I read a novel excerpt as short story recently on the Narrative Magazine site that impressed me so much I thought I'd try something similar. This is from my completed (revision in progress) novel A Perfect Man. I'll add some more commentary to the end. If you're interested in more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
First Date:
"Chardonnay and Brie. Chicks'll be impressed every time!"
Albie's words echoed through Seth's head while he shopped, and since Julie wouldn't arrive for another half hour, he stopped by the wine and cheese shop next to the grocery store. If Albie had been married twice, he must have some knowledge of women, right?
Seth gasped at the array of Chardonnay – American, French, Australian, and even Macedonian – priced from eight to eighty dollars. Finally he grabbed one of the cheaper ones from the chilled case and went to the cheese cooler, where the brie selection overwhelmed him with double and triple cream, wine or whiskey flavoring, or chewy bits like dried fruit or herbs. He bought the only one he could afford, a basic double cream. He made it back to his place at 5:45 and found Julie waiting in front of his door.
"I got done early, so I figured I'd come over. Do you need help with your groceries?" she asked.
"Um, sure." He tried to cover the logo on the plastic wine and cheese bag by hugging it to his chest and felt the soft squish underneath his bicep – the Brie! Shit! The Chardonnay seemed to have been chilled to near-frozen, at least to his left nipple.
She grabbed the other grocery bags and shut the trunk for him. He followed her up the stairs, noting how her rear end swayed beneath the grey fabric of her skirt. The black heels showed off her legs nicely. He imagined her kicking the heels off and freeing her hair from its ponytail.
Julie put the bags in the kitchen and sat at his dining room table. She looked out the window at the small houses on the bluff across the street. "This isn't bad. It'll be pretty when the leaves change."
"I think so, too." Seth mentally kicked himself for not saying something more intelligent.
Julie unfastened the ankle straps on her shoes, stretched her legs, and wiggled her toes. "Man, I'm tired! Those heels are killer."
"I don't know how you women stand those," Seth said. "I bet I know what would help."
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"I'll be right back."
He debated offering her a foot massage, but instead went into the kitchen to retrieve the Brie and wine. Let her loosen up first. He didn't have a fancy wooden board or cheese knives, so he put the Brie on a blue plastic cutting board with a paring knife. At least he had wine glasses, although he preferred beer.
"Can I help with anything?" Julie asked. Before he could respond, he saw her looking at him from where she leaned against the door frame. She had unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, and he could see the full curves of her breasts through the gap in her shirt. Her hair hung like a gold silk scarf over her head and shoulders.
"Brie?" he asked. His voice cracked. "I've got wine, too. A Chardonnay. It's, ummm…" He grabbed the bottle and looked. "A California. Napa Valley. I hear they're good."
"Great, I'm starving!" She put one hand on her flat stomach. "I didn't eat lunch today."
"Please, help yourself. I'll pour the wine."
"Do you have any bread or crackers to go with it?" she asked. "If not, that's okay."
Shit! Crackers! He looked through the pantry shelves and found some Saltines he'd brought with him from Atlanta. One of the sleeves was unopened, and he hoped they weren't stale. He put a few on the plastic cutting board with the slightly flattened cheese and turned to open the wine.
The counter seemed too small, the glasses too big. He imagined the wine bottle slipping and knocking the glasses into the sink or on the floor. The little pull-tab on the cork foil broke off when he got a good grip on it with his shaking hands.
He heard her chewing, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Was she watching him make a fool of himself? He set the butterfly corkscrew on top of the bottle, allowing the end to puncture the foil covering on the cork. He twisted the key and removed the cork through the foil, which flared out in jagged edges that he tore off. Triumph! He poured two glasses and turned to give one to Julie with a bow.
"Wine, milady?"
A drop of blood spattered on the white linoleum.
"Seth, omigod!" Julie pulled Seth's right arm so that he bled into the sink from the deep gash on his right thumb. He held the counter's edge with his left hand and bit the inside of his cheeks so he wouldn't throw up or pass out. Pain and humiliation warred in his chest while Julie ran water over it, but he got control and cleaned it as best he could with some antibacterial soap. She folded a dry paper towel to act as a temporary bandage.
"That looks pretty deep," she said. "Maybe you should get stitches."
"I…" The thought of a needle piercing his skin made Seth's stomach flip again. "I'm not sure I need stitches. Let me just sit for a second."
"Whoa, I've got you." Julie guided him to the couch. She took his shoes off and helped him lie down with his knees higher than his heart. The rushing sound in his ears subsided, and he wondered if she'd been a Girl Scout. Did they have naughty badges?
"Do you need anything else?" she asked.
He tried to say no, but his tongue felt like a piece of heavy, raw meat in his mouth. He looked at his injured thumb and saw that the blood had seeped through the bandage in a straight line. Damn! It throbbed with the heartbeat he could feel in the middle of his head.
"I think you're right," he said. "I think I need stitches." With that decided, he stood, and everything went black.
Author's note:
Before anyone asks, yes, I've cut myself on wine foil, although not to the point I needed stitches.
