All Q, No A

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I have spent a full month writing (but not finishing) the first short story of a planned collection of ten. (Eight, actually—I expect to ditch the weakest two. They don’t know it yet.) At this point, I can safely say I have more questions than answers. The opposite would probably be worse, though; having more answers than questions might feel like a multiple-choice test, and tests are stressful.

In the last four weeks, the following mysteries, among others, have presented themselves to me:

  1. QsHow much craft should go into a first draft? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.
  2. Do they call it a draft because it has holes? Come on, I’m serious.
  3. Which is more important: sticking to the schedule, or taking the time to get it right? Within reason, as defined by a perfectionist.
  4. How much is too much backstory? Do you need a narrative providing the history of this question?
  5. Is it normal to crave frozen yogurt? Chocolate-vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles.
  6. Is it okay to write to entertain, rather than to be literary? My dream is to have a story published in a middle-school anthology.
  7. Literary magazines have length limits, so am I shooting myself in the foot (or accomplishing some other gory metaphor) by writing 5,000- to 6,000-word stories? Sounds like a job for an editor!
  8. How fully realized should the main character of a short story be? Same question for secondary characters. Screw the tertiary characters.
  9. How much time should I allow for research? Isn’t it easier to make facts up?
  10. How important is it to follow rules about writing? I’m not much of a lawbreaker.

I welcome answers to any of the above, and the sooner the better!

A Numbers Game

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old londonReflecting on the second season of the classic TV series The Twilight Zone, creator Rod Serling observed that a third of the episodes were “good,” a third were “passable,” and a third were “dogs.” I just finished writing synopses for ten short stories in about as many weeks, and I can only hope for a similar breakdown. Fingers crossed, there’s something worthwhile in there! You see, for each story idea, I could have spent more time searching for the characters, plot, and setting that expressed it perfectly. Instead, I latched onto the first scenario that seemed to work.

The bad news, then, is that the stories arising from this initial effort could be better. The good news is that I am in possession of ten fleshed-out story ideas rather than one or two (or maybe zero, the perfectionist in me opines). The even better news is that there’s tremendous room for improvement! According to author Jacob M. Appel, “Profit comes from book number five.” In other words, it’s a long road. And I’m finding comfort in the fact that I’ve left so much material untapped.

In the process of nailing down the parameters for these soon-to-be short stories, unexpected themes emerged: houses, heart conditions, 911 calls, first kisses, small towns, murder, religion, prison, motherhood, empathy, England, technology, and the late 1800s. Perhaps a psychoanalyst could help me figure out why these elements recurred—though I’m not sure I’d want to know the answer. Unsurprisingly, some stories also feature dogs, baked goods, and references to Shakespeare.

synopsis filesStarting September 1, my plan is to write one story per month for the next ten months. This is when the real research happens, the characters are developed, the plot details are filled in, the setting is described, the dialogue is crafted. (I’m using the passive voice here, which probably means I haven’t yet accepted that I will be doing all this work.) My main goals are to entertain and surprise. Correspondingly, my greatest fear is that my writing will be derivative, hackneyed, and predictable.

Or that I’ll go back into the files from the last three months and see, repeated over and over, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

Sunny-Side Up

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neuron

This month, I have explored the connection between synopses and synapses. Though only one letter apart, these words have very different meanings. As you may recall from grade school, a synopsis is a summary of a novel, movie, play, etc. (Another name for this: book report.) A synapse is the small gap across which nerve impulses pass. (Remember the illustration of a neuron in your science textbook, the fried egg with a long tail?) When all your synapses are firing, you’re focused and your mind feels electric.

To write synopses for stories that don’t exist yet requires that your synapses be firing—allowing communication from one brain cell to the next, thereby facilitating the creation of characters, plots, settings, and themes. But synapses are squirrelly. They don’t like pressure. They won’t produce synopses on demand. All you can do is ask them a question (“How does the protagonist get from point A to point B?” “When does he learn to speak German?” “What are good names for conjoined twin sisters?”) and then wait, as patiently as a perfectionist with a self-imposed deadline can, for an answer.

