Display by Label: Fiction

I've decided to stop having the title of these Fiction Friday exercises be the name of the exercise. Because the names of the exercises are kind of boring. I had actually been thinking this for the last couple of ones I posted, and then this week's exercise was called "God." And that settled it. Because I didn't want to call any post "God." That just seemed weird. So here's the gist of this week's number:


I have a confession to make with this one ... I chose it from the book mainly because this week was a busy week of getting caught up and I needed something short. Two-hundred words is pretty short. But then I got even lazier than that. I didn't actually write anything. Instead, I pulled a section of text from the novella I wrote in college called "Riding the Line," which had this quirky, all-seeing, all-knowing, omniscient narrator, because—back then—I wanted to be the next Tom Robbins. And okay, maybe I still do. So, this is the first couple of paragraphs of the first chapter of the second section of that novella. Originally, it was simply titled "Robby." There are several characters in the story, and many of them are alluded to in this passage, though not by name. Just something to keep in mind as you read. Have a good weekend.


Some people see life through rose-colored glasses, others through a shade of blue. Some people's glasses are mirrored, reflecting life back at itself, while others' are endlessly dark, absorbing everything into their murky center. Most people's glasses are clear, but translucency is a strange thing and clarity can be painful. That's why some people prefer to wear 3-D; the distortion keeps them sane.

Drinkers see life through the bottom of their beer glass, smokers over the end of their cigarette; dippers keep it safely tucked away between their gum and lip. Performers on the big stage try to see life, but life can be hard to make out when you're staring in those bright lights all the time. Movie directors look at life through the eyepiece of a camera, creating the scene, telling actors where to stand and what to do. Actors look back at blank lenses. Visionary. Visionless. Vision-fed.

Mathematicians see life as an endless arrangement of numbers, writers, as an endless arrangement of words.

Some little red-heads see life in the reflection of a full-length mirror and some big-bellied raw-looking men see it through banana peels, grass clippings, and cat claws.

Robby Plum saw life through the tailpipe of a 1973 Buick.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Fiction  Exercises 

On a recent trip back to DC via Baltimore, I asked Mat if he thought there was a difference between the "Blog Me" and the "Live and in Person Me." His response was immediate and it kind of surprised me: "I think the 'Live and in Person You' is much more quirky." I took it as a compliment, though I had the uneasy feeling that it could really go either way. I can always count on Mat for ambiguity.

The question of the "self" I'm portraying here is one I've been thinking a lot about lately. And it's one of those "crises" that people who blog tend to go through and it's a very boring sort of crisis to have, I know, and I'm a little embarrassed to be going down this road, frankly. But I've done it before. Several times, actually. And I'll probably do it again. So whatever. Deal. This one has a pay-off though, because it involves You!

More and more, You are meeting me for the first time through the words I write here, and not through the words I speak in everyday conversation. Which means that, for many of You (or Yous, as they say here in Jersey) Your entire perception of me is through my writing ... and the occasional strange photo I post of myself. You've never heard my voice. Or seen the manner in which I speak, my facial expressions, my tone, the way I laugh at a good joke. The slouched, cross-legged way I sit in a chair. The way I move my jaw back and forth or tap my teeth together when I'm thinking about something. Like what I'm doing right now, for instance. You don't know about these things. Or rather, You do now. But only because I told You about them. And there's a difference, isn't there, between the "book knowledge" sort of knowing that you get when I tell you I do these things versus the "familiar" sort of knowing you get when you experience those things for yourself. But at the same time, You know a side of me that people who have known me all my life (but who don't read this blog) don't know. You hear a different sort of voice here. Still me, but probably different from my "live" voice.

And so I imagine in knowing that blog voice, it kind of makes me like a character to a lot of You, a character in a very elaborate fiction, a fiction complete with plot lines and a cast of secondary characters all firmly and self-consciously rooted in my own life. And so the real difference between this sort of "fiction me" and the "non-fiction" me is in the words not written. The stuff I, as narrator, leave out. And that makes me deeply flawed and unreliable as hell. And who knows, maybe that's why You like me.

But here's the scary thing: even I'm beginning to see myself this way—as a character. It's partly out of necessity, because sometimes it helps to have that distance there so that I can put the stuff down that I want to put down and ignore the surrounding din of Audience, and that cowering internal voice telling me don't say that. But the problem is that if I'm the character AND the narrator, well, let's face it: I'm kinda fucked. Talk about an existential crisis. I mean, how can I have any kind of objectivity or, for that matter, any kind of subjectivity? How can I exist? Will I suddenly dematerialize? Will I one day only exist online? Will I only exist to You. I guess in one sense the answer to these last couple of questions is: "Eventually, yes." But what about now?

I recently read Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis in which the main character of the book is "Bret Easton Ellis." The character Ellis is also an author and has many similarities to the real Ellis, except that he's a character ... in a piece of fiction. I kind of love that idea. And I think it relates nicely to the act of blogging, though I'm sure that's not what Ellis was intending.

Anyway, I watched this BBC interview Ellis did in October 2005 following the release of Lunar Park. The whole thing is pretty good, so if You have some time, take a look. But here's the part I liked the most: In talking about the success of American Psycho, Ellis says:


That last sentence is the kicker. Once a book or blog or character is out there, we have no control over it. And if that blog is mine? And that character is ... me? Holy shit. I'm screwed. I always hoped I'd be saying this under different circumstances, but ... I am completely in Your hands. And since we're still in the lingering twilight hours of Web 2.0, and user-generated content is apparently all the rage, why don't You leave a comment and at the same time satisfy my narcissistic curiosities by answering the same question I posed to Mat: Is there a difference between the "Blog Me" and the "Live and In Person Me?" I'm afraid without the answer to this question, I might cease to exist altogether. So Your very participation is crucial to my survival. I'm hoping that maybe even a few lurkers will comment, though I won't hold my breath. If You don't know me in real life, make up something. Tell me what you imagine the differences to be. Go ahead ... define me. Today, it's all about You ... talking about me, of course. Let's not forget what's important.

link to this | comments (10) | File:  Ho_Hum  Fiction  Blog 

Once again, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Execution:
I pretty much failed at this exercise. I went way too long. And though it was supposed to have consisted mostly of dialogue, I stayed in the narrator's head most of the time. But in failing at the exercise, I kind of stumbled on something that intrigued me and which I might continue down the road. So in that way, maybe it was a success. Earlier this week I listened to a This American Life episode which had this piece about NYC School's "Rubber Rooms," and suddenly I knew the larger context of the story and I had to go with it. And so the story wound up becoming more about that than the actual execution. Anyway, it's too late for a do-over ... (If you have time, download the TAL podcast. It's good.)


