Don't Know if I'll Make it, but Watch How Good I Fake It

I participated in a 24-Hour Writing Contest at the beginning of July.  The rules were simple.  Pay $5, wait for emailed writing prompt and maximum word count, write a short story on topic within 24 hours.  This was my first writing contest and I chose it because of its limited commitment and low entry fee.  The results of the contest were posted this week and, although I didn't win one of the three cash prizes, my piece received an honorable mention.


The small acknowledgement that my writing was worth mentioning gave me a much needed confidence boost.  I'm my worst critic and often allow a small voice in my head to convince me that my writing has no value. The only people who read my work are friends and family. They are unlikely to tell me I'm a talentless hack.  The mention gave me hope that someone outside my friendly group of readers might enjoy my writing.  Even if I hadn't won anything, the experience was fun and I would recommend participating in the next contest on September 10th. 


The prompt for the summer contest was:


Strong waves pounded the dark sand just a few yards away. Hidden by beach grass, they embraced, relieved to finally escape their wedding guests. His poetic whispers suddenly ceased as he leaned back, and said, "There's something I need to tell you..." (Maximum Word Count - 875)


Here was my submission: 

PENMANSHIP

Mark sat just beyond the tall grass, hidden from view of the beach house windows that faced the ocean. He hoped his absence would go unnoticed at the crowded reception. Eventually someone would find him - he was the groom.

The wind blew in bursts and Mark tightened his grip on the stack of letters, fearing the gale would scatter them forever. They couldn't be lost; they meant everything to him and Karen. These pages had started the journey that ended with vows to love, honor, and cherish her for
the rest of his life.

Each letter was carefully written on high-quality stationary, folded into thirds, and contained a dark blue cursive script on a single page. They were deliberately beautiful to show Karen the effort spent on each letter.

The wind exploded again and the papers crackled against each other like embers in a fire. A year ago Karen had received the letters, one each Friday night for six weeks. Mark stared at the last letter, remembering the night he delivered it. The evening was dark and raining, which seemed like perfect conditions for avoiding detection. He watched the house for any sign of movement and, seeing none, jogged the short distance from his car to the mailbox. As soon as the letter was out of his pocket the headlights of the car parked out front flooded the street with light.

He was caught.

"Are you a stalker?" Karen shouted, shielded behind her now open car door.

"No." Mark said, shielding his eyes.

"Why are you leaving me letters?"

"Don't worry, this is the last letter - I promise. I'm sorry if it scared you. It wasn't. . ." He trailed off and then tried to retreat to his car.

"Wait." She shouted. "Can I talk to you, just for a minute...not here...there is a coffee shop out on the main road, Javana, do you know it?"

"I passed it on my way here."

"Can you meet me there in five minutes?"

"Sure."

They talked for hours that evening.  She was beautiful, even drenched with rain. Mark was usually introverted, but she made him feel comfortable and he shared more with her than any other woman he had dated.  When it got late she thanked him for a wonderful evening and
the letters. She apologized for calling him a stalker saying that she couldn't believe anyone would legitimately write love letters anymore.

"It's like a fairytale." she said, and then wrote her phone number on a napkin, gave it to him, and walked out of the coffee shop.

Mark knew that evening that he could not live his life without her. After six months of dating, meeting her parents, and discovering a thousand other things he adored about her - he proposed. This morning he married her and it should have been the happiest day of his life,
if he didn't feel so guilty.

Mark heard footfalls in the sand behind him and turned to see who had finally noticed his absence.  It was Karen.

"So this is where you're hiding." She said, and sat down next to him, pulling her knees into her chest and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I just needed a little fresh air."

"Me too. Rereading the letters, huh?"

"You should keep these."

"I told you, I don't need them anymore - I have you."

"Please. They were meant for you, and you should keep them."

"But I want you to write me new letters, as my husband."

"I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"I didn't write these letters."

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

Of course she didn't understand. His memory returned to the last night in the hospital with his brother. Peter's advanced leukemia would claim him that night and he asked for one favor - he wanted Mark to deliver a letter.

