The Confabulator Cafe

Author: ljenkins

  • Radio Days (Flash Fiction)

    I think I got everyone.

    “I know you do.  You’ve already told me.  Maybe a thousand times just today.”

    I think I got everyone.

    The voice from the radio repeated its singular message as the old man set his soup bowl on the end table and began the long, slow process of rising from his chair.  His legs shook as they bore the weight of his frail frame.  It seemed to take more time each day to reach the stooped position that now passed for standing, but he honestly had no idea.  There was no one to provide him reference.  He had been alone now for more years than he could remember.

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  • Being Fear’s Bitch: A Guide to Not Writing

    Stop being a filthy, damned liar.  The only thing keeping you from writing is you.

    You don’t have the time? Make time. You’ve got a busy life? Then schedule it in. Either start being honest about the reason you’re not writing, or start being honest about the fact that you don’t want it enough to make it happen. Because if you did want to see this thing through, you’d start sacrificing to get there.

    The true reason you aren’t writing is because you’re afraid. You think you’re not good enough or smart enough or clever enough. You don’t value your own perspective. You think anything you had worth saying has probably already been written by someone else, and you bet they were a lot more talented than some coffee-shop hack with a laptop.

    You know why you write in restaurants? Because strangers feel less judgmental than family. Those people ordering lunch have no idea what you’re working on. They probably don’t give a good god damn about you anyway, and they sure as hell don’t have a clue about what you secretly hope to achieve. Anonymous is neutral and numbing and safe.

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  • The Upside to Hearing Voices

    I had a plan once.  It was all about writing hard-boiled detective fiction with gritty characters and heart-rending drama.  I was an acolyte of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, and I wanted to communicate to people that the life we lived was a gritty and brutal existence.

    Here’s the problem with that scenario: I didn’t know what the hell I was talking/writing about.  I grew up in rural Oklahoma, and the threat of crime was not a significant part of my life.  I also went to small, public schools where being a smart-ass know-it-all translated to very few significant ass kickings, if any.  I was by no means a kid of privilege, but I didn’t fear going out after dark either, unless I’d watched a little too much creature feature the night before.

    As much as I loved the works of Hammett and Chandler and would later come to respect some of the novels by Dennis Lehane, particularly Gone, Baby, Gone, when it came to writing my own stories, I had very little to add to this particular vein of fiction.  I had no common experience, or even knowledge of someone who did, so my work lacked authenticity.

    A kind and honest professor in grad school once told me, “Maybe you’re too nice of a guy to write this kind of stuff.”  I completely ignored him at the time because what did he know.  He was only a kick-ass writer who’d been published many times over (I mean, seriously, the balls on that guy!) and I was nearly finished writing yet another novel of the type for which he felt I was ill-suited.  This guy’s truth and I did not see eye to eye.

    Fast forward several years later, and I finally wised up a little.  I stopped ignoring the voices in my head.  They talked like the people I’d grown up with, and the ridiculous things they wanted to do made me laugh.  The characters still take themselves seriously, but the reader doesn’t have to.  I don’t think you can help but put yourself in your stories, either through events you’ve experienced or attitudes you’ve held.  But when you flip through one of my stories, I want you to have a little fun, enjoy a little escape.

    Life has enough serious drama of its own.  I see no reason to add to it.  I’d get schooled if I even tried to step onto that court.  I just want to make you chuckle.  (It’s honestly more of a need at this point).

  • Can You Hear Me Now? Damn!

    Once you start down the dark and twisted path to becoming a professional writer, you are well and truly screwed as a reader.

    Gone are the days when a story was just fun on its own.  Now your eyes are forever critical, trying to work out the literary magic trick you just experienced.  You still get to smile and nod at the occasional story, but instead of saying “wow,” you’re more likely to whisper “you tricky, talented bastard.”  Then you feel that bloom in your chest that’s equal parts appreciation and envy.  You’d like to get a chance to meet the author so you could both shake her hand and push her down the stairs.  Both are meant as compliments.

