Thought for the Day
Traveling Thought Theory and Story Ideas
I've been working on a new project that's based on Shadow People, the current hot topic on the paranormal message board forums. It hasn't 'really' been done before - Dean Koontz touched on the subject in his book 'Odd Thomas' and I've seen references in other fiction works here and there, but never a full novel done on it.
So, as I happily began scribbling down the outline and first chapter for my as-yet untitled novel, I then went to one of my favorite writer's web sites and found another guy writing a novel on the same damn subject! It was so close to my story's premise that it gave me the chills. I sent him a note that cursed him for being psychic. Not only that, his story was better written than mine. He gave his shadow people distinct 'personalities' while mine were little more than mysterious dark wisps that take human form.
So, how do ideas spread so damn quickly? Does thought travel?
How do some people seem to get a grip on a story idea that you thought you had first dibs on?
Something weird's going on.
I still have a unique angle on shadow people that he's not using, and it's so top-secret that I won't mention it here (if by the incredibly slim chance that someone actually reads these things). I KNOW that no one else is currently using my angle. I know because I searched the topic on the net, and maybe only five sites turned up that even mentioned it. It's brand-spanking new and it's all MINE.
I began work on the first draft yesterday while going camping near Marble Canyon with some Native American friends of mine. I brought 'Precious' (my laptop) and while everyone hiked, fished and generally enjoyed themselves by the river, I sat on a lonely, isolated clifftop and banged out the first chapter to the aforementioned novel. I typed until my battery went dead, which was just under three hours. Just being out there in the middle of nowhere, with the peaceful Vermilion Cliffs to look at, I found that my head cleared and I was able to write effectively.
Little did I know, as I blew through that first chapter, a guy in his twenties, living somewhere in Vancouver, B.C. typed his own first chapter. He posted his online for critique, where I saw it this evening. After I gasped and nearly fainted from deja vu, I recovered and then told him I was working on a similar story and wanted to know where his was going so that we didn't write twin novels. He gave me a couple of hints, and they're very similar in plot, so I'm changing the focus of mine and the shadowpeople will be a 'side effect' of something else that's going on in the story.
The above begs the question: how the HELL does this happen?
My dear, departed Dad once told me that he believed thoughts can travel. A very metaphysically-minded person, he surmised that whether we're aware of it or not, human minds are tuned into basically the same wavelength, like a sort of 'hive-mind.' This was what he attributed to the fact that technological advances seem to occur simultaneously in two separate countries at the same time, despite secrecy and extreme steps taken to protect the 'idea.' For instance, while Henry Ford was building the first automobile assembly line, the French were beta-testing their first assembly line across the Pond. Ford beat them to the finish line, though, and he won credit for doing it 'first.'
Was Dad (that old, crusty hippie) right?
I didn't buy it when he explained it to me all those years ago, but I'm beginning to now, especially after seeing Proudfoot's first chapter.
Maybe I should put foil over my head (like the kids and their uncle did in 'Signs') just to block out the 'hive-mind' and keep people from plucking my story ideas out of thin air.
I'm being sarcastic, of course.
Or am I?
A chronicle of my adventures in the business of writing and publishing.
What the heck IS this?
This is a compilation of my blogger & journal entries I've made since approximately 2004, mostly concerning my writing and other what-nots and what-ifs. I have 4 other blogs which I'm going to combine with this one, so to those who know me, bear with me.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Friday, March 12, 2004
Thought for the Day
Procrastination
Yes, I'm guilty.
I've been avoiding any serious writing work for days on end.
How do I get out of this funk I'm in? And it ain't too funky, neither.
There's many different reasons for it: writer's block, tiredness, headache, not to mention staring at a computer at work for eight hours and then not wanting to stare at one even more once I get home. Focusing on what I want to do is another problem.
Focus, or lack thereof, is something I've been really struggling with lately. Being an ADD (attention deficit disorder) person, I have trouble with it anyway. Lately, though, it's been very hard to get my head together long enough to concentrate on writing stories.
Today, while at lunch with my coworker (and supposed boss), the subject of 'what Jill's been up to lately' came up, and I mentioned my writing. There are undercurrents in the usual river of office politics these days, and I am being very careful with what I say and do as a result.
She asked the question: " So Jill, would you ever like to just quit doing your job and do nothing but sit down and write for as long as you'd like?"
Of course I replied, "Yes." But then I followed that with, "But I have to eat and pay bills, too."
She (my boss/coworker) went to ask me about what sort of writing projects I'm working on, etc. The whole conversation felt like she was 'fishing' for something. Fishing for what, I have no idea. Maybe she's got plans to have me fired, and wants to have some sort of 'peace of mind' after doing so. I'm a threat to her authority, and we both know it. But what does my writing have to do with anything?
Maybe she finds comfort in the idea that I would be then 'free' to do as I wanted without the overtaxing responsibility that my job brings. I literally run a newspaper, at least in the background. There isn't one aspect of the newspaper biz that I don't have my sticky little fingers in, and I've had almost a decade to spread those tendrils far and wide. I'm on a first-name basis with all the big-wigs from Corporate, and on their last site visit, I was the one and only person that they shook hands with. Little ol' me.
The tension is rising at work, and I feel like I'm in a battle for my professional life. Certain people are working very hard to make my job more difficult, and this past Monday, I totally f*cked up. I lost $600.00 worth of advertising for the company, all due to a computer glitch. Of course, 'she' was there to tell me, 'Don't worry about it. Six hundred dollars is small potatoes. And besides, it isn't like you make these sort of mistakes all the time.'
Yeah, that really helps. I'm a perfectionist, and any error is absolutely intolerable. She knows this, so her comment carried the effect of her sticking a knife in between my ribs and twisting it.
So that's what has been on my mind for the last few days. Whisperings that they're trying to find someone to replace me, or else make my position redundant so that they can cut me loose - just to save a couple of bucks on the hour. Sure, I'm to the point where I hate my job, but only because people I work with are making it that way. I don't need to hear the bullsh*t, the back-biting and the snide little comments. I just want to go to work and do my damned job.
Still, the thought of walking away from it and concentrating on my writing alone is intriguing. I just financed a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee, though, and I can't afford to quit now.
So, with these worries on my brain, I can't focus long enough to write anything decent. I've been fighting with my husband on a daily basis as well. He doesn't like it when I sit down to write, because he has to be the center of attention all the time. He's actually jealous of my laptop computer. Yet, he's the one who bought it for me. Go figure...
Thankfully, tomorrow's Saturday and everyone that's been stuffing their crap into the forefront of my mind will be out of the picture for a few hours, anyway. Maybe I might get something done.
If I'm not too tired, that is.
Procrastination
Yes, I'm guilty.
I've been avoiding any serious writing work for days on end.
How do I get out of this funk I'm in? And it ain't too funky, neither.
There's many different reasons for it: writer's block, tiredness, headache, not to mention staring at a computer at work for eight hours and then not wanting to stare at one even more once I get home. Focusing on what I want to do is another problem.
Focus, or lack thereof, is something I've been really struggling with lately. Being an ADD (attention deficit disorder) person, I have trouble with it anyway. Lately, though, it's been very hard to get my head together long enough to concentrate on writing stories.
Today, while at lunch with my coworker (and supposed boss), the subject of 'what Jill's been up to lately' came up, and I mentioned my writing. There are undercurrents in the usual river of office politics these days, and I am being very careful with what I say and do as a result.
She asked the question: " So Jill, would you ever like to just quit doing your job and do nothing but sit down and write for as long as you'd like?"
Of course I replied, "Yes." But then I followed that with, "But I have to eat and pay bills, too."
She (my boss/coworker) went to ask me about what sort of writing projects I'm working on, etc. The whole conversation felt like she was 'fishing' for something. Fishing for what, I have no idea. Maybe she's got plans to have me fired, and wants to have some sort of 'peace of mind' after doing so. I'm a threat to her authority, and we both know it. But what does my writing have to do with anything?
Maybe she finds comfort in the idea that I would be then 'free' to do as I wanted without the overtaxing responsibility that my job brings. I literally run a newspaper, at least in the background. There isn't one aspect of the newspaper biz that I don't have my sticky little fingers in, and I've had almost a decade to spread those tendrils far and wide. I'm on a first-name basis with all the big-wigs from Corporate, and on their last site visit, I was the one and only person that they shook hands with. Little ol' me.
The tension is rising at work, and I feel like I'm in a battle for my professional life. Certain people are working very hard to make my job more difficult, and this past Monday, I totally f*cked up. I lost $600.00 worth of advertising for the company, all due to a computer glitch. Of course, 'she' was there to tell me, 'Don't worry about it. Six hundred dollars is small potatoes. And besides, it isn't like you make these sort of mistakes all the time.'
Yeah, that really helps. I'm a perfectionist, and any error is absolutely intolerable. She knows this, so her comment carried the effect of her sticking a knife in between my ribs and twisting it.
So that's what has been on my mind for the last few days. Whisperings that they're trying to find someone to replace me, or else make my position redundant so that they can cut me loose - just to save a couple of bucks on the hour. Sure, I'm to the point where I hate my job, but only because people I work with are making it that way. I don't need to hear the bullsh*t, the back-biting and the snide little comments. I just want to go to work and do my damned job.
Still, the thought of walking away from it and concentrating on my writing alone is intriguing. I just financed a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee, though, and I can't afford to quit now.
So, with these worries on my brain, I can't focus long enough to write anything decent. I've been fighting with my husband on a daily basis as well. He doesn't like it when I sit down to write, because he has to be the center of attention all the time. He's actually jealous of my laptop computer. Yet, he's the one who bought it for me. Go figure...
Thankfully, tomorrow's Saturday and everyone that's been stuffing their crap into the forefront of my mind will be out of the picture for a few hours, anyway. Maybe I might get something done.
If I'm not too tired, that is.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Thought for the Day
Tossing Stories to the Wind
The story in the previous post, 'Sacrificial Lamb,' received decent reviews for the most part. Problems that were pointed out had to do with the mother choosing to hide rather than facing up to her ex-boyfriend, Bruce. But, that's what the story was about.
When I try to write a story that people can 'understand,' I end up with boring, unreadable crap. But, when I tried to push the boundaries a bit, what I write comes off as unbelievable. Oddly enough, the female responders on the crit boards loved it and seemed to understand what I was trying to do with the story. Male readers, on the other hand, found it suspenseful, but totally unbelievable. One guy suggested that I make Annie an alcoholic or a crack addict, which would go a long way to explaining her behavior. I guess the world STILL isn't ready yet for stories based on Battered Woman syndrome.
Oh well. Can't win 'em all.
There's a contest I found recently that's offering a $10,000 prize and a book contract (plus royalties) to the winner. Basically, they want mysteries - all sorts of them. The best one gets published and a possible deal to publish more books after that, if it's well-received. I'm going to dust off 'Cold January Mourning' and send it in. The requirements are that you must have never been published before (which I can adhere to quite nicely), and it has to be a definite mystery genre novel. I'm also thinking of sending in 'Daughter Jones,' which is a mystery set in the early 1800's, and it might do, too. I didn't see anything in the rules about a limit on submissions. Maybe I'll submit under five different pseudonyms.
In the meantime, I'm writing short stories like crazy, which is nice because at least I'm writing again. For a long while there, I couldn't focus long enough to type an entire paragraph, let alone a short story. So, pretty much any story I post online is toast - no one will pay me for them if I post them on the internet. I'm tossing them into the wind, right and left. All the while, there's that damn nagging little voice that says, "You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough. Everything you write is complete crap."
Am I good enough?
I get lovely compliments from people who don't know how to write. It's the published writers I know that eat me alive. I'm even starting to get compliments from them, though. If I can please other writers, then the last hurdle is pleasing a publisher.
Publishers can live with a few errors in an MS, but they need you to have a cohesive, entertaining story. Story is what sells books, and how much money they have the potential to make is what's important. Sure, I could seriously use that ten grand from that mystery novel contest, and by God, I'm going to submit. I probably won't win, though, unless I write something so smashing that they can't put it down.
Thing is, I need a unique protagonist, an even more unique antagonist and a plot loaded with more twists and turns than a snake in a blender. I can do it, I think. I'll storyboard something tonight, and also take a good hard look at what I've already got. "Cold January Mourning" was already rejected once - for being way too long. When I submitted it, it was close to 180,000 words. It has to be roughly half that in word count. No one's going to touch a first-timer with a monster-sized MS. 85 - 90 thousand is what they're looking for. Maybe if I can cut it down and only leave the core elements to the story, they might find it worth publishing.
Then again, the deadline's July 1st of this year, and I KNOW I can bang out 90,000 words in that amount of time. I might just start a new one altogether. Hell, I can write 30,000 words in less than 2 weeks. Maybe if I blow through the first draft a la NaNoWriMo, then spend two months polishing and cutting it, I might actually have something.
Novel writing isn't easy. You have to have your manuscript literally ready to scan and print when you send it in to a publisher. This contest I'm talking about is put out by Warner Books, so it's not a cheezy, fly-by-night thing flung out there by a no-name publisher. This is the real deal. Whatever I send them has to be The Sh*t.
So, I guess it's time to quit fooling around and tossing stories to the wind. Ever since my last rejection, I've been afraid of another. Besides, this is just a contest, right?
Tossing Stories to the Wind
The story in the previous post, 'Sacrificial Lamb,' received decent reviews for the most part. Problems that were pointed out had to do with the mother choosing to hide rather than facing up to her ex-boyfriend, Bruce. But, that's what the story was about.
When I try to write a story that people can 'understand,' I end up with boring, unreadable crap. But, when I tried to push the boundaries a bit, what I write comes off as unbelievable. Oddly enough, the female responders on the crit boards loved it and seemed to understand what I was trying to do with the story. Male readers, on the other hand, found it suspenseful, but totally unbelievable. One guy suggested that I make Annie an alcoholic or a crack addict, which would go a long way to explaining her behavior. I guess the world STILL isn't ready yet for stories based on Battered Woman syndrome.
Oh well. Can't win 'em all.
There's a contest I found recently that's offering a $10,000 prize and a book contract (plus royalties) to the winner. Basically, they want mysteries - all sorts of them. The best one gets published and a possible deal to publish more books after that, if it's well-received. I'm going to dust off 'Cold January Mourning' and send it in. The requirements are that you must have never been published before (which I can adhere to quite nicely), and it has to be a definite mystery genre novel. I'm also thinking of sending in 'Daughter Jones,' which is a mystery set in the early 1800's, and it might do, too. I didn't see anything in the rules about a limit on submissions. Maybe I'll submit under five different pseudonyms.