Mark hadn't understood the request until Peter explained, "I'm never going to fall in love with anybody.  I wanted the chance to tell someone the things I would say if I could live long enough to fall in love. So . . . I started delivering these letters, secretly, to a girl who works at a coffee shop near school. Now I'm in the hospital and can't deliver this last one."

Karen listened as Mark explained about Peter and the letters. Mark had tried to tell her the truth many times over the past year, but each time, his fear of losing her made him swallow his words. When he finished his explanation, Karen returned to the beach house without a word.

He watched her labored march through the sand but didn't follow. Was it over? Married and divorced on the same day?

When she finally returned, she took the letters, walked to the shoreline, and tossed them into the water.  She turned back toward him and handed him the notebook and pen she was carrying.

"I don't . . ." Mark started but she cut him off.

"Like I said.  I want you to write me new letters, as my husband."

Words in the Wilderness

I had one goal at my week long writers retreat/class: words on paper.

My current project was languishing a little under the strain of other responsibilities.  I struggled with the concept, drafted an outline, and made profiles for my main characters. But I didn't have much of the actual writing done.  I started writing before I went so that I had something to share in class if the unspeakable (i.e. writer's block) occurred.  My worries were unfounded.

These were my living quarters during the week:



This was my view each morning:



It was inspiring to be in the wilderness, somewhat turned off from my daily grind.  I still had internet (because everyone knows I wouldn't survive without it) but I limited my use of it.  We were far enough off the beaten path that my phone wouldn't get data service - which means no apps.  This was a blessing in disguise because it freed me to clear my mind and truly think about my project.

I ate my meals in the fresh mountain air surrounded by fellow writers.  We discussed our projects, brainstormed ideas, and enjoyed each others' company.




Each afternoon I hiked a ten minute nature trail to the Old Fort (circa civil war era) to share chapters with my class and receive feedback.





I wrote 8,000 words during my stay and broke through significant logic barriers in my story with the help of my instructors and the other writers in my class.

When it was time to go, I made a stop in Santa Fe. I bought handmade jewelry and a drum from local Native American Artisans. These were gifts for my family.  They allowed me to spend some of my precious free time away from them and I really appreciate it.




I also enjoyed a fantastic lunch in Santa Fe of blue corn enchiladas (served on open tortillas and smothered.  I drank a traditional Mexican horchata drink (combines rice milk, sugar, and cinnamon all served iced).  Delicious!




Thank you to all my friends that taught at or attended the SMU-Taos Creative Writing trip.  It was fantastic.

Culture and the Land of the Cowboy

I live in Texas and most days I like it here. The people are friendly and we live in a safe neighborhood with good schools. I enjoy my job and the cost of living is low enough that we have a comfortable lifestyle. It does get hot during the summer, but we avoid the months of snow that our previous locations inflicted on us each winter. The days I don't like it are usually because I miss an aspect of our old home on the east coast (i.e. Washington D.C. and New York).

My wife and I left college and headed to New York for our first real jobs and adventure as grown ups. We were married in college and it always felt like playing house until we had degrees and a job to go to each day. That didn't happen until we moved to New York. We lived in New York for almost two years until I was accepted to law school in Washington D.C. We lived in Washington D.C. for all three years of law school and then another three years of work before taking a job in Texas. It is fair to say that we became adults on the east coast - even though we still act like children sometimes.

The guys I knew in New York and in Washington, D.C. were different then the guys I know in Texas. They enjoyed sports, muscle cars, red meat, and other decidedly manly things. However, this was not all they enjoyed. Many of them unabashedly attended and enjoyed things like the theater, the ballet, the symphony, and other cultural experiences. This was never met with odd glances questioning their manliness. They also read books, and lots of them. I took the Subway in New York and the Metro in D.C. into school and work. Everyone, men included, had books in their hands and many of them were novels. When you talked with other men they would tell you about books they were reading, or had read, and what they thought about them. They talked about politics, and not just to complain about our country going to hell in the proverbial hand-basket.

