Last day to win!

Just a quickie reminder, folks: today’s the last day to get entries in for our Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Contest, hosted by yours truly and the effervescent Carolina Valdez Miller. The prizes are awesome—go see what they are here. The rules are also awesome (um…), so go see them here.

We’re only asking for 1,000 words or less, people. We’d even take a spectacular 50-word story, if you’re so inclined. So if you’re up for a challenge, and want some cool swag and eternal bragging rights, work sumpin’ up and send it on over to CarolSimonContest (at) Gmail.com, eh? You can do eet!

Only snow, and yet…

It’s only snow. Plain water—hydrogen and oxygen covalently bonded—chilled to solid form. It’s the dry, granular kind that happens in very cold weather, that might be hail if it were more motivated, tiny flakes that dance against the dark backgrounds of road and tree, but disappear against the grey-white sky. I’ve seen this before. It’s only snow.

And yet, today it’s more. Today I drive the highway, going somewhere, to do something, but for a while destination and responsibility cease to exist in the suspensive moment in which snow becomes something else.

It lies light on the asphalt, kissing not clinging, and the wind from the cars’ passage whips it into white smoke. It swirls like sublimation from dry ice, pale cracks crazing the blacktop. It hurls itself up in the wake of turning tires as though it longs to return to the sky, curling, coruscating.

I can’t help but stare in wonder. This is a moment—this is the moment, the only one that matters. Soon enough I will be somewhere, doing something, the snow perhaps lying gentler on the ground. But right now, the snow boils from the black road, wind-whipped and evanescent, and I fix the picture in my mind, try to wrap it with words that are sure to be inadequate.

It’s only snow, and yet it is more. Today it is a reminder that I am alive, and can see, and can be smitten by something that symbolizes beauty in impermanence; something for which the word “beauty” seems inadequate, for which words will never do, and that may, if I think on it too long, choke my chest with feeling.

Experiment in Voice, Pt. II – The Reveal

So J. Koyanagi and I participated in an experiment yesterday to compare and contrast our fiction-writing voices. I was really looking forward to what the lovely lady was going to do with the prompt we agreed upon, and was not disappointed in the least. But before I go ahead and satisfy your curiosity as to which was whose, loyal readers (or semi-loyal, or occasionally-interested, or diffident… oh, never mind), let’s take a moment to examine the two vignettes with an eye to style and voice, shall we?

In the first piece, the mood is rather bleak. We have the selection of natural elements—mountains, wind, snow—contrasted against and partially reinforcing the emotional state of the protagonist. It’s a very sensual way of writing: note the “negative space” and “afterimage,” as sight descriptors; “weighed heavily” and “heat” as touch descriptors. The theme of change runs clearly throughout, from the snow melting into pools in the foyer, to the alchemy of the quicksilver pen.

And while we’re on the quicksilver pen, let’s look at the use of language. Metaphor looms large, doesn’t it? The pen is a direct metaphor, as is the “alchemist” reference. There are implicit metaphors, too, in the single-word sentences—parallels implied between sex and the physical/metaphysical laws of the universe. Note also the hyphenated adjective (lust-addled). Really, is there a better way to concisely capture the abandon of a moment like that? God bless the hypen, is all I’m saying; it’s possibilities are endless. We also have alliteration, which is subtle, but present throughout: “white wind,” “stone” against “soft” (an alliterative contrast), etc. Finally, we have that telling phrase, “discarded soles”—since “soles” rhymes with “souls,” we can see tragedy foreboded even in the flashback to happier times.

The second piece has a more hopeful tone. Maybe it’s the addition of a dog—really, how depressed can you get when a dog’s running through the snow ahead of you? But once again, we have an element of the sensual in the prose: “sunset-glow” on the mountains (here’s the hyphen again, this time in a compound noun, but no less effective for it) and a “fading, flaming sky” for sight; “chilled fingers,” lungs filling with “crisping air,” a “fingered” paper for touch.

In terms of metaphor, there are none explicitly stated, but the implied parallels are pretty bald, and expressed through action. When Mara pulls her hair from the ponytail, it’s a release, of sorts, the “freshening breeze” signifying change. Then there’s the “pressing her own path into the white perfection,” which is clearly a metaphor for the new start she’s contemplating. The alliteration is much more pronounced here, too: in the first sentence alone, we have “carving cold,” “packed powder,” “stopped… stare… mistress… slow.”

The last thing to note is that not once is divorce mentioned. We understand that the papers in Mara’s pocket are divorce papers, but that they are is not explicitly stated. The combination of the man’s absence and the presence of papers points the reader toward the intended implication.

* * * * *

So which was whose? Well, y’all pretty much nailed it. Jacqueline’s was the first, mine was the second. Similar, yet distinct, no?

Why do we write similarly? I can’t say, honestly. From what I can tell, Ms. K. willingly enters painful spaces in her work—she doesn’t shun bleak and difficult emotion. She also seems to write physically, which is to say that sensation and action are both important to her. She likes alliteration, too (though she doesn’t appear to indulge in it as much as I do—I might overindulge, but there you go).

What may distinguish her voice from mine is the details that present themselves to her mind. While I might focus on clothing jumbled and damp on a snow-tracked floor, she sees slow puddling beneath discarded shoes. Why? Who knows? We’re just wired differently. It’s also possible, as Livia implied, that we just write different kinds of sentences. Are mine more direct? Sometimes, perhaps, though my story had a lot more long sentences than usual (when I write from a female POV I produce longer sentences—don’t ask why, ‘cause I don’t know). The other thing is that I like to dance around the facts, whereas she seems more willing to state them. I never mentioned divorce, but she did. Neither way is better, really—it’s simply a storytelling preference.

I found this a learning experience, though. I still think J.K.’s voice has similarities to mine, but we’re also quite distinct. This is as it should be. I don’t want to write like she does, and she—I’m quite sure—doesn’t want to write like I do. Neither of us wants to write like Neil Gaiman or Ernest Hemingway or Tad Williams, no matter how much we admire those authors’ prose. We want to write like ourselves, in all our strange and wonderful individuality.

Ultimately, there may be people in the world like you, but there’s only one you. Embrace that, write out of that, and you’ll make your mark.

An Experiment in Voice, Part I

It’s elusive, isn’t it? We’re told, as writers, to develop our “voice,” what’s uniquely ours in the way we tell our tales. But for all the craft books I’ve read, I’ve found no clear consensus on what voice really is. I mean, I know what I think it is—the sum total of our tendencies, attitudes and ways of expressing ourselves as individuals, in writing—but that’s so nebulous as to be almost useless. Voice seems to be one of those things that we can apprehend, recognize when we see it, but can’t really explain.

I find it odd, though, that I’ve run across another writer whose voice—however one defines that—is eerily similar to mine. I just get this feeling when I read Ms. Koyanagi’s blog that her mind is wired similarly, that she sees the world in much the same way I do, that we notice the same little details.

