Author: ajunge

  • Time, and a Total Digression

    They say if you want to get something done, give it to a busy person. They have the rad time management skills to make it happen.

    I live alone. I have complete control of my time and attention. There is nobody shouting, “Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!Mom!Momomomomomom!!!” in my ears. [0] I haven’t had cable TV for more than a year, so I should be writing all the time, right?

    Right…..

    My secret to getting anything done, in fact, relies on three tools. A well-crafted ToDo list, a deadline, and a kitchen timer. If I get all the errands on my ToDo list done by 1:00, I’ll have the afternoon to be lazy. Writing gets put on the ToDo list, just like laundry, dishes, taking out the recycling, returning books to the library, and so forth.

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  • It’s All About Storytelling (Again)

    Humans are a storytelling species. Stories are how we make sense of the world. Stories turn raw data into intelligence. We cannot make decisions without telling ourselves what stories we would like to make true.

    My federal counterparts hire contractors to do the information collection and repackaging work that I do for the state. On occasion we share information on points of mutual interest, and I’ve seen some of these contractor-generated reports. And I gotta say, I’m much better at it than the feds are.

    Why? Because I never forget that I’m telling a story [0].

    I have a template that I follow which uses your basic inverted pyramid structure. We begin with generalities: what is the issue and why do we care about it? I’ll introduce the stakeholders and run through the issue history from a couple of different angles, and the deeper I get into the document, my descriptions get more specific. I wrap up with conclusions and recommendations. Pretty basic, right? By the end you know the story– what is the problem, how did it get there, who is to blame, and where do we go from here. You probably learned this in English class.

    On the federal level, though, it’s all about getting paid, and they’re not ashamed of it. The first page of the document usually describes the contract, and every section thereafter is in contract order [1]. The document is specifically designed so that you can lay it on the table side-by-side with the contract and check off that every contractual obligation has been satisfied, in order. Good job, well done, you’ll have a check in 30 days.

    The contractors work hard. They use the same resources I do, mostly, and collect the same data. They are without a doubt dedicated and passionate about their work. But the structure of the contract precludes their ability to tell the story, and they write a report as a series of unconnected collections of data. They never even see the story, which means they can’t identify and fill plot holes, they never ask, “What if?” and they end up missing out on critical insights and promising lines of inquiry.

    I feel sorry for the federal project managers who have to read the reports and try to make decisions based on them. All the information is there, but the serious skull work of making sense of it all is yet to be done. One of the reasons I am careful to tell stories is because I know my bosses are busy people. They don’t have the time or the attention span to do a lot of synthesis. I have to lay it out in plain language, and the best way I know to do that is to tell a story.

    [0] It’s a factual story, and every point in it has to be backed up in reality somewhere, which often means a six-page memo has 200 pages of attachments.
    [1] Which would be fine if whoever wrote the contract knew how to structure a story. But they don’t.

  • Wherever I Go, There I Am.

    I know what kind of non-fiction I wouldn’t write.

    Academic or scholarly writing. Memoir or biography. Mainstream journalism. Gossip or tell-all. Anything that involves an interview.

    This week’s topic was my idea. I’m really interested in how my fellow Confabulators will answer. But I’m nearly stumped.

    I already write non-fiction for my job, and I like the kind of non-fiction I’m doing now. I like reading through diverse stacks of primary source material and synthesizing it for various audiences. I like learning the obscure history of common everyday things. Who was this guy? What did he do? How did he get involved in this situation? What is his relationship to the problem we’re trying to address now, sixty years after he died?

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  • The Maiden’s Heart

    Once upon a time, there was a maiden. She was young and fair, and according to the custom in the kingdom, as she grew her parents gave her a heart. This heart was made of blown glass in a rich, deep ruby color, bound with silver wire and hung from a silver chain. She filled its hollow with her hopes and dreams.

    In the same town there lived a young man. He was witty and charming, clever and handsome, and knew how to make people laugh, and he flirted with many of the young women of the town. The maiden caught his eye with her sweet ways and generous nature, her beauty and her lovely heart. Together they would walk along a river path, or dance in the town square, or sit under a tree and talk for hours. She felt fortunate to have such a handsome suitor.

    When she offered him her heart, she told him, “This is the most precious thing I have, and you must promise to take very good care of it.”

    He promised most solemnly, and she hung her heart around his neck for everyone to see. He gave her his own heart, and she thought her happiness was complete. But his heart was a false one, made of cardboard and cheap sequins, and filled with cigarette ash and high fructose corn syrup.

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  • Selling Out

    There comes a time in each person’s life when you have to give up on the dream of becoming a dot-com millionaire by thirty and take whatever job will keep a roof over your head and allow you to visit the dentist on occasion. If you’re really lucky, you’ll even earn enough to buy the expensive food— the kind that comes with both flavor and nutrition. So I write to order in exchange for money. If it’s a program manual or an annual report or a web page or a property history, I’ll write it because that’s what my employer needs. If I worked for somebody else, I’d be writing something else.

    Is writing for a salary a giant time suck that takes up energy and attention and creative juices? Yes, it is. Does it use up resources I could be using towards producing a pretentiously significant work of Great Art? Damn right it does. Bur here’s the secret, from someone who has been there— so is poverty. Dealing with the day to day hustle of surviving on no money is a giant, soul-killing hassle. I worked harder at being poor than I ever have at a day job, and while at the end I suppose that “my time was my own” to work on my own projects, I was perfectly happy to trade 40 hours or so a week for a modest yet sufficient paycheck.