I maintain email, facebook, and twitter relationships with some of these guys but I miss the actual interaction at parties or other gatherings. I mostly miss talking about books with other guys. I read fiction knowing that it has little value beyond the entertainment it provides. Perhaps it will make me think about some situation differently, but mostly it is just an entertaining way to spend my free time. This lack of clearly cognizable utility in reading fiction seems to be its largest drawback among the guys I meet here. If they have time for entertainment the last thing they pick up is a book. If they are going to pick up a book they choose to read about new personal organization techniques, leadership skills, or financial management. They will read historical fiction, but mostly about wars. I'm NOT knocking those books - I own several and read some of them every year because they ARE useful or intellectually stimulating. I just wish more men in my current circle appreciated novels as a worthy method of entertainment.

I'm not looking for "sensitive" or "high-brow" guys - I'm neither. In fact, I want the opposite. I want to talk about books the same way that I talk about sports, guns, and my wife. I want to talk about books like a guy. That is what I had with my east coast guy friends. They weren't men in touch with their feminine side, they were just regular guys who read books for fun. I thought I might find one of these guys in my various writing classes, but I never did.

My desire to find another like-minded guy in my writing class is purely selfish. When I learned to golf it was easier to learn when I had a golf buddy to go with and we could make mistakes together, poke fun at bad shots, give each other constructive and nonconstructive criticism, and honestly congratulate each other when things went well. It made golf enjoyable and brought me into a game I don't think I would have continued playing otherwise. I need that for my writing.

I need another guy slogging through the same process of writing a novel to motivate me and make the experience more fun. Men and women are different, and thank heavens for that. I appreciate my wife and women friends for the kindness and concern they possess that is beyond my capability. However, I'm a guy and some things must be done the guy way. I want someone to make fun of my writing when it sucks and be mean about it. Women are careful about hurting feelings. I want someone to admit they failed to write what they were supposed to write and made offensive doodles on their paper instead, and then share the handiwork. You can't share offensive doodles with women in your class - it's bad form and could get you sued. I need and want an honest opinion on whether or not something is good from someone who doesn't give a flying rat's a$$ about my feelings. When I get a compliment from my golf buddy I know it's legit because he is looking for a chance to ask me if my husband also plays golf.

These guys exist in Texas, I play golf and talk sports with them all the time. I just wish some of them were reading novels and trying to write their own.

The Tough Get Going!

A little over a year ago I started a personal journey toward a goal - writing a novel. I decided that this was the year that I finish the final draft of the manuscript.  I'm not a novelist, at least not yet, but I do write for a living.  I brought those skills to a class offered at Southern Methodist University (SMU) continuing education program on creative writing. The course consists of approximately six classes and I've taken three of them.  The hardest course, at least by my standards, is the next course call "Chapters."  As the title indicates, the goal is to keep you writing chapters of your project until you finish the entire manuscript and you share those chapters with the other writers in the class for feedback.  The final two courses are "Revisions" and "Polish" - which means you must have a manuscript to revise and polish.  This is the part of my journey where I must finally write the novel.

As the saying goes - when the going gets tough the tough get going.  To give myself the best chance at success I decided to take the "Chapters" course during the annual writers trip to SMU's campus in Taos, New Mexico.  Instead of the one night a week for seven weeks, like the other courses, I will spend the seven days in Taos completely isolated from my regular world so I can just concentrate on what needs to be done.  There are activities to break up the days and nights of endless writing, but it is mostly about pushing the project forward.  I'm both excited and scared.

At the orientation last night the trip felt more real than when I registered - it was really happening. We will be staying in dorm rooms - which should be an interesting retrospective since it has been a decade and a half since I lived dorm life.  The campus is on the edge of a national forest and we will be issued mountain bikes when we arrive as the easiest way to get to and from class - another thing I gave up when I left the University of Utah many years ago. Mostly what I will get is time - an ever shrinking commodity in my world.  I try and find an hour or two each day to write - and that is a challenge most days.  For the seven days in Taos I will have nothing but time to write - interrupted only by a couple hours of class and a few activities to give us some rest and relaxation from the day's labors.

This should be an interesting and, hopefully, productive experience.  Wish me luck as I prepare for and go on this next step in my writing adventure.

