeks.  And months.

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Where Stories Come From (and Day 1 of the February Seven Day Story Challenge)

Posted on February 10, 2014 by kingmidget

Over on Facebook this week, I started posting random questions and inviting a discussion. One of them was this: one some or two after a period. While the initial comments were unanimously in support of one space, as the day wore in two spaces took the lead. Interestingly, people were able to cite different style manuals in support of their position. So, it’s undecided.

But, towards the end of the comments a friend asked why I was asking all of these questions and whether it was all research for my next novel. It wasn’t. It was just an idea I had one morning to post on FB these random questions that come up during the day. But I did tell my friend that “Spaces After the Period” sounded like a great idea for a story title.

Now it’s Sunday and I’m hosting another Seven Day Story Challenge over at We Drink Because We’re Poets. As the host, I feel obligated to participate and write something. I thought about it and decided I wanted to write a story titled “Spaces After the Period.”

Here is day one. Six days more to go. And, that, sometimes, is where stories come from. And, yes, if you follow the seven day story challenges, I kind of broke the “rules” here.

Spaces After the Period

When we first met I wasn’t so impressed. I had always gone for the prototypical bad boy. Tattoos and wild hair, leather jackets and a Harley, nonchalance and indifference. I hardly knew how to act when you were so nice to me. Holding a door open, offering your hand to help me out of the car. In those initial moments, though, all I could see was the physical you. Two inches shorter than me. Hair already thinning. And a button down shirt.

I couldn’t believe my sister thought we could be right for each other. And when you started talking about your mother’s corned beef, it was all I could do to stifle a yawn and claim an impending illness to cut the night short. Something held me back. I gave it a shot. I have you a shot. This strange thing happened by the end of the night. After dinner, while we walked along the river, you slipped your hand into mine. Suddenly, it was just there. And it was warm. And right. No man had ever held my hand before. Not like that. All those Zachs and Codys and, yeah, Joe, my god, Joe. They held my hand in the throes of mind-blowing sex. It’s one thing those tattooed losers have going for themselves.

But they never held my hand just to hold it. To provide comfort. And you did. I didn’t even reaiize I needed it until that night. It’s just one of those things you taught me, usually without a word or gesture. It was just the way you were. The way you could just touch me and I could then see things in a way I had never seen them before.

I should have run that first night. I mean, seriously. You, a comfortable and quiet Jew, who was comfortable with your G-d. Me, a snarling and assertive atheist, scornful of believers in anything. See what I did there, I spelled it your way. To honor you.

You were eight years than me. All those bad boys had been, always, younger. Some of them barely legal.
You had a job. I had my art. You paid your bills. I didn’t know how much mine were.
You were an anchor. I was a kite.

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A Kindle Countdown Deal

Posted on February 7, 2014 by kingmidget

A few months ago, Amazon and Kindle started offering Kindle Countdown Deals to authors, self-published and traditionally published alike.  The way it works is that you can offer your e-book for a discounted price for a limited time and be featured on their Kindle Countdown Deals page as well as having a countdown clock on your book’s Amazon page showing the discounted price and how long it would last.

Authors can set the promotion up to last for up to a week and have up to three different price changes.  One of the perks for this promotion is that even when the discounted price is below $2.99, the author still gets a 70% royalty instead of the standard 35% royalty for e-books below $2.99.

When this promotion was first announced, I put Weed  Therapy up and nothing happened.  No new sales.  Nothing.

A couple of months ago, I raised the e-book price of One Night in Bridgeport to $3.99.  I sold about ten copies in January, which was actually better than I expected.  But after a little more than a month of that, I decided to try the Countdown Deal for Bridgeport.  You know, it’s a different book, different genre, it has over 60 reviews/ratings.

So, I signed up.  For three days, the price was .99 (actually, still is for one more day), then it’ll be at $1.99 for three days before returning to $3.99, which is where I plan on keeping the price.

So, what’s happened?  I’ve sold 20 copies of the book since Tuesday.  Which means I’ve made about $14.  The earnings aren’t the biggest thing.  I’m still at a point where readers are more important than the $$.