Fat Larry leaned over and said in his low, Brooklyn-tinged voice, "Meet us in the other corner, Jack." He wrapped his meaty knuckles on my desk as he said it.

I didn't look up from my book. But I nodded.

If breathing through your nostrils and using your eyes to see things around you were two things you didn't do on a regular basis, then Fat Larry wasn't too bad a guy to be around. He had a dry sense of humor I could appreciate. He had introduced himself to me as "Fat Larry," and I thought there was something profound in that. But the problem with Fat Larry was that it always seemed like he'd been mowing the lawn or something. Like, yesterday. And he still hadn't showered. He was just tremendously ... unkempt. He didn't actually talk that much, unless he had something to say. And that something was usually a joke. But the thing he had just uttered was no joke. It sounded ominous.

"Be there in a sec Fat Larry ... let me just finish this paragraph ..."

This was my thirty-second week in the Rubber Room. It was loud, as usual, but my desk in the back corner, which I had recently acquired, was one of the more quiet places to sit. It was against the far wall and there was nobody on my left or in back of me. To my right was a balding math teacher named Bill. He had coffee breath that I can only describe as "evil" and when you were confronted head-on with its sickening darkness, it left you feeling cold and scared. Luckily, he mostly kept to himself and didn't say much. The woman in front of me knitted all day. She kept a photo of her dog on her desk. Occasionally, she would begin crying loudly and uncontrollably. But these outbursts only occurred once or twice a week and were relatively short and easy to ignore. The florescent light above me was constant and didn't flicker at all. And my desk/chair combo was of the newer style that had the cushion in the seat, not the all-plastic variety I had sat in for so many months.

When you're in the Rubber Room, it's the little things that matter. Your seat. Your immediate neighbors. The light above you. These were small things outside of the Rubber Room. But inside, these things were of vast importance. This seat I was in, for instance, had been Tony's. Tony had sat in the seat for nearly two years, drawing his salary from the City of New York while doing crosswords from The Times. Most people didn't mess with Tony. And so he kept his seat. But one day Tony didn't show up to the Rubber Room. Maybe he had finally been fired. Maybe he had died. Whatever. It didn't matter to any of us still in the Room. What mattered was Tony's seat. And there were four of us in the room who wanted it and who had the seniority to take it: Me, Jerry, Greta, and Fat Larry. The first day Tony didn't show, nobody sat in the seat. But on the second day, I went ahead and claimed it. Because I knew if I didn't, one of the other three would. And in this world, you don't wait to be given anything. You take.

The Rubber Room is the place where New York City teachers go to be "re-assigned." Usually because they've done something wrong or they have a "personality conflict" with somebody they shouldn't. And instead of getting fired, they get sent to one of the Rubber Rooms in the Education building, so the school system can figure out what to do with them. And the proper way to do it.

Actually, only those of us who are sent here call it the "Rubber Room." The school administrators call it the "Re-assignment Center." The thing about the name "Re-Assignment Center" though, is that most people who get sent here never actually get re-assigned. Instead, the person's job becomes ... to simply come here. Every day. Indefinitely. You still get a salary, paid for by New York's tax-payers. But nobody comes to talk to you. Nobody re-assigns you. You're just forgotten. And so you begin to carry out your days by reading, or playing cards, or talking to the others. For six or seven hours a day. Every day.

I wound up in the Rubber Room because one of my students walked in on me and another teacher fucking in my classroom. The teacher was Miss Carter. We weren't particularly fond of one another, Miss Carter and I. She'd leave rotten apples on my desk and I'd "re-assign" them to her car. But, man Miss Carter looked delicious in a black dress, which is what she'd been wearing that day. And one afternoon she came to see me about something and before I knew what was happening, she was up against the black board and my pants were down around my ankles and her skirt up around her waist and the door was closed but—bloody hell—not locked, and my hand, searching for something to help keep me balanced and upright, found a tray full of chalk dust instead, and the white powder wound up all over Miss Carter's chest, and well ... this was certainly no way for a young girl, nine years old, to see sex happening for the first time. And she would probably go on the rest of her life with this being her first impression of that thing and all the sex education classes in the world wouldn't get it out of her head, and who knew the layers of psychological damage that Miss Carter and I had inflicted on her that day. The student left the room and ten minutes later I was visited by Principal Evans. Miss Carter and I got "re-assigned" to separate Rubber Rooms. And that was thirty-two weeks ago. My wife still thinks I drive my car to a classroom every day to teach third graders how to read and write. She doesn't know I park my car at the New York City Board of Education building. That the only reading I'm a part of is my own. And that teaching is no longer part of the equation at all.

I wasn't exactly sure why the school hadn't fired us. Maybe they didn't want a scandal to erupt. Headlines ... Teachers Caught Having Sex in Classroom. Schools are deathly terrified of bad press. They probably struck some kind of deal with the parent of the girl who walked in on us.

I got up from my chair and walked over to the other corner to meet Fat Larry and the others. It was louder here, which sort of made it easier to talk without really being overheard. But it also meant you had to get close to each other. And Fat Larry's lawnmower smell washed over me.

