One Year of Letters!

Have you ever wanted to change your life? One Year of Letters, written with my co-authors: Elaina Portugal, Colleen Aune, and Mary Knuckles, is how we're changing ours.

Each week we'll write letters seeking to change the very essence of who we are: by facing our challenges, by conquering our fears, and by working through our traumas. While we hope we find stronger, authentic women after the year is through, I know, in the process, we'll discover both hope and courage.

Join us! If you were to write yourself a letter about this week, about obstacles you face and how you will overcome them, what would you say? Say it at One Year of Letters

BlackMan: The Revolution Freebie: #4 STL

For free! A VERY short "Blackman: The Revolution" Short:

STL

Her words poured over him, cold at first and then biting into his sweat glands like acid.

“I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going? You’re my wife.”

She stared nails into the palms he proffered. “I am not going to Ferguson, Missouri. People are getting *killed* there. Your stunt with the kid was bad enough. Are you going to take him, too?”

“If he wants to go, I don’t see why not.”

She threw her hands into the air, making strangled noises. Her hair whipped out around her when she turned. The floor creaks diminished as she stamped deeper into the house.

Alone. He’d have to do this alone. Her position was written all over her face, even if he pretended he couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t go. She wouldn’t let him take Big D, their ersatz foster kid. Maybe it was the way her jaw worked or the set of her spine as she left, but he knew. He’d do this alone.

If he did it at all.

People were getting shot. Mike Brown did, and now protesters, too? Maybe it was too dangerous.

Or maybe it was exactly the time. The time to talk peaceful protest. The time to talk signs and words, not guns and knives.

The carpet scrunched under his toes. The cool air (Damn that polar-bear wife!) blew over him, raising the hairs on his arms. Turning the corner to the kitchen, he spotted her cradling the mug of hot cocoa. Damn, she must be upset. Hot cocoa was PMS medication, or Somebody Died therapy. Not some trifling thing.

“A superhero isn’t needed when everything’s OK. He’s needed when it’s dark and dangerous.”

She eyed him over the brim of her cup.

Fuck.

Her voice echoed, hollow and scary, from the ceramic. “You are not a super hero. You are someone who shoots videos, not guns. That shit you pulled at Tops? That ain’t never happening again. And you are NOT going to St. Louis to fight no goddamned race war.”

He tried a smile on: “You know I like it when you talk ghetto.”

A manicured nail sparkled in the kitchen’s light. The middle one.

“I’m going.”

“You are not.”

“I’m going, Madeline. You know I have to. They’re sick out there. Sick with rage. They shootin’ and lootin’ because they can’t find their voice, like when you stormed out of the bedroom. They can’t talk about what’s wrong ‘cause it’s just so much that’s wrong. 300 years and it’s got to stop. And they gotta breathe. And someone’s gotta get them talking instead of fighting. But fightin’s all they know, and it’s all they’ll do unless I go out there and show them otherwise.”

“You’re serious? You think you got some super-powers now? Because you know the names of little kids who steal food. Because you know the name of a beaten prostitute?”

“Because they didn’t shoot Big D. Here, I can show you.”

“Show me?”

Her hand heated his. The air around her smelled like hot cocoa and buttery lotion. A habit she’d picked up from him, putting lotion on every day out of the shower.

The heat of the day beat on them as soon as he opened the door. Gray sky hung over them, sealing them in, as it did most days in August. Rocks stabbed the soles of his feet but he half-jogged through the gap in the fence toward the parking lot.

“Where are we going? Why don’t you have shoes?”

He ignored her. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He pulled her toward the street, slowed down. “Stand here.”

She stood, holding onto the pole of the bus stop sign out of habit. Anchoring herself. “What are you doing?”

“Just stay there.”

The bus stop shelter smelled like piss in the heat, but he ducked behind it anyway, careful not to touch it. Soon enough, the stop light turned yellow and then red. Cars piled up quickly, forming perfect rows, waiting for the light to change.

“Listen up.”

She turned toward his whisper, and he stepped out from behind the shelter. “What—?”

“Shh. Listen.”

Cement struck his heels as he strode toward the stop. At first, nothing. Then a single *chunk* of a door lock.

Madeline’s hair shined gold as she spun toward the sound.

Another step. *chunk, chunk*

Now he was even with the pole. He looked into the passenger window at dyed-red wiry curls. White wrinkled neck dripped over the seat belt.

Step.

Chunk. Chunk. Pop chunk chunk pop snap chunk.

He turned back toward his wife, arms up and shining blackly in the sun. “See? Superpowers.”

Her finger came up again. Not to him this time, but to every car stopped at the light. “Fucking racist assholes!” She turned to him, gray eyes flashing. “I’m coming with you.”

Busy, Busy Beaver

Hello!

It's been quite the ride over the past few months. I've learned so much about writing, and I've written so much, that I'm dizzy with all of the updates.

For the first time, probably ever, the reality of being a full-time writer/editor/coach is close enough for me to actually believe in.

Not only am I working on a new series (the Blackman series of short stories), but I have TWO trad-published books coming out soon. Plus, I'm excited by my re-write of Scales, which is so close to being done that I want to jump up and down.

Because of my critique group, I'm going to start offering critiques and coaching for a fee.

I am so excited! I'm building a platform! And I couldn't do it without my wonderful readers. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn't!

