Kent Haruf speaks the truth

I heard a wonderful excerpt from an interview of the now deceased author Kent Haruf.  He said that in his experience there is no shortage of creative writing students with talent.  The shortage is in creative writing students who are willing to put in the work required to write something truly good.

It was a fine articulation of a truth you must come to terms with if you plan to succeed in the arts.

I spent a month writing a short novel.  I’m finishing up the first draft now, probably by Friday.  60k words written as fast I can go.  The next part is where the work is.  I’ll have to take that mass of gobbly guck and refine it into something worthy of your time.  That’s a lot of work.  It’s so much work that the first draft of the short novel I wrote last year sits idly on my hard drive, taunting me, telling me I’m not a pro yet because I’m not willing to go back and do the hard part.

Thousands of people finished novels during NaNoWriMo this year.  I suspect that the published results will show Mr. Haruf to be correct.  Only a few of the authors will be willing to put in the work required to write something truly good.

I expect to be one of them.

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Creation is an act of will.

I was talking about NaNo with a friend of mine the other day – he decided not to participate “this year” – and another acquaintance of ours joined in.  He was surprised that I wrote, then wasn’t.  But he did ask an insightful question, even if it is common for those of us with a second, non-writing job.

“Where do you find the time to write a novel too?”

I said, “Usually I write screen plays and they aren’t quite as long.”  That was a joke but I don’t think anybody else got it.  I then told him, “I ride the train.”  ‘Nuff said, that’s 2 hours a day where my choices are limited.  He nodded, like that was all there was too it.

Thing is, it isn’t.  I used to say that if I rode the train I’d write a novel.  Said it for years.  Then I started riding the train and after a couple of weeks I actually tried to write a novel.  Two days in a row.  Then I stopped.  Went back to reading and playing games.  Did that for over a year.

What I’ve learned is that creative art is something you make time for.  The same way you make time for going to DMV or grocery shopping.  In the novel, “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” Phillip Dick gives us the idea of kibble – stuff that fills all available space but has no value or purpose.  Our schedules fill with kibble, can be over-run by kibble.

I’ve just come off a very nice break, a five day weekend if you will.  (An expression I really don’t like but seem to use anyway.)  No train.  No agenda.  Still wrote.  It was about showing up.  Yesterday I showed up three times, wrote for about an hour each time.  Got 2800 words.  Day before?  Only showed up once.  Got about 1k – split it between the blog and the project.

You get what you put in.  If you like the idea of writing or the act of writing itself is all you’re after, feel free to show up when you find time.  But if you want to actually create something, finish it, then you’ll have to make the time.

And show up.  Otherwise the kibble will stifle you.

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Children's theater

There is something truly special about seeing your work brought to life.  I’m fortunate to be enjoying a second helping of that specialness.  You may recall that last year I wrote a Christmas play that the teens in our church performed.  This year – surprise, surprise -- I’m doing a reprise.

Not a true reprise, the story is completely different, more like Fierce Creatures as a reprise of A Fish Called Wanda.  (When I saw Wanda, I was a middle teen watching it with a lot of old (70+) people and was horrified that they were laughing at the sex jokes.)  What I mean is, the cast is mostly the same even though the story is not.

Working with the actors is great because you can see what works and what doesn’t.  The kids laugh at me because they’ll deliver an exchange perfectly and I’ll bust out laughing – it’s funny – and they’re all like, “Why are you laughing?  Didn’t you write this?” and I’m all like, “Yes and I thought it was funny then but you guys nailed it and it’s hysterical!”

What really struck me this year was how little direction the actors needed for the proper way to deliver their lines.  They knew, from the words and context, exactly how to say it.  I wasn’t that good last year.  This is proof-positive that I’m getting better.

If you want your very own copy of “You Don’t See That Every Day,” send me and email.

Steal yourself

I discovered a wonderful little book that you absolutely have to read.  When I say little, I mean little.  Your library has it if you don’t like to buy books.  If you do like to buy books, it’s one that your collection yearns for.

That’s right, yearns.

The book is Austin Kleon’s “Steal Like an Artist” and it will both motivate and free you.  He opens by telling us that in his opinion, anytime someone offers you advice, they are really saying what they would do now, in your position.  There’s a bit of obvious but undiscovered truth there and it sets the tone for the rest of the book.

The book itself is pocket sized and doesn’t feel any pressure to fill the pages with words.  What is there is good.  What isn’t there wasn’t needed.  Illustrations, charts, and balloon quotes all get their own pages.

It isn’t because he doesn’t have much to say or needs filler.  It’s to control your pace as you read.  It’s the printed version of my mother-in-law’s apple pie.  You take a bite and just let it sit there for a minute making your mouth happy.

Essentially what Kleon does is articulate, artfully, the difference between inspiration and plagiarism.  His arguments may not stand up in court but they will give you permission to enjoy your creative passions more fully.

And that is the goal of the book – to encourage you to make art that you like.  He breaks convention and says, “Don’t write what you know, write what you want to read.”

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The only thing better than a rejection letter is 4 rejection letters.

