Flash Fiction #2

This is my 2nd try at flash fiction.  This time Patti Abbott asked anyone interested to send in three or four lines of a first paragraph.  Then she sent one of those to each of us and we had to do a 750 word story using whatever first paragraph she gave us.  The list of the other stories are here:    http://pattinase.blogspot.com/ Below is my story.  Remember the first paragraph isn’t mine and I don’t know who wrote it.  Yet.

 

MEATLOAF

 

          Davy Dunn was irritable. Stomping his black boots outside of Madison Garden, he bit his fifth cigarette out of a nine dollar deck of Marlborough Reds and smoked the hot marrow out like he wanted to taste the lips of hell.

 

          Ray was late and it was fucking cold. Colder than his old lady's heart. He blew out smoke that curled like a snake chasing a mongoose.  Shoving the stick in his mouth he clapped his leather-clad hands together.  They made a muffled sound as if they were underwater.  Dunn kept clapping but it didn't warm up his hands.

 

          Looking uptown he saw Ray limping his way toward him, the little prick.  He was wearing his grimy pea coat which was a size too big for him.  He'd told Ray to stop wearing the thing but Ray wouldn't listen.  He had on that brown cowboy hat that looked like a sewer rat had made it his last meal. Sometimes Dunn wondered why he kept the loser around.  But they'd known each other all their lives growing up in the Bronx, and the thing was Ray needed somebody to look after his sorry ass.

 

          "Hey, Davy."

 

          "You're late, asshole."

 

          "Sorry."  He looked down at the sidewalk.

 

          "Sorry ain't good enough, you moron."

 

          "I tole you not to call me that." 

  

          Dunn knew he shouldn't because Ray was something like a moron.  Retarded maybe.

 

          "You know how long I been standin out here waitin on you, Ray? Wanna know, huh?  My balls are like white hot ice."

 

          Ray looked up at him. "How can they be hot and ice at the same time?"

 

          "Shut the fuck up."

 

          "Sorry, Davy."

 

          "What're you doin wearin that asshole cowboy hat for? You know what it looks like?  Like somebody took a crap on it."

 

          "Nobody did."

 

          "Shut up I tole you.  I oughta leave you here.  You know how cold I am?"

 

          "Like hot ice balls."

 

          "Listen, Ray, you're gettin on my nerves."

 

          "Sorry, Davy."

 

          Dunn tore off a drag of his cigarette like a starving vampire, then blew the hot smoke into Ray's beat up face.  When they were kids Ray's old man used Ray like a football.  He kicked him anywhere he wanted.  If Ray was standing up he'd kick him in the nuts or ass.  Ray was sitting down he'd kick him in the face.  Broke his nose a dozen times until it looked like mashed potatoes.

 

          "So Davy, you got the tickets?"

 

          "No."

 

          "No?"

 

          "Something wrong with your ears?"

 

          "I thought we was goin to the game."

 

          "Sold out."

 

          "You tole me you'd get them.  No problem, you said."  Ray's eyes began to fill.

 

          "Oh, here it comes."  Dunn wanted to bash him into the Garden wall like a rotten tomato.

 

          "I can't help it.  I was countin on the game, Davy."

 

          "Too bad.  Stop cryin like some pussy."

 

          "I wanted to go to the game.  You promised."

 

          "What's that smell?" Dunn said.

 

          "Smell?"

 

          "Yeah.  Like dirty feet or something."

 

          "Too cold to smell anything."

 

          Dunn leaned closer to Ray and took big long sniffs like he couldn't get enough.  Ray stepped back.

 

          "What're you doin Davy?"

 

          "Smellin the stink."

 

          "What stink?"

 

          "You. That pea coat. I tole you not to wear it no more, Ray."

 

          "I gotta, Davy. I don't have nothin else."

 

          "Well, you stink like rotten feet."

 

          "I'm sorry Davy."

 

          "You fuckin should be.  I have to smell it all night.  You can't even smell it with that nose, can you?"

 

          "Can't even smell my mom's corn beef no more."

 

          "Good thing.  She cooks like shit.  Everything she makes tastes the same."

 

          Ray looked at him with his brown eyes like slits in a devil Halloween mask.  "Don't, Davy."

 

          "Don't?"

 

          "Yeah."

 

          "What kind a thing is don't?"

 

          "It's what it says."

 

          "You're a dick."

 

          "I don't want you to say nothin about my mom, Davy."

 

          "I'll say anything I fuckin feel like sayin, moron."

 

          "And don't say that no more neither."

 

          "Listen you retard, you're lucky I let you hang out with me."  Dunn snapped the end of his cigarette into the street and watched it roll around the gutter until it stopped. "And your mother's meatloaf tastes like puke."

 

          Ray took two steps toward Dunn and shoved his knife through the black jacket and into Dunn's belly.

 

          "Ray." Dunn fell on his knees. He groaned then went over like a side of beef onto the freezing slab of sidewalk.

          Ray said, "Mom's meatloaf's the best."  He leaned over, pulled the knife out of Dunn, swiped the blood off the knife on his pea coat and limped downtown.

Hooray!

I’m back writing a novel and I’m so happy.  I feel like I’ve come home.  I’m not a short story writer, which doesn’t mean I’ll never write one.  But I’m so much more comfortable writing in this form. 

Whether Or Not or Weather Or Not

I don’t seem to be doing too well.  I’m not able to stick to any schedule.  So in the morning it’s whether or not to write.  This is a question I never asked myself during years of writing novels.  I’ve tried to blame my vacillation on the weather, but I know that doesn’t make sense. 

Still, yesterday as the snow fell it was more a reading day to me than a writing day. I started off reading in bed, then moved to the living room and sat in a big comfy chair.  Although I could see the snow easily from my bedroom, the living room afforded me many more windows to watch through if I looked over my reading glasses.

But weather isn’t an excuse I would’ve taken if I had a contract for a novel.  Or maybe even if I was writing a novel without one.  I’m not sure this short story thing is for me.  I’ve always known that short story writing was an art unto itself.  And I always believed some people could and some couldn’t and I counted myself among the latter.

I’m used to the build of a novel, the many characters, the freedom .  A short story needs to be what it says: a story that’s short.  Concise.  It’s true that my novels have become lean in style, but there’s still a license that I don’t find in writing a short story.

I’ve written most of one story and the beginning of another.  I do like that I can go to any story I want on any given day.  Or start a new one without finishing another that I decide I’ll go back to.  Writing a novel I wouldn’t dream of starting a new chapter without finishing the last.

It worries me that if I start a novel my expectations will rise up and bite me.  I have an idea but it isn’t a burning idea.  It doesn’t keep me up at night or take my mind away from what I’m doing.  It’s just an idea.

I do believe I’d be more disciplined if I was writing a novel.  But so what? I see that I can start writing after nine in the morning.  That’s one thing that trying to write stories has given me.  I don’t have to be as inflexible as in the past.

So what if I started writing a novel and didn’t use my rigid schedule?  Would the novel writing police arrive?  Of course I’m the novel writing police.  What if I give writing a novel in a more relaxed fashion a chance? Although trying to write at least four days a week.  I think I’d be happier than attempting short stories and not getting to my desk more than two days a week at most.

There’s no one to stop me except me.  Still, I’ll have to stick to one rigidity.  I’d never start a novel on a Thursday.  I’ll think about this and then if that’s what I want to do I’ll start on Monday. 

I feel anxious simply thinking about it.  Maybe I have to let go of what day I start.  Maybe I have to let what happens happen.  Ohmigod!

Quote

"It's finding the emotional door you have to go through. You have to find a way, an angle in on the characters, so that your emotional dope, your limits, concerns, needs and hopes at that moment can be expressed through the vehicle of the made-up story. And then you have to shape the story as entertainment so other people can feel that same emotion."

Stephen King, on revising a novel

Writing and Acting

The nice thing about writing for yourself, no agent or editor nagging you, is that you can go at your own speed, stop and write something else (like the flash fiction for Feb.) or take off the day without guilt.