So I decided to put our respective voices to the test, to see what might shake out. We agreed to each write a very short piece set in the same location, with the same essential character and situation, in order to compare and contrast our styles. I won’t tell you which of the following vignettes is whose today—I’ll save that till tomorrow. But I will open the floor to guesses and analyses in the comments section.

Now, without further ado, I give you our voice-comparison vignettes!

* * * * *

Hers were the only footprints winding over the otherwise pristine winter vista as she stamped her humanity onto naked land. She leaned into white winds and pressed on toward the mountains, resenting them for being stone, for being inviolable, when she was so soft and raw.

When she looked over her shoulder, her eyes ignored the hills and leafless trees. She saw only the negative space where his tracks should have been. How much does it take for the afterimage of marriage to fade? Nine months? Nine years? Obviously not nine letters scrawled on divorce papers.

Snow-laced wind cut across her face. She pulled her scarf tight around her mouth and shoved her wool-covered hands back into her pockets. Even walking weighed heavily. Simple things loom large when two pairs of hands dwindle to one. Gone were the hands that covered her pink, frozen cheeks and soothed her chattering jaw. His heat became hers; their skin had luxuriated in the laws of the universe. Thermodynamics. Gravity. God.

The last time she had come here, they stumbled into their home, boots wet, a tangle of limbs and fingers and hair, too lust-addled to care about shoe prints or unopened bills. Melted snow pooled around their discarded soles.

Now he was nine months gone, warming someone else’s skin in a stale apartment, and that was that. She wondered if he wore his shoes inside.

Her pen was quicksilver. She was an alchemist; with a few strokes of her wild, illegible script, she transmuted vows into solitude. Only her own snow prints melted in the foyer, and it would have to be enough.

* * * * *

The chill wind breezed Mara’s face as Skye bounded through the drifts up ahead, tail carving cold arcs in the loose-packed powder whenever she stopped to stare back and wonder why her mistress was so slow today. Sunset-glow limned the shoulders of the Rockies, visible as a jagged swath against the darkening sky at the valley’s end. Mara scuffed chilled fingers against the folded papers in her pocket and started walking again, high-stepping through the snow in the wake of Skye’s serpentine track.

Nine months, she thought. Nine months since she’d last walked this path in the snow. But this time there was no trail for her to follow, no deep and vivid footprints in which to place her boot, no one to forge ahead through the clinging, cold cover to stand at the trailhead and smile at her labored progress. She glanced up toward the top of the slight rise, where he used to wait for her, and saw nothing but the fading, flaming sky behind the mountains and her dog, all lolling tongue and panting pleasure, grinning toothily at her from the accustomed spot.

She fingered the paper again, filled her lungs with the crisping air. It was different, somehow, seeing it in black and white—made more real, tangible, in a way that months of absence had not. She’d sign. Of course she’d sign. It needed to be this way. Mara took her hand from her pocket and pulled her hair loose from its ponytail, letting it blow back over her shoulder in the freshening breeze from the west. A small smile quirked her lips as she stepped forward into virgin snow, pressing her own path into the white perfection.

Raising the stakes, and then some...

The other night I was at my friend Bryan’s house for an informal meeting of my Philly writers’ group. We weren’t critiquing, just getting together for some relaxation and social time, which is important every now and then. I noticed right after I walked into the living room that a new entertainment item had been installed against the wall—a freakin’ 55-inch LED flat-screen TV! Holy crap! This set was epic! I have never in my life seen such an awesome picture in a home entertainment setup. Just… damn!

So of course Laurel and I had to experience the grandeur of the thing, and Bryan popped in the Blu-ray disc of the new Star Trek movie. Again, holy crap! The picture was phenomenal, the sound was great (though the surround setup isn’t done yet), and the movie, well… it’s awesome. But the strange thing is, while I was being blown away by the technology and the killer beginning to that flick, I couldn’t help but keep one part of my brain going, analyzing, examining. What was I analyzing? The writing, of course. Hey, it’s what I do nowadays, okay?

I’m going to drop a few spoilers here, so if you haven’t seen the movie and want to be surprised by it, you might want to—in the immortal words of Brother Maynard—skip a bit, brother. Anyway, at the beginning of the film, a Federation starship encounters a monstrosity of a warship, which attacks them. After an unexpected ceasefire, the captain is summoned to the other ship, leaving the young 2nd-in-command in charge. You can guess what happens next: captain’s killed, Federation starship is on the brink of destruction, and must be evacuated.

Okay, the stakes are fairly high here, but frankly, I haven’t been given any reason to care about the Federation folk, so the destruction of the ship, while visually spectacular, would at this point be emotionally hollow. But wait, baby. Here goes the twist, and a fantastic lesson in raising the stakes as high as they can possibly go and then pushing even beyond that point!

Amid the general panic of the evacuation, we see a woman in labor being wheeled out of a medical bay. Bam. Twist #1. Then we hear the young now-captain call her escort, telling them to get his wife to the evac. shuttles. Bam! Twist #2. Now we’re emotionally involved with the captain’s story. But we’re not done. The blasts from the hostile warship are messing up the Federation craft something fierce. Systems start to deteriorate, and the only way the young cap’n can hold the ship together is by engaging the manual override, which means that in order to save the lives of hundreds of crew, and that of his unborn child, he has to stay in the control room. He orders the shuttle with his wife to take off without him. BAM! That last one hits like a sledgehammer to the gut, doesn’t it?

So now we get the birth montage layered with the destruction of the ship, and the last moments of the young man in the captain’s chair. Da-amn! And, to push things just that tiny bit farther, the captain sets his ship moving on a collision course with the much larger warship, hurling himself in a last act of defiance against his enemy and going out in a blaze of light. But not before one last conversation with his wife in which he gets to name his infant son: James Tiberius Kirk.

Whoa.

So what’s the lesson for us as writers in that? It should be pretty obvious at this point: to create a compelling story, to really grab the reader by the throat and yank them in, make them care about your characters, then put the characters through hell. Create a vulnerability, an endearing one, a compelling one, then exploit it mercilessly. Keep asking how things could possibly get worse for your character, then make them so. Drag them through the mud, trample on their hearts, pile the sufferings of Job on them and watch them writhe in agony. But then, when things are as dark as you can conceivably, believably make them, strike the steel core of your character. Give them something to live for, something to sacrifice for. Give them dignity in extremis, and make their path back to the light a triumph of will and perseverance.

By making things worse, you are making them better. Your character may only win a Pyrrhic victory, but still, it will be a victory. If you do your job as a writer, the journey will transform more than just your character—it’ll transform the reader. And if you’re fortunate enough, if you’ve dug deep enough, written enough of your soul into your work, it may just transform you too.


* * * * *

P.S. There's still a few days left to enter our Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Contest, folks! Get those entries in so we can give away some cool prizes, okay? Okay. Good. Glad we settled that.

What moves me.

It wasn’t so long ago that I had one of those nights where I was caught by surprise by an album and ended up in a rare, aesthetically-sensitized state in which I had no choice but to write in order to deal with the torrent of emotion that boiled up in my chest. It’s happening again tonight.

