Move it Me

Had another writing lunch, splurging two more work hours at my usual seat at the Barnes & Noble cafe not far from the office. Productive and rewarding, it makes going back to my desk a little easier. The YA book is still coming into focus bit by bit--scenes falling into place, characters becoming more defined and better motivated, the world of the story expanding nicely. The work will no doubt sputter over the next few weeks, including any progress on this blog, as other commitments come into play. But, fingers crossed, my slate will be clear again by mid- to late-March. I'm hoping to take a leave work soon as I wrap off my current project some time around May. Hoping for a month, maybe a little more, the likelihood having as much to do with what I can afford to take off, as how much bargaining power I can still exercise. But I am determined to finding a larger block of time to commit to this work. I have to if I am to fulfill my goal of completing this project in a reasonable amount of time, say by the end of the year. I did some initial research and found that YA novels typically fall in the 50k-70k word range, which if I am not totally off means a rough page count of 240? Originally I had naively thought kid's book would be ridiculously short--a hundred pages tops. Now that I am looking at up to two and a half times that, I need to make sure I can still see this through. It's not my plan to put the cart before the horse, but I want to approach this project a little more structurally by keeping the story small enough in scope, simple enough in craft, that I can hammer through it with a little less struggle and complication than my other works (even my second book which is already steeping with complexity). I'm sure I'm being as much the fool here as I was in the unbridled creative morass of my first work (a stinking, gluttonous mass of two hundred thousand words festering in its own juices). No doubt this could be as complicated as any of my other stories and no less  challenging to write--I needn't look past the myth of writing Sequels for that. But I hope not. My exercise here is actually quite simple and innocent: to come up with a straight-forward story (which I have) and tell it in as straight-forward a manner as possible, forcing myself, teaching myself, to get out of my own way. I know now better than I ever have before that the only thing in this world keeping me from accomplishing the tasks I set out to do, is Me. And Me just needs to get the Hell out of the way.

Dilemma

Forgoed an hour of Qs and As with Quentin Tarantino today to work on my YA story at lunch. Working out the general 3-act structure, came up with some scene ideas to flesh out the second act. All-in-all had a very good writing session.

It's interesting, the ups and downs I have in this process of writing, the torrents and the droughts, the ebb and flow, good times and bad. Granted, I'm still a relative novice. Not new to the page per se, having been at this in one form or another for the last fifteen years at least, but new to finishing. That Sisyphusian  task still eludes me, and it is that task alone that stands in the way of my self-image as a writer. To me being a writer is not just present-tense, but past-tense too. An aspiring writer is one who has set foot on the path of writing. A real writer, in my mind, a practiced writer, is one who has undertaken a path, completed it, learned something from the journey, and moved on to the next. They have learned that one thing about themselves I have yet to learn about me--the knowledge that they completed a journey and with it, though by no means always, trust that they can complete another.

Me, still wallowing in my struggles--first the right foot, then the left, what comes next, where should my foot go, is my stride too long, am I even going in the right direction--I have yet to complete the task to see the journey as a whole. Stretching for metaphors, I am the chef who's still going over the ingredients to several pots soup waiting to be cooked. I have the makings of a wonderful meal; maybe many. But until I finish one, it will never be more its component parts. Sure, I am making some progress, I suppose. Even in my failed or faltered steps, I have to be moving some minute distance that surely must add up. Even stumbling backwards is better than standing stock still. But how ever far I move, I still face the same challenges, the same doubts and struggles that make me ask fundamental questions about myself as a writer.

My comfort zone in writing is my development stage, where my stories incubate in their early non-linear, stream-of-conscious form. This is where anything goes. No judgement, no second-guessing, no worries, just heaps of clay thrown together. Eventually enough material is formed, connections are drawn, order is forged amongst the chaos, ideas, scenes, characters are revisited time and again so that there is the semblance of form, purpose and meaning to the whole thing. And then I try to write it. Or re-write it as the case may be. And suddenly the whole free-form, creative Age of Aquarius love-in turns into a locked-down, Reganomic, law-enforced, police-state, endoscopic dissection where every idea, every scene, character and line is scrutinized, quantified, objectified, measured, and mercilessly judged. Craft comes into play with all its rules and choices, then there are the comparisons to other masterworks, to which I could never compare, yet ceaselessly do, and finally that old bitch of a myth, perfectionism herself, because even if nothing is ever perfect, I just still have to try!

No big surprise that the enthusiasm wanes, that the big writing boner goes limp and tucks tail and runs. But why the Hell, even after all the time I've put at the desk, do I still face this ridiculous swing of the pendulum? When will the momentum of experience slow it down? Is it only after I've finished a book? Or am I naively asking the wrong question? Does it ever go away?

As I mature as a writer, the best I can hope for is the bridging of these two ends to my process--that the fun 'purely creative' part intermingles with the 'hard work' part, and that as I delve deeper into the later, I find the things about that stage that will also give me pleasure. Craft is fun after all. It's all the perfectionism I can do without. And the biggest thing missing, the thing that will tie all the pleasure and labor together, is the celebration of completion. And what is that but the acceptance of the thing for what it is, versus what it can be, or should be, or ought to be. To let it be. To take that journey and move on to the next is what I am missing. And that's my little dilemma: I need what I have to do.

Keeping it real...

Here by force, not against my will, but at the behest of another. Too little time spent at the blog, which flies in the face of its reason for being--to be updated regularly. Arguably, I justify it's negligence in the face of other writing, which fortunately has been a contributing factor. I have not been writing exclusively however. There is the freelance design project I somehow backed myself into for a small and inequitable value considering the time it takes away from more important matters. There is the fine art piece I committed to producing in the effort to raise funds for one more peer in my immediate demographic who is facing the ever-growing prospect of terminal cancer. There is the down time with my wife and kids, building animatronic legos, watching movies and just hanging out. And then, as always, there is the simple art of procrastination, so easily disguised as so many other things...