I was too tired the day after the Golden Globes (all those parties) and the Inauguration took up a whole day and the next day I was too tired (all those balls).

With one thing and another I haven’t written more of the story I posted about below.  But tomorrow I’m going to give it a try again.  In fact I’m actually looking forward to it.  I think now I’ll do stories about the same characters I’m introducing in this first story.  Only a thought.

The back page of the NYTBR has an essay today about book promotion.  It’s about making movie trailers or something jazzy and different about books for the Internet.  The thrust of this essay seems to be that if you don’t do that you might as well flush your book down the toilet.

And I thought book tours were nightmares.  I mean, part of wanting to be a writer for me was that I could be alone.  But now I’d have to make a movie and be with gaffers and grips.

I guess this is the wave of the future (the future is now) and nothing will stop it.  For some this may be fun and exciting.  For me the excitement is the act of putting my fingers on the keys and … I almost forgot … shutting the door.

Writing One, Thinking Of Another

Strange what’s happening.  Or maybe not so strange.  I started a short story last week and I noticed this week that my mind keeps making dips like: maybe this can become a novel.  Why couldn’t this be the YA that my agent is always trying to get me to write?  Or, I can write connecting stories and……….

The reason I say it may not be strange is because at heart I’m a novelist.  I thought that writing ss would free me.  It did at first…by that I mean the first six pages or so.  But as the story kept growing, taking side trips, one thing reminding me of another, the long fingers of the novel snagged me. And what’s really odd (for me) is that my family keeps creeping into this thing.

Writing ss I know there’s not a chance in hell that I’d sell one and that’s where the freedom comes in. But with a novel there’s always that hope in me even though I know it’s one of the worst periods in publishing.

I don’t want to think about writing a novel.  But I also want to keep writing. I’ll have to press on and let my mind do its tricks and try not to pay attention.  I don’t hold out much hope for that.

Annoying Things

Good news and bad news.  I wrote again today and got a good chunk done.  I don’t mean that the writing is good…just that I did it.

BUT…I hate Word 2007.  I even bought myself a book called The Missing Manual.  It never has what I need.

When I finished my last word I hit the return, clicked on the icon for middle of page and to show a passage of time I did this *** .  First it made strange lines and borders and I’ll never know how I got out of that, and then it screwed up my entire format.  Two lines on a page.  Last lines of paragraphs in the middle of a line.  It took me 45 min. to get a format back.  Not the one I had, but something like it.  Something sane looking.  I’m thinking of going back to Word 2003. This is not what you want to do after writing.

Still, I got the work done and didn’t lose it.

 

Just One of Those Things

Everyday can’t be a winner when you’re writing.  Today was not so hot for me.  After yesterday I felt fired up.  But a feeling isn’t a fact.

I stayed at my desk for three hours, but I got very little done. I was disappointed.  Still, I wasn’t depressed by my lack of success. 

I have tomorrow and I can hope for a better day.

Yes!

Over a thousand words.

Time 2

It’s Saturday.  Less than two days left before I start to write.  Part of me feels like this is the last weekend of my life.  Another part is looking forward to Monday.

What if I just sit here?

What if I stare at this screen and nothing happens?

I do have a title so that’s something.  But what if I can’t even write a first line?

In the past two years I’ve written those 200 pages that I ended up stuffing in a drawer; a short story for the anthology A Hell of a Woman and a flash fiction piece.  Not my usual output.  Not me at all. Not who I once was. 

Time has passed, I’ve grown older and I’m rusty.  I have a new Word program.  I’m not even sure I know how to use it properly.

But here’s the thing I have to remember:  I’m not writing for anyone but myself.  This is both good and bad.  It’s good because I can be on my own schedule, take my time, screw up.  Bad because I’m not writing for anyone.  Agent, editor, publisher.  They aren’t thinking about me.  This is a whole new world.

Will I be able to do this without the carrot?

WTF, I’m simply going to try.

Time

Is running out.  For me.  To not write.  Six more days before I try to start a story.  Back to a routine.  Going to bed early.  Hitting the keys by nine. 

Nervous?  Yes.

 

Commitment

I’ve been thinking about what I should write if I’m going to try again.  The news from the world of publishing is not helpful.

I think that at this point in my life the commitment of writing a novel is too great.  And I do think of it as a commitment. 

When I begin a novel it’s as if I’m beginning a new relationship.  I have to meet it everyday.  I have to spend three or four hours a day with it.  I have to give it love.

I have seldom said, I can’t see you anymore.  The relationship changes and grows.  If it takes a turn I don’t like I don’t give up.  I work on it until I’m satisfied.  And a great many months or years are devoted to this affair.  Most of all there’s an expected outcome for me.  My secret romance will be shared with others.  First reader, agent, editor, critics, public. That’s the way it goes.  Or went.  I have expectations. No matter how I try to deceive myself, ignore those expectations, they’re there.  I can’t help it.

So I’ve decided to try writing short stories.  I have absolutely no expectations.  Yes, I’ve sold a few, but it’s not the same as a lifetime of writing and publishing novels.  There’s practically no market for shorts so I can’t hoodwink myself.   

Writing a novel means publication and money for me.  Writing a short story means neither of those things.  Even though I need money, like everyone else, I feel no pressure.

And then there’s the idea that any story I write will be a fling.  The commitment is so much shorter than writing a novel.  Surely I can make one.  And if I want to try another commitment I can.  Or not.  A story will have been written with my fidelity in tact.

So come January 5th I’m going to try to get engaged.

Quote

"Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to those who have none."

Jules Renard

Free

All my outside obligations are over.  So now I have time to write.  Do I want to?  Maybe.

When I go to bed I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll start something.  And when I wake up I don’t do it.

Knowing that whatever I write probably won’t sell makes it hard.  I’ve never had to worry about that since I started publishing in the early seventies. 

I’m lucky, you say.  Yes, I know.  I was writing at a great period in publishing history.  Now it’s not so hot.  And I’m not on the wanted list.  I’m not at an age where some editor will feel he/she can mold my career.  So what to do?

Should I stay in the crime field?  Or should I write whatever comes into my head?  I have a better chance if I stay in my genre, but only a tiny one.

I don’t have a book in me that I’ve been dying to write for years and years.  I’ve already written that book. 

I can only hope that more will be revealed.

Quote

"Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, for it is a dangerous and a contagious disease."

Peter Abelard

Attitudes

Today I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen for about a year.

She said to me, “Are you still writing?”

I’ve had this question put to me many times in my life.  I don’t think the question is asked of anyone but people in the arts.  Sometimes it even comes from people who are in the arts.  An actor once asked me this.

But the best one was an old editor of mine who I bumped into in an elevator.  The elevator was in a building where the publishing company was located.

“Are you still writing, Sandra?”

“No, Roger” I said.  “I’m a brain surgeon now.”

He didn’t blink because I don’t think he was listening to my answer.

Why do people ask this question?  I think if you’re a writer, painter, etc. people don’t take what you do seriously.  They don’t think it’s work.  They view it as if it was a hobby.  They can’t equate arranging words on a paper or putting paint on a canvas as work.  Especially writing, because everybody writes. And an awful lot of people think they can write more than a letter if only they had the time.

A man I know who had been sick said, “I wouldn’t have gotten through my illness if I hadn’t had mysteries to read.  Now that I’m better I’m going to write one to give back what I’ve gotten.”

I wanted to pop him one, but I didn’t.  Even I have restraint at times.  Afterall, he’d been sick.

Today when I was asked the question I said, “I’m taking a little break now.”  And I didn’t ask her if she was still practicing law.  

Quote

"The cat sat on the mat is not a story. The cat sat on the other cat's mat is a story."

John LeCarre

Reading

I may never read a book again.  Is it me or is it the books?  I know I’m having a terrible time focusing because of conditions I can’t control.  But that’s getting better.  I have less to do.  So why hasn’t my desire to read returned?