Here's the beginnings of the query blurb for the novel:
MFA student Karen is seeking the perfect man, both for herself and to star as the male lead in her novella project for Romance Class. Her classmate Seth can't seem to please the women in his life, and even his muse has deserted him. After he dreams he's in Karen's project and writes it from the male POV, the professor makes them work together. This horrifies Karen, who wants to win the best novella competition prize: dinner with her favorite author. Together they find that art may imitate life, but life can be infinitely stranger.
The genre is Romance. Yeah, I got 40,000 words into it, and nothing strange had happened yet! Comments on excerpt and query blurb are welcome.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency -- A Wish and a Dragon
I'm lucky to live in a place where new restaurants open frequently, and many of them last. Since you first met Thomas Forrest and Raven, Thomas has been emancipated (click here for that story), and they're about to open a pub at the edge of the River Styx. For more Friday Flash Fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
"All set for the soft opening!" Thomas Forrest gave the Russian Blue granite bar a final swipe with the damp but soft cloth. The bar rumbled under his hand – purring? He shook his head; he'd never get used to Magic Stone™. Although its slogan "Find out just how magical it is!" had intrigued him at first, it usually meant there was some sort of nasty surprise waiting. He only hoped it wouldn't hack up a stoneball on opening night.
"Good, good." Mr. Raven smiled and emerged from the office. He still wore his long, feathered cloak and black nail polish, but Thomas understood that his new boss' attire was more parody of supervillain than fashion sense. "A good night will ensure we have enough to cover the first mortgage payment on this place, although I still cannot believe we acquired it at such a reasonable price. Any responses to the bartender ad yet?"
"No, although I can't imagine why."
"Nor can I. You really outdid yourself with the decorating."
"Thank you, sir." Thomas looked around. The dark blue-gray granite bar top seemed to grow out of the hammered metal base. Purple- and red-cushioned booths lined the walls under diamond-paned windows open to the wooded parking lot and broom stand. At once modern and magical, it was the place he'd always dreamed of managing.
Something appeared at the end of the bar with a Pop! Thomas and Raven approached it carefully, a plastic bowl-shaped container filled with murky water. A dark gray face with whiskers peered over the edge.
"I got your bartender right here!"
"Bert!" Mr. Raven held out his hands like he was going to embrace the – catfish? "How was your assignment on the Other Side?"
"Eh, the usual. Saved the girl, got the demon, got fried in the end."
Raven winced. "Again? I hope the pay was at least decent."
"Lousy. Four chicken biscuits and a wish." The fish splashed some water from its container, and Thomas had to wipe the bar again. It hissed.
"There, there," Thomas wondered if it would eat fish.
Raven raised his eyebrows. "A wish? That's different."
"New HR policy. Budget's tight, so they've gotten cheap. You should see the fine print on it."
"A-hem!" Thomas cleared his throat. "I don't believe we've met." He held out his hand and remembered the fish probably couldn't shake it.
"Yeah, I'm Bert, sometimes minion to Archangel Raphael."
Thomas arched an eyebrow. "How were you a minion? You can't even give foot massages!"
Bert looked at Raven. "Who's this punk?"
"He is the manager of this public house, recently minion to the Witch Jeanette."
"Oh, you got a used minion, huh?"
"I prefer the term pre-owned, I mean, emancipated!" Thomas took a deep breath. "And how could you be a bartender? You can't even mix drinks!"
"Telekinesis, buddy."
Raven arched an eyebrow. "As much as I admire your abilities, Bert, I don't know that this would work. You still need to be able to move around behind the bar to take orders."
Bert opened his mouth to respond, or maybe to take a breath, but a flash of lightning and sulfur smell made them all gag. A dark figure slithered through the door. The emergency candles flared to life, and all six eyes turned to the five-foot-tall lizard in the middle of the room.
"Evening, gents!" It said in a sibilant voice. "Nice place you have here." Nictitating membranes slid horizontally across its black eyes when it blinked. The hair at the back of Thomas' neck stood – this strange green creature had some strong magic behind it.
"We're not open yet," said Raven.
"I'm aware of that. Who's in charge here?"
Thomas pointed a finger and Bert a fin at Raven.
"This here public house is in the territory of the dragons. That means we need certain, shall we say, assurances to protect you from our hungry brethren and associates."
"You mean extortion fees." Raven's voice was flat.
"However you want to call it." The lizard handed Raven an envelope. The human opened it, and both his eyebrows lifted.
"This is impossible!"
"Ah, but that's the deal with the land, guv'nor. The spell says: 'When patrons are served by human hands, a dragon's fees protect the land.'"
"Wait a second…" Thomas stepped forward and steeled himself against the small dragon's gaze. "Your spell says human hands. What about a fish's?"
"Fish don't have hands."
"But Bert has a wish." Thomas looked at the catfish. "Would H.R. be amenable to it?"
"Helluva way to waste a wish," Bert grumbled, but he subsided when he saw the look of despair on Raven's face.
"Then do it."
Bert closed his eyes and whispered the spell: "Payment be due for helping the divine, magical forces grant this wish of mine."
Thomas felt the power gather in the room. The dragon watched without expression.
"I wish to be able to take the form of a human at will without losing my magical creature identity."
The fish seemed to inflate from the inside and burst his container. He grew and unfolded into a short, stocky man with thick beard that disappeared into his chest hair. His bulky forearms were also covered in thick, wiry black hair, but Thomas could see anchor tattoos on them. Bert the bartender wore black pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbow.