In the meantime, I'm writing short stories like crazy, which is nice because at least I'm writing again. For a long while there, I couldn't focus long enough to type an entire paragraph, let alone a short story. So, pretty much any story I post online is toast - no one will pay me for them if I post them on the internet. I'm tossing them into the wind, right and left. All the while, there's that damn nagging little voice that says, "You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough. Everything you write is complete crap."
Am I good enough?
I get lovely compliments from people who don't know how to write. It's the published writers I know that eat me alive. I'm even starting to get compliments from them, though. If I can please other writers, then the last hurdle is pleasing a publisher.
Publishers can live with a few errors in an MS, but they need you to have a cohesive, entertaining story. Story is what sells books, and how much money they have the potential to make is what's important. Sure, I could seriously use that ten grand from that mystery novel contest, and by God, I'm going to submit. I probably won't win, though, unless I write something so smashing that they can't put it down.
Thing is, I need a unique protagonist, an even more unique antagonist and a plot loaded with more twists and turns than a snake in a blender. I can do it, I think. I'll storyboard something tonight, and also take a good hard look at what I've already got. "Cold January Mourning" was already rejected once - for being way too long. When I submitted it, it was close to 180,000 words. It has to be roughly half that in word count. No one's going to touch a first-timer with a monster-sized MS. 85 - 90 thousand is what they're looking for. Maybe if I can cut it down and only leave the core elements to the story, they might find it worth publishing.
Then again, the deadline's July 1st of this year, and I KNOW I can bang out 90,000 words in that amount of time. I might just start a new one altogether. Hell, I can write 30,000 words in less than 2 weeks. Maybe if I blow through the first draft a la NaNoWriMo, then spend two months polishing and cutting it, I might actually have something.
Novel writing isn't easy. You have to have your manuscript literally ready to scan and print when you send it in to a publisher. This contest I'm talking about is put out by Warner Books, so it's not a cheezy, fly-by-night thing flung out there by a no-name publisher. This is the real deal. Whatever I send them has to be The Sh*t.
So, I guess it's time to quit fooling around and tossing stories to the wind. Ever since my last rejection, I've been afraid of another. Besides, this is just a contest, right?
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Sacrificial Lamb
A short story by Jillian S. Clayton
2500 words
Dessa watched the tiny lizard scamper across the hot sand. When it stopped and craned its neck to look around, she touched it with a stick, and it jumped. A tinkling crash of broken glass came from the house behind her. She flinched, but didn't look - didn't dare. Bruce had come home, and he was looking for her mother. Whenever he appeared in their lives, he broke things. Last time, at their house in Tucson, he'd thrown the TV set through the window and it shattered as it rolled all the way to the curb. He'd broken her mother's jaw then, too. He was inside right now, breaking things.
Why does he keep coming back, God? Why can't he just go away and stay gone?
She asked Him questions all the time, but He never seemed to find the time to answer. She figured that sooner or later she'd wise up and quit asking.
The lizard flicked its tail and darted down into a gopher hole. She wished she could do the same.
The screen door flew open and banged against the wall, and this time, she turned to look. Bruce stood there, his fat belly hanging out from under his T-shirt, his face dark with exhaustion. Sweat dripped from his curly brown hair. He lifted his head and glared at her with hooded eyes.
"Hey, Dess, come over here," he said, and sat down on the top step of the porch. It creaked beneath his weight. "Tell me where Annie is."
Dessa shook her head and backed up a few steps. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, even though he was several feet away. "Mom's gone shopping," she lied, "she'll be back soon."
He gave her a too-wide smile and waved at her to come closer. "Okay then. Come over here and talk to your Uncle Brucie. I won't bite, I promise."
She glanced at the house and then away, hoping he didn't notice. Somewhere beneath it, her mother hid in a crawlspace with the snakes and spiders. Dessa knew that her mother wouldn't come out, even if one of the nasty things crawled across her and sank its fangs. Bruce hurt her real bad last time he'd shown up. Dessa felt the cold burn of hatred at the memory of Mom's face when she'd come home from the hospital. There were still scars.
Maybe this time, if the two of them kept their cool, he'd get bored and leave. So far, he'd never laid a hand on Dessa. She hoped that he wouldn't this time, either.
She stepped forward, taking her time and taking care to keep her face blank. When she drew in close to the porch, his arm snaked out and his grimy hand closed around her wrist.
"So, how have you been?" He pulled her to him and squeezed her tight. She fought the urge to struggle. His armpits were warm and wet. Holding her breath, she focused on his new blue Ford pickup and wished he'd climb into it and hit the road. She found herself wishing for a lot of things lately.
Too bad God doesn't pay attention to wishes.
"Ain't you gonna answer me?" His ugly, gap-toothed grin disappeared and he released her from the bear hug, but held on to her arm. "It's not good to disrespect your elders."
"I'm not being disrespectful," she said, keeping her voice even.
He jerked her arm and a bolt of pain shot through her shoulder. There was a first time for everything. "So, what does Annie need from the store so badly that she'd leave a runt like you home by yourself?"
Dessa winced at the blossoming pain. "Just groceries and stuff. It-it's my birthday tomorrow and she was gonna get me a present. I couldn't go because she didn't want me to see it." Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Mrs. Garcia from the house across the way step out onto her porch and stare at them for a moment.
Bruce noticed her, too. "What the f**k are you lookin' at? Can't a man talk to his kid in peace?"
I ain't your damn kid. She tried to twist out of his grip. He held firm.
The old woman frowned and went back inside, murmuring to herself. The screen door snapped shut behind her. Somewhere inside Mrs. Garcia's house, her pet Chihuahua barked its head off.
"That's what I thought," he said and returned his attention to Dessa. "It's your birthday, huh? How old are you gonna be?" His fingers sank into her arm.
"Twelve," she said. It wasn't that much of a stretch. Her birthday had come and gone three weeks ago. "Mom said she's getting me a nice present."
"Uh-huh." Bruce didn't seem to be buying it. But then he let her go and stood up, brushing the dust from his grimy jeans. "I'm going to find some place around here that'll sell me a drink. Maybe I'll check out the grocery stores, too, while I'm at it. Tell Annie I'll be back."
She nodded and felt her chin quiver. He winked at her and lumbered off toward his truck. With a sigh of relief, she watched him climb in and take off down the rutted dirt road, tires kicking up plumes of dust.
Before long, she heard the whisper of footsteps in the sand. Dessa turned and looked up at her mother. "He's gone."
Her mother put hand to her own hollow, tanned cheek; her long thin fingers traced a ghost of a scar there. "I'm sorry, Pumpkin," she said, her voice ragged with tears. "I hated to do this to you, but if we'd both have crawled under the house, he'd have just kept
looking until he found us."
"I know, Mom," she replied. Her shoulder throbbed. "But he's coming back. You heard him. We have to make him go away for good this time."
"I'll think of something, don't worry."
****
Annie paced back and forth by the kitchen window. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in bold slashes of orange and red. She paused to lower the blind and turned to look at Dessa. Her daughter sat perfectly still beside the kitchen table, studying a rip in the stained linoleum floor.
"Look," she said, after a few moments of silence passed, "here's what we're gonna do. If he stays gone 'til full dark, then we can hike into town without him seeing us. I wish I had a car, but I don't. We'll be okay though, as long as we follow the service road."
"But Mom, the rattlesnakes come out after dark." Dessa's face paled.
A headache began to brew in the back of Annie's skull. They had no
choice. Dessa would have to do as she was told, and no arguing this time. "I've got eighty dollars. That's enough to get us a bus ticket out of this hell-pit and on to California. You'd like California, Pumpkin. Lots of white sandy beaches, fresh air and plenty of nice people. Arizona hasn't been very good to us, you know that."
Dessa groaned and buried her face in her hands. "When do we stop running?"
"Today," Annie said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She went to Dessa and ruffled her daughter's short blond hair. "When we get on that bus, it will be for the last time. I promise." She winced at the sound of her own words. How many times had she said `I promise?' No matter where they went, Bruce always found them and they always had to leave. Annie had been forced to break more promises than she could count. "Go pack your things. One bag only. Get a move on."
When Dessa stomped off to the bedroom, Annie leaned against the kitchen sink and splashed cool water into her face. It felt like it was on fire, and she guessed she was running another fever. Drying herself off with a paper towel, she took one last look around the room.
A few plastic plates sat in the dish drainer, and the battered refrigerator hummed, empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. For a moment, the gray walls seemed to ripple and recede. She reached for the countertop to steady herself.
Annie couldn't believe they had to leave yet another place that they'd tried to make their own. Sure, the house was a mouse ridden *beep* hole, but it was theirs. Maybe she could still make the payments to Mrs. Garcia once they reached Los Angeles. Maybe one day, if she survived her illness, they could come back, long after Bruce had forgotten all about them. It was a stupid, long-shot of a wish, but it served to keep her grief at bay. She tossed the crumpled paper towel into the trash can and went to grab some clothes, her photo album and a few other things light enough to carry.
Dessa tossed her pink duffel bag onto the couch and sat down beside it. "It's getting dark," she said.
Annie nodded and went to the window. She pushed up a slat on the mini-blind and peered out into the purple haze of evening. Off in the west, beyond the jagged spine of the Superstition Mountains, brief flashes of lightning lit up the sky. Her gaze went from there to the empty road beyond Mrs. Garcia's squat blue trailer and found a set of rapidly approaching headlights.
"Sh*t. He's coming," she said. "Let's go. Now!"
Dessa stood, shoved her hands into her pockets and refused to move."Go hide in the crawlspace, Mom. He won't think to look there. I'll tell him you're not back yet."
"No! You can't, Pumpkin. He won't believe you," Annie said. Panic rushed through her. Grabbing her daughter's arm, Annie tried to pull her towards the kitchen door. Dessa cried out and snatched her arm away.
"Go on and hide. I'll tell him you're not here!"
Annie recoiled at the hard, defiant glare in her daughter's eyes. It reminded her a lot of...of Bruce.
"I'll be right outside. If he tries anything, you run. Hear me? You run." She backed away and then turned at the sound of truck tires plowing through the sand outside. She shook her head. "It's too late now."
"Just go," Dessa said, tears brimming. "God will look after us."
Annie sobbed and dashed to the bedroom, pushed open the window and climbed out into the quiet desert night. Dropping to her knees, she felt around for the opening into the crawlspace. For a moment, she paused, remembering her bag of clothes on the bed.
Why not just put up a big, arrow-shaped sign saying 'she went thataway.'
She got up and hurried back to the window. Inside, she saw Dessa bending to shove the bag under Annie's bed. The house shook as Bruce beat on the front door. Her daughter hurried away to the front of the house to answer the door. Annie ducked and went back to the loose piece of wooden siding that hid the way into the crawlspace. Lifting it aside, she wedged herself into the hole under the house. Warm sand grated her knees and forearms and the smell of musty wood crept intoher nose. Above her, the floor thudded as Bruce entered the house.
She braced her feet against a mound of sandy dirt beside the flap. If Bruce poked his head in, she might be able to buy a couple seconds if she kicked some dust into his face. With each passing second, she hated herself more and more.
If Bruce hurts her, I'll... She closed her eyes.
I will what? I'm too sick and weak. There's not a damn thing I could do.
An inner voice - her former, non-sick self, maybe - spoke up in reply. You could stand up to him. Call the police. Do something!
Been there, tried that, and it didn’t work. Besides, I've got cancer, she thought back, arguing with it. I can't fight it or Bruce anymore. I'm so very tired...
Sure, that's a good excuse. Poor, poor Annie... More excuses than guts.
Another voice - Bruce's - filled the house. She could hear him clearly through the floorboards. "Bullsh*t! I know she's here. Where is she?"
Dessa's frail reply came. "She's not back yet. Maybe we'd better call the police so they can look for her."
God, don't say that, Dessa, Annie pleaded. A few seconds of silence passed.
"Quit playing games, Kid. Where's Annie?" His footsteps thundered overhead. He was in the bedroom. Did she forget to close the window? Her mind raced, trying to remember.
"She's gotta be outside somewhere," Bruce said. His footsteps receded as he apparently headed for the kitchen door that led out into their empty back yard. Dessa was wrong. Bruce wasn't stupid. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there would be only one place to look.
Annie froze, her body so tense that her back arched. Any second now, and it will all be over. He'll do it this time. She prayed that Mrs. Garcia would get suspicious and call the Sheriff.
Too late, the voice said. By the time the Law shows up, you’ll both be dead. This is what you get for not using your brains and using Mrs. Garcia's phone.
Would Bruce really do it this time? Probably. He’d been pretty ticked off by the latest restraining order. She might as well have tried to stop a speeding freight train by stepping in front of it.
"No!" Dessa cried. She was close by, moving around outside the flap that hid the crawlspace. "You leave her alone!"
Thick fingers appeared in the crack between the boards, prying at the siding. Bruce had found Annie's hidey-hole.
She couldn't move. Hot tears spilled down her cheek and plopped into the dirt beside her head.
"You lied to me, Kid," Bruce said.
"Someone help us," Dessa screamed. "Mrs. Garcia!"
"Shut up," he roared. The fingers disappeared from the crack. A scuffle followed, and Annie rolled over on to her side, preparing to kick the siding out. Dessa screamed once, a piercing cry that drove itself into Annie's heart. Then, she heard a dull ring of something metal colliding with something soft. All fell silent.
She held still, and listened.
Nothing.
She waited a few more seconds.
...And heard a hissing scrape. Something being dragged.
Oh, God. Not Dessa. Please...
She kicked the flap open and crawled backward out of the hole. Standing up, she glanced around for Bruce and Dessa, who were nowhere to be seen. The back yard was empty. She jumped at the sound of chain link rattling and turned to see the dark shape of a jackrabbit bounding away into the darkness on the other side of the fence.
"Dessa?" She took a tentative step toward the kitchen door, and then another. When she reached it, she turned the knob and peeked inside. The house felt empty. She stepped back, afraid to enter.
What's he done to my baby?
If he's hurt her, all it's your fault, said the inner voice, sounding smug. Coward.
A low moan rose in her throat and she broke into a run, slamming through the gate that led to the front. "Dessa!"
She rounded the side of the house and stumbled when she reached the front porch. The moonless night had settled in, shrouding the yard in near-total blackness.
Two forms struggled in the shadows beside Bruce's truck. Annie gasped and reached inside the front door, her fingers scrabbling along the wall for the switch. Then, she found it. The light came on and flooded the yard.