I can read newspapers, magazines, blogs, etc.  But not books.  I read fiction almost exclusively.  Occasionally a non-fiction book will peak my interest.  But nothing interests me now.

At the moment I have two new novels from the library.  I put them on a request list months ago.  I was anxious to read them because both are written by authors I like.  I’ve started both and stopped both.

Before that I read about 385 pages of a 400 page novel and stopped.  I had no idea what I’d read and, of course, didn’t give a damn about the ending.  This has never happened to me before.  I give a book about 25 pages and if it doesn’t grab me I don’t read it.  Sometimes I can tell in 10.  But 385?

I don’t actually think it’s the books.  It’s me. Reading is one of the great pleasures of my life and not being able to do that leaves me feeling empty.

This is great: I can’t write and I can’t read.  Daytime TV?  Not yet.

An Excuse I Don't Want

I’m home but I have certain responsiblilities that make it not only impossible to think about writing, but untenable to write.  It makes me sad.

I think I want the choice to be mine.  Not something that is imposed on me.  It will be six weeks before I can focus on myself and make some sort of stab at what I want to do.

There’s a flash fiction project going on and I can’t even do that although I’d like to.

From time to time I’ll try to write things here that pertain to writing even though it’s not my personal struggle.  This and that as they occur to me and I have a moment or two.  Maybe no one will read it but it’ll be good for me if I can do it.  I guess I don’t want to be out of this altogether.

 

Musing

I hope my regular readers don’t abandon me while I’m in this state.  I hope one day you’ll drop in and read that I’ve begun something.

Meanwhile, perhaps this tells you what can happen to a writer at my stage in a career.  The fact is I don’t have a career at this time.  I have lots of work behind me, but now … nothing.  And no publisher is waiting for me to turn in anything.

As this stage has gone on and on I realized I’ve been derailed by many things.  Not all of them my doing.  We all know that the state of publishing is a mess.  So this doesn’t make me want to knock myself out trying to get back on track.

I’m a writer and my natural state is to be writing.  Still, knowing that probably nothing will happen to anything I write is depressing.  This isn’t my imagination.  I have a track record and you’re only as good as your last book.  In other words, how much money you made for the publisher.

This is understandable.  Publishing is a business.  My career has not been a splashy one.  Pretty steady though.  Once I started publishing only one book of mine was rejected…never published.  So it’s hard to think of writing knowing it might end up in a drawer.  I’m not used to it.

Yes, I put 200 pages in a drawer a year ago, but that was by choice.  I’m talking about a finished manuscript.  Anyone who tells you they write for the sake of writing is either a liar or a fool.

If and when I start again, the knowledge that what I’m writing may never be published will always be with me.  During most of my career I wondered, never sure I’d sell a book, but this is different. 

I’m nearer to the end instead of the beginning. Or even the middle.  It’s harder here.

The New Year That Wasn't

I did say that I’d know by now and I do.  Things have turned out to thwart any new beginning at this time.

I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll be unable to consider writing.  It looks like six to eight weeks.  I’ll be away from home for about five days and with lack of concentration or focus no writing will occur except for email and this blog.  And I’m not sure how that works in a hotel.  The wireless thing, I mean.

I’d be foolish to think I could begin something during this period.  And when I get home I’ll be very busy doing other things.  So two months more or less before I consider writing again.

Yes, I’m relieved in a way, but I don’t admit to that.  I tell myself I would’ve come up with something good and I’d be back on track again.

It could’ve happened, I guess.  But this isn’t the end of the line.  It’s a postponement. At least that’s what I tell myself.

A New Year

A writer friend wrote me, after reading this blog, to wish me the “September Fever.”   

I knew exactly what she was talking about because after all this time I still think of September as the beginning of the year.  A time to start new things.  An excellent time to start writing a new book.

For many years that’s exactly what I’ve done.  But this year, for various reasons, starting a new anything is not in the cards.  It’s out of my control, a state I’ve never been comfortable with.

The worst part of this is that I’m not sure I want to start a new novel.  How many months have I been saying that I’m finished writing?  It’s only in the last weeks that I’ve been suspicious of that stance.

Herbert Gold says, writers never stop writing, are “always on the lookout for the next book.”

“Writers can’t serve 30 years and then earn release to play golf, wear a baseball cap, enterain themselves by negotiating shopping carts down the aisles of the local supermarket.”

I’ve always believed this, but I know I won’t be sitting here hitting the keys on September 2nd.  That’s a given for a reason out of my control.  And after that things will depend on what happens on September 2nd.

For anyone who has been a constant reader of this blog, you know that even if everything turns out all right, I won’t start on September 3rd because it’s a Wednesday.  Whoever heard of starting anything in the middle of the week?

If I’m lucky I might want to begin writing on Monday September 8th.  And if I want to I can only hope that circumstances allow me to do so. 

Quote

“My advice to writers just starting out? Don't use semi-colons! They are transvestite hermaphrodites, representing exactly nothing. All they do is suggest you might have gone to college."

Kurt Vonnegut

My life goes on but my writing doesn’t.  I think it was Freud who said that to have a happy life you need both love and work.  I have one but not the other.  I’ve had both and I was happier.

So sit right down and go back to work, you say.  It’s not so simple.  I keep thinking that I’ll do that in the fall despite my insistence of retirement.

It’s true that I was tired of the routine, but I’ve had a rest and now I feel I want to write.  Perhaps that’s because at this moment I can’t. I may be fooling myself.  Once I can I might not want to.  That remains to be seen.

The point is that at this moment I feel I want to write, feel I would if I could.

One Step Forward

I can read again.  I’ve almost finished a novel.  And I think my not writing might have something to do with a situation I can do nothing about.  The situation will change, but I don’t know when.

It’s not magic and I know it doesn’t mean that when the situation changes I’ll plunk myself down here and bat out the first chapter of something. 

But I do notice that I have a sense of longing.

Arrrrrghhhh!

No second line has come to me.  I have no desire to find one. 

I thought about going back to writing YAs.  My agent has suggested it and so have friends.  I’ve published 5.  But the thing is that would require writing.

I did have a heady moment when I thought it would be okay to write one with another person.  And then the idea deflated like a sick balloon.

Since then (about a week ago)  I’ve felt hostile toward the act of writing.

Worse than that is that I can’t read.  I start something and then I put it down.  I’ve had periods like this before but somehow this one is making me mad.  Everything is making me mad.

 

 

A Tiny Conundrum

I’ve had a first line for about a week.  I think it’s a great first line.  So? What am I doing writing first lines anyway?  I’m the retired writer.

But what to do when a beauty of a line comes buzzing into your brain?  Dodge it?  Black it out?  Give it to someone else?  God no.

I went to Word and typed it on the blank page making it no longer blank.  And that’s where it is now.  One line.  No company.

Is it lonely?  Maybe.  But I don’t seem to be able to do anything about it.  I think of that line a lot.  I’ll be making the bed and the line pops into my mind.  It makes me smile.  I wash a dish and I say it silently.

It’s no big deal to have an opening line, you say.  You’re right.  So why am I blathering about it?  You tell me.

Quote

"Write as often as possible, not with the idea at once of getting into print, but as if you were learning an instrument."

J.B. Priestley

Flash Fiction

” With gas prices rising they had to change their plans.”  This was the sentence given for this particular piece of flash fiction.  One had to use it somewhere in the 750 word piece.  Mine is below. Links to the other writer’s pieces can be found here. 

———————————————————————

     With gas prices rising their plans had to change.  They had little money to begin with and getting away by car seemed impossible now.

     Betty Rae wanted to push Kenny’s head through the windshield because he was ready to give up on the whole thing. 

     “What are we supposed to do, B.R., go by donkey cart?”

     “You’re not funny.  This is serious.”

     “But how’re we gonna get away after?  We need money for food and stuff.  Can’t go paying no six twenty-five a gallon.  The way this fuckin crate eats up gas we’ll be outta money before we pass the county line.”