"Your loophole is noted, but be sure that the Master Dragons will not be satisfied for long." The large lizard disappeared, and the lights flickered on.
"Great thinking, Thomas!" Raven clapped him on the shoulder. "And thank you, Bert! I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you used your wish to help me out."
"Is it too soon to ask for a raise?"
Thomas sighed and wiped the spilled water off the bar, which stayed strangely quiet.
"Hey, newbie!" The new bartender called to him. "Why don't you get in the kitchen and make us some chicken biscuits?"
"All set for the soft opening!" Thomas Forrest gave the Russian Blue granite bar a final swipe with the damp but soft cloth. The bar rumbled under his hand – purring? He shook his head; he'd never get used to Magic Stone™. Although its slogan "Find out just how magical it is!" had intrigued him at first, it usually meant there was some sort of nasty surprise waiting. He only hoped it wouldn't hack up a stoneball on opening night.
"Good, good." Mr. Raven smiled and emerged from the office. He still wore his long, feathered cloak and black nail polish, but Thomas understood that his new boss' attire was more parody of supervillain than fashion sense. "A good night will ensure we have enough to cover the first mortgage payment on this place, although I still cannot believe we acquired it at such a reasonable price. Any responses to the bartender ad yet?"
"No, although I can't imagine why."
"Nor can I. You really outdid yourself with the decorating."
"Thank you, sir." Thomas looked around. The dark blue-gray granite bar top seemed to grow out of the hammered metal base. Purple- and red-cushioned booths lined the walls under diamond-paned windows open to the wooded parking lot and broom stand. At once modern and magical, it was the place he'd always dreamed of managing.
Something appeared at the end of the bar with a Pop! Thomas and Raven approached it carefully, a plastic bowl-shaped container filled with murky water. A dark gray face with whiskers peered over the edge.
"I got your bartender right here!"
"Bert!" Mr. Raven held out his hands like he was going to embrace the – catfish? "How was your assignment on the Other Side?"
"Eh, the usual. Saved the girl, got the demon, got fried in the end."
Raven winced. "Again? I hope the pay was at least decent."
"Lousy. Four chicken biscuits and a wish." The fish splashed some water from its container, and Thomas had to wipe the bar again. It hissed.
"There, there," Thomas wondered if it would eat fish.
Raven raised his eyebrows. "A wish? That's different."
"New HR policy. Budget's tight, so they've gotten cheap. You should see the fine print on it."
"A-hem!" Thomas cleared his throat. "I don't believe we've met." He held out his hand and remembered the fish probably couldn't shake it.
"Yeah, I'm Bert, sometimes minion to Archangel Raphael."
Thomas arched an eyebrow. "How were you a minion? You can't even give foot massages!"
Bert looked at Raven. "Who's this punk?"
"He is the manager of this public house, recently minion to the Witch Jeanette."
"Oh, you got a used minion, huh?"
"I prefer the term pre-owned, I mean, emancipated!" Thomas took a deep breath. "And how could you be a bartender? You can't even mix drinks!"
"Telekinesis, buddy."
Raven arched an eyebrow. "As much as I admire your abilities, Bert, I don't know that this would work. You still need to be able to move around behind the bar to take orders."
Bert opened his mouth to respond, or maybe to take a breath, but a flash of lightning and sulfur smell made them all gag. A dark figure slithered through the door. The emergency candles flared to life, and all six eyes turned to the five-foot-tall lizard in the middle of the room.
"Evening, gents!" It said in a sibilant voice. "Nice place you have here." Nictitating membranes slid horizontally across its black eyes when it blinked. The hair at the back of Thomas' neck stood – this strange green creature had some strong magic behind it.
"We're not open yet," said Raven.
"I'm aware of that. Who's in charge here?"
Thomas pointed a finger and Bert a fin at Raven.
"This here public house is in the territory of the dragons. That means we need certain, shall we say, assurances to protect you from our hungry brethren and associates."
"You mean extortion fees." Raven's voice was flat.
"However you want to call it." The lizard handed Raven an envelope. The human opened it, and both his eyebrows lifted.
"This is impossible!"
"Ah, but that's the deal with the land, guv'nor. The spell says: 'When patrons are served by human hands, a dragon's fees protect the land.'"
"Wait a second…" Thomas stepped forward and steeled himself against the small dragon's gaze. "Your spell says human hands. What about a fish's?"
"Fish don't have hands."
"But Bert has a wish." Thomas looked at the catfish. "Would H.R. be amenable to it?"
"Helluva way to waste a wish," Bert grumbled, but he subsided when he saw the look of despair on Raven's face.
"Then do it."
Bert closed his eyes and whispered the spell: "Payment be due for helping the divine, magical forces grant this wish of mine."
Thomas felt the power gather in the room. The dragon watched without expression.
"I wish to be able to take the form of a human at will without losing my magical creature identity."
The fish seemed to inflate from the inside and burst his container. He grew and unfolded into a short, stocky man with thick beard that disappeared into his chest hair. His bulky forearms were also covered in thick, wiry black hair, but Thomas could see anchor tattoos on them. Bert the bartender wore black pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbow.
"Your loophole is noted, but be sure that the Master Dragons will not be satisfied for long." The large lizard disappeared, and the lights flickered on.