Dessa turned to face her, a shovel in her hand. She set it against the side of the truck and wiped her hands off on her shorts, leaving dark, smudged prints behind. Blood dripped from one edge of the shovel blade. Mrs. Garcia stepped in beside Dessa and put a plump arm around her shoulders. Annie strained to see the large, dark lump on the ground, at the back end of the truck.
She felt faint and couldn't breathe. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Dessa, what have you done?"
"God only helps those who help themselves," Mrs. Garcia said, wagging a crooked brown finger at Annie. "Don't blame the child. You left her to fend for herself against that evil man, and she did."
The lump shifted, gurgled and then went quiet. Dessa's face spread into a tight, satisfied grin that chilled Annie to the bone. Nearby, a tiny lizard skittered across the pool of light in the sand.
"Bruce won't be coming back anymore, Mom," she said. "Can you help us get him into the truck? He's kinda heavy."
*****
A short story by Jillian S. Clayton
2500 words
Dessa watched the tiny lizard scamper across the hot sand. When it stopped and craned its neck to look around, she touched it with a stick, and it jumped. A tinkling crash of broken glass came from the house behind her. She flinched, but didn't look - didn't dare. Bruce had come home, and he was looking for her mother. Whenever he appeared in their lives, he broke things. Last time, at their house in Tucson, he'd thrown the TV set through the window and it shattered as it rolled all the way to the curb. He'd broken her mother's jaw then, too. He was inside right now, breaking things.
Why does he keep coming back, God? Why can't he just go away and stay gone?
She asked Him questions all the time, but He never seemed to find the time to answer. She figured that sooner or later she'd wise up and quit asking.
The lizard flicked its tail and darted down into a gopher hole. She wished she could do the same.
The screen door flew open and banged against the wall, and this time, she turned to look. Bruce stood there, his fat belly hanging out from under his T-shirt, his face dark with exhaustion. Sweat dripped from his curly brown hair. He lifted his head and glared at her with hooded eyes.
"Hey, Dess, come over here," he said, and sat down on the top step of the porch. It creaked beneath his weight. "Tell me where Annie is."
Dessa shook her head and backed up a few steps. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, even though he was several feet away. "Mom's gone shopping," she lied, "she'll be back soon."
He gave her a too-wide smile and waved at her to come closer. "Okay then. Come over here and talk to your Uncle Brucie. I won't bite, I promise."
She glanced at the house and then away, hoping he didn't notice. Somewhere beneath it, her mother hid in a crawlspace with the snakes and spiders. Dessa knew that her mother wouldn't come out, even if one of the nasty things crawled across her and sank its fangs. Bruce hurt her real bad last time he'd shown up. Dessa felt the cold burn of hatred at the memory of Mom's face when she'd come home from the hospital. There were still scars.
Maybe this time, if the two of them kept their cool, he'd get bored and leave. So far, he'd never laid a hand on Dessa. She hoped that he wouldn't this time, either.
She stepped forward, taking her time and taking care to keep her face blank. When she drew in close to the porch, his arm snaked out and his grimy hand closed around her wrist.
"So, how have you been?" He pulled her to him and squeezed her tight. She fought the urge to struggle. His armpits were warm and wet. Holding her breath, she focused on his new blue Ford pickup and wished he'd climb into it and hit the road. She found herself wishing for a lot of things lately.
Too bad God doesn't pay attention to wishes.
"Ain't you gonna answer me?" His ugly, gap-toothed grin disappeared and he released her from the bear hug, but held on to her arm. "It's not good to disrespect your elders."
"I'm not being disrespectful," she said, keeping her voice even.
He jerked her arm and a bolt of pain shot through her shoulder. There was a first time for everything. "So, what does Annie need from the store so badly that she'd leave a runt like you home by yourself?"
Dessa winced at the blossoming pain. "Just groceries and stuff. It-it's my birthday tomorrow and she was gonna get me a present. I couldn't go because she didn't want me to see it." Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Mrs. Garcia from the house across the way step out onto her porch and stare at them for a moment.
Bruce noticed her, too. "What the f**k are you lookin' at? Can't a man talk to his kid in peace?"
I ain't your damn kid. She tried to twist out of his grip. He held firm.
The old woman frowned and went back inside, murmuring to herself. The screen door snapped shut behind her. Somewhere inside Mrs. Garcia's house, her pet Chihuahua barked its head off.
"That's what I thought," he said and returned his attention to Dessa. "It's your birthday, huh? How old are you gonna be?" His fingers sank into her arm.
"Twelve," she said. It wasn't that much of a stretch. Her birthday had come and gone three weeks ago. "Mom said she's getting me a nice present."
"Uh-huh." Bruce didn't seem to be buying it. But then he let her go and stood up, brushing the dust from his grimy jeans. "I'm going to find some place around here that'll sell me a drink. Maybe I'll check out the grocery stores, too, while I'm at it. Tell Annie I'll be back."
She nodded and felt her chin quiver. He winked at her and lumbered off toward his truck. With a sigh of relief, she watched him climb in and take off down the rutted dirt road, tires kicking up plumes of dust.
Before long, she heard the whisper of footsteps in the sand. Dessa turned and looked up at her mother. "He's gone."
Her mother put hand to her own hollow, tanned cheek; her long thin fingers traced a ghost of a scar there. "I'm sorry, Pumpkin," she said, her voice ragged with tears. "I hated to do this to you, but if we'd both have crawled under the house, he'd have just kept
looking until he found us."
"I know, Mom," she replied. Her shoulder throbbed. "But he's coming back. You heard him. We have to make him go away for good this time."
"I'll think of something, don't worry."
****
Annie paced back and forth by the kitchen window. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in bold slashes of orange and red. She paused to lower the blind and turned to look at Dessa. Her daughter sat perfectly still beside the kitchen table, studying a rip in the stained linoleum floor.
"Look," she said, after a few moments of silence passed, "here's what we're gonna do. If he stays gone 'til full dark, then we can hike into town without him seeing us. I wish I had a car, but I don't. We'll be okay though, as long as we follow the service road."
"But Mom, the rattlesnakes come out after dark." Dessa's face paled.
A headache began to brew in the back of Annie's skull. They had no
choice. Dessa would have to do as she was told, and no arguing this time. "I've got eighty dollars. That's enough to get us a bus ticket out of this hell-pit and on to California. You'd like California, Pumpkin. Lots of white sandy beaches, fresh air and plenty of nice people. Arizona hasn't been very good to us, you know that."
Dessa groaned and buried her face in her hands. "When do we stop running?"
"Today," Annie said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She went to Dessa and ruffled her daughter's short blond hair. "When we get on that bus, it will be for the last time. I promise." She winced at the sound of her own words. How many times had she said `I promise?' No matter where they went, Bruce always found them and they always had to leave. Annie had been forced to break more promises than she could count. "Go pack your things. One bag only. Get a move on."
When Dessa stomped off to the bedroom, Annie leaned against the kitchen sink and splashed cool water into her face. It felt like it was on fire, and she guessed she was running another fever. Drying herself off with a paper towel, she took one last look around the room.
A few plastic plates sat in the dish drainer, and the battered refrigerator hummed, empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. For a moment, the gray walls seemed to ripple and recede. She reached for the countertop to steady herself.
Annie couldn't believe they had to leave yet another place that they'd tried to make their own. Sure, the house was a mouse ridden *beep* hole, but it was theirs. Maybe she could still make the payments to Mrs. Garcia once they reached Los Angeles. Maybe one day, if she survived her illness, they could come back, long after Bruce had forgotten all about them. It was a stupid, long-shot of a wish, but it served to keep her grief at bay. She tossed the crumpled paper towel into the trash can and went to grab some clothes, her photo album and a few other things light enough to carry.
Dessa tossed her pink duffel bag onto the couch and sat down beside it. "It's getting dark," she said.
Annie nodded and went to the window. She pushed up a slat on the mini-blind and peered out into the purple haze of evening. Off in the west, beyond the jagged spine of the Superstition Mountains, brief flashes of lightning lit up the sky. Her gaze went from there to the empty road beyond Mrs. Garcia's squat blue trailer and found a set of rapidly approaching headlights.
"Sh*t. He's coming," she said. "Let's go. Now!"
Dessa stood, shoved her hands into her pockets and refused to move."Go hide in the crawlspace, Mom. He won't think to look there. I'll tell him you're not back yet."
"No! You can't, Pumpkin. He won't believe you," Annie said. Panic rushed through her. Grabbing her daughter's arm, Annie tried to pull her towards the kitchen door. Dessa cried out and snatched her arm away.
"Go on and hide. I'll tell him you're not here!"
Annie recoiled at the hard, defiant glare in her daughter's eyes. It reminded her a lot of...of Bruce.
"I'll be right outside. If he tries anything, you run. Hear me? You run." She backed away and then turned at the sound of truck tires plowing through the sand outside. She shook her head. "It's too late now."
"Just go," Dessa said, tears brimming. "God will look after us."
Annie sobbed and dashed to the bedroom, pushed open the window and climbed out into the quiet desert night. Dropping to her knees, she felt around for the opening into the crawlspace. For a moment, she paused, remembering her bag of clothes on the bed.
Why not just put up a big, arrow-shaped sign saying 'she went thataway.'
She got up and hurried back to the window. Inside, she saw Dessa bending to shove the bag under Annie's bed. The house shook as Bruce beat on the front door. Her daughter hurried away to the front of the house to answer the door. Annie ducked and went back to the loose piece of wooden siding that hid the way into the crawlspace. Lifting it aside, she wedged herself into the hole under the house. Warm sand grated her knees and forearms and the smell of musty wood crept intoher nose. Above her, the floor thudded as Bruce entered the house.
She braced her feet against a mound of sandy dirt beside the flap. If Bruce poked his head in, she might be able to buy a couple seconds if she kicked some dust into his face. With each passing second, she hated herself more and more.
If Bruce hurts her, I'll... She closed her eyes.
I will what? I'm too sick and weak. There's not a damn thing I could do.
An inner voice - her former, non-sick self, maybe - spoke up in reply. You could stand up to him. Call the police. Do something!
Been there, tried that, and it didn’t work. Besides, I've got cancer, she thought back, arguing with it. I can't fight it or Bruce anymore. I'm so very tired...
Sure, that's a good excuse. Poor, poor Annie... More excuses than guts.
Another voice - Bruce's - filled the house. She could hear him clearly through the floorboards. "Bullsh*t! I know she's here. Where is she?"
Dessa's frail reply came. "She's not back yet. Maybe we'd better call the police so they can look for her."
God, don't say that, Dessa, Annie pleaded. A few seconds of silence passed.
"Quit playing games, Kid. Where's Annie?" His footsteps thundered overhead. He was in the bedroom. Did she forget to close the window? Her mind raced, trying to remember.
"She's gotta be outside somewhere," Bruce said. His footsteps receded as he apparently headed for the kitchen door that led out into their empty back yard. Dessa was wrong. Bruce wasn't stupid. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there would be only one place to look.
Annie froze, her body so tense that her back arched. Any second now, and it will all be over. He'll do it this time. She prayed that Mrs. Garcia would get suspicious and call the Sheriff.
Too late, the voice said. By the time the Law shows up, you’ll both be dead. This is what you get for not using your brains and using Mrs. Garcia's phone.
Would Bruce really do it this time? Probably. He’d been pretty ticked off by the latest restraining order. She might as well have tried to stop a speeding freight train by stepping in front of it.
"No!" Dessa cried. She was close by, moving around outside the flap that hid the crawlspace. "You leave her alone!"
Thick fingers appeared in the crack between the boards, prying at the siding. Bruce had found Annie's hidey-hole.
She couldn't move. Hot tears spilled down her cheek and plopped into the dirt beside her head.
"You lied to me, Kid," Bruce said.
"Someone help us," Dessa screamed. "Mrs. Garcia!"
"Shut up," he roared. The fingers disappeared from the crack. A scuffle followed, and Annie rolled over on to her side, preparing to kick the siding out. Dessa screamed once, a piercing cry that drove itself into Annie's heart. Then, she heard a dull ring of something metal colliding with something soft. All fell silent.
She held still, and listened.
Nothing.
She waited a few more seconds.
...And heard a hissing scrape. Something being dragged.
Oh, God. Not Dessa. Please...
She kicked the flap open and crawled backward out of the hole. Standing up, she glanced around for Bruce and Dessa, who were nowhere to be seen. The back yard was empty. She jumped at the sound of chain link rattling and turned to see the dark shape of a jackrabbit bounding away into the darkness on the other side of the fence.
"Dessa?" She took a tentative step toward the kitchen door, and then another. When she reached it, she turned the knob and peeked inside. The house felt empty. She stepped back, afraid to enter.
What's he done to my baby?
If he's hurt her, all it's your fault, said the inner voice, sounding smug. Coward.
A low moan rose in her throat and she broke into a run, slamming through the gate that led to the front. "Dessa!"
She rounded the side of the house and stumbled when she reached the front porch. The moonless night had settled in, shrouding the yard in near-total blackness.
Two forms struggled in the shadows beside Bruce's truck. Annie gasped and reached inside the front door, her fingers scrabbling along the wall for the switch. Then, she found it. The light came on and flooded the yard.
Dessa turned to face her, a shovel in her hand. She set it against the side of the truck and wiped her hands off on her shorts, leaving dark, smudged prints behind. Blood dripped from one edge of the shovel blade. Mrs. Garcia stepped in beside Dessa and put a plump arm around her shoulders. Annie strained to see the large, dark lump on the ground, at the back end of the truck.
She felt faint and couldn't breathe. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Dessa, what have you done?"
"God only helps those who help themselves," Mrs. Garcia said, wagging a crooked brown finger at Annie. "Don't blame the child. You left her to fend for herself against that evil man, and she did."
The lump shifted, gurgled and then went quiet. Dessa's face spread into a tight, satisfied grin that chilled Annie to the bone. Nearby, a tiny lizard skittered across the pool of light in the sand.
"Bruce won't be coming back anymore, Mom," she said. "Can you help us get him into the truck? He's kinda heavy."
*****
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Additonal Thoughts for the Day
On Keeping Online Journals & Other Blog Stuff
I've been blog-browsing for the last couple of hours, and I'm amazed at what I've found. After having recently discovered the joy of writing on my own blog, I became curious about the sort of things other people write about.
Some of the blog sites I wandered across were much like my own - musings on writing, art, poetry and the like. Others seem to be magazines in their own right, discussing issues that fascinate the site's owner. And of course, there are the ones that make no bloody sense whatsoever. They ramble on, with no real point. Even those are important, in a way.
Writing something and posting it online is akin to stuffing a message in a bottle, flinging it out into the sea and hoping someone finds it. I have 3,000 pages of handwritten journals and diaries, plus an additional 4,000 typewritten entries saved on disk and on my personal web sites. This blog represents only the finest of my musings, arranged in a somewhat orderly fashion in case someone happens to find this particular message in a bottle and reads it.
