The Confabulator Cafe

Blog

  • Write for Yourself; Edit for Others

    I never worried about judgment of my writing before I started to submit my work. As I continue to put myself out there, and now that I have my first short story published, I find myself suddenly paranoid about what people are going to think when they read my stuff.

    I don’t think it ever really crossed my mind before, though, to worry what the people I know would think of the subject matter of my stories. Well, in the sense that they’d be offended, anyway. My main concerns about judgment were more about whether they’d think my writing was horrible.

    I don’t fear the horrible writing criticism much anymore, mostly because I know that I’ve grown a great deal as a writer over the years and most of what I write isn’t horrible. Also because I know I write better than a lot of bestsellers these days, so obviously there is no accounting for good writing anymore.

    Alas, I digress. (more…)

  • Care Enough Not to Care

    For the first couple years I was in college, I spent the summers working at my hometown newspaper. It was a small weekly publication, and it introduced me to deadlines, editing, and how much I didn’t know about writing.

    It was a great experience, and I seriously considered not going back to college after that first summer. I was addicted to being in the know, even if my sphere of knowledge was largely limited to the county around me. I also loved feeling like the words I wrote mattered to someone, and I held the belief that I was part of some larger fraternity of journalists, with whom I shared a code of ethics and a responsibility to the community I represented.

    I was nothing if not an idealist.

    During that first summer, I remember my mom asking me what I’d do if I had to report on something that involved a member of our family. Her question went something like this: If it was bad, you wouldn’t write about it would you? I think she was hoping for a different answer than the one I gave.

    (more…)

  • Let the Peasants Have Their Pitchforks

    No one can write with another person looking over their shoulder, especially one that isn’t really there. If you constantly ask yourself what other people are going to think, your writing is going to be crap.

    Art is about letting go and not worrying about anything, even your own judgement. Conscience? Morality? Leave that baggage at the door. That isn’t to say that every passage should read like a Dear Abby column out of Soddom and Gomorrah, but if it heads there, for the love of salt pillars, don’t stop it.

    There will be plenty of people willing to censor you. Don’t do it to yourself. Not during that first draft. What if your mom reads it? So what if she does? Your boss? Let him. Your friends? They aren’t friends if they don’t.

    (more…)

  • What If My Mom Reads This? (Week Ending Sept 8)

    As writers, our imaginations often run wild. We can imagine everything from a chaste kiss to passionate lovemaking. We can envision acts of terrorism as easily as we dream up acts of heroism. The only thing that limits an imagination is one’s own restraint.

    Writers often walk the edge of what’s socially acceptable. Sometimes we delve into the shadows and make readers uncomfortable. And when we dance with the darker side, we run the risk of letting those we love see a part of ourselves we don’t like to admit we have — like graphic sex scenes or descriptions of unspeakable horror.

    This week, we’re asking the writers in the Cafe for their advice. How do writers separate what they write from what people think about the writer?

    Some write whatever they want without fear of reprisals. Others adopt pseudonyms and hide behind anonymity. And still others resort to self-censorship to keep their friends and family from freaking out.

    How about you? When you’re writing, do you censor yourself to keep your parents from dropping your name from the family will? Or do you write anything you want and let the chips fall where they may?

    Until next week,

    The Cafe Management

  • Are there any lines you won’t cross as a writer?

    This week at the Cafe we wrote stories based on what might be considered a controversial painting. With all of the violence in the news lately, certain things seem to slide into the “taboo” category. Movie producers and book publishers might shy away from printing certain subject material, deciding that there are lines they won’t cross, but what about writers? Are there lines even we won’t cross in our writing? It might be as simple as not crossing a line because something has been drastically overdone, but it could also be a moral or ethical line, as well. How do we limit ourselves?

    Paul Swearingen

    As a writer of YA fiction, I’ve barely crossed the “paranormal line” and will probably never pander to the lowest common denominator by including werewolves, vampires, unicorns, and the like in my work. Manipulating reality and history is a lot more fun for me than creating silly beasts out of nothing.

    Amanda Jaquays

    There are two types of things I write, stuff my parents will see and stuff my parents won’t see. Ever. Needless to say, there are quite a few more uncrossable lines in the stuff my parents will see. Fan-based writing that isn’t intended for publication is a whole different story and if there is a line that I haven’t crossed it’s just because I haven’t had the opportunity yet. Of course, all these lines go out the window halfway into the bottle of wine… and that’s why I edit.

    Ted Boone

    I’m not loathe to cross many borders, but I do struggle with graphic scenes, be they violent, creepy, or sexual. Putting that much intense imagery on the page for others to read has always been difficult for me.

    Larry Jenkins

    I have a soft spot for kids, so I’m pretty sure I’ll never write anything that depicts children being victimized. To give you an idea of how strongly my feelings run in this area, I don’t believe the death penalty is an effective deterrent for those who might commit murder, but I’m fully in favor of it when it comes to crimes against children. As far as I’m concerned, if you mess around with kids, you’ve forfeited your ticket to the get-to-keep-on-living show.

