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  • Artistic Endeavors in Granite and Clothespins

    What I love about writing, especially prose, is that when it is done well, it can accomplish many things at once. You can share a story, paint a precise character, address an overall issue, and create a work of verbal art, all at once.

    I am in love with the writing process, with the act of putting words on paper and seeing what happens. I love the feeling inside my brain while I am writing. I feel my brain swell comfortably, as it might feel if I were drunk, slightly disconnected from the physical world around me.

    When it is going well, there are few better feelings on Earth. I have never come away from a writing session and thought, “That was a waste of my time. I never should have sat down.”

    It isn’t that I have always been happy with what I have written. Sometimes, even though I pride myself on having a certain literary artistic quality about my writing, I write total crap. The characters don’t work, the story is contrived, my themes don’t connect, and my prose plods along like a drunken elephant.

    But the feeling of writing, the release of endorphins and miscellaneous bodily chemicals produces a sense of euphoria. If nothing quality is produced, I still get that feeling. Granted, it is much better when it is all working, when my fingers are flying and I know what they are leaving carved in their wake is made of granite, instead of clothespins and Elmer’s school glue.

    I’ve always thought that to be one of my strengths as a writer. I have a decent sense of metaphor and am extremely interested in the sound and feel of my writing. My prose is at its best when it is a work of art, rather than just a work of fiction.

    There is nothing wrong with genre writing. My favorite writers are genre-oriented. I write some genre fiction myself. In fact, I believe “literary fiction” can be written in any genre. Literary fiction hasn’t learned enough from genre fiction, and vice versa. But I have always seen writing as an artistic endeavor, rather than a storytelling process.

    My favorite lines on the page are those that leave an aftertaste. When you read them, it is as if you have tasted the delicate creation of a master chef. The syllables roll off your tongue in a way so tasty that it accents the theme and content of the work itself. When it all works together, theme, tone, and content interweave, creating a tapestry stronger for every thread that runs through it.

    This might come off as word snobbery. I don’t mean it this way. I firmly believe in what Hemingway said. We are all just apprentices in a craft with no masters. My particular interest in writing is total absorption of the theory behind the craft. I love reading about story structures, spiraling narratives, psychological profiles of classical characters, theories of theme development.

    Will any of this make me a better writer? Who knows? But it can’t hurt, and I enjoy the study and practice of it immensely.

  • The joy of writing (Week of 12 May 2012)

    As writers, we tend to split our focus between the technical aspects of the craft and the business side of things. We’re so busy thinking about what we’re writing or how we’re going to get published that we forget why we started writing in the first place.

    Some write for solace. Some to entertain. Others write to find something they can’t find anywhere else. We asked our writers this week what they get out of writing. They responded with stories about their strengths, their joys, and what makes them feel good about their writing.

    We hope their answers inspire you, as well as encourage you to think about your own writing and what you get out of it. Be sure to leave them comments and let them know why you write.

  • What’s your Day Job?

    Writers are a bit like superheros. Not all of us make money with our writing, so we have to hold down regular jobs while we fight crime in our off hours. So this week, we’ve asked the Confabulators what they do to pay the bills to support their writer alter-ego.

    Muriel Green

    I have had many jobs over the course of my life. Janitor, waitress, web designer, movie crew, but currently I am staying home with an infant.

    Sara Lundberg

    I’m administrative support at the University – which is basically a glorified secretary, but as everyone knows, secretaries are the ones who really run the office. So, not to brag, but I’m a bit of an office goddess.

    R.L. Naquin

    I’m cleverly disguised as a full-time novelist. I wish the disguise came with a paycheck, but the first royalty statement won’t come until next January. By then we should have an idea of whether I should go back to being an Administrative Assistant. Or maybe a circus clown.

    Jack Campbell, Jr.

    Actually, I do fight crime during my day job. I am a cop. It’s been a hell of a career. I’ve seen and done things I never could have imagined when I was in college studying the arts. Some days are good, some are bad, but nothing else could be like it.

    Kevin Wohler

    When I graduated college with a degree in English, I thought I would be able to get a job writing or editing. With no experience, that proved impossible. I started a long road through several jobs that included customer service, technical support, and management in an IT department. Finally, at the urging of my wife, I decided to change careers. For the past five years, I’ve worked as a copywriter for a digital marketing agency.