Why are people casting their personal thoughts to the wind in such a manner?
Because the Internet is anonymous. We're free to speak our minds without any physical repercussions. We're not held accountable for what we say, unless it's really, really bad and a large number of people complain. Even then, the only thing that happens is that the offender is banned from the particular site where they've based their web page or blog. They'll only go elsewhere and keep on keepin' on.
On some level, we're all searching for kindred souls out there - someone or several 'someones' who travel on the same wavelength that we do. We all feel alone, lost in the back-country of our own minds. We long to share the things that make us special and to have other people recognize that we're living, breathing, feeling, thinking beings. Maybe, in some cases, it's enough just to be 'noticed.'
I think that's why I want to write stories. In a way, writing fiction is an avenue I take in order to expel the many demons from my head. Just call me 'Legion.'
As a child, I spent many hours alone, sitting in my bedroom and staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Having been made aware of mortality at an early age, the very idea of death dominated my thoughts. To escape that daily self-made horror, I created 'mind-movies' to distract my already world-weary brain. One of those 'mind-movies' stayed put and I've added to it over the last twenty-four years until it became this great epic that resided only within my skull. This mind-epic has become my third novel, 'The Rose and the Dandelion.' It's not quite finished. I've got the rough draft out, but for some reason I can't let it go. Somehow, just the act of finishing it on paper has had the effect of emptying it from my mind. It's an old favorite fantasy that I don't want to be shed of yet. I haven't posted a single word of it online, other than a short synopsis, because it is that special to me.
I once rewrote the prologue with different character names and posted it on a critique group, and several members said that I had a twisted imagination, but the scene gripped them and they wanted more. I didn't post more, though. It's a unique angle and it's all mine. I'm not casting that particular bottle into the sea. In fact, a publisher won't even get to see it until I've published 'Cold January Mourning' or one of my other novels (if that ever happens) first. It's deeply personal, and I'm nowhere near ready to share it with the rest of the world. It's my magnum opus, and if I put it out there too soon, just stick a fork in me because then I'll be done. I've got that much blood, sweat and tears invested in that novel.
I'm sounding too cryptic, I know. If you've read the synopsis that I've posted on this blog regarding that novel, it doesn't sound too spectacular. I presented it that way for a reason - I want to protect my unique angle at all costs. Plus, I'm not one to carelessly toss my words into the wind.
So what will I ever do with this blog or the 7,000+ pages of journals that I've kept since the age of ten? It might be something to leave behind for my kids and grandkids, if anything. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to make some sort of mark on the world, something that says, "Hey - I was here." I want to be remembered long after I'm gone, and for people to read my words and hear my thoughts in their minds long after I've crumbled to dust. In a way, that's immortality. I could care less about the here and now.
In short, the words that I DO cast to the wind mean nothing to me. What does matter is that my stories and thoughts live on. Because I was shown the meaning of death at such a young age, I don't want to pass from this world as an unknown. Due to my youthful indiscretions, my body is worn out and very, very tired. I have a bad heart and if I live to see the age of forty-five, I'll be amazed. Time is running out, and I'll be thirty-seven before long. This is why writing is important to me. I want to cast hundreds of bottles out there for people to find, long after I'm gone. They will ensure that a hundred years from now, people will know that I once existed - that I once looked out at this world through troubled eyes and tried to process what I saw there.
The Internet is the greatest thing ever invented by mankind. Like man himself, it's flawed. For every bit of wisdom that one might find floating about in it, there's ten times as much porn and other thought-garbage to wade through. Maybe in time, that will be fixed.
In the meantime, though, I write something every single day. Not necessarily here, but somewhere. Leaving random thoughts laying around like breadcrumbs pleases me to no end. That's also why I do take the time to read the musings of others, so that for a fleeting moment I'm aware of the thoughts of yet more individuals out there amongst the millions.
If someone finds your message in a bottle, know this: Someone has noticed you, and made an attempt to understand you and your thoughts. That's a gift, of sorts, from one stranger to another. Cherish it.
On Keeping Online Journals & Other Blog Stuff
I've been blog-browsing for the last couple of hours, and I'm amazed at what I've found. After having recently discovered the joy of writing on my own blog, I became curious about the sort of things other people write about.
Some of the blog sites I wandered across were much like my own - musings on writing, art, poetry and the like. Others seem to be magazines in their own right, discussing issues that fascinate the site's owner. And of course, there are the ones that make no bloody sense whatsoever. They ramble on, with no real point. Even those are important, in a way.
Writing something and posting it online is akin to stuffing a message in a bottle, flinging it out into the sea and hoping someone finds it. I have 3,000 pages of handwritten journals and diaries, plus an additional 4,000 typewritten entries saved on disk and on my personal web sites. This blog represents only the finest of my musings, arranged in a somewhat orderly fashion in case someone happens to find this particular message in a bottle and reads it.
Why are people casting their personal thoughts to the wind in such a manner?
Because the Internet is anonymous. We're free to speak our minds without any physical repercussions. We're not held accountable for what we say, unless it's really, really bad and a large number of people complain. Even then, the only thing that happens is that the offender is banned from the particular site where they've based their web page or blog. They'll only go elsewhere and keep on keepin' on.
On some level, we're all searching for kindred souls out there - someone or several 'someones' who travel on the same wavelength that we do. We all feel alone, lost in the back-country of our own minds. We long to share the things that make us special and to have other people recognize that we're living, breathing, feeling, thinking beings. Maybe, in some cases, it's enough just to be 'noticed.'
I think that's why I want to write stories. In a way, writing fiction is an avenue I take in order to expel the many demons from my head. Just call me 'Legion.'
As a child, I spent many hours alone, sitting in my bedroom and staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Having been made aware of mortality at an early age, the very idea of death dominated my thoughts. To escape that daily self-made horror, I created 'mind-movies' to distract my already world-weary brain. One of those 'mind-movies' stayed put and I've added to it over the last twenty-four years until it became this great epic that resided only within my skull. This mind-epic has become my third novel, 'The Rose and the Dandelion.' It's not quite finished. I've got the rough draft out, but for some reason I can't let it go. Somehow, just the act of finishing it on paper has had the effect of emptying it from my mind. It's an old favorite fantasy that I don't want to be shed of yet. I haven't posted a single word of it online, other than a short synopsis, because it is that special to me.
I once rewrote the prologue with different character names and posted it on a critique group, and several members said that I had a twisted imagination, but the scene gripped them and they wanted more. I didn't post more, though. It's a unique angle and it's all mine. I'm not casting that particular bottle into the sea. In fact, a publisher won't even get to see it until I've published 'Cold January Mourning' or one of my other novels (if that ever happens) first. It's deeply personal, and I'm nowhere near ready to share it with the rest of the world. It's my magnum opus, and if I put it out there too soon, just stick a fork in me because then I'll be done. I've got that much blood, sweat and tears invested in that novel.
I'm sounding too cryptic, I know. If you've read the synopsis that I've posted on this blog regarding that novel, it doesn't sound too spectacular. I presented it that way for a reason - I want to protect my unique angle at all costs. Plus, I'm not one to carelessly toss my words into the wind.
So what will I ever do with this blog or the 7,000+ pages of journals that I've kept since the age of ten? It might be something to leave behind for my kids and grandkids, if anything. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to make some sort of mark on the world, something that says, "Hey - I was here." I want to be remembered long after I'm gone, and for people to read my words and hear my thoughts in their minds long after I've crumbled to dust. In a way, that's immortality. I could care less about the here and now.
In short, the words that I DO cast to the wind mean nothing to me. What does matter is that my stories and thoughts live on. Because I was shown the meaning of death at such a young age, I don't want to pass from this world as an unknown. Due to my youthful indiscretions, my body is worn out and very, very tired. I have a bad heart and if I live to see the age of forty-five, I'll be amazed. Time is running out, and I'll be thirty-seven before long. This is why writing is important to me. I want to cast hundreds of bottles out there for people to find, long after I'm gone. They will ensure that a hundred years from now, people will know that I once existed - that I once looked out at this world through troubled eyes and tried to process what I saw there.
The Internet is the greatest thing ever invented by mankind. Like man himself, it's flawed. For every bit of wisdom that one might find floating about in it, there's ten times as much porn and other thought-garbage to wade through. Maybe in time, that will be fixed.
In the meantime, though, I write something every single day. Not necessarily here, but somewhere. Leaving random thoughts laying around like breadcrumbs pleases me to no end. That's also why I do take the time to read the musings of others, so that for a fleeting moment I'm aware of the thoughts of yet more individuals out there amongst the millions.
If someone finds your message in a bottle, know this: Someone has noticed you, and made an attempt to understand you and your thoughts. That's a gift, of sorts, from one stranger to another. Cherish it.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Thought for the Day
The Conundrum of 'Style' in Writing
In my forced regimen of self-education in writing, I've managed to pin down the basics in the last few months. If I try real hard, I can write a decent story when I want to. However, I don't want to settle for a passing grade when it comes to my work. If that's the best I can do, then it's not worth any further effort.
What separates an 'okay' writer from a 'good' writer, and a 'good' writer from a 'great' writer?
In my experience, mostly as a reader, it's how they convey their thoughts and message within their writing. It's not just a matter of getting it right any more, it's a matter of setting my work apart from the 7,000,000 other writers out there trying to be published. There are two things I still need to really grasp before I'll be noticed by anything more than a POD service:
1. Narrative 'voice' - or, in other words, how the reader 'hears' the story in their head. My author-voice is pure Southern California Neutral. No voice inflections, no accents, nothing to set it apart from pablum save for a spare curse word or two. This is a style issue and it's hard to understand, but that's my goal - to wrap my brain around this concept and utilize it in the most proper and effective fashion.
2. Setting and a novel's overall 'Tone' - I've just realized, after reading some of my 'older' stuff (from '98 and '99), that the tone is almost always the same: flat and devoid of any emotion whatsoever. If I write a story about two kids exploring a haunted house, you might as well hear circus music playing in the background for all the tone I've injected into it. Setting and Tone go hand in hand, from what I've learned. Dialogue and action from the main characters, as well as the tertiary character who does nothing more than lean against a lampost and spit tobacco juice into the gutter, contribute to the Tone of a story. I'm giving mixed messages in this department, and I need to get it together.
There are so many little, teeny things to consider when writing a novel. I read once that writing a good novel is akin to putting together a symphony orchestra and having them perform perfectly (not a single instrument out of tune) on the night of their debut. Ever see an orchestra play? It takes months and months of work and practice. Every single part of it has to function on it's own, as well as a part of the greater whole so that the resulting music is pitch-perfect and pleasing to the ear. In my novels, the orchestra is playing, but it's badly out of synch. The horns (empathy for my characters) are too clunky, the woodwinds (setting details) are screeching and playing another tune altogether, and the violins (the Tone) can't be heard over the cacophony of the other two. In short, the orchestra (my authorial voice) is loud, confusing and grating to the ear. I've gotten the drums (pacing) and the flutes (dialogue) pretty well-organized, but they're (again) drowned out by the louder problems.
I'm trying to think of the novels I'm currently working on as musical symphonies because that helps me to distance myself from the story, allowing me to step back and take a hard look at what I've completed thus far. I still miss the 'little' things, though. Critique groups help, but I can't post an entire novel to a crit board. ***Mainstream publishers will not touch a book if they even suspect that it's been posted online somewhere.*** Not to mention, crit groups ARE NOT editing services. I've gotten a lot of good advice from them, but I've gotten a lot of misguided and just plain stupid advice there, too.
In the meantime, there's the problem of overall 'style.'
Style is something so intangible that I'm having a hard time translating it into terms I can understand. What is Style? My best guess is that it's essentially the symphony itself and how it sets itself apart from all the other ones out there.
What makes my writing MY OWN?
I posted some poetry on a popular critique board once, on a site that's listed in the Writer's Digest Top 101 Web Sites (I'm regular on that board, by the way). Several people took a look at it for me, and though they all said it was a sensitive, 'heartfelt' piece, the consenus was that it lacked style. One woman, an artist/musician/poet/something or other from Europe told me that it was 'cute, but unfortunately boring.' She went to tell me that there was nothing about any of my writings (prose or poetry) that made it stand out as 'art.'
Well, what the Hell is 'Art?' I asked, later on.
The reply I got was:
'Imagine your poem 'Grandma' as a painting made of words. What you've got so far is an image of a woman laying in her bed, dying. The golden sunlight filters in through a curtained window, and her dutiful daughter is sitting at her bedside. This is not a remarkable painting, especially if it's hanging in a museum next to a Picasso or a Cassat. Basically, you've got a Norman Rockwell: sad yet hopeful, redolent of fine down-home memories, but nothing of substance.'
And so I said: 'What's wrong with Norman Rockwell? I think what he did was Art, not some splotches on a canvass, or a woman with part of her face protruding from her chest and a breast where her knee should be."
She replied: "If you don't understand what sets Picasso above Rockwell, then you'll never understand Style, and you'll never be anything more than a mediocre writer that spews out hackneyed, uninteresting crap."
That was my first-ever discussion on Style, with a renowned artist from Europe.
I think Art is subjective. Art is supposed to be something that grabs the viewer by guts, twists them and makes them think about what they've just seen or experienced. Does Rockwell's art or Stephen King's writing make you 'think?' Not really. You think it's nice to look at or entertaining to read, but that's about it. When you look at a Picasso or read James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' you think about it. What you might think at first (especially if you're new to 'Art') would run along the lines of: "What IS this sh*t?
But if you look at it and then think about it for years on end, and discuss it with others interested in figuring it out as well, you start to get an idea of what the artist or writer was trying to convey: ideas, emotions, things symbolizing other things, and more. People will argue over the meaning for ages, and it will always be recognized. Even the most mundane of blue-collar workers can recognize Munch's 'The Scream.' That painting makes you think. Writing should make you think, as well. If you can make people think about something you've created, then it remains in their minds for a long time to come. This was what my semi-famous European acquaintance was trying to tell me. It took me well over a year, but then the light came on and I 'got it.'
With that figured out, how do I inject 'Style' into my writing?
One of the most common criticisms that I've received is that my stories are too 'mundane' and the underlying theme is usually too 'safe.'
Safe? So what the hell does THAT mean?
It means that I go out of my way to pick subjects and characters that don't challenge people's comfort zones, and the underlying message behind just about all of my stories is overdone, hackneyed and trite. I don't choose themes that reach into people's guts and twist, forcing them to pay attention to what I want to say.
