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  • Murder Limit

    The sirens blared, and Frank could feel the strength draining out of his arms.  “Unbelievable,” he muttered, setting the axe down next to the body of his former coworker.  He tried to kick the severed arm back into place, hoping the officer wouldn’t notice if he took no more than a passing glance at the scene.  It wasn’t working; the protruding thumb was preventing it from rolling.  With a scowl, he abandoned the attempt, instead trying to look as nonchalant as possible as the officer approached.

    “How can I help you today, officer?” Frank said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

    “Well, it looks to me like we’ve got a murder in progress,” he said, pulling out a pencil and a pad of paper from his breast pocket.

    “What?  No…” Frank said, kicking the dirt with his boot.  He tried to avert his gaze, lest the officer see the worry in his eyes.  Even that proved too suspicious, however.

    (more…)

  • Fallow Fields

    If you look through my journals for the past ten years or so, they will all say the same thing. February sucks, I’m not writing a thing, I’m not reading a thing, it’s too cold to go outside, all I do is go to work and watch crap television and go to bed at an hour where all the other grownups are thinking about heading out to spend time with friends. Why can’t humans hibernate, I wail, and would somebody please come wake me up when it’s spring? This year was no different.

    It’s a terrible, empty feeling when I can’t write. I’ll look at a writing prompt: “The color blue.” “Romance is in the air.” “What is your favorite TV show and why?” and not be able to write a single word. “The color blue— what does that even mean?”

    Worst of all is not being able to read, nothing more complicated than Facebook updates and aggressively inoffensive lifestyle blogs. I’ll pick out a book, something highly recommended, something I know I should like, and midway through each paragraph I’ll find myself staring at a blank patch of air in the middle distance, with no clue what I just read. Maybe, maybe, if the book is an old favorite I’ll be able to concentrate on it. “Reader” is an integral part of my identity. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, and not being able to hurts.

    I’m not kidding about the hibernation, either. In February all I want to do is lie under a lasagna stack of blankets and cats and stare at the back of my eyelids, mind totally blank. I’m not thinking. I’m not meditating—meditating would require me to do something. I’m just switched off for a while. About the only thing that will get me out of bed is when I have to pee, or I have to turn off the clock radio because they’re playing Garrison Keillor again.

    The thing is, I know there’s something going on back there, deep in my subconscious. All my creative energy is going somewhere, working hard on something. I’m just not allowed to see it yet.

    Then March peeks around the corner and things begin to get better. It’s still light our for a bit when I get home from work. The season softens from Frostbite to Mud. Daylight Savings Time arrives and without changing a thing I’m suddenly living an adult human schedule. I begin to read again, write again, outline and plan and plot and speak with my imaginary friends again.

    Things will get better. They always do. There are the faintest green shoots in fallow fields.

  • Covers

    Johnny Cash covers NIN. Hurt is the best cover of the last 20 years.
    Johnny Cash covers NIN. Hurt is the best cover of the last 20 years.

    There’s a tradition in rock music of learning your favorite songs note for note and then playing them for money in a bar band. Freebird. Smoke on the Water. Johnny B. Goode. I learned ‘em all. Smoke was the one I liked playing best and these were the tip of the iceberg for me as a bass player learning my instrument. I loved Sting, Geddy Lee, Chris Squire, Paul McCartney and I tried to learn from all of them and more.

    I learned a lot of songs. All the ‘standards’ of rock music. I got pretty good at playing the bass guitar in a number of different styles. I wasn’t on par with any of my heroes, but I was okay. Later, after years of playing I wrote songs and my bands played them. We even played them in popular venues alongside the covers. One band did a whole set of covers at an open mic night, closing with Werewolves of London much to the amusement and consternation of the hipsters in the audience. That was fun but it didn’t win us any fans. Didn’t matter.

    As a writer of prose, that kind of ‘covering’ of someone else’s material is called plagiarism. It’s frowned upon.

    So where do writers get the same kind of training and trials by fire as musicians?

    Fan fiction is a start. And that got me wondering if there were professional ‘covers’ like Rob Zombie doing We’re an American Band or Johnny Cash doing Hurt and making it his own?

    Stephen King covered himself by approaching the same story as himself and as his alter ego, Richard Bachman. (I preferred the Bachman story, by the way.) And retellings of origin stories are commonplace in comic books. Marvel Comics even relaunched their entire universe as Ultimates which spawned their current slate of very, very popular films. Essentially these are ‘covers’. So are remakes of films.