Here’s where I began to lose faith in Amazon, however.  If you go to the Kindle Countdown Deal page, they have the books broken down into categories.  The first is Featured Authors, where they have about 15-20 books featured.  Then they have the standard genre breakdowns:  Romance, Mysteries, Literary Fiction, etc.  They have featured authors in each genre as well, and then they have the listings for all countdown deal books in each genre.  When I go to the list, I can find books that are ranked higher on the Countdown Deal page even though I have more reviews/ratings, a higher average rating, and also a higher sales rank in the Kindle Store.  I would really like to know how that is possible.  Or fair.

And then there’s this … the mystery of how they decide which books they will feature in the Featured Author section.  You get in that select company and incredible things will happen.  How do I know this?  By coincidence, a fellow self-published author I have got to know over the past few months started a Countdown Deal the day after me.  At the time, his sales ranking, I believe, wasn’t any better than mine.  But he got the golden ticket.  His book was included in the Featured Author sections on the Countdown Deal page.  While I’ve managed to reach a sales ranking this week in the high 20,000’s.  This author topped out last night at a sales ranking in the entire Kindle Store of 732 or thereabouts.  His book is still in the Featured Authors section and his ranking has dropped a few hundred notches, but still he must be selling a good number of books.  Far more than the 20 I’ve managed over the last three days.

I don’t begrudge this author his success.  He has written one of the most polished and well written self-published novels I’ve come across and he is deserving of all the success he gets.

I’m just frustrated at what seems to be the randomness of what Amazon does.  Placing books higher on a list even though all of the visible numbers suggest a lower placement and then selecting books for the Featured Author section without seeming to provide any explanation to us authors of how we could get in that section.  Amazon has all the power to make or break us self-published authors.  It certainly would be nice to know how to crack the code.  Or last have them give some concrete factors or steps that would help.

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We Live In a Different World

Posted on February 2, 2014 by kingmidget

Tell me if this sounds familiar.  I think artistic people have a portion of their brain that is always open.  A portion that maybe non-artistic people don’t have.  The way I describe it is that there’s this little corner of my head, way in the back, that is always thinking about the story I’m in the middle of writing.  (Sometimes, unfortunately, it’s more than one story, which can make things very crowded in there.)

These days, it’s all about Northville Five & Dime.  I spend a lot of time there.  While I’m at work, taking care of things, meeting with people, writing emails, doing research, and “other duties as required,” there’s always a part of me that is in Northville, puzzling through the next piece of the story to be written and how I might fill in the white space between where I’m at and the end of the story.

When I’m with friends, there’s a little piece of me that’s back in Northville.

And, when I’m with my family, I can’t help it.  It’s impossible to provide my undivided attention to them.  For months now, I’ve spent a lot of time in Northville.  At least in my head.

I’m sure I’ve blogged about this before, but the telling of this story is extremely challenging.  I had lunch with Zoe today to talk about the novel she’s about to publish with my assistance.  Eventually, we turned to Northville and I was trying to explain the difficulty to her.  As I’ve said, I’m writing this story in first person, but from the perspective of three different characters.  I switch back and forth between them with each chapter.  What this means in the writing is that each time I start a chapter I have to take myself out of one character’s head, turn their camera off, and switch to another character and turn their camera on.

It means that I am constantly having to re-consider the story.  And these are short chapters, typically only four to six pages.  As a result, I don’t make much progress before it’s time for a switch.  Each switch is like starting the story over again.  Put differently, it’s like writing three different stories at the same time.

So, it’s challenging and is why it’s taking me so long to write the damn thing.  A couple of nights ago, I wrote a couple hundred words to start the current chapter.  I went to bed.  I got up in the morning and thought about what I had written and realized it was crap.  As I described it to Zoe today, what I had written was more like reporting than story-telling.  I needed to re-consider the chapter and do a better job.  Between then and today, I thought of a better way to start the chapter — one that would get me right into storytelling and hopefully lead to a better chapter.  I waited until today to start writing it.

I knew what the first couple of paragraphs would be.  I did not know what else would come out to carry me through the chapter.  So, I’ve been pondering the chapter all day.  Writing a few hundred words here, a few hundred there, and eventually getting to almost 1,400 words.  It is posted below.