Long time readers may recall the excitement from about a year ago when I wrote about receiving a rejection letter with personal comments.  I’ve gotten a few more since then and they really cause as much excitement as they once did.

But the one I just got did.  It didn’t have a personal comment from the editor.  It had a personal comment from the editor and the three readers.  I made it almost to publication in a respectably paying market.  The comments were positive about the writing and spot on criticisms of the plot.  Please forgive the hubris, I’m going to share some of them.

“This piece is tense and exciting.  It has a lot going for it.  But I don’t feel very sumpathetic towards the protagonist…  It is a good piece, but I don’t think it’s quite there.”

“Your prose is vivid and well written.  I feel your plot could have a little more exposition added to it, however.”

“The author of this piece has a world view and character clearly thought out before htem.  The staccato sentences, “The mirror was in a very honest mood,” reflect Angela’s own tense and acerbic frame of mind… in part because I wasn’t sure this made a whole story in itself… This feels like the true story’s cold echo.”

I love that last line.  Cold echo.  It was a cold piece and needed warmth to draw a reader in.  I plan to add that warmth.

The key to getting better is honesty.  I have another story being rejected all over the place that I think is good and just needs the right editor.  But this story isn’t there.  Yet.

Ask a busy person.

When was the last time you learned something new?  I’m not talking trivia, like how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop.  I’m talking how to do something, like actually make a tootsie pop.

There is nothing more stimulating than adjusting your perspective by putting on a different pair of metaphorical shoes.  Sure, you may stink at whatever you’re trying to do -- I almost failed 8^th grade art and my teacher made me do three water color projects because she thought I was goofing off (which I may have been, but I can’t do water colors) – but the experience will energize your life.

I recently changed jobs and the duties/responsibilities are so different that I spent the first three weeks struggling to keep my (metaphorically again) head above water.  You know what, though?  During that time I started a new screen play and I’ve got almost 90 pages done!

Next month is November.  It’s NaNoWriMo.  Do it.  Seriously.  If you think you’re too busy then you’ve got a better than average chance of actually succeeding.  When December rolls around you’ll be a novelist.

Just one thing --  start from scratch.  Don’t pick up a scrap or a stalled out idea from ten years ago.  It will be easier without baggage.  And I meant what I said about being busy.  The busier you are in life, the more likely you’ll be able to get it done.

There's no dog like an old dog.

Long time readers may recall that last year my youngest son’s science project was to determine which of our three dogs was the smartest.  An interesting side effect of that was the discovery of which one was the dumbest.  But he’s a good, kind-hearted boy, so he described her instead as “the third smartest dog.”

So now, on occasion, I’ll call her #3.  Thing is, I like #3.  She’s sweet and when we got her she was terrified of the world.  Seriously.  She only stopped shaking in dark room by herself.  I often found her in my closet.  She would leap from the dogs’ recliner if I even came close to the shredder.  So I would pet her with keys in my hand.  She’s still nervous about that, but I don’t have to hold her anymore.

#3 is a black Lab.  If you know labs, you know they have a voracious hunger and will consume vast quantities of anything when given a chance.  This one is partial to charcoal and Crayola’s.  It makes for a colorful back yard.  I’ve trained #1-2 to eat only when given permission.  But could #3 learn to wait too?

She can and she has.  It just took longer than the Border Collie did.  I estimate about 1 week of training for the lab per day of training for the collie.  To be fair, the lab is about 7 years old and the collie was a pup, but, well, there’s a reason she’s #3.

My point in all of this is that my family was dubious about my chances for success.  After all, everyone knows that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.  Except that I did.

Think about that.

Have you passed on your dream again because now you’re too old?  If I can teach a lab in late middle age to wait for her breakfast, you can do it too.  Not wait for your breakfast, but live your dream.  The thing about dreams is that most people don’t follow them and they’ll tell you all sorts of reasons why you shouldn’t either, one of them that you’re already set on your life path.  Don’t listen to that.  People, in general, are afraid, and what you are hearing are the expressions of their fear, the things that are holding them back.  But you aren’t them.

So what if you’re only third smartest.  Doesn’t mean you can’t succeed.

When will I get there? I ain't certain.

I recently typed “Fade In” on a new script.  It isn’t the one I spent a month breaking.  It’s the silly idea that came to me nearly fully formed when I was running over the summer.  I was planning to write the other one, thought I should write the other one, but it wasn’t ready.

This one is.

It’s because I know how it ends.  Very clearly.  I’ve heard it over and over – how important it is to know your ending, thought I sort of got it when I was working on Falling Star, but now I own it.  You absolutely have to know how it ends before you begin.  You can write without knowing the ending, and some of the writing may be good, but the story won’t be.  Take all the side roads you want on your way, but you have to know where you’re going.

I love the ending to this story.  I love my protagonist.  I love the technology.  I pitched the idea to my kids and they love it.  So I told them the whole story.  They love it.  “Definitely write that one, Dad.”  They even offered suggestions.  I listened.

I realized that the reason I’m so confident as a writer now is because I’ve seen the end.  When I was younger I just wrote.  Now I write with direction.  I’ve been surprised by some of the side roads, will probably be surprised by some more, but I know where I’m going.

And I love the ending.