Slump 101

We all have slumps and I'm having one.  Life fell out of orbit a few days ago.  I stopped writing daily because I didn't know what to write next.  I hit a wall and rather than pull out the sledgehammer and start swinging I walked away. 
I started sleeping longer, eating more than I should, skipping the gym, and generally fell apart.  Why?  I figured it out while golfing yesterday.  
Golf has a huge mental component to it.  I'm still new to the game and am trying to break 100 this year.  I was playing well yesterday and then my game went south.  I decided I wasn't breaking 100 today and gave up trying thinking that would help me relax.  Did my game improve?  Nope.  It got worse.   I still needed to finish so I pressed forward.  
After a couple more bad holes my game improved for no reason I could figure out.  The last hole is a par 5 and I am at 95.  I'm not good enough to ace a hole and get under 100, so that's not how this story ends.  I got 101, but that's the closest I've ever come to my goal.
I didn't need to take a break and rest or let my mind clear - I needed to keep playing.   I start my writing ritual of 1000 words a day again today and NO MORE BREAKS until I finish.  

My Own Worst Enemy!

I have often thought that the thing standing in the way of what I want is me.  As the blog states, I have two obsessions (food and fiction).  These happen to be my two most ardent weaknesses as well.  My wife is currently reading a book called Potatoes not Prozac.  A small battery of tests last night has convinced me I am "sugar sensitive", which is a nice way of saying I'm a junk food addict.  I wage war each day against my own appetite to avoid a host of diet related diseases and the other harms of poor diet.

My fiction weakness is the opposite problem.  While I can't get enough sweets I can always find something other than writing the fiction I so desire.  I want to write novel length fiction to show that I can do it and because I would love to have a novel, no matter how amateur, associated with my name.  Despite this strong desire I sometimes need to be forced into my office to move my story forward.  My fear of failure or the task at hand often halts my progress. 

The best antidote for my self-destructive behavior resides with my wife who pushes me when necessary and my children who help me remember that life is not something to be taken too seriously.  I am thankful each day for family.      

A Simple Plan Gone Mad

Innocently enough, I set a goal to write a full length novel as my new year's resolution in 2010.  I love to read, what could be better then writing my own reading material.  Right?  In an effort to be reasonable about my goal, I added the caveat that it did not need to be of publishable quality, only interesting to myself and my family and friends who would - dutifully - lie to me if it wasn't.  It's 2011 and I don't have a novel of any length.

It wasn't for lack of trying.  I tried it on my own and realized I lacked the fortitude and knowledge base to get much past limmerick, let alone a 55,000 word novel.  Undeterred, I resorted to tried-and-true method that lead me to my legal career.  I went to school.  I found a great program at a local University (SMU CAPE Creative Writing Program) and started attending classes.  

I moved past limmerick to flash fiction and then a full 3,000 word short story that I was very proud of.  My wife, dutifully or not, said she was proud of me as well.  I can do this, I thought.  Writing was a lot of fun and a wonderful diversion from my rewarding, but sometimes dull, professional writing assignments (i.e. legal documents). I decided to continue the program on the "Novel Track" and was mentally skipping through fields of tulips on my way to achieving my goal.  This wasn't so hard, I thought. 

Then I took two courses (Story Structure and Plot) that showed me how truly mistaken I was about the difficulty in writing a novel.  I now have a great appreciation for every novel I have ever read.  It seems so simple in theory; I write thousands of words every day at work, I churned out lots of entertaining flash-fiction scenes and a coherent short story without too much trouble.  Not easy, but definitely achievable. 

The problem is that those little pieces are just ingredients in the recipe of a full length novel.  I can no sooner pass a bakery, take a bite of pastry, and then go home and whip up a souffle then I can write a few unrelated scenes and then crank out a 55,000 word, or more, novel.  Like cooking, it takes a lot of preparation and practice before you have anything edible.  You must gather all the information on the different recipes.  You must try the easiest recipe - because deep down you're totally lazy - and have it fail miserably.  You must try the hardest recipe and have that fail miserably, because you were totally unprepared to take on that task and it was just a waste of ingredients.  Then you must try several recipes until you find the one you can handle and make it several times until you have something to inflict on unsuspecting family.  Then you must subject your family to enough taste tests of your "experimental" souffle until they have nightmares of demon dessert spoons chasing them trying to force feed them poison.  After all of that, you will finally have a recipe that is worth trying on someone who won't love you anyway - even if you poison them.  They will eat your hard fought creation and then exclaim, "it's a bid dry and could use some more sugar."

