Guess That Character Blogfest!

Thanks to Jen at Unedited for hosting one of the most enjoyable blogfests evah!  Her ingenious idea is this: Based on the character's voice as you read the short excerpt below from my current WiP, tell me in the comment section what you imagine the character looks like.  Tomorrow I'll post her "photo," and we'll both get a kick out of learning: how closely you guessed her physical characteristics; and how successful I was at infusing her essence into the writing.

Keep in mind this is rough, rough, rough -- first draft, for real!  Not a lot of literary magic in there (YET) :D  Okay, disclaimer aside, here goes:

When the digital clock alarm sounded the next morning, Julie was already washing her face in the bathroom.  Early morning was her favorite time of day.  The air always smelled fresher, and her energy was always the highest, just after the sun came up.  If reincarnation was real, and she suspected it was, Julie was quite certain she was once a bird who soared across dawn skies, heralding each new day with twitters and chirps.

She switched the alarm to off and changed out of pajamas and into a cut-off pair of jean shorts and boxy white tee shirt.  She gathered the bottles and tubes from the ledge around the bathroom sink in her one laundry basket, lay the towels from the racks on top, and placed the framed mixed medium collage she’d done in a college art class on top.  She spent the minimum amount of time necessary to prep the room, mostly running a dust rag along the baseboards and window sash.  She prided herself with having a steady hand, plus she’d be armed with the ten dollar detail paintbrush, so she skipped taping off the trim entirely.

When she pried off the paint can lid and stirred the Toasted Pine paint, her excitement grew.  Pouring the thick paint into the roller pan doubled her elation.  But when she drew the roller across the middle of the wall, a swathe of silvery moss-colored paint covering the uninspired perfection of beige, her heart sang.  Within minutes, she was lost in her project and her joy.

So what do you think Julie Knotts looks like? 

Swing by tomorrow when I'll post her photo!  

Also click HERE to read all the excerpts by Guess That Character Blogfests participants!

Look Who I Met!

Summer and me, at Starbucks

Yesterday, I had a GREAT day.  I met Summer (...and this time, concentrate!) for coffee!  Not cyber-coffee, either.  Actual hot beverages, enjoyed face-á-face, outside the blogosphere in the land of flesh-and-blood.  Those of you lucky enough to have met with writer/bloggers know how thrilling it is to sit across from a 3-D version of your blogger bud's profile photo, to hear her voice, and to talk in depth about writing and about life in general.  It was nothing short of awesome!

I don't have a great deal of support of my writing in my life.  English is my husband's second language, and he has no desire to struggle through my stories.  He's fine with me writing, as long as I don't do it when he's home.  I can live with that.  My kids are very proud of my accomplishments, but they complain incessantly if they are home and I'm "on the boring computer."  Friends listen when I bring up my writing, but very soon their eyes glass over, and I know it's time to change the subject.  It was really, really nice to sit with Summer (for two and a half hours!!) and talk about our projects, our short and long term goals, what it would mean to be published, or not.  I'm looking forward to many more chats!

And, I feel energized to get writing.  Thanks for that, Summer:)

I hope everyone's enjoying their week so far.  Happy Hump Day, everyone!

Have You Heard?

The super talented, extremely generous, and all-around gorgeous Shannon Whitney Messenger has announced the first part of her Mega-Epic-Contest-of-Awesome.  She has SO much prize swag to give away, she had to break her contest up.  That means more chances for us to win!

So what's up for grabs now, in M.E.C.A. Part One? 

FIVE ARCs by awesome authors, whose books release next month!

You must be a Shannon Whitney Messenger follower to enter, so if it's your first time visiting her, please mention I sent you :D  (Enter before August 21st)

Click HERE to enter today!

I'm doing a lot of writing this week, so I'll appear absent.  I will be reading your blogs, but I'm going to restrict my commenting time.  You know how it is: sometimes, you have to just write! :D  Thinking of you and hoping you have a fab week!

The Truth Is in the Eye of the POV

I'm a fan of stories told from multiple viewpoints.  

(Note: To clarify, I do not enjoy omniscient POV.  When I say multiple viewpoints, I'm referring to novels where there is a clear shift in POV, ie: at the beginning of a new chapter or scene.  Head-hopping causes me to throw the book across the room.)  

For me, a central conflict is infinitely more interesting when I'm able to sympathize, or at least understand, different characters' interpretations of the situation.  In the end, there are very few truths in life.  Perceptions, ideologies, right verses wrong: all are highly subjective and relative notions.