Trying

Ice pit

Ice bites into my fingers. It’s not going to hold. Already, I can feel sandy granules breaking off against my skin. This isn’t solid, like some sheet of water frozen in one go; this isn’t orderly molecules aligned in hexagonal prisms. No, this is an amalgam of ice pebbles, with a mortar as arbitrarily strong as my muscles: some strong, some weak, some tearing under the strain.

A twitch vibrates up my thigh; I can’t hold out much longer. What can my abducting muscles handle: 80 lbs? And they’re holding at least 150. My triceps scream, but they can hold the other 100 lbs for a few minutes more. Enough to ease myself out of this chimney.

God, damn it. I saw the rock. I knew it was there. I know better than this, to walk near one. I know they melt the snow under the crust, leaving pockets. And I fucking walked right into it. Foom. Buried to my thighs, ice walls on my right and nothing but pocket everywhere else. Just air, like someone decided to make me a bedroom in the great outdoors. My breath didn’t even frost down there; it must be 40 degrees. The ceiling dripped onto the sides of the rock, releasing silicate smells in the dampness. My salvation, however tempting, would not be the rock. “Rock solid” doesn’t apply to the snow around the damn thing. Ice walls it would have to be.

And now, most of the way up the ice walls, the side of each knee digging into any divot I can find, I grip the top of the crust of snow, away from the rock, and I know it’s not going to hold. It’s going to crack, or melt under my bare fingers, or it’s going to break when my thighs give out.
I pull my body up, an inch at a time. I don’t even hear the break.
I fall. Foom. Into the snow. Back into my bedroom of ice.
Would it be so bad, to take a nap here? I’m tired. My legs are shaking and now my arms are shaking and when was the last time I ate anything?
The snow collapses in my hand. I suck the water, so much less voluminous than the snow. No napping. Recharge and retry.

The walls are too clean. No footholds, but too close together to put my back to one and push against the other. That would be the ideal way, my biceps femoris and my quads can support my whole weight plus a hundred pounds, easy, indefinitely. Well, for minutes and minutes and minutes. Enough minutes to get the Hell out of here.

The walls are too clean. I know that’s my problem. My real problem. I’m only stuck in here because I can’t get a grip. I only have the one knife—no climbing picks. But compress ice and what happens? Water. One of the few substances on Earth for which that’s true. And a knife functions on what? Pressure. Force applied to a small area-the edge. Maybe I can cut some footholds, some handholds. After all, I’m in here until I get out, right? I have all the time in the world. Three weeks, to be exact, since I have insulation in the form of the air bubble in the snow, and I have fresh water. I’ll live until I starve, and with my reserves, that could be more than three weeks. Plenty of time to cut into the ice.

I push the blade, using my weight and not my muscles to apply the pressure. It’s working. The knife is sinking in: a half a centimeter. A centimeter. This might actually work. Ugh! But it’s hard!

Fuck it. I’m not going to try that hard. This place is comfortable. So what if I die here? It’s nice here. I’ll work with what I’ve got in here and I won’t use my tools or put in a lot of effort. Besides, the snow will melt some day and I’ll be able to just walk out of here. In three weeks, it will be May. I’m sure it won’t snow much in the meantime.

My stomach growls. Muscles shake. God, but I’m hungry. Oh, well. It doesn’t matter anyway. This story was just for fun.

…and THAT, my dear colleagues, is why it is so frustrating when people don’t really try your advice, or they say they aren’t serious after you’ve done a lot of work. Trying and failing is fine, as you can see in the story. But not trying hard is unsatisfying. We are all the protagonists of our life-stories. If we don’t try with every bit of what we have, or if we say it’s not serious, then we are doing a great disservice not only to ourselves, but to the audience—our loved ones, our friends, our acquaintances who watch our lives. And how many times will you read a story if you know the protagonist always gives up? How often will you engage?

To the Cusp

My parents could have worked in Marketing for any University in the world. All my life, they told me that if I just hung in there, I would go to college, where the professors would take me to the cusp of knowledge, to the very precipice, to the cliff, after which the wide gulf of discovery would open up before me.

The cusp.

That’s where I feel now. Not the cliff my parents talked about, but the crest of a hill. Right now all I can see is my dashboard and the sky, but in a minute or two, my car will level out and I’ll see the wide world of creating verbal art. I’ll see it from the airplane perspective: all geometric fields and wooly forests. Rivers of plot wind through character rills, and the perfect stone outcroppings dot the world like upthrust thumbs.

The sensation started with the gut-level understanding of something that had only lived in my head: stories are manufactured. Everything in them is planned and calculated for effect. They are DESIGNED.

Well, duh. That’s what my head said. Of course they are manufactured. They don’t grow under mushrooms (although a few ideas have grown OUT FROM mushrooms, I must admit).

But my heart did not hear this. My heart heard: I will sit at my keyboard and story shall stream from my fingertips!

Then I picked up Swain. And I believed. Ahh! Cried the angels. I learned even more: climax must be a choice between what is right and what is easy, for both the protagonist and often the antagonist. Then the character should get what he or she deserves: the essence of (not the actual) his goal, or conversely the actual accomplishment, but robbed of meaning. Judgment. Justice.

Stories aren’t real life! Bad guys get punished. People get second chances! Good guys finish, if not first, at least with their dignity intact! Oh my God, how did I never see this?

After that, of course I devoured Stein. And Stein had even more to say: dialogue should be a confrontation. An oblique one. It shouldn’t sound “real”, because you’re only using the meat. But it should be distinguishable, from character to character.