"Great thinking, Thomas!" Raven clapped him on the shoulder. "And thank you, Bert! I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you used your wish to help me out."
"Is it too soon to ask for a raise?"
Thomas sighed and wiped the spilled water off the bar, which stayed strangely quiet.
"Hey, newbie!" The new bartender called to him. "Why don't you get in the kitchen and make us some chicken biscuits?"
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
How Wine Can Help Fiction: Post-Wine Bloggers' Conference Thoughts
If you read my Random Oenophile Blog, you know that Hubby and I had the privilege of attending the 2010 Wine Bloggers' Conference in Walla Walla, Washington this past weekend. If not, well, now you do.
One of the panels, "More Effective Wine Writing," coalesced something that I had noticed during the entire conference: there are certain writing principles that cut across genre and publishing platform. Meg Houston, writer and editor of Palate Press, gave a list of Twenty-four Theses for wine writing, but they could easily apply to fiction as well.
Following are the principles I distilled from her and others' talks. I'll call them my Five Reminders:
1. Find your voice. How? Write, and let others edit your writing. Good editors will help you clarify your voice, which will then allow it to mature.
2. Don't forget that you've got more than just sight to work with when it comes to description. Sensorial detail helps to draw people into your writing.
3. Atmosphere and setting affect experience. No one acts in a vacuum. One or two details can make or break a piece.
4. Revision. Gotta do it. If you think it's brilliant, you should probably sit on it for a day (or longer).
5. Writing can be lonely. Having a community, whether of other writers or bloggers, is important, but don't forget that they're not the audience you're writing for.
In the end, I'm glad to have a hobby that takes me to some of the most beautiful places on Earth. It's a bonus that it connects me with a supportive community and great resources for my fiction writing as well.
One of the panels, "More Effective Wine Writing," coalesced something that I had noticed during the entire conference: there are certain writing principles that cut across genre and publishing platform. Meg Houston, writer and editor of Palate Press, gave a list of Twenty-four Theses for wine writing, but they could easily apply to fiction as well.
Following are the principles I distilled from her and others' talks. I'll call them my Five Reminders:
1. Find your voice. How? Write, and let others edit your writing. Good editors will help you clarify your voice, which will then allow it to mature.
2. Don't forget that you've got more than just sight to work with when it comes to description. Sensorial detail helps to draw people into your writing.
3. Atmosphere and setting affect experience. No one acts in a vacuum. One or two details can make or break a piece.
4. Revision. Gotta do it. If you think it's brilliant, you should probably sit on it for a day (or longer).
5. Writing can be lonely. Having a community, whether of other writers or bloggers, is important, but don't forget that they're not the audience you're writing for.
In the end, I'm glad to have a hobby that takes me to some of the most beautiful places on Earth. It's a bonus that it connects me with a supportive community and great resources for my fiction writing as well.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Random Thoughts: Weird News, Zombie Cover-Up?
This one is for BabySis, whose alter ego Ivy Star is having a birthday today. Have I mentioned my whole family is weird? This post will not disprove that perception.
Yesterday, Hubby and I were sitting at The Marlay having a post-Mass drink -- Bloody Mary for him, Mimosa for me -- when I saw the following story referenced by Twitter friend Odella Wilson:
Ghoulish Cargo of 60 Severed Heads Found at Airport
If you don't have time to read through it, here's a summary* (my comments in parenthesis):
Airport workers found human heads, whole and parts, in cargo at the Little Rock, Arkansas, airport. They hadn't been packed in ice, only in plastic containers with duct tape (because, really, it holds anything together! Seriously, how were they going to hide that in the summer heat?). The authorities suspect illicit body part trade (zombies are nervous because it's well-known they don't care that much about freshness), but others think it could be cargo headed for medical continuing education courses (I've been to industry dinners -- some doctors and pharma reps are zombie-like) for new equipment demonstration purposes (zombie crockpots cook human bits to perfection while you hide during the day). Although human parts are in high-demand for research and education, the industry is not well-regulated (zombies have good lobbyists).
Some of my favorite quotes from the article:
The coroner now has possession of the heads.
When I lived in Little Rock, I'd frequently see the coroner's van parked at my apartment complex. This made me a little nervous, so I asked at the front office about it. Apparently the coroner at the time lived there. I never knew what was in that van. Guess where my imagination went? A new meaning for "taking your work home with you."
"These were human body parts. They were medical specimens," Garland said. "There is a real demand for these body parts all over America. There is an underground market for this stuff and we are determining if we stumbled on an underground human body parts market."
I now believe in the zombie-pocalypse. Everyone thinks it's going to be violent. Nope, it's just commerce. Who'd've thought they could be so subtle?
She said human specimens are used in the educational courses she prepares.
Typically educational courses don't have names like "Appetizers 101 -- Finger Food" or "Entrees -- Head Cheese."
The trade in human body parts for continuing education is a multimillion dollar industry with virtually no federal oversight, experts told ABC News.com.
This just gets better and better...
And, finally:
A 2008 investigation into the Bodies exhibit, a travelling museum show featuring preserved cadavers in artful poses, revealed it was stocked with the illegally obtained corpses of Chinese prisoners.
Uh, like there was any doubt??? That's why I refuse to see it.