Greta, who had been in the Rubber Room for just over a year, who always tried to talk to me about food, was clicking nervously on a pen. She had been a gym teacher in Queens. She landed in the Rubber Room after she called an eight-year old boy a pussy. I think the exact phrase she used was "fucking pussy." Either way, seemed like a terrible choice of words, but who was I to judge? Jerry was sucking on his teeth, which he was apt to do, and which drove me crazy. Jerry was probably the most normal of any of us there. And he liked to portray that about himself. He wore suits. And he maintained that he really shouldn't be in the Rubber Room at all. That he was a victim. And he told us he had a lawyer working on things and that they would be coming to get him any day. All Jerry had done to get himself in the Rubber Room was flunk a student. But that student had very influential parents.

"I'm just going to tell you straight, Jack," said Fat Larry. "Susan needs to go."

"Susan?"

They all three nodded.

I turned my head to where Susan stood now, talking to several others, one hand occupied with a cup of coffee, and the other fluttering and gesticulating wildly like a bird. Susan Lee was by far the loudest member of the Rubber Room. She was from Arkansas and had a loud shrill voice. She smacked her gum a lot and butted into people's conversations and told them what they should do with their lives. She also had tough skin, so there was no convincing her to shut up. She just didn't care. It was like she had to talk or she would explode.

I looked back at this weird trio that had pulled me aside. "Go?" I asked.

"Go," said Greta.

"We're going to kill her," said Jerry. There was a lilt in his voice when he said it, like he was stifling a laugh and it kind of creeped me out.

I waited for the punch line. But it never came. Jerry sucked on his teeth. Greta clicked and clicked.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sometimes you're a little thick, Jack," said Fat Larry. He wrapped his knuckles on my head.

"It's no longer acceptable, Jack." This was Jerry again, speaking with this weird rational tone, like he was trying to explain the concept of gravity or something. "This behavior. We will go crazy. She needs to die."

"Are you kidding me?"

"We're not joking," said Greta. "Susan will die. And here's the deal, Jack: You're going to be the one to kill her. Because we know what brought you to the Rubber Room. And we know that if you don't kill Susan, we're going to tell your wife all about it."

"You want me ..." I lowered my voice. "You want me to kill Susan?"

"Jesus, Jack. I thought you were quicker than this." said Fat Larry.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Fiction  Exercises 

So ... it's Friday. And this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is Unreliable Third:
It's been a while since I've written in third-person. The novel I've been working on is all first-person. And of course this blog is first-person most of the time, except when I like to refer to myself in the third. Third-person is fun, though, and I miss it. I'm sorry if, like the passage says, I "irritate" you. All I can say is, "I don't mean to bug you." Also, I went over the 500-word instruction, with about twice that many. But I guess I see the word-count thing as a floor, not as a ceiling.

Anyway, here you go ...



Unreliable Third

"I didn't order chamomile," said Jan. "I ordered English Breakfast. I come here several times a week and my order is always the same, you know? English Breakfast."

From behind her dark sunglasses, Jan looked at her hands as she said this. She turned her wedding ring around on her finger. The waiter retreated from the table and went inside to return her chamomile. She hadn't meant to snap. He was new, after all. She'd only seen him once before. She would apologize when he came back. Or not ... why should she care, anyway? Service was not what it used to be. Anywhere. She had been to New York recently and had been bitterly disappointed at just how average the restaurants had been there. The food and the service. Both were utterly ... average.

In Palo Alto, the day was white with sun. Warm and pleasant on the patio of The Blue Heron, where she often took a mid-afternoon tea and read a book. She took a paperback from her bag and set it on the table next to her silverware. Then she sat back in her chair and waited for her tea and felt the warmth of the sun against her face and chest and thought it was nice and good.

Next to Jan, a young couple—early 30s perhaps—touched hands across their table. They spoke to each other in soft, whispered voices, backs hunched, heads leaning low and close to one-another. They had on nice clothes, as if they had come from church. But the man's tie was undone. And the woman's blouse was wrinkled. They each wore bands on their fingers. And they softly touched finger to finger, palm to back of hand, like people in love do. Married ... probably recently, thought Jan. Enjoying a Sunday afternoon brunch together. They reminded Jan of a straighter, less hippy version of she and Roger. Back in the Haight, talking forever in cafes, high and in love. Roger had always enjoyed his photography, and so she had plenty of pictures from then, and she kept them in worn cardboard boxes in her bedroom closet. They had never had kids and so the pictures were all she had left of him now. Even so, she rarely looked at them. His memory was alive enough in her mind.

The waiter came back with a check for the young couple and an English Breakfast for Jan. He set the tea and a saucer in front of her, along with a white porcelain creamer and sugar bowl.

"Would you care for anything else, Miss?"

"No, thank you," said Jan, looking at the tea set in front of her. The waiter turned to leave, but Jan stopped him.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

She turned her head toward him but kept her gaze down, about level with his chest. "I ... um ... oh nothing. Thank you."

"Of course," said the waiter and turned away again.

Next to her, the couple left some bills on the table and got up to leave. The man walked over to the woman and took her hand as they left the patio and went inside.

Jan put some sugar in her tea and stirred it and listened to the clanking sound the spoon made against the cup. She thought about how, if Roger was here now, he'd be sitting across from her with a paper. His bald head shining in the sun. Those last few years it had been strange to watch that baldness happen where once, many years ago, there had been long, pony-tailed hair.

She glanced at her book, started to pick it up. Then she noticed a pair of women's sunglasses on the table where the young couple had just been. She looked around for the waiter, but he was inside somewhere. Normally, she would have left the sunglasses and carried on with her reading, but the couple had seemed so adorable and those looked like really nice sunglasses and it would be a real shame for the girl to lose them. Maybe Jan could still catch them if she hurried.