But, here’s where I get to express an annoyance.  Tonight, I went out to dinner with my wife and youngest son.  Towards the end of the meal, I started thinking about this chapter.  It introduces a little girl into the story.  A little girl who has a seemingly innocent conversation with Lily, one of the three main characters.  The thing is that the conversation has to have some larger meaning in the context of the story and I didn’t know what that meaning was going to be.  So, I was pondering it, mulling it over, considering what it might mean and I came up with something.

What this all means was that I was in Northville tonight while my family was wrapping up its dinner.  I think you know how that feels and what it looks like to other people.  Yes, my eyes had glazed over and I wasn’t quite hearing what they were talking about.  I was staring off into space.  My wife asked me what was wrong.  I told her that I was in Northville.  (Both she and the kid know about the story, so they understood the reference.)

And, then, the two of them started to mock me.  It was good-natured, but still they were mocking me for saying such a silly thing.  That I was in Northville.

We writers live in a different world.  Some people accept and respect it.  Others don’t.  Tonight was one of those times when I felt like my family did neither.

Here is Chapter 26 of Northville Five & Dime.  It is rough.  I think this is a chapter that may very well change significantly, and possibly be deleted, before this story ever reaches its final state.  One more thing about this story — I stole somebody for this chapter.  I was talking to a co-worker a couple of months ago and learned that she had a little girl named Opal.  I told her I was going to write a story with an Opal in it.  I just love that name.  As you’ll see, I found a place for her in Northville — a place that is truly taking over my life.

* * * * *

We were at the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Just Dad and me.  Mom and Sophie were back at home, where we had left them early in the morning.  Sophie cried when we left, but he assured her, “Don’t worry, my lilliputian, I’ll take you in a few years and it’ll be just you and me.  Sophie will have to stay home and scrub the floors.”

I huffed and puffed at the idea, knowing that there would be no floor scrubbing for Sophie while we were gone.  She would have the run of home and Mom would let her, laughing and playing along.  Besides, Sophie knew nothing of baseball.  I, on the other hand had started that summer sitting with our dad when he watched Yankees games on television.

We arrived when the doors opened.  First we ran through the place, he pointed things out to me, and then we strolled.  We were there for hours, only taking a break for lunch, reading about the Black Sox and the Big Red Machine, home run hitters and the winningest pitchers in the game.  Every personality and team in the game worth celebrating was there.

“My dad took me to one Yankees game when I was a kid.  What a treat that was,” my dad sighed as we stood before an exhibit to Murderer’s Row.  “Yeah, it was 1974 and the Yankees weren’t so good then, but still … it was the Yankees.  I’ll never forget the green grass, the smell of peanuts, the cheers and boos.”

“Take me to a game, Dad,” I pleaded.  That summer he had taken me to a couple of minor league games in Syracuse, a couple of hours from Northville.  I couldn’t begin to imagine the scale and grandeur of a game at Yankee Stadium, with its pin stripes and traditions.

“We’ll get there, Sophie.  Soon.”

We never did though.  A few months later, we made our first trip to the city, with no time to fit in a game.  He said, “Next year,” when I asked.  And then everything changed and it felt like “next year” would never happen.

It’s all I could think of as Sophie spoke.  My memory froze me, buried once again in guilt, like ocean waves rising up and covering me.  My body filled up with a pain that I couldn’t feel.  My sister thought of killing herself and there was nothing I could do about it.

I had memories of our parents that she didn’t have.  I had more of them than she would ever experience.  Hell, when I was eight Mom took me to get my ears pierced.  Afterwards, we went out for lunch.  “Just us ladies,” she said when we sat down and picked up the menus.  We had ice cream and afterwards, she bought me my first pair of “big girl” earrings.  Sophie still didn’t have her ears pierced.

Our parents were real, flesh and blood pieces of my past.  The guilt consumed me again, after a week of seeing a light in Sophie I worried might not exist, a light that seemed to be blowing away the darkness, the light dimmed.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t think.  All I could see in my mind was a screaming neon sign that flashed on and off, over and over again.  “IT’S NOT FAIR!!!” the sign said in bright multi-colored letters.

