Category Archives: Fiction

Hot Blacktop – Ch. 1 – Coffee Break

Sienna Appleton brought her coffee mug to her lips on a strangled sigh and took her first sip. It didn’t help ease her broken heart but it cleared the fog that had settled in her brain since Monday. Memories of her ex rutting on some skank…

“Bastard!” She whispered.

The air draped the landscape in a cottony blanket as it hovered the grassy fields behind her house. Scents of soil and pine mingled and rain descended in an orchestra of chaos. She wiggled her toes perched on the white porch rail, and hugged the coffee mug to her chest. It was a morning ritual that she’d let slide over the past few years. Now she watched the rain run in rivulets that glistened across her new pedicure. The bright poppy-red enamel a burst of color in the dreary scene. She’d treated herself the previous day because Sienna deserved it after discovering her boyfriend, earlier in the week.

“Knock, knock!” A voice hollered from the front of the house. Sienna’s head turned and she saw her best friend Megan walk toward her through her new kitchen. “Hey, baby cakes.”

“Hey, Megs.” She took another sip, her eyes going back to the rain that matched her mood.

Megan plopped down on the seat next to her.

“So,” her friend said. “I see you’ve discarded all of the asshole’s belongings onto your front lawn. I think the sopping wet look is the next big thing from Assholes-r-Us. I’m sure Layton will appreciate it.”

Sienna didn’t reply, the silence was comfortable, but she knew Megan arrived because she wanted to help Sienna get out of the breakup muck that mired positive thoughts.

Sienna didn’t say anything. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her friend’s lips pinch at the non-response. Sienna had been like this all week, hiding from pitying looks following her in town. She didn’t need that.

“Listen baby-cakes, it’s time to get out of your pajamas and re-enter the real world.” Megan turned to Sienna, grabbed her coffee and set it down on the railing with a thwack. The coffee jumped over the sides to escape.

“Hey! I was drinking that!” Sienna dropped her painted toes and reached to pick up her dripping mug before the rain made it a watered down mess.

“Nah ah, missy,” Megan barked. “You touch that coffee I’ll kick your be-hind.”

“Come on Megs. I haven’t even had a full cup yet.”

“Nope.” Megan grabbed the cup to keep it out of Sienna’s reach. “You don’t get it back ‘till you agree to go out with me tonight.”

Sienna drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “I don’t feel like going out.” She pouted, looking at her friend.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t feel like going out. You need to get out, show off that great mani-pedi you got yesterday.”

Sienna couldn’t help it when the tears started to come. She thought she’d run out of tears. “He hurt me bad, Megs. How could he do that to me? And for what? To enjoy some anonymous sex when he could have had me. What’s so bad about me?” Sienna sniffed madly, no tissue around to sop up her pathetic tears. Layton didn’t deserve her tears. “Bastard. Bastard.”

“That’s right honey. Get it out.”

“Bastard!” She screamed her heartache into the storm. After a few deep breaths Sienna got her crying under control and wiped her puffy, tear streaked face on her pajama shirt. She turned to her best friend. Sienna flashed back to the time when Megan literally fell into her life.

Skinny arms and legs twisted in a tangle of limbs when Sienna slammed into someone coming out of Hampshire’s Stop and Shop just as she took a drink of her pop. She screamed and groaned as she hit the ground. She flapped her arms like a bird that tried to right herself, the Rock & Rye Faygo running in rivulets down her arms and legs and splattered all over her head. The sticky mess patched together a puzzle of bar-b-que and sour cream and onion potato chips too.

“Gross,” the female voice said.

Sienna flapped her arms some more trying to flick off the chips and pop when she finally looked up to see who spoke. The explosion of pop had hit both girls like a geyser, red dye No. 40 their new skin color. They stared at each other, hair matted, wet and sticky, shorts and shirts stained. They looked so preposterous they burst into hysterical laughter, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

After the giggles settled down, the girl said, “I’m Megan.”

“Sienna. Nice to meet ya.”

After getting more chips and pop, Megan asked Sienna, “Want to come to my house?”