All things being said, all things being done, how do my efforts at the blog score? Not great. Disappointing perhaps. But then again isn't this just the means to an end, an end arrived at by so many diverting and converging paths? Yes, but only so far as it is employed consistently. The value of this blog lies not in its content or quantity, but its consistency. Granted, I will have distractions, deficits of time. But that should not matter. What is important is that the touchstone is touched. Writing is important and attention to its endeavor paramount, for without it, progress is so easily lost to time. If I can't write for a day, or a week, or a month, I owe it to myself to confess it, to report it, to log it. This way, I keep score and force myself to acknowledge and accept the work I do or don't. The goal is to keep the dialogue with myself open, as prolific, as procrastinating, as purposeful or punishing as it may be. In absence too much is taken for granted.

The lesson here: write often, write briefly, write wherever I am. Keep it simple and it needn't compete with the actual writing. Keep it simple and it can sustain itself when I have time for little else. Keep it simple and I keep this real.

Chapter 2...?

This is either the continuation of the first chapter of my YA novel, or it's the second chapter. More development on the main character and her current situation before the main plot kicks into gear. I'm imagining it's audience is close to that of Holes, or maybe skewed just a touch younger. My main character is about eleven, so that pretty much suggests the demographic right there. Since this is both a first draft, and skewed younger than what I am used to, I'm not sure how much more detail or context I need to add. That being said, this might a little on the sparse side. Enjoy.

            Dinner is served in the commons. The younger kids, aged from five to ten, eat first. The older kids get an extra hour of reading or craft time and eat at 7:00. Maddie is almost eleven and for the last two months she’s been allowed to dine with the older group. Tonight she sticks with the kids. There are fifteen gathered around the tour different tables tonight, most of them regulars who’ve been in and out of the Home for the last couple of years. There are no new kids this month. Typically there’s a new kid every month or two, even if they are only at the home for a few days, and before and during dinner the staff make them play social games to help get everyone to know each other. Tonight, it’s pretty quiet. It’s Taco Tuesday and most of the kids are focused enough on eating their food.  Plus Auntie Elba is next door in the Staff Lounge having a late dinner, and everybody can tell she is still mad about what Maddie did.

Maddie sits at a small table across from Michael who has his sleeve raised and is showing her the purple bruises running up his arm.

            “How come you aren’t afraid of him Maddie?”

            “Because I’m a girl.”

            “Yeah. But he can still hit you.”

            “Yeah, but he won’t.” She gently pokes his bruise to see how it feels. He cringes and lowers his sleeve.

 “Why is he always beating everybody up?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe it’s because of his name.”

“But that’s not our fault he has a stupid name.”

“I know, but when I first came here, when I was five, and Felix he came here around the same time, he was like twelve, and the older kids were always making made fun of his name. I remember at lunch one time, somebody squirted mustard on him. And after that, it became like a game for a while.”

“Didn’t he get mad, or tell the teachers.”

“No. He was shy then. And little. Not much bigger than you. I guess he was hoping he would just get adopted and could leave.”

“What happened to the other kids who were picking on him? Did they ever get in trouble?”

“Yeah I guess, But after a while they all got adopted. Everyone except me and Felix. And it seems like every year since then, he just gets meaner and bigger.”

He stops fussing with his arm, and stands to take his plate to the counter. “Didn’t anyone try to help him?”

Maddie shrugs and takes his plate from him, placing it over her own. “Someone tried. But he didn’t want their help. I don’t think it would have helped anyway. Go get some desert. I think it’s Jell-o.”

Michael bounds from the table heading for the crowd at the desert table. “Oh boy! Seconds!”

Maddie sees Mustard as the older kids file in for their turn. He gives her a dirty look and she just ignores it, like he was the younger kid. She’ll just let him get bored with her and go back picking on new kids. Besides, she doesn’t think he really hates her. The two of them have been at the Home for so long, they are practically the only real family they have.

            She decides to stop by the Craft Room. Miss Penderson is in there sweeping up glitter and paper scraps from the floor. The room is normally closed for use after dinner, so she explains how Mr. Loomis had told her to get some art supplies make her new room more pretty for visitors tomorrow. She guesses Miss Penderson doesn’t know about the roof yet, because she asks why Maddie was moved to another room.           

“Oh I got in trouble for trying to stop Mustard from beating up one of the new kids again.”

            “Well Maddie, it sounds like you really need to start letting the adults handle Felix. I think it will be better for everyone if you just ask for help next time.”

            “I know, Miss Penderson. Can I get a pen from the teacher’s desk? It’s for a project I’m working on.”

            “You can’t use one of these out here?”

            Maddie shakes her head. “They’re too messy.”

            “Alright. If your promise to bring it back tomorrow.”

            Maddie smiles and goes to the desk at the back of the room .Miss Penderson is sweeping again, which is good because Maddie doesn’t really want the pen.  She takes it anyway because she doesn’t want to be a liar. But she also takes a small flashlight from the desk and a few coins from the ceramic ashtray some kid had made many years ago before Maddie or Mustard had ever arrived there. She sticks them under her shirt, and presses a handful of string, tape and construction paper against it to hide the bulge.

            She waves the pen as she leaves. “Thank you Miss Henderson. I’ll bring this back in the morning.”

She gets back to her room and closes the door. It’s a little cooler in the new room but a warm draft is coming from the vent next to the bed. She has an hour until lights out, enough time to start her new project. She kneels on the floor next to the bed, and spreads her supplies on the stiff blanket. She peers down into the vent on the wall next to her, even turns on the flashlight and tries to shine it inside. But it’s too dark, and the slats of the vent too close together to see anything inside. She sifts through the loose coins, scoops up a quarter, and presses it against one of the screws holding up the vent. It’s too big for the groove, so she tries a nickel, a dime, and finally a penny, which slides neatly into it. She twists with both hands and after three turns, the screw falls out. Placing it carefully on the bed she then unscrews the second, the third, and finally fourth, then swings the vent open, revealing a dark crawlspace-sized shaft inside.