     “We gotta think a something else.” She knew she was the one who had to think of a plan because Kenny never thought of anything.  What was she doing with this moron, anyway? She should never’ve broken up with Bing.  Her mother always snarled when she talked about him.

     “Betty Rae, can’t you do better than a boy named Bing Cherry?”

     It wasn’t his fault that was his name.  Wasn’t like he named himself.     Wait a minute. Bing had a Vespa.  And she knew where he kept a spare key.

     “You ever driven a Vespa, Kenny?”

     “A what?”

     “Vespa.  It’s like a motorcycle only smaller.”

     “You mean like a mobed.”

     “Moped.”

     “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

     She wasn’t going to argue with him because there wasn’t time for that now. 

     “So you never drove a Vespa, right?”

     “Right.”

     “Thing is, you get a lotta miles to the gallon with them.”

     “So what? 

     “I know where we can get one.”  She told him about it.

     “And you can drive it?” he said.

     “Easy.”

     “Cool. Let’s get her then.”

     Kenny started the old Ford and drove over to Bing’s. He was in Iraq and Betty Rae knew his parents both worked.  Kenny parked around the corner and they walked to Bing’s house, up the driveway and peeked through the garage window. 

     There it was with a grey cover over it.

     “What if it don’t have gas in it?”

     “Shut up.”  She went over to the flower bed near the side of the house, dug around in the dirt and came up with the key.  She held it up to Kenny like a trophy.

     When they went to open the garage doors they discovered they were locked.

     “Now what?”

     She looked at him with contempt, took off her shirt, walked to the side of the garage, wrapped the shirt around her hand and punched a hole in the window.

     “Jesus, B.R.”

     “Nobody’ll hear us.”  She put her shirt back on, pulled out the pieces of glass stuck in the frame, climbed through, came around and raised the door for Kenny.

     They didn’t say anything and went over to the Vespa. 

     Betty Rae pulled the cover off the machine. It was a wild purple, like she remembered.  She kicked the stand, threw a leg over the seat, put in the key, and tried to get it started.

     “Bet it has no gas in it,” Kenny said.

     “Anyone ever tell you you’re a goddamn pessimist?”

     “Not so I remember.”

     “Well, you are and it’s a big drag.”

     “Sorry.”

     One more try and the engine gurgled to life.

     “Get on.” She could see he didn’t want to so she gave him her I’ll kill you if you don’t look.

     He slowly took his seat behind her and she drove out of the garage, down the driveway and onto the street.

     “Hey, my car’s the other way.”

     “Fuck the car.  We don’t need it. Listen. We’ll go to my house and get the gun.  And you’ll do like we planned.  Then we’ll get outta town on this.”

     Her fucking parents were on disability so they’d both be home.  Shithead would be watching Oprah in the living room and Pigface would be glugging wine and smoking cigarettes in the kitchen.   

     Kenny would kill her father first while she was in the kitchen with her mother.  The stupid bitch would hear the shot but before she could do anything Betty Rae would stab her and then Kenny’d come in and shoot her.  After, Betty Rae would pull the jar out from behind the pipes under the sink and take the money.

     But what if Kenny got cold feet?  He wouldn’t because he knew she’d kill him if he didn’t do like she said.

     “Waaatch ooou…,” Kenny screamed.

     They hit the car in front, bounced off and smashed into the telephone pole.

     Neither one was wearing a helmet.

 

Will Wonders Never Cease?

Those of you who read this blog know I balked at writing a short story last year. Then I did it and it was published in the anthology HELL OF A WOMAN.  From there it was picked to be included in  A Prisoner of Memory: And 24 of the Year's Finest Crime and Mystery Stories.  This came as a great surprise to me.

However, in cleaning out a trunk I found a rolled up scroll which turned out to be a certificate of merit in recognition of winning Honorable Mention in the Regional Scholastic Writing Awards for New Jersey. Yes, for a short story.  I have no memory of this or the story I wrote when I was fourteen.

I guess I wrote short stories back then.

Coming up at the end of the week is my first try at Flash Fiction.  It’s okay, I didn’t know what FF was either when I heard about it.  It isn’t much, but I actually wrote something.

Another New Chapter

I’ve been walking around with a low-grade depression for weeks. Now something has lifted it for me.  I think I miss writing. Everything I’ve said before this is true.  I didn’t miss it and I was feeling fine about it, enjoying myself. 

I still hate the idea of a routine. But I realized that three days a week I get up to an alarm anyway because I go to an excercise class.  This means that three nights a week I go to bed at the same time I did when writing.  That is part of the routine I was sick of.  The other part is writing itself.  Or was.

This doesn’t mean I’m going to plunge into some big project or even a small one.  The fact is, I don’t know what it means.

There are adjustments I have to make.  I have to accept that I’m not in the thick of things anymore.  It’s not twenty some years ago when I was in on starting Sisters In Crime.  I don’t have loads of writer friends.  Many of them have stopped writing (or stopped getting published) and I don’t live in NYC.  There’s a whole new crop of wonderful writers out there and it’s their turn now…as it should be. Going on book tours is a thing of the past for me.  I’m not grieving for that.  I could still go to conventions but I don’t want to.  Again, that’s really for the new kids on the block.

This is a fresh chapter for me.  I’m not sure what will be in  it, but I guess I’ll find out.  I have no illusions about this.  And I hope no delusions. 

As always, I don’t know how I got from there to here.

Sleepless in Southold

Last night I had a helluva time falling asleep.  I think it was because I ate a chocolate cookie…very chocolate…too late.  But it was also because I was reading a short story by Alice Munro.

I started to think about stories again.  When I put out the light to try to force myself to sleep, I could only think of ss ideas.

I don’t know what it means.  I’m not saying I’m going to write any, but something is happening.  I’ve noticed my ears are perking up when other people are having conversations.

Writing a ss is not a huge commitment the way a novel is.  On the other hand I’ve always felt writing one was wasting time.  I have to do something about this idea.  This way of thinking.

That’s all.

Word Count

Jess has asked this question:

“In all your years of writing books, did you ever come up short in word count?”

Word count never came up until I signed with Ballantine about five years ago.  No one said anything about it.  I wrote until it was finished. Some books were longer than others.  I guess I went by feel.  Or to put it another way, the characters told me when it was time to get out of there.

Then when I got the Ballantine contract it said I had to turn in a book with 95,000 words.  I’d never seen anything like that in a contract before.  I’d spent my career paring down my writing.  My aim was to not have a wasted word. The joke was on me.

Years ago 65,000 words was the length of the average novel. Thomas Wolfe was an exception. I had no idea what word count I had in any novel I’d published.  But I felt that 95,000 words might be too many for a P.I. novel.  I got them to agree to 85,000, which I still thought might be too long, but I had to sign the contract with that word count. And my book came in around that length.

Still, I think dictating the amount of words a writer must punch out is destructive.  Sometimes a very long novel is self-indulgent.  I can think of quite a few.  On the other hand, very short novels might leave a reader feeling cheated. 

If you’re worried about getting a book up to a certain word count you’re bound to load it with filler. We’ve all read books like this and it’s a big bore.  Even if it lands on the bestseller list.  Boring.

A writer must do what he/she feels comfortable with.  Thinking about word counts might take the life out of the novel especially if you’re new at writing.  But times have changed and publishing houses have new rules. 

I think it’s sad that these rules and regulations have come into play.  Asking for a specific word count is as bad as asking a writer to write a book like Dan Brown or Mary Higgins Clark.  Or Virginia Wolfe.  But no one would ask you to write like her.

If getting published is more important to you than writing what you want to write then, by all means, do your word count.

I believe you have to write like you and you have to write until you come to the end.

Quote

"Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself."

Truman Capote

FRIDAYS: The Book You Have to Read.

From Patti Abbott

This is the first of what I perhaps overly optimistically hope will become Friday recommendations of books we might have forgotten over the years. Not just from me, but from everyone. I have asked several people to join with me today and recommend favorite books of theirs. Their blog sites are listed below. I also asked each of them to tag someone to recommend a book for next Friday.