I was thinking  this morning about it while watching Good Morning America.  The show highlighted yet another side to what's becoming the multi-faceted story of "modern folk hero" Steven Slater.  He is the Jet Blue flight attendant who lost his cool on August 9th, cussed out the entire plane of passengers, grabbed his carry-on luggage and a couple brew-skis, deployed the inflatable emergency exit slide, and used it to deplane.

The original story, told from Slater's POV, alleged that upon arriving and taxiing to the gate, a passenger stood and opened the overhead luggage bin before the fasten seatbelt light was turned off.  According to Slater, the passenger argued with him and her luggage fell from the bin, striking him on the forehead.  He snapped, fed up with a career of dealing with rude, unruly passengers, and acted out the climactic scene of his original production "Take This Job and Shove It."

Today, Good Morning America interviewed a passenger from that flight, who told a different story.  As the GMA website recapped, "Witnesses have also told police that it was Slater who was rude to passengers, and the cut on his forehead came at the beginning of the flight, not during an altercation with a surly passenger after the plane landed, as Slater has claimed."

What's fascinating about this story is the incident took place within the tight confines of an airplane, yet it's very difficult to sort out what really happened.  How could one person claim the suitcase conked Slater on the head, and others claim it didn't happen?

And around the globe, news audiences are interpreting this unfolding story according to their own past experiences and  personal codes of ethics.  Flight attendants have been quoted as applauding Slater's actions, understanding how much they have to put up with in their service-oriented careers.  Others feel dealing with rude customers is part of the job and those in service industries have to handle themselves with professionalism, at all costs.  Whether Slater is a hero or a villain is becoming a lively debate.

In fiction, we should remember that no conflict exists in black and white.  Life is like that: complicated, subjective, and messy.   By allowing the reading into the minds and hearts of different characters, we explore the shades of gray in every incident.  In turn, the emotional impact on the reader will elevate, and the story with ring true with authenticity.

So what do you think?  Is Steven Slater the hero or the villain of his story? 

A Method For Every Madness

[Awesome artwork by the talented Leon Harmon. Visit his blog and DeviantArt gallery!]

I once read that it takes a writer ten years of work to learn to write.  I scoffed at that.  If your creative mind is brimming with story ideas and you have natural word-smithing talent, I reasoned, what's there to learn?

Three years and approaching 100 short stories later, I am humbly aware of how much I still have to learn.

Case in point:  What's the best way for me to approach a new story?

The first couple of stories I penned were by the seat of my pants.  I had ideas and I went with them.  As if by magic, the beginnings, middles and endings emerged as cohesive tales with rich exposition and suspenseful climaxes.

A funny thing happened as I delved deeper into the craft.  The magic started to fade.  Not in the end result, but in the process.  Was I thinking too hard?  Did trying to finesse the story damped the creative kindling?  I didn't have any answers.  All I knew was the honeymoon phase was over.  And the real work began.

I've attempted outlining my stories with various tried-and-true methods touted by published, award-winning authors.  I've tried working a story out from start to finish in my head before sitting down and banging it out.  Once, I began with the ending and worked my way back to the beginning.  (Not my favorite experience.)  I prefer working at a snail's pace and editing as I go, but I have tried writing a fast draft and then spending weeks editing paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence.

And here I am, with a new story idea ready to go, stuck because I don't know how to approach it.

Then last night, I had an a-HA moment during Curriculum Night at my son's middle school.  We were in a session with the Language Arts teacher who was talking about her approach to teaching creative writing.  Her students outline their idea, sketch the scene, write the first draft, then edit and revise until it's finished.  Writing 101, right?  So why the a-HA moment?

This new story is stalled because although the basics are worked out in my mind, I haven't decided the order of events.  Open on the balcony or in front of the computer?  Climactic moment happens in the apartment or out on the street?  Is the character involved in the twist a sideline character or will she join the others center stage?

If I sketch the scene first, screenplay style, I'll have the freedom of auditioning different scenarios.  Sort of like thumbnail images before the brush strokes canvas.

It's worth a shot. Who knows, maybe I'll learn this is the method that works best for me.

Or, maybe the real lesson is every project calls for its own process.  A different method for every madness.  If the opening statement holds truth, I still have seven years to figure it out.

What about you?  Do you approach every new story in the same way?  Or do you find your process changes with every project?