Jan grabbed the sunglasses and headed quickly inside. She surveyed the restaurant from over the rims of her own dark sunglasses, but the couple was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were still in the parking lot. Jan walked as fast as she could without making a spectacle of herself, through the restaurant, between tables where people were dining and talking, and out the front door back into the sunlight. She saw the man next to a car, his back to her. She recognized him by his clothes.

"Sir?" she called.

The man turned toward Jan as she hurried over to where he stood.

"Sir, I think your wife left these at the table." Jan glanced inside the car and saw nobody in the passenger side. She looked around the parking lot. She did not see the woman, but did see a blue BMW pulling onto the street. She turned back to the man and for the first time saw his face. His eyes were red and he seemed sad. Like he'd been crying. Jan turned her gaze to her hands and the sunglasses that she held.

"My wife?"

"Yes. I was sitting next to you. On the patio." Jan said to her hands. This was definitely the same man. Jan could tell by his shoes. The ring on his finger.

"Oh ... she's not ..." the man stopped.

"I'm sorry?" said Jan, looking up.

"Oh, nothing," said the man and smiled. "Thank you." He held out his hand to accept the sunglasses.

"They seemed like nice sunglasses," said Jan, handing them to the man. "And I hope this isn't inappropriate, but I couldn't help but notice you two in there and you seemed so ... well, in love ... and you reminded me of my husband and me. A long time ago."

"Yes, thank you. That's ... very kind of you." He took the sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. Then he opened his car door and got in without saying anything.

Jan stood there for a moment, while the man started his car. Then she turned and went back into the restaurant, walked through the interior dining room and out the rear door onto the patio.

Her book and her tea were on the table. She sat down but made no effort to drink her tea, or read her book. She just sat back and closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on her face and chest and remembered.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Exercises  Fiction 

In case you missed it, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Reluctant. (Also, this is completely unrelated, but it's my first leap-year post. How cool.)

Here's the gist (From: The 3 am Epiphany):
First-person narration? After writing this blog for so long? Piece of cake. But not using the first-person pronouns? Holy crap. A lot harder than I thought it would be. The I's and me's wound up slipping out all over the place. And I had to change the trajectory of this snippet a couple of times in order to fit the narration. I guess it's difficult for me (me, me, me!) to accept the premise of a narrator who isn't primarily and absolutely interested in himself above all other things. A definite leap for any blogger. Anyway, here goes ...


The Lovers Lane Tom Thumb near The Village was a busy place at six on a weeknight. Single twenty-somethings picking up TV dinners after work. SMU kids buying beer and cigarettes for parties. Hipster couples discussing the merits of ginger root ... Did you know, honey, that ginger root can do all sorts of great things ... relieve nausea, reduce cholesterol, fight inflammation. It can even boost the immune system. This was all explained in great detail by the pale-skinned, mid-20s guy in a blue winter hat speaking loudly to his ... let's see, what might she be? Girlfriend? No, too familiar with one another for just "girlfriend." This woman, this small elfin creature with pointy nose and cute little rosy cheeks and a matching blue winter hat ... this was his wife. Ding, ding, ding. Twenty points to the tall, slightly overweight, nerdy-looking dude with the thick, black glasses and long nose. The woman did, in fact, know that ginger root had these health benefits and, she added, it was also great served in a chicken fondue. Well, shit. Perhaps they should get some. Guy: Yeah, but you're not supposed to eat ginger root when you could be pregnant. Remember? The nutritionist advised us against it. Woman: Aww, honey. You're always looking out for me. Then there was a kiss, this benign little peck that had all the passion of something you'd give your grandma. Fucking married people.

This was clearly a couple who knew a thing or two about ginger root ... and blue winter hats. Their conversation was enough of a distraction that I failed to notice the girl with cart directly ahead looking at grapefruit.

Our carts bumped. Just barely. The impact was light. But I was blind-sided.

She smiled. She didn't seem bothered or hurried or annoyed like so many people do. Her eyes spoke something like an apology. Something like sincerity. Then she continued on to the berries. Picked up a small plastic container of the black variety, weighed it in her hand. Her mind? Her imagination? Then set it in her cart. She did the same with a pack of Driscols. Sweet, sweet Driscols. God, now here was somebody you could eat strawberries with. She pushed her cart toward the apples, her dark thrift-store jeans tight against her persuasive curves. Her long brown hair sweeping down her back in these thin wispy curls. Her jean-jacket insulated with lamb's wool. Like a fighter pilot's. Somebody was bound to get shot down.

Love in the produce aisle? What was this, a Woody Allen movie? It made perfect Woody Allen sense to walk up to her at that very moment and ask her for her name, her birth sign, the way she liked her oatmeal in the morning, the particular type of lettuce she enjoyed. Her philosophy on organic versus conventional? Did she take her tea with sugar or milk? Both? Neither? Yes, if this were a Woody Allen movie, this might be the thing to do. It might spark a long meandering conversation that would lead to a highly neurotic love affair, filled with self-doubt and over-analysis, and ultimately end up as a dead shark. It sounded delicious. But sadly, this wasn't a Woody Allen movie. This was just the Lovers Lane Tom Thumb at six in the evening. This shark was surely dead already.