I’m worried that we are letting some great books of the recent past slide out of print and out of our consciousness. Not the first-tier classics we can all name perhaps, but that group of books that comes next. If you read a book that someone recommends, please call our attention to that too. It would be nice to think a recommendation had an impact on someone somewhere.

Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen

If you’re looking for a fast read, this isn’t for you. Bowen's people are keenly aware and the reader must stay right there with her, because hidden among lengthy descriptions of sea air and drawing-room politics are terse asides.

This is a story of innocence betrayed set in the thirties. Portia, an orphan, comes to live in London with her half-brother, Thomas, and his wife, Anna.

It’s Portia’s innocence that causes so much trouble. She isn’t trained to deal with London society or with boys or with the isolation she endures. Anna and Thomas live dull, sterile lives.

Unfortunately for Portia, she falls in with Anna's friend Eddie, who seems to be made entirely of bad motives. Though the plot follows Portia's relationship with Eddie, the novel's real tension lies between Portia and Anna.

There is a stunning romantic betrayal and it sets in motion one of the most moving and desperate flights of the heart in modern literature.

For me this is the best of Bowen’s novels.

For the others go to Patti's Blog

Tomorrow

Even though this is a writing blog tomorrow will be different, especially since I’m not writing. Although I did change part of the page and a half I have from first person to third. Does that count?

Patti Abbott has come up with an idea that is quite interesting and I’m participating. So check back tomorrow.

 

Quote

"There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily."

Anthony Trollope

A Little Bit Pregnant?

I’ve written about a page and a half since I last posted here.  Yes, I have an idea.  And I find myself thinking about it especially as I read other people’s books.

Am I working my way toward a disciplined life again?  Am I going to find a new way to work?  Am I going to work at all?  Will I stick to this idea in some way?

I don’t know any of those answers.  I guess I’ll wait and see.  Or write and see. 

I do like the idea. That’s something.  Still, I don’t like the thought of a schedule.  Perhaps that will pass.  Now that I have an idea I like and think I can execute, everything might fall into place.  Yeah, right!

Teasing Me

On Monday, while I was reading, an idea came to me.  I made notes. I put them into my computer.  I felt excited.

On Tuesday I couldn’t care less.

On Wednsday I thought about it again.  It interested me. Maybe, I thought, maybe….

Today I couldn’t care less.

Quote

"The mere habit of writing, of constantly keeping at it, of never giving up, ultimately teaches you how to write."

Gabriel Fielding

Double Take

This morning I was flipping through Crimspree Magazine and came to an ad by Echelon Press.  I was stopped still when I saw the jacket of a novel by Robert Goldsborough.  Except for the cigarette in the woman’s mouth, it is the same jacket on the the large print edition of This Dame for Hire.  Clean Feet Design is credited for my book.  I wonder if Clean Feet knows they’ve been used at least twice.  I guess so. I hope they get paid for this.

I think somebody did an article, either on the Internet or in a magazine, about this practice.  I don’t know why but I keep thinking Sarah Weinman did it on Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind.  Has anybody else come across this with a book they’ve written?

I got an email from someone I’d told that I was no longer writing. This is what he wrote to me in reply: “If you are genuinely happy without the writing, more power to you.  I don't seem to be able to shake the bug and am hard at work on a book about my father.”

The annoying thing about this is that this man self-publishes and seems to only write about himself and his family.  No fiction.   He’s retired.  He doesn’t take in that my writing was my career, my job.  And clearly doesn’t get that my life’s work had nothing to do with a bug.  Yes, I’m grouchy.  I would write him a scathing letter except that he’s married to my favorite cousin.

Which leads me to something I was thinking about yesterday.  I used to have this saying on my bulletin board:  “I think there’s truth in what you say.”  The late Edward (Ned) Stewart told me to say that, or a version of it, when talking to my agent or an editor.  This was because of my prickly personality.  I know this comes as a shock to some of you, but, yes, I did have an abrupt style once upon a time.  But all that isn’t my point.

Remembering that sign led me to the other sign I had on my bulletin board.  “Advance the Story” in big black letters. They are important words.  And I wrote by them.  Most of the time.

No matter what kind of novel you’re writing the main thing is to advance the story.  That should be your goal.  If it is, it will keep you from going off on tangents, doing set pieces, throwing in a dream that bores the hell out of readers, ruminating on the weather, the scenery, the silverware or any other thing that has no business being there.  Unless it’s a sentence or two, but even then if it doesn’t move the story along, drop it.

I want to read a well-written book, but I’m not interested in pyrotechnic writing.

I just finished Richard Price’s Lush Life.  He doesn’t waste a word.  There’s one dream the book could do without.  It didn’t tell me anything and didn’t advance the story.  It was slightly irritating because it was a page and a half long. But if you’re Richard Price you can get away with it.  Almost.

I suggest that you take a piece of white letter-sized paper, turn it so it’s horizontal and in black magic marker write ADVANCE THE STORY and pin it up where you can see it as you write.

Or don’t.

Disappearing Act

My Medialist disappeared around March 6th or 7th. This is where I listed my recommended books. The website has no new entries after March 8th. I think it’s over. I wish I could find another site that would allow me to do what I did with Medialist. If anyone knows of one I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.

I’ve made my own recommendation list and I’m starting over because I don’t remember what was on there. It isn’t as pretty as the old one but I guess this list isn’t about pretty.

Obviously the Medialist came back since I wrote that.

And speaking of disappearing, I haven’t. I’m still around and still not feeling guilty about not writing. I’ve been following Laura Lippman's book tour and feeling happy for her and happy it’s not me. I could never do a tour like hers. The most I ever did was two weeks and I found it exhausting. I couldn’t even do two weeks now. Fortunately, no one is asking me to.

I had a short period in which I was unable to read. I found that awful. But now I can. I have a bunch of books lined up and you can see the one I finished on my jerry-rigged list.

When I read a wonderful novel like Lush Life I do feel a bit nostalgic for the act of writing. Not that I could write a book like Price’s. That’s not the point. But there’s a part of me that wants to be in that state…the state of creation. There’s no better state to be in, I think. Even when it’s not going well. Still, I’m not interested or ready to go back to my schedule.

Jess has suggested that I write about “plotting, characterization, making setting come alive--whatever.” I’m not a teacher but I might be able to do this if asked a specific question. I promise nothing.

Quote

"Mere literary talent is common; what is rare is endurance, the continuing desire to work hard at writing."

Donald Hall

Over and Over

I’ve decided it’s the routine that’s gotten to me.  It’s not unlike any job where you do the same thing over and over.

What I mean is this: going to bed by 10 P.M.; getting up to an alarm; having breakfast; getting to my desk by 9 A.M. and staying there until 12 or 1.

On the face of it it doesn’t look so terrible.  But I’ve been doing it for about 50 years with short breaks here and there.

Since I stopped writing ideas have come to me…not big ones, but little ones here and there.  I think to myself I should write that (a habit that doesn’t go away ever, I suspect) and then my mind goes immediately to the SCHEDULE.  And I know I can’t do it.

So change the schedule, you say.  Write in the afternoon.  Write at night. Use something other than a computer.  I can’t.  I’ve never used anything but a typewriter or a computer.  And I’ve always written in the morning. 

I’m a morning person.  I’d have no energy to write in the afternoon and night is for other things.  Like life.  Not to mention total lack of energy. Writing with pen and pad leaves me cold.  And I can’t write in cafes or libraries or anywhere but here.  I have to have total silence.  That’s one of the main reasons I left NYC.

I have no idea what to do about this.  Perhaps I’ll have to stay silent until the idea of a schedule doesn’t make me feel sick.

Mind Your Own Business

The quote below made me think once again about trying to write for a specific audience or an editor, maybe an agent.  I’ve written about this before, but I think it’s worth writing about again.

You can’t write what you can’t read.  I could never write a science fiction novel because I don’t care to read them.  The same goes for spy novels.  I’m sure you have your own genres you can’t read.  If so, don’t try to write one.  It won’t work.