Okay, zombie-lovers and horror fans, tell me you didn't get any story ideas from this. If you did and you post it on your blog, please let me know. I'm pondering a contest that I'll run if I get at least ten comments that express interest. Why ten? Because it's silly to run a contest with three entries.
*I have to thank my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Colby for insisting that we learn to write summaries. She would likely appreciate this story, as she had a black ceramic skull on her desk and liked to wear dark colors.
Yesterday, Hubby and I were sitting at The Marlay having a post-Mass drink -- Bloody Mary for him, Mimosa for me -- when I saw the following story referenced by Twitter friend Odella Wilson:
Ghoulish Cargo of 60 Severed Heads Found at Airport
If you don't have time to read through it, here's a summary* (my comments in parenthesis):
Airport workers found human heads, whole and parts, in cargo at the Little Rock, Arkansas, airport. They hadn't been packed in ice, only in plastic containers with duct tape (because, really, it holds anything together! Seriously, how were they going to hide that in the summer heat?). The authorities suspect illicit body part trade (zombies are nervous because it's well-known they don't care that much about freshness), but others think it could be cargo headed for medical continuing education courses (I've been to industry dinners -- some doctors and pharma reps are zombie-like) for new equipment demonstration purposes (zombie crockpots cook human bits to perfection while you hide during the day). Although human parts are in high-demand for research and education, the industry is not well-regulated (zombies have good lobbyists).
Some of my favorite quotes from the article:
The coroner now has possession of the heads.
When I lived in Little Rock, I'd frequently see the coroner's van parked at my apartment complex. This made me a little nervous, so I asked at the front office about it. Apparently the coroner at the time lived there. I never knew what was in that van. Guess where my imagination went? A new meaning for "taking your work home with you."
"These were human body parts. They were medical specimens," Garland said. "There is a real demand for these body parts all over America. There is an underground market for this stuff and we are determining if we stumbled on an underground human body parts market."
I now believe in the zombie-pocalypse. Everyone thinks it's going to be violent. Nope, it's just commerce. Who'd've thought they could be so subtle?
She said human specimens are used in the educational courses she prepares.
Typically educational courses don't have names like "Appetizers 101 -- Finger Food" or "Entrees -- Head Cheese."
The trade in human body parts for continuing education is a multimillion dollar industry with virtually no federal oversight, experts told ABC News.com.
This just gets better and better...
And, finally:
A 2008 investigation into the Bodies exhibit, a travelling museum show featuring preserved cadavers in artful poses, revealed it was stocked with the illegally obtained corpses of Chinese prisoners.
Uh, like there was any doubt??? That's why I refuse to see it.
Okay, zombie-lovers and horror fans, tell me you didn't get any story ideas from this. If you did and you post it on your blog, please let me know. I'm pondering a contest that I'll run if I get at least ten comments that express interest. Why ten? Because it's silly to run a contest with three entries.
*I have to thank my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Colby for insisting that we learn to write summaries. She would likely appreciate this story, as she had a black ceramic skull on her desk and liked to wear dark colors.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
On Process and Progress (or lack thereof): That Procrastination Post I've Been Putting Off
A couple of weeks ago, I posted the Four P's of Procrastination with a promise (not one of the P's) to talk about how I'm working on overcoming it. I was on vacation and then conferencing in Texas, so the post kept getting put off. Yeah, irony. I did take notes and then lost them, but while unpacking, I found them again, so here goes...
If you'll think back (or look back), the Four P's of Procrastination were Personality, Perception of Time, Process Issues, and Perfectionism. I tried to distill the solutions into words or phrases that start with D:
1. Doing It
In working with depressed clients, I've heard so many times, "I didn't really feel like doing [some pleasurable activity], but when I did, I actually enjoyed myself." I sometimes forget that, at the end of a busy day when I'm emotionally and physically drained from work, writing is something I enjoy. Once I get into it, that is.
2. Deadlines
Before I left on vacation, I had a ton of stuff to do at work. You may have read about my realization that the need to do paperwork is actually gaseous -- it expands to fill all the time allowed. I only had so much time at work and so many things to do, so that whole time perception problem, the one where ten minutes doesn't seem like enough to get anything done, went out the window. I used every one of those minutes and was very productive.
Now I just need to figure out how to get the deadline thing going with my writing, which brings me to...
3. Death Threats
Okay, not literally. I'm thinking more about external accountability.
When I was in graduate school, I took an Adult Continuing Education creative writing class with Harriette Austin. I had to produce something, if not weekly, then every other week. It was one of the most productive writing times I've ever had. Harriette's encouragement didn't hurt, either.
Now my deadlines are mostly self-imposed, and I've found great encouragement from the #amwriting, #Writers_Life, and #writechat communities on Twitter.
4. Doucement
My mother is Belgian, and when I was eleven-ish, her oldest sister as well as my late uncle came to visit. They lived in the French-speaking part of Belgium, and my very active toddler sister's antics were greeted with concerned, "Doucement, doucement!" or "Easy, easy!"
When I'm setting goals, I tend to think big but not realistically. It's good to remind myself every once in a while that I'm only one person with 24 hours in my day, and sometimes I need to give myself a break.
The writing process is supposed to go the literal translation of Doucement, which means "sweetly." So, may all your writing go sweetly and smoothly. Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the cake and wine!
