Night... clubbin'...

I've spent most of the summer in ways that I cannot account for. There has been lots of work at my job, exceptional amounts of work at home (giving my creative space the overhaul I mentioned a while back). I got rid of a lot of clutter in my room, house, etc. Oh, and I've been playing an MMORPG for those times I can't think. I burned myself pretty hard. This summer has been like the burn ward for me... not a lot of movement, just recovery.

I've written some stories, done some revisions, sent a piece or two out... but I can't think during the summer. I have a supremely difficult time having meaningful, focused "brain sessions" due to the oppressive heat, obnoxious humidity, painful sunlight, and miserable allergens. It has been... lame.

I hold a small, decorative but simple package in my heart. Inside is the thought that I will, someday soon, return to a climate I can live in. These moldy, air-conditioned caves are beyond intolerable. But, you know, that's just me being bitter. I've been sick because of it, and possibly because of the stress caused by it. Self-perpetuating problems. Hm.

I have a pretty challenging semester ahead of me... although I anticipate that it will be a more clear-cut level of activity when compared to last semester, which was a storm of things to do falling all around me like rain drops. I'll be spending some significant time studying Faulkner, which will be excellent, I'm sure.

I've also had some freelance video work recently, which is always nice in terms of extra cash. We're going to Quebec in September and early October (for my birthday), so being able to afford that, and being able to get a little out of debt would be nice. Getting out of debt is very much a forefront desire in my mind right now, at least out from under debt not related to school and/or the house.

I applied for a few writing opportunities this year and nothing panned out... internships, etc. That happens sometimes. Possibly, if I were more prolific they would pan out. Perhaps if I were a better writer they'd have taken me. Oh, but I'm a fine writer... just have been disillusioned recently. Last time I read to an audience I was was met with a... tepid response. I'm finding brain space, though, out of necessity. When I don't write much, the stories start brimming over in my head. That's the tough thing about writing, or being open to it... after a while you can't not write.

Once you feed that dragon, it comes home and lives with you. It takes up a lot of space, changes how you do things. "I'd change this around, but the FRIGGIN DRAGON IS IN THE WAY." "I'd move to a smaller place, but WHERE WILL I PUT THIS DAMNED DRAGON?"

I've been overhauling my website, too. I decided to go with a content management system this time around instead of just building it with straight HTML and/or a Dreamweaver template. The process of learning content management systems for this site and another project I'm working on (a new literary journal... online... ooh ahh, more about that another time) has helped me update my web knowledge. I was tragically behind with very little understanding of PHP or CSS. I'd say I know a bit more now. Maybe I'll buy a book. Maybe an eBook. E-BOOK.

That is all... for now.

ULTIMATELUVKRUSH28.COM at Annalemma.net

My short fiction piece "ULTIMATELUVKRUSH28.COM" is the web feature this week at Annalemma Magazine (annalemma.net). I found out it would be up there a few weeks back, but was holding off announcing it until it was actually up. But, it's actually up now. So, go read it! Go! What are you waiting for? Oh, a link? Head over to annalemma.net

Or, click here to go directly to the story where it will be archived.

Thanks to Chris and everyone at Annalemma for continuously publishing great web features, and for considering my work good enough to appear up there. Also thanks to Andy Luce/Visual Armory for the sweet graphic work.

And thanks to you, blog reader, for being awesome and reading my blog.

More Missing Months

So, I didn't post in March. I have my reasons, of course. I turned around today and realized that freaking April is nearly half over too, so I wanted to pop in and make a quick post.

This semester has been trying to say the least. I've probably said that already before, so bla bla bla. It might be less than meaningless. I have been through some lows this spring that I have not known in some time. It has affected my writing, sadly. I haven't been at a loss for subject matter, ultimately, just lack of time to sit down and bang away. I've pecked a bit, which works, but I ache for more productivity, less bummitude where only dark unfocused things come from. I'll have time and brainspace soon, maybe.

It's a good time for gadgets. I like the iPad, but recognize that it doesn't seem to have massive appeal....... Yet. Apple has a way of making life appear bleak without their flagship product. Never count them out.