Wow.

And then, the coup de grace: What we want to see is that picture in the pocket that the characters hide from everyone else. That one soul-jerking moment, that one vulnerable spot.

This echoes with what Randall has been teaching: be vulnerable. Suddenly, I read Stein saying the same thing: Start with your vulnerable moment. Start with that photo you wouldn’t show your best friend, that the paramedics would find upon searching your pockets, and you’d be mortified (dead!) if you knew they saw it: the dirty undies of your soul.

And here I am, encased in this knowledge, cresting this hill: I get it. I get it, and I’m ready to DO it. I will dive into the gulf of discovery, taken to the cusp of knowledge by these wonderful authors and editors.

And, after a good swim, I’ll be ready to dive back into these and other books for my next cusp.

NYC Midnight Short Story Contest_ Made it through the First Round!

I made it through the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Competition. I'm very excited. We were separated into heats, and the top five stories from each heat were selected to continue. I was heat 18, if you want to check it out here.

The story requirements were genre: historical fiction (not my forte), Character: ballerina, and plot device: secret club.

Burning Truth

SYNOPSIS: Marguerite de Valois, Queen of France, wrote her memoirs while imprisoned by her brother in his castle. Only after she delivers them to their keeper, where they remain hidden until her death, does she sit at her desk to pen the true story of her husband’s salvation from the Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.

To read the Actual letters, click here: http://www.fullbooks.com/The-Memoirs-of-Marguerite-de-Valois-V1.html 

***18-Burning Truth

Marguerite de Valois, Queen of France, fanned herself with her palimpsest of secrets. Though pursing her lips might ruin her powder, she made the face anyway. No one of consequence would see it. Unlike this salty memoir in her hands, most of which was even true.

The tang of blood burned her mouth as she chewed her lip. If she tarried any longer, her resolve might burn to ashes. She must execute this final transaction anon.

Queen Marguerite thrust the parchment toward a servant. Slender fingers, cool and sure, closed around her clammy ones.

“Here!” Marguerite commanded. “I charge you to take this and hide it where you will. Do not release these words of scandal and mischief until my death.”

She whirled away from her act, heavy skirts swishing. Rank fear billowed from under brocade and starched collars. The servant should have left by now, but Marguerite heard her breath.

“I may be a prisoner in this castle,” Marguerite complained, “but I am still wife to King Henry IV of France, am I not?”

A familiar squeak sounded behind her. She did not turn. This would not do. This was no regular servant. This woman...she owed this woman her life, the Monarchy. The Queen softened her voice.

“Do as I bid, Anne. I swear upon my crown, my gowns, and the sweet Virgin that I have not exposed your role that night.” Marguerite turned back toward the woman. She held out her hands as if to grasp the servant’s, but stopped. Her hands rubbed themselves against her bodice, soiled by the mere thought. She locked eyes on the poor girl.

“Now, child, our previous familiarity endears you to me, and as a consequence, I have written this letter recommending your service to anyone who would wish to have you. I may never escape my gilded cage, but you will, my nymph. You have saved my silly Huguenot husband more than once; I will admit to wondering if the ballet you danced for the Royal wedding were some portent. But, enough." Queen Marguerite pointed her finger. "If you dally any longer, I will have your head. These parchments must be hid, rested until my demise. If word reaches me or my successors that these secrets came out, or were lost…my revenge upon my brother is worth even your life.

“Away with you, that you might be safe from Catholics and Huguenots alike. That my words might be safe from the Queen my mother, who schemes whilst her plots fail around her. Dance away.”

Hearkening to her former ballet career, Anne arose and glided through the doorway, past the guards in wigs, tights, and pikes. Now, with Anne safely away, she would write the last scandal: the secret clan of ballerinas and the improbable rescue by common court dancers.

She perched upon her ornate chair. A quill, not yet cold, fit snugly into her hand. There was nothing else to do, she reasoned. For her own safety she'd been imprisoned by her brother, so no fit vengeance for her lot in life existed except to tell the truth. The trivial truth from a woman, a non-entity, a vacuous girl with dreams and laughter in her head and no cares except donning the most expensive frock. Well, she’d given them that. No one could fault her for the whimsical tone in her memoirs, for that is how they saw her: whimsical. Weak. Powerless.

But here, in her hand, she held more power than her mother ever did. Catherine de Medici’s family thought power resided with the Church, but the Protestants proved it resided in ink when they printed those Bibles and unleashed the Huguenots upon the world. Words had beaten down the once mighty Catholic Church; her words would beat down this farce of a monarchy.

She dipped her nib into the ink, tapping her quill.

“Letter V Redux

“The True Events of the Massacre of the Huguenots on St. Bartholomew's Day.

“King Charles, as I have written before, a prince of great prudence, always paying a particular deference to his mother, did indeed adopt a sudden resolve to follow her counsel, and put himself under the protection of the Catholics. Sadly, it was not in his power to save the wretched Teligny, honorable La Noue, or M. de La Rochefoucauld.

“However, after Charles resolved upon the “Massacre of St. Bartholomew” with M. de Guise, the Princes, and the Catholic officers, and before I became aware of the goings-on inside the palace, my original history took a fictitious, though believable, bent.