If you'll think back (or look back), the Four P's of Procrastination were Personality, Perception of Time, Process Issues, and Perfectionism. I tried to distill the solutions into words or phrases that start with D:
1. Doing It
In working with depressed clients, I've heard so many times, "I didn't really feel like doing [some pleasurable activity], but when I did, I actually enjoyed myself." I sometimes forget that, at the end of a busy day when I'm emotionally and physically drained from work, writing is something I enjoy. Once I get into it, that is.
2. Deadlines
Before I left on vacation, I had a ton of stuff to do at work. You may have read about my realization that the need to do paperwork is actually gaseous -- it expands to fill all the time allowed. I only had so much time at work and so many things to do, so that whole time perception problem, the one where ten minutes doesn't seem like enough to get anything done, went out the window. I used every one of those minutes and was very productive.
Now I just need to figure out how to get the deadline thing going with my writing, which brings me to...
3. Death Threats
Okay, not literally. I'm thinking more about external accountability.
When I was in graduate school, I took an Adult Continuing Education creative writing class with Harriette Austin. I had to produce something, if not weekly, then every other week. It was one of the most productive writing times I've ever had. Harriette's encouragement didn't hurt, either.
Now my deadlines are mostly self-imposed, and I've found great encouragement from the #amwriting, #Writers_Life, and #writechat communities on Twitter.
4. Doucement
My mother is Belgian, and when I was eleven-ish, her oldest sister as well as my late uncle came to visit. They lived in the French-speaking part of Belgium, and my very active toddler sister's antics were greeted with concerned, "Doucement, doucement!" or "Easy, easy!"
When I'm setting goals, I tend to think big but not realistically. It's good to remind myself every once in a while that I'm only one person with 24 hours in my day, and sometimes I need to give myself a break.
The writing process is supposed to go the literal translation of Doucement, which means "sweetly." So, may all your writing go sweetly and smoothly. Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the cake and wine!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
On the patio: open house delayed
Sometimes I think the party gnomes are out to get me. When Anne Tyler Lord offered to include an announcement about my new blog at her Writer's Life coffee klatch, I jumped at the chance even though I'm traveling this week. I didn't plan on the vagaries of hotel internet, so I'm like the hostess caught with a dirty or unfinished house.
So, this week will be an open patio. I'm in San Antonio, Texas, where it's really hard to find a good beer or decent glass of wine, so I'm serving cocktails. There are, of course, margaritas, regular:
Or top shelf:
Blood Orange Mojitos:
Daiquiris:
And, for munchies, chips, salsa and queso:
Or waffles (because I'm still random):
Yes, these are all pictures from my trip. I love it that Anne has all kinds of pictures of birds or coffee. Me? It's all about the food and alcoholic beverages, apparently.
Seriously, by next week, I hope to have more done. I always think I can accomplish more than I do while conferencing. I'm also going to do the second half on that procrastination post. Once I find my notes. The messy desk gnomes are stalking me, too.
So, this week will be an open patio. I'm in San Antonio, Texas, where it's really hard to find a good beer or decent glass of wine, so I'm serving cocktails. There are, of course, margaritas, regular:
Or top shelf:
Blood Orange Mojitos:
Daiquiris:
And, for munchies, chips, salsa and queso:
Or waffles (because I'm still random):
Yes, these are all pictures from my trip. I love it that Anne has all kinds of pictures of birds or coffee. Me? It's all about the food and alcoholic beverages, apparently.
Seriously, by next week, I hope to have more done. I always think I can accomplish more than I do while conferencing. I'm also going to do the second half on that procrastination post. Once I find my notes. The messy desk gnomes are stalking me, too.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Random Fiction: The Emancipation of Thomas Forrest
My mind works in random ways. I didn't mean for The Agency to kick off a mini-serial, but it appears to have. Since others requested more about Thomas/Forrest and Raven, and it's fascinating to have a character with enough independence to try and change his own name, I felt they deserved a little more air time. I'm posting it on Tuesday since it's a little long for a Friday Flash. You can find other serials by searching the #TuesdaySerial hashtag on Twitter.
The Emancipation of Thomas Forrest
Forrest hated the smell of stale coffee. No matter how many times he made a fresh pot for the waiting room during the day, the smell still lingered, and he could almost see the brown fog gathered in the corner. If he had even just a little bit of magic, he could dissipate it or change it – maybe to the smell of pancakes, which he loved – but as it was, he just had to live with the odor and the fact that he'd never rise above his status of clerical minion. He held his breath, extracted the pot and basket, and took them to the break room to be washed.
"Forrest!" Jeanine's voice was like… He paused to come up with the right analogy. It changed daily. Today, her screeching reminded him of tires on pavement in the Concrete Realm, the sound of desperate braking just before the crunch of collision.
"Yes, Mistress?"
"Where are you?"
"Break room."
The break room of the Minion Placement Agency had a dimensional fault in the center. He could walk through it with no difficulty except his hair literally stood on end from the energy for a few minutes. It zapped people and creatures with magical abilities to random places, so Jeanine made him cross it to get to the sink. Several times a day. Sometimes he thought he would be able to zap her, but the energy never stuck around long. It made the rent on the place cheap, but damned inconvenient for him. As a minion himself, though, he couldn't complain.