It’s music, you know. Music does it to me. If there’s a God, for me, the evidence for His existence is music. What else is it for? Am I to believe evolutionary psychologists who tell me it’s a socializing force? Something to bring us together in altruistic, species-delineated bonds? Am I to credit the evolutionary biologist who tells me it’s a simple side-effect of the evolved mammalian brain? Hell, I don’t know—I have no answers. I only know how music makes me feel, and it makes me feel transcendent. Is that God?

It doesn’t even have to be sophisticated music. I tell you true, I’ve been moved to tears by Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, many times. I’ve exulted in Stokowski’s orchestral transcription of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor—in fact I dare you… no, I double-dog-dare you to turn this one up full blast in your car and not feel something magnificent. (Ignore the crappy montage. Just listen to the music, eh?)

And yet I can be caught by a poignant lyric and an effective guitar riff just the same as anyone else. Frightened Rabbit’s Head Rolls Off punched me in the face and dragged me unwilling into three days’ worth of beautiful sensation. Most recently, Delain’s April Rain fired some elemental human reaction in my chest by challenging me to create my own fate, for good or ill. And Lacuna Coil’s Spellbound has me… spellbound.

God, what is it about music that explodes in my soul? I can get the same charge from Eminem’s Lose Yourself as I do from Saint-Saens’  Piano Concerto No. 2. Is it that when we human beings put our whole selves into art, it creates a resonance beyond our fragile shells? Certainly we can corrupt it with commercial motivations, but at its best? It transports.

As artists, we constantly reach beyond ourselves, don’t we? Perhaps it’d be more true to say we reach within ourselves, for that’s where it all comes from. Art is like digging into the recesses of our souls and dragging something to light that kicks and screams and fights us to its last breath, but that is true and necessary and urgent. Why did Beethoven keep composing the 9th Symphony after he knew he would never hear it performed? Why did Schubert, while dying a painful death, compose some of the most magnificent piano sonatas ever to grace the repertoire? Why did Kurt Cobain scream his defiance to an entire generation and find success beyond his wildest dreams, only to flame and fade into history? I can’t explain it. I only know how it makes me feel.

Music. Art. Literature. I want it all. I want to feel. I want to feel what the giants of the past felt when they penned their masterpieces, whether or not they’d live to see them performed. I want to feel the wild abandon in a perfect, metal chord change. I want to let the music move me, flow through me, twist me and take me places I didn’t expect to go. I want feeling. I want to drain every moment of passion I can from life—it’s too short to do otherwise.

Bring the music. Bring the feeling. By God, I will turn myself inside out to make my words move people the same way I’m moved by music. Is there any higher aspiration? Am I equal to that task? I can only hope. I can only hope, and put my soul on paper, one word at a time. If I’m fortunate, very fortunate, it’ll be enough.

Lessons from Frankenstein…

Amazingly enough, until recently, I’d never read any of the iconic gothic horror novels. I felt incomplete somehow. I decided to remedy this at Christmas time, and asked for a bunch of the classics. My indulgent wife came through in spades, and got me Frankenstein, Dracula, and the short story collection that includes Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (Am I missing any? Let me know if I am, ‘cause I’m a bit of an obsessive completist.)

So last night I finished Frankenstein, and I have to say, I was pretty severely underwhelmed. It’s not because of the archaic prose style—I have a high tolerance for that, and really enjoy it when it’s done well (e.g., Anthony Trollope, Dickens, etc.). It’s rather that it’s flawed as a novel, in terms of its approach to storytelling. I’ll explain.

I should be clear that it’s not all bad. Shelley’s prose style, while archaic by today’s standards, is very solid and readable. It’s hard, when reading books written in that era, to ignore the scholarship and erudition that underlies the writing. Allusions to classic literature abound—Plutarch’s Lives, Paradise Lost, quotes from the Romantic poets (with whom, naturally, the author was very familiar, being married to P.B. Shelley and all). It makes our modern prose styles seem a bit thin, frankly, though modern writing makes up in clarity for what it lacks in depth.

Also, in the opening of the novel, every chapter ends with a cliff-hanger of sorts—always an effective device. For example, after the epistolary preface, Chapter 1 of Frankstein’s narrative ends with the following sentence:

No word, no expression, could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

It’s a telling line, because we know now that something tragic is going to happen to Elizabeth, Victor’s love. And there are many examples like this in the opening chapters, almost all foreboding, pointing to future tragedy.

But when it comes to storytelling, the novel begins to fall apart. Even allowing for the elliptical 19th-century prose, it rambles. When Frankenstein travels anywhere, great care is taken to describe the journey, turning the narrative into more of a travelogue. There are also long swaths of time where Victor is senseless with grief or exhaustion, and after a while, I found myself wanting to tell him to bloody well man up and stop being such a pansy. I mean, really, how often can you have nervous breakdowns in the course of one novel and have them remain compelling?

Worse than this is the fumbling of major moments in the story. Several times, events or occurrences that are epic turning points are glossed over in the space of a sentence or two, leaving me scratching my head at the brevity of the treatment. For example, Victor’s discovery of how to animate non-living matter is presented thus:

After days and nights of incredible labor and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.

And that’s it. Really, Mary? We just have to swallow that statement, take at face value that a man achieved godlike power over life and death? Sorry, hon. I’m not buying that without a little more work on your part.

This happens more than once in the novel, too. It got so that about the third time I ran across this kind of thing, I put the book down and rolled my eyes. Just so you know, writer-friends, it’s not a good thing when I have to do that, okay?

There’re a few other things that bugged me, but I’m running long here, so I’ll cut to the chase. I suppose what’s strange to me is that this is a seminal work of literature, and yet it’s deeply flawed. The idea, I admit, is arresting, and the themes running through the novel were particularly apropos for an England in the throes of an industrial revolution. However, to a modern eye, the novel is mishandled in several frustrating ways.

Despite this, I’d recommend reading it. As writers, we can learn from what doesn’t work much more easily than from what does. If Shelley’s narrative meanders, it can remind us to maintain forward momentum in our work. If she glosses over important scenes, it can reinforce our own need to focus on the scenes that matter, and make them pop. If the monster appears ludicrously invincible, it compels us to craft our antagonists with flaws and weaknesses that make their actions believable, if reprehensible.

So read it. Expand your mind, as Frankenstein’s daemon did, by vicariously experiencing the power of Milton and Plutarch. Revel in the romantic milieu, the exploration of man’s hubris against the march of technology and progress. But read, always, with your eyes and mind open to our craft. A monumental idea, even poorly executed, can still resonate across two centuries and spawn countless modern explorations. There’s hope there, I think, and a challenge. I’m up for it. Are you?

Create your own fate.