Get Out of the Way

There was a question posted over on Going Into The Story (Scott Myers'  blog) that has sort of stuck in my craw.  “With the odds against breaking in so large, how do you stay motivated to write?”  I’ve seen the question before, trying on slightly different outfits, and it both frustrates and encourages me.

Why?  Because the question is, at heart, a whine by someone who doesn’t want to do the work.  I find encouragement in the fact that people who ask that question aren’t focused or committed and will never rise to a level that I have to compete with them.

I’m frustrated because I don’t like to see people wasting their lives and this question is just like, “Where do you get your ideas?  I can’t ever think of anything.” Or “I’m bored.”  I’m sorry I have to break this to you over the internet, but if you are bored, or don’t have more story ideas than time to write stories, you aren’t a writer.  You may be able to write, but you aren’t a world builder.  Ditto with bored.  A writer is not bored.  There is always something interesting going on.  Even if you are in alone in a dark room, as a writer, there are story pieces to work out that keep you from boredom.  I know this.  I have migraines.

Maybe the person who asked this question has never done anything impossible and feels overwhelmed.  I get that.  To me, the question says that his goal is too broad.  What is “Break in?”  Does he want to be rich and famous?  That’s a different goal than being a writer and there’s a more certain path to achieve that.  Does he just want to sell a script?  That’s achievable, if he puts in the work.  Does he want to write for a living?  There’s a thousand ways to do that.

But he won’t achieve anything if he doesn’t know what he wants.  Remember the Bangel’s song?  Do you know what you want?

Maybe you’re mad at me now.  “Don’t be so discouraging.”  “I love to write/paint/sculpt pumpkins but sometimes I feel like maybe I’m wasting my time, I just need a little boost.”  You are welcome to that opinion.  I suggest that you get your boost from feedback about your work and progress toward your goal.  Asking strangers to validate you smells an awfully lot like a subsidy.

If you struggle to find the motivation necessary to put words on the page you probably should not aspire to be a professional writer.  It would be your job.  You’d be very bad at it.

Sorry.

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Don't Rush (but don't waste your life either)

This week’s blog wouldn’t be complete without a reference to Kelly Clarkson.  (For the record, I do not love Kelly.  I like her music.  I also don’t love Tina or Adele but I like their music.  In fact, I don’t love any recording artist.  I don’t know any of them.)  KC has song called Don’t Rush or something close to that – I don’t read the CD case while I’m driving.  Great song.  Great message in the song.  I enjoy listening to it.

It’s a good mantra for writers.  Don’t rush.  If you study writing at all you’ve read as many articles as I have about not sending out your work too soon.  Or even sharing it with other people too soon.  That’s really good advice.  But there comes a time where patience will keep you from moving forward.

Allow me to share a conversation I had recently with myself.  (I’m a writer.  I can be eccentric.  (That double ‘c’ construction is interesting.))  Earlier this summer I saw a VW in the parking lot of the train station with a license plate that essentially said, “I make movies.”  I thought, “Hey, here’s a local who loves this too.”  But I didn’t have time to leave a note.  I was actually doing a pre-on trial for murder O.J. dash to catch my ride.  I decided that I’d keep my eyes open and catch him next time.

Next time took 4 months.  I was getting ready to pull out on my way home and saw the car.  I said, “I should leave a note.”  And then I said, “But that’s weird.  I’m not doing that.”  I sat in my truck for a minute and found myself back in high school leaning against the wall at a Spring Fling dance wanting to ask a young lady to dance but fearing the rejection and what she would think of me after.

I didn’t end up asking her to dance.  It was a boring night.

Back in the truck I asked, “How serious are you about writing?”  It was a fair question and I answered, “Serious.”

With that answer I knew I had to step up.  I left a card with a note.  Then I checked my email about 30 times before going to bed.  No response.  “See?  He thinks I’m a nut,” I said.  “Be patient,” I said back.

The very next day I got a response – “Hey, I saw your card on my windshield this morning heading to the train station.  We should talk, I’m looking for a writer.”

So I have a neighbor who does video production, works for a non-profit in DC as a producer, and has a film making degree from George Mason.  Cool.  I watched his demos.  He’s very good.  “You are out of your league,” I said.  “You can’t make me quit now,” I said back.  But I was intimidated.  We’ve exchanged several emails since.  One included Princess Rose.

Turns out I’m moving up a league.

Am I lucky to have seen the car?  Absolutely, but only because I acted.  And that action?  It only had value because I’ve put in the hours to learn and sharpen a very specific skillset – with a portfolio that demonstrates that skill.  So I didn’t rush, but I didn’t use it as an excuse either.

Are you serious about your passion?  Get out there.  You won’t be discovered working under a rock even if you’re amazing.  Remind me next Wednesday and I’ll tell you about the pen salesman.

Once Removed

I am chasing a wild goose because, according to legend, he swallowed a red herring and I want that fish.  It’s insane for me to believe that I will ever actually make money writing.  Yet I persist in trying.  Over and over.  If it were a literal brick wall I would stop (and have another flat spot on my head).  So why don’t I?