    But the writer of prose doesn’t get to do this. Why? Wouldn’t it be interesting, say, to have an entire collection of short stories where various writers retell selected short stories of Ray Bradbury?

    Probably not. See I think readers are more protective of their prose than any other artist or creator. Well maybe not as protective as the fine art world where those who ‘cover’ a painting are called forgers. Anyway, you see the point?

    It’s impossible for writers of prose to learn in the same way that rock musicians do, except for fan fiction. Maybe. Can you think of a popular example in fan fiction?

    How about Fifty Shades of Grey? Fan fiction cover. Completely.

    There’s no begrudging here, there’s no sour grapes over any of this. I’m asking questions, looking for answers. I’m talking about the differences between the arts. Comedians are allowed impressions, actors channel other actors who’ve played the role before but writers aren’t supposed to cover stories that have inspired them. At least not in public.

    Is that fair?

    No, it isn’t. But that’s part of what makes writing so much fun, the challenges that we have to overcome to tell the story we want to tell.

  • Paternity

    She had written the letter on pretty pink stationary and folded it into perfectly creased thirds. Each penstroke was precise, her handwriting as uniform as a font. It was so type-A, so her, that he felt fond even while he wanted to throw it away and pretend he’d never read it.

    All the same, he waited a day before climbing into the car with his stomach tied in knots. The letter included all the things you didn’t want to hear from an old friend: terminal, not much time, wish I didn’t have to write you. And then there was that one thing you didn’t want to hear from an ex-girlfriend: You need to come take him. My sister and my mother can’t take care of him, and he’s yours too.

    Ben had laughed. “Be glad, man! She could have spent the last thirteen years garnishing your wages, and instead you just have to put in five years of dad duty.”

    Ben had not been invited along for the trip to Sheboygan.

    The problem with visiting a terminal ex-girlfriend to demand a paternity test — other than the obvious — was the four-hour roadtrip with no company but his thoughts. In the first hour he planned an angry rant. What business of hers was it to keep this from him, and then demand he step in when she was unable? She had always been selfish. His needs had always taken the backseat.

    In the second hour that faded into sympathy, and a strange longing he hadn’t felt since their break-up was about eight months old. He imagined her heavily pregnant when he had finally finished up mourning and gone out with Cynthia or Cindy or Candi. If he had known she was pregnant, he would have mourned at least another few months. If he had known she was pregnant, he would have tried harder. (Probably. He wanted to believe it, anyway.)

    They had argued about children toward the end, locked in a disagreement of you’re too irresponsible and you’re too uptight. But he would have been a real father if she’d given him the chance. He should’ve sought her out instead of letting her leave while he licked his wounds.

    The third hour was all about the child, the mysterious he. No words as to what kind of kid he was. Was he smart like his mother? Did that mean he was bossy and uncompromising like her too? Who would he look like? Would he be angry that his father was demanding proof of paternity? Was he fat? Raising a fat teenager seemed like a more daunting task than any the rest of it. His brother had been fat growing up, until he blew his brains out at 23 in their grandmother’s garage.

    By the fourth hour he was sick of himself and his life and his imaginary son. He listened to podcasts on his phone instead of thinking.

    The sun hung low in the mid-evening sky when he arrived at the address on the letter. My mother is taking care of me. You’ll find us there. He paused at the doorstep, eyeballing the perfectly white wicker furniture. The house was silent, but her mother’s house always had been tomb-like. The woman didn’t own a TV. Listening to the radio was something of a special treat for Mrs. Cardozo.

    He went back to the car to get the envelope from his glove box. It was the right address. He brought it back with him and worked up the nerve to knock.

    The door opened almost instantly. Her mother was still thin and narrow, with shoulders like corners on her short frame. She stood there in her immaculately pressed slacks and wrinkle-free blouse, with a tissue in hand and puffy red eyes. Somehow, she still managed a glare for him. “Alan.”

    “Mrs. Cardozo.” He held up his envelope, as though that might explain everything. When she didn’t speak, he said, “I got a letter from Delia about — ”

    “She is dead now.”

    The post date on the envelope was just two days past. When she said there wasn’t much time, he had assumed she meant long enough for closure. “Wow. She really waited until the last minute to tell me.”

    Mrs. Cardozo’s stare could have withered plants, and he considered himself much less hardy than most household greenery.

    “I… Is he here? She said you can’t take care of him.”