I ran from the room with Sophie’s “Lily!” following along as the door closed behind me.

“No,” I mumbled to myself as I stormed down the hallway, down two flights of stairs, and out of the hospital, into the warm brightness of the afternoon.  The empty, antiseptic air of the hospital was replaced with sun heated air heavy with the scents of the outdoors.  Trees and roses just starting to bloom mixed with the asphalt of the parking lot and whiffs of exhaust that eddied back and forth.  At the bench I plopped down on, the scent of freshly mown grass overwhelmed it all.

For the next two hours I sat and watched the world go by.  I wallowed in my memories and my pain.  When an old couple tottered their way into the hospital, I wiped away the tears of knowing that my parents never had the opportunity to grow old together.  I could picture them, grayed and wrinkled, holding each other up as they walked down a street.  Or sitting comfortable in old chairs by the fireplace, a fire crackling and grandchildren at their feet.  They would have none of it.

When entire families entered or exited, shuddered at what we had all missed out on.  Even if a dad was yelling at one of the kids, or a mother was impatiently tugging a whiny toddler while she poked away at her cellphone, I marveled at the beauty of family and held myself tight to keep the shudders at bay.

Then I realized that even family wasn’t perfect.  Pete, laying in the hospital bed two floors up, was a perfect example of that.

When a gaggle of teenage girls came out of the hospital, giggling and gossiping as they went, I ground my teeth at the frustration of Sophie having missed out on a normal childhood.  And wiped away another tear.  Was it my fault that she had gone so deeply into her shell?  Could I have done something differently to get her out in the world, to make friends, and to be a normal kid, with or without a wheelchair?

I sat on the bench, my elbows on my knees my head in my hands.  The sun beat down on the back of my neck.  I was lost in my thoughts, letting my emotions take over and trying to figure out how Lily, Pete and I could ever live normal lives, whatever normal was.

“What’s wrong?”

I removed my hands from my face and looked up.  Before me stood a little girl, probably no more than four or five years old.  She wore a pink dress and had Little Pony sneakers.  They were on the wrong feet.  One sock was pulled up while the other sagged to the shoe top.  She had wispy, fly-away hair, the color of cinnamon.  She smiled at me and tilted her head to the side and asked me again, “What’s wrong, lady?”

Wiping my eyes, I smiled at her.  “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Why you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”  I snuffled and swiped my hand under my nose one last time.  I smiled again.  “See.”

“You were crying.  I was watching.”

I looked around to see if I could find somebody who belonged to the little girl.  Down the walkway where it fed into the parking lot, two men talked with each other, their backs turned to the girl and I.  “What’s your name?”

“Opal.”

“Where’s your mommy?”

“She’s in the hopsital.”

“Oh!  I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Well, she must be sick if she’s in the hopsital.”  I couldn’t help but pronounce it the same way and chuckle as I did so.

“She’s not sick,” Opal said, exasperated at having to explain what was obvious to her.  “She’s going to have a baby.  I’m going to have a brother.”  A huge grin filled her face and she danced back and forth on her feet in excitement.  “Phillip.  That’s his name.  Phillip James.  I’m gonna call him PJ.  Get it PJ for pajamas.”  Opal held her hand to her mouth and giggled through her fingers as she twirled in a circle before stopping and facing me again.  Her cheeks were turning read and her eyes sparkled.

“That’s great news, Opal.  Where’s your daddy?”

“Over there.”  She pointed at the two men.  “With my uncle.  They’re waiting.”

“Oh …”  I didn’t know what else to say.

Opal took a step closer to me and dropped her voice to a whisper, her face suddenly wiped clean of its laughter.  “Uncle Tommy is living with us now.”  She glanced down at her father and uncle.  “But it’s a secret.  Mommy says he has problems, so we’re helping him out.”

“I …”

“Hey, Opal, what are you doing, honey?”  One of the men began to walk towards us.  “You leave that lady alone.”

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Ruminations on Writing

Posted on January 25, 2014 by kingmidget

I’m in a writing lull.  I think I know the cause, but the lull seems serious enough that I’ve pondered the unthinkable — to stop writing.