She smiled when she saw his hair on end.
"Time to trim your eyebrows. You look like a Marx Brother."
"Yes, Mistress."
"I'm going back to the castle. Lock up here after you clean up. Pick up a pizza from Gargoyli's on the way home, pepperoni and pineapple with extra cheese."
He bowed, and she disappeared. He made sure the waiting room was neat and completed the janitorial tasks for the evening. The doorknob shocked him when he went to lock the door to the back alley, and he sighed. He bet she left that little present for him.
"Mr. Forrest?"
He jumped and whirled around, the key held out like a wand. Not like he had any magic to defend himself, but he'd bluff for as long as he could. Then he recognized the black feather cloak, somber face, and black hair and lipstick of one of the day's earlier clients.
"Mr. Raven, you startled me."
"I apologize." The tall man fell into step with Forrest. "I have a proposition for you."
"Thanks, but I'm not that kind of minion. I can direct you to Elvira's Pet Store if you're looking for—"
Mr. Raven shook his head. "Not that type of proposition. I sense in you a great talent, and I would like to take you on as my minion."
Forrest studied the man more closely. That black lipstick and nail polish really needed to go, but otherwise, he could pass for a villain that others would take seriously.
"I don't have any talent worth mentioning other than super-organization," Forrest said. "And Jeanine got me cheap and doesn't let her bargains go easily. You should've seen the ratty recliner she kept for decades in the waiting room!"
Before he could give any other examples, his skin tingled, and his lower abdomen spasmed. He doubled over, and Raven bent to help him. A lightning bolt flashed over their heads.
"There you are, Raven!"
Forrest couldn't see much from his kneeling position, but he saw glittery boots approach from the end of the alley.
"Sinestra!" Raven stood and held his hands out in front of him. "What are you doing here?"
"Coming after you, my love! I knew I smelled your magic when I stopped by this pathetic little agency this afternoon."
Forrest raised his head to see the 3:00 client he'd placed a nice little pixie with earlier that day. Scratch the pixie, he thought. This lady needed something with more oomph!
"I got a restraining order against you," Raven said. "By order of, ah…"
"Magic Judiciary five-oh-one-three," Forrest gasped, remembering the clerical reference number of the magical restraining orders from his minion continuing education course the previous spring. He could feel the energy gathering around them.
"Right, that." Raven crossed his arms. "I hereby banish you by order of the Magic Judiciary 5013 to the Far Reaches of Beyond!"
Forrest raised his eyebrows when she actually disappeared. His stomach stopped dancing, and he staggered to his feet.
"Sorry about that," he said.
"Nonsense!" Raven gave his shoulder a hearty squeeze. "If you hadn't sensed her magic before she appeared, she would have knocked my head off with that lightning bolt! See? I knew you had talent! Not everyone can sense power like the gathering clouds of a storm."
"Is that what those stomach cramps and skin tingles were?"
"Exactly! Come, now. Let's get some dinner and figure out how to emancipate you."
They picked up the pizza and took the Express Path to Jeanine's castle.
She frowned when they walked into the Great Room. She sat in her favorite red velvet chair by the fire, her feet up on a matching ottoman, and a glass of wine in her hand. "Forrest! How many times have I told you not to bring work back with you?"
"I'm here for a different purpose, Madam." Mr. Raven bowed. "I would like to take your minion."
Jeanine looked more surprised than angry. Her red lips formed a perfect oval for a moment, and then she said, "Whatever for? He has no magical talent, and he's useless in a laboratory."
"I am opening a restaurant and need a general manager."
Forrest noticed that he didn't say anything about that other talent.
"No dice." She waved him away. "I need him for the business."
"What if I were to make you a generous offer for him, say, five bars of gold?"
Her lip circle returned and stretched into an oval. "Five bars?"
Raven nodded. Forrest noted the man was full of surprises.
"Fine." Jeanine jumped to her feet and shook Raven's hand. Before Forrest could register what had happened, he and Raven stood outside. He felt like he had just been released from a tight vest and could breathe fully.
"What just happened?"
"I emancipated you."
Forrest went to bow to Raven, but the other man stopped him.
"I work from loyalty, not fear. This is not a Concrete Realm corporation, so you're an employee, not a minion."
"Thank you."
"What do you choose for your name?"
"I've always liked Thomas." Forrest grinned. "It's what I call myself in my head. Seems more normal."
"Then let us be on our way, Thomas Forrest. We have work to do, and you will find I have many enemies. I need a talent such as yours to know when a threat is real."
"What kind of restaurant are we opening?"
"A public house, also known as a pub. I was going to open a coffee shop, but for one small detail: I cannot stand the smell."
The Emancipation of Thomas Forrest
Forrest hated the smell of stale coffee. No matter how many times he made a fresh pot for the waiting room during the day, the smell still lingered, and he could almost see the brown fog gathered in the corner. If he had even just a little bit of magic, he could dissipate it or change it – maybe to the smell of pancakes, which he loved – but as it was, he just had to live with the odor and the fact that he'd never rise above his status of clerical minion. He held his breath, extracted the pot and basket, and took them to the break room to be washed.