    All that said, if I weren’t paid to write, would I still do so? Probably. I am first and foremost and from time immemorial a reader, and reading led me to a friend who led me to a friend who led me to Nanowrimo, which has led me to more friends, who led me here, to the Cafe. I find as I get older and inadvertently somewhat wiser, I have more things to write about, so let’s see where it goes from here.

  • Oh Dear. Another Learning Experience

    When we started the Confabulator Cafe a year ago, I was the rebel. I was going to be the one writer posting from the nonfiction perspective. After all, I am a nonfiction writer, it’s been buttering my bread for many years. In fact, looking back at my posts, there’s even one in which I pretentiously declare that I am too serious a writer to do anything so plebian as to submit a story for publication. [0]

    Yeah. Some days I need to just get over myself.

    The appeal to blogging for the Cafe is that it would require me to stretch myself, to commit to a long series of voluntary deadlines, and just release stuff out in the Universe and see if it flies [1]. Develop, in public, as a writer. In Cafe editorial meetings we talk about expanding our readership to beyond ourselves and maybe our immediate families. I sit quietly and try to pretend that I’m not glad that our readership is modest; that deep down, the idea the future employers can Google me already freaks me out. I haven’t even told my own mother about the Cafe [2].

    As far as developing as a writer, though, the most educational assignments have been the short stories. As I have stated repeatedly, fiction is not in my wheelhouse. Short form fiction, written within the stated limits of the Cafe, and posted online is so far out of my comfort zone that you can’t even see the soft, fluffy pillows and high-loft comforter and cats snoozing in front of the crackling fire from there. So safe. So dull.

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  • Sleeping Through Class

    I have a confession to make.

    I have not been a very consistent Confabulator Cafe reader.

    Because I have a life, and sometime between that and keeping up with Facebook and LOLcats posts, the Confabulator Cafe just keeps stacking up in my feed reader. I have to choose how to use my time— do I want to write for the Cafe, or do I want to read it? Pick one.

    And so, with a heavy heart and no small amount of guilt, every few months I declare blogroll bankruptcy and Mark All Read. No more Crunchy Betty. Sayonara Captain Awkward. Goodbye Unf*** Your Habitat.

    I expect things will be somewhat better from now on, though. I’ve taken up Editor Minor duties at the Cafe. Another year of Nanowrimo has reinforced bonds of friendship and resparked my interest in how other writers do their thing. I’ve reoriented my blogroll away from cute cat videos and more towards literature.

    We started this experiment a year ago. We’re still here. This exercise in group writing, which could easily have died of neglect well before the last frost date still has a dozen active participants. We still like one another, we’re each still posting pretty much every week, and we have yet to run out of things to write about. So let’s keep going and see how far this road will take us.

  • All the Whos in Whoville

    The very first book I learned to read on my own was How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I still love that book— I even have “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” on my iPod.

    I have the reputation of being the family Grinch. Not because I’m trying to ruin anybody else’s holiday, but because I can never think of anything to put on my Christmas wish list. The truth of the matter is that I have everything I need and most of what I want, and bringing anything else into the house just adds to the clutter. Or else it would be a purchase so idiosyncratic that I want to pick it out myself.

    Quite frankly, my idea of the perfect holiday is Thanksgiving, or Memorial Day, or maybe even the Fourth of July. You hopefully get to take the day off of work, get together with friends and family, cook an elaborate meal, and eat leftovers for a week. Perhaps there’s a parade, or a concert in the park. (more…)

  • The Graveyard, 1869

    The Graveyard — 1869

    Penelope Worthington walked, solitary, up the windswept hill to take refuge under the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. She wore the dove grey of half-mourning, and carried a basket, from which she took out a warm woolen shawl. She spread the shawl carefully on the grass and sat down, arranging her full skirts just so. From the basket she took bread, cheese, an apple, and slices of cold turkey and ham, and arranged them just as carefully in front of her. Finally a glass and a small bottle of wine. She filled the glass, and admired the way the light shone through the ruby depths.

    “It’s from your father, of course,” she remarked to her companion. “He’s been teaching me about wines.” She sipped. “Of course, he would tell me that red wine should be paired with beef or mutton, not chicken, but I think it will complement this cheese nicely.”

    She gazed over the rolling hills as the breeze tugged tendrils from her carefully arranged hair, as a lover might. Her eyes held an old grief, faded with time and as comfortable as a favorite dress.

    “I had a letter from Father yesterday. He wishes me to return to Hartford, to keep house for him, and perhaps look for a husband. I must consider carefully how to respond.”

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  • Gifts for Writers

    What about a $35,000 fountain pen? No?

    I will be the first to admit that I am not hugely excited by receiving gifts. Unless a gift is very useful or has a particular deep meaning for me, your basic gift shop tchotchke is just another goddamn thing I have to keep, use, display, maintain, clean, store, and eventually find a way to get rid of.

    For a writer, though, what better gift to give than an experience? What could be more useful, more versatile, than experience? The standard advice is, after all, “write what you know,” so gift them with direct, experiential knowledge.

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