    Sara Lundberg

    If I’m writing for myself, I don’t think there is a line I won’t cross: anything that makes me uncomfortable as a writer is a way to challenge myself and become better. That being said, anything that might be controversial or offensive, or even an idea that has been beaten to death but I needed to get out of my system, would never see the light of day.

    Kevin Wohler

    I think every writer has a line of comfort. For me, I don’t like watching, reading, or writing about people torturing other people (animals and sentient alien life included). Movies like Saw or Hostel really turn me off. I know I could never write like that. I think that’s also why I don’t like to read/write true crime.

    Jack Campbell, Jr.

    If there is a line, I haven’t found it.  Horror author Jack Ketchum wrote a great essay called “Splat Goes the Hero.” It’s about honestly recording what is happening in the story and “not looking away.” I really bought in to that idea. I will write whatever the characters show me, no matter how horrible or gruesome. When I re-write, I might tone it down. It’s easy to take stuff out. It’s almost impossible to do the opposite. Lines are for editors and publishers. My job is to write, not censor myself.

    Jason Arnett

    Short answer: Probably. Longer, perhaps more nebulous answer: Probably. Whether consciously or not, I haven’t written anything that’s ever made me uncomfortable. That said, when I’m writing for public consumption I try to balance what goes in with social mores as they exist. It’s not necessarily a restriction, more self-editing. When I’m writing solely for myself or for a targeted (read: private) audience, there are no limits. Well, I suppose that’s not strictly true. I can’t imagine what I wouldn’t write if it fit the story, but I might try to work around a subject that might violate those social mores.

  • Rules (Flash Fiction)

    “Well, that’s it,” Nigel said. “Time to shut it down.” He clicked at his keyboard and the image on the monitor froze, the man towing the bright red wagon caught mid-step as he headed towards the open doorway. “Want me to prep another run?”

    “Actually, no,” Raymond answered. “I want to see where this run is going.”

    Nigel pointed at the screen. “This? This is our latest model opting for the shotgun before heading outside. We both know exactly where it’s going.”

    “There are no wrong answers,” Raymond said.

    (more…)

  • Human Interest (Flash Fiction)

    He sets the toys carefully aside on the floor, revealing the shotgun hidden beneath them. His fingerprints paint red smudges as he brushes the doll’s synthetic curls and remembers the little girl who called her baby.

    His shirt sticks to his wound. He’s tired from the walk but numb to the pain. It’s probably too late for him — definitely too late for her. It’s not too late to make a scene, to ensure their senseless deaths aren’t hidden halfway through the local news.

    The wagon wheels creaking behind him, he limps into the assembly.

    Let them see what they missed.

  • Culvert (Flash Fiction)

    Colin was surprised at how heavy the shotgun was. No one was going to understand until it was all over, but he couldn’t just do nothing. He dragged his sister’s wagon into the house and left mud tracks on the dining room’s white carpet. He’d get it for that, but he had to do something.

    Mom would have to understand.

    *****

    “Where are you going?” His mother stopped cleaning the potatoes in the sink and wiped her forehead with the back of her purple gloves.

    (more…)

  • Witness (Flash Fiction)

    Galen listened to the patrons murmuring their approval as they walked through the gallery. He heard the same conversations, the same trite observations. “Bold choice of color.” “Strong brush strokes.” “Interesting choice of subject.” He wanted to leave and repress the night’s memory with a bottle of whiskey.

    Becky by Dave DeHetre
    “Becky” by Dave DeHetre. Used with permission of the artist.

    A light touch on his elbow alerted him to Amanda’s presence. He breathed in the smell of her perfume, Vanilla Lace.

    “You’re not going anywhere,” whispered Amanda into his ear.

    “What makes you think I was leaving?”

    “You have that look. Your left hand gets twitchy when you’re thinking of using your cane.”

    (more…)

  • Trapped in a Doll’s Body (Flash Fiction)

    I wanted to cry out for him not to leave, but my lips were just stitches on fabric.  He was the best brother a girl could ask for, but he was going to get himself killed.

    When I was seven, I fell into a magical coma. I accidentally triggered the warding spell in my uncle’s study and nobody knew how to contact him to get him to reverse the spell. For as long as I could remember, it was just me and my brother living in our uncle’s house. Our parents left when I was a baby, leaving behind a stuffed tabby cat and two children. Suddenly becoming legally responsible for our well-being didn’t change our uncle’s ways.

    He was never around, always off at some overseas conference or another. He really couldn’t be bothered to raise us—didn’t have the time or desire—so he left us to the tender care of the cook after I started kindergarten. Mrs. Toffee was a sweet and caring lady, but she left for the day after dinner was over and cleaned up, and we were left to our own devices. We were expected to finish our homework and go straight to bed, but that rarely ever happened as planned. (more…)