“Sure,” Sienna said. They’d been inseparable after that.

She smiled fondly of the memory. Nine and ten and gangly was not as complicated as twenty-four and twenty-five. A lot had changed.

Megs was now a curvy-all-in-the-right-places five foot eight woman. She was no longer the tomboy, but a strong, independent, successful woman with the best afro Sienna had ever seen. Her skin was clear and beautiful, the color of a latte. Sienna in looks was the polar opposite of Megs. She had straight blond hair verses Megs’ curls that would disappear on the black beaches of Hawaii. Sienna stood more like a sturdy tree at six foot two and 160 lbs. compared to Megs’ hourglass shape. And she didn’t even want to get into her pitiful cup size.

“What are you smiling about baby-cakes?”

“Do you remember when we first met?” Megan smiled.

“Yeah. Good times.” Megs’ eyes narrowed. “So you’re coming out with me tonight. No more sittin’ home feeling sorry for yourself. You’re coming out with your girl and livin’ it up.” She gave Sienna a quick hug and then pulled her up out of her seat.

“Thanks Megs,” Sienna whispered as she took hold of her friend and returned her hug. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Not much, considering we’re practically joined at the hip, socially and financially speaking.” Sienna laughed, and Megs laughed too, the quiet trill of it relaxing Sienna a bit.

She wasn’t kidding when she said they were joined at the hip. They’d started their own jewelry business right out of college. Sienna dove into an art major while Megan crunched numbers. Sienna had never had a good hold on numbers but Megs, on the other hand, could look at a set of digits and know the total in an instant. She was a beautiful brainiac. They were the perfect pair.

“So, you going to help me pick out an outfit or what?”

“Sure thing baby-cakes.” When her friend turned to open the door off the back porch, Sienna grabbed her coffee mug, when she thought she heard, “And I’ll be sure to find you a good man too.”

Sienna shook her head and followed Megan into the house. For the first time all week, she was truly smiling.

Four E’s of Public Readings

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With less than one week before my first public reading, I panic. Oh sure, I’ve read at writers workshops, but other writers expect flat expressionless words and concentrate on the print. I usually flub a few words, stumble along internally editing as I read and neglect any attention to how I sound. I’m a terrible reader, and now I’m subjecting an innocent and unsuspecting audience not only to my words but also my reading.

My story of 1500 words takes almost fifteen minutes to read aloud. Ten minutes is the ideal length according to Randy Susan Meyer of the Huffington Post in “Ten Tips for Writers Reading in Public.” Now if I could channel my inner George Saunders, I might finish in five minutes. He races through the audio recordings of his stories in the Tenth of December. His reading pace creates “excitement” which is one of the goals for writers reading in public.

Meyer recommends to either “entertain, enlighten, excite, engage” and always smile. From the four E’s, I decide to “engage” the audience. Eye contact is the key. And if I remember to smile, that’s an added bonus.

Now comes the tough part – practicing. I find an old copy of my story with critique comments. My writing group’s questions, comments and quandary float in the margins of my hardcopy. The comments are my target list of places to add extra emphasis and accomplish the equivalent of saying, “Don’t miss this. It’s important.”

I underline words and mark places for voice inflection. My story becomes a musical score with crescendos and decrescendos. I add a few staccatos and mark the tempo changes fast and slow.

My biggest struggle is conveying changes in speakers – the ones without attribution tags. In print, a reader can see the carriage return to the next line. My solutions include moving a non-verbal action by the speaker to the beginning of the sentence, pausing before changing speakers, and varying the rate of speech for each character.

I draw on what I learned at previous jobs. Big companies with hordes of human relations people — scheduling training every time you stand from your desk to fetch a cup of coffee — develop employees with twenty-first century skills, such as presenting and communicating. I benefit from years of presentations and public speaking classes.

Thank you HR. I love you and take back all the mean things I said

about your training programs. You made me a better person.

I know how to stand and where to look. Practice eliminates little distractions, such as turning or flipping pages. My pages are in a leather binder to prevent my shaking hands from spoiling the illusion that I know what I’m doing.