Don’t try to second guess who will like what.  It’s impossible.  I’ve been reading some writer’s blogs where the author wonders if he/she should put a romance at the beginning or start with the weather.  Should the protagonist be sympathetic?  If she/he is angry will that put an editor off?

Does a woman have to have sex appeal?  Does a man have to be macho?

Will the agent like it better if I start with place or person?

How will readers feel about a woman killer?  Should I throw in a dog or cat?

Does it have to be resolved by the end?

Thinking this way would drive me crazy…and I’m sure it drives the people asking these questions, crazy.  It has to.  How creative can this be if you’re trying to tailor your work for X, Y or Z?

Years ago I tried writing a Judith Krantz-type novel.  Some of you probably don’t know who she is.  In the 70s and 80s she wrote sagas about glamorous women looking for love or losing love in various countries with gorgeous men.  I think almost all her books were made into TV specials.

Now, really, does that sound like a novel I could or would write?  But I wanted to make some money and it seemed so easy.  I did have to read one of the novels and it was agony.  My writing partner and I mapped out the characters lives, the men, the conflicts, etc. all on a big white board.  We alternated chapters and rewrote each other’s work.  We stayed friends but what we came up with in the end died on the page.  Still, we didn’t know that until our agent told us.

Then there was the spy novel and the romance novel and who remembers?  What I didn’t realize is that the people who write these novels are good at what they do.  They believe in their work.  One has to, to make it live. 

We were trying to write for a particular audience and there was no way we could do that and have it be any good.

But even if you’re writing in a genre you like (crime) you can’t decide to start the novel with action because you think an agent will like it better. And on and on.

You have to start it where you want to start it.  Where you think it should begin because that’s how you hear it in your head.  Characters have to sing to your tune and not to the tune of some imaginary editor.

Believe in your story, your setting, your protagonist.  If you do you might have a chance of writing a good book.

Quote

Write something to suit yourself and many people will like it;
write something to suit everybody and scarcely anyone will care for
it.

Jesse Stuart

For the Record

I appreciate everyone who’s left me comments and suggested ways and means to get going again.

First, I’m not depressed. Am I a depressive? Yes. But I take medication for that and I’ve been fine for quite a long time now.

Second, it’s not about me having to be happy when I write. I’m sorry if I gave that impression.

This is what it’s about. I don’t want to write anything. Not stories, letters, lists. I can post to this blog and I can write email but that’s it. I don’t want to write fiction or nonfiction. Not articles or poems. Nothing. And guess what? I find myself perfectly content not writing.

That may change. Who knows? But for now I’m delighted to read, do things on my computer, watch movies, meet someone for coffee or sit quietly and think.

I’ve been writing for over 50 years…yes, I’m a geezer…and I’m tired. I’ve been lucky to be published and sometimes paid handsomely. And during my career I’ve gotten respect, good and bad reviews and all the things that are a bonus to a writer.

Yes, that was in the early part of my career. As I’ve said before, publishing has changed. I’m glad I had the experiences I did before the change, like flowers from an editor on publication day.

I admit this change in the way things are done may have contributed to my present state. But that part I better get over.

So, I don’t want to write anything and I’m not depressed. But thanks for caring.

Could This Be It?

Someone sent me this:

“Writer's block is a phenomenon involving temporary loss of ability to begin or continue writing, usually due to lack of inspiration or creativity.”

It never occurred to me that I might be experiencing writer’s block. I’ve had it before but it came in an entirely different form, so I didn’t recognize it this time. Of course, it may not be that at all. It may be what I wrote in the last post.

However, I perked up at the word “temporary” so that tells me something.

Although I won’t be posting my daily writing trials, I will be posting my writing thoughts, just as the name of this blog says.

I Can't Do This

I know sometimes I hate what I’m writing but then it passes. Or perhaps I hate a certain writing day. This isn’t that. Once again I’ve started something that won’t fly.

I have the awful feeling that I can’t write anymore. Some part of me is fed up with the whole process. It’s not that I have to feel pleasure all the time I’m writing. That would be unrealistic. But I feel no pleasure at all. It feels like I’m simply hitting keys. Writing for the sake of writing because I’m supposed to be a writer.

No, I don’t want to change careers. I think I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to write. I know that I’ve always been a happier person when I’m writing, but not lately. And by lately I mean the last several years.

Is it because I know what’s going on in the publishing world? Because the chance of selling whatever I write is slim? I suppose these things could contribute to my not wanting to write, but I suspect there’s something else. I’m sick of it.

But I’m a writer. And real writers have to write. Yes, I’m a real writer. I’ve published many novels. I guess that makes me a real writer. Do other real writers stop cold? Get sick of it?

Many names of writers come to mind who haven’t published a book in years. Is this because they can’t get published? Or have they quit? And does it matter what other writers have done?

I can’t do it anymore.

A Different Kind of Hell

This is the hell of starting over and not getting far at all.  Hating the new start.

This is the hell of breaking all your own rules.  Peeking at the Internet.  Playing with programs.

This is the hell of not being any better on the second day.  Fixing the start but only for a short time until breaking the rules again.

This is the hell of knowing you have to go back to it tomorrow.

 

A Blip

It would be too boring to explain why, so I’ll say that something has come up that pushes my restart day to Tuesday.  Does anyone care but me?  Don’t answer that.

Almost There

I still hate Vista.  But the printer's working and I start working on Monday.

Hell

For me this is it. Setting up a new computer with a new (to me) operating system, and hating it. Also searching for programs on my external drive. Hell, I tell you, hell.

I've been doing this for a day and a half. I have a long long way to go.

My Monday writing start may not happen. I only have a day and a half left.

Update

The computer is arriving today. Now I can be sure to be ready for Monday.

Change of Plan

The new computer is arriving Friday. I just got an email telling me this. So I have to ask myself...what's the point of writing tomorrow? One day and then I'm into computer installing hell. And all the other stuff you have to do with a new computer.

But the good news is that if all goes well I'll be able to start again on Monday. I don't think it will take me more than Friday and the weekend to get it together enough to write. And be comfortable.

Yes, that's what I'm going to do. Not writing tomorrow .... making way for the Vista operating system. And paying bills. And figuring out how to write a note to Itunes and ask what to do about making my new computer work with it. Yeah, I know...this is a writing blog. Still, if anyone knows......

Best Laid Plans

Yesterday I sat down at my computer for my second day of writing. I turn on the hateful thing and what happens? Dread blue screen saying something about registry. I tried everything I know how to do and then rushed off to Best Buy. There I found out it was the motherboard and because my computer is a Shuttle they couldn’t fix it there. What it would cost to ship and fix was a lot. A lot. So I came home and bought a new computer on Amazon which won’t arrive until Monday.

As you can see I’m writing this. I’m on my laptop. And although I don’t like writing on it I’ll try tomorrow. But next week will be lost. At least a few days of it while I set up the new one. I won’t even go into the programs I’ve lost. The new one comes with Vista. Yuck. I’ll have to learn that, also. And how do I get Itunes to recognize me on the new computer? Nevermind, this is a writing blog.

But I do want to say that anyone who’s written me an email and I haven’t responded, please send it again. Lost all my mail, too.

The whole thing is very frustrating. Oh, I backed up my four pages on a flash drive so that’s okay. And I have an external drive that holds a lot of stuff. I haven’t lost any writing.

This sucks.

Did It

Four pages.  Don’t care if they’re good or bad.

And Once More

Tomorrow I’m going to start a new novel.  I’m very anxious about this because I’m approaching it differently from how I usually do.

I know the beginning and the end.  But I don’t know the middle. Normally I never know the end.  Only the beginning.  So I guess I never know the middle.  What makes me feel nervous about not knowing the middle is because I know the end.  I see that now.

If I don’t know the end then I don’t think about the middle.  There is no middle. I wish I didn’t know the end.

I have to approach this as though I don’t know the end and then see what happens. 