I've been playing my bass regularly and revamping my rig, which has been fun spare-time (ha!) material. The bass has always been one of my favorites, and is probably the one I'm best at, if that means anything. So far, have an old Ampeg half-cab that my brother-in-law gave me, and am grabbing an amp head soon (used). Next, I'm selling a less used synth for a new bass. I was debating which one to go for, but ultimately, the classic Fender standard Jazz is the best option. It's got the sound, the flexibility, etc. Good stuff. It'll be great for recording or just playing.

Still waiting for final details on new pub, still waiting for feedback/responses on two solicited subs, and just sorta waiting in general right now. Waiting. I get some if my best ideas while I'm waiting.

Pity.

I needed coffee.  The lines in the book were blurring, and I couldn't get but half of the sentences into my brain in any meaningful way.

The small latte cart in the library is a sort of obscene luxury.  It made the library feel perverted, like a phone booth in a graveyard, like a dumpster in a nursery, like a cellphone tower in a church steeple.  I only bought there out of necessity, having timed my reading down to 1.15 minutes per page, leaving myself just enough time to slam the book closed and run into the classroom before the door closed.

I picked my standard Soy Vanilla Latte, a treat I rarely indulged in anymore since the stomach problems became overwhelming.  While the barista cashier steamed away at the Soy Milk, I stared at the allergen information on the backs of the colorful little packages of snacks.  I sorted them into two categories:  a.) Dairy/Wheat/Verboten, b.) Bland but acceptable.  Selecting a cruel mixture of unsalted mixed nuts, shaved coconut, and dried raisins, I stood by the counter with my credit card balanced on the pages of my book, taking in the scent of the old pages mixed with the over-roasted beans.

She set the cardboard cup down with its "ooh"-ing mouth sighing steam into 72 degree air.  

"$5.82," she said, tapping the touchscreen of the register.

I held out my card, but didn't look up, and she took it without looking over.  

"Now," she mentioned, "my machine has been having connection problems all day, so let me try this."  She swiped the card through the reader, and an ominous window popped up.  "Still acting up," she said.  "There should be a sign over there warning people about it."  She craned her neck around the edge of her register to look at the front of the coffee cart where no sign sat except the one with the prices of different cafe concoctions.  "I guess they didn't put it up."

She stared at my coffee, the small trail mix, and then back up at me.  I closed my book.

"Do you have any other form of payment?"

I stared at my card, still held in her right hand.  

"No," I said.  My pocket cash was gone from last night's trip to the next nearest major metro for a big game.

"Well, there's supposed to be a sign."  

I nodded.  I shrugged.  I wasn't sure what else to do.  

"Well, you can have the coffee, but I can't give you this," she said, lifting the package of fruit and nuts off of the counter and placing it out of reach.  I watched it float away.

"Alright," I said, "thanks.  If the machine begins working again, will you please let me know?  I'd like to pay for these," I said, indicating the coffee and the now distant trail mix.  

She nodded, and I turned to go back to my seat, flopping the book back open on my lap.

Coffee will do, that's all I really needed anyway.  She was nice to let me have it.  Who drinks soy milk if they don't have to?  

I sipped the coffee, letting the subtle vegetation flavor in the foam rest on the broad part of my tongue, a ritual I usually engaged in with lattes to check that it was truly made without dairy.  I guessed that's where I could taste the milk sugars.  There were none.

I read a passage in which the character was considering raping a woman, probably not seriously.  I scanned the lines, flicking my eyes over his scattered thoughts.  His logic was flawed, but so was the situation, so it was hard to hold him in any low regard, or in any high regard.  

The cashier leaned in over my shoulder, and I looked up at her over my glasses.  She held out the trail mix, and I regarded it.

"One of the students over there wanted to buy this for you," she said, a faint smile on her face.  

"Oh," I said.  I leaned out to peer beyond the cashier.  She glanced over her shoulder and back quickly.  

"They wanted it to be anonymous," she said.

"Oh," I said.  I bit my lower lip.  "Thanks," I said, "that's really nice."    

She nodded, smiling openly now.

Someone had done a good deed, and she had gotten to be a part of it.

