The Confabulator Cafe

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  • Life and Limb

    My brother Tommy had always been twitchy. He was born wound tight, and growing up in our house hadn’t done the kid any favors.

    But when Tommy stumbled into Momma’s kitchen that day, pale faced and clutching the crumbled paper bag under one arm, the look in his eyes told me something was seriously wrong this time.

    Tommy hesitated in the doorway when he saw me. His eyes darted from me to Momma, but the old woman wasn’t going to be any help. I’d been sitting in her kitchen for going on half an hour now, and she’d only said a handful of words to me. Even now she kept her back to us, washing dishes in the sink, the scalding water turning her arms a bright, angry red.

    “Hey, bro,” Tommy finally said. His voice had a slight tremble in it, like he was fighting to keep it under control.

    “You coming in or not?” I asked.

    Tommy looked toward Momma again, but she was still deep in her own world of crazy. With a look of resignation, he closed the door and joined me at the table.

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  • Publishing Revolution

    It will come as no surprise to anyone, but the Internet is upon us. And with the absolute freedom allowed to us with instant communication from anywhere to anywhere, it was only a matter of time before the literature began to flow. Printing and publishing is evolving in ways that will change everything, again.

    It is now easier then ever for someone to share their creative work. People are able to make something, and share it to everyone on the planet with a push of the button. A story can go from the imagination to a screen ten thousand miles away quicker and easier then ever before.

    I imagine that hundred’s of years ago, people must have had similar feelings when German’s started printing books at lightening speed. Gone were the days of hand-copying books in a monastery one page at a time. With the invention of the printing press, the publishing world must have been turned on its head.

    No longer were books a special privilege of the wealthy. Literature could be distributed to everyone at record paces. Information was no longer controlled by a few people in charge. There are a lot of similarities between then and now.

    With electronic publishing, the power is, in theory, given to the writer. No longer is the creativity of writers restrained by the whims of a handful of publishers. Much how the printing press gave access to the masses to the world of books, electronic publishing gives us access to works that would have never seen the light of day just a few years ago.

  • Sensitive

    “This is beyond unorthodox.”

    The seller’s agent shook his head but didn’t unlock the front door of the house.

    “Gerry, I know,” the buyer’s agent said. Her blond hair blew across her face and she brushed it away. “I’ve never had anyone do this. I hope it’s not a trend.”

    “You know what it is? It’s that damn book by what’s-his-name… Anson.”

    The woman nodded. “Probably. You know they’re making a movie out of it?”

    He chuckled. It was a hopeless sound. Gerry looked at his watch and tapped its face. He’d made plenty of money selling real estate and even though it wasn’t a Rolex yet, it would be someday.

    “Maybe we should go see it together,” Jerry said.

    “What?”

    “That movie.”

    She paused. “Oh, I don’t know.”

    “I know you like me Jeri, and you know I like you.” He smiled. It was the smile that always closed the deal and he knew it. They were about the same age and had known each other for years.

    “Well…”

    “Think about it,” Gerry said. He pointed with his chin. “Here they come.”

    The little Ford, bright and shiny, well-kept, pulled into the drive. Both Gerry and Jeri had parked on the street. Jeri waited for them to get out of the car before approaching them.

    Gerry watched her interact with them and admired her skill in the situation. She’d probably spent less than four or five hours total with these people and she seemed as intimate as an old friend. She hugged the woman and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. They were maybe ten years younger than both Gerry and Jeri, and this was going to be their first home together.

    “Hello, again,” Gerry said, extending his hand when Jeri escorted the couple to the front door. “Good to see you Phil, Tara.” He shook hands with them both. “Are we waiting on —?”

    “Mrs. Vecsey,” Phil said. He was taller than Gerry, more muscular. “She chose to drive herself. Said she wanted to get a sense of the neighborhood.”

    “Well,” Gerry said, taking out the key to the house. “Let’s go inside, then, and wait for her. She knows the address?”

    Tara nodded. She was pretty, dark-skinned. Gerry decided she must be at least half-Japanese. Her enormous brown eyes lit up as he held the door for her.

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  • Listening for Gold

    Moleskine
    My old Moleskine notebook. I still carry it around in my backpack in case inspiration strikes.

    Trying to write as a dozen conversations circle around me is maddening at times. Other times it’s pure gold.

    I’m one of those people who prefers to write in complete silence or maybe with some quiet music (sans lyrics), but the pressures of my day job don’t afford me that opportunity very often. Instead, I find myself putting words on a page as the room roars with impromptu meetings, phone conversations, and smack-talk over an occasional game of foosball.

    But let’s be honest, listening is what writers are supposed to be doing. If we’re not listening to the world around us, we’re robbing ourselves — and our writing — of one-fifth of our sensory input. How else can we write genuine-sounding dialogue if we don’t pay attention to how people talk?

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  • I Can Do it All (in theory)

    Today I am supposed to talk about the most interesting research I’ve ever done for a story.