So, what’s the cause of this?  Writing a story for which I do not know the how and when of the ending.  Unfortunately, there are actually two stories I’m in the middle of writing for which this dilemma has appeared.  Northville Five & Dime, what started as an 1,800 word short story from a prompt at We Drink Because We’re Poets and that I then submitted for critique at the Mendocino Coast Writer’s Conference.  The story has now reached almost 22,000 words.  I believe I am near the end of the story.  I think.  Maybe.  The problem is I could see ending it in the next 500 words or going on for another 10,000 or 20,000 words and I’m frozen with the doubt that creates.

A friend said I should just write what comes out.  I think that’s what I need to do.  I have often said that one of the beauties of e-publishing is that length doesn’t matter.  A story of an word count can be published now.  So, Northville doesn’t have to be an 80,000 word novel.  Or a 30,000 word novella.  Or a 5,000 word short story.  Instead, it can be the story it is.  I just need to decide what that story is and then let it come out.

The other story is something I started a few weeks ago, thinking I would submit it for The Literary Syndicate’s Monsters Under the Bed collection.  The story has crossed the 4,000 word threshold.  I have no doubt I can get this story done in the required 5,000-15,000.  Problem is that it’s horror and I’ve never written a true horror story.  I’ve started something that I have absolutely no idea how to explain and how to end.  So, it sits there and I stew.

That’s it.  I can’t figure out how to end two stories and I am just frustrated.  Enough to consider whether I want to keep writing.  I’m not going to stop, but I’m looking at these two stories and thinking that if I can’t figure these out maybe it’s time for something else.  Yes, I could go back to one of my half completed novels.  I definitely know how both The Irrepairable Past and Terror in a Small Town will end.  But, you know what my problem with those stories is … I’ve got the beginning, I know the end.  It’s the vast mushy middle that is causing me a problem with both stories.

It’s like I’m losing the ability to find the connections that drive me through the writing of a story.  It’s a scary thing.  So, I ponder not doing this anymore.

And, tomorrow or maybe even right now, I’ll open the Northville document or the un-named horror story and see if I can make some progress.  I think I’m going to try the horror story.  We’ll see how it goes.

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When self-doubt strikes…

Posted on January 4, 2014 by kingmidget

I absolutely believe that the ‘no-talent police’ are right around the corner. Have never doubted it. What it does for me is keeps me working at it. The right level of doubt and insecurity makes one stronger.

Mari Biella's avatar

Comedian and actor Mike Myers once said something that I think many creative people could probably relate to: despite his many triumphs, he insisted, he still expected the no-talent police to come and arrest him at any time. Though few of us will ever know the level of accomplishment (and, presumably, pressure) that Myers has experienced, I think many of us, if we’re being honest, often suspect that we’re just not good enough. We think our every failure is a true reflection of our absolute lack of talent, and that our successes are either flukes or not actually successes at all, just failures that we’ve somehow managed to get away with thus far.

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Why I Like To Write

Posted on January 2, 2014 by kingmidget

Lord knows I hated to write for a long time. Looooooooooooooong time.  High school.  College.  Writing assignments were hell.  Law school was beautiful because, during the four years I was there, I had only to write a moot court brief and one research paper.  Other than that, it was all about essays for tests, which are something completely different than real writing.

I had this moment today, though, that reminded me why I enjoy writing.

When I finished law school, my first job was an an administrative hearing officer.  A vague term that really meant that I was like a judge, but at a much lower level.  No robes.  No gavel.  What I did was conduct special education hearings, typically requested by parents who thought their school district wasn’t meeting their child’s special education needs.  I would hear the testimony, review documentary evidence, apply the law, and render a written decision on the issues raised.  My problem arose when it came to write the decision.  We had federally-imposed timelines within which those decisions had to be issued.

Well, hell, I needed to ponder those decisions before I wrote them.  You see, writing is just as much a mental exercise as it is the exercise of putting words on paper (or on the screen).  I need to think about these things.  How am I going to make this connection and bring in that fact?  And what about that piece of the law that says this?  It’s a very mental process for me.  Writing.

So, now I write fiction and nothing has changed.  It’s why I gave up on NaNoWriMo this past year and why I should never try it again.  Writing isn’t a race for me.  It is a process.  Where I need to think things through and discover little nuggets hidden in the weeds.