I think the first reason is that I will write whether or not I make any money at it.  The second is that it doesn’t cost me anything other than a bit of frustration when I’m not successful.  The third is ego – I think I can do it and it’s just a matter of time before everyone else realizes it.  The fourth?  Ahh.  That’s the kicker.

I’m chasing a dream and there is no finer pursuit.  Well, perhaps the hunting of men, as Hemmingway so eloquently stated, but even that must surely grow wearisome in comparison to the vision quest.  I’ll admit I’ve been a bit lost since finishing Falling Star.  I even wrote about my bout with writer’s block (it’s over – the draft of the play is finished).  But not today.  I saw something amazing.

Last weekend I met my cousin the professional soccer player.  As in he gets paid to play soccer and that’s his job.  I remember hearing all of the stories about him in high school and then some rather pointed criticism about which college he was attending based on – gasp – the soccer program rather than the degree program.  Then when he left the country to play for a Latin American team there was a great outcry of, “How could you throw these very important years away?”  I thought it was pretty cool he was going for it, but really, how likely is he to make it to the big time?

I was hopeful for him, and tried to discourage the discouragers from being discouraging – after all, I have another cousin who purposed to kiss Bob Barker before he left the Price is Right and she totally rocked that.  But to be a pro-ball player?  That’s like selling a screenplay.

I watched him on the sidelines of the game we attended.  Kids leaned out over the fence, extending their hands and he slapped them as he ran back and forth.  He couldn’t see all the smiles but I could.  Fans.  His name on the back of his jersey.  Then after the game there were the pictures with my kids out on the field with him.  Wearing their jersey’s signed by the whole team.  Beaming.  It was amazing.

I shook his hand and congratulated him on living the dream.  He laughed and I told him I was serious.  I thought it was awesome that he went for it and I was very excited for him that he is making it.  I think he was embarrassed by this old man.  Then he said, “I just couldn’t see myself doing the 9-5.”  That’s sort of like Cortez burning his ships – if you can’t see yourself sailing back to Spain, you won’t sail back to Spain.

I don’t see him doing 9-5 either.  But we watched him do 4-0 and it was the most exciting 90 minutes of soccer I’ve ever watched.

The Little Whitepaper That Could

I’ve just tossed 250 words of my original post.  That’s awesome.  It tells me I’m maturing as a writer.  I’ve also been cleaning out my files because I’m about to move offices and I found a document I wrote in 2006.  I was exceedingly proud of it at the time and it got me a lot of attention.  I skimmed through it, as one does when one is supposed to be shredding and packing.  What I found made me laugh.  The ideas were solid, but oh the error.  Grammar mistakes I’d never make now.  Sentence structure that confused without adding content.  And exclamation marks.  In business writing!  Ha.  It’s a wonder I ever got promoted.

But it also underscores a truth that we all (as writers) know and, in my case, often don’t take the time to actually consider.  We are usually our own worst critics.  We think what we’ve written is better than saran wrap and send it off to be published (or read by friends) before taking the time to actually read what we wrote rather than remember what was in our head.  Or, in this case, condemn what we’ve written as horribly illiterate and destined for the recycle bin when, in point of fact, it’s quite good for the audience of intention.

That’s a curious turn of phrase.  Audience of intention.  Can I say that?  Does it makes sense?  Comments from the English department, please.

Looking back, I can see that the piece of writing I no longer consider up to snuff actually impacted policy.  We changed how we did business because the decision makers that read it understood my proposals.  At the time I failed to grasp the significance that the people I gave the document to had to pass it “up the chain” for that change to happen.  I moved my audience and they said, “You have to read this.”

I recently heard a story from a friend of mine who still works in that section.  He said they have a new initiative going now – told me what it was – and I said, “It’s about time, I was saying for years that needed to be done.”  He said, “I now.  It got started because somebody found your whitepaper.”  A new person, an old desk, and somewhere in the detritus that had been left by the previous occupant was a crumpled copy of my whitepaper on the topic.  It inspired him to action.

Isn’t that why we write?

Roland on the River

This is not what I was going to write until I got in my truck to drive to the train station this morning.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.  It reminds me of the sort of story I wrote when I was in high school although, hopefully, it's a bit better.

Roland on the River
by Jon Stark
August, 2014; 1200 words

Roland had grown old, but he still loved the river and he hadn’t forgotten.  Three days a week he walked down the hill to the edge of the water, the sand and driftwood long given way to boardwalks, piers, decay, revitalization, and now the very grand Promenade.

He set up his easel, placed the canvas, laid out the charcoal, and let the sun seep into his weary bones.  The river flowed and he remembered.

His hands drifted over the blank canvas for a few minutes and then he took up his colors and sketched, eyes closed, memory pouring out.

A passing couple paused to watch him.  “She’s beautiful,” said Tina.  “You make it look so easy.”

In the beginning it was always easy.  It wasn’t until later that it got rough.  In the beginning he was a boy, playing here with his friends.

#

The three boys carried sticks and smashed them against everything they found.  Roland had an old rag of a shirt, salvaged from the flotsam on the shore, tied to the end of his.  They were loud and in the depth of summer.