The girl lingered around the broccoli while this 30-something car salesman from Louisiana—recently divorced and broke, Katrina'd out of his home, starting a new life in Dallas selling Toyotas all day and eating frozen pizza and ice cream for dinner every night in front of a TV set in a one-room apartment with a single lamp and a futon mattress on the floor, and a DVD player and a stack of Wicked films—dallied among the apples, thinking how much he'd like to eat strawberries—or any sort of fruit, really—with this brown-haired girl in the jeans-jacket.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Fiction  Exercises 

There are a million and one reasons not to do something. But they all usually amount to one thing: fear. And let me just say that I've got some of the fear and some of the dread when it comes to this thing I've started, Fiction Fridays. I've gotten used to writing certain types of posts in a certain voice. It's gotten comfortable. I write about particular topics. I poke fun at myself. I try to be humorous, when I can. I've begun to whittle down the focus of things here. And so it's become somewhat safe and easy for me. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. But I'm never one to ride the wave of "safe and easy" for very long. Safe and easy waves are usually short-lived ones, low and close to the shore. And so last week I decided to throw this Fiction Friday thing in the mix to stir things up and generate some big surf. And, you know, I think I've succeeded because, I have to admit, what I'm looking at here—these waves—they're awfully big, and I'm apt to fall off of these crunchers—and often. It was, in fact, a real challenge to stick to Fiction Friday this week, but not for the reasons I expected. I'll explain ...

I just got through reading Bret Easton Ellis's Lunar Park. There's some interesting stuff in that book that I want to flesh out in another post, but for now, I just want to cite this one quotation that touches on the heart of what I'm struggling with here. The main character of the book is "Bret Easton Ellis," and this "character self" says early on in the book: "I could never be as honest about myself in a piece of non-fiction as I could in any of my novels."(25)

In the book, there are many levels of irony with that statement, which I love. But what struck me most about the comment is how strangely accurate it is with my writing on this blog. I feel much more vulnerable posting fiction than I do the non-fiction riffs I usually write, even though, as I've written about before, there are definitely elements of fiction in most of my posts, which I call the "exaggeration license." And maybe it's that ability to fictionalize the non-fiction that makes it "safe." Along with the ability to pick and choose what I write about. The stuff that's true, that I don't mind sharing, is just what it claims to be: fact. (At least as much as anything filtered through the psyche—the id, the ego, the super-ego—and written down is "factual.") And the stuff I don't want to share is conveniently left out, glossed over, or otherwise hidden.

But with fiction, the entire thing is open to interpretation. It's not "truth," per se, because none of it actually ever happened, at least not exactly the way it's described. But there is truth in it. And sometimes that truth is more true than anything else I write. Sometimes that truth is the scariest thing to put on paper (or screen) and show to people.

Which brings us back to "the fear." We live in a world of fear. And, I'll tell you, I'm scared. A lot. I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of things like cancer. Of bacteria. Of the crap in our oceans poisoning our bodies. But I'm also scared of living, brother, and I'm sometimes scared of myself. Because with all the standard set of fears that got instilled in me as kid, it really is true that "my mother never warned me about my own destructive appetite" (thanks Jenny).

When it comes to my writing, I'm scared like hell of using cliché, of being trite or boring. But I'm also scared that if I don't indulge in cliché at least a little bit, I won't be understood. And more than anything else, I'm scared that the stuff I'm putting down is just plain bad. That's a big one. I had a short story from college I was going to post this week, but yesterday I got cold feet. Because it's really weird looking back at things you wrote almost 15 years ago, even for me, let alone you guys. It needed a heavy edit.

So, for now, I think what I'm going to do is use Fiction Fridays as a way to post short "writing exercises" that I get from this book called The 3 am Epiphany, which I bought about a year ago, but haven't done much with until now. In my college creative writing classes, my professors always kind of frowned upon writing exercises. Their feeling was just that we should write what we wanted and bring it to class for a very public lashing and embarrassment in front of our peers. Good times. But that approach really leaves things wide open, and tends to fuel a bit of the "writer's block." Because when everything is possible, it's difficult to focus on just one thing. Sometimes the restrictions put on you by an exercise can be oddly "freeing."

For the purposes of my posts, using the exercises will, I think, take some of the pressure off and makes the posts more "casual." I won't have to feel the pressure of "finishing" a story and biting my nails wondering how it's going to be interpreted. Okay maybe, I'll still have some of that, but having the rules of the exercise there (along with a self-imposed length restriction) will put a little more separation between me and it. I also think it'll make for more bite-sized (read: "blog-able") stuff, frankly.

I started this as an "intro" to this week's Fiction Friday post, but quickly realized it was going to have to be it's own post because, like most of my posts, it would be too damn long. So there it is. I've got another post ready, but I really don't like to post twice in one day. Other than the weekends, Friday is always the slowest traffic day. It's pretty much universally that way on every Web site I've ever managed. I can't figure it out, because you would think Friday would be a big Web-surfing day. But I suppose it's also a day for "long lunches" and "leaving early" or catching up on the shit that you put off all week. So chances are most people who stop by my blog won't even read any of this until next week, if at all. So that means I sort of copped out of Fiction Friday this week. But not really. Because I had something ready. (Really, I swear!) I just had to say this other thing first. Anyway, if you have any thoughts, speak up. Leave a comment or send me an email. I'd love to hear them.

Now take an early lunch, already! And have a good weekend.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Writing  Fiction  Chewing  Blog 

I've decided to try a new recurring feature here. It'll be called Fiction Fridays. And, true to the name, it will involve fiction and it will fall on the day of the week called ... Friday. God I'm creative, sometimes. Anyway, these posts will be drafts or snippets of drafts. Sometimes, I suspect, they'll fall under the category of "Very Short Fiction." Like these. But hopefully whatever these end up being, the routine will help to get things flowing again, and if it doesn't, well, then maybe the whole thing will be short-lived. We shall see.

So I'll kick this off with a story I wrote some time ago when j and I were doing this fiction-writing back-and-forth thing. Some of you may have read it before. But it's been modified and edited so it's worth another read, I hope.

Okay, here goes ... Apricots and Boot Polish ...


"Everybody ready?" said our dance instructor. "Here we go!"

I was dancing with Sheila, whose short, black hair smelled like apricots. Her hands were small and warm in mine.