Which is what happened to me tonight.  I spent the afternoon working on Northville Five & Dime.  I put down about another 700 words and then kind of bogged down.  This story in particular really plays into my need to think about things, to process the story as it unfolds, to fill my mental space and … be patient.

I’m telling the story from the perspective of three different characters.  Each time I switch from one of those characters to another, I have to stop and think about it.  What’s going on with that character?  What matters to him or her?  And where is he or she going now?  It is such an incredible challenge.

This afternoon, I’m working on the current chapter.  It’s told from Pete’s perspective.  He’s in the hospital after being battered by his father.  He’s seething with pain and anger.  Lily and Sophie are on their way.   Lily is the clerk who caught Pete shoplifting and made him a deal — take her sister to the end of year dance at the high school and she wouldn’t report him.  Sophie is the sister — a paraplegic because of a car accident when she was a child.  The three of them, well, they start drawing together.  The story flips back and forth between the three and it’s really hard.  (did I mention that already?)

So, I get done with what I could this afternoon and I switch to making dinner.  While I’m finishing it up, I have a brainstorm.  An epiphany.  An explosion goes off in my head and I realize something.  It’s time to bring in one of the other characters and explain a few things.

That’s where I’m headed.  The mental process has worked again.  It has given me a twist.  A new little side road to take to expand the story.  To tell something more.

This … the magic of a discovery in the telling of a story … this … is why I write.

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Northville — A Sample

Posted on January 1, 2014 by kingmidget

Here’s Chapter 22, something I finished a couple of days ago.  This is part of my new accountability project.  I’ll post a sample here of what I’m working on, somewhat regularly.

 

-22-      Lily

While Sophie was getting Sally, I called 911 and told them a boy had been hurt bad and that we needed an ambulance and then I got distracted.  Pete’s face reminded me of something so horrible I couldn’t go any further.  His glazed look, the blood coming out of his nose and mouth, reminded me of a day ten years before.

When I came to, before anybody had come to my rescue, I was strapped in the back seat of the family car.  The roof was crumpled and had pinned Sophie in an awkward embrace.  I looked to my dad, who had been driving.  His head lolled to the side, his eyes open and glassy, blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth.  Just like Pete.  I couldn’t see my mother’s face, but since the car had come to rest against a light pole that had forced its way a foot or two into the car right where my mother was sitting, I’m pretty sure I didn’t want to.

In the silence that followed my call with 911, while I waited for Sophie to return, hopefully with help, I sat in the car and watched my family and prayed.  I struggled against the seat belt but gave up when I realized the seat in front of me had been pushed back, pinning my legs down.  I wasn’t going anywhere until somebody came to rescue me.  So, I prayed some more and screamed for help.

I remembered it all again.  Sitting on the porch next to Pete, waiting for help to arrive.  I wanted to scream, but I didn’t know how to pray anymore.  Prayers come so easy when you’re ten and you want to believe.  They’re much harder to come by when you’re twenty and life has dealt you a bad hand or two.  I wasn’t so sure anymore there was a god that answered those kind of prayers.  I screamed silently anyway, while seeing my father’s face in Pete’s.  I waited.

Even when Sally and Sophie got back and Sally took charge, I remained in between the past and the present.  Until Sophie suggested Officer Mooney might have gone to arrest Pete’s dad.

“Why?” she asked

“Because I didn’t tell 911 what Pete said.”

Sophie just stared at me.  I could feel the anger coming off of her in waves.  I could smell it, like her hair was singed.  She pushed her body up with her hands on the wheelchair’s armrests and I thought that her anger had cured her paralysis and she was going to walk to me and pummel me.  “Why not?!” she blasted at me before settling back down, still paralyzed.

How could I get her to understand?  My fear had driven me to years of half measures.  Torn between doing what I thought was right and the fear of something bad happening again, I could take a step or two in the right direction, but then I would be thrown back by hesitation and uncertainty.