“Cool!”

She shines the flashlight in again, this time illuminating a few feet of dusty metal. It is warm and musty-smelling inside and reminds her of the memory she has of crawling though the big storm drain outside her home when she was just four years old, with her older sister, or maybe a friend—she couldn’t remember anymore. She just remembers they were older than her and that were afraid of the dark and wanted to turn back, but that she didn’t. She can hear a slight humming sound thinks she can see some light far ahead in the tunnel. An hour to lights out, May as well see where it goes.

Gone but not forgotten

Just two weeks in and already a week-sized gap lingers over this blog. I've been distracted, to be sure. Birthday, Valentine's Day, illnesses, freelance work, side projects, life's distractions. I've been busy at least. Applying efforts elsewhere, though it still would have been nice to check in once and while just to know there was still a pulse here. Well, here I am, as brief as an appearance as it will be. What relevant work has there been? I haven't written much on the new book, though it is still at the front of my mind. Over the last few days I instead shifted efforts to a young adult story I've had lingering in my mind for the last couple of years. For one reason or another it finally landed hard and solidly in my imagination and I've been putting it to paper, and to the test as it were, sharing it with my kids who are also my target audience. They have become fully engaged to the point they are wanting to help write it and future episodes. Even the Mrs. enjoyed it while eavesdropping one reading. Heck, I like it too. I like it for a couple of reasons: I like the basic premise of the story, but equally I like the fact it can be SHORT, yes, a short piece of fiction, that is simple, cohesive and self-contained. It's a story that if I play my cards right I can start, edit and finish in a reasonable amount of time. Who knows, maybe even in a year. As much as I like the shape my second novel is taking, I serioulsy doubt it will happen any faster than my first, making this kid-sized YA chapter book especially appealing to me right now. Well see how this goes, but so far it feels like it is coming along quickly and neatly with less than my usual amount of complication. Keeping fingers crossed. Here's part of the first chapter I started hammering out just this evening:

Chapter 1:

Maddie is doing something she is not supposed to do. She is climbing. She loves to climb. Especially trees. She’s climbed every one of the eight trees at Gladstone’s Home for Children. And she’s gotten in trouble every time. Not serious trouble, just the kind of trouble that’s supposed to keep you from getting hurt. But she’s not climbing a tree this time. She’s climbing a rain gutter. She’s climbing it from the fourth floor of the Gladstone’s Home for Children to the roof on the fifth floor.

 Of all the places she is not supposed to be, the roof is probably her favorite. She can lie on her belly, with her head on her arms and look down on all the people on the street below. They walk by on their way home, or to the store, or to work, without ever knowing she is there. Sometimes she watches families walk by, parents holding their kids’ hands and she imagines they are holding her hand, and that they are taking her home.

Below her, a man and a woman walk up to the front door of Gladstone’s. They are holding hands and look so happy and nice, like how she imagines her parents to look. She rolls over and scoots on her belly to the part of the roof where she can look down on inner the courtyard. The rest of the kids are playing down there, as excited as they are every Saturday when the visitors come. They always come as couples, just like the man and woman downstairs. They meet with the staff in a room where they talk and look at pictures of the kids. Some times they are shown around the building and meet the kids and talk to them. They leave, and some of them come back. Some will come back once or twice, maybe five times, and they’ll bring gifts and have more talks with the staff. And sometimes, sometimes, they come back one last time and take a kid home to live with them.

Maddie rolls on her back and closes her eyes, feeling the clouds roll across the bright sky. Then she remembers the tall antenna sticking out of the roof stairwell. A metal pipe runs up the side of the door to the antenna, a pipe not much smaller than the rain gutter. She’s never been up there before, she realizes. She decides its time for another climb.

           

            Elba Ellinsworth, the Director of Foster Care, who insists all the kids call her Auntie Elba, shows the nice couple to the fourth floor.

            “Of the twenty-seven children we have in our care right now, four are in special needs counseling. Let me assure you, however, they are all wonderful children, who with the proper home and attention will make wonderful family additions. Here we are.”

            The Director knocks gently on a closed door, listening patiently for a response. The nice couple smile. “Is she shy?” the man asks.

            “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No, she’s quite outgoing. Can be a real leader when she wants to be. She just, well, likes her own space.”

            The Director knocks again and pulls a key ring from her pocket. The couple exchange looks.  The woman asks, “Do you always keep her locked in?”

            “Oh, of course not. All the doors remain unlocked here. It’s just some times, well, when we have visitors, she likes to, uh, roam a bit. Please, you just have to meet her. She really is a darling child.”

            They smile and she knocks once more as she fits the key into the lock. “Maddie, my dear, a couple of wonderful people are here to meet you….”

            She pushes the door open and all three look into the room. A young girl sits on a bed listening to her headphones. She looks up as they enter. The nice woman approaches her first. “Hello Maddie. My name is Sandra and this is Tim. We are so happy to finally meet you. We’ve heard so many great thing….”

            The young girl looks at them puzzled, not hearing anything they say.

            The Director drops her keys.  “Oh God, not again. Where is she, Kelly?”

            The young girl on the bed shrugs and gestures to the wide-open window. Sandra puts a hand to her mouth to cover her shock as all three lean out the window and see the courtyard four stories below.

            Felix Mustard is the oldest kid in the Home. And the biggest. Which pretty much makes him think he’s the boss of everyone else. But Felix Mustard is nothing more than an average bully. Little Michael Winters is pinned against the dumpster at the back of the courtyard as Felix punches him in the shoulder. Michael sobs silently into his other shoulder. He knows that if he screams out loud, or ever tells on Felix, the beatings will just be worse the next time. But he’s just a kid and his crying just gets louder.

            “Shut up Mickey or I’ll punch you in your stomach!”