I slid the package onto the small wooden table on which my coffee sat and stared at it.  It had filberts in it.  My father is allergic to filberts.  I wondered how many filberts were in it.  Probably only a few.  I couldn't see any through the tree-shaped window on the bag.  It was a tropical mix, apparently.  It was manufactured in a plant that also processed dairy, wheat, tree nuts, and soy.  

I felt my blush rise, my face going horribly red the way it always does when I get that pressure down to the tip of my nose, or when I'm drinking.  

I wondered if the student who bought it realized I was a student, too.  A Junior getting a late start in a formal education.  I wondered if they thought I was one of the public visitors to the school's library, doing research, or just using the computers to check my email.  I wondered if they thought I was one of the homeless men who sometimes visited the library to read the news online.  

I straightened my collar, and brushed some of the cat fur off of the cuff of my sweater.  There was so much of it, now that I was looking.  I wondered if they thought my card was declined.  I wondered if they were sitting over there at their table feeling good about themselves, feeling like they did someone a favor.  If they were, I knew they would carry that goodness in their pocket for the rest of the night, and finger it under their pillow as they drifted off to sleep, a satisfied smile on their lips.

I opened the bag and ate a raisin.  Shame swelled in my chest.  I had wanted to pay.  I was waiting to pay.  I had the ability.  I wasn't needy, I didn't ask for this charity.  I didn't want it.  

I had walked into the library with a sweater I bought in an English Sports shop in Bermuda, the same place that outfitted gentlemen with cricket whites.  I wore a pair of designer jeans, my favorite leather sneakers, and a brand new snap-brimmed hat.  I was on top of things, all about my business.  I had known I was classy and smart.  

Now my pride was limping, nursing a blow to the upper thigh.  

I wondered if they were praising themselves right now for being a good citizen.  I wondered if they were picturing me eating handful after handful, the first food I had eaten in 3 days, my stomach greedily lurching at nutrition.    

I thought about setting the bag of fruit and nuts on the table and leaving, but instead I took a bite of shredded coconut, ate an almond, a date piece, a chunk of papaya.  Soon all that remained in the bag was the single filbert I had been warned about.  I pulled it from the small tear I had made in the bag, and stared at it.  

Filberts are ugly.  They're hard, and they have no moisture in them.  They crumble into dust in your mouth, and they smell like that Belgian chocolate that always gives me a headache.

I placed the filbert on my molars, and bit down, feeling it shatter.

I pictured them watching me crunching the nut I typically avoid, though I've never had an adverse reaction to it.  I pictured them staring across the room at me, one pair of anonymous eyes keeping vigilant watch over their ward, placing their hand over their mouth, and smiling as I brought each bite to my mouth.  I pictured them lifting their eyes up to the heavens and blinking reverently, thinking of that piteous fellow who had his heart set on trail mix.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.      

43 seconds left and only 31 shots on goal.

I've realized recently that my home workspace (office/studio/whatever it might be called) has not really been conducive to inspiration of any manner.  It needs an overhaul.  Either that, or I do.  My brain has not been able to be so focused as I'd like it to... or it has, and there has just been so much to focus on that I'm mistaking a general inability with a specific, recent collection of too-much-to-do. 

I've been given an other opportunity to have my fiction published.  I'm not saying where just yet (not until the details are completely firmed up), but it is a fairly young journal, definitely aesthetically pleasing, and recently gaining notoriety and recognition.  Anyway, my work will be a web feature as they are currently between themed print editions.  I'll share a link here and on my site when the time arrives. 

I think you'll enjoy the piece. 

Nota Bene PDF available for download.

The 2009 edition of Nota Bene (in which I have two pieces) is available for download.

You can acquire it here.

Thanks for everyone who has contacted me with supportive messages.  You guys are upstanding, notable persons.

For the record.

I got my 2009 Nota Bene (the Anthology I'm in) yesterday in the mail.  It looks nice.

As soon as they post the anthology online (they usually do in PDF form) I'll add a link to the site, and probably add the pieces up there on the site too, since they're out anyway.

In the meantime, check your local Community College library for the business.

Everything else is going well.  I'm playing sports again (bizarre ones... it seems I'm attracted to unusual sports), going to a few concerts, and figuring out what I want to do for my 30th Birthday.  Maybe Bermuda?  Maybe Tokyo?  Maybe I can barely afford either and should be saving my money for grad school?