It’s how I justified letting go the kids who shoplifted.  I made my feeble attempts to stop them so I could sleep at night, but I let them go.  So I could sleep even better.  My fear drove me in so many ways.  Talking to Sophie about her choices, but not forcing better choices on her.  Getting custody of her from our aunt and moving back to Northville, but then doing little more to make our lives better.

Then, when one kid stopped and forced me to take action, look what happened.  I fell in love with the idea that Pete was somehow going to make everything better.  In those quiet moments at the Dime when the store was empty and silent and Old Man Mooney was asleep in his office, I imagined he would fall in love with Sophie and they’d be together forever.  That somehow I could let go of my worry.  Good things could happen, too.

Yeah, right.  Good things can happen.  I didn’t think having Pete lying on my porch, bleeding and in shock, helped me overcome my anxiety.  It only made it worse.

“He didn’t want me to.  You heard him.”  See what I had done?  Another half measure.  I called 911 because I needed to – like telling a shoplifter to stop – but didn’t tell them what Pete had said about the cause.  He had his reasons and I was going to respect them.  Otherwise, maybe it all, as bad as it was, could get worse.

“So what!”

“Sophie, I’m sure she had her reasons,” interrupted Sally.  “Besides the ambulance is almost here.  What’s important right now that Pete get to the hospital.  We can worry about his dad later.”

She was right, the siren was much closer.  “I don’t know the reason, but Pete doesn’t want them to arrest him . . .” I started to say before Sophie interrupted me.

“But the man’s a monster if he could do this to his own son.  He needs to be arrested!”  Sophie was bouncing up and down in her chair, practically spitting as she spoke.

“I think that’s Pete’s decision,” I whispered.  “Don’t you?”

“What?  No.”  She stopped bouncing.  “Maybe.”

“There’s more here than we know about, Sophie.”

“I don’t know,” she replied, wiping her eyes with her hand.  She was crying, something I hadn’t seen for a long time.  It hit me that she might have found somebody in Pete.  A boy she cared about, who now lay on our porch grievously injured.

I rose and walked to her, wrapping her in my arms.  “I don’t want to jump off this ledge unless Pete says its okay.”  I shushed Sophie and held her as the ambulance, with its sad, wailing siren, pulled up in front of the house.

The paramedic in the passenger seat was out and halfway to the porch before the ambulance had stopped rolling.  The driver turned the siren off, but the lights kept flashing, blues and reds in a kaleidoscope kept washing over the porch, the neighboring houses, and the people who started streaming out to see what was happening.

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2014 Writing Goals

Posted on January 1, 2014 by kingmidget

Generally speaking, in the order I plan on getting them done.

Finish Northville Five & Dime and send to some readers for their input.

Help Zoe Keithley publish her novel and then move on to whatever publishing project she chooses next – personally I hope it’s her memoir-based novella.

Figure out what I’m going to do with Deviation – publish it solo or attach it to something else.

Finish my untitled horror story – 10,000 words or bust.

Finish The Irrepairable Past.  Send to readers, publish by end of Summer 2014.  Or, alternatively, decide it would be worth trying the traditional route.

Write the script for Bridgeport and ponder whether to do the same for Deviation

Finish Terror In a Small Town (and give it a new name).  Send to readers, have it ready for early 2015 publication or submission to agents/publishers.

And scattered around in there will be random short stories that pop every now and then.

It’s a lot to get done in one year and if I finish half of it I’ll be satisfied.  I’m also starting to noodle over another idea, following the example set by some other bloggers.  A literary journal that will be published as an e-book and paperback a couple of times a year.  It’s a growing idea in the corners of my brain.  Here’s the idea:  One of the handful of places where I’ve had short stories published is The First Line.  Each quarterly issue consists of stories that all start with the same first line.  I’ve thought for years that there should be a companion publication called The Last Line, where each story ends with the same last line.  So, I think I want to try that out.  Unfortunately, the people who run The First Line already own the rights to The Last Line, so I’ll have to name it something else.  I even have the first last line picked out.  Now, I just need to figure out how to make it happen.

One thing I will not be doing, with very rare exceptions, is reading manuscripts.  I’ve spent a lot of time doing that this year and, unless I get paid to do it, I won’t continue.  Well, except if you’re in the small pool of people whom I will gladly continue to assist – I think you know who you are.

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