I might be dating myself here, but some of you might remember a time in junior high or high school, when CDs were too expensive to buy and bootleg copies on audiotape were the only way we could listen to our favorite songs. Back then, when a song caught my interest, I’d play it over and over again, rewinding the tape until I got tired of that and just made a tape with multiple copies of the same song. This wasn’t so bad when it was, say, Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9 or Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Less pleasing were my gangsta rap and metal obsessions (Straight Outta Compton, anyone? Anyone? Just me?).

Nowadays things are easier. I just load my songs of choice onto the iPod nano, playlist ‘em, and do the repeat-shuffle dance. I love technology sometimes.

I get obsessed because sometimes songs just get me with the combination of lyrics and music. Back in the day it might have been something that fed my teenage impulse to rebel. Today? I’m not such a rebel, but I’m still moved regularly by new music. Frightened Rabbit’s Midnight Organ Fight album put me in one of those too-rare, aesthetically-sensitized moods that happens just a few times a year. This is what happened.

I mention this because right now I’m a bit obessed with Delain’s April Rain. Granted, I’ve been on a symphonic-metal-with-female-lead-singer kick recently (thanks, Mercedes, for kicking that one off for me), but April Rain’s my most recent iTunes purchase and playlist addition.



Now, aside from totally fraggin’ rocking (and, um, Charlotte Wessels) what really resonates with me about this song is the chorus.

Fortune smiles on you.
You’re not watching. Dig that hole deeper.
Fortune smiles on you.
You’re not watching. Create your own fate.

Doesn’t creating your own fate light something in you? Don’t we all want to be masters of our own destiny? But it’s not as though we even know what that looks like. It’s one of those nebulous sparks that fires the human soul, something Platonic, perhaps, archetypal aspiration. Because what do we create, sometimes, left to our own devices? Exquisite beauty, transporting passion, technological triumphs, yes. Also horrifying cruelty, degradation, despair. We’re human. It’s what we do.

Maybe we don’t watch when fortune smiles on us. Maybe we’re too busy digging ourselves deeper, cocooning ourselves in our secure little lives. Creating our own fates, in all their terrifying and stultifying mundanity. Then an earthquake hits. Literal? Metaphorical?

So to some, it’s just a song—maybe one they don’t like, can’t be bothered with. That’s fine. You don’t have to like it. I do. It resonates. When something fires in my chest, I don’t give a damn if it’s Rachmaninov’s Prelude in G Minor or Rage Against the Machine’s Wake Up: if it makes me feel, I want it.

Can I create my own fate? Who knows? But every now and then something can remind me to stop digging and look around. You can’t see fortune smiling at you if you don’t open your eyes.

I need a new shelf…

I spent some time today posting all my blog awards in my sidebar. It took a while. Now, please note, I’m not bragging. I’m half-convinced that people give me these things so as to watch me make a fool of myself with acceptance blogs.  Be that as it may, though, I have a couple more to say thank you for. So without further ado…

A great, big “Thanks!” To Michele at Southern City Mysteries for the Honest Scrap award. She said, in passing it on to me, “Let’s face it, who doesn’t want to know more about Simon?” Um… most people? Good lady, haven’t you noticed that my “10 Facts” posts get progressively sillier as they go along? *sigh* Oh, well. I’ll try and keep it short and (mostly) honest. Here goes the stream of consciousness….

1. People seem to like my comments on their blogs.
2. I think that’s because I often make an idiot of myself.
3. That’s because sometimes I comment with stream of consciousness flowing and rippling along.
4. For example, I did that on Mireyah’s blog the other day and out popped incontinent zombies. Huh? (But really, if they eat, shouldn’t they, y’know…. How would that even work?)
5. My favorite zombie movie ever is Sean of the Dead.
6. I’ve also seen all the Resident Evil films, which, now I think about it, is kind of sad. Can I haz those 6 hours back, plz?
7. I don’t know why I occasionally drop into LOLCat speak. Perhaps because it amuses me. Might not amuse anyone else, but I can’t haz it all….
8. I used to live in a small fishing village in the north of Scotland, and would spend hours combing tidal pools for crabs and anenomes to collect in a bucket and take home as if it were an aquarium.
9. I didn’t figure out until many years later that the critters died ‘cause they used up all the oxygen in the water. At least my Dad got fertilizer for his garden out of the deal.
10. Scrabble is probably my favorite board game, evar.

Whoo! There you go. Told you it gets weird sometimes.

I have one more award to receive. Well two, really, since Frankie and Southern Princess (Courtney) both gave me the Happy Award. (Or the Happiness 101 Award? Or the Bliss Award? What are we calling this thing anyway?) Thanks to the two lovely ladies for that! I’m supposed to tell you ten things that make me happy. That’s easier than the honesty above, so, um…

1. My children (most of the time, when they’re not driving me up the friggin’ wall, but that’s to be expected, since they’re 4, 3, and 6 mos old… yeah, we had ‘em close together… why do you ask?)
2. Date nights (which are entirely too few and far between because of the aforementioned children)
3. Woodworking
4. Tools
5. Writing
6. Martinis
7. Grand Cayman
8. Visits to Scotland
9. IPAs
10. Scotch.

And there we go. Again. I’m happy. Well, I’m awake at least. Did I mention coffee makes me happy? No? I should have.

Anyway. I’ll pass these on after I have  chance to think about things a bit. Right now we’re running long and I’m probably trying your patience, so I’ll sign off.

One more big “Thank you!” to the ladies who passed on the awards! Y’all are awfully sweet. (And no, I probably shouldn’t use y’all, since I’m about as Southern as Prince Edward Island, but I’m’ nothing if not eclectic, so there you go. Again.)

All right, I’m really done now.

I hope.

Getting the “was” back in… and out again.

Last week’s post on revising “was” statements engendered a fair bit of discussion, so much so that I posted some qualifying notes in the comments section. I never know how much traffic the comments get once they’re posted, so I felt reposting my qualifiers, with some additional thoughts, was justified. And let’s mention here that all of these techniques apply equally to present tense “is” statements (I don’t want to come across as tensist, y’know).

A lot of you said the same thing about there being a place for simple "He was" statements, and I agree with you--there is a place for them. I think one place those bald assertions work is in close or deep-3rd person narration. For example:

He was tired. God, but he was tired.

She was sick—sick to death of the constant drama.

Since we’re fully in the head of a point-of-view character, there’s no reason we can’t write the way the character thinks. When I’m tired, I tend to think, ‘I’m tired,’ not ‘I’m blinking against the graininess in my eyes.’

Another trick I occasionally use to sidestep the "was" (and this works, I think, mainly for mental states) is to substitute "found myself" or the 3rd person analogue. For example:

I was distracted by the way her hair curled at the base of her throat.

can become

I found myself distracted by the way….

Again, my preference is for an action. Even finding oneself is an action, of sorts, and personalizes the statement more for the character.

* * * * *

So there we go. Another post on revisions. Maybe I’ll live up to my blog’s name after all.

Don’t worry, though. I have some more awards to accept this week, so you’ll get an earful (or is that eyeful) of random Simon-facts soon enough.