“I did, as I reported so genuinely before, go to the Queen my mother’s bed chamber in my panic, whereupon it was not my sister who shared my mother’s chambers, but a lowly servant, whose tears gushed down her linens, and who begged me to stay and defy the Queen’s request for me to retire. The Queen was, as I wrote in my previous account, in discourse with another party whom I could not see. The servant sobbed so loudly I could not hear, except to hear the servant warn me that leaving the Queen’s bedchamber would mean my life, and I must not go.

“But the Queen commanded obedience, and, upon the Queen my mother’s wroth, the servant Anne, rushed me from the room, escorting me to my own chambers, and prevailed upon me to listen to her tales of intrigue. I would never have listened, despite our occasional dalliance in the past, except that, in all the palace, she seemed the only one to be informed as to the general panic and activity.

“As you may know, years before this night, on the subsequent festival days of my marriage to Prince Henri of Navarre, dancers performed in a series of festivities arranged by the Queen my mother, always so fond of the arts. Girls dressed in feathers and lace, disguised as nymphs, performed a dance, to wit a ballet, much to the delight of the Court. The aforementioned serving girl was one of these dancers. Without my knowledge, nor the knowledge of anyone in the Court, including the shrewd and observant Queen my mother, these dancers then insinuated themselves into the Courts and the nobles, with that oldest of recreations.

“Having taken up as lovers with the Princes of the Court and even the Huguenots in the country, who claimed to eschew such things, their secret group was in the perfect position to know the impending Massacre and to save the Royal family. You will recall, prior to the religious wars that plague our country, the manipulation and misalignments perpetrated by Queen Catherine served only to infuriate both sides. Far from quelling the fire of religious fervor, her acts merely fanned the flames of fanaticism. Thus, the plot.

“This the servant told me, crying into my ear, and bid me to stay in these my own bedchambers as she barred the door.

“The remainder occurred as written, with my husband the King and I retired for the night, although we did not sleep for fear, surrounded by his gentlemen and my new servant, Anne, whom no one recognized as the dancer. When, in the morning, King Henri IV and his gentlemen repaired for the tennis courts to speak to King Charles, and after the hour during which I finally reposed, the pounding on the door and the shouts, “Navarre! Navarre!” did wake me from my slumber and transfix my nurse, who threw open the door.

“Despite my previous chronicle depicting M. de Teian saving me from archers, the afternoon’s activities unfolded quite differently. M. de Teian did indeed recover from his injuries, which were sustained outside as he ushered the King to my room. But as it is unkingly for the King of France to hide inside his wife’s bedchamber, I have penned the fictitious account, sans dancers, sans secret groups, and sans hiding King. That the monarchy was saved not by the Grace of God, Protestant or Catholic, but by lowly courtesans brings me mirth and melancholy in equal measure.”

Marguerite sprinkled sand upon the parchment. Her lungs deflated as she leaned back. Her corset creaked. This history, the true version, amused her now that years separated her from the affair’s tensions. She stood and held the parchment up to the light streaming in her window. Her words droll now that the smell of blood and steel no longer assaulted her nose, now that the bile of fear no longer soured her breath.

Yet what would such amusement serve? What would the commoners do if they realized their exalted King had shivered and cried in the night, and accidentally stabbed a man, already injured, who’d come to protect him?

It would not serve. If Kings were not chosen by God to rule—Queen Marguerite shuddered to think. She drifted toward the fire.

If Kings were not chosen by God, but were flawed people, no more special than common dancers and serving girls, then she could foresee a true massacre. A real French revolution. Her hand fluttered to her chest. No, that could never be. Not now, not in 200 years. But it was one thing to narrate the Court’s licentiousness. It was quite another to defame the King, to mortify him. The Court was no place for truth.

She bent toward the grate, dropping her secrets into fire. Blackened, the parchment crackled and curled in the flames.

Check Out my Flash Memoir at "Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie"!

Check out my 246-word memoir at "Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie". Hurry! I don't know how long it will stay up!

Run to the Roundhouse, Nellie 

Something Happened

I don't know exactly when it happened. I think it started last year, when I became bound and determined to do whatever it took to get Scales published by a third-party publisher.  Something snapped in my head that told me I had to do something different about my writing career.

That Nanowrimo and scribbling short stories in my spare time wasn’t enough.

So I started to take my work seriously. I started seeking critiques, no matter how much they hurt. I started reading about writing, and actually applying the lessons, instead of nursing the ache in my chest when I realized I wrote something “wrong”.

Perhaps it happened this past December, when I purchased and read some of the most influential writing books of all-time. I realized, with a certain amount of heartache, and more than a little excitement, that everything I had written was wrong. Wrong in very specific, fixable ways. I realized I could salvage my old work, without losing the essence of the story, and spin it better this time. Make it more durable. Make it speak louder to people’s hearts.

Maybe it began when I submitted a story, and I didn’t look for the response right away in my email. I patted myself on the back for submitting it and let it go, regardless of the response.

It may have started last year, but it came into fruition this year.

This year; this first week of January, I’ve had positive responses (even in a rejection) from every person to whom I’ve sent a story or poem. Positive.

For the first time in my life, people are not telling me that they can’t understand what’s going on, that the writing is pretty, but confusing. 

For the first time in my life, when I ask someone to publish my work, their answer is simply “Yes.”

Yes.

What a powerful word it is to hear. And the “yes” robs the sting from the “no”. I am now more excited than ever to learn about writing. And I want to write everything. I want to write even when I don’t want to write; I just write about something else.

For the first time, I can actually see a future in this path I’ve been unable to unchoose.