Writer’s Relief, “Open Mike Night: Ten Tips For Reading Your Writing In Public,” provides useful tips: arrive early, use a big font, and dress professionally. As a writer, however, I want to know how early, how big and what is considered a writer’s professional clothes. Will I have a podium to set my notes? Or will I stand alone behind a microphone? I choose slacks and heels and rock the “I just left the office thirty minutes ago” look.

My preparation includes watching videos of accomplished writers at public readings. I’m fascinated by Sherman Alexie. Critics call him a stand-up comic. He writes. He jokes. He makes films. He entertains.

Writers Relief also advises what appears to be obvious. “Maintain an audible volume.” At my reading, my personal cheering section sits beside me. When another writer stands to read, one of my cheerleaders whispers, “Read louder and slower than that.”

Thanks to my pre-worries and research, my nervousness disappears when I begin reading. I make eye contact and people smile at me. At one point in the reading, I notice the room is silent and listening. This wonderful audience cares about my crazy made-up characters. They laugh at the right spots and respond with thunderous applause. Thank you, gracious audience. Then, I remember to smile.

Tags: Public readings, Randy Susan Meyers, Huffington Post, Writer’s Relief, George Saunders, Sherman Alexie

Playing Leapfrog

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With Knock Softly (KS) finished, it’s time to clean up. But first, the statistics.

With “The End,” KS crossed the finish line at 128,814 words, 448 pages in manuscript format, in 44 Chapters. It took 21 months to write and I compiled 28 pages of notes, plus a thick folder of printed articles. There are four main characters and four support characters as well as a cast of over two dozen doctors, nurses, lawyers and the like. There are two main settings and a couple of side trips. And two dogs. And one mysterious friend who seems to know everything. Done.

Then I played “Leapfrog” with the novel, only going backwards. I re-read chapters 43 and 44, then re-read 41 and 42, then 39 and 40 and so on, until I finished back at chapter one. This allowed me to know where I was going and to be sure each chapter led clearly and succinctly to the next. It also allowed me to “kill my darlings.” I’ve spoken of them before; those cleaver little verses that seemed so cute at the time. But in leapfrog, they appeared as obstacles that only got in the way of a good jump. I also identified areas that needed shoring up for what comes next, and those I marked with an “R/W.” I did not rewrite anything, just cut and identified what needed more work.

The manuscript now weighs in at 120,090 words, 429 mms pages. It took seven days and produced another page and a half of notes. Twenty pages went into the dust bin, 8,800 worthless words. Bye, darlings.

Now comes the real fun part; I get to play God! I will start again from the beginning, only now knowing all, I will tighten the read, heighten the valleys and smooth the jagged edges with that last chapter, last page, paragraph, the very last word, in mind.

Some of the things I will be on the lookout for are, first and foremost, character development. I want to be sure my folks develop on pace and keep with their persona. I was amazed at how many times my characters cried. I didn’t set out to make weaklings but that’s how they appeared in some scenes. I noticed a lot of character movements when a simple he said, she said, would work better, faster. Even after leapfrog, the characters are still smiling 148 times, sighing 48 times, and mad or angry 51 times. Not to mention all the tears. I’ve still got work to do.

You don’t see these things while writing first draft because you are wearing each character’s hat and navigating them through uncharted waters. Your adrenalin is flowing and you just want to keep the action moving forward. You forget they’re human, that they need to breathe, too. I don’t how much more there is to cut. I don’t have a target word count or anything. I’m letting KS sit for a few weeks before I come back to it with fresh eyes.

Am I happy? So far. Satisfied? Not yet. Eager? Yep!

Next month, we’ll take a look at correctile dysfunction; the author’s inability to line edit their own work.

-Phil

Seoul Legacy, The Orphan’s Flu is available in paperback on Abe, and on Amazon in paperback & ebook.

The Freya Project is available in hardcover and limited edition from the author. Quantities from Countinghouse Press.

Books and Death

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I recently read a blogpost reflecting on the death of author Terry Pratchett. Terry Pratchett…why did that name sound familiar to me?