So, how do I do that? How do I wander away from that which is 'safe' and walk on dangerous, more interesting ground?
Well, I've decided that I must first begin to write about things that *I* want to write about. I need to quit trying to write 'for the market' and instead write to please my own curiosities. Everytime I've sent of a story that I feel will cater to 'the market,' I'm told that they've seen at least forty or fifty stories of a similar plot line that week. I have to come up with something original, or at least a unique take on a previously covered subject. My novel "The Rose and the Dandelion" is a unique story, but it's not ready yet. Far from it.
I also need to experiment with my wording. In trying to strictly adhere to the so-called Rules of Writing as put forth by Random House editors and those like them, I've sacrificed the raw emotion that used to fill my writing. I became worried that I would offend people. I became afraid to be criticized.
What have I written about in the past? Safe, 'cozy' type of mysteries that I couldn't give away to people. True, these sort of stories have their place in the publishing industry, but they're not 'great.' I want to write a novel that is so spectacular that when the average reader puts it down, they say, "Now THAT was a kick-ass book!"
They say (and by 'They' I mean literary critics) that Stephen King is a hack, and that none of his works are worth the paper they're written on. I beg to differ. I think King has his own unique voice and writing style that brings readers back in droves, time and time again. They say that just because an author appeals to 'the masses' it doesn't mean that he's a 'great' writer. I beg to differ, again.
Whenever I've read a Stephen King book, I usually want to read it again sooner or later, because it was that damn good. Besides, if you're rich, what the hell do you care what the f-ing critics think? Will King's novels stand the test of time and become 'Classics?' Maybe. If people are still reading his books a hundred years from now, it would be safe to say yes, they will be classics. In my opinion he's the Edgar Allan Poe of our time, and generations from now, people will still read his work.
So, the question remains. Can I learn to write in an edgy, gut-grabbing style that makes people sit down, shut up and read? Maybe. But I'll have to reach deep inside my past to find the experiences and memories that I'll need to draw on to make that sort of thing happen. As I mentioned in my previous post, I've led a strange and twisted life, once drenched in alcohol and dusted in dope. I've seen violence that would scare the sh*t out of the ordinary minivan-driving soccer mom and hockey dad. I've done things to myself that would make my mother faint from shock and my father spin in his grave. Maybe this dark, seedy, never-to-be-forgotten part of my life is worth bringing back into the light and given a thorough examination. But, can I handle the reappearance of those old ghosts? It's worth a shot, if it finally gets me somewhere.
The Conundrum of 'Style' in Writing
In my forced regimen of self-education in writing, I've managed to pin down the basics in the last few months. If I try real hard, I can write a decent story when I want to. However, I don't want to settle for a passing grade when it comes to my work. If that's the best I can do, then it's not worth any further effort.
What separates an 'okay' writer from a 'good' writer, and a 'good' writer from a 'great' writer?
In my experience, mostly as a reader, it's how they convey their thoughts and message within their writing. It's not just a matter of getting it right any more, it's a matter of setting my work apart from the 7,000,000 other writers out there trying to be published. There are two things I still need to really grasp before I'll be noticed by anything more than a POD service:
1. Narrative 'voice' - or, in other words, how the reader 'hears' the story in their head. My author-voice is pure Southern California Neutral. No voice inflections, no accents, nothing to set it apart from pablum save for a spare curse word or two. This is a style issue and it's hard to understand, but that's my goal - to wrap my brain around this concept and utilize it in the most proper and effective fashion.
2. Setting and a novel's overall 'Tone' - I've just realized, after reading some of my 'older' stuff (from '98 and '99), that the tone is almost always the same: flat and devoid of any emotion whatsoever. If I write a story about two kids exploring a haunted house, you might as well hear circus music playing in the background for all the tone I've injected into it. Setting and Tone go hand in hand, from what I've learned. Dialogue and action from the main characters, as well as the tertiary character who does nothing more than lean against a lampost and spit tobacco juice into the gutter, contribute to the Tone of a story. I'm giving mixed messages in this department, and I need to get it together.
There are so many little, teeny things to consider when writing a novel. I read once that writing a good novel is akin to putting together a symphony orchestra and having them perform perfectly (not a single instrument out of tune) on the night of their debut. Ever see an orchestra play? It takes months and months of work and practice. Every single part of it has to function on it's own, as well as a part of the greater whole so that the resulting music is pitch-perfect and pleasing to the ear. In my novels, the orchestra is playing, but it's badly out of synch. The horns (empathy for my characters) are too clunky, the woodwinds (setting details) are screeching and playing another tune altogether, and the violins (the Tone) can't be heard over the cacophony of the other two. In short, the orchestra (my authorial voice) is loud, confusing and grating to the ear. I've gotten the drums (pacing) and the flutes (dialogue) pretty well-organized, but they're (again) drowned out by the louder problems.
I'm trying to think of the novels I'm currently working on as musical symphonies because that helps me to distance myself from the story, allowing me to step back and take a hard look at what I've completed thus far. I still miss the 'little' things, though. Critique groups help, but I can't post an entire novel to a crit board. ***Mainstream publishers will not touch a book if they even suspect that it's been posted online somewhere.*** Not to mention, crit groups ARE NOT editing services. I've gotten a lot of good advice from them, but I've gotten a lot of misguided and just plain stupid advice there, too.
In the meantime, there's the problem of overall 'style.'
Style is something so intangible that I'm having a hard time translating it into terms I can understand. What is Style? My best guess is that it's essentially the symphony itself and how it sets itself apart from all the other ones out there.
What makes my writing MY OWN?
I posted some poetry on a popular critique board once, on a site that's listed in the Writer's Digest Top 101 Web Sites (I'm regular on that board, by the way). Several people took a look at it for me, and though they all said it was a sensitive, 'heartfelt' piece, the consenus was that it lacked style. One woman, an artist/musician/poet/something or other from Europe told me that it was 'cute, but unfortunately boring.' She went to tell me that there was nothing about any of my writings (prose or poetry) that made it stand out as 'art.'
Well, what the Hell is 'Art?' I asked, later on.
The reply I got was:
'Imagine your poem 'Grandma' as a painting made of words. What you've got so far is an image of a woman laying in her bed, dying. The golden sunlight filters in through a curtained window, and her dutiful daughter is sitting at her bedside. This is not a remarkable painting, especially if it's hanging in a museum next to a Picasso or a Cassat. Basically, you've got a Norman Rockwell: sad yet hopeful, redolent of fine down-home memories, but nothing of substance.'
And so I said: 'What's wrong with Norman Rockwell? I think what he did was Art, not some splotches on a canvass, or a woman with part of her face protruding from her chest and a breast where her knee should be."
She replied: "If you don't understand what sets Picasso above Rockwell, then you'll never understand Style, and you'll never be anything more than a mediocre writer that spews out hackneyed, uninteresting crap."
That was my first-ever discussion on Style, with a renowned artist from Europe.
I think Art is subjective. Art is supposed to be something that grabs the viewer by guts, twists them and makes them think about what they've just seen or experienced. Does Rockwell's art or Stephen King's writing make you 'think?' Not really. You think it's nice to look at or entertaining to read, but that's about it. When you look at a Picasso or read James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' you think about it. What you might think at first (especially if you're new to 'Art') would run along the lines of: "What IS this sh*t?
But if you look at it and then think about it for years on end, and discuss it with others interested in figuring it out as well, you start to get an idea of what the artist or writer was trying to convey: ideas, emotions, things symbolizing other things, and more. People will argue over the meaning for ages, and it will always be recognized. Even the most mundane of blue-collar workers can recognize Munch's 'The Scream.' That painting makes you think. Writing should make you think, as well. If you can make people think about something you've created, then it remains in their minds for a long time to come. This was what my semi-famous European acquaintance was trying to tell me. It took me well over a year, but then the light came on and I 'got it.'
With that figured out, how do I inject 'Style' into my writing?
One of the most common criticisms that I've received is that my stories are too 'mundane' and the underlying theme is usually too 'safe.'
Safe? So what the hell does THAT mean?
It means that I go out of my way to pick subjects and characters that don't challenge people's comfort zones, and the underlying message behind just about all of my stories is overdone, hackneyed and trite. I don't choose themes that reach into people's guts and twist, forcing them to pay attention to what I want to say.
So, how do I do that? How do I wander away from that which is 'safe' and walk on dangerous, more interesting ground?
Well, I've decided that I must first begin to write about things that *I* want to write about. I need to quit trying to write 'for the market' and instead write to please my own curiosities. Everytime I've sent of a story that I feel will cater to 'the market,' I'm told that they've seen at least forty or fifty stories of a similar plot line that week. I have to come up with something original, or at least a unique take on a previously covered subject. My novel "The Rose and the Dandelion" is a unique story, but it's not ready yet. Far from it.
I also need to experiment with my wording. In trying to strictly adhere to the so-called Rules of Writing as put forth by Random House editors and those like them, I've sacrificed the raw emotion that used to fill my writing. I became worried that I would offend people. I became afraid to be criticized.
What have I written about in the past? Safe, 'cozy' type of mysteries that I couldn't give away to people. True, these sort of stories have their place in the publishing industry, but they're not 'great.' I want to write a novel that is so spectacular that when the average reader puts it down, they say, "Now THAT was a kick-ass book!"
They say (and by 'They' I mean literary critics) that Stephen King is a hack, and that none of his works are worth the paper they're written on. I beg to differ. I think King has his own unique voice and writing style that brings readers back in droves, time and time again. They say that just because an author appeals to 'the masses' it doesn't mean that he's a 'great' writer. I beg to differ, again.
Whenever I've read a Stephen King book, I usually want to read it again sooner or later, because it was that damn good. Besides, if you're rich, what the hell do you care what the f-ing critics think? Will King's novels stand the test of time and become 'Classics?' Maybe. If people are still reading his books a hundred years from now, it would be safe to say yes, they will be classics. In my opinion he's the Edgar Allan Poe of our time, and generations from now, people will still read his work.
So, the question remains. Can I learn to write in an edgy, gut-grabbing style that makes people sit down, shut up and read? Maybe. But I'll have to reach deep inside my past to find the experiences and memories that I'll need to draw on to make that sort of thing happen. As I mentioned in my previous post, I've led a strange and twisted life, once drenched in alcohol and dusted in dope. I've seen violence that would scare the sh*t out of the ordinary minivan-driving soccer mom and hockey dad. I've done things to myself that would make my mother faint from shock and my father spin in his grave. Maybe this dark, seedy, never-to-be-forgotten part of my life is worth bringing back into the light and given a thorough examination. But, can I handle the reappearance of those old ghosts? It's worth a shot, if it finally gets me somewhere.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Thought for the Day
For the Love of Storytelling
When did you first realize that you wanted to write, not just for fun, but for profit?
The answer in my case is somewhat clouded. I began writing in my journals when I was ten years old, and attempted poetry around that same time period. Another reason I began to write stories is directly due to an encounter with a teacher I had in the fourth grade.
Not too many people remember their fourth grade year, but two incredible things happened to me that influenced me to write. The first thing was that my fourth grade teacher caught me tossing an airplane in class, and then rightly called me a liar when I denied doing it. The second thing was that I visited the inner chambers of a newspaper for the very first time, during a class field trip to the Press Enterprise, located in Southern California. Now, bear in mind that normally I am a very honest person - these days - but when I was a child, I would often bend the truth to save my butt whenever I got into trouble, something that happened quite often back then.
The Paper Plane Crash
As a child cursed with Attention Deficit Disorder and high-functioning autism, I was always the first one to grow bored in class and the first one picked on. There was never a time in my recollection of my childhood that I ever did things 'right.' No matter what I did to impress people and make them notice me, it always backfired. When I'd try to prove to people that I wasn't stupid by always rolling off a litany of useless factoids, other kids accused me of showing off. I was just a weird kid, period. I usually behaved in class, though, despite my boredom. But when I messed up, I usually messed up BIG.
One afternoon, in April of 1976, I took my math sheet and used it to create the finest example of paper aeronautical engineering to ever cross the room in Miss Milly's class. It was awesome: shaped much like the Concorde jet, it had a paper clip for ballast at the front end and cut-out spoilers in the back. When I tossed it, it floated through the air with both speed and accuracy. The landing was perfect; the nose of the plane buried about two inches deep into the afro of a boy named DiShawn, who sat in the front row. He turned to give me a wicked, slit-eyed look and the airplane turned, too, sticking up from the top of his head like an exclamation point. Miss Milly rose from her desk and charged at me when I promptly laughed out loud.
Her hands clamped down on my shoulders before I could react, and she shook me. "Did you throw that piece of paper?"
"No, I just laughed because of the way it landed," I said. I tried to squirm away from her, but her fingers dug in. All around me, kids stared. The second hand on the clock seemed to stop, and I felt a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I couldn't help it. Miss Milly, the fat blonde thing with glasses once told us that in India, overweight women were considered very beautiful. I was willing to bet that those men from India wouldn't think she looked too pretty at that particular moment. Her face blanched and her blonde curls bobbed when she spoke.
"You're lying."
Unable to hold back my grin any longer, I relaxed and let it blossom. "So what if I did?"
The class responded with a stereophonic "Ooooohhh..."
She hauled me up and out of my seat, amidst the cackling and giggling from the class. "You're going to see Principal Griffin, Young Lady. He knows how best to deal with liars."
Minutes later, she brought me into the gray-carpeted waiting room outside the Principal's office and dropped me into a cold metal chair. "Wait here," she said, "I'll talk to him first and then he'll call you in." She patted down her unruly curls. "Don't you dare move," she added. With that, she turned away and stalked into Mr. Griffin's office, slamming the door shut behind her.
She isn't my mother, I remember thinking. Jeez, all I did was throw a paper airplane.
Of course it never dawned on me, even though Miss Milly called me a liar, that I was in trouble for lying. Lying came as second nature to me. I'd told some real whoppers in my time, mostly to amaze and impress people that I wanted for friends. The practice never seemed to work, though, as I didn't have any friends.
They came out to fetch me moments later. Mr. Griffin looked like a rumpled paper sack, tired and not happy about having to deal with another defiant kid. Miss Milly stood behind him, her thick arms folded across her ample bosom, head nodding like a sprung jack-in-the-box. My heart dropped within my chest and settled somewhere near my feet. Mr. Griffin took my hand and led me into his office and Miss Milly brought up the rear. He settled in behind his huge metal desk and shoved a stack of papers aside, folded his hands and stared at me. His eyes were strange blue fish swimming around behind his thick glasses.