  

    

Sweat, Tears, and Story Ideas

There's a creative writing contest I'm interested in entering which calls for a short story with a maximum word count of 2000, inspired by this quote:

"The key to change...is to let go of fear."

-- Rosanne Cash

I've been chewing on the quote for a couple days now, but no characters have whispered to me and no story lines have wiggled their way into my imagination.  Until this morning.

There I was, on the treadmill for the first time since before my trip to France, going at a much slower pace than what's "normal" for me but getting my sweat on just the same.  (How come it takes so long to get INTO shape, and such a short time to fall OUT of shape??)

And a story began to reveal itself, a tight skein of fiction unraveling with each quarter mile into a colorful pile of plot and character threads, ready for sorting and weaving.  I was so inspired, I almost pushed the 'end workout' button and dashed for my car.  But how ungrateful would that have been?  My faithful writing partner, the treadmill, deserved a full visit, especially since it's been so long since we last enjoyed each others company.  So I finished the program, happy, my heart rate elevated and skin glistening with sweat.

And then I dashed for my car.

I'm off to bang out my first draft of the new short.  (*raises arm and sniffs pit*)  ...And then I'll really need a shower.

I'm often inspired to write when I'm on the treadmill.  Where are you when story ideas frequently come to you? 

High Drama Blogfest!

     My entry for DL Hammon's High Drama Blogfest was originally written during a two-week long challenge I took earlier this year.  Inspired by a different photograph prompt each day, I was to write for exactly fifteen minutes.
     On this particular day, the prompt was a manipulated photographic image of a seductive woman stood poised, as if dancing, at stage right. She was almost in silhouette from the glare of stage lights.  But dead center was (obviously Photoshopped in) an enormous pair of heavily made-up eyes.  The immediate impulse was to write a voyeuristic piece of erotica, but the contest asked us to look deeper into the photo, up our bars, and find an unexpected story.  That's what I tried to do.  You decide whether I was successful. :)

Mama

By Nicole Ducleroir

My hand pauses midair, inky mascara wand quivering.  I stare at my eyes in the mirror, but all I see is the photograph of my mother, wedged into the upper corner of the mirror's frame. In my peripheral vision, she seems to be moving, swaying her hips in slow figure eights of seduction. When I shift my eyes up to it, she freezes, arms stretched over her head, her body’s curves exaggerated.

The photo is old; Mom could have been my age in it. The photographer captured her during some performance, in some city, during some tour. I don’t even remember when it came into my possession. It feels like I’ve always had it. 

I think of my mother and chords of emotion tangle up, choking my heart. She is a loving woman, angelic even. The scrapbook of my mind falls open to a random page, of her singing softly to me when I had the chicken pox, to distract me from tearing at my itchy skin. Mental fingers rifle through more pages; memories surge of us lying on a blanket in the shade of a tree in the park, tickling each other until our laughter lost its sound and we gasped for breath. Or the summer nights neither of us could sleep, when we’d crawl out the upstairs window and lie on the hot roof, counting stars. 

The tangle tightens, reining in my nostalgia.

Darker pages divulge… The mornings, too numerous to count, when I’d wake up in my frilly, pink bed and stumble to the kitchen, dragging my teddy bear by the arm, to silence broken only by the ticking clock over the sink. No smell of brewing coffee. No boxes of cereal laid out on the table for a little girl to choose. No sign of an adult, anywhere.

Or the late night jam sessions and long-haired musicians.  Flashes of frightening tattoos and the strangers who flaunt them, given free range of our house. And me, cowering in the shadows of the stairwell, listening to the sound of glasses clinking and smelling smoke, its various perfumes wafting together in a haze. I learned curse words I knew where vile even at that young age. And when I wanted Mom to tuck me into bed, she’d stare at me with black eyes that should have been blue, as if she didn’t recognize me.

More often than not, she didn’t.

A knock at the door startles me.  Mom resumes her dance in my peripheral vision, and in the mirror I see the door behind me open and Ted stick in his head.

“You’re on in five.”

I thank him and he closes the door. I go to stand, but my head spins and I grip the dressing table to steady myself. One hand strays to my still-flat tummy, rests on the coarse, sequined material. I wait for the nausea to pass, but it won’t. I glance once more at Mom as I turn and rush to the toilet.

(499 words)

l'd love to hear what you think!  Also, click this link check out all the participants in today's

High Drama Blogfest!

Happy Writing the Weekend!