Since I was little, writing caused me pain. I got in trouble, over and over, for things I’d written. My school said there was too much sex and violence. Fiction got interpreted as fact too often, but never when I actually meant it to be interpreted that way. Letters and poems and journals all were read, shared without my permission.

It hurts to be violated that way.

But I couldn’t stop. I had to write. Even after publishing shitty books, and realizing they were shitty, I could not stop. I had to keep moving on.

And now, for the first time, it’s bringing me pleasure.

Something happened. After all this time writing, I learned how to write. 

Swain to the Rescue!

Swain (and Stein) to the Rescue

One of the first things Swain mentions in his book “Techniques of the Selling Writer,” is the concept of specificity. Newbie writers, he tells us, write in general terms. They talk of “people” and “sheep”, “rivers” and “lands”.  Experienced, selling authors, however, describe the passerby in the purple top hat, stopping to stare at our main character, mouth agape and gold tooth shining. The professional writer will talk about the blackface sheep with the limp, hobbling as fast as it can from the wolf and bleating to its fleeing mother.  The beginning writer might also discuss “rain”, and then modify the rain with the word “hard”, instead of using the specific noun “downpour” or even, “monsoon”. Adjectives can be almost eliminated if one uses the correct, specific noun instead of a generic noun.

The same is true for adverbs and verbs. If one “ran quickly”, perhaps one “sprinted”.  If someone “laughs heartily”, maybe it is more appropriate to say he “guffaws”. The right verb can clarify the action without using an adverb (most of the time). This is how adverbs and adjectives got such a bad name in writing: it isn’t because they are bad, but simply because many a beginning author will use them instead of picking a specific noun and verb.

I’m also going to highlight, in a separate color, redundant words, verb phrases, and prepositional phrases, all of which can be addressed by using specific nouns and verbs.

As an example, I will work with a flash fiction piece of my own called “Holy Woman”.

Original text:  (933 words)

The yellow light from the windows smears out across the snow, casting the flickering shadows of the dancers intolonglines of motion. Despite the frigid air, I can still fell the warmth of the praise and faithin my blood. I thank the man againfor his hospitality and immediately stumble blindly as my breath fogs up my glasses. His strong grip on my arm steadies me until my breath evaporates off the lenses. Maybe he had glasses once up on a time, but as I look at his handsome, dedicated face I can see no evidence of spectacles now.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop,” he tells me, careful to keep his breath-cloud pointed away. “And all that waiting ou tin the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile, trying to ignore the warm, squirmy feeling low in my stomach that threatens to overwhelm me whenever I look in his eyes.

I break away from thelight grayeyes, so compellingly wrapped in dark lashes. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His careis a docile tan vehicle in a line offlashiercars. It’s a boxy design, and a practical decision in this kind of climate. The good-natured ribbing of hisyoungersiblings precedes them to the vehicle, and soon all is slamming doors and laughing as he opens the door for me.

I bundle myself in, trying to dust the snow that has blownup on me during theshortwalk. I avoid his eyes this way for almost ten secondsbefore I realize he has not started the car.

When I turn to ask him if there’s something wrong, the intensity of his gaze stops my tongue. I feel as though my mouth has frozen into a surprised “oh!” shape, stuck by theicy, fieryeyesneedling into mine.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he nearly whispers.

Even though I’m consciousof the noise and vibration ofarguingyoungmen in the back seat, I can hear his low voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand up on my arms, blessedly covered by my coat, as I imagine the tickle of his warm breath on my ear. If only he had beenthat close!

My tongue comes unglued, “ask away,” I tell him, trying to lighten up the heaviness in my stomach. How can I advise this man in this state? I try to pray, to communewith my godwhilekeeping my gaze locked on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he says, and he cocks his head toward the backseat, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”  He leans in closer, listening for my answer.

I have to close my eyes to keep his beauty from distracting me. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

I can hear the petulant tone of The Old Crone in my voice, and inwardly I cringe. Even though it was the Sybil he wanted, I wished I didn’t have to set him thinking of me as some Prophetess. I wanted him to thinkof me as a woman, not a shaman.

But the gleam in his eye tells me I have done what he wanted. He leans in closer, almost halfway across the carnow, and eagerly nods. “Yes!” he hisses.

The Crone smiles with my face, and says with my mouth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

I feel the holy presence leave me and sighin relief. When I look back to him, he is nodding, pulling the car out from his parking spot, and beginning the drive down the lane. I watch him mullingover the witchy words I spoke, and I wonder if he knows the power that comes over me, the role that assumes me in necessity.

But no, I know he doesn’t. He glances over to me appreciatively, but not the way I want.

“Yes,” he says, smiling.

I can see the creamy, satisfied look in his eyes. His oracle has performedas he wished.

Diminished, I lookout the front windowin timeto see the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I ask him.

I see the hesitation, and I add, “I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods in agreement and pulls the car over. Before he can open his door, I have leapt knee-deep into the snowbankat the side of the road. I start closing the door, but his voice stops me.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

I look one more time at the sculpted face and the hair like the tips of raven’s wings. His whole countenance is touched by awe and submission—a stain across the otherwise perfect features. I look away.

“The Devil,” I say to him. “Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

Notice that I have not highlighted anything in the speech. Why not? Because people talk like this. I will, however, make sure (in a later lesson) that each character stands out (sounds different, has specific details).