"Now Jill, why did you lie about throwing the paper airplane? Throwing it was bad enough, but then you fibbed to Miss Milly. What do you have to say for yourself?" He drummed his fingers on the desktop, and for a moment I thought about telling him he needed to scrub his nails.
"I don't know," I said. Then the words came to me, as if in a vision. "I'm poor, Mr. Griffin, and I don't have much of anything, like the other kids do. I'm sorta jealous, you know. They got nice clothes and cool shoes, while I got nothing. I threw the airplane because I was mad about that.'
His face crinkled up and his eyes closed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if what I'd told him was painful. Good, I thought, it might work.
"Being poor is no reason to throw things in class," he said, finally.
I shrugged. "DiShawn made fun of my skirt this morning on the bus." My throat felt ready to close up. That part was true. "He said I looked like I was on Welfare and that my mom buys clothes from a thrift store."
Mr. Griffin glanced over at Miss Milly and nodded. They seemed to speak to each other with mind-beams, because she then turned and left the room. He sighed. "Be that as it may, you've still got punishment coming."
I swallowed. "Why?"
"To teach you that lying is never the way to go in resolving a situation. If you do something wrong, then you have to admit it and then take the consequences." A light knock came at the door and Miss Milly stepped back inside, carrying Mr. Do-Right.
Mr. Do-Right was a ping-pong paddle, with a smiley face drawn on one side, and 'The Board of Education' written in block letters on the other. She handed it to Mr. Griffin, who took it and beckoned me to come around to his side of the desk. I rose from my chair and with my legs shaking, I did as told. He bent me over his knee in one swift motion and paddled me. Ten quick whacks, and I was allowed to stand up. I left the office moments later to wait for my mother. Griffin decided to sent me home for the day, so that I could consider what I'd done. I stood by the window for a while until Mom's green Oldsmobile chugged into the school parking lot. Both sets of my cheeks burned - one with pain and the other with shame. The school's receptionist, a kind-eyed Grandma of a woman named Miss Betty, stood beside me and patted me on the shoulder.
"If it's any consolation," she said, as we watched my scowling mother stomp through the rain toward the building, "you've got a vivid imagination and you should control it rather than let it control you."
"Huh?"
"I'll just bet that you'll turn out to be a writer one day, or maybe a lawyer. You gave an almost convincing argument in there."
I was amazed. "You heard what I said?"
"These walls are thin, Child." She turned away and greeted my mother when she came in through the double glass doors.
That incident didn't stop me from telling stories, and as time went on, they only became all the more grandiose. To make them seem more realistic, I began adding small details. Still, Miss Betty's words resurfaced in my memory from time to time. At the time, though, I didn't understand what she meant until I visited the newspaper building, just before school let out for the summer of my fourth grade year.
Epiphany at the Press Enterprise
I climbed onto the bus and took my customary seat behind the driver, with the false hope that he could protect me from the tossed spitwads and chunks of gooey pink bubblegum that others aimed at me as soon as the bus began to roll.
Mrs. Milly sat in the seat across the aisle from mine, but she kept her gaze locked on the unfurling highway before us. I knew she didn't like me very much and on some level, the idea of not being liked by a teacher saddened me. I kept my mouth shut and picked a dripping spitwad out of my hair. Glancing back, I spotted the perpetrator. DiShawn winked at me, his handsome brown face lit up with a megawatt grin. He packed another chunk of chewed paper into his straw and brought it to his lips, preparing to fire. I ducked and stifled the urge to cry.
Several miles and a couple dozen spitwads later, I caught sight of the newspaper building when the bus pulled into the parking lot. The newspaper office wasn't as impressive as I'd expected, just a long, squat building, maybe two stories tall at most. Stepping down onto the sizzling asphalt, I took my place at the end of the line of kids preparing to go inside.
"Now people, you stay with the tour guide and me at all times," Miss Milly said. "There's some dangerous equipment and chemicals in there, and I don't want anyone to get hurt."
Dangerous equipment and chemicals? The mention of these items sparked my interest right away. I picked up my pace and hurried into the building with the others.
"No running!" Miss Milly shouted from somewhere behind us. We entered the Press Enterprise, a gleaming palace of steel and plastic, smelling of new paint and old paper.
Our tour guide turned out to be a skinny college-age guy with thinning brown hair and a smattering of pimples on his face. His eyes darted around when he talked. "Welcome everyone," he said, his voice high and squeaky, reminding me of Mickey Mouse. He held a clipboard in his hand and when I stood on the tips of my toes to see what was written on it, he snatched it away. "We're going to show you all the various stages in which a newspaper is made here, every single day. Stay together and follow me."
I followed, lagging behind the rest of the group. The nerdy little man didn't interest me. What interested me was the sight and sounds of the different machines arrayed in the huge room we entered first. I looked around and my jaw dropped open. Rows of people sat at typewriters and drawing tables. The clickety-clack of fingers on keys and ringing of phones filled the air. At one wall, an older man with thick white hair tacked photos to a length of corkboard. The tourguide led us past the photo-wall and he explained that once the stories were finished, they were put on the 'storyboard' and then sent to the paste-up room to be assembled on the pages.
The frenetic energy of the room filled me with an indescribable emotion. Was it longing? I didn't know. Photocopiers rattled and hummed, people darted from their desks to the photo-wall, then to another person's desk and back to their own again. The tour guide droned on about the editors and reporters that inhabited the room, and one notion stuck in my brain: they were writing about the events of the day - and they LOVED it. While the guide yakked at Miss Milly and the other kids, I wandered away. I couldn't help it.
I went to the far end of the photo-wall and saw that someone had marked 'Page One' on a sheet of typed paper and tacked it on the wall, beside a photo of a group of policemen and men in suits. Miss Milly came out of nowhere, latched her claws into my arm and dragged me away. I'd only had time to read one sentence: 'Zodiac Killer sends latest letter to SF Chronicle."
"What's the Zodiac?" I asked Miss Milly as she led me back to the group.
She furrowed her brow and shook her head. "You don't need to know about such things. Stay with us, or I'll take you back outside and you can wait on the bus until we're finished."
I bit my lip and nodded. The Zodiac fascinated me, and there was no way that I would let her boot me out of the tour now.
The guide led us through the building, down a seemingly endless maze of corridors and into a room where a giant black camera sat on a tripod, aimed at a blank wall. He picked up a huge sheet of dark plastic and held it up to the light for us to see. I gasped. It was the front page of yesterday's paper, but it looked funny. The type was white on a dark background, and the photos of people looked odd, almost ghostly.
"These are negatives," he said. "They will be sent to the Plating Room to be made into one of these..." He held up a sheet of super thin aluminum. I looked closer and saw that it was covered with letters and shapes, raised like Braille bumps. He went on to explain that the sheets would be placed on the drums in the press and inked, printing the pages as they rolled through. That's when he led us into the press room.
I'd never seen such a monstrous machine in my life. It filled the entire warehouse-sized room. Workers tinkered with various parts of it, some pouring ink into small vats that the guide called 'wells.' Giant rollers sat silent, waiting to print that day's batch of pages. Somewhere inside the huge metal beast, engines burred, idling like the world's largest car.
"Will we get to see it print?" I asked the guide. Several kids around me murmured their interest as well.
He blinked at me. "Maybe. They usually do a test run before the actual print job. I'll go and check." He trotted away towards one of the men tending the machine.
Miss Milly shot me a nasty look. "You need to be quiet. We can't stay here all day, waiting for the press to run."
"Why? It was just a question." I didn't understand her. She'd brought us here, so why didn't she want to let us see the most interesting thing in the building at work? I turned to see the guide jog back to us, his face lit up with excitement.
"They're going to start a test run in about twenty minutes," he said, craning his head around to glance at the machine. "If you want to wait, that is."
We all whined at once, begging to see the press in action. I jumped up and down, eyeing Miss Milly. She clapped her hands over her ears, and nodded.
"Fine, we'll wait."
We cheered. To kill time, the guide led us out of the press room and showed us the Paste-up room, where several workers assembled the pages for the camera. They took typed pages and fed them into a machine that coated the back side with hot wax. Then, they cut the waxed sheets into pieces and pressed them onto a blank sheet of paper, using a tiny rolling pin with a handle. I watched as one woman positioned a photo of the group of policemen to the page and pressed it firmly in place. Above that, she placed a strip of words that the guide called a headline. I inched forward to read it and Miss Milly gave me a warning look. I backed away and wrinkled my nose at the sour smell of acid that wafted in from the Plating room. The guide refused to let us see that one. Before long, he led us back to the press room and we filed in behind a glass partition.
"You have to stay back here because the press can be dangerous," he told us, looking up at the great machine with utter reverence. "See those drums? They've been known to catch people by the clothing or hair and pull them in. One of our line mechanics got his hand smashed last year. It wasn't a nice thing to see, I assure you."
We all gasped at that. The image of a man being crushed to a pancake in between the rollers rushed through my mind, and I shuddered with a combination of terror and excitement. Heck, this was better than Disneyland. People could die here, if they weren't careful.
One of the men tending to the press shouted a warning and everyone backed away from it at once. My stomach tingled as the drone of the engines built to a roar. Then, slowly at first, the drums began to turn. The floor shook beneath my feet. A flurry of panic went through the class; kids shuffled, some prepared to run.
"Is it an earthquake, Miss Milly?" DiShawn asked.
I snickered.
"No," the guide replied, before she could open her mouth to reply. He shouted over the growing rumble. "The press is a very heavy piece of equipment, and it feels like an earthquake once it gets going."
My face pressed up against the glass, I watched in awe. The machine growled, gaining speed. Couch-sized rolls of paper fed through it and the drums stamped entire pages at once. The press vibrated and the building quivered around us. My classmates and I gaped at the spectacle, unable to speak. I knew then that when I grew up, I'd work at a newspaper.
I knew then that I wanted to write and I began recording my stories and poetry in a small red notebook I'd received that year for Christmas. By the time I reached fourteen, I'd written over a million words in journals, poetry and short stories. Granted, they weren't publishable, but looking back on it now, I have to admit I'd gotten pretty good at it and even won a writing contest or two at school.
The age of ten is when writing became my chief obsession. All of a sudden the goofy 'Robot Girl' (as I was often called) stopped talking to anyone who would bother to listen and withdrew. I wrote down everything that happened to me. I carried around a cheap tape recorder wherever I went, made verbal notes of all I saw or heard and I read newspapers and books voraciously. Eventually I learned that the Zodiac was a serial killer who plagued the San Francisco area and (much to my relief) that he was nowhere near the part of the state where I lived. It wasn't until many years had passed that I discovered that the Zodiac's first murder took place at Riverside Community College in 1966, mere blocks from where I grew up a decade later. A young college student named Cheri Jo Bates had been murdered in the parking lot beside the campus library. The Zodiac's first letter had been sent to the Press Enterprise, then known as the 'Daily Enterprise.'
So when does a born storyteller decide to put their mental creations down on paper rather than use them to verbally astound and amaze their family and peers? When does a storyteller decide that true stories can often be far more fascinating? Maybe the trip to the Press Enterprise had been life-changing, but then again maybe not. I didn't get into the newspaper business until I finally grew up at the age of twenty-nine, after recovering from a long period of drug and alcohol addiction. Still, even as I weathered those 'rough' years, I wrote. I stayed with writing after I got my head screwed on straight and it helped me put my shattered life back together. At twenty-nine, I recalled that fourth-grade trip with clarity one lazy summer afternoon. Inspired with a renewed sense of purpose, I marched in to the local daily paper with my horribly inadequate resume. I took a typing and editing test, and they hired me on that day as a proofreader.
Storytellers - at least the good ones - have the unique ability to invent a situation and add just enough detail to make the story seem all the more realistic. These days I try to use my 'abilities' for entertainment's sake. I still write about the truth, though, and I find it much easier to do than writing fiction. Each week, when the small newspaper I currently work for goes to press, I think back on those days when I told outlandish stories to win friends and influence people. I think back to the days of the Zodiac and how I realized right then that maybe some people are born to do certain things. Some are born to be the news, while others are born to write about it. Thing is, when you're dealing with the news, you can't lie - not once, not ever. In my case, I prefer to live in the country of my mind and my sole mission in life is to bring back my tales of what I found there and tell them to every person I meet.
Sooner or later, we all must follow our calling, and this is the undying dream that calls to me each and every waking moment.
For the Love of Storytelling
When did you first realize that you wanted to write, not just for fun, but for profit?
The answer in my case is somewhat clouded. I began writing in my journals when I was ten years old, and attempted poetry around that same time period. Another reason I began to write stories is directly due to an encounter with a teacher I had in the fourth grade.
Not too many people remember their fourth grade year, but two incredible things happened to me that influenced me to write. The first thing was that my fourth grade teacher caught me tossing an airplane in class, and then rightly called me a liar when I denied doing it. The second thing was that I visited the inner chambers of a newspaper for the very first time, during a class field trip to the Press Enterprise, located in Southern California. Now, bear in mind that normally I am a very honest person - these days - but when I was a child, I would often bend the truth to save my butt whenever I got into trouble, something that happened quite often back then.
The Paper Plane Crash
As a child cursed with Attention Deficit Disorder and high-functioning autism, I was always the first one to grow bored in class and the first one picked on. There was never a time in my recollection of my childhood that I ever did things 'right.' No matter what I did to impress people and make them notice me, it always backfired. When I'd try to prove to people that I wasn't stupid by always rolling off a litany of useless factoids, other kids accused me of showing off. I was just a weird kid, period. I usually behaved in class, though, despite my boredom. But when I messed up, I usually messed up BIG.
One afternoon, in April of 1976, I took my math sheet and used it to create the finest example of paper aeronautical engineering to ever cross the room in Miss Milly's class. It was awesome: shaped much like the Concorde jet, it had a paper clip for ballast at the front end and cut-out spoilers in the back. When I tossed it, it floated through the air with both speed and accuracy. The landing was perfect; the nose of the plane buried about two inches deep into the afro of a boy named DiShawn, who sat in the front row. He turned to give me a wicked, slit-eyed look and the airplane turned, too, sticking up from the top of his head like an exclamation point. Miss Milly rose from her desk and charged at me when I promptly laughed out loud.
Her hands clamped down on my shoulders before I could react, and she shook me. "Did you throw that piece of paper?"
"No, I just laughed because of the way it landed," I said. I tried to squirm away from her, but her fingers dug in. All around me, kids stared. The second hand on the clock seemed to stop, and I felt a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I couldn't help it. Miss Milly, the fat blonde thing with glasses once told us that in India, overweight women were considered very beautiful. I was willing to bet that those men from India wouldn't think she looked too pretty at that particular moment. Her face blanched and her blonde curls bobbed when she spoke.