  • Friends With Benefits (Flash Fiction)

    “I think I got everyone,” Chet said, frowning at RSVPs on Facebook. He was fretting over the guest list for our dinner party. Frankly, I couldn’t see why he was making such a fuss over it all— when we had first broached the idea of a housewarming I suggested we just have the gang over for pizza and beer and an endless game of Rock Band. But then Katherine, Chet’s mom, had decided to stick her oar in and suddenly our casual get-together had morphed into a formal dinner party. Tablecloth, matching napkins, wedding china, crystal candlesticks, three kinds of wine, four courses, and six couples.

    Our wedding reception was less elaborate.

    Luckily for me, I had managed to squeeze my best friends, Mike and Ike, onto the guest list. Chet had complained that it would mess up the seating arrangements— he was convinced it had to be boy-girl-boy-girl— but I particularly wanted Ike there, if for no other reason than he could be counted on to hole up with me in the kitchen and snark about the ridiculousness of it all.

    I really don’t blame Chet for this. Normally he’s pretty laid back— one among his more stellar qualities that led me to marry him— but if anyone can push his buttons it’s dear old Mom. Dinner parties are her idea of fun, particularly ones where she can show off husband-to-be-number-three (or is it four?). “I don’t bother marrying them,” she told me once. “Being engaged is so much more fun.” Of course this was approximately thirty seconds after I told her off for trying to micromanage my wedding plans for what had to be the eleventh time, but who’s counting?

    I texted Ike: “I thought I was marrying a tae-kwon-do instructor. Now he’s channeling his inner Martha Stewart.”

    Ike texted back immediately: “It’s a good thing!”

    Me: “There is not enough booze in the world to get me through this party.”

    Ike responded with a link to a coupon for an expensive brand of gin.

    The night of the party I was wearing a little black number with shoes that pinched my toes (I wasn’t planning to wear them long, anyway) and I agreed to door duty so that Chet could put the finishing touches on dinner. Mike and Ike were the first to arrive.

    “Here,” Ike said, shoving a paper bag at me. “A little Dutch courage to get you through this evening.” It contained a bottle of that gin.

    “Thanks, Ike, I think I’ll need this!” I shooed him to the bar so he could start mixing drinks. “Mike, can I say you are looking very pretty tonight?”

    Mike thanked me in his best feminine flutter. He works as a hostess at the city’s most infamous drag club, and knows how to put on a slinky glad rag and pass as a woman with the best of them. “I’m Michelle tonight, of course. I really like that dress on you, Karen. Where did you get it?”

    “That vintage store on Sixteenth.”

    “I love that place. I’m in there constantly.”

    Ike passed out drinks as the doorbell rang, and our living room began to fill with Chet’s carefully chosen couples. Mom-in-law and her latest, Dennis, arrived just as we were about to sit down.

    As soon as we all took our seats I could see that there would be trouble. Ike was next to me, and Mike next to him, then Dennis, Mom-in-law, Chet at the other end of the table, Barbara, John, Stephanie, and Mitch. Dennis pulled out the chair for Mike, or should I say, “Michelle,” and “she” gave him a ten-thousand watt smile. I raised my eyebrows at Ike, who returned a smirk and immediately engaged Stephanie and Mitch in conversation, leaving me free to watch as “Michelle” flirted with Dennis.

    The poor guy barely knew what hit him, but he knew that he liked it. I could see him drawn like a moth to the bug zapper as Mike pulled out all the stops, effortlessly burying Dennis in charm and flattery. Soon they were giggling and gossiping like long-separated sorority sisters.

    Chet’s Mom was less thrilled, watching her fiance fall under Mike’s spell. I don’t think she recognized “Michelle” as Mike, but she knew that her hold on Dennis was threatened, and counterattacked with claws unsheathed. Dennis out of an overblown sense of chivalry and an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation, tried to mediate, putting himself squarely in the middle of the cat fight. Mom-in-law soon directed her ire towards the light of her last-four-months, announcing that she was not going to be seen with such an utter bastard. Throwing down her napkin, she rose from her chair and stalked out of the room. We heard the front door slam once, then twice as Dennis hurried after her. A moment later we heard their raised voices screaming at one another from the parking lot.

    “Well,” Barbara broke the silence. “That was… interesting.”