"Forrest!" Jeanine's voice was like… He paused to come up with the right analogy. It changed daily. Today, her screeching reminded him of tires on pavement in the Concrete Realm, the sound of desperate braking just before the crunch of collision.
"Yes, Mistress?"
"Where are you?"
"Break room."
The break room of the Minion Placement Agency had a dimensional fault in the center. He could walk through it with no difficulty except his hair literally stood on end from the energy for a few minutes. It zapped people and creatures with magical abilities to random places, so Jeanine made him cross it to get to the sink. Several times a day. Sometimes he thought he would be able to zap her, but the energy never stuck around long. It made the rent on the place cheap, but damned inconvenient for him. As a minion himself, though, he couldn't complain.
She smiled when she saw his hair on end.
"Time to trim your eyebrows. You look like a Marx Brother."
"Yes, Mistress."
"I'm going back to the castle. Lock up here after you clean up. Pick up a pizza from Gargoyli's on the way home, pepperoni and pineapple with extra cheese."
He bowed, and she disappeared. He made sure the waiting room was neat and completed the janitorial tasks for the evening. The doorknob shocked him when he went to lock the door to the back alley, and he sighed. He bet she left that little present for him.
"Mr. Forrest?"
He jumped and whirled around, the key held out like a wand. Not like he had any magic to defend himself, but he'd bluff for as long as he could. Then he recognized the black feather cloak, somber face, and black hair and lipstick of one of the day's earlier clients.
"Mr. Raven, you startled me."
"I apologize." The tall man fell into step with Forrest. "I have a proposition for you."
"Thanks, but I'm not that kind of minion. I can direct you to Elvira's Pet Store if you're looking for—"
Mr. Raven shook his head. "Not that type of proposition. I sense in you a great talent, and I would like to take you on as my minion."
Forrest studied the man more closely. That black lipstick and nail polish really needed to go, but otherwise, he could pass for a villain that others would take seriously.
"I don't have any talent worth mentioning other than super-organization," Forrest said. "And Jeanine got me cheap and doesn't let her bargains go easily. You should've seen the ratty recliner she kept for decades in the waiting room!"
Before he could give any other examples, his skin tingled, and his lower abdomen spasmed. He doubled over, and Raven bent to help him. A lightning bolt flashed over their heads.
"There you are, Raven!"
Forrest couldn't see much from his kneeling position, but he saw glittery boots approach from the end of the alley.
"Sinestra!" Raven stood and held his hands out in front of him. "What are you doing here?"
"Coming after you, my love! I knew I smelled your magic when I stopped by this pathetic little agency this afternoon."
Forrest raised his head to see the 3:00 client he'd placed a nice little pixie with earlier that day. Scratch the pixie, he thought. This lady needed something with more oomph!
"I got a restraining order against you," Raven said. "By order of, ah…"
"Magic Judiciary five-oh-one-three," Forrest gasped, remembering the clerical reference number of the magical restraining orders from his minion continuing education course the previous spring. He could feel the energy gathering around them.
"Right, that." Raven crossed his arms. "I hereby banish you by order of the Magic Judiciary 5013 to the Far Reaches of Beyond!"
Forrest raised his eyebrows when she actually disappeared. His stomach stopped dancing, and he staggered to his feet.
"Sorry about that," he said.
"Nonsense!" Raven gave his shoulder a hearty squeeze. "If you hadn't sensed her magic before she appeared, she would have knocked my head off with that lightning bolt! See? I knew you had talent! Not everyone can sense power like the gathering clouds of a storm."
"Is that what those stomach cramps and skin tingles were?"
"Exactly! Come, now. Let's get some dinner and figure out how to emancipate you."
They picked up the pizza and took the Express Path to Jeanine's castle.
She frowned when they walked into the Great Room. She sat in her favorite red velvet chair by the fire, her feet up on a matching ottoman, and a glass of wine in her hand. "Forrest! How many times have I told you not to bring work back with you?"
"I'm here for a different purpose, Madam." Mr. Raven bowed. "I would like to take your minion."
Jeanine looked more surprised than angry. Her red lips formed a perfect oval for a moment, and then she said, "Whatever for? He has no magical talent, and he's useless in a laboratory."
"I am opening a restaurant and need a general manager."
Forrest noticed that he didn't say anything about that other talent.
"No dice." She waved him away. "I need him for the business."
"What if I were to make you a generous offer for him, say, five bars of gold?"
Her lip circle returned and stretched into an oval. "Five bars?"
Raven nodded. Forrest noted the man was full of surprises.
"Fine." Jeanine jumped to her feet and shook Raven's hand. Before Forrest could register what had happened, he and Raven stood outside. He felt like he had just been released from a tight vest and could breathe fully.
"What just happened?"
"I emancipated you."
Forrest went to bow to Raven, but the other man stopped him.
"I work from loyalty, not fear. This is not a Concrete Realm corporation, so you're an employee, not a minion."
"Thank you."
"What do you choose for your name?"
"I've always liked Thomas." Forrest grinned. "It's what I call myself in my head. Seems more normal."
"Then let us be on our way, Thomas Forrest. We have work to do, and you will find I have many enemies. I need a talent such as yours to know when a threat is real."
"What kind of restaurant are we opening?"
"A public house, also known as a pub. I was going to open a coffee shop, but for one small detail: I cannot stand the smell."
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