"You're lying."
Unable to hold back my grin any longer, I relaxed and let it blossom. "So what if I did?"
The class responded with a stereophonic "Ooooohhh..."
She hauled me up and out of my seat, amidst the cackling and giggling from the class. "You're going to see Principal Griffin, Young Lady. He knows how best to deal with liars."
Minutes later, she brought me into the gray-carpeted waiting room outside the Principal's office and dropped me into a cold metal chair. "Wait here," she said, "I'll talk to him first and then he'll call you in." She patted down her unruly curls. "Don't you dare move," she added. With that, she turned away and stalked into Mr. Griffin's office, slamming the door shut behind her.
She isn't my mother, I remember thinking. Jeez, all I did was throw a paper airplane.
Of course it never dawned on me, even though Miss Milly called me a liar, that I was in trouble for lying. Lying came as second nature to me. I'd told some real whoppers in my time, mostly to amaze and impress people that I wanted for friends. The practice never seemed to work, though, as I didn't have any friends.
They came out to fetch me moments later. Mr. Griffin looked like a rumpled paper sack, tired and not happy about having to deal with another defiant kid. Miss Milly stood behind him, her thick arms folded across her ample bosom, head nodding like a sprung jack-in-the-box. My heart dropped within my chest and settled somewhere near my feet. Mr. Griffin took my hand and led me into his office and Miss Milly brought up the rear. He settled in behind his huge metal desk and shoved a stack of papers aside, folded his hands and stared at me. His eyes were strange blue fish swimming around behind his thick glasses.
"Now Jill, why did you lie about throwing the paper airplane? Throwing it was bad enough, but then you fibbed to Miss Milly. What do you have to say for yourself?" He drummed his fingers on the desktop, and for a moment I thought about telling him he needed to scrub his nails.
"I don't know," I said. Then the words came to me, as if in a vision. "I'm poor, Mr. Griffin, and I don't have much of anything, like the other kids do. I'm sorta jealous, you know. They got nice clothes and cool shoes, while I got nothing. I threw the airplane because I was mad about that.'
His face crinkled up and his eyes closed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if what I'd told him was painful. Good, I thought, it might work.
"Being poor is no reason to throw things in class," he said, finally.
I shrugged. "DiShawn made fun of my skirt this morning on the bus." My throat felt ready to close up. That part was true. "He said I looked like I was on Welfare and that my mom buys clothes from a thrift store."
Mr. Griffin glanced over at Miss Milly and nodded. They seemed to speak to each other with mind-beams, because she then turned and left the room. He sighed. "Be that as it may, you've still got punishment coming."
I swallowed. "Why?"
"To teach you that lying is never the way to go in resolving a situation. If you do something wrong, then you have to admit it and then take the consequences." A light knock came at the door and Miss Milly stepped back inside, carrying Mr. Do-Right.
Mr. Do-Right was a ping-pong paddle, with a smiley face drawn on one side, and 'The Board of Education' written in block letters on the other. She handed it to Mr. Griffin, who took it and beckoned me to come around to his side of the desk. I rose from my chair and with my legs shaking, I did as told. He bent me over his knee in one swift motion and paddled me. Ten quick whacks, and I was allowed to stand up. I left the office moments later to wait for my mother. Griffin decided to sent me home for the day, so that I could consider what I'd done. I stood by the window for a while until Mom's green Oldsmobile chugged into the school parking lot. Both sets of my cheeks burned - one with pain and the other with shame. The school's receptionist, a kind-eyed Grandma of a woman named Miss Betty, stood beside me and patted me on the shoulder.
"If it's any consolation," she said, as we watched my scowling mother stomp through the rain toward the building, "you've got a vivid imagination and you should control it rather than let it control you."
"Huh?"
"I'll just bet that you'll turn out to be a writer one day, or maybe a lawyer. You gave an almost convincing argument in there."
I was amazed. "You heard what I said?"
"These walls are thin, Child." She turned away and greeted my mother when she came in through the double glass doors.
That incident didn't stop me from telling stories, and as time went on, they only became all the more grandiose. To make them seem more realistic, I began adding small details. Still, Miss Betty's words resurfaced in my memory from time to time. At the time, though, I didn't understand what she meant until I visited the newspaper building, just before school let out for the summer of my fourth grade year.
Epiphany at the Press Enterprise
I climbed onto the bus and took my customary seat behind the driver, with the false hope that he could protect me from the tossed spitwads and chunks of gooey pink bubblegum that others aimed at me as soon as the bus began to roll.
Mrs. Milly sat in the seat across the aisle from mine, but she kept her gaze locked on the unfurling highway before us. I knew she didn't like me very much and on some level, the idea of not being liked by a teacher saddened me. I kept my mouth shut and picked a dripping spitwad out of my hair. Glancing back, I spotted the perpetrator. DiShawn winked at me, his handsome brown face lit up with a megawatt grin. He packed another chunk of chewed paper into his straw and brought it to his lips, preparing to fire. I ducked and stifled the urge to cry.
Several miles and a couple dozen spitwads later, I caught sight of the newspaper building when the bus pulled into the parking lot. The newspaper office wasn't as impressive as I'd expected, just a long, squat building, maybe two stories tall at most. Stepping down onto the sizzling asphalt, I took my place at the end of the line of kids preparing to go inside.
"Now people, you stay with the tour guide and me at all times," Miss Milly said. "There's some dangerous equipment and chemicals in there, and I don't want anyone to get hurt."
Dangerous equipment and chemicals? The mention of these items sparked my interest right away. I picked up my pace and hurried into the building with the others.
"No running!" Miss Milly shouted from somewhere behind us. We entered the Press Enterprise, a gleaming palace of steel and plastic, smelling of new paint and old paper.
Our tour guide turned out to be a skinny college-age guy with thinning brown hair and a smattering of pimples on his face. His eyes darted around when he talked. "Welcome everyone," he said, his voice high and squeaky, reminding me of Mickey Mouse. He held a clipboard in his hand and when I stood on the tips of my toes to see what was written on it, he snatched it away. "We're going to show you all the various stages in which a newspaper is made here, every single day. Stay together and follow me."
I followed, lagging behind the rest of the group. The nerdy little man didn't interest me. What interested me was the sight and sounds of the different machines arrayed in the huge room we entered first. I looked around and my jaw dropped open. Rows of people sat at typewriters and drawing tables. The clickety-clack of fingers on keys and ringing of phones filled the air. At one wall, an older man with thick white hair tacked photos to a length of corkboard. The tourguide led us past the photo-wall and he explained that once the stories were finished, they were put on the 'storyboard' and then sent to the paste-up room to be assembled on the pages.
The frenetic energy of the room filled me with an indescribable emotion. Was it longing? I didn't know. Photocopiers rattled and hummed, people darted from their desks to the photo-wall, then to another person's desk and back to their own again. The tour guide droned on about the editors and reporters that inhabited the room, and one notion stuck in my brain: they were writing about the events of the day - and they LOVED it. While the guide yakked at Miss Milly and the other kids, I wandered away. I couldn't help it.
I went to the far end of the photo-wall and saw that someone had marked 'Page One' on a sheet of typed paper and tacked it on the wall, beside a photo of a group of policemen and men in suits. Miss Milly came out of nowhere, latched her claws into my arm and dragged me away. I'd only had time to read one sentence: 'Zodiac Killer sends latest letter to SF Chronicle."
"What's the Zodiac?" I asked Miss Milly as she led me back to the group.
She furrowed her brow and shook her head. "You don't need to know about such things. Stay with us, or I'll take you back outside and you can wait on the bus until we're finished."
I bit my lip and nodded. The Zodiac fascinated me, and there was no way that I would let her boot me out of the tour now.
The guide led us through the building, down a seemingly endless maze of corridors and into a room where a giant black camera sat on a tripod, aimed at a blank wall. He picked up a huge sheet of dark plastic and held it up to the light for us to see. I gasped. It was the front page of yesterday's paper, but it looked funny. The type was white on a dark background, and the photos of people looked odd, almost ghostly.
"These are negatives," he said. "They will be sent to the Plating Room to be made into one of these..." He held up a sheet of super thin aluminum. I looked closer and saw that it was covered with letters and shapes, raised like Braille bumps. He went on to explain that the sheets would be placed on the drums in the press and inked, printing the pages as they rolled through. That's when he led us into the press room.
I'd never seen such a monstrous machine in my life. It filled the entire warehouse-sized room. Workers tinkered with various parts of it, some pouring ink into small vats that the guide called 'wells.' Giant rollers sat silent, waiting to print that day's batch of pages. Somewhere inside the huge metal beast, engines burred, idling like the world's largest car.
"Will we get to see it print?" I asked the guide. Several kids around me murmured their interest as well.
He blinked at me. "Maybe. They usually do a test run before the actual print job. I'll go and check." He trotted away towards one of the men tending the machine.
Miss Milly shot me a nasty look. "You need to be quiet. We can't stay here all day, waiting for the press to run."
"Why? It was just a question." I didn't understand her. She'd brought us here, so why didn't she want to let us see the most interesting thing in the building at work? I turned to see the guide jog back to us, his face lit up with excitement.
"They're going to start a test run in about twenty minutes," he said, craning his head around to glance at the machine. "If you want to wait, that is."
We all whined at once, begging to see the press in action. I jumped up and down, eyeing Miss Milly. She clapped her hands over her ears, and nodded.
"Fine, we'll wait."
We cheered. To kill time, the guide led us out of the press room and showed us the Paste-up room, where several workers assembled the pages for the camera. They took typed pages and fed them into a machine that coated the back side with hot wax. Then, they cut the waxed sheets into pieces and pressed them onto a blank sheet of paper, using a tiny rolling pin with a handle. I watched as one woman positioned a photo of the group of policemen to the page and pressed it firmly in place. Above that, she placed a strip of words that the guide called a headline. I inched forward to read it and Miss Milly gave me a warning look. I backed away and wrinkled my nose at the sour smell of acid that wafted in from the Plating room. The guide refused to let us see that one. Before long, he led us back to the press room and we filed in behind a glass partition.
"You have to stay back here because the press can be dangerous," he told us, looking up at the great machine with utter reverence. "See those drums? They've been known to catch people by the clothing or hair and pull them in. One of our line mechanics got his hand smashed last year. It wasn't a nice thing to see, I assure you."
We all gasped at that. The image of a man being crushed to a pancake in between the rollers rushed through my mind, and I shuddered with a combination of terror and excitement. Heck, this was better than Disneyland. People could die here, if they weren't careful.
One of the men tending to the press shouted a warning and everyone backed away from it at once. My stomach tingled as the drone of the engines built to a roar. Then, slowly at first, the drums began to turn. The floor shook beneath my feet. A flurry of panic went through the class; kids shuffled, some prepared to run.
"Is it an earthquake, Miss Milly?" DiShawn asked.
I snickered.
"No," the guide replied, before she could open her mouth to reply. He shouted over the growing rumble. "The press is a very heavy piece of equipment, and it feels like an earthquake once it gets going."
My face pressed up against the glass, I watched in awe. The machine growled, gaining speed. Couch-sized rolls of paper fed through it and the drums stamped entire pages at once. The press vibrated and the building quivered around us. My classmates and I gaped at the spectacle, unable to speak. I knew then that when I grew up, I'd work at a newspaper.
I knew then that I wanted to write and I began recording my stories and poetry in a small red notebook I'd received that year for Christmas. By the time I reached fourteen, I'd written over a million words in journals, poetry and short stories. Granted, they weren't publishable, but looking back on it now, I have to admit I'd gotten pretty good at it and even won a writing contest or two at school.
The age of ten is when writing became my chief obsession. All of a sudden the goofy 'Robot Girl' (as I was often called) stopped talking to anyone who would bother to listen and withdrew. I wrote down everything that happened to me. I carried around a cheap tape recorder wherever I went, made verbal notes of all I saw or heard and I read newspapers and books voraciously. Eventually I learned that the Zodiac was a serial killer who plagued the San Francisco area and (much to my relief) that he was nowhere near the part of the state where I lived. It wasn't until many years had passed that I discovered that the Zodiac's first murder took place at Riverside Community College in 1966, mere blocks from where I grew up a decade later. A young college student named Cheri Jo Bates had been murdered in the parking lot beside the campus library. The Zodiac's first letter had been sent to the Press Enterprise, then known as the 'Daily Enterprise.'
So when does a born storyteller decide to put their mental creations down on paper rather than use them to verbally astound and amaze their family and peers? When does a storyteller decide that true stories can often be far more fascinating? Maybe the trip to the Press Enterprise had been life-changing, but then again maybe not. I didn't get into the newspaper business until I finally grew up at the age of twenty-nine, after recovering from a long period of drug and alcohol addiction. Still, even as I weathered those 'rough' years, I wrote. I stayed with writing after I got my head screwed on straight and it helped me put my shattered life back together. At twenty-nine, I recalled that fourth-grade trip with clarity one lazy summer afternoon. Inspired with a renewed sense of purpose, I marched in to the local daily paper with my horribly inadequate resume. I took a typing and editing test, and they hired me on that day as a proofreader.
Storytellers - at least the good ones - have the unique ability to invent a situation and add just enough detail to make the story seem all the more realistic. These days I try to use my 'abilities' for entertainment's sake. I still write about the truth, though, and I find it much easier to do than writing fiction. Each week, when the small newspaper I currently work for goes to press, I think back on those days when I told outlandish stories to win friends and influence people. I think back to the days of the Zodiac and how I realized right then that maybe some people are born to do certain things. Some are born to be the news, while others are born to write about it. Thing is, when you're dealing with the news, you can't lie - not once, not ever. In my case, I prefer to live in the country of my mind and my sole mission in life is to bring back my tales of what I found there and tell them to every person I meet.
Sooner or later, we all must follow our calling, and this is the undying dream that calls to me each and every waking moment.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Thought Topic for the day:
Writer's Critique Groups
I belong to several writer's critique groups, but I'm heavily involved in only two of them. They're tough, with a standing policy of unrestrained, unfiltered, ego-killing feedback. The owner of my favorite one (which I can't name here for reasons of not wanting my membership revoked) is a no-nonsense gentleman from the UK, who is a brilliant writer. He's not published, though, due to an admitted fear of rejection. That doesn't mean that he or the other members are soft on each other's writing, or anyone else's. Before I submit a short story there, I make sure to edit it to the best of my ability because they can and will tear it to pieces. When a wannabe writer joins a writing group of that calibre, they must know their sh*t or face total humiliation. I've learned a great deal on that particular list, though.