I took out the prepositional phrases, simplified the verbs, and removed (most of)the adverbs and the adjectives. Note that the majority of the story makes sense, but it is much shorter (541):

The light smears, casting shadows. Despite the air, praise and faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as my breath fogs up my glasses. His grip steadies me until my breath evaporates off the lenses. Maybe he wore glasses once, but I see no evidence of spectacles.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He keeps his breath-cloud pointed away. “And all that waiting out in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile, ignore my stomachwhich threatens to overwhelm me.I break away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His younger siblings’ ribbing precedes us. he opens the door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes.

“Is there something wrong?” His eyes needle into mine.

His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth freezes into an “oh!” shape.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he whispers.

The brothers argue in the back seat, but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand as I imagine the tickle of his breath. If only he were close!

My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”  He leans in, listening.

I shutout his beauty. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

The Old Crone speaks for me, and I cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A woman, not a shaman.

His eyes gleam. He leans in closer. “Yes!” he hisses.

The Crone smiles with my face, her words pour forth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. I watch him mull my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snowbank. His voice stops (snags?) me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away.“The Devil.Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

So, what about using specific nouns and verbs?  Great question! As you can see, just taking out the extra verbiage isn’t really enough to make the story pop.  In order to do that, we review the text again, but this time, we insert very specific nouns and active verbs wherever we can.

The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. I thank the man and stumble as my breath fogs up my glasses. His grip steadies me until I see again. Kindness confuses me: maybe he wore glasses once. I see no evidence of spectacles. Maybe he wants something from me.

“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here; it’s a long walk to the bus stop.” He averts his breath-cloud. “And all that waiting out in the cold? No, I’ll drive you home.”

I smile. My stomach lurches.I glance away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure.

His younger siblingsrib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by kindness)

“Is there something wrong?” His eyes needle into mine.

His gaze stops my tongue. My mouth freezes into an “oh!” shape.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he whispers.

The brothers argue in the back seat, but I hear his voice as clearly as if his mouth were against my ear. Goosebumps stand as I imagine his breath tickling my neck. If only he were close!

My tongue unglues, “ask away.” My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”  He leans in, listening.

I shutout his beauty. “Are you responsible for these kids? If they get hurt while they are under your care, are you responsible?”

The Old Crone speaks for me, and I cringe. He wanted the Sybil, but I wished he saw me, not some Prophetess. A woman, not a shaman.

His eyes gleam. He leans in closer. “Yes!” he hisses.

The Crone smiles with my face, her words pour forth, “then you know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. I watch him mull my witchy words. Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me.“Yes,” he says, smiling. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?”

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil.Every day.Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship and wait for the bus.

Note that we didn’t change much—yet. But already, the words we changed have given a more specific picture of the events. The reason I haven’t gone into too much of the word-changing is this: Our lessons are not complete. Before I delve in and worry about how I’m wording something, I first want to go into the story and answer some questions.  First, from Swain:

• ·         What is the story about?
• ·         What is the climax?
• ·         How is the climax a choice between following the protagonist’s values or not?
• ·         What is her easy way out?
• ·         How does the protagonist get what she deserves?

These are weighty questions.

Firstly, in a sentence, the story is about a woman considered Holy by others, who does not feel so holy. In other words, people are attributing Holiness to her, when she feels that it is some other presence working in her. The Climax of the story is her decision to continue (what she feels is) the charade. Her values tell her not to lie. Her body tells her that she wants this man—this is the real her. By denying her body’s desires (according to some of her values), she is actually promoting this Holy lie (violating other values).

In this case, there are two easy ways out: she can continue the charade, or she can permanently destroy the charade and let her lust take over.  The valiant way would be to correct him, and not take advantage of him, all at the same time.

How does the protagonist get what she deserves? By continuing the Holy Woman sham, she is so disgusted with herself that she purposely puts herself back out into the cold.

Great. Now we know what the story is about.  Let’s switch writing coaches for a moment, and move to Sol Stein.  While both coaches describe writing as the production of emotion in the reader, Stein goes a bit further:

Which emotions are we trying to convey in each portion of the story—and do those emotions make sense, according to the climax?

At the climax of the story, we want to feel the strength of the walls boxing in our protagonist. Once she makes her decision, I want the audience to feel …what do I want them to feel? I want them to feel sympathetic to the woman, so I have to give her no choice but to continue the farce. I want them to feel like there is no good answer, only a lesser of two evils. Because of this, she has no choice but to be punished, and it is because it is her judgment alone calling her Holiness a farce, she punishes herself. The reader must feel like she is creating her own prison, but be sympathetic to her in the same way.

Wow, that’s complicated, right?

Of course it is. You thought that all that BS in High School was the teacher putting his/her own views into a piece of fiction, didn’t you? Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. There’s a lot of intent that is put in a story, or a book, or everything else. It is manufactured.

So, the first feeling we want is one of sympathy. Since we want the reader to feel this way throughout the story, I’m going to address it later. Secondly, we want people to feel that there is no right answer. Already we have a plot hole: I mentioned earlier that a third option was to just talk to Adonis, tell him that it was all a lie, that she wasn’t holy, and that it was something else moving inside her.

So what do we do? We take this option away. How do we take it away? We have her go ahead and take this option, and we make it not work. That’s the most obvious way to do it. Now we only have to evils: follow the script laid out for her, or nail the hot guy in the car. Voila! Character effectively boxed in.