    Mrs. Cardozo nodded. “She was correct. Follow me.” She stepped aside to let him in. Her home was immaculate at ever, though the signs of recent sickness showed. Pill bottles on the distant kitchen counter, an IV rack in the hallway as he followed her to the back of the house. “I kept him in her room.”

    “Where she died? You can’t just leave him there!”

    “He did not want to leave her. Edite and I are both allergic. I cannot have his hair all over the house.”

    He stopped short as she opened the door. “Allergic?”

    The cat looked up from a bed that had been stripped of the linens. The room smelled exactly like a hospital, but there were pictures and flowers all over the bedside tables, and a book with a marker three-quarters of the way through.

    Never before had he experienced rage and relief at the same time. It manifested as an odd hiccup.

    “I’ll get his things. I expect you will not stay for her funeral?”

    Fucking right I’m not staying for the fucking funeral, he almost said, as he remembered how much less stressful life was without her in it. “This isn’t my cat.” It looked as prim and ill-tempered as his former owner, though it had the most forlorn little meow when their eyes met.

    Mrs. Cardozo stepped past him into the room, and plucked one photo from the nightstand. She held it out without comment.

    They had been so young, now that he looked at them together. He hadn’t kept any of their photos; he had expected her to burn hers as well. Though he could see why she kept it. They had also been happy, and she held the little furball of a kitten as proudly as any new mother.

    He looked at the cat again. He had named their kitten Mr. Fuzzy before putting it in that little birthday box, because he had devoted more of his time to drinking than being clever in those weird post-grad years. He hadn’t thought more than a few days in advance, let alone that the thing would live 13 years with a name like Mr. Fuzzy. “That thing? I picked him up at a pet store. I didn’t think — ”

    “You never did,” Mrs. Cardozo said.

    He texted Ben from the car. I had forgotten how goddamn serious Delia was. With that done, he buckled the cat carrier safely into the passenger seat.

  • Are Writers Role Models?

    burroughsThe University of Kansas recently acquired several items from the estate of William S. Burroughs, including the working materials for Last Words. This is a major deal for the University. The journals will provide a great source for scholars researching Burrough’s work, and will bring attention to the university. Burroughs lived in Lawrence for the last fifteen years of his life, and this would seem like a significant local connection.

    Burroughs is a polarizing figure within literature. Some critics considered him a genius and others considered him a hack. Regardless, he influenced a variety of artists, including writers and musicians. When I read the press release, I was excited for the University. Even though Burroughs is not in my area of literary scholarship, I was excited for Lawrence.  While the attention often goes to basketball this time of year, Lawrence has a thriving arts scene that includes the literary arts. We have several writers groups while most communities are lucky to have one. Besides Burroughs, Lawrence has been home to several prominent writers, most notably Langston Hughes. I filed the news away under the “Cool…good to know” section of my brain, and didn’t think much of it until a letter to the editor in a recent edition of the local paper. (more…)

  • Closure

    “I’m –

     

    “I’m Done,” he said and set the glass down on the painfully white bar in the more painfully white and other wise featureless room. “I’m finally well and truly done.” He turned the glass around completely twice.

    He couldn’t recall having put on a white suit yet he wore one now. In fact, he’d never owned a white suite in all his one hundred and seventeen years.. No tie, though. Disappointment welled up in him at that. He should have a tie. No one wore ties any more, they’d all forgotten what it meant to be businesslike. Now they all wore business casual.

    Something blue, maybe. He liked blue ties.

    Are you?

    Surprised, he answered without thinking. “Am I what?” He moved away from the bar and tried to take in the entire room.

    Are you capital-d Done?

    “Oh.” The question was aggressive in a way he hadn’t expected. The voice was unfamiliar, too. He considered the question. “Yes.

    “Yeah, I’m Done. I drank the whisky. I’m finished with all that.”

    And the people you’ve hurt in the process? What about them? Don’t they get to say goodbye?

    “They’re being well-compensated.” He frowned. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

    This is the Waiting Room. Everyone here is waiting for something. (more…)

  • The Kick-Ass Writer (Book Review)

    Every word smith needs, from time to time, a reference, a remedy for writer’s block, or a fresh perspective. The Kick-Ass Writer can do all of these things and does it in a way that is unique to its author, Chuck Wendig.

    (more…)

  • Handwriting Your Novel Part 3: Comfort and Legibility

    The number one comment I get from people when they see me handwriting large blocks of text is, “I could never do that! My arm would fall off!” Basically, they’re afraid of pain.

    Wimps.

    Like any physical skill, you have to practice, you have to prep, and you have to use an appropriate technique. Let me give you my A+ Rule #1 for avoiding 99.94% of all handwriting problems.