The girl was sitting on a giant piece of driftwood staring across at Indiana.  “Hey! Girl!  You can’t sit there,” said Roland.  It was, after all, not her adventure.

“My name is Mary, not Girl and I can sit here if I like,” she shot back.  The other two boys looked at Roland.  Roland looked at Mary.  Mary packed a lot of defiance into her 8 year old body.

“Okay,” said Roland.  “But watch out for the pirates.”

“There ain’t no pirates,” said Mary.

“If you’re going to sit there, you need to watch out for the pirates, they’re chasing us,” said Roland.  He looked back for dramatic effect.  She wasn’t buying it.

“You should come with us,” said Rick.  Roland shot him a look but he pressed on.  “We can keep you safe from the pirates.”

“There ain’t no pirates,” repeated Mary, “And even if there was, I wouldn’t need you to keep me safe.”  But she went with them, down the river and through the thickets and mud, racing the paddle wheel that ran between places that were just names.  And she went each day after that too.

#

Roland answered his door and found Mary standing on the stoop.  “Let’s go,” she said.  Her hair was still short, rough and uneven from cutting it herself, but she had grown while he hadn’t and now towered over him.  It didn’t matter.  He was smitten.

“We’re going,” Roland hollered over his shoulder.

His mother came into the hallway, a dishtowel over her shoulder.  “Who is we?”  Then she saw Mary and waved.  “Hello, Mary.”  Mary waved, then grabbed Roland’s hand and pulled him into the afternoon.

#

They were sitting on the stoop drinking lemonade when Roland’s father pulled into the driveway.  Roland was speechless.  He father climbed out of a silver Thunderbird, grinning from ear to ear.  “Give me a hand with the top, Sport?”

Roland leaped up.  “Is this ours?”

His father beamed at him.  “Sure is.  I got a promotion today.  Off the line and into the office.”

Mary frowned.  “Office?  I’m never working for the man.”  It would have sounded funny coming from someone else, but to Roland, it made the rest of the world make sense.  He wondered, in that moment, if a brand new car, blinding with chrome, was worth working for the man.

But he didn’t have long to think about it.  “Come on,” said Mary, suddenly up and jogging across the lawn.  Roland’s father watched them go.

#

The fair charged admission but they didn’t need to use the gate.  Roland and his friends followed Mary through a hole in the fence and were engulfed by the carnival.

Mary watched the Ferris Wheel turning.  “I bet you can see the river from up there,” she said.  Roland agreed.  They ran over to get in line but then Mary stopped.  “I don’t have that much money.”

Roland dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his change.  “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

She scowled at him.  “I don’t want your money.”

“But you want to ride.”  He still didn’t always understand her.  “I want you to be able to go.”

Mary shot into the crowd.  “I’ll ride it, but not on your dime.”

Roland lost sight of her.  “Forget her,” said Rick.  They wandered the stalls and cheered when Harry knocked over all of the milk bottles and won a stuffed bear.

They finally spotted Mary again, bussing tables at Cleo’s Fair Faire.  “What are you doing?” asked Roland.

“I’m going to ride the Ferris Wheel,” said Mary.  An hour later she caught up to the boys.  “Let’s go.”  Mary pulled Roland away and, as the sun set to their west, they rode the Ferris Wheel.  She was right.  She could see the river.  She could even see Indiana.  Roland saw Mary.  And she let him hold her hand.

#

Roland and Mary had 5^th period civics together when they were juniors.  Mr. Ross told Mary that she couldn’t be president.  Told her it was a silly idea for a girl.  Governing wasn’t like mending dresses or baking cookies.  Mary told him that the world would be a better place if the president did bake everyone cookies.  Roland agreed.

Mr. Ross didn’t and Mary found herself on the wrong side of his red pen for the rest of the year.

#

Mary didn’t leave for college when Roland did.  She never answered his letters.  When he came home at Christmas she was gone.

#

The three boys, home on summer break and with an afternoon off from work, crashed along the bank of the river.  They came across a collection of flotsam carefully laid out and, hidden in the shade nearby, was Mary.

She looked terrible, even for her.  Roland tried to give her a hug but she shooed him away.  “This is my place now.  You boys need to run along.”

“What are you doing?” asked Roland.  “I thought you were going to be president.”

“I am president.”

Roland tried to talk to her, to catch up, but she wasn’t interested and finally walked away from him.  When he followed, she dove into the river and swam away.  “Where are you going?”

“Indiana.”

#

Roland didn’t see her again for nearly 10 years and then it was even worse.  Some boys had been playing by the water and found her washed up among the logs and trash.

He couldn’t explain the emptiness.  Somewhere inside he’d thought she would always be there.  Strong, rough, the embodiment of growing up along the river.

He paid for the funeral.  Nobody else had stepped forward to claim her.  The mortician had taken his time.  She was beautiful.  He paid for her to be buried in the cemetery north of town, where she could see the river and, in the winter when the leaves had fallen, all the way to Indiana.

#

Roland sketched lightly.  He was nearly done.  The lines were distinct, sharp but with an unmistakable grace.  You could almost see the water lapping against her, the wheel turning in the background, and smoke rising from the stacks.

“They don’t make them like that anymore, do they?” asked Tina.