Usually I write a novel with a particular discipline.  Private Eye, Police Procedural, etc.  So I know how to get to the end.  That’s not true. I’ve written a number of novels that didn’t fall into any sub genre.  I’m making too much of this.

Here’s the thing:  I simply have to sit down here tomorrow and start.  What could be so hard about that?

Happy New Year 2008

It has to be better than last year. It does. I hope it is. A lot of bad personal things happened to me in 2007. But I’m still here.

As for writing, it was definitely a bad year. There wasn’t much. I had to put 200 pages, that I’d mostly written in 2006, into a drawer. I didn’t know how to work the con therefore the novel had to be put away. I have a feeling I’ll take it out one day.

I made at least one other false start. Maybe two. I complained a lot. I might have even whined, sin of sins.

On a positive note I had a short story published in the anthology A Hell of a Woman, and the story was picked up for another anthology of the best crime stories of the year.

But that year is over. And this year I’m going to start a new novel. Next Monday. I still don’t have a title. Not quite true. I have a working title but I’m not mad for it. Still, I’ll be able to make a title page and that’ll give me the feeling that I’m going somewhere.

I like the idea for this book. As usual I don’t know if I can pull it off. I wonder how many writers know for sure they can pull it off when they start? I always have a touch of fear that it won’t work. But because I’ve had such trouble in the past year I’m more nervous than at other starts.

So, next Monday I’ll sit down here and hopefully write a few pages. If I write three that day I’ll be happy.

I know it’s not going to be easy. And I know it has to be one day at a time. That’s all I know.

Disappointment

My sickness lingered then morphed into another strain which made it impossible for me to go to the signing of A Hell Of A Woman on Thursday night.

I was disappointed on several levels. The obvious one and the thought/feeling that this might be the last signing I’ll ever be a part of.

No, not because I think I’m going to die. But because of the publishing world as it is today.

I plan to start a novel on the 7th of January. If you know me at all, you know I could never start on Jan. 2nd because that’s the middle of the week! Anyway, should my idea blossom and should I actually write my 20th book, will anyone publish it?

Just for the hell of it let’s say some house does. Will there be a signing anywhere? It would be 2010 or 2011. I doubt that publishers will be sending out writers who aren’t stars, anymore than they are now.

Maybe there’ll be a special way to do a signing on the Kindle! But that won’t be the same anymore than reading a book on a Kindle is the same as having that book in your hands.

So, I was disappointed because it might have been my last chance to be at that sort of event, and to meet a bunch of writers I didn’t know and wanted to meet.

I hope some of you got there because I hear it was a lot of fun.

Quote

"I get a lot of letters from people. They say "I want to be a writer. What should I do?" I tell them to stop writing to me and to get on with it."

Ruth Rendell

Back Without Bells

Just so you know: I haven’t been too busy to blog because I’ve been writing or sulking.  I’ve been sick.  Nothing life threatening, but lousy enough to keep me from here.  I’m still not 100% (have I ever been?) but better.

I don’t have a lot to say.  Except, once again, I think I have an idea.  Right before I got sick I sent for some books I need for research.  Haven’t been able to read them yet. I’ve been reading bubble gum books.

So this idea.  I’ve had it for quite awhile but I’ve never been sure how to do it.  Now I think I do. Before I got sick my plan was to start writing today.  I’m going to put that off until after the 1st of the year.  I feel eager to start.

I’m hoping between now and then I’ll come up with a title as I prefer to start a book with one.  I’m also hoping this isn’t another false start.  If it is I will sulk.

I hope to have some things to say here before I start writing.  Mainly I want to be well enough to get to that book launch in NYC on Dec. 6th.  So cross your fingers for me.

Quote

"Write with nouns and verbs, not with adjectives and adverbs. The adjective hasn't been built that can pull a weak or inaccurate noun out of a tight place."

The Elements of Style

Well, I'll Be Damned!

The story I wrote for A Hell of A Woman has been chosen for the Anthology The Year’s Best Crime and Mystery edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg.  The book will be published next year by Pegasus.

I couldn’t be more surprised or delighted.  I must get the word NO out of my vocabulary or, at least, keep it off my tongue and at the back of my throat.

BTW there’s going to be a book launch for AHOAW on December 6th at Partners In Crime bookstore on Greenwich Avenue in New York City.  It’ll start at 7:00.  A lot of the writers will be there including me.

Please introduce yourself if you attend.

Quote

"Find a subject you care about and which in your heart you feel others should care about. It is the genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style."

 Kurt Vonnegut

A Hell Of A Woman

Remember how resistant I was? Why is it that NO is the first word that comes to mind when I’m asked to write something I’m not used to doing?

A Hell of A Woman is the title of the anthology. My story is Everybody Loves Somebody. Megan Abbott is the editor with an introduction by Val McDermid. The other writers are:

Lynne Barrett, Ken Bruen, Charlotte Carter, Christa Faust, Stona Fitch, Lisa Respers France, Alison Gaylin, Sara Gran, Allan Guthrie, Libby Fischer Hellman, Vicki Hendricks, Naomi Hirahara, Charlie Huston, Annette Meyers, Donna Moore, Eddie Muller, Vin Packer, Rebecca Pawel, Cornelia Read, S.J. Rozan, Zoe Sharp, Sarah Weinman and Daniel Woodrell.

It’s a hell of a group of stories and I’m proud to be included.

Fizzled

The sparks fizzled.

Paralyzed.

Sparking

I’m back from my mini-trip, which was great fun, and it did, among other things, spark ideas.  I hoped this would happen. 

A few weeks ago  Patti Abbott suggested I take a ride on a bus and listen to people’s conversations to pick up ideas for stories.  I told her there were no buses where I live.  I knew what she was getting at because I used to do that all the time when I lived in NYC.  But, alas, it was hard to do that here.

My mini-trip involved both bus and boat and I was able to hear some delicious conversations.  And, of course, they gave me ideas.

I guess I should go away more.

On her blog today Patti raises the question of should you or shouldn’t you describe a setting in your novel?  It’s a good question.  In the Nineties I wrote a series that took place in NYC and almost every critic said that the city was as much a character as my people.

I did this in little ways.  And never more than using a sentence or three.  I see nothing wrong with getting your setting into the reader’s mind as long as you don’t go into great long descriptions.

I’ve noticed in some crime novels writers do things like this: ‘We turned at 4th Street, made a left on Kenneth and another left onto Clinton Avenue.  A few streets down we made a right at Van Ness.’

I find that strange.  What does it tell us? Nothing. If it’s a big city like NYC or San Francisco and the streets are real it might inform people who know that city where the action takes place.  But I don’t know what it does for those who don’t know those places.  And if it’s an invented city or town, it’s really meaningless.

But to describe your setting is important.  And it doesn’t have to happen through dialogue. A cleverly placed description of one or two sentences will do it and won’t slow down the story.

 

Mixing It Up

I’m no longer depressed.  In fact, I feel quite hopeful.  I have a few ideas floating around in my head.  Nothing concrete yet. 

I’m going away to a place this Thursday and Friday where I’m bound to get some ideas.  At least I’m getting out of here.

The fat lady hasn’t sung … yet.

What A Difference A Few Days Make

Have no ideas.

Depressed.

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I'm So Short!

Actually, I am.  But that’s not what I mean.  I spent some of last week rewriting a short story that I’d written a few years ago.  And then I entered it in a contest.  I think I might be losing my mind.

Wasn’t it about a year ago that I said I didn’t like them and didn’t want to read or write them?  I think I have Patti Abbott to thank or kill for this.  Also Megan Abbott who asked me to write a story for A Hell of A Woman.

What I’m getting at here is that suddenly all I want to write are short stories.  I see the beauty of it now.  Not only in the form but in the time one has to devote to it.  And the almost instant gratification which I’m a great believer in.

Maybe this is what I’m meant to do right now.  Don’t care.  I’m doing it.

Quote

"If you're going to write, don't pretend to write down. It's going to be the best you can do, and it's the fact that it's the best you can do that kills you."