            Something crashes loudly against the dumpster causing both of them to jump. Felix drops Michael to the ground. “What the…?!?”

            “Leave him alone Mustard, or I’ll throw another one!” The voice comes from high above. Felix has to squint against the bright sky to even make out the figure standing high up there. “That you Maddie?! You are so busted!”

            “Let him go or I’ll throw this one at you!”

            “Your so dead if you do…”

The dumpster explodes again, a metal lug nut ringing off it, ricocheting past his ear. She quickly scoops another one from the rooftop, and aims for him again.

            The courtyard door opens and Case Manager Dave Loomis rushes out. “What’s going on out here? Felix, that you? What are you doing back there son?”

            “He’s beating up Micheal Winters!”

Loomis’ head jerked up so fast Maddie was surprised it didn’t snap off. It probably doesn’t help his shock that she is standing on the roof ledge ready to throw another lug nut at Felix’s head. She probably should have snuck off when Loomis came out, but she didn’t want Felix to think she is any more afraid of being busted on the roof than being afraid of him.

            “Little lady, back away from the ledge right now and stay there. I’m coming up to get you. And you two, go to the Director’s office and wait for me. Right now. Move it!”

            Michael runs out of the courtyard, into the main building. Felix stares at Maddie on the roof ledge, arm still poised. “You’re dead Maddie.”

            “ You don’t scare me Mustard.”

Auntie Elba was not happy. And it was times like this she didn’t like being called Auntie.

            “I don’t care why you did it, Maddie! It simply does not excuse what you did.” Director Ellinsworth paces her own office floor while Maddie sits comfortably in the visitor’s chair. A chair she knows well. Almost as well as Felix Mustard who has already been interviewed and sent to his room on probation. Michael may still be in the nurses office finishing his cup of Jell-o.

            “To say nothing of the scene you created by climbing out your window and going up to the roof top, that you know darn well to be in violation of the rules, you recklessly put yourself in danger and Felix as well.”

            “I wasn’t going to throw anything at him. I just wanted to…”

            “Silence Maddie!!” Her outburst is so sudden, so loud it makes both her and Loomis jump, who stands silently at the door.

            “I’ve tried to help you I don’t know how many times now.”

            “That would be thirty six interviews Mrs. Ellins…”
            “I’m speaking figuratively David!” He falls silent again and she continues, “So many excellent candidates have come through these door to offer you their home, and how have you repaid their courtesy? By walking out on them, not showing up, hiding, running away, refusing to talk, or to even see most of them? Don’t you understand child, these people want to help you. We want to help you!”

            Her face is redder than Maddie has ever seen it before, and even Loomis is quieter than ever. He was always the first to defend her when she gets into trouble, to explain to Auntie Elba how she always means well. But this time she is on her own. She really is busted.

            “I’m sorry Autie…”

            “Don’t call me that right now!”

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. Not any of the people who came to talk to me. And not you—I never meant to hurt your feelings. Really. I’m sure they are all nice people. But they should help the other kids. Not me. They should take Michael, the other kids who want to leave. Even Felix….”

            “It’s probably too late for Felix, Maddie. He turns seventeen this year and will likely have to leave the Home the following year. He’s gotten himself into nothing but trouble since he’s been here, and the same fate’s going to happen to you if you don’t change your ways.”

            “But I don’t want to leave here Aun—Mrs. Ellinsworth! Why can’t I just stay?”

            “Don’t you understand? We simply can’t give you all that you need. You’re a young child, soon to be a young woman. You need to live with a family, with people who can love you and take care of you, just you.”

            “But I’ll have that. When my family comes back for me!”

            Director Ellinsworth falls silent, looks at Loomis in astonishment. “Maddie, we went over this years ago. Remember what you and Counselor Lindy agreed on, that we have no way of knowing if your family would ever come back, that you have to move on and let other people help you? Loomis, is this the first you’ve heard of this again?”

            Loomis clears his throat. “Yes m’am”. Loomis is lying of course. Maddie’s told him since then that she secretly still has hope, and every time he just smiled, and patted her shoulder and told her that sometimes hope is the best thing people have. “I’m not crazy Mrs. Ellinsworth, I just—sometimes I just want to believe they will come back. Why is that so bad?”

            “Honey, it’s bad if you let a hope get in the way of something real. These people out here are real. We don’t even know if your parents are still alive, never mind if they even want you back or not. Now, I’m sorry to say that. I truly am, but I just need you to understand how important this matter is for you.“

            “I’m sorry.”

            “I don’t want any more sorry’s Maddie.  I want you to try. Give these people a chance.”

            “I will Mrs. Ellins—“

            “Stop that. Call me Auntie.”

            “I will Auntie.”

            “Good. But just to make sure, we’re moving you to another room. I will not have any more escape attempts. I don’t want a dead child on my hands. Go pack your things. You’ll be moving downstairs closer to us, where we can keep an eye on you. Loomis.”

            He nods, and opens the door. Before she can leave, Auntie Elba wraps her in a crushing hug. “I love all my kids. I would keep you all if I thought I could give you everything you need. I need to you open your eyes, and see what’s around you, really around you Maddie. You deserve more than you can get here. Now go on. I want you moved into your new room in time for bed.

            Loomis walks her quietly to her room, waits while she packs up. Her roommate says nothing, listening to her music. The never talked anyway, not one in the six months they roomed together. Loomis walks her to her new room on the basement floor. Not a bad room. One of the staff’s rooms. It has a bigger bed, and a grownup dresser. But no window. No escape, no sun light, no moonlight. Loomis turns to leave her.

            “Thanks for not telling on me Dave.”

            “You kidding? I’d be in just as much trouble as you. She’s got your interests at heart, kiddo. You know that don’t you? Give it a chance. Having some new hope, doesn’t mean you got to take it from the old. Get unpacked. You got an hour until dinner. Maybe you can even spruce up the place for tomorrow’s visitors, make it look a little more, pretty.”