    Because you are a covetous and ambitious egotist to whom recognition is the equivalent of crack, you deal with those feelings of envy by stealing the craft of your heroes.  You imitate technique and tone and structure, trying to pass it off as your own.  You will fail . . . at first.  But you have to keep going.  At this stage, the amount of frustration you feel will have a direct correlation to the level of self-awareness you possess.  It is helpful at this point to have one or more friends who will punch you in the ego from time to time.  Just keep it fun.  No permanent scarring.

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  • The Editorial Casting Couch: Making Dreams Come True

    I have this sketchy-looking couch in my basement, perfect casting couch material.  It’s only a couple shades away from I’m-a-naughty-harlot red, it’s broken down on one side so you kind of sink into the cushions if you sit in the wrong spot, and did I mention it’s a hide-a-bed?

    We’re talking total class, all the way.  And whenever I have fresh pages in hand, I grab my red pen and head for that skeevy little spot because the editorial couch is where dreams come true, baby.

    I like to take it slow at first, try to warm up to the words, make sure everybody’s comfortable.  Then I might make a suggestion or two.  You know, you’d look a lot better if we just got rid of that little phrase right there.  I mean it’s only a thin four or five words.  It’s not like it’s making that much of a difference.  I bet no one would even notice . . . now, see.  Doesn’t that feel better?

    Sometimes I have to get onto the verbs for being too passive.  Come on.  Show me what you really want.  What do you mean?  I want to be able to picture it.  Be specific, but keep it fun.

    There are other times when I know a character’s heart just isn’t in the scene.  Make me feel your desire.  Show me that your pursuit transcends just wanting something; it’s a need.  Make me believe it.  Make me care whether or not you make the cut.  Show me what you’ll do to make it happen.

    Then there are those times when the words themselves matter more than anything else.  Let’s say that last part out loud and see how it sounds . . . No, I’m just not feeling it.  We need to try again.  Maybe if we change it up a little, experiment, see where things take us.  You do want to be in this story, don’t you?

    For the innocents among you, this may seem like a cruel, manipulative, even dirty, process, but it’s how the game is played.  The words need you to take control.  When they first come to you, they don’t even realize their full potential, but they’re looking for someone who’ll put in the time to get them there.  The words need a voice, a purpose, and direction.  And sometimes a little coaxing can go a long way.

  • Chief Complaint (Flash Fiction)

    Repository: San Diego Air and Space Museum Archive

    Here’s the best advice I can give you.  Don’t die wearing a headdress.

    Of all the things that suck about kicking it, and believe me there is an exhaustive list, the one that seriously chaps my incorporeal ass is that bullshit death mask rule.

    I can understand looking like you did when your expiration date finally hit.  I’m not one of those vain creeps who think every spirit walking around should look like George Clooney.  (Although if there were sex in heaven, can you imagine the kind of play you’d get with a face like that?  Sweet Valhalla!)  However, I do think the powers that be get a little picky when it comes to dress code.  I see no reason why I should spend the rest of eternity looking like Tonto.

    I really hope my best friend is in hell.

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  • Character and Plot: A Healthy Codependence

    Hypothetical: Someone walks up to you on the street and says, “Character or plot driven?”

    Let’s go ahead and assume they’re not wearing their favorite shade of inmate orange.  Oh, and they don’t have on one of those snazzy jackets with the sleeves that latch together at the back.  Aside from slowly backing away while using your peripheral vision to scan for cops, what do you do?

    For my money, the only correct way to answer that question is “yes.”

    Like most things in life, the discussion of plot versus character driven fiction is a slippery one.  It’s not black and white, and anyone who says otherwise is either too inexperienced or too myopic to realize that all the fun debates are taking place in the gray areas.

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  • Let Your Freak Flag Fly

    My youngest brother lives and works abroad.  It’s cool for him because he gets to travel all over the world, and he’ll often call me from different countries to let me know what’s going on in his life.  It’s fun for him because it gives him someone to share his adventures with, but it’s also fun for me because . . . well, I love messing with his head.