Joining a Critique Group -The Pro's and Con's
Pro:
- You'll learn to get over your fear of showing your writing work to total strangers. Friends and relatives will almost always say that your writing is fabulous. When you show it to a stranger that knows good writing (and bad writing) when they see it, it's an awakening experience. This is helpful for that time when you screw up enough courage to send your bouncing baby MS to an agent or publisher and it comes back with a photocopied form rejection letter. Rejection is part of the process - one that I had to learn to deal with or else give up on this ridiculous daydream of becoming a published author altogether.
- Your work is looked at in an unbiased fashion, with several sets of eyes, and every critique you receive is usually helpful in some way, shape or form. An honest critique will help you find problems with your story's elements that you may never have noticed before. The most difficult thing about writing a fictional story is getting it out of your head and onto paper (or screen, for that matter). There are times when I've submitted stories for critique that I thought were clear to the reader, only to find out that my characters were too flimsy and necessary setting information left out. Take this sort of criticism seriously. If you find yourself having to defend your story over misunderstood information, then there's a problem.
- You find yourself in a community or 'brotherhood' made up of struggling writers, many of which are in the same phase of learning that you are. You can talk about problems, work on solutions, kick around ideas and offer moral support. You find people that are willing to cheer for you in your victories, and console you in your losses. That is, if you find the right group.
Cons:
- The slings and arrows can be hard for a new writer to take. I've seen many a person give up on a writing group after reading their very first critique. One must be open to any and all criticism, and learn the ignore the ones that are done out of spite (yes, that does happen, usually by a newbie - offended by a critique you might have given them previously). Learn to accept criticism and take it for what it's worth.
- Crit Burn. This is an issue recently discussed in of my writing groups. It's a phenomenon that occurs when a wannabe writer is eager to please the core group of founding members. You find yourself writing stories that 'they' like, rather than what you like, and before long you find yourself smack out of ideas. This has happened to me. A people-pleaser by nature, I found myself trying to write a Fantasy short story, which is something that I'm just plain unable to do. It was torn to pieces, and I couldn't write anything for nearly two months. When it gets this bad, back away from the group for a while until you find your footing again.
- Too much criticism is killing creativity. This follows along the same line as above, but with different repercussions. This is what happens when you've received so much negative criticism that you begin to doubt your ability to tell a good story, and wonder if you should give up on it, period. This happens in critical writing groups, where they will almost always find something wrong with your story. Again, this is where you either grow a thick skin, or else move on to a less demanding group. I had severe writer's block for the longest time, and when I forced myself to write something (anything) and submitted it to one group, it was thrashed to bits, killing my desire to write and drying up my 'idea well' for months on end. I got over it when I stayed away from critique groups for a few weeks. When I returned, my writing received kudos from several people and my confidence crept back in.
In short, I'd recommend joining a writing group to anyone that wants feedback, but with an addendum: pick the right one. They must be honest - pointing out both the bad and good in a given writing piece. If it's all love and light, they're not being honest. If it's all negative, then chances are you've found a clique, not a writing group. Keep searching for the right one - they're out there. Writing groups are helpful, but like a fine whiskey, one must take them in moderation.
Writer's Critique Groups
I belong to several writer's critique groups, but I'm heavily involved in only two of them. They're tough, with a standing policy of unrestrained, unfiltered, ego-killing feedback. The owner of my favorite one (which I can't name here for reasons of not wanting my membership revoked) is a no-nonsense gentleman from the UK, who is a brilliant writer. He's not published, though, due to an admitted fear of rejection. That doesn't mean that he or the other members are soft on each other's writing, or anyone else's. Before I submit a short story there, I make sure to edit it to the best of my ability because they can and will tear it to pieces. When a wannabe writer joins a writing group of that calibre, they must know their sh*t or face total humiliation. I've learned a great deal on that particular list, though.
Joining a Critique Group -The Pro's and Con's
Pro:
- You'll learn to get over your fear of showing your writing work to total strangers. Friends and relatives will almost always say that your writing is fabulous. When you show it to a stranger that knows good writing (and bad writing) when they see it, it's an awakening experience. This is helpful for that time when you screw up enough courage to send your bouncing baby MS to an agent or publisher and it comes back with a photocopied form rejection letter. Rejection is part of the process - one that I had to learn to deal with or else give up on this ridiculous daydream of becoming a published author altogether.
- Your work is looked at in an unbiased fashion, with several sets of eyes, and every critique you receive is usually helpful in some way, shape or form. An honest critique will help you find problems with your story's elements that you may never have noticed before. The most difficult thing about writing a fictional story is getting it out of your head and onto paper (or screen, for that matter). There are times when I've submitted stories for critique that I thought were clear to the reader, only to find out that my characters were too flimsy and necessary setting information left out. Take this sort of criticism seriously. If you find yourself having to defend your story over misunderstood information, then there's a problem.
- You find yourself in a community or 'brotherhood' made up of struggling writers, many of which are in the same phase of learning that you are. You can talk about problems, work on solutions, kick around ideas and offer moral support. You find people that are willing to cheer for you in your victories, and console you in your losses. That is, if you find the right group.
Cons:
- The slings and arrows can be hard for a new writer to take. I've seen many a person give up on a writing group after reading their very first critique. One must be open to any and all criticism, and learn the ignore the ones that are done out of spite (yes, that does happen, usually by a newbie - offended by a critique you might have given them previously). Learn to accept criticism and take it for what it's worth.
- Crit Burn. This is an issue recently discussed in of my writing groups. It's a phenomenon that occurs when a wannabe writer is eager to please the core group of founding members. You find yourself writing stories that 'they' like, rather than what you like, and before long you find yourself smack out of ideas. This has happened to me. A people-pleaser by nature, I found myself trying to write a Fantasy short story, which is something that I'm just plain unable to do. It was torn to pieces, and I couldn't write anything for nearly two months. When it gets this bad, back away from the group for a while until you find your footing again.
- Too much criticism is killing creativity. This follows along the same line as above, but with different repercussions. This is what happens when you've received so much negative criticism that you begin to doubt your ability to tell a good story, and wonder if you should give up on it, period. This happens in critical writing groups, where they will almost always find something wrong with your story. Again, this is where you either grow a thick skin, or else move on to a less demanding group. I had severe writer's block for the longest time, and when I forced myself to write something (anything) and submitted it to one group, it was thrashed to bits, killing my desire to write and drying up my 'idea well' for months on end. I got over it when I stayed away from critique groups for a few weeks. When I returned, my writing received kudos from several people and my confidence crept back in.
In short, I'd recommend joining a writing group to anyone that wants feedback, but with an addendum: pick the right one. They must be honest - pointing out both the bad and good in a given writing piece. If it's all love and light, they're not being honest. If it's all negative, then chances are you've found a clique, not a writing group. Keep searching for the right one - they're out there. Writing groups are helpful, but like a fine whiskey, one must take them in moderation.
My name is Jillian and I'm a nobody from Nowheresville, USA. I've been writing short stories and poetry since the age of ten, but nothing published yet. I'm still trying, though.
In 2002, I sent off three stories to be published, and all came back with very nice form letter rejection slips that encouraged me to 'try again soon!' I cried for an hour after reading the first one. Why didn't they recognize my literary genius? Why am I not already the next J.K. Rowling? I'm being facetious here, of course. The publishing world has since proven to be a tough nut to crack.
I've spent the last year haunting writer's critique groups in attempt to refine my craft. I have gotten better over the passing months, learning the finer points of 'Showing' VS 'Telling' and eliminating 'passive' sentence structures from my writing. Let me tell you, this hasn't been easy. Writing, by far, is the hardest thing I've ever attempted to do. In my journeys, I've discovered the following:
- Three of my completed novels, totalling approximately 560,000 words, are pure 'telling' garbage.
They need to be rewritten completely, or else ditched altogether.
- I'm a glutton for punishment and a lover of cliches.
- People hated my writing in the beginning.
- People 'like' my writing now, but I'm still told that it needs work.
- I actually find joy in writing still, even though it's been made exponentially harder by all the
'rules' I must learn.
- My 'genre' seems to be Mystery or possibly Horror, as those are the ones that people enjoy the
most when I post them online.
A note of hope: I recently won a small-time contest for my horror story, "Getting Their Kicks on Route 666." Sure, it's on Writing.com, but hey, that's something. (Sniff... I never won anything before that.)
If anyone's got any thoughts on the publishing industry, or just want to vent about not being able to get into it as easily as they once thought they could, tell me about it. I'm all ears. (Drat it, another cliche.)
My current, most promising WIP's:
'The Rose and the Dandelion' - Novel, 5th draft, 130,000 words. Genre: Mystery. Status: Submitted in 2003, came back rejected, working on cutting it down to 90,000 words or less, and straightening out some issues regarding wandering POV.
Super-quickie synopsis: A high school teacher is accused of kidnapping and murdering nine girls over the period of a year. He proclaims his innocence, but is eaten alive by the press. A distraught, mentally unstable mother of one of the missing girls takes the law into her own hand and the teacher goes missing as well., His brother (a private detective) must not only find him, but also prove the man's innocence.
"Cold January Mourning" - (yes, that's 'mourning,' not 'morning') Novel, 1st draft completed, 102,000 words. Genre: Mystery. Status: Cutting down word count, working on resolving a massive plot hole that I hadn't previously noticed (LOL- hate when happens).
Super-quickie synopsis: A small town church and its surrounding community is in an uproar when a young, charismatic preacher is found dead in the most unflattering of circumstances. A troubled young woman who witnessed the murder is formally accused by the local P.D. and now she's on the run, fleeing into the dark wilderness of rural South Carolina. Two women, one of them a friend of the victim and the other, a friend of the accused, must form an uneasy alliance to solve the murder and find the girl before the real killer tracks her down.
"A Circle in the Sand" Novel, 18 chapters completed, estimating a total of 25 or so. 72,000 words at this time. Genre: Mystery, or maybe a thriller? Status: still working on this one.
Super-quickie synopsis: A madman lurks in a sleepy town in the southern Arizona desert. This perp leaves choice body parts of his murder victims for people to find in their mailboxes. Dubbed 'The Postman' by the local P.D., the killer focuses his attentions on a family of three; a Hispanic mother with two teenage children. When one of the kids (a thirteen-year-old boy) witnesses the killer leaving the scene of the latest murder, he runs home to tell his mother what he's seen. She doesn't believe him. By that evening, though, the boy returns to the scene and subsequently goes missing. The frantic mother and the boy's elder sister find the police moving too slowly in their efforts to find the boy. They enlist the help of a retired private detective to locate him. Time is running out, as they soon learn that the Postman delivers his grisly packages within seventy-two hours of kidnapping a victim ...and they only have one day left.
***
There are more novels, some finished, some not, because I usually have too many irons in the fire. If I can complete at least one of these three within the coming year, I'll resubmit again. Crossing fingers....
In 2002, I sent off three stories to be published, and all came back with very nice form letter rejection slips that encouraged me to 'try again soon!' I cried for an hour after reading the first one. Why didn't they recognize my literary genius? Why am I not already the next J.K. Rowling? I'm being facetious here, of course. The publishing world has since proven to be a tough nut to crack.
I've spent the last year haunting writer's critique groups in attempt to refine my craft. I have gotten better over the passing months, learning the finer points of 'Showing' VS 'Telling' and eliminating 'passive' sentence structures from my writing. Let me tell you, this hasn't been easy. Writing, by far, is the hardest thing I've ever attempted to do. In my journeys, I've discovered the following:
- Three of my completed novels, totalling approximately 560,000 words, are pure 'telling' garbage.
They need to be rewritten completely, or else ditched altogether.
- I'm a glutton for punishment and a lover of cliches.
- People hated my writing in the beginning.
- People 'like' my writing now, but I'm still told that it needs work.
- I actually find joy in writing still, even though it's been made exponentially harder by all the
'rules' I must learn.
- My 'genre' seems to be Mystery or possibly Horror, as those are the ones that people enjoy the
most when I post them online.
A note of hope: I recently won a small-time contest for my horror story, "Getting Their Kicks on Route 666." Sure, it's on Writing.com, but hey, that's something. (Sniff... I never won anything before that.)
If anyone's got any thoughts on the publishing industry, or just want to vent about not being able to get into it as easily as they once thought they could, tell me about it. I'm all ears. (Drat it, another cliche.)
My current, most promising WIP's:
'The Rose and the Dandelion' - Novel, 5th draft, 130,000 words. Genre: Mystery. Status: Submitted in 2003, came back rejected, working on cutting it down to 90,000 words or less, and straightening out some issues regarding wandering POV.
Super-quickie synopsis: A high school teacher is accused of kidnapping and murdering nine girls over the period of a year. He proclaims his innocence, but is eaten alive by the press. A distraught, mentally unstable mother of one of the missing girls takes the law into her own hand and the teacher goes missing as well., His brother (a private detective) must not only find him, but also prove the man's innocence.
"Cold January Mourning" - (yes, that's 'mourning,' not 'morning') Novel, 1st draft completed, 102,000 words. Genre: Mystery. Status: Cutting down word count, working on resolving a massive plot hole that I hadn't previously noticed (LOL- hate when happens).
Super-quickie synopsis: A small town church and its surrounding community is in an uproar when a young, charismatic preacher is found dead in the most unflattering of circumstances. A troubled young woman who witnessed the murder is formally accused by the local P.D. and now she's on the run, fleeing into the dark wilderness of rural South Carolina. Two women, one of them a friend of the victim and the other, a friend of the accused, must form an uneasy alliance to solve the murder and find the girl before the real killer tracks her down.
"A Circle in the Sand" Novel, 18 chapters completed, estimating a total of 25 or so. 72,000 words at this time. Genre: Mystery, or maybe a thriller? Status: still working on this one.
Super-quickie synopsis: A madman lurks in a sleepy town in the southern Arizona desert. This perp leaves choice body parts of his murder victims for people to find in their mailboxes. Dubbed 'The Postman' by the local P.D., the killer focuses his attentions on a family of three; a Hispanic mother with two teenage children. When one of the kids (a thirteen-year-old boy) witnesses the killer leaving the scene of the latest murder, he runs home to tell his mother what he's seen. She doesn't believe him. By that evening, though, the boy returns to the scene and subsequently goes missing. The frantic mother and the boy's elder sister find the police moving too slowly in their efforts to find the boy. They enlist the help of a retired private detective to locate him. Time is running out, as they soon learn that the Postman delivers his grisly packages within seventy-two hours of kidnapping a victim ...and they only have one day left.
***
There are more novels, some finished, some not, because I usually have too many irons in the fire. If I can complete at least one of these three within the coming year, I'll resubmit again. Crossing fingers....