Before I sign off, though, can I remind you about the 100-followers contest Carol and I are hosting? Yes? Good. Uh… Carol and I are hosting a 100-followers flash fiction contest. Nifty prizes, strange story prompts, and all that. Go read about the rules here and the prizes here, and send us your coolest sub-1o00 word fiction for a chance to win!

He was, she was, I was… Blah.

A few weeks ago I read over one of my older short stories as I prepared to submit it to a journal. Of course, as with any time I look over my work, I found a few things I wanted to tweak, and one particular error occurred several times, so—lucky you, dear readers!—I thought I’d share it here.

The problem I found was this: every so often I’d write a passage like the following:

He was thirsty now, and the cans piled atop the dirt were reminding him of the bottles cooling in the fridge door.

What’s wrong with that? It’s in the first clause, friends, where I flat out told you how the main character felt. And—repeat after me the mantra we’ve all absorbed from various English and Creative Writing teachers—we’re supposed to show, not tell. There are, of course, plenty of exceptions to this, as with any writing “rule.” Carrie posted about this recently, and I know others have covered it, so I won’t bother with that here. What I do want is to look at ways I can rewrite that to bring the physical feeling of thirst into the reader’s mind.

Here’re a few options for an altered first clause:

His mouth felt dry, and the…

His tongue felt parched, and the…

He flicked his tongue across dry lips—the cans piled…

He swallowed against the dusty feeling in his throat; the cans…

See what I mean? My examples got more elaborate as I wrote them, ‘cause I kept thinking about different ways I feel when I’m thirsty. I think I like the latter two examples the best, because now we’ve got an action that points to thirst, as opposed to a simple “this felt that” construction. I feel that makes for a more compelling description.

One other example I wanted to revise:

He would need to dig the dirt away from the edge of the hole soon, but not tonight. He was tired, and Ava would be coming home shortly.

Again, we have “He was tired,” which is boring. Let’s see what we can do with it.

His back ached, and…

His muscles felt tight and shivery…

He stretched stiff shoulders and turned away.

He rolled his neck and pressed fingers into the stiffened muscles of his lower back.

Once more I feel the actions that point to tiredness are stronger. This kind of revision grounds the feelings of the character in movements that we ourselves might follow in the same situation. I think it works much better.

So how about you, folks? Do you find yourselves writing passively at times? Showing too much? What are your favorite tricks for revising those dull spots?

Cosmic Coincidences and Contests

So it’s de rigeur in the blogosphere to hold some kind of contest when you reach 100 followers, right? And I’m currently sitting pretty at 115, so I’m late. This is not a new thing. I call it fashionable. Others call it inconsiderate, but, y’know—potato, potahto, and all that. Anyway, the point is I’m overdue to host a contest. Sorry about that.

But you know who else is overdue? Ms. Carolina Valdez Miller, that’s who. Well, she did have the flu last week, so maybe I can forgive the oversight. I don’t have an excuse, but that’s beside the point. (Which was? I had one, I swear.)

Back to blog contests. Since Carol and I both hit 100 followers at around the same time, we decided we should celebrate. She’s in Indianapolis, and I’m near Philadelphia, so getting together for jello shots was out of the question. A co-hosted contest, on the other hand? Totally doable. So that’s what we’re doing: we’re co-hosting a celebratory contest in honor of our 100^th follower. (Cue toots from noisemakers and rattles and other party-related sound-making devices. And there was much rejoicing….)

What kind of contest to run, though? Hm. I thought about that for a long time. I mean, people give away books and things when they hit 100 followers. At least, that’s what Sara’s doing. (Though she totally jumped the gun, ‘cause we could have tri-hosted a contest, what with all three of us hitting the mark at around the same time. Jeez, Sara. Way to make us look bad, huh?) Then there’s what Shannon did, which was to make us work for it a bit with some flash fiction. Suzy did that too. What to do, what to do…

Hey, I know! This is totally radical and completely unexpected and utterly overburdened with adverbs, but what if—and I’m just thinking out loud here—what if Carol and I hosted a flash fiction contest for our 100^th anniversary? I know, right? No one saw that one coming, I bet. So that’s what we’re doing. You heard it here first. (Unless, of course, you read Carol’s blog post first, in which case you heard it here second. Still podium, though, so whatevs.) We’re titling it The Cosmic Coincidence Contest, for reasons that we’d tell you if you asked, but would bore you to tears if I posted ‘em here.

Carol, since she’s much nicer than I am, gets to post about the prize packages on her blog, so I’ll let the curious surf over there to find out what kind of wonderful stuff we’re giving away. I’m mean, though, so I get to post the rules. Here they are, in no particular order. Well, they’re in numerical order, but… oh, forget it.

1. You must be a follower of both of our blogs. (Duh.)
2. The deadline for the entries is January 31^st, at midnight EST (the one at the end of the day, not the beginning, in case you were wondering).
3. Entries must be sent to the following e-mail address: CarolSimonContest@gmail.com
4. Your word limit is… wait for it… this isnt’ going to surprise anyone, so I don’t know why I’m making you wait, but… it’s… 1,000 words. No lower limit. Rock our worlds with short-format fiction, folks.
5. The judges are… wait for it… Aw, screw it. Carol and I are judging. You knew that anyway.
6. The judges reserve the right to make new rules up as we go, since it’s our contest and all. We promise not to disenfranchise anyone, though. (I’ve been waiting to use that word in a non-election-related sentence ever since 2000.)
7. Tweeting, blogging, and shouting about the contest from the street corners are encouraged, but will not help you. There will be no sucking up to the judges. (Although, on the down-low, Carol likes Pimms, and I like Laphroaig scotch. Just sayin’.)

There’s one last thing, though. What will the stories be about? Well we could give you free rein to write whatever you feel like, but we’re not nice enough to do that. Plus, my wife gave me a very sweet, handmade gift this Christmas that’s just crying out to be used. What was that gift, you ask? And how does it bear on stories? Good questions. I’ll answer them. She gave me story dice.

How do they work? Well, if you’re stuck for something to write about, you can give a few of the dice a toss, and whatever lands facing upward becomes the basis for the story. Neat, huh? She hand painted them, too. There’s even an alcoholic cat!

So I’m going to roll a few dice a few times and see what we come up with as topics for y’all to work into stories. You have to choose one of the following prompts, and work each bit into the story some way (doesn’t even have to be an important detail, but the prompts have to be in there somehow). Here goes:

1^st Roll

Description: The number 2 (of whatever you’d like), a beach setting, and poison.

2^nd Roll

Description: The game of Sorry, happiness, and sushi.

3^rd Roll

Description: A snake, sunny weather, martinis, and a city setting.

And there you have it. Sorry about the blurry pics. My photography skills are teh suxor. But thus begins our flash fiction contest. You have your marching orders, folks, so get cracking. We’re excited as all get out to read your entries and give away stuff and generally feel good about ourselves and you.

Good luck, everyone!

P.S. Really, go read Carol’s blog to find out about the prizes. We think they’re cool. Hopefully you will too.