The music started and, along with the rest of the "leads" in the class, I began my "forward basic" and Sheila followed. She had a good feel for the music, which was a nice change from Carrie, my previous partner. Carrie's movements were not unlike the act of stomping at large bugs on the floor, and did little to justify using the word "dancing." That's the risk of being in a "beginner" class. Still, sometimes it's fun being in those intro levels again. When you're just starting out, the relationship you have with your dance partner is more laid-back. There's not so much pressure to perform. And because you're both learning, you get the feeling as though you're on an adventure together. Whenever I am in a beginner-level class, I have to try hard not to seem too polished. I make sure to commit a few well-placed errors while still demonstrating to my partner that I am a "fast learner" by maintaining decent form and a carefree, sometimes even improvisational style. I also have to make sure to act surprised whenever I pull something off that is somewhat difficult.

The best facial expression I've found for surprise is kind of a raised-eyebrow-while-frowning type of thing.

Let me be clear: this is not my first time in "Beginning Salsa," nor will it be my last. I've taken Salsa lessons at 4 different schools in town over the last five years. I try to alternate so that I make sure not to get the same instructor. Sometimes that becomes a little tricky, especially when taking multiple kinds of dance classes. Right now, I'm actually enrolled in three: Beginning Salsa, Beginning Swing, and Intermediate Country. The salsa is always my favorite.

You might conclude from the fact that I take so many dance classes that I'm an avid dancer, that I enjoy—possibly even live for—dancing. Not true. I could take it or leave it, really.

My name is Josh. I just turned forty-one. I take dance classes to meet women.

"You're pretty good," said Sheila and smiled.

"Really? You think?" I cocked my head in a demonstration of shy modesty.

Shyness is a facial expression I've gotten good at over the years. I have several different varieties of shy I'll use, depending on the situation. This time, I chose the one where I kind of glance towards the ceiling and smile with my teeth clenched together. Sort of a Cheshire Cat type thing ... only more innocent looking.

"Yeah. I wish I was picking this up as fast as you."

"Geez, thanks," I said. "That's really nice. I think you're doing great though."

Earlier, while I was combing my hair in the men's room downstairs and dabbing cologne behind my ears and on my stomach, I had thought of an interesting story I could use tonight, an approach that might be worth a try with Sheila. She seemed like a nice girl. Just the sort who might appreciate this kind of story. So, after completing a fluid underarm turn and drawing her closer to me, I leaned toward her and said, "You know it's been so long since I've danced. I haven't felt much like dancing—or going out at all really—ever since my dad died last year. It really hit me hard."

If you study facial expressions closely, like I do, you'll find that the ones for concern and surprise aren't all that different. With both, the forehead raises a bit and the corners of the mouth downturn. But with concern, it's a little less pronounced, and the mouth opens ever so slightly. The main difference, of course, is in the eyes. With surprise, the eyes open wide. But with concern, the lids lower a bit. And the corners of the eyes seem to get pulled down a breath.

Sheila was displaying a pretty typical look of concern, and I knew I had hit the mark. Part of what I do isn't just about knowing what to say, it's about knowing who to say it to. You have to develop a feel for these things. With the look she had just given me, I knew Sheila and I would remain dance partners this evening and that tomorrow my pillowcase would smell like apricots.

But it doesn't always unfold like this. There are many times I go home alone. It doesn't bother me, either way anymore. It used to. Definitely. But at my age, I've played this game enough to know that there's always another try and it's hard to feel anything resembling disappointment if things don't quite work out. It's the law of averages and the more you're up to bat, the more you hit. I've become so indifferent to whether or not I actually have sex at the end of the night, I'm not even sure why I do it anymore. Years ago, when I started all this, I thought it all stemmed from some loneliness, from of a desire to have some kind of companionship outside of my professional life. But most of the time, I feel more lonely waking up next to somebody than I do waking up alone.

Loneliness manifests itself in a variety of different facial expressions. It's one of the more complex ones to master. I find it helps to drink a lot.

Last week, I hooked up with Jamie, a tall, auburn-haired girl about half my age from my Thursday night "Kickin' it Country" class. That night, Jamie never did take off her cowboy hat or her red ropers, which left me with the memory of cold leather against my neck and the musty smell of boot polish in my bed. Ten years ago I would have found this incredibly sexy, to the point of distraction. Now, it's just sex. And while it's not unappealing, it's just not what it was.

An optimist might say that I'm looking for companionship. That these shallow demonstrations of physical promiscuity attest to something that's missing inside me. That I've reached the age where I want and need to settle down. Have kids. Go to soccer games on Saturday afternoons and take my kid to the park on Sundays for rides on the swing, ice cream cones, and playing tag. And I'd actually love to agree with this assessment. But I'm afraid that kind of reasoning is no more accurate than saying I'm only in it for sex. In the end, I don't think it has much of a reason. In the end, it's much more about boredom and mechanics. Some might call it compulsiveness. Some might use the word "addiction."

Whatever. Right now, it's what I do.

I was starving by the time Sheila and I left the Salsa class together. I was contemplating dinner plans when Sheila stopped abruptly at the entrance of the dance studio and pulled my hand.

"What's up?" I asked. "Did you forget something?"

She let go of my hand. She didn't say anything for a moment or two. She just stood there, smiling strangely.

"What is it?" I said. The smile was hard to read and I thought perhaps she was being flirtatious or coy.

The facial expression for coyness is another hard one to master. And it can actually take many different forms, depending on the person. You usually know it when you see it, but watch out, this one can easily be misinterpreted. There are certain characteristics that seem to be consistent, however. First of all, there's often a tightening of the lips into something of a smirk, where one side of the face raises slightly while the other side might get drawn downwards, but not dramatically. It's very subtle. The eyebrows may raise, slightly askew, and the eyes actually narrow. The key is that while everything may indicate a sort of drawing-away, the eyes will sparkle, hinting at a want for closeness. It's true. They actually water a bit.

I wasn't sure if this was coyness or not.

"You don't remember me," she said, still smiling. "I mean, even after the dancing and the talking and the same lame story about your freakin' dad? I don't believe it."