Roland shook his head.

“What’s her name?”

The finishing touch.  He scrawled “Proud Mary” across the stern.

Nice Parking Job

Looks like this didn't go out when it was supposed to.  So you get it today.



I went on a business trip recently.  Had to fly.  No big deal, in and of itself, but part of flying is parking.  Sometimes getting a parking space is more challenging than getting through security.  Generally, at my preferred airport, it’s a pretty short walk from the garage to the gate.  There’s usually plenty of parking too.

But not when you fly midweek and the walk is a lot longer if you happen to be flying on the airline based out of the far terminal.  It’s not three miles far, but it’s a bit of a trek.  Fortunately I did find parking on the top deck of the garage and there are a few moving walkways – not that I’m lazy and don’t like to walk, but I travel with three days in a carryon so it gets heavy, especially when I need a suit and have to use the garment bag instead of the roller.

But that all happens beyond the parking.  I drive a full size truck.  I wanted to get an Audi TT but my wife pointed out that I couldn’t tow the boat with the TT so I bought the truck instead.  Some folks find it challenging to park.  I have a CDL, parking the pickup just requires a little planning and patience.

I’ve been parking it for a few years now.  I’ve gotten pretty good at it.  You could even say a little OCD about it – I take great care to be in the middle of the space.  When I pulled my bags out of the  truck at the airport garage I was pleased to note that I had successfully achieved that small, mental illness indicating, goal.

When I returned from the trip I found my truck just as I had left it, parked in the center of the space.  I put my bags in it and climbed inside.  I noticed a note tucked under my windshield wiper.  The first thought I had was that it was from my friend who was also on a business trip and does things like that when he spots my truck.

I got out, retrieved the note, and read the script scrawled on the Marriott stationary.  It read, roughly, “Dude, nice parking job.”  That made me feel pretty good, I have to admit.  Maybe even proud.  I kept reading.  “I couldn’t even get into my car.  Jerk face.”  It appeared that the first part was sarcastic.  At least he signed his name.

I had to wonder at the note.  Was it a joke?  Was it serious?  I’d have gone with joke except I’ve meet too many people.  And I’d spent a very long time in airports recently.  I think it was serious.  But seriously, I was in the middle of my spot.  If he couldn’t get into his car that meant he had to be in my space.  Like the guy on the plane sitting next to me.

Some people might have been offended but I thought it was pretty funny.  I mean, to go to the effort to write a note?  That’s like the people I went to school with that always insisted someone had stolen their pen.  What is it about our nature that makes us blame other people for what we do – or don’t do?

That’s too deep of a question for me to answer, but it did remind me of how personal everyone’s viewpoint is.  It underscores that a rejection of my work is not a direct criticism but rather a personal preference.  I’ve written a few things that my wife loved and nobody else does.  And the opposite.  In fact, there a few stories I’ve written that I really liked and she thought were quite dumb.  But that’s teaching me to trust my own instinct, and reminding me to seek markets that publish what I like rather than what everyone else likes.  I mean, look at Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I love that movie.  Everything about it.  She fell asleep.  Personal perspective.

Speaking of falling asleep, I’ll probably be falling asleep on the couch after bringing that back up.  I hope no giant boulders crush me.

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

I’ve been working on the last minute updates to Falling Star in preparation for submitting it to a contest at the end of this month (July).  I’d narrowed it down to two places – a follow-up entry to BlueCat or a taste of something different with Big Break.

My wife and I walked 2000 steps discussing the pros and cons of each.  I chose BlueCat.  It comes down to feedback.  With BlueCat you get some, in writing, and they announce their results in tiers so you know how far you made it.  If I’m going to plunk down my cash on an entry, I don’t want a lottery ticket.  I want feedback.

With everything decided, last minute notes coming in, and only a quick pass or two left before I ship it out, an odd thing happened.  I lost faith.  This script that I spewed out in a couple of weeks and then have labored over ever since – tweaking, editing, completely rewriting – the script that I admitted to a select few close friends was probably the best thing I’d written, suddenly wasn’t very good.

In fact, it was awful.  Not even close to the quality of what I’ve been reading lately.  Who am I to enter it into BlueCat when it clearly isn’t as good as Prisoners?

Where was that voice when I first started, warning me that I was about to waste a lot of time and should really do something else more worthwhile – like watch YouTube videos?  I asked it.  No answer.  (Strange looks from the folks sitting next to me on the train through.)

My script may not be good enough to win.  But maybe it is.  I’ve gotten better and last year I made the top 10%.  The story was different, probably better, but the writing is much better now.  I know this because when I look at my entry from last year I cringe a little.  Not a lot, but enough to know that I’m still improving.

I think, maybe, that the fear holding me back now isn’t whether or not the script is good enough.  It’s the fear of letting it go.  Now I have to start over.  Meet new characters.  Make their lives awful so that you will be entertained.  I have to pick an idea that I like so much I’m good working with it until after Christmas.

Christmas.  That’s after NaNoWriMo.  Should I do that again this year?  Oh my.  Focus, Jon.