    Slow the fuck down.

    If you’re writing too fast, you’re scribbling and you’re going to tense up. You’re going to hold your pen too hard, you’re going to curl up over your notebook like a gargoyle with osteoporosis, and your handwriting will look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Slow your roll.

    “But wait,” you cry in existential angst. “I can’t possibly write as fast as the thoughts come! I’ll lose words!” To which I reply, “So what?”

    Your words will wait. The stampede of your words will circle back to stampede in front of you all over again. Some may escape, never to be seen again, but they’ll be replaced with other words. Better words. You’ll never be able to write, or type, or dictate as fast as thought. Stop thinking of it as a footrace—when it’s really a flirtation.

    My final word about pain is this: if any part of this hurts, you’re doing it wrong. You need to figure out what it is and change your technique. You might need to take a break, or sit in a different chair, or adjust the height or angle of your desk, or try a different pen, or even just get up and take a nice jog in the park for a while.

    You can sit or stand, doesn’t matter, as long as your back is straight and you’re comfortable. Do not hunch over your notebook like a dragon guarding his hoard. Sit up tall, feet on the ground or a footrest [0]. Office chairs are office chairs for a reason—they’re designed to support you for long-term sitting. But you can still use the dining room table, the couch, the comfy chair, or even in bed, as long as you can sit up fairly straight. Prop yourself up with pillows if you have to [1].

    You will need a hard surface, or at least a hard backed notebook. If you’re at a desk or table, that’s great. Otherwise, I recommend heading down to the craft store and picking up a good-sized lap desk, the kind where the pillow is a bean bag. They’re not terribly expensive and they add a lot of flexibility to your work space. I like the larger ones so my notebook doesn’t hang too much over the edge.

    For that matter, if you are using a desk/table/kitchen counter, clear that sucker off. Give yourself some room to spread out; you might find you’re more comfortable with your notebook farther away rather than stabbing you in the chest.

    A hundred years ago, professional copyists used a slanted desk for writing all day in relative comfort. I would personally love to have an adjustable drafting table, but unless I can find a nice one in the dumpster, it’s not going to happen. Some modern handwriting coaches recommend using a tabletop slant board. You can spend a couple of hundred to buy a nice one, DIY an ugly one for cheap, or shake all the beans in your lap desk to one side and plop it down on your tabletop.

    If your hand is cramping up, you’re probably holding your pen too tightly. If this is a habit, you may have to consciously retrain your grip, but it could also be that you’re using the wrong pen shape— too fat, too skinny, too heavy, too light, too cushiony, not cushiony enough…

    Another mistake leading to hand cramps is making your fingers do all the work. Your fingers are controlled by little muscles in your hand and forearm, which are great for precise movements but tire very easily. You want to use the larger muscles in your arm and shoulder to put your hand in the right position, and then your fingers form each letter. If the muscles in your shoulders and arms are tense, you’ll lose comfort and legibility.

    Take regular breaks to rest, roll your wrists and hands, stretch out your nick, and generally change position, particularly when you’re just starting out. You’ll need to get into condition before beginning any marathon writing sessions.

    I don’t know anybody who actually likes their handwriting. That’s because most of us try to write too fast and just scribble. I’ve noticed that a person with very neat handwriting takes the time to carefully draw each letter. Writing slowly and beautifully is a habit they’ve developed over their lifetime.

    Some people bemoan cursive as a dying art. I call bullshit. Cursive is supposed to be faster and neater, but it drives me nuts— there’s all those extra loops and backtracing. Today’s standard is more of a half-joined up print where you join letters when it makes sense and lift your pen otherwise.

    You can download all sorts of handwriting practice sheets aimed at homeschoolers, but I would avoid these. They’re boring. Instead, remember Rule #1, and practice on things like grocery lists.

    At some point you are going to want to input your writing into a computer. At first blush, this seems to be a dull time waster. However, this is actually a great opportunity to give your manuscript a close reading. Once you’ve typed it in, it’s easy to rearrange sentences and paragraphs and adjust your word choices. Typing is a chance to write a second, and usually vastly improved, draft.

    A typing stand, or a copyholder, is a must. Typing stands, which hold your notebook up at an angle where you can see it, used to be standard office equipment, but they’re harder to find now. A cat destroyed mine, but I discovered that a small tabletop easel that I bought at a craft store for another project works just great.

    Basically, try a bunch of stuff out until you find out what works. And happy handwriting!