I didn't have to contemplate which facial expression to use for confusion. My face remembered how to do it automatically. I began indexing images in my mind, flipping through my mental scrapbook which, admittedly, is a little worn around the edges.

"I think the class was called "Swingin' into the New Year," she said. "What was it, two years ago, now?"

I was still flipping feverishly, but it was no use. I had food on the brain and this sudden revelation wasn't setting well with my appetite. I took it for granted that Sheila was correct, that we had been in the same class, and I struggled to remember whether or not we'd had sex. I did remember taking such a class, but Sheila was not part of that memory.

"I had blond hair, then. Longish. Nose ring." She laughed. "I turned thirty recently, so thought it was time to look the part. Also, my name's not Sheila, by the way. It's Kate. When you approached me, I realized you didn't remember me and I just thought I'd use a different name and see what happened. So yeah, does any of that ring any bells, Josh?"

The new visual (and name) had no effect. My stomach growled loudly and I wondered if Sheila had heard it.

There is no specific facial expression for hunger that I know of. Though it probably closely resembles the ones for pain or anguish.

"Well?" Kate said, with something like disbelief in her voice. "Whad'ya think? Are you going to say something?"

My mind was spinning for words, something that could somehow smooth this whole thing over. What expression did this even call for? Should I be surprised? Shocked? Apologetic?

Or maybe none of these. I felt like I had a good read on Sheila—or Kate, whichever it was—and something told me that no smoothing over was necessary. She'd participated in this little charade, as well. She'd been a complicit party in this whole thing.

I decided nonchalance would be the best expression for this particular situation. Just play it cool. I gathered that none of this really mattered that much to her and that, in fact, she might even be a little turned on.

When you do nonchalance, you kind of do a smirk with a raise of one corner of the mouth. For me it's the right side. Then you kind of pull your head back a little, causing the skin on your neck to roll a bit. You raise your eyebrows, and shrug your shoulders. This is one where it helps to use your hands, too—just kind of bring them out in front of you with the palms facing up.

"Look, why don't we go eat?" I said.

At first Kate had a sort of exasperated look. I easily recognized this one. Open mouth, a slight eye roll. She crossed her arms and looked away from me. I noticed for the first time that she had a very nice neck.

Then to my surprise, exasperation turned into something approaching a flirty smile, and I thought maybe I had just pulled this thing off.

"The thing is Josh, I think you're cute. And part of me is tempted to go home with you ... just for something to do."

She paused. The expression I went with here was "expectant," which involved a smile and a half turn of the head, raised forehead. (The raised forehead is so common, and yet can mean so many different things.)

"And?" I said, then added: "I'm flattered ... I think."

"But I do recall that the sex wasn't that great before and I'm willing to bet not much has changed in the last two years."

Ouch. That one hurt a bit. But we DID have sex! I thought so.

"Eh-kay." I said, keeping the expectant smile frozen on my face.

"So I think this is where we say 'Goodnight.'"

Now, the expression for disappointment is an easy one to employ, and I thought about using it. But something told me it probably wouldn't do much good. And since I didn't honestly feel disappointment, the expression didn't even come to me automatically. Instead, I just maintained my expectant smile, which probably looked overly toothy.

"Okay, then." Kate sighed. "Goodnight, Josh." She gave me a kiss and walked off to her car. I stood there for a few minutes, the warm evening folding around me. I didn't really feel much of anything except a deep, burning hunger.

I found my car parked underneath a street lamp in the parking lot. I got in and turned the ignition. I glanced at my eyes in the rearview mirror. They were hollow and glassy. I tried to figure out which expression this was, but I wasn't sure it was an expression at all.

The waitress at the Italian restaurant near my apartment did not bring me a menu. She did not need to. She knew me by name. And she'd seen this face before. I ate my dinner and drank a bottle of red wine.

At home, alone in bed and drunk, I passed out watching David Letterman.

When I woke up, my TV blaring some morning-show crap, my pillowcase did not smell like apricots.

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I found this post (via Godin) in which MJ Rose debunks the premise that a blog is a sure-fire way for authors to market themselves. She has several arguments why this is the case, but this seems to be the crux of it:

The very last thing every author should be doing is starting a blog.

Not just because the very act of writing the blog draws on the creativity [sic] energy that it takes to write our books but because only a small percentage of us have something to write about three or four times a week, week after week, that readers crave - other than our books.

If you're a writer and you're skeptical about starting a blog, then MJ's article gives you some great excuses why you should stay away from them: It takes too much time, it might turn people off, it's too hard and takes 'creativity' and 'passion' - things you should spend on your real writing. After all, while blogging may be a lot of things, it is not real writing.

What the hell? This from a writer? A writer who blogs?

First of all, let me say that I do agree with MJ on one point: If a writer doesn't get blogging, and doesn't really want to invest time in blogging well, then they shouldn't try to do it simply on the premise that it will help them sell their books. Their lack of interest will come across in their blog and it probably won't lead to much success. (Success from a financial or marketing sense, that is.)

But since when does a writer start a blog to be a success? Probably since blog celebrities have made it seem easy. But most people who started blogging years ago, did not do it to be 'successful.' They did it because they had something to say. And most every writer has something to say, I hope.

Unlike MJ, I wholeheartedly think writers should be blogging. Especially good writers. I think the medium is calling out to them, but a lot of writers are late to the party, or are staying home altogether. The reason is that 'serious' writers, especially fiction writers, seem to have a high-brow attitude about blogs. They've seen some crap online (and there's a lot of it) and so they've written blogs off (so to speak). They balk, in part, because of some ingrained prejudice that blogging and writing fiction are intrinsically at odds with one another. That what they do online and what they do in print, by definition, must be different. But already, this notion is beginning to crumble. People are discovering the fictional blog. And while I have yet to see a really compelling execution of the idea, I'm confident one will present itself soon enough. I have seen some pretty interesting attempts. It's new. It will take time. But it will happen.