There's dark, and then there's DARK

I had an interesting conversation last week that sort of got me thinking about some potential story elements.  The next morning I went for a 7 mile run and saw a vulture sitting on a rickety old barn early on.  It all sort of swirled together and I got back with pretty complete story outline.  I'm not quite sure about writing it yet so I thought I'd write out a scene and see how it went.

EXCERPT

Elise looked out of the window and watched the tree line at the edge of the field.  The air was still and nothing moved in the moon light.  But something had disturbed her.  She listened intently and heard nothing except her own breathing.

She crept into the hallway, unsure of herself.  There must have been something.  She checked her daughter’s room.  Empty.  As it always was.  She took a moment for the inevitable sorrow to seep away before shutting the door.

The old farmhouse creaked as she made her way to the stairs.  It had a life of its own, like an old sailing ship adrift and long forgotten.  Moonlight sifted in through cracked and broken windows.  A draught caught at the hem of her nightgown, tickling her as it fled up the stairs and out of the hole in the roof.

Dread wrestled with anticipation when she reached the top of the stairs.  Whatever it was, it was down there.  She peered into the gloom 13 steps below her, phlegm catching in her throat and adding a rhythmic rasping to the night.

She pulled her hand from the wall and stepped forward.  The darkness of her shadow clung to the peeling wallpaper, the shadow taking a moment to peel from the yellowed print to catch up with her.

Elise floated gracefully down the stairwell, her feet unmoving and her hand hovering inches above the railing.  Behind her, the paper peeled away revealing charred plaster – cracked and broken.  At the bottom she settled onto the hardwood floor and turned toward the kitchen.

The cold floor on her feet woke her.  Elise lay on her back in bed, the covers kicked off, every light blazing, drenched in sweat and staring into the face of darkness.  She couldn’t move.  She couldn’t close her eyes.  She couldn’t turn away from the cloud that hung over her.

It was a swirling mass, oppressive with a weight that threatened to crush her.  She struggled for breath, against the force that held her still, against the terror that consumed her.  It was an evil thing – no, it was evil.  It reeked of stale death.

Down it came, settling on her.  It enveloped her, oozing between her toes, over her skin.  She screamed again and when it was done, when she fought to draw a breath, her aching lungs drew it inside of her.  Her body jerked and she arched her back, impossibly, for what might have passed as an eternity.  Then she collapsed.

It was late when the sun finally woke her, afternoon at least, and she was groggy.  The lights were on and Elise began to shake as memory overcame sleep and dark bile rose in her throat.

A memory saved is a story earned

It appears that all of those folks who say who say that disrupting your usual routine is great for creativity are correct.  I've left routine far behind and am nearly drowning in fresh bits to season future narratives.  There's the giant buzzard on top of the decrepit barn that watched me run by.  Then the rabid koi.  I was sneezed out of a giant nose, saw how a nuclear reactor works, was nearly killed twice by people in black trucks, heard great quotes...

The list runs for a quite a long way, covering funny to scary, delicious to gross, mundane to profound.  I actually worked out an entire story during a run that I shared with cows, corn, and nasty flies.  Now if only I could find the time to write it down.

Seems that breaking apart routine isn't all roses.

Virtual Reality Snark

So I got a little mixed up with the schedule this week and posted inspiration on Monday.  Old habits, you know?  Don’t worry, Friday’s is accurate (I wrote it last week after I finished the script it’s about.  WOW.)

At any rate, here’s this week’s bit of short fiction.

Virtual Reality
by Jon Stark
July, 2014; 546 words

There’s a lot of talk these days about virtual reality.  The ‘new technology’ that’s going to change everything.  Just like it did 20 years ago.  Sure, The Lawnmower Man looks campy now, but its promise was very alluring back then.  Sort of like these silly goggles now.  Or the glasses with HUDs – Heads Up Displays.

But guess what, everybody?  You don’t need those goofy gadgets to tap into a virtual reality experience.  You’re already in it.  Ever watch cable news and wonder what planet the anchors are living on?  It’s Earth, but they’re living in their own virtual reality.  And the Mayor of Toronto – Bob B. Smokinstill?  Total VR junkie.

It isn’t just the rich and famous either.  We were discussing the global poverty crisis at work the other day and a man I’ll call Jim crashed the conversation to tell us all that he completely understood because with the cost of gas going up he could barely afford his interest only mortgage on account of the two truck payments, the new snowmobile from last winter and the last three years of payments on the old snowmobile that he bought four years ago plus the big screen he bought for the Super Bowl only came with 6 months of no payments so he’s going to have to come up with another $15 per month to cover the minimum on that.  We nodded, hoping he’d leave.  But there was more.  Apparently he couldn’t afford the 34 foot 5^th wheel camper he was planning to buy, something about his credit, and had to settle on the 26 foot model with only two slide outs.  “So yeah,” he said, “I totally get the poverty problem.”

And then there was the lady at Big Food Big Savings.  She was offended that I wouldn’t let her in front of me in the checkout line just because she had a couple of screaming kids and had only stopped in for formula and diapers and was late.  Sorry, Lady.  I’ve been here for hours filling these two carts.  If you wanted to be ahead of me in line, you should have left the brats in the car.  The warped sense of entitlement some people have.  I should have let the air out of her tires in the parking lot.  That would have taught her to leave extra time in her schedule for the unexpected.