So far, I have written synopses for six short stories in six weeks, and I’m working on the seventh (out of ten). I won’t lie; there has been a fair deal of panic. I choose a new story idea every Thursday. When Saturday rolls around, and the characters, plot, setting, and theme aren’t clear yet, I’m tempted to yell at the synapses, “Think harder!” At this stage, I can be seen staring into space a lot. I know I must commit to something, any direction, and start writing—because it will be next Thursday before I know it.

Each synopsis feels like an experiment: I am discovering something unknown, and it may or may not be viable. I won’t know if it holds together until I flesh it out in 5,000 words. And even then, I won’t know if it’s any good until someone reads it and feels like he or she hasn’t wasted half an hour.

I anticipate further panic.

So Far, So Good

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Grace Kelly charades

Grace Kelly playing charades aboard an ocean liner en route to Monaco, 1956

I have completed the first month of my 16.5-month plan to write 10 short stories. Oh, the excitement of being 6 percent of the way toward my goal! Some highlights since June 1:

  1. I watched a Writer’s Digest tutorial about how to craft a collection of short fiction. I learned the six key principles to consider in putting together a book of stories. It would be indiscreet of me to divulge those principles here; if we were together in person, however, I would have no qualms about pantomiming them to you. The tutorial’s presenter, Jacob M. Appel, offered to share PDFs of his work. I read his story collection Einstein’s Beach House and highly recommend it.
  2. I decided that two stories I wrote (or partially wrote) for a class a year and a half ago are salvageable, with changes (and endings). I may try to publish these pieces, once revised, as I continue to write the others.
  3. I refined my list of story ideas (now numbering close to 200). The challenge will be figuring out what on earth I meant by some of the shorter entries, such as “birthday,” “maintenance,” and “walk-in.” (Thanks, self.)
  4. I said I was going to limit my reading about writing, but I couldn’t resist buying a book called The Emotional Craft of Fiction. If there’s one thing I want to accomplish with my writing, it’s to engage readers with emotion. Unless that emotion is hatred for my writing.
  5. I ordered a guide for getting stories published; it lists fiction publications, contests, and the like. I had it shipped via snail mail because, well, you can’t publish something that isn’t written yet. When it finally arrived, it was a book about finding a literary agent! The customer service person submitted a replacement order and told me to keep the extra book, with the following advice: “Do whatever you would like with it, be it donation or origami.” I think I’ll keep it, in case I need an agent 15.5 months from now. Plus, I don’t know how to do origami.

twilight zoneThe overall theme of the stories I’d like to write (at least for this current experiment) is a subversion of reality that reveals human nature; accordingly, I have been binge-watching The Twilight Zone on Netflix. Rod Serling, creator of the classic series, said, “Coming up with ideas is the easiest thing on earth. Putting them down is the hardest.”

And coming up with cool ideas that Serling didn’t already come up with is nearly impossible.

Taking My Umbrella

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ray bradbury square

Ray Bradbury

Lately, I’ve been getting ideas for short stories, from things I see, read, listen to, or just find myself thinking about. Ray Bradbury suggested writing a short story every week. His reasoning was excellent: “It’s not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.” But I think a would-be author might find this advice difficult to follow, presuming he or she is employed in some other activity in anticipation of becoming an author. I might be able to write the synopsis for a short story in seven days, however. Extrapolating, I have constructed (concocted?) a 16.5-month time line for penning a 50,000-word compilation of 10 short stories.

poster edgesThere’s a 90 percent chance this is a false start like many others I’ve had. And I’m being generous giving myself a 10 percent possibility of success. (Please, no wagering.) Then again, when a meteorologist predicts a 10 percent chance of rain, you almost always find yourself running to your car with a handbag over your head. I am considering enlisting the support of my creative coach as well as writers at local meetups. And limiting my reading of short stories and my research about short story writing (tempting delay tactics), relying instead on the resources I’ve collected and internalized thus far.

Here are the best intentions paving my road to hell:

  • Week 1: Review the short story form
  • Week 2: Refine my list of story ideas
  • Weeks 3–12: Write synopses for 10 short stories (one per week)
  • Months 4–13: Write 10 5,000-word short stories (one per month)
  • Months 14–16.5: Edit 10 short stories (one per week)

I’m sure I’ll have to make adjustments along the way. Perhaps one story will want to be 2,417 words long. Another might need to be a novella. Maybe I’ve given myself too much time. (Ha. Ha-ha!) If my plan works, I’ll write a book about it. The title will be irresistible, something like, Crafting a Collection of Short Fiction in Just Under 17 Months.