Protagonist No. 2

Another excerpt post. This scene introducing my second protagonist, local constable Teddy Wilkes. Of more sound mind, though no less fallible, his scene is far easier to write:

Teddy cruises the strip, slowly wrapping up his morning patrol before heading to the office for whatever political shit-storm happens to be on the brewer today. He sips Folgers from his Macon County Sheriff Department aluminum hot cup, his hands savoring its warmth against the Ranger’s frigid steering wheel. He casually scans both sides of downtown Mission Street, most storefronts still dark, others just starting to open up. At it’s crime-peak today, the most violations to go on record will be one or two red-light runners, and maybe a loiterer. Town’s like this, there were no burglaries, no rapes, no gangbangs, crack-heads, prostitutes, or murders. It is exactly the way life is supposed to be. The way the rest of the world should be.

Mom’s Pies and Coffee nears on the left, big sign with the drawing of Mom in her red and white-checkered apron, holding out a steaming fresh-backed pie. He knows he shouldn’t take the time to stop in this morning, but he starts scanning all the same for a reason to stop, and finds it in the expired meter right out front. He pulls into the empty spot along side the white ’96 Camry. Though he has more than enough people on county payroll to hand out violations, he’s still a public servant and it shouldn’t be beneath him to write a ticket here and there. Besides, not like the town couldn’t use the money.

He fishes in the glove box for the pen and ticket book that should still be there. He’s not sure who the car belongs to but thinks it might be Marta Bloomberg’s, the real estate agent who’d almost convinced him to sell his father’s house three years ago. He figures she’s taking down weekend open house signs from various street corners. How she can make a living selling real estate in this place he doesn’t know. Town was more known for its pies than it’s housing market.

He tucks the ticket under a wiper, hoping she’ll forgive the twenty-eight dollar citation and not think he was still sore at her attempt to buy him out. Civic duty done, he decides to pop into Mom’s for a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and slice of the day’s pie.

            “Sheriff Wilkes. Good morning! Cup and a slice coming right up.”

            Sheriff Teddy Wilkes hangs his hat by the door, nods to Mom behind the counter, the former high school football receiver and destined college first draft pick before blowing out his back during finals six years ago. The only things he receives now are physical therapy three days a week, and breakfast orders three hours a day. The real Mom, his mom, Eloise Knapp, God rest her soul,  left the earth three years ago to breast cancer, and Eddy promised to keep his mom alive by serving pie and coffee to the same customers who had been buying them since before he was born.

            Teddy slides on his usual corner stool at the bar, close to the door, without his back to it. Charlotte McConnell, Kipp Forrester and his younger brother, something or other wave at him from their booth. Martin and Florence Guinness give him warm smiles from their usual spots at the other end of the bar, away from the cold of the door. Good people, all, and he greets them with his usual smile and nod. Important to know names, and he prides on himself knowing most people’s names in town, well, maybe not most, but darn more than anyone else cares to remember. Names kept relations informal, intimate, the way a small town should be.

            “Kipp, how’s the old man? Back on his toes yet?”

            His brother snorts as Kipp answers, “Oh sure, he’s back on his toes alright. But that’s the problem. He’s supposed to be off ‘em. The doc told him to take it easy the next few weeks, but you know him…”

             “Sure do. Got your hands full, both of you?”

            “You kidding? I’m the one’s got my hands full. Robbie’s full-time up at the UC now.”

            Robbie. That was it. “Good thinking, Robbie. Your brother had half the brains you do, he’d stuck with his post-grad, gone for a few more PhDs, and left the old man to you.”

            “Yeah, well, unfortunately I don’t think there’s any grad program long enough to keep dad out of our hair for long.”

            “You might just be right.”

Eddy arrives with the pot of Joe and plate of pie. “Here ya go, Ted. French Apple.”

He takes a bite as his cup is filled, lingering on the Crisco-made crust, apples a touch too firm, wishing it had been warmed at least. “Best French Apple in the country Ed. How much do I owe you.”

“On the house.”

“You can’t keep doing that son. Got a business to run here.”

“Business is good. Shut up and eat your pie.”

Ted toasts his patron and he sips the bitter coffee, kept black the way it’s meant to be, not sweetened, creamed, steamed or frothed. This isn’t Europe after all. He discretely watches as Eddy limps to the back calling Bethany behind the door. The soft but still imposing former Receiver disappears through the kitchen door passing Bethany on her way out a stack of clean plates in her arms.

She sees him straight away. “Hello Ted.” 

Ted almost pours the scalding coffee down his windpipe. Clears the tension in his throat, “Beth.”

Watching her stacking plates he feels suddenly self-conscious, stuffs the rest of the pie in his mouth, burning it with half his cup of bitter coffee, drops a five spot and makes his leave.

“’Everyone.”

He swipes his hat and doesn’t even to turn to see if she is watching. He’s on-duty. Has a job to do. Heck, eight-thirty already, and he has to get to work. Not like the law will enforce itself. He unlocks the Ford but before climbing in snatches the ticket from Marta’s wiper, crumples it and shoves it into the back in his glove box.

“Shit.”

Incendiary

Dear Ladies and Gent of Writers On the Side,

I have not much time to write lately being sunk into this wonderful book project and as much as I love to paint and draw I miss writing regulary. So in keeping with the “on the side theme” of this blog, my short story Incendiary has been written in spare moments here and there. This story has been an idea burning, if you will, in my mind for a while now, inspired by a real dream I had years ago along with heavy doses of Shirley Jackson’s influence. I thought it appropriate to post the piece this week as Valentine’s Day is approaching. It is a drafty first draft but a devilishly fun diversion of low commitment for me. As you all know I love short stories, so I have enjoyed working on it. Let me know what you think.