Twice this morning on the drive in I had to speed up to keep some Mario Andretti wannabe from being able to pass by going around.  I hate in when the traffic is moderate, people think it’s okay to just zoom around because there’s a little bit of space.  All that’s going to happen is that they’ll get stuck at a red light.  The one guy got really upset and started honking his horn at me and flipped on his emergency lights.  I threw my mostly empty coffee cup out the window at him at the next light.  “Here you go, Copper, sorry I don’t have a doughnut to go with it,” I said.  Those lights are for emergencies, not to fill your belly.  Abuse of power and position.  Why?  Because they’re all living in a virtual reality.

Makes it hard for those of us in the real world.

Potential: Use it or Lose it

The older you get, the less value potential has in your life.  It’s like a battery, or a pile of rocks on the castle wall.  If you never put the battery in something, that energy is completely wasted.  Same for the pile of rocks – if you don’t drop them on the heads of unsuspecting invaders, you’ve labored in vain to put them up there.  (Please note, I’m note arguing against defensive preparations, just using heavy physical objects for an example as a nod to science’s potential energy vs. kinetic energy.)

I may have the science wrong, it’s been many years since Mr. Wagner tried to teach me anything about physics.  I refused to learn.  Things escalated so far that I dropped the course and went back to the “new and improved” earth science.  I liked Mr. Wagner, he taught me chemistry, but I did not like physics.

Let’s go back to potential in your life.  When you are young, potential is a great thing.  The more you have, the better.  It gives you choices.  You can add to your potential.  Great stuff.  But when you get out into the world, you have to start using it.  For some folks, that’s tough.  Using potential means you don’t have as much anymore.  Fewer choices.  But along with few choices comes more accomplishments.  And accomplishment creates more potential.

Ask anyone who has had work done on their home.  Is it better to have a crew that is capable of doing good work or a crew that is doing great work?  I suspect that you have far more potential than you think.  Use it.  Live up to what you are capable of being.  There is a parable in the Bible about a wealthy lord who leaves town and entrusts a portion of his treasure to three servants.  When he returns, he interviews them one by one.  To the first he gave 5 billion dollars.  The servant invested it and returned 10 billion to the master.  The second he gave 3 billion dollars.  That servant also invested it and returned 6 billion to the master.  To the third servant he gave 1 billion dollars.  That servant returned the 1 billion to the master upon his return saying, “I know you are a hard master and would hold me accountable for each dollar so I buried to keep it safe.”  The master was furious.  “You wasted it.  Even if you had only put it in the bank I would have earned interest.  Instead you did nothing.”  The servant cringed.  Then the master said, “Give his billion to the one who has 10.  He has proven himself faithful.”  (Or something very close to that.)

What’s the point?  DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR POTENTIAL other than burying it.  You’ll find that you keep getting more.

61 Seconds is All it Takes

I’m going to let you in on a little secret.  Ready?  Maybe you should look behind you, you know, over your shoulder so that Mary in accounting won’t learn the secret too.  And you might want to switch from your phone to your desktop computer because phones aren’t very secure.  Actually, you should probably go down to the library where the computers are all still networked by plugging into the wall since wifi is notoriously unprotected – one could even say infectious.

Sure, I know what you’re thinking.  “Get on with it, man.” or “Stop stalling.”  Hold on to those thoughts for after the big reveal.  Here it is:

The answer is obvious.

See?  Huge shocker.  Nobody thinks that’s the answer.  They think you have to eat a certain way or do a weird exercise or write/sing/run on your head at a specific time of day for so many heartbeats.  But that isn’t true.  You want to get something done?  You gotta start and then you gotta put in the heartbeats.

Look, for a moment, at exhibit A – an 1800 mile road trip with two small children.  That is a big undertaking.  When you are on the road it feels like it is taking forever.  Especially when you’re diving over the causeway in Jacksonville and the traffic is so bad you finish all of Lion King before you’re over it.  In fact, things are so bad that one of the kids is threatened with being left on the causeway if he doesn’t just STOP and he starts undoing the car seat so he can get out.

But the kid doesn’t get left on the causeway and the traffic breaks free and after covering the miles the trip is over, as insurmountable as it seemed at first.  It really was that simple.  It was about driving one mile at a time.

Want another example?  Think of words as seconds.  There are 86,400 seconds in a day.  You need 86,400 words for a novel.  As I sit on the train writing this, my dinner is a lot of seconds away but I know it’s coming because no matter what I do, those seconds are ticking away and I will get there.  Sure, a minute isn’t very long, but that’s 60 more seconds under the bridge.  A few more of those and I’ll have an hour.  A whole hour!  If you only write 300 words a day, you’ll still be 300 words closer.

I know, they aren’t the right 300 words but hey, think back over the last 5 minutes.  Were they the right 5 minutes?  Okay, you’re reading the blog so yes.  But think about the 5 minutes before that.  When you were on Facebook.  Some of that time wasn’t wasted.

Remember what you told me at the beginning?  I’m going to say it back to you now.  “Get on with it.”