Thirdly, we want the reader to feel, in the climax, that her feelings belong only to her; the outside world sees her very differently.  Because we can only show this through dialogue (whether spoken or unspoken) because of the POV, this ties into another one of Stein’s commandments: dialogue is a conflict. All dialogue should be a conflict.

In our current story, the dialogue is not a conflict. It’s an exchange of information:

Char 1: “I have a question.”

Char 2: “I have an answer.”

Char 1: “I have another question.”

Char 2: “I have an answer to that question, too.”

READER: Ho, hum.

So, what if we revamp the dialogue?

He takes her arm and tells her he won’t let her wait out in the cold for the bus. He’ll drive her home. What if he says, instead, that he knows such a spiritual woman doesn’t mind the cold, but he’d be honored to drive her home? This way, he’s kissing up to her, but he’s also trapping her.

She’s already suspicious. She looks at him. He’s effing cute. “No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“Come on,” he insists. Well, that’s what he would insist if he DIDN’T think she was some Saint. But he does. So he says, “It’s no trouble at all.” And leads her toward the car.

(the kids are misbehaving)

Adonis yells at the kids, to get them to settle down. Now he’s established authority.

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are strings attached.

“Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha!

Sympathy: “No, child, let this old woman rest.”

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” (sarcasm).

“It’s just a quick question. Look, the car is already warm.”

“I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.”

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw.”  At the same time: damn, that door is closed.

“Just hear me out.”

“Ask away” (sarcasm). Better: “Ask, then.”

Giving Space

Swain believes in space. He believes that, the more important an event is to the story, the more space it should take up.

Let’s assume that our story is 1000 words long—the upper limit of flash fiction. Our climax is the most important part of the story. We could conceivably give the climax of our story 250-500 words. Let’s keep that in the back of our minds, while we work on one more important item: the plot diagram.

Plot diagram

In middle school or high school, you may have come across a Plot diagram. The picture looks something like this:

 

There’s an intro, rising action, a climax, falling action, and resolution. In real life, most plot diagrams look like this:

 

But the same ideas are there. This plot diagram is also called a tension line, because it graphs the reader’s tension throughout the story. Tension is what we want the reader to feel, because the reader reads in order to experience safe tension (much like a roller coaster is a safe form of tension).  But, in using Swain’s understanding of space, the graph becomes this (for a flash fiction as short as this one):

This is because, in a very short story, there are only a few events that lead up to the climax. The climax and the end of the story (the character getting what he/she deserves) take up the majority of the story. In fact, in our example, about half.

So now we know how our story is going to be structured. We know we want (in this case) two or three events that ratchet up the tension, until we get to our climax. Then we want to show the protagonist making a decision between following her values or not, and getting what she deserves.

Our events, as we’ve outlined our story, need to generate sympathy for the old woman AND set up the climax.

So far, we have these events in the story:

• ·         The woman falls down.
• ·         The man offers the woman a ride. (she’s suspicious)
• ·         The man asks a question, once she’s trapped in the car and they are pulling off. (she’s trapped)
• ·         The parts of her fight one another

Since we only want two or three events in the story, then we can probably lose the woman slipping in the snow from her foggy glasses. Besides, glasses usually fog up worse when you go into someplace warm, so what if we make her feel even more vulnerable by making her glasses fog when she’s in the car with him, helpless.

How does the story start? Well, she’s a Holy Woman, so it starts off with her being Holy.

Characterization

Swain discusses the significant detail when describing characters. A significant detail about her appearance:  Maybe our Holy Woman keeps a piece of jewelry. Maybe it’s a rosary necklace. That would make Christians uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a rosary necklace with a five-pointed star. That would make Christians incredibly uncomfortable.  Maybe she shows this symbol to try to get out of telling the man the answer he seeks.

A significant detail about her personality: she is viewing what many people would consider the Holy Spirit as some kind of invading spirit. She does not like someone else speaking with her voice. Even if that someone might be God. And it might be God: she really doesn’t know, but simply isn’t comfortable with it.

She is trapped, literally in the car, by the weather and the driving, and figuratively because both extremes she feels are unacceptable. She can neither give in to lust nor give in to Holiness. She is not either one, but a mixture of both. Yet she is trapped to do one or the other.

So, let us take our sentences, our events, and put them in the order they go,  knowing all we know about how our story is going to go:

The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. A beautiful man slides his arm into mine.

“I know such a spiritual woman as yourself don’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His voice, syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.

“No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” And leads me toward the car.

His younger siblings rib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow off. I avoid his eyes. (shut the door, get in the other side, still bothered by kindness). I smile. My stomach lurches. I glance away. I cannot look, or else I will lose my composure. I can’t lose my composure. He wants something. It’s the only reason such a beautiful man would ask her into his car. Last Sunday had been equally cold; but he had not offered then.

Adonis yells at the kids, to get them to settle down. Now he’s established authority.

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” She’s enjoying their antics, still feels uneasy, like there are strings attached.

He pulls the car out into the street. The automatic locks click down. “Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha!

Sympathy: “No, child, let this old woman rest.” She clutches her necklace beads.

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” (sarcasm). She toys with the necklace, letting the pentacle capture the light.

“It’s just a quick question. I’ve heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over you. You’re Holy.”

“I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.” Just a woman, she thought. Her eyes drifted over his body. Maybe she could prove it?

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw. I have no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch” 

“You are not a witch. Just hear me out.”

My stomach lightens. How can I advise this man? I commune with my god until my gaze locks on this Adonis.