    You see, my brother is more than a little bit paranoid, and for whatever reason, he believes that while he’s jet setting across the globe, his cell phone calls are most likely monitored.  If not by the CIA, then probably some foreign entity who wants to keep track of him to make sure he’s not some sort of super spy.  (Trust me, he’s not.  I love my brother, but he’s got nothing on James Bond.)

    He loves it when I bring up the Dali Lama, while he’s traveling in China.  He enjoys it almost as much as when I chant, “What do we want? Oppression!  When do we want it?  Now!”  I can tell I’m helping because he rarely calls from China anymore.

    Now everything I just wrote . . . absolute gospel truth.  And yes, I know I’m a bit of a dick to my brother, but honestly, it’s the only way I know how to interact with the world, so at this point, I just go with it.  But when I think about these interactions, I’m sometimes surprised to find a shred of sentiment at their base.  For whatever reason, when my brother starts to get nutty about whether or not someone’s listening in on his phone conversations, it flips this little switch inside my head that makes me want to give a big middle finger to anyone who has an opinion about what I can or cannot say.

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  • Show Me Yours, and I’ll Show You Mine

    For a couple semesters in college, I tried my hand at being a photographer.  I was average at best, but enthusiasm carried me through the classes.  Of all the things that I learned from both a technical and aesthetic standpoint, the critique sessions are what stick with me.

    I have very clear memories of my professor standing in front of the far wall of the classroom where all the students’ assignments had been mounted.  He’d walk up to each photograph, hunch over to examine it, and scowl.  Then he’d invariably say the following, “You shouldn’t need a caption to tell me what it’s about.”

    I think about that phrase all the time.

    Maybe it’s because our defeats cut sharper memories than our victories.  Perhaps that’s why they motivate us so well, because they don’t easily fade.  I prefer to think that this particular memory endures because it was really great advice.  In essence, the professor was saying to any of us who were listening: show me, don’t tell me.

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  • Sing Me A Song, Mr. Writer Man

    When it comes to these blog entries, I feel like I spend a lot of time avoiding answering the question, or I at least take a boxer’s stick-and-move approach to the week’s topic.

    This time though, I’m going to answer it straight up . . . maybe. We’ll see how it goes.

    As far as non-literary sweet tooths go, I am a sucker for a good lyricist. If you can paint a vivid picture in just a few words and tell a damned good story in about four minutes or less, I’ll be a fan, regardless of whether or not you can carry a tune. That’s not to say I don’t love music. I absolutely do. But I think it’s okay to be in it for the words too.

    One guy who’s had my ear lately is Robert Earl Keen. He doesn’t have the greatest voice in the world, but the man can tell a story. He’s also funny when he wants to be, which gets you bonus points in my grade book. I’ve read that Keen writes a lot of his songs based on personal life experiences, and while I have no idea if this is true or not, the characters in his songs do have an authenticity that I admire and try to emulate in my own writing.

    Another trick of a good song writer is the illusion of shared experiences. If someone’s words can make you feel like you could have grown up in the same house with them, or at least on the same block, then you’ve just found a talented writer. Lyle Lovett does this to me over and over again. I grew up in rural Oklahoma, and I often recognize myself or my family in the songs he sings.

    One song of Lovett’s in particular describes the scene of a small boy out for a drive with his parents. He’s sitting in the front seat between his them, watching the countryside fly by, and there’s a cold can of beer in his dad’s lap “protected by only a small, thin brown paper sack.”

    Setting aside the legal no-no’s of this scene, I was that boy, and the moment I heard that line, I could picture it in my head. Lovett had me, and I was going to follow that song until to its end, no matter where it took me.

    I want to do that to my readers. If I can get them to believe they know me, that we are somehow alike, I believe that illusion of camaraderie might keep them reading as I stumble through the mechanics of what I’m trying to say. Nostalgia is a powerful thing, and people like to reminisce, even if it’s about things that are so very wrong.