The reflective blogger lived in the UK and noted that Pratchett was a best-selling English author of fantasy novels. I guess that’s why I hadn’t heard the news. He must be a bigger deal there than here across the pond. But that name still tugged at me. Did I ever read his books?

Of course I did. I’m embarrassed to admit that. I didn’t make the connection until I did an Internet search. He wrote the Discworld series, a satirical set of stories that ties together dragons, witches, politicians, gods, cats and centaurs that live in a flat world. During high school, I dove into book series like this as well as the Myth series by Robert Aspirin and the Xanth series by Piers Anthony.

The Color of Magic was Discworld Book 1, a tale about our hero wizard, Rincewind, who travels from his home city of Ankh-Morpork to the edge of the Disc, a journey that is actually a chess game played by gods. Suddenly nostalgic, wanting to feel a part of it all and properly mourn the death of a fine writer, I searched my stash for his book.

My bookshelf boasts blank journals and an eclectic combination of my read-or-to-be-read-again books. Many of my sentimental favorites are in boxes in the basement, callously but deliberately misplaced from my reach, so I wasn’t sure I’d find anything upstairs, but that was the easiest place to start. I was surprised when I saw right there on the second shelf, third book down on the overflow sideways stack, was the book Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett.

This wasn’t the first book in the series, yet I know I bought this one for a reason. Why?

Two things caught my attention. One, the front cover blurb reads, “It’s no vacation when Death takes a holiday.” That’s what must have caught my eye because cover art does nothing for me. This version showed the Grim Reaper with scythe inside a snow globe. Charming, I suppose, but titles and taglines grab my valuable reading attention.

The second thing was the back cover. The price tag was from Borders, a bookstore chain that died almost exactly 4 years ago. Based on the book’s placement on my bookshelf, I must have bought it from the custom-built-from-scratch store that opened 8 months after I moved to Michigan. This new store was less than 3 miles from my house, freshly built for me I liked to think, but that store became the default hangout spot for my husband and me. I wandered the aisles and often took a magazine or my journal to the upstairs café before he joined me.

The store chain closed in July 2011, displacing us shortly after I became Foursquare Mayor of that location, and an appliance store snuck into those walls.

This one book brought back so many memories. It was Death in so many forms.

In December 2014, I committed one New Year’s non-Resolution to revisit an old favorite book. At the time, I had one particular book in mind, using this as an excuse to read that book for the third or fourth time. But now I think this is the one to revive and explore. Who knows? Maybe I’ll write a review about it to remember reading it this time.

Idea Spring

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I had a thought about a story I’m working on, it just happened to be while I was in the shower. Of course, it was gone before I could write it down, which is as frustrating as an itch I just can’t quite reach. It’s the one place not conducive to paper, pencil, a computer, or recording device.

What’s funny is most authors have these moments. Kimberly Kincaid, author of the upcoming book Reckless, A Rescue Squad Novel, which you can pre-order at Amazon.com, recently shared one of her own on Facebook. She was in line at a big-box convenience store and saw they had double sided bra tape by the register and a great way to deal with a sex scene popped into her head and she had to record her musings. Messaging back and forth with her this morning, she clarified, “…it made me think how funny it would be if a heroine was taped into a dress when she really wanted it off…” In the checkout line, she started furiously whispering the scene into her phone. If you want to read how the scene turned out you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for the second book in A Rescue Squad Novel series, her current W.I.P.

Other places I’ve had ideas spark are in my car. I can use my phone to record the idea but only while at a red light, and I pray the idea doesn’t flit out of my head before that happens. The doctor’s office is another, which can be embarrassing, since it is usually pretty quiet and my ideas can be pretty steamy in the romance department. Most of my ideas spring open while I’m at the bookstore when I’m actually getting some quality ideas down.

Because I’ve been concentrating on my next W.I.P. I’ve not had time for anything else. Unfortunately, that means the piece, be it fiction or non-fiction, I would have written for this post is still up in my head. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a question instead:

What are the top five places, not including in front of your computer, where your writing ideas spring?

Deadwood Writers Voices

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