Incendiary

By Liz Amini-Holmes

in⋅cen⋅di⋅ar⋅y

adjective

Used or adapted for setting property on fire: incendiary bombs. Of or pertaining to the criminal setting on fire of property. Tending to arouse strife, sedition, etc.; inflammatory.

noun

A person who deliberately sets fire to buildings or other property, as an arsonist. Military. a shell, bomb, or grenade containing napalm, thermite, or some other substance that burns with an intense heat. A person who stirs up strife, sedition, etc.; an agitator.

He came to me in a dream. It was at that time of night when your brain sinks into its dark places, where little rivulets of primordial soup still exist. He came out of one of those pools, festering for eons triggered by my neurons, which fuels my synapses. Using those electrically excitable cells to pushed pass my grammar school education, prep high school training then an ultimately piercing full force beyond my elite but useless English double masters degrees, that was my demon’s spark. He managed to make a fire in my dull grey matter.  He burst forth at first as a cloudy a dark shape then from the center of the dark mass emerged a red circle that grew larger and larger as his image took over the blackness. He was a red-faced devil with horns, an auburn goatee and a shit-eating grin. He was not some sophisticate devil masked as a metaphor conjured from a Freudian analysis; he was not literary devil as cool and calculating as Faust. My devil was the type you see on Zigzag rolling papers or on a beer can logo-not even a beer bottle label. If he were a real person he’d drive a truck, wear a white tee shirt and work construction. He was the solid devil of the lower working class. He just stayed stuck in my mind what seemed like hours in dreamtime but was probably just a seconds in real time. When I came to, I tried shaking off his common evil continence from my head but he would not leave. He was a brat, an imp, a gloomer on of my mind, that snarky goat-boy devil. This demon was a virus that infiltrated my brain leaving a scar, as some viruses will do, an epilepsy from the underworld. After pulling aside the heavy pastel floral comforter off my body and reaching over to my nightstand for some stale water I was sure he was gone. However when I looked into the lamp light, which I now keep on all night since the panic had started, and there he was again emerging from the dust whorls around the bulb. He was the guy who stayed at the party way after everyone left, getting too drunk and sleeping on the coach then loudly demanding breakfast in the morning.

He kept coming but not every night. Just like any bad boy he would string you along. When he didn’t appear I wondered where he was and whom he was with. Me completely in crush by his charm forgot all about how irritated I was all I knew was I happy he was back.  


He was a good kisser that is what did me in. The red boy’s mouth fit over mine in a hard but tender way. Engulfing my lips while his tongue was slow and searching, taking deep draughts of me. My demon lover was not a selfish kisser either like other men who make kissing only a prelude to sex. Kissing was his way to reach me, to communicate to me, to set me on fire. We did nothing but kiss the first month. He would appear in his dark cloud then lay solidly on top of me getting to know me though my mouth his tongue working it’s way back into my mind. I could close my eyes and drift away as he stoked my tongue, lips, loving me in a way no else ever did. Not that I had much experience aside from my husband and two other college boyfriends. That was the extent of my knowledge, none of whom where very good lovers but I did not know that at the time not until the devil. His mouth, what I could see of it was not as crude as I first thought. He had nice teeth. My tongue would slide over their perfect enamel-no chips, no fillings. His lips were thin in a good way, boyishly warm as if he had just run into the house from the cold from playing soccer or basketball, hungry for dinner. He was warm but not too hot-never sweaty like my husband was. 


My husband, Peter, his sticky back hair clinging to my hands as he tried to weakly insert himself into me, his hairiness always surprised me every time even though I was married to him for ten years. His black back hair always amazed me of how much of it he had and how disgusting it felt, coarse like a water dog’s hair. But my demon was smooth skinned and sinewy muscled with a modest tuft of chest hair nested in between his chest muscles. He did not need to advertise his manhood, as it was so apparent. Peter, my husband was chubby, not fat, but his muscles were all well hidden. He had a baby’s soft body that never felt any flex of anything remotely exciting, well protected like the rest of him. His job never made it never necessary for him to exert anything except pushing his chair from his desk at the end of the day.

Peter was fond of food. He watch cooking shows but never attempted to really make anything himself. Being fond of food and comfort he did not need much else. Sex was an extra that like dessert if not offered on the menu that night he could do without. The Woldorf School had taught him, all 12 years of it,  the entire world was a good, safe place and the color black was bad. That was about all he got out of it. He was an affable, aimless creature. He didn’t need too much, even much of me except his basic needs met and some pretty gloss on top.

After I disappeared I heard that many women in town cooked steaming casseroles and left them at his door to eat when he got home. They even went so far as clean up the house on a rotating basis, all of them jocking for position. He had it made, a clean house, warm food and no bother. I am sure one day one of the women will get him and be content with her easy prize, as he suits as essence and the presence of a real man. I on the other hand preferred my aberration, unlike the real thing it did not disappoint.

All in all the rakish fellow with good time on his mind and wicked sense of humor was it for me. I could see why so many went over to his side. It was the fun palace to be. After he arrived my attacks slowed down and I wanted the lights out. Peter was baffled by my ups and downs but all I cared about was I felt better and better. He never understood why I was so nervous about in the first place as things were so calm and perfect and safe. Nor did he understand why my fits were going away as my nightmares were starting. He claimed I was like someone possessed in the night and told me he thought of moving into the guest room. But I knew he would not as it would take too much effort and the bed was not as comfortable as ours. When I was not waiting for lights out I was writing and reading again, my brain set alight now even during the day. What would I have to write about other than correcting college papers? Peter wanted to know. Writing was hard work. Peter felt it might trigger more attacks as it use to be such a strain on me. Now That I had a part time job fixing up the JC’s English departments papers wasn’t that a better situation? Peter wanted to have me stop writing so my nightmares would stop but really he was afraid it would take away from his now predictable routine.

The day I evaporated or I should say blazed into thin air did not seem unlike most days in early spring, tepid temperatures with a milky blue sky. After a long writing stretch I lay down mid-morning for a nap to catch up on much needed sleep. 


