I don’t write for everyone. Just those who’ll get it.

So I took second place in a flash fiction contest, folks. ‘Twas a small one, run by Shock Totem magazine, and the assignment was to write a piece based on the following image.

Evocative, no?

I had a lovely little idea, explored it in around 500 words, ran it past a few generous critiquers, and sent it in. It was just the way I wanted it, and I wouldn’t change a bit of it.

But here’s the thing: not everybody gets this piece. Even my critiquers didn’t quite catch all of it, the way it was originally written. Sure, once I elucidated for them, they said things like, “Oh! It’s so obvious now you’ve explained it!” But it’s a very oblique, subtle, indirect story.

Exactly the way I intended.

Those who understood the story, loved it. Those who didn’t understand? Here’s a couple of quotes (and believe me, I take none of these personally, they’re used here only as illustration):

“Imply if you want, but imply directly.”

“I love the writing! But what in the hell happened?”

“I think if details had been provided it would have made for a more harrowing tale.”

My beta readers are very intelligent people. I’m also quite sure that those for whom this story didn’t work are intelligent people as well—it’s just my writing didn’t connect with them. I went a bit too far out from the mainstream with this story.

What’s my point? I think it’s this: I have to accept, flat out and right up front, that my writing won’t work for every reader.

Look, you’re never going to please everyone anyway. So why not just write the best story you can, in a way that’s true to your vision and your gut, and send it out into the world to make its way? If people hate it? So what? Let them hate it. You didn’t write it for them. You wrote it because the story clawed its way out of your imagination and sweated itself onto the page. You wrote it for those select people who’ll comprehend it and love it for what it is.

I think we worry too much about people’s potential opinions of our work, writer-friends. Sometimes we just have to write for ourselves—screw the reviews.

After all, that’s how art is made.

A haiku for my morning bike ride to work.

Swan glides on mirrorglass pond

Snowflakes melt on skin

It is now; I am alive

And, for the purists:

Snowflakes melt on skin
Swan glides on mirrorglass pond
Now, I am alive

Sunday. Philly Lit Night. Be there or, um, don’t.

That’s right, folks. The third installment of Philly Lit Night’s coming up this Sunday in Center City, and you don’t want to miss it. Why? Because you just don’t. ‘Cause I said so.

Um….

Oh, okay, fine. I’ll give you a few more reasons. Here:

Reason #1

We actually booked the meeting space in the Barnes & Noble on Rittenhouse Square, from 4 – 6 pm, so we won’t be kicked out on the street to wander in search of a new space in which to hang. See? Progress!

Reason #2

It’s St. Patrick’s Day week! Which means that our planned sojourn to the Irish Pub at 20th & Walnut after we leave B&N is about as apropos as it’s possible for an evening of carousing to be. Also, you’ll be taking part in a long and storied literary tradition of writers meeting in pubs. DON’T LET YOUR LITERARY FOREBEARS DOWN!

Reason #3

Writer-friends! We understand you. We won’t think you’re weird. We’ll laugh at your writer jokes. You will leave with a wonderful sense of bonhomie. There will probably be hugs (Frankie’s going to be there, after all).

So there we go. Three reasons to show up this Sunday. And if you can’t make it? Well, we’ll just have to talk about you while you’re not around. *shrugs*

Hope to see you on Sunday, Philly writer-friends.

Cheers!

In which I croak. (The Delusional Doom Blogfest)

Yes, folks, it’s the Ides of March. Not such a good day for Julius Caesar, I’ve heard, but I’ve got nothing against it, myself. (Neither does Julius, incidentally, what with being dead and all. But I bet he had some serious issues with the day somewhere in between the first stab wound and the 43rd.)

Anyhow, the ever-entertaining Hart Johnson decided to host a blogfest to coincide with Caesar’s miserably unlucky day, and what better theme than DEATH!? Um…yes. And so, since it’s one of the options Hart gave for an entry was writing our own obituary, I’m going to go ahead and take a stab at mine. (Get it? Stab? *snarf* Oh, never mind.)

Here goes….

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Simon C. Larter, Author, Dead at 47

Those who knew him are surprised he lasted this long. The writer and world-famous inebriate, notorious for such exploits as mooning Oprah, stripping to his skivvies on the red carpet at the Oscars, and riding a Segway with the bulls at Pamplona, passed away this past Saturday night of complications from vodka.