I find myself at the demon dessert spoon stage, on the cusp of recieving reviews from my souffle eaters at a writer's conference I will attend in July to receive crticism on my currently drafted chapters.  The funny thing about the whole experience is that I love it.  It is one of the most painful things I've done, kept going by my stubbornness to not allow this goal to go unfinished.  I will get there, or die trying.

55,000 WORDS OR BUST!!!!

Wish me luck.

My Fictional Life

My life is filled with internal dialog.  When my attention is no longer needed for a specific task my mind wanders and I ask myself questions.  Tonight, while wandering toward my office I asked myself why I love fiction.  I love fiction because it is the way I live my life. 

I grew up in a family where limitations were announced as warning signs for possible failure.  In an effort to prevent me from doing things thought to be beyond my capability, it created a belief that everything was impossible.  As I got older, and was blessed with several successes along the way, I started to believe that anything was possible.  As ridiculously motivational speakery as it sounds, I believe it is true.  The reasons I believe it is true is an entirely different blog post, but let's just start with the fact that I truly believe anything is possible. 

This is why I love fiction; it is a dry run on a possiblity.  Some stories I would prefer not to actually live out, such as one of my favorite stories - Crime and Punishment.  Other's I've filed away as possibilities in a file at the back of my mind labeled "Someday/Maybe."  Some supernatural themes still remain delightfully fictional, but remove or replace the vampires and that could totally happen.   

The only thing more fun than reading an adventure as a possible blueprint for the future is designing the blueprint yourself.  This is why I started taking creative writing classes last summer and have made daily writing a habit.  Like planning a vacation, I select the venue, populate it with people I find interesting, add complications that I know I'm going to solve, and watch gaps fill the story in the most amazing ways. 

I am still far from novelist, or even a writer worth more than my own family's admiration.  Regardless, the process of learning how to make my own fictional worlds to play around is one of the most rewarding things I have ever done.  With that thought, I have some writing to do . . .

Simile of the Day

Simile: a figure of speech in which two unlike things are explicitly compared, as in "she is like a rose."

I'm currently reading Man in the Woods by Stuart Spencer on audiobook for my morning and evening commute. This morning Spencer was describing the sometimes jumbled speech of the main character and stated that (paraphrasing because it's an audiobook) "his parenthetical phrases bursting like items carried in a wet paper sack." I will often speak so fast that my included parenthetical explanations also burst out in a jumbled mess just like the contents of a wet paper sack.

Pandora's Box

Last year I started taking a creative writing course in hopes of completing a life-long goal of writing a full length novel.  I already have a job that I enjoy, so I wasn't escaping anything, but wanted a creative outlet that was lacking in my life.  As part of that process I decided to increase the amount of fiction I otherwise read.  Here is my routine:

Morning commute - listen to current audiobook

Lunch hour - read current novel on Kindle

Evening commute - listen to current audiobook

Bedside table reading - read a hardcover book purchased before I got my Kindle, or my current novel on the Kindle - depending on which is more interesting at the time.

Following this routine I finish about 4 to 5 books a month.  My wife is the only one who usually hears my thoughts on fiction and what I'm reading.  This blog will hopefully give her some relief from the endless barrage of commentary. 

I have just finished the audiobook version of Iris Johansen's Pandora's Daughter.  The story was very compelling, but the audiobook was a little distracting.  The villian was Italian and whenever the actress attempted the accent she sounded, to me, like Boris Badenov from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon. This made me laugh, or at least smile, each time there was a compelling fight between the hero and the villian.  I'm sure that was not the intended result, but I just couldn't imagine Boris as threatening. 

Overall, I really liked the story.  The premise is that the hero, a doctor who lost her mother as a child, doesn't know that she has psychic powers linked to a powerful family of supernatural psychics spread throughout the world.  The villian is seeking vengence on these "freaks" and a mysterious ledger of the whereabouts of those with the psychic abilities.  Definitely worth the read, just skip the audio version unless you never watched the Rocky and Bullwinkle show. 

JD