Some not-so-good flash fiction

So today (assuming you’re on the east coast and it is Tuesday right now, since even though I’m not on the east coast right now I still have a brain and sleep rhythm that’s stuck back there so if I ramble a bit do forgive me—I’ll be back to my terse and uncommunicative self soon enough) I’m guest posting on Livia Blackburne’s blog. I’ll wait for a moment while you go back and parse that sentence, ‘cause that long parenthetical aside kinda buggered the rhythm of the whole thing. Sorry.

Anyway, I’m guest blogging over at Livia’s blog about what might not work in flash fiction. With that in mind, I’m posting an example flash here on my blog (‘cause I’m all about whoring for hits, y’know) to which I’ll refer in my post over there. It’s about the third flash I ever wrote, and while there are some good bits, I feel it’s too flawed to publish. So I’m deconstructing it for your edification and delight. Surf on over to Livia’s place and see what I have to say about it, wouldja?

* * * * *

Jean wished that the Macarena would crawl off and die somewhere—preferably under Shelly’s bed. Shelly was standing on tiptoes, peering out through the window into the ballroom, lips pursed prettily. “God, I swear I’ll never play that at my wedding,” she said, frowning. Her calf muscles flexed as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. On the dance floor, the wedding party had formed into irregular lines, guests gyrating to the music with varying degrees of success.

“Everyone says that,” Jean muttered, “but everyone plays the Macarena.”

Shelly glanced back at her. “Not me, honey! My wedding will be classy.” She turned to regard the festivities again, blond ponytail bobbing. “Bryan’s family has this place on the Chesapeake, and we’re going to be married outside. They’ve even got a dock for their sailboat, and after the reception, we can sail down to Virginia Beach before heading to the Outer Banks.” She flashed a brief smile over her shoulder. “I can’t wait!”

Jean rolled her eyes and contemplated taking a fourth cigarette break. The Macarena had ended, but mournful vocals were signaling a slow song, and couples had begun to pair off for the dance. The bride, visibly flushed, hung both arms around her husband’s neck and rested her head on his shoulder. The bridegroom’s hands slid possessively over his wife’s satined derriere before coming to rest on her hips. Shelly pursed her lips again. “So crass,” she said, then turned to Jean. “Time for a smoke?”

Stifling a sigh, Jean nodded and headed for the loading dock. Outside in the crisp evening, Shelly held one of Jean’s Marlboros between slim fingers, the smoke leaving a luminous trail in the air. “Bryan says I should quit. He says it’s unladylike.” She was facing away from Jean, the streetlamps illuminating a porcelain crescent of her face. “Do you think it’d be more ladylike if I got one of those Rita Hayworth cigarette holders?” she said, smiling slightly.

“You want to smoke? Then smoke,” Jean responded, flicking ash onto the concrete. She cleared her throat and spat in the direction of the dumpsters. “What’s it matter what Bryan thinks?” She was tired of hearing about Bryan.

Shelly shrugged. “His family doesn’t approve. I think an aunt or something died of lung cancer, so they’re all pretty militant about it.” She took one last drag and ground the stub into the nearby ashtray. Jean flicked her cigarette butt into the darkness beside the stairs.

Inside, the music had picked up again. The bride and groom were near the exit, surrounded by a small crowd of well-wishers—she on the receiving end of a succession of hugs, he being jovially pummeled by several intoxicated men. On the dance floor, an old couple was dancing awkwardly to the techno music. Jean rolled her eyes as she bused a table at the room’s periphery. Glancing over, she saw Shelly smiling at the couple from across the room.

The kitchen was filling up with tray racks—empty dessert plates, cocktail glasses, and coffee cups signaled the end of the evening. Shelly pushed open the door with her elbow and swiveled in with a tray full of dishware. Jean was wrapping the top of the wedding cake in foil to send home with the bride’s mother. The slice in the back of the fridge she was reserving for herself. “One more round of coffee and we’re done,” called the manager, sticking his head out of the office. Jean finished boxing the cake and handed it to the waiting maid of honor.

Shelly was halfway through the last piece of cake when Jean returned to the kitchen. “They forgot one slice in the back of the fridge,” she said, smiling. “You want to share?” A spoon was poised between the plate and her lips.

Jean felt a violent surge of resentment. A waste, she thought furiously, a goddamned waste! Last week, she had walked into the bathroom just as Shelly emerged from a stall. The toilet’s flush gurgled and receded. Shelly dragged her wrist across her mouth and regarded Jean with watery, sheepish eyes. Jean had blinked and looked away.

“No, thanks,” she heard herself saying now, her voice flat. “You finish it.” Shelly downed the last few bites and deposited the plate on the nearest tray. She looked pleased with herself.

Servers were dispersing into the ballroom, caffeine-laden. Shelly filled one carafe with decaf, the other with regular, then headed for the doors. Through the small window, Jean could see someone approaching from the other side, burdened with dishes. She said nothing. Shelly looked back at her and grinned. “We’re almost done!” she said. A tiny crumb of wedding cake clung to her lapel.

The door swung sharply inward, striking the tray in Shelly’s hand. Scalding coffee geysered against Shelly’s neck, her cheek, her screwed-shut eyes. Her scream was short and sharp, followed by the clatter of metal on the tiled floor and anguished sobbing. Already her porcelain cheek had turned an angry red. On her neck, the skin was blistering, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes as she sank to her knees.

Jean stood rigid with shock. Shelly huddled on the floor, weeping. A crowd of servers was beginning to congregate around her. Jean blinked and looked away. She felt small and cruel inside. In the background, the last song of the night was fading away, the guests turning, smiling, for the door.

Even flash needs revision…

Hey, wait a minute. This blog’s supposed to be about revisions, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what I titled it, and all, but then I get distracted talking about marginal successes, awards, embarrassing moments, and occasionally posting flash fiction. All of that’s fun and stuff, but it’s taking me away from my core mission: to bore you all to tears talking about why choosing this phrase over that is a good idea. (Okay, hopefully it’s not that bad. I’ll try not to be too dull with it.)

The first one I’d like to pick at is my Puccini flash. It’s tiny, so I’ll repost it here:

“Am I still beautiful?” she whispers.

He leans his forehead against hers. “As the dawn,” he says.

She laughs, a short bark that ends in a cough that seems never to end. “You mean ‘beautiful as the sunset,’” she says, when she finally has the breath.

He closes his eyes against the tears and tries to smile.

Now, this is a tiny little flash. It says all I want it to, but did you notice anything wrong with the first sentence in the third paragraph? I did, about two days later: I used the word “end” twice. Twice in the same sentence? That wouldn’t be any good in a novel sentence, let alone in flash fiction, where it stands out more. That sentence could be redone in several ways, but I think I’d change it to:

She laughs, a short bark that becomes a cough that seems never to end.

This version maintains the same number of syllables in the sentence, which—if the piece is this short, and if you’re me—matters.