They said in the newspaper article all that was found was a scorched floral comforter. The hole I left was a crater charred to the bedroom floor. No sign of a body. Nothing. They did not implicate Peter as he had witness at work to his whereabouts. The authorities chalked up my odd demise an unstable mind with a penchant for  a dramatic ending.

All I remember I was no longer at home.

One day at the open market, me with a tall man, his hand tender at the small of my back, bearing a wicked grin ear to ear, us easlily strolling along the produce stands, I holding my newspaper and my coffee, black and hot and he with his first beer of the day. Out  from the bakery stand unbrella appeared Peter. Although noticeably pudgier from all the charitable dinners and caretaking he looked good, more content even more than before. He took a hard second glace at us, crushing the warm loaves of bread he had just bought to his chest. He tried getting a better look at us squinting through the searing morning sunlight, then a small dark woman with wide hips and squat kegs appeared by his side. He quickly he grabbed her arm then walked way in the other direction. I wonder what he thought; that she was too young to be me, her hair was the wrong color, shorts too short, that I would never be with a man like that. These thoughts might have slid down into that grey matter where the color black lay hidden long sealed up with good and bad and in-between, things that he cold not grasp nor really care to.

First working scene

Okay, here's my first stab at laying out a scene. This introduces my writer protagonist and attempts to reveal his idiosyncratic psychological nature. I still have a lot to figure out about him, but since this is just a beginning sketch, I should learn much even if I end up throwing the scene away. Stylistically, I am shooting in the dark here, torn between wanting to keep it simple for the sake of just putting the raw ideas down, and the urge to over-complicate it for the sake of developing the voice, point of view, style and so forth. Right now, it's probably suffering from the worst of both. Oh well. As I move forward I should ease into a more balanced and relaxed prose more concerned about how the scene plays than how it sounds.

Dingy one-room apartment, cold in the dark morning light, small space heater humming fitfully against one yellowed wall. Unseen newscaster reporting the weather, overcast, clearing by afternoon. Mottled carpet padding barely visible underneath jumbled tide of loose-leaf paper—white, yellow, green brown, blank, ruled, ledger, graph, letter-sized, legal, envelopes, post cards, index, memos, menu backs, flyers, junk mail, butcher paper, post-its, cardboard, flattened boxes, intermixed, jumbled and string-tied into half-formed bundles or spilling loose from one pile into the next, every page, every line, every margin filled with tight-spaced, heavy-lined, miniature scrawl.

Amidst the papers: cats. Cats stretching prostrate over paper, padding across paper, curling underneath it, climbing over it, leaping to, dropping from, crapping on, clawing to shreds. Entire paperscape inhabited by cats. The hungriest cats, and most dominant, rally on cold, buckled linoleum around two legs, waiting for the hand that will lower their food. Two bowls of tuna fish and cheese whiz mixed with cereal and milk clank to the kitchen floor and the cats feast, others clamoring in.

Hard-boiled egg taken out the pot, steaming in hand. Nubby slippers navigating through heap to the living room. Frayed burgundy lazy-boy, creaks, pings loudly, weight settling in. Newscasters talking about sports. Meaningless numbers and names. Mumble Jumble. Eggshell peeled carefully, placed, neatly on December’s issue of Sexy Invalids. Busty Crutch Girl in open-slotted robe, exposed leg in cast, eggshells flanking her like angel wings. Fifty-six previous Sexy Invalids lying stacked neatly beneath her.

Broken shell wings.

Flying away from Mumble Jumble.

Numbers and names.

He has to write that. He digs through the mound on the side table, then the clutter on the 50’s coffee table, drawing out a boxy remote he uses to silence the newscasters,  spot of light flaring momentarily on the dead screen of the ’74 Zenith Solid State Chromacolor. One of the cats jumps from the wide television cabinet, scattering papers to the pile below. He seizes the pen from his robe pocket, open-slotted, like a Sexy Invalid, and writes.

And Writes.

Not How, But When

Running on empty tonight far as the journal goes. I put in time on the story though, more character development. Pretty good run considering I've written about as much over the last two weeks as I have over the last two years. Of course the real test is time. Can I keep it up, especially as the demand of work invariably rises again? The blog has started a little fire under me for the time being, one hopefully that will keep me cooking as time grows thin, and not just be the first thing to fizzle out.
It's such a struggle this. The writing in itself is difficult, yes, but more the problem it seems is time. Getting my ass in that chair as often as possible for the two plus hours it takes to strike a vein and pull something out. I've had my routines: late shifts that had me clocking out at one or two every night, until sleep deprivation took its toll; writing sabbaticals from work, taking off two, thee, six, nine months between projects to get in time at the page, which counted all together never yielded quite what it promised (but hell, you can't rush art, right?); and my sporadic weekend-only efforts over the last two years, squatting at cafes for three plus hours that inevitably left me feeling disappointed and frustrated with myself.
So what's working now? A combination of factors, certainly, but time-wise I've gone back to the night shift. But more moderated this time. No more than two hours on the book, maybe a third on the journal. So far I'm only free-writing, no formal work yet, though I'll be taking that plunge soon enough (as anxious as the idea already makes me). My output has been stellar and I'd like to think is a good sign, but this kind of creative geyser has the tendency to rise and fall, so I can't bank on this pace being consistent. Getting to the real work, that's another thing. Then it is a matter of discipline. Crafting my work is a far more intensive, time-consuming process that requires deeper and more consistent commitment. Not sure what's going to happen when finally I get back to it. The hope as always is that my momentum and interest in the new story will carry me through. If it doesn't, if I falter, that again is where this safety net might come into play. If I simply can't deliver on the long fiction with the current demands on my life, I needn't throw myself on the pyre. Instead I can switch the gears to shorter fiction, and for once maybe, actually bite something off I can chew. The point is that I'm writing. And what I'm writing is being seen. Then I can still call myself a writer, and not just a failure.