The American Bartending Association immediately called for a national day of mourning; jukeboxes in every bar in America were played at half-volume through Wednesday night.

Though his novels were runaway bestsellers, their graphic content and startling irreverence earned the author the condemnation of every major religious organization in the world, and won him the dubious distinction of being the first person ever to be excommunicated from the American Atheists.

Once described as “the drunken lovechild of Virginia Woolf and Ernest Hemingway, if each of them had been given to consuming staggering amounts of LSD,” Larter’s direct, vivid prose style and unremitting use of sarcasm garnered him numerous awards, including the Nobel, the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, the Man Booker Prize, and the Caldecott Medal (for his children’s book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Lay).

In his will, which firsthand accounts indicate was scribbled on a bar napkin, the author leaves his vast estate to his wife and three children, who could not be reached for comment, although the sigh of relief from the family’s home upon hearing the news of Larter’s demise could be heard as far away as Sheboygan.

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And there we have it. Hopefully this isn’t prophetic as far as the age of demise is concerned. I wouldn’t mind hanging on to about 57. We’ll see if any of the rest of it comes true. :)

Oh, and as per the usual blogfest rules, do swing by Hart’s place and check out some of the other participants, won’t you? I promise it’ll be more fun than a barrel of monks!

LINK! –> The Delusional Doom Blogfest

In which we congratulate someone who damn well deserves it.

Somebody I know just landed an agent.

You may know her too. She’s a spectacular writer, and a lovely person. She’s probably smarter than me, and she’s definitely a damn sight nicer than me.

Who am I talking about? Well, if I told you she’s a Bookanista, writes amazingly-thoughtful book reviews, films hella-hilarious vlogs, posts super-encouraging thoughts on writing and life, and manages to help raise two genius daughters while still maintaining a writing schedule that’d cripple a lesser human, would you be able to guess? Of course you would. It’s…

Carolina Valdez Miller!

See? I met her before she was famous.

Seriously, this is no surprise to anyone who’s read Carol’s work. She’s a natural storyteller, with a phenomenal grasp of language, pacing, tension, and attraction. She’s very, very good, people. And also? She’s willing to work for it. She has worked for it. There’s a reason the majority of her blog posts have a time stamp of somewhere around 2:30 am, yeah?

So! In honor of Carol’s signing with Vickie Motter of Andrea Hurst Literary, I’m joining in the Blog-Party-of-Awesome hosted by a group of Carol’s friends. And I’m giving stuff away!

Here’s the deal: in order to win the prize pack of books I’m giving away, all you have to do is leave me a comment letting me know the answer to the question below. I’ll let a random number generator choose the winner, but I totes reserve the right to honor the top 10 most amusing responses in the prize announcement blog post.

 

So what’re the prizes? ‘Cause I’m nice, I’ll send the lucky winner one copy each of:

• On Writing, by Stephen King
• Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott
• Zen in the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury

Also, be sure to stop by and congratulate Carol. She’s giving away a Kindle, and you know you want it. Hell, I want it. Am I eligible for this giveaway…?

And don’t forget the other awesome folk participating in the blog party! (You kinda have to follow them in order to be eligible for the Kindle prize. What? Not like it’s hard to click that button or anything….)

Heather’s Odyssey

Critique Sisters’ Corner

J. Koyanagi

L. K. Gardner-Griffie

Sara McClung

Lola Sharp

Elizabeth Davis

Tracey Neithercott

Kristen Yard

Christine Fonseca

Jonathon Arntson

Eisley Jacobs

Denise Grover Swank

Right. There’s your marching orders, folks. Get on it, and go help Carol celebrate this milestone in her career.

And one more time, just because.

Congratulations, Carol!

P.S. The contest ends at midnight on 4/1, and the winners’ll be announced on 4/4. So get clicking!

Work harder, people.

Look. I know you work hard already. You’re a writer—it’s what we do. We sweat tears and crap blood for our art already (sorry for the abominably-mixed metaphor—it had to happen), but I’m tellin’ you now (because I’m egregiously opinionated) that you have to push it that little bit farther. No joke.

What am I talking about? Cliches, people. Cliches.

We all know them, and we’ve all used them: fast as lightning, stick-thin, black as night. Except, here’s the thing: everyone’s read those before. It’s been done. People expect them.