The other piece I can pick at here is my No-Kiss Blogfest entry. I had a lot of fun writing that one (and no, that’s not an invitation to psychoanalyze), but I feel it could use a few tweaks. First, as pointed out by Michele in my comment section, I didn’t really need the whole “You should never have betrayed me” thing. The reader kind of gets that already, and so does the protagonist. I think it would actually serve to add a bit of emotional depth to the piece if I reworked it to make the female character more sympathetic. What about this?

She released me and stepped back suddenly. She took a long, shuddering breath.

This revision makes the torchlight flickering on the woman’s tears at the end a little less random, more of an integrated detail. I like it much better.

The other thing I would change is this sentence:

Her hands continued to move on me—stomach, neck, sides, thighs—and I leaned my head against the cold stone behind me, squeezing my eyes shut and thinking of anything other than the exquisite touch of her fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the warmth I felt radiating from her body.

A couple of things could be reworked here. First of all, the words set off by hyphens could go. I think leaving some ambiguity in the way her hands are moving is much better, and actually heightens the tension. Second, as my critique partner Laurel tells me often, a present participle can slow down a sentence. Having three present participle verbs in the same sentence is a bit, well, kludgy. So the following edit streamlines and smooths the sentence out, I think:

Her hands continued to move on me, and I leaned my head back against the cold stone, squeezed my eyes shut, thought of anything other than the exquisite touch of her fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the warmth I felt radiating from her body.

At this point you might be thinking I’m an excessively picky bastard. You’d be right. When it comes to flash fiction, for me, every word has to count.

This isn’t to say that I labor over every single word I write. I don’t. I just write and hope it turns out well. When I revise, though (always after a day or two), I give myself free rein to hack and slash my prose as necessary. I’m as capable as the next writer of penning uninspired crap. It’s in the revision process that I (hopefully) can make my writing shine.

This is turning into a long post, but I’ll add one final note. In two of the three revisions above, I indicated that someone other than me was the impetus for the change. I can do a lot. I can write nice words, sometimes, and I can self-edit up to a point. However, it’s crucial that I get other opinions on my work. I can’t do it alone. Hemingway turned to Gertrude Stein and Ezra Pound for assistance and inspiration, right? So why should I be ashamed to look to my own peers for help? I don’t write in vacuum; I shouldn’t revise in a vacuum.

Writing is a solitary pursuit. Revision, if at all possible, should be communal.

Honest Scrap Award (the Writing Edition)

I don’t care that I got it before, folks—every time is special. So a great big thanks to Michele over at Southern City Mysteries for honoring me with another Honest Scrap Award! Since I’ve shared an unconscionable number of silly facts about myself in past posts, I thought I might make this one a themed post. What if, instead of dredging up random factoids about myself that may or may not overlap with others I’ve shared before, I offered ten tidbits about my writing and reading life. Sure, it may be boring, but it saves you from suffering through a catalogue of my clothes sizes and hypochondriacal health concerns. So here goes with ten facts about my reading and writing.

1. I learned to read at 4 years old, ‘cause my parents were proactive like that, and I read The Chronicles of Narnia at 5 years old.
2. I reread the Narnia books a few years ago, and despite the fact that I’ve read them more times than I can count (and my original books falling apart at the seams), I still teared up at the vigil of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and at the death of Bulgy Bear in The Last Battle. Fine, go ahead and call me a sap. You try and read those bits without getting emotional.
3. I didn’t discover The Lord of the Rings until I was 9, at which point I was completely hooked, and, when I won a book certificate as an academic prize the next year, bought the paperback edition and read it, oh, about 10 times in the next five years.
4. I didn’t discover Hemingway and Faulkner until last year, when I got serious about writing. I’m aghast at the time I wasted not reading classic literature, folks!
5. My dirty little secret when it comes to reading is that I’m a sucker for fantasy novels. I’ve read way too many books by R.A. Salvatore, Weis and Hickman, Piers Anthony, Tad Williams, Anne McCaffrey, David Eddings, and the like. It’s kind of ridiculous, actually.
6. I read fast. Light fantasy, when I’m left undisturbed, flies by at 100 pages an hour. Literary novels slow me down to 50-60 pages an hour. This accounts for the sheer number of crappy, crappy fantasy novels I’ve read in my lifetime.
7. I don’t write fast. I tend to labor over my words and phrases, and I’m lucky to get 1,000 words done in an hour and half.
8. I posted about it a while back, but Write or Die actually helped me with that, allowing me to crank out 1,o00 words in 40 minutes. I thought that was a minor triumph (though it needs a lot more editing than my normal prose).
9. I don’t do happy stuff. You may have noticed this. One of my fairly regular commenters told me recently that she recognizes my work as rather bittersweet, often, and that’s as good a way as any to describe it. Then there’s the flat out dark stuff, but happy? Not so much. Sardonically humorous, perhaps, but not happy. I just don’t find it interesting enough to write about. What does that say about me?
10. This novel that’s taking shape in my head and in random notes in a Word document is getting very, very complicated. I couldn’t ask for a better idea for a first novel, but I worry about my capacity to execute it. I specialize in flash fiction, remember? I suppose I’ll take it one paragraph at a time and see where it takes me.

So there we go: ten things about my reading and writing life for your enjoyment (or possibly stultification, but I’ll assume the former). I don’t remember how many people I’m supposed to pass the award on to, but I’ll list a few. If you’ve received the award before, don’t worry about following through with the whole ten things bit. I’m making that optional. That said, the award goes to… (cue swelling music, tense silence, the presenter(s) acting like they’re surprised and happy at the results)

Laurel at Laurel’s Leaves. Yes, she’s received it before, but did you see her most recent post? For the first time ever, she wrote and sent into the wild a piece of autobiographical fiction. She’s been telling our crit. group for 9 months that she doesn’t have it in her to do that, and she just did. So bravo, Laurel. Now would seem to be the appropriate time to recognize your honesty.

Angela at Always Write. I’m passing it on to her because she just said today that whether or not she’s ever published, she’s going to write anyway. Because that’s what she is: a writer. Me too, darlin’. Being honest with yourself is where it all starts. (I get the feeling she’ll get published, though. Did you read her recent flash fiction? Pretty good, right?)

J. Koyanagi at (funnily enough) J. Koyanagi. Some of you know her from the #amwritingparty on Twitter. She doesn’t post all that often, but I get this strange feeling sometimes when I’m reading her stuff. Her prose, her way of expressing herself, is eerily similar to mine. The main difference is that she doesn’t seem to indulge in stupidity and dorkiness as much as I do, and maintains a much more respectable online presence. It’ll probably help her in the long run, frankly. Either way, just go read her blog. It’s excellent.

And there we are. I was honest, and I passed it on. Now I have to figure out how to post these darn awards in the sidebar on my blog, ‘cause, as Michele said, it really could use some color.