Refined and cultured... but not, like, in the "monocles and walking sticks" way.

I've been of the opinion for quite sometime that one should only define themselves as a writer if, in fact, they write... and regularly. This does not excuse my lack of a November and December 2009 posts, but I must confess I found myself overwhelmed with the end-of-the-semester flurry of exams, term papers, projects, fiction revisions, work, preparing for vacation, and other lifestyle changes (we got a dog, for instance).

Anyway, I'll just assume I'm forgiven. Onward then.

A friend and fellow writer asked me, recently, how my previous semester went, in terms of fiction critiques/workshopping, etc., and in summarizing it for him, I was struck by a few thoughts that I should probably share.

First, everyone who has workshopped fiction or had their fiction workshopped has likely realized that you cannot please everyone (and, in some cases, anyone). I was thinking about how one person might assert that a particular story speaks deeply about some social situation, while another person reading the same story might think of it as being hackneyed. How does one respond to polar criticism?

They think of it as opposing breezes. A breeze is nice, sure, and it may cool you or warm you temporarily, but breezes are only trickles of air. Breezes don't fill your sails. The winds, though, can catch those wide canvasses and can take you magnificent places... and no one man makes the wind. Also, if they wind isn't heading where you want, you can draw those sails back in and weather the storm... or just see where the winds take them, knowing that it is not necessarily the end of the journey.

There comes a point at which a writer must detach themselves from the academic umbilical cord and set out on their own journey toward realizing their fiction, honing it, and refining their skills. Ultimately, each writer must steer their own ship and find their own winds. The basic skills remain the sturdy foundations (and sometimes they require a return and re-examination), and there is certainly a constant learning process and growing process, but the journey is individual. I know mine has borne no resemblance to any other I've heard of.

Now, here's a broad, sweeping statement about art.

My opinion has always trended toward "technique" being the defining line between "art" and "expressed creative energy." This is why I don't typically appreciate Jackson Pollock work.

So, applying this model to writing, learning to create impressions deliberately, to alter moods with skill, to frame and craft everything as a function of your hand guiding the material rather than some external force influencing the ebb and flow of the fiction, or no force at all directing the lay of the words... these are the factors of the writing craft that will, at some point, bring a writer's skills into a new place, or into a new realm of refinement.

I've found a few books (oh no reading!!) specifically about the craft of writing that have been really useful in pointing toward the ultimate move toward deliberate creation.

...

Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft (Burroway, Stuckey-French, Stuckey-French)

This particular text has exceptional notes about sculpting fiction into something more refined, and makes a number of important points on the brick-and-mortar of the craft as well. Lovely in the book is the inclusion of specific examples from a number of stalwarts of Fiction. Though it is a "text book" in the traditional sense, I would say that it is well worth a read by any writer/author aspiring to be published.

...

Making Shapely Fiction (Stern)

This text is a fantastic tool for writers at varied points along their journey. I keep it around as a reference text, for that is how it approaches the craft of fiction, at least in one section - it takes common fiction terminologies and defines them in such a way that the definitions simultaneously provide direct information to the uninitiated while lending inspiration to the already informed. There are exercises which are useful as well, a general treatise on the process of writing, and considerations of common snags that writers have experienced. Again, a good reference for beginners or for seasoned scribes looking for a "back to basics" type of inspiration.

...

Hooked: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One & Never Lets Them Go (Edgerton)

Though I must confess that I have never read this book from cover to cover, I have personally picked up a number of good tips from it on beginnings, which, in terms of getting published, are so very damned important. Is it an essential text for everyone? Not necessarily, but if you have trouble building front-end hammers, you may find something of use here.

...

Of course, there are so many texts out there that proclaim they are an essential reference for the aspiring writer, but one might be wise to carefully select the texts to which they pay heed... even these ones I've listed can be overbearing to the writer who has yet to develop a personal direction. Read lightly, in other words, and love those tips that you find that sing to your spirit.

Remember, also, that the best education comes from simply doing the thing... write, submit, share, participate. Don't forget to read books by other authors, and read broadly (get out of your "genre"), and consider what you've read, and don't feel compelled to like every novel, short story, or poem you come across.

Also, there is so much more.