“My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”  He leans in, listening.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Right now, his cocoa eyes, fringed with delicate lashes, lure me in. I wet my lips. Parts of me, long since dried by menopause, tingle in the same way they tingled with the first boy I ever loved. My cheeks redden.

But when The Spirit—The Crone—overtakes me, I lose all of that. The zest will drain away. I feel Her now, sucking pink life from my lips. Drying me out. Calling me Magdalene, wanton, whorish. The Whore of Babylon and the Crone Who Serves the Lord. One or the other. Never balance. Never both.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Is he aware of the strength of the Spirit, that it will take over my mouth, my lips, my womb? Is he aware that, in the Spirit, I could kill his brothers for their accidental blasphemies, or stone him for an adulterer?

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? How close is he to God? How tight the bond between his Spirit and the Spirit of Truth? If he knew the Spirit, wouldn’t he already know the answer?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene, the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.

I shut out his beauty, let hers in. “You know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. Such a small defeat. A minuscule chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it doesn’t matter that I have eroded myself once more.

I watch him mull my witchy words. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly recognize my own voice.

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. Awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day. You. Me. Inside us all.”

I shut the door on his worship, on his blind faith.

So there it is, our story. The final step is to go back to the beginning, to the specific nouns and active verbs. Doing so yields these changes:

                The light smears, throws shadows. Despite the chill, praise and faith warm my blood. Adonis slides his arm into mine.

“I know such a spiritual woman as yourself doesn’t mind the cold, but I’d be honored to drive you home.” His voice, syrup sweet, warms me. As do his chocolate-colored eyes.

“No, son, don’t waste your time on an old hag like me.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He steers me toward the Buick.

His brothers rib each other. He opens the passenger’s door.

I bundle myself in, dusting snow onto the floor mats. I smile at the heating vents. My stomach lurches with the shocks as he sits. The heating vents help me keep my composure. He wants something. It’s the only reason such a beautiful man would ask me into his car. Last Sunday had been equally cold; but he had not offered then.

The brothers bump the front bench seats.

“Settle down back there!”

“It’s all right; I don’t mind. Boys will be boys,” I say to my wringing hands.

The Buick oozes into the street. Automatic locks click. “Actually, I want to be able to talk with you. You see, I have this question.”

Aha! He does want something from me. Would that I could trade what he wants for what I want: an hour undisturbed, punctuated by giggles and whispers. “No, child, let this old woman rest.” I clutch my tired bosoms.

“You’re not that old,”

“And yet, you lap at my font of wisdom” I dangle my rosary before him, draining the innuendo out onto the floor mats with the melting snow. It has a pentacle on it, but must not see it. If he did, he’d surely say something. Then we could talk about anything other than his spiritual question.

“It’s just a quick question. I’ve heard you answer questions in church for others. I’ve seen the Spirit come over you. You’re Holy.”

Holy. Full of holes. “I am not a Saint, child. I am a woman. Just a woman. I have no special powers or divine spirit.” Just a woman. Maybe I should prove it.

“I’ve seen you in the Spirit.”

“You don’t know what you saw. I have no choice about when the Spirit moves in me. The Crone, I call it. A witch” 

“You are not a witch. Just hear me out.” He does not wait for my reply.

 “My brothers,” he cocks his head, “they have some friends who come over. These friends live so dangerously, taking risks and playing games that are too mature for them. They’re rebellious and disrespectful, but I like them. And the boys do, too. I guess I’m not sure what I should do about it.”  He leans in, listening.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Right now, his cocoa eyes, fringed with delicate lashes, lure me in. I wet my lips. Parts of me, long since dried by menopause, tingle in the same way they tingled with the first boy I ever loved. My cheeks redden.

But when The Spirit—The Crone—overtakes me, I lose all of that. The zest will drain away. I feel Her now, sucking pink life from my lips. Drying me out. Calling me Magdalene, wanton, whorish. The Whore of Babylon and the Crone Who Serves the Lord. One or the other. Never balance. Never both.

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? Is he aware of the strength of the Spirit, that it will take over my mouth, my lips, my womb? Is he aware that, in the Spirit, I could kill his brothers for their accidental blasphemies, or stone him for an adulterer?

Does he know the power that assumes me in necessity? How close is he to God? How tight the bond between his Spirit and the Spirit of Truth? If he knew the Spirit, wouldn’t he already know the answer?

But no, he doesn’t. He glances over to me. Chocolate eyes melt my tongue. Magdalene, the Spirit whispers to me. She will not be denied, the Crone.

I shut out his beauty, let Hers in. “You know what you must do. You must guard and keep these boys as you guard and keep your brothers. They will see how you care for them and how you are just and kind, and they will respond.”

The presence releases me. Such a small defeat. A minuscule chip at my individuality. I tempt myself to think that it doesn’t matter that I have eroded myself once more.

I watch him mull my witchy words. His eyes film over. His oracle performed as expected.

Diminished, I look through the windshield to the bus stop ahead. “Could you pull over here?” I hardly recognize my own voice.

He hesitates.

“I feel a strong pull by the Spirit to be here, now.”

He nods and pulls over. Before he can open his door, I leap knee-deep into the snow bank. His voice snags me. I wait.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything you struggle with, that I might help you?”

Sculpted face and raven hair taunt me. But awe and submission stain his features. I look away. “The Devil. Every day. You. Me. Inside us all.” I shut the door on his blind faith.