Subtitle: Ray Bradbury Could Have Done It in 10 Weeks.

Nice Job! Not.

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sumi-e

The other day, I was chatting with a new resident at my mother’s retirement community. When I told her (solicited) that I was a writer and editor, her response was nearly explosive—about how ill-suited she would be to such a line of work, due to an auditory learning challenge she shares with her son. I maintain a running, mental list of jobs I would be terrible at myself. Here is a sampling, accompanied by the reason(s) for my inadequacy:

  1. Taxi driver. I get nervous with people in my car, have a terrible sense of direction, and would probably decline to “step on it” if asked. I do, however, drive my husband to and from the airport frequently. His name for this service begins with B and rhymes with Uber.
  2. Roofer. I would look down, get dizzy, and fall off—the first day. Years ago, the twin boys across the street, about six at the time, would play on top of their house—as I watched in horror, wondering if I should call Child Protective Services. Incredibly, they are still alive.
  3. Alaskan king crab fisherperson. I have an intense aversion to drowning, hypothermia, and crippling injuries. The hours are long, cold, wet, and dangerous, whereas I prefer short, mild, dry, and safe.
  4. Restaurant server. I lack the upper-body strength to carry a bunch of plates at once. When I was a girl, I saw a waitress pour a tureen of scalding soup down a patron’s neck. I went on to enjoy my own (delicious split pea) soup, but the incident stayed with me.

This month, I have considered adding a profession to the list: nurse. With my mother in the hospital for four days and in a skilled nursing facility for sixteen (and counting), I have witnessed the dedication of nurses, certified nursing assistants, and nurse’s aides up close. These men and women possess all sorts of demeanors—friendly, businesslike, sweet, funny, comforting, cheerful, encouraging, serious. But universally, they are patient. And hard-working. And flexible, moving ceaselessly from patient to patient, wherever and whenever they are needed.

Thank you to Adam, Alex, Daisy, Feybe, Franklin, Marion, Nicole, Sandra, and Vic, who represent many others.

Puppies Are to Dogs as Kittens Are to Cats

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scantron question graphic

The correct answer is B, though I prefer E.

When I was studying for the SAT over three decades ago (little sob), I dubbed myself “Queen of Analogies.” I know it sounds vain to confer an exalted title on oneself. (I later adopted the moniker “Cupcake Queen,” so maybe I have a problem.) If it’s any consolation, when I was taking the test, I probably thought of myself as the dunce of analogies. Perhaps good news for college-bound students is that analogy questions were removed from the SAT in 2005.

An analogy is a comparison. It shows the resemblance between two things otherwise unlike. Forms of analogy include metaphor (“All the world’s a stage”), simile (“My love is like a red, red rose”), allegory (“The Tortoise and the Hare”), and parable (“The Prodigal Son”). I recently came up with an analogy that I thought was, well, brilliant! It compared the political situation in the United States to a dress. My vanity didn’t go unchecked, however; my husband seemed less than impressed with it.

white and gold dress

Do you see this dress as white and gold, or blue and black? Our relationship may depend on it.

Remember “the dress”? The one that became an international meme in 2015? The garment was either blue and black, or white and gold, depending on who was looking at the photo. I became mildly obsessed with the phenomenon at the time, especially when the frock turned out to be blue and black (not the combination I saw). Explanations arose for the variance in perception, related to “the way human eyes and brains have evolved to see color in a sunlit world.” The image “hit some kind of perceptual boundary.”

The color of the dress in the photo became a topic of preoccupation, discussion, debate, disagreement, vitriolic argument, and existential crisis. The Washington Post called the controversy a “drama that divided a planet.” It was the subject of 4.4 million tweets in 24 hours. And neither “side” would give up its position. Indeed, my husband and I just spoke about it in raised tones. (He’s a blue-and-blacker.)

blue dress

Royal-Blue Lace Detail Bodycon Dress by Roman Originals

Now that I’ve refreshed your memory