Dorothy Parker

Here I Don't Go Again

Yes, I'm giving up writing the book I started last week. I'm grateful that I didn't write more than 8 pages.

All along I've been questioning whether I could sustain reader interest in this one. I realized that I couldn't. If it's anything it's a short story. Maybe.

I can't make this work as a novel and I don't think I want to. Yes, I'm a little depressed because I don't have another idea. It's hard to adjust to not having as fertile an imagination as I once had.

I think I so wanted to start the "school year" with a new book that I pushed myself into writing something that really wasn't for me.

I'm going back to reading and thinking and hoping something will hit me that I can't wait to write. The truth is that even though I may complain while writing a book, I'm the happiest when I'm doing so.

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Three Day Week

I only worked three days this week and didn't get a lot done. Tomorrow I'm going to the movies. Those of you who've been reading my blog for awhile know that this is what I do during the first draft. I go to movies on Fridays. Well, maybe not through the whole first draft but a lot of it.

I look forward to having three days off. I need to think more about this novel before I go on and I'll do that over the weekend. So that's not having time off, is it?

At least I've made a start even though I'm not totally comfortable with the idea I've chosen.

Haven't I been here before?

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Quote

"If you're going to write, don't pretend to write down. It's going to be the best you can do, and it's the fact that it's the best you can do that kills you."

Dorothy Parker

What A Difference A Day Makes

I thought about my protagonist a lot yesterday and last night.  Couldn’t fall asleep. Sounds good, but it wasn’t because I’m very tired today.

But aside from that I can’t stop myself from wondering why anyone would stay with this…keep reading about this character.  Wondering if I can sustain this voice.  Sustain interest.

So it didn’t go as well today.

Over A Thousand Words

Yes.  Four pages and a half.  It was hard to start and by the 2nd page I thought, I can’t do this.  By the end of the 2nd page, and some caffeine, I let myself go with it and it felt good.  Not that what I wrote is necessarily good.  I don’t know about that yet.

Don’t like writing without a title. 

For Real

I’m extremely anxious about this coming Monday.  I feel it’s actually going to happen this time.  Or at least I’m going to try to make it happen.  By that I mean I’m going to sit down here and bring up Word and hit the keys.

Ohmigod!

Up and Almost Running

No, I didn’t start writing on the 10th.  I couldn’t.  I was still knocked out from the procedure I had on Friday. Actually, the anathesia.  It was dumb of me not to realize that this would be so.  Sometimes I amaze myself that I live in such denial.

Today is the first day I feel well enough to be doing this.  Or much of anything other than reading and sleeping.

So my new target is Monday September 17th.  I honestly felt sad about not being well enough to start on the 10th. 

Now that’s what I call progress.

Very Good Essay

Jim Huang has written a wonderful essay about book publishing.  I think it’s essential reading.

http://mysterycompany.typepad.com/

Thanks to Jess for this heads up.

 

The Last Excuse (I hope)

About a month ago I told myself that after Labor Day I’d try to start a new novel.  But that’s not going to happen.

A week from today I have to have minor surgery.  I know that leaves me Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, but I can’t concentrate because I’m nervous about the surgery.  Maybe others wouldn’t be, but I am and that’s that.

So I’ll start on September 10th.  How do I feel about that?  Anxious.

I also hate to give up all the reading time I’ve had these last months and months.  Despise having to get on a schedule.  I know I posted awhile back that I wouldn’t have to be on one, but I know me.  I need that structure.

I’m not going to be able to take my laptop down to the new Starbucks and sip coffee and write.  That’s a fantasy.  I’m going to be right here, staring at a blank page in Word on my nice flat Xerox screen.  During my writing hours I’m not going to peek at email or log on to Sarah Weinman's Blog to see what I should read next.  And I can’t check Ed Gorman's Blog for interesting reflections or pop over to A Writer's Life to see if Lee Goldberg is writing about me again.  I kid my Lee. 

Nope can’t do any of that stuff.  I have to sit here from nine to noon, or a little later, and tap out what I can.  Yes, I have an idea.  I still don’t know if it’s viable, but I have give it a try.

If it ends up like my last attempt, 200 pages or so and not being able to finish, I don’t know what I’ll do.  I won’t swear that I’ll hang up my computer, but I might.

The lure of writing that 20th novel is still with me.  I’m going to give it my best shot.

Eye of the Beholder

Lee Goldberg has posted his response to my blog of the last few months.  He’s upset that my posts have been down.  He writes: “I find her posts disturbing and sad”.

I tried to tell him that my blog is about the ups and downs of this writer’s life.  I’m not going to write positive posts when there’s nothing positive to say at the moment.

Lee also writes, “It's unpleasant to see her in such a self-defeating, bitter retreat.”  Unpleasant?  Where does it say that I have to be pleasant? Self-defeating?  I don’t see it that way.  Should I get some positive mantra?  Should I lie on this blog and write only good thoughts?  Bitter?  Well, perhaps some are bitter.  The ones about publishing probably are.  On the other hand I don’t see them that way.  I see them as telling it like it is.

I state at the top of my blog that the blog is about writing and not writing, good and bad days.  It’s true that my bad days have lasted for quite a long time now, but I think that’s important for other writers to read.  To see that they’re not alone.  Because if Lee thinks I’m the only writer who feels this way he’s living in a dream world.

He goes on to write, “And I'm not so sure it's healthy for her career to be posting about it on her blog...then again, that's probably exactly why she's doing it.”

Healthy for my career? At this stage of my life I don’t think this way.  Lee is a completely different kind of writer than I am and probably it wouldn’t be good for his career to post some of the feelings I have, if he had them. Lee is in the middle of his career, and it doesn’t have a lot to do with the publishing world that I deal with.  This is not to put Lee down but merely to explain that our careers live in two different worlds.

“then again that’s probably why she’s doing it”?  What does that mean?  I’m writing these posts to make my career healthy?  I don’t get that.

I think Lee entirely misses the humor in these posts.  Many people don’t.  That’s not to say that the humor mitigates what I feel.  I recognize the humor in my thoughts as well as the plain ordinary truth of what I’m feeling.

In his response to my comment he writes, “Read your posts. They are bleak and depressing.”  So what?  I don’t see them that way, but even if that’s true, so what?  Does Lee want me to put on a happy face?

He writes that even when the posts aren’t about myself I express, “dark views about the state of publishing.”  Don’t we published writers know that the state of publishing is dreadful?  Why shouldn’t I write about that?  That might be helpful to a new writer who is getting rejection after rejection.

Lee writes, “Surely there are some "ups" in your writing life (or in your thoughts)

Well, no, Lee.  If there were, I’d post about these ups as I have in the past. And if any come along (as I hope they will) I’ll post them immediately.

To be fair to Lee he says some very nice things about me as a writer.  And I thank him for that.

Lee, you’ll be the first to know when I start a new novel.  And I hope that’s soon.

Baker's Blog

What phases are involved in the creation of a text?  This is the question John Baker asked a number of writers to answer.

He’s been posting them since July. There are a lot of interesting answers, descriptions of the way a writer works.   Many have things in common, some are different, all are worth reading.

Well, sure … I’m there, too.

Why?

Why am thinking about writing this book that I’ve had in the back of my mind for a few months?  What do I know about the things I’d have to include?  Who would be interested in this? 

I’ve said to myself and maybe here that I would probably start after Labor Day.  That’s 21 days away.  On Labor Day I’d be facing writing the next day. When I think of that it makes me sick.

If I start in September and don’t have interuptions (this has never happened) it’ll take me four to six months to complete a first draft.  And another one or two to rewrite.

And then what?  Give it to my agent?  She’ll hate it.  So maybe I’ll have to find another agent.  Not easy.  Or maybe my agent will decide to try and sell it.

Nobody will buy it.  Or even if somebody does it will fall through the cracks and three people will read it.

Why bother?

I’m going back to bed.

Another Surprise

I now hate the title.

Surprise For Me

The title for the book I might write just came to me.