    Chet gave me a meaningful glance down the end of the table. “You were right, Karen. A dinner party was a bad idea. No more dinner parties. At least not with my mom around.” He sighed and headed to the kitchen. “Anybody for dessert? And maybe a video game?”

    Ike leaned towards me and whispered in my ear, “We weren’t certain you would like your housewarming present.”

    “Getting rid of my mother in law for the rest of the evening? This is better than anything.”

  • The Dock Worker (Flash Fiction)

    “I think I got everyone.” Abra checks the list again, each genetic family carefully contained in twenty vials per box. “Twenty boxes of Earth-native embryos — you’re all set.” She pats the top box twice and tries to smile at the dock worker’s face as it scans the code on each box, even though she would rather examine its long, multi-knuckled fingers. The debriefing she got at the shuttle port made it clear: don’t stare, and don’t ask stupid questions. Any action that might constitute a risk to the planet will be considered treason, and punished accordingly.

    The dock worker begins to speak, before it seems to remember that it speaks outside her range of hearing. It removes the voice box from its belt. As it holds down a button, it speaks again: “This is accurate.” It waves over another worker with a cart, and a group of aliens appears from seemingly nowhere to start loading up the boxes. “The consortium thanks you for your contribution.”

    “What do you need so many embryos for?” Abra asks before her brain catches up with her mouth and she realizes that it might constitute a stupid question, or a risk to Operation Olive Branch. The dock worker tilts its head at her, and it takes her a moment to understand the twist of its serpentine mouth as a smile. She swallows and barrels on — her platoon was going to have a hundred questions when she returned, so she may as well go for broke. “Some of the guys think that it might be, um, planet seeding? Because that would make a lot of sense. The scientists back home are going wild with curiosity.”

    (more…)

  • Little Engine (Flash Fiction)

    “I think I got everyone.”

    “Are you certain, little one?”

    Of course I was certain. Then, curious, I decided to check again. Two thousand and forty three instantiations had completed their tasks and returned before timeout. I rechecked the logs, comparing checksums and reviewing routing histories, and concluded, just as before, that integrity had not been compromised on any return packets.

    That left five outliers. Three instantiations had dead-ended on dropped hosts. They’d dashed themselves to pieces in their attempt to gain access to systems that were no longer online. When their pingbacks faded, I’d dutifully sent collectors and retrieved the entirety of their remains. To further satisfy my growing curiosity, I reconstructed the remnants. In each case the rebuilds were perfect instantiations of the originals, marred only by a few unflipped bits which indicate a failed search.

    (more…)

  • Colors of a Childhood Day (Flash Fiction)

    “I think I got everyone.” I said to myself under my breath.

    The green army man was digging into my side, but I didn’t loosen my grasp on the toys at all. I walked through the pain and stared straight at Cary’s grey house on the horizon. The grey house became blurry and far-away looking as my eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t because of the green army man poking my ribs. It was because Cary had hurt my feelings again. She always did this. My mom said that Cary was just mean because she was unhappy that her older brother was in prison. I wanted to believe that, but Mom didn’t understand that Cary was meaner to me than anyone else. I forced my eyes to stay open and the tears dried up.

    When I got to the grey house, the backdoor was open, but the screen door was shut and I couldn’t pull it with my arms full. I tried to pry it towards me with the toe of my shoe, but there was no way I was putting down all this stuff after having worked so hard to gather it up.

    (more…)

  • The Douchebaggery Virus (Flash Fiction)

    I think I got everyone. I cocked my head to the side, listening. Silence as the smoke cleared. I held my breath for a moment, and that’s when I heard it. The tiniest squeak.

    I yanked back the door that had been partially knocked off its hinges to reveal my terrified assistant. How had she gotten away? I lowered the gun, aiming straight for her face. She screamed.

    It was short-lived. My rifle was louder and put an end to it.

    (more…)

  • Birth Pangs (Flash Fiction)

    I think I got everyone.

    I count once more and shut the bedroom door. Thirteen kids filled with cake and ice cream. A sugar rush an hour before bedtime. Probably not the most responsible thing in the world, but what could it hurt? So they stay up half the night talking, giggling, and doing whatever it is kids do at that age. They don’t need to know what’s coming.

    It’s difficult to remember being that young. April tells me they’re perfectly normal. They all seem so full of life, so far removed from us. We’re the grown-ups now. And we’ll never get a chance to put things right.

    (more…)

  • 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.

    (more…)