    One of my favorite things to do in life is to learn. I’d be a student forever if I never had to take tests (or pay tuition). I love to read to absorb knowledge and learn. This tendency has become more acute the older I get. I now read as many non-fiction books as I do fiction. The ratio went from never reading anything just for the sake of information, to maybe one or two a year, to maybe one a month, and now, I’m always reading one fiction book and one non-fiction book. Every other book I read is for information.

    Sometimes the facts I read about spring into story ideas. Sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes I end up using a writing project as an excuse to research something interesting.

    It’s a “chicken or the egg” type situation. It works both ways.

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  • They wasted time. You drafted a novel. I wrote a masterpiece.

    You type a word on the page, pick up the pencil, initiate the writing process. You hear the sentences in your head. You know the characters, the plot, the style, the voice will coalesce to something that resembles a novel by the end of the month. At least you hoped so.

    All NaNovelers know the difficulties of choosing a point of view and tense for a novel. One must strike the balance between straight-out memoir chronicle style and dry documentary; future tense is presumptive, but delightful at times; past tense was the novel default for years, but now perhaps present tense usurps it. And then the direction of the text depends so much on its pronouns. Shall “I” personalize the novel, perhaps too much, blur the lines between narrator and author? Can “you” participate in the novel as character and audience? Does a plural third-person narrator impose a false unity? And what of the glorious omniscient observer, the third person who knows and sees all but is no one?

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  • It’s Easier to Dream

    So, one morning I turned on PBS for the child, sat on the couch, and fell asleep. I’d love to give you a time of year or a month or anything, but this is happens so often that I could probably start every day of my life with the same line.

    When I startle awake, I remember one scene in particular: two heavy aircraft (air limo sort of nonsense, really) on a tight curve, racing around a building. As on pilot rams and cripples the other aircraft in an attempt to pull ahead of his bitter rival, he finds out there’s a baby in the crashing aircraft. He rushes to land, desperate to get the baby out, but the cops are already there when he gets down.

    If this sounds familiar, is should — it was the story seed that would become my NaNoWriMo 2012 novel.

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  • Enter the Dragon

    Renaissance festivals are somewhat odd places. Those who attend them, not to mention those of us who work them, are looking for something other, to see or hear or do or be something different than normal. At its best, Faire is where the world we have and the world that should be intersect. With corndogs and porta-potties.

    Crossroads are where magic happens.

    I’ve worked just about every job one can do at a Faire. I’ve squired the joust, sold sno-cones, been the Queen’s Lady-In-Waiting, hawked CDs and roses. I once did an entire seven week run playing a nun in the morning and pub wenching in the afternoon. Mostly these days I just fill in where I’m needed. I’ve considered business cards: Have Garb, Will Cover Privy Breaks. Which is how I ended up working the Helping Hounds Animal Shelter booth at the Lone Mountain Renaissance Faire. We provided bowls of water and treats for visiting dogs, showed off our adorably adoptable animals, handed out poop scoops, and solicited donations.

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  • Auditioning

    I’d been living in LA for three months now and still had yet to receive a single audition. I hadn’t even made the cut at open casting calls. The money I’d carefully scraped together to live on while I looked for work was long gone. I’d thought I had enough for six months. I could have lived for nine months on it back home. Longer if I’d been frugal with it.

    But everything was more expensive in LA. Even the coffee. Three months of showing up to casting calls with my hair perfectly styled and my makeup done. I was on my third can of hairspray for this month alone and my fourth tube of concealer. Costs added up.

    This was my last chance. If I didn’t land this audition I was going to have to admit that I couldn’t make it. I’d have to go home.

    That was unacceptable.

    There was no help for it. I was going to have to do whatever it took to land that role. Regardless of the consequences. I didn’t expect to get a major role. But it would be enough to get my name out there. Maybe land another role and then another. Soon I’d be in Hollywood films. An A-lister. But I had to land that first role.

    I dropped my last twenty into the hand of a photography student after reviewing the digital images. Perfect.

    I couldn’t go wrong with this. The casting director would have to give me the part.

    I clicked send on the email, “Consider me for your next movie.” Attached were a series of pictures ranging from a head shot to full nude.

    The next morning, I received a call.

     

  • Leather-Bound Beauties (I’m Talking About Journals, You Pervs)

    I recently watched a video of Stephen King talking to a group of university students. It was a question and answer type of thing, and at one point, the subject of keeping a notebook of ideas came up.

    If I’m remembering this correctly (and in the spirit of full disclosure, it’s completely possible I’m not), King said he didn’t have one. He took a survival-of-the-fittest approach when it came to his ideas. If something occurred to him that sounded like a decent story idea, he’d let it rattle around in his head for a while, along with whatever else was in there at the time.

    If the idea was persistent enough and kept presenting itself, he’d eventually get around to writing it. It was his way of letting the cream rise to the top.

    At this point, I’m going to state the obvious: I am not Stephen King . . . yet. (But I’m comin’ for you, old man. You best be keepin’ a lookout.)

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