Oh, and stay tuned in the next day or two, ‘cause it looks like I’ll hit 100 followers pretty soon, and you know what that means…

P.S. Plus, if you didn’t know about it already, go visit Sara’s blog here, ‘cause she hit 100 followers just before me, and you know what that means… (Oh, fine. If you don’t know what it means, it’s a contest, okay? She’s giving away stuff, and I want it, and if I blog about it, I get entries, so just go and read her blog and stop being so deliberately obtuse, would you?)

P.P.S. I didn’t really mean to call you obtuse. Sorry. Will you still like me in the morning?

P.P.P.S. Okay, I did mean it. I can’t do fawning. Sorry. (About the fawning, not the obtuse thing.)

On the Perils of (Marginal) Success

This blogging thing is kinda fun. Can I admit that? I’ve thoroughly enjoyed meeting so many people through my blog and those I follow—readers, writers, editors, agents, regular ol’ blogging types. Really, the most rewarding thing about participating in the blogosphere is the interactions with multitudes of like-minded folk who’re willing to support and encourage you along whatever road you wish to travel. Since I’m traveling the road to (hopefully) becoming an author, it’s been wonderful to connect with others on a similar path.

But—and here’s the rub—there comes a time when the multiplicity of internet connections becomes a bit overwhelming. I’m following over 100 blogs right now, so when I wake up to 35 new posts, most of which I feel as though I should comment on, it starts to look more like a job than a pleasure. It’s a strange position to be in, wanting to support other writers, wanting to encourage them on their journey the same way I’ve been encouraged on mine, but needing to simultaneously meet the demands of the day job and my family of very small and very active children. It’s a balancing act I haven’t quite gotten the hang of yet.

I know I’m not the first to go through this. I read several blogs with 200+ or 300+ followers, and I wonder how those folk managed to navigate that point at which they felt torn between a sense of obligation to their followers and commenters and their responsibilities to families, jobs, and their own writing. Anyone have any advice for me, here? I’m asking in all sincerity, because I want to pay it forward as much as possible, but I also want to maintain my integrity and my devotion to my craft. A dilemma, I know.

Anyway, I don’t think there’s a quick and easy answer to that one, so I’ll let it slide for now. I’ll find a way somehow.

But on a lighter note, there’s a couple of contests I’m planning on entering in the next few days and weeks. For those of you interested in throwing your hat in the ring, why not check out the following fun-filled affairs?

1. Nathan Bransford’s Teen Diary Contest Extravaganza! – For the YA writers out there, here’s a chance to impress an agent with a single diary entry under 500 words. Prizes include a query crit. from Herr Bransford himself, so why not bang out or repurpose something for this?
2. Suzette and Bethany’s Wicked-Awesome-Prizes Contest – This one doesn’t require any writing on your part (other than perhaps a blog post or a tweet). Up for grabs is an autographed copy of The Dark Divine, along with some critiquing options. Pop on over there and enter, eh?
3. It’s not a contest, per se, but there’s another blogfest coming up. For those of you who missed the Snogfest Blogfest and the No-Kiss Blogfest. It’s the Love-At-First-Sight Blogfest, hosted by the Critique This! crit. group. All posts are to go up on Valentine’s Day, so you’ve lots of time to pull something together.

So there you go. Anyone with advice for the blogospherically snowed-under, do pass it on, would you? And enter those contests. All you have to lose is a chance.

Cheaters Never Prosper (No-Kiss Blogfest, Baby)

So after the recent Snogfest Blogfest, hosted by Sherrinda, everybody’s favorite #blogwar instigator, Frankie Mallis, decided to host a related, but slightly different festival: the No-Kiss Blogfest. She said it’s all about that excruciating tension and longing that happens in an almost-kiss. I think she’s just sadistic. (But in a good way. Really!)

Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge, so I figured I’d give it a shot. And, as I’m coming to expect from my writer-brain, I came up with something twisted, tortured, and utterly lacking in a happy ending. What is it with me? I’m starting to think I need counseling.

Nah, scratch that. Writing’s my therapy. If I bottled all this strange stuff up, and had no outlet for it, then I might need to worry. As it is, at least I have the pressure-valve of creative expression to release the weirdness through.

Anyway, here’s the story that appeared in my head. Enjoy! Comments, questions, and derogatory remarks are always welcome. :)

* * * * *

She was coming again. I heard the click of her hard-heeled boots on the flagstones long before the bolt rattled in the lock and the door creaked open to reveal her silhouette. She had just bathed—her scent slid sinuous across the cell and swam in my nostrils. Her long hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, the way I had always liked it. I gritted my teeth and tensed against the chains clamping me to the wall.

“You’re awake.” She had been drinking again, her voice blurred at the edges. “Good.”

She walked slowly toward me, each heel-stroke shivering up my spine, and stopped with her face inches from mine. I could smell the wine on her breath, the sweet incense of her still-damp hair. The light from the open door limned the curl of her lips. Her eyes were deep in shadow, dark as night.

“How have you been?” she asked in a throaty whisper. She moved closer, our lips a hairsbreadth apart now, her head tilted, nose grazing against mine.

My jaw began to ache with tension. The muscles of my face were taut, my shoulders rigid. She placed a cool palm against my cheek. With the fingers of her other hand, she began to trace soft patterns on my leg. Against my will, my breathing quickened.

“You’re predictable, darling,” she whispered in my ear. “You never could resist that.” She ran her tongue down my jaw, then broke away with a short laugh.

Her hands continued to move on me—stomach, neck, sides, thighs—and I leaned my head against the cold stone behind me, squeezing my eyes shut and thinking of anything other than the exquisite touch of her fingers, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the warmth I felt radiating from her body.

She brought her face close again, licked the tip of my nose. “Was she worth it?” she breathed.

Her arms snaked across my back, up and over my shoulders, as she pressed herself full-length against me. Her heat scalded my aching flesh. Her mouth hovered near mine. I felt the barest touch of her tongue as she flicked it across her lips. “Was she worth it?” she asked again.

No! I wanted to scream. Never! She was nothing to me. Nothing! I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry!

I said nothing. My throat burned from choking back the words.

She released me and stepped back. “You should never have betrayed me.” Her voice was cold.

My knees buckled and I sagged in my restraints. The manacles cut into my wrists, but I welcomed the pain, the distraction, the sensation that—for the briefest of moments—erased the clutching, nauseating guilt. I felt her turn away, heard the spike of her bootheels on stone as she strode to the door.

She paused. I looked up. The torchlight flickered against her face, danced in the hollows of her neck, glittered in the drops of moisture on her cheek. “Perhaps my father will have you tortured tomorrow,” she said, then was gone.

In the renewed darkness of my cell, the chill of her absence quenching the fire she had sparked in my veins, I thought that her father’s kind of torture might be a welcome change. Maybe somewhere in the untrammeled agony of the rack I could find the release I’d been seeking these past weeks—freedom from the sickening self-loathing, the too-late tendrils of remorse that wrapped tight around my chest, the regret that filled my nostrils, through the long dark of my imprisoned days, with the stench of my own weakness.