I figured it out: Don't figure it all out

Still on a roll with character, which for the last two weeks has been rewarding and effortless. I'm on the same three protagonists now with secondary characters joining the mix. Motivations are taking shape, relationships, histories, goals, conflicts and desires all coming into focus. But as I write and put myself in their minds, seeing the world and other characters through their eyes, it raises the question, as it always does, of point-of-view. This consideration is almost as important to me as figuring out the story itself, because it will largely define how the story is told. In spite of the fact the point-of-view for my first book is still evolving, I have only one main protagonist there, which makes the issue significantly more straight forward. With this current work I have three, each distinct from the other, one nearly insane, who I had originally envisioned as the one protagonist. Worried he would be not only too untrustworthy a narrator, but would limit the tone of the book already dark in nature, I decided to bring in the two closest supporting character to widen the POV. Ironically they've since become so realized that I now see the story through their eyes more than I do through his. What's more, my newfound binocular vision is starting to favor one of the characters over the other, leaving me to ask, should I still have a shared POV, or should I do some demoting? Not that far in and already I'm chasing a moving target.
I think a lot about POV. I often don't don't like the idea going with standard omnipotent 3rd person perspectives, which sometimes feel too stock to me, or are too easy a solution. I don't mind going closer in, taking a more subjectively stance, but in this case I worry about switching between points of views that are too distinct from each other. Sure, I'm getting ahead of things here, but all these decisions are deeply interrelated and start factoring in sooner or later. After all, POV informs voice, which informs style, and so on (or is it the other way aorund?) All I know is that there is so much to think about, so many decisions to get bogged down in, that time can be lost thinking about it instead of doing it. Case in point: Brilliant first-time novelist I was, I prided myself on taking every question as it came and devoted endless thought to the complex calculus of novel-writing with a thousand pages of notes that tied down every scene and character, backstory, subplot, theme, symbol, conflict, goal, arc, point of view, voice, style, you name it, all carefully plotted out like a great road map that illustrated not only my end destination, but was an exact timeline for precisely every route I would take, every stop, every bathroom break, every parking spot, where a I would walk, when I would buckle up, and so on.
Here I was thinking I would only be ready to start writing when I had the answer to everything before I even began. That was until I started writing, and quickly learned that more is less. All the solutions I had forged turned out to be constraints. All of my careful math no longer added up. I was faced with the choice of having to throw out my solutions, or phrase new questions. In retrospect, all that is needed to begin are the questions, the problems that need solving, and the process will take care of the rest.
For kicks I'm going to let my three protagonists do some of the work by putting them in some future  posts of scenes with different points of view, and see where they go. Even if any of these scenes are later discarded, I'll invariably uncover some interesting things about my characters that otherwise go undiscovered were I to commit to a choice on POV beforehand.

Getting the good stuff

Not much to post tonight except to say I've been on a manic roll this week, spending quality time with my characters, watching as they come to life before my eyes.  I am in that stage so many writers talk about where they profess to be not creating the material but simply channeling it like some kind of spiritual medium, the creative output so strong it could only be attributed to some external or other-worldly source. I tend to credit the subconscious, though what the connections are, what the material spewing forth at this point in time truly means to me is not yet clear. And this is one of those unique things I love about writing: I sit here, thoughts moving so fast my fingers can barely keep up, entire scenes playing out as clearly as if on TV, characters speaking, experiencing, feeling, and all of it fitting so nicely into the framework of the specific needs of this specific story (not just acting of their own random accord), that soon, maybe weeks from now, months, hell, maybe years, I'm going to look onto those collective writing choices and find something keenly revealing about myself: a reflection of what I was going though at that stage of my life, or maybe something I had experienced previously that finally bubbled forth and found an opportunity to be heard no matter how displaced within my fiction.  Two joys of writing--the creation of the text (the fiction), and the discovery of the personal subtext (the deep underlying fact often hiding behind the lie). That's the good stuff.

Missing the Boat

I'm working on character at the moment, the three main characters to what I hope to be my second book, which considering I haven't finished my first book yet seems a little presumptive. Part of the problem facing the first book has been the extent to which I developed and plotted out the characters down to their every choice and every action in every scene. I exercised so much control over the story that by the end I had simply choked the living shit out of them, leaving behind forced characterizations that were as lifeless as they were predictable. By the end of that draft, there were tons of notes to reflect on, but there were also glimpses of true character buried there amongst the stereotypes and cliches. The simple goal for my next draft then, fix character.
There I began giving them room to buck and wander, and they starting taking shape here and there. To really grow though, they wanted to go off-script, cross over the lines of my intricately designed plot. As they did they became more interesting to me, but at the cost of my plot which felt increasingly contrived and manipulative. Suddenly I found myself torn between the need to discard plot for character, or discard character for plot. Of course I panicked and having put so many years into the work already I decided I had to fix it without any sacrifice. After staring at the pages for a few months I realized maybe I couldn't just solve it.
I've put it out of my mind for the time being, to let the unconscious do it's work, and have moved on to the next project, wherein I have decided to take this lesson to heart--don't over plan. Characters, when done right, want to be living things, to be free to make their own choices. What they do in any given moment should be as much up to them as the writer. And yet they do need some controls--they need to know who they are, not simply what they do. The poor characters of my first work-in-progress were the frustrated sums of explicit action--every performance of every scene spelled out in advance. The three protagonists of my new work are being given a break. I've done just enough research to have a sense of who they are--each with key experiences that have indelibly shaped their lives, feeding strongly into their motivations. Motives, not the writer and all their high-minded plans, tell them what to do. This respect for the characters also demands less call for plot. Sure I know the big strokes of my story, but where every mark and cue was called before, this time I'm just going to set the general stage and let the characters do some of the work for me. More flexibility in my plot, makes for a more organic whole, where character shapes plot and plot reveals and shapes character. I always got that in theory, but I had to miss the boat to get it in practice. It's all a lesson in trust really. Trusting character. And what is trusting character but trusting yourself?