    [0] Especially for short people. You can fake a footrest out of a couch cushion in an emergency, but my favorite inexpensive expedient is to duct-tape a stack of phone books or newspapers together.
    [1] Assuming you haven’t already used the pillows to build a blanket fort, which would be a cool writing space.

  • Old Devil Moon

    71UxQ8v6SQLPatryk Abramczyk should have been shackled to the concrete wall in his basement. Instead, he sat in the dining room of a crippled cruise ship. His wife Becky sat across from him, dressed to the nines, despite not showering for a week. Her eyes shimmered on the razor thin breaking point of tears. Patryk admired her strength. Becky’s inflexible nature tried him, at times. Today, eating peanut butter on white bread in their formal attire, it provided stability on the otherwise stormy ocean. As she had said, “The jazz combo still comes out and plays every night. They play the part. We should, too.”

    Patryk took a bite out of his sandwich. The bread tasted as dry as cured concrete. The earthy smell of peanut butter momentarily pushed aside the heady aroma of Becky’s favorite perfume. Patryk wasn’t sure if she wore a bit too much out of self-consciousness, or if the change had begun. So many of the symptoms–the heat, the skin tension, the grinding teeth–were indicators of stress. Becky was his rock. When he prepared for a particularly difficult part, she stood by him. When the change was particularly hard, Becky would sit in a chair across the room from where he convulsed in shackles, singing “The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar–”

    “Excuse me, Mr. Abram?” (more…)

  • Appreciation: Welcome to Night Vale

    Joseph Fink's wonderfully odd, off-kilter creation is a piece of art that's irresistible.
    Joseph Fink’s wonderfully odd, off-kilter creation is a piece of art that’s irresistible.

    I’d heard about this podcast called Welcome to Night Vale from several friends over the last few months. As is usual for me, I came to the party later than everyone else but that’s kind of the beauty of podcasts. Try one and there are more and more to download and check out.

    After I listened to the first one, I scratched my head and thought about what I’d just heard. It was strange and beautiful and reminded of — I didn’t know what. So I cued up the next one. And the one after that.

    Are you familiar with Welcome to Night Vale? If not, dear readers, it’s presented as a community radio broadcast with the sonorous voice of Cecil telling you what’s happening in the desert town of Night Vale. There’s sports reports, traffic reports and weather. We’ll get to those in a bit.

    The first thing I thought was that Night Vale was a town a lot like David Lynch’s and Mark Frost’s Twin Peaks. It’s peopled with interesting, mysterious characters like Hiram McDonald, the Faceless Old Woman Who Lives In Your House, interns who mysteriously die or disappear and organizations like the Sheriff’s Secret Police. It’s the organizations that make Night Vale even weirder than Twin Peaks.

    It took me about four episodes to decide that Welcome to Night Vale also had a distant relationship with The Twilight Zone with jets disappearing and reappearing inside the school gymnasium, pterodactyls menacing the town via a rip in the fabric of space/time and any number of other incidents that draw the scientist Carlos to town to investigate.

    Ah, Carlos. Cecil tells us how perfect he is, how melodious the man’s voice is. Quickly, Cecil tells us he’s in love with Carlos and the courtship is on.

    But that didn’t tell me what the missing element was for me. And then I was struck as if by thunder: Welcome to Night Vale recalled to mind the bizarre and wonderful Mister X comic created by Dean Motter. Almost to a ’T’. You probably aren’t familiar with Mister X.

    Go ahead, look up that comic. It’s absolutely worth your time to seek it out and read if you already listen to Welcome to Night Vale.

    Okay. What I haven’t mentioned yet is that there are places in Night Vale that are off-limits, more mysterious characters lurking in the background and lots more unusual events occurring than anywhere else in the U.S. This makes the UFO conspiracy location of Area 51 look like  a kindergarten playground. The other comparison that needs to be put in play here is that the podcast is presented seriously and the laughs come from uncomfortable truths, ala the Mama’s Family sketches from the old Carol Burnett Show. It’s all tempered by the normality of all the strange things.

    Night Vale would be an interesting, terrifying place to live.

    But the weather would always be interesting. On the broadcast it’s a song by an artist I’ve never heard of. Usually it’s more than just curious music, too.

    Finally, and I have to wrap up here, I want to tell you that if you like the weird, the mysterious, the off-beat, you will probably like the podcast. Best of all – it’s free! Download and listen at your leisure.

    Listen closely though, so you can identify which surveillance helicopter is which. Your life may depend on it.