You write, black as, and your reader’s mind will automatically jump to night, pitch, or the pit as a completion for that phrase. Do you really want to do what they’re expecting? Really?

Work harder.

Take a close look at that simile or metaphor. Push it farther. Make it new, interesting, different…yours. Own it. Transform it.

Instead of black as night, perhaps it’s ebony-black, black as a devil’s heart, or blacker than deep space. Instead of yellowed with age, why not make it ivoried with age?*

Anyone can use an old simile. Anyone can use a hackneyed metaphor. Not everyone can transform one.

Be that writer. Push it farther.

It’ll pay off for you. I can almost guarantee it.

*I used ivoried in a flash fiction piece recently. You can use it too. I don’t mind. Just try to use it less elegantly than I did, or I’ll have to hunt you down and beat you with a rattlesnake.**

**Okay, I’m not the jealous type, really. I’d only beat you with a python.

In which I am a slut for charity.

It’s true. I’m easy like that.

“Wait,” you’re saying, “what charity? You did what to who? And why?”

Calm down. It’s just a figure of speech, okay? *eyeroll*

Anyway. You know the good folk over at The Literary Lab? (If you don’t, you should swing by and check them out. They’re nice. They tolerate my snark. They like Dostoyevsky.) Well, they ran a contest last year, the prize for which was 10 pages in an anthology, to do whatever we wished with.

I entered. I won. I had 10 pages to fill. I filled them.

And it’s all for a good cause, see? All proceeds from the sale of this anthology (which was released yesterday, which is why I’m blogging about it today, naturally) go to the American Society of Journalists and Authors Writers Emergency Assistance Fund. It’s a good cause, yes? Yes.

So they released the book yesterday! *waits for applause to die down* And here’s the cover.

Iz teh classy, yez?

I’m pretty sure what’s inside is good stuff. No, scratch that, I know what’s inside is good stuff. (Mainly cuz I had an advance PDF proof to read over for final changes.)

You want this. It’s for a good cause, and there’s some great fiction in there. There’s even some of my crap in there. So go buy it!

You can do it one of three ways (and I’ll blatantly steal LitLab’s copy on this, since I can’t be arsed trying to improve on it):

==================

PRINT COPIES through CreateSpace Store
$10 each (If you subscribe to our mailing list you will receive a 15% discount code to use in the Create Space store. We will email this by the end of each day to new subscribers until the 8th of March when the discount expires.)
click here

PRINT COPIES through Amazon
$10 each
click here

KINDLE COPIES through Amazon
$4.99 each
click here

================

Note that they make the most profit from the CreateSpace store, so that’s the best way to maximize your charity dollars.

And there we go, writer-friends. My wanton act of charity for the year. Whaddya say? You up for some warm fuzzies? Go pick up a copy. And then one day you can point to my name in the table of contents and say, “I knew him back when he was prostituting himself for charity!”

Or something like that.

*attempts a winning smile*

*probably just looks creepy*

*wanders off to find some alcohol*

…

A Conversation Between Two Writers

“It seems like writing’s how I process.”

“Me too. It’s as though I don’t know how I feel about something, really, unless I’ve written it out.”

“Yeah, something about processing emotions into words crystallizes them for me, you know?”

“Absolutely!”

*

“I have too much empathy, sometimes. I have to tune certain things out.”

“I know, right? Like I can’t watch true crime shows about child disappearances. I hate the pictures they show of the kids smiling, ‘cause then my brain starts thinking about what happened to them, and how horrible it must have been.”

“Me too! But I think that’s a common thing for writers. We have to be able to empathize in order to create great characters.”

*

“You ever think sometimes, when you’re driving down the road, what it would be like to just slam your car into a bridge abutment at 70 mph?”

“Haha! Oh, yeah, totally! I’ve asked my husband that question before, and he’s all, ‘Um…no.’ And then I’m all, ‘Uh…well, me neither.’”

*laughing* “I’ve had those conversations.”

Lookit! So tempting! (Or not….)

*

The above snippets are loosely based on things that may have been said when I got together with the lovely Mercedes M. Yardley last week.  I do so love meeting fellow writers.

Although, while stilettos did make an appearance, shirley temples did not. And in any case, I deny everything.

(Especially the bridge abutment bit. I just made that up.)

*shifty*