More and more we're going to see a blurring between the terms 'blogger' and 'writer.' More than that, we're going to see a blurring between the term 'book' and 'blog.' In that respect, what we're witnessing here is a new literary medium. Those don't come along all that often. It seems downright counterintuitive that a writer would not want to get in on that. How does a writer, especially a 'serious' one, not appreciate this kind of medium? How does he not want to do something important with it?

Writers of books who have no online voice are going to become relics before the time where it will become 'fashionable' for them to be one. What I mean, is the literary community loves their relics: John Updike, Tom Wolfe, Philip Roth. Most authors would love to have their kind of 'relic status.' And if you're a relic, then you do not blog. It's not what you do, and it's okay. But if you're a young author today and you disregard the importance of having an online voice, you may not have a chance to become that kind of relic. Instead, you'll be a relic in your own time.

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I'll say it again:

I don't have a dishwasher.

It's primitive, I know. Almost obscene, isn't it? And yet, I'm not sad. Honestly. I've yet to shed a tear over my dishwasherless state. Call me sick, but there's something cathartic about doing the dishes by hand. It's the ritual of it. iPod clipped to my belt. Sennheiser earphones . . . silverware first, then glassware . . . this is not about washing dishes . . . bowls, then plates . . . it's the comfort of the ritual. It's about following a routine so that the mind can wander and improvise.

Another part of it is about procrastination. Cleaning usually means I'm putting off doing something else I either need to do, or want to do but don't know how to start. Like writing. Every really tough paper I had in college was written in a very clean room.

Ritual. All good art is usually based on it. It's a springboard for improvisation and innovation. Jazz, for example: an extension, a refinement of the blues ritual - Albert Murray teaches this. Breaking the rules means recognizing they are there to break. Blogs have become ritualistic. Most follow certain conventions in form. But it's the little variations and improvisations thrown in here and there that make them interesting. (That and engaging writing.)

Speaking of ritual . . . and blogs: I'm going to try posting little shorts in the Campfire Papers every day. That section started with best intentions, but has really fallen off it's mark. The musings of two separate people, rothko and ghost-faced healah, it was supposed to be a place to jot down quick little ideas. Little episodes. They could take the form of prose, or they could look more like poetry (though I'd caution against using that word.) Incomplete, yes. Underdeveloped, true. Simplistic, sometimes. But keep in mind - the meaning is in the ritual.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Fiction  Chewing  Writing 

Gary decided he wouldn't worry about the party. Instead, he smoked a joint and watched Trigun. Gary liked Trigun. He liked Wolfwood. Sure, Vash the Stampede was cool (just saying his name gave Gary a sense of satsifaction) but Wolfwood was Gary's favorite. Something about a character who carries around a giant wooden cross full of guns on his back was . . . well, it was complex. It definitely wasn't expected.

Tonight, later, here, during the party, when things got crowded, Gary would make use of the back lawn for people to congregate. There was a lack of ample party space inside his house, not because his house was small - it wasn't. It was because it was filled with half-painted canvases which tended to dominate all the rooms. Gary started a new painting every couple of days. Finishing one was another story. Yes, outside would be good. And anyway, it would be the right temperature tonight. Cool, but not cold. Crisp. Yes, crisp felt good at a party. Kept people awake. But it made for bad swimming weather. Perhaps encouraging a swim would be out of order.

"This shit has to be cleaned," he thought. He was reclining on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. Right after Trigun he would clean up a bit. He tried to console himself with the thought that his place had been in worse condition before. But the fact remained: it certainly was not tip top at the moment. Cigarette ashes littered the coffee table underneath his feet and legs. This was due to Gary's reckless flicking habits. He liked to hold the cigarette between his thumb and middle finger and flick the cigarette hard with his pointer, aiming, of course, at the large glass ashtray, but rarely hitting that target.

Gary did not make his living painting canvases, as he might have hoped, but he was not far from that. He painted walls; but he didn't just paint them white, or beige, or 'Pageant Blue' or 'Brooklands Green.' He painted murals on grocery store walls. He painted landscapes on theater sets. Occassionally, he was commissioned to paint grafitti on warehouse walls downtown. This was not the type of grafitti that made some social or religious statement in a less-than-subtle manner - cities do not pay for that kind of art. No, his stuff simply made the city look nicer. The city used it to cover up the other stuff. He'd developed quite a reputation in Austin for his work, and somewhere along the line, amazingly, he discovered he could charge top dollar for his time and effort. Furthermore, he found himself being invited to parties in town where the cool, the artistic, the intellectual gathered and discussed fashionable topics. He would go to these parties, join the conversations, and eventually he made friends in certain important circles, until one day he was throwing his own parties. Now people came to his house and looked at his walls, his half-finished canvases, and commented on them. They didn't care that his house was messy, that it smelled like oil paints. They liked it. They would spend hours on his couch, smoking his pot, laughing, wondering what came next.

And this was the awful truth. Nothing came next. Nothing ever came next. And eventually what came next would most certainly be nothing. And this troubled Gary. He had a natural distrust for anything that was too easy. He always found that good fortune was usually a non-permanent condition. And this, this position he found himself in - it reeked something dreadful of a tenuous and fickle stroke of luck. To do what he enjoyed and be compensated handsomely for it, well, he'd enjoy it while it lasted.

Trigun was over. Gary took a shower. People would arrive soon and he should at least be clean. He wondered how many people might be coming over - he tried to remember who he had invited. Karin and Dennis, for sure. Probably Risa, which of course meant John. Toby, Ryan, Chris, Meg, Telly, Jason. Oh, it was too tiring to try and think it through. There would be a lot. Those people would invite other people and still others after those. It was like a fire in barn. All it needed was a spark.

He went back into the living room and turned on the light that hung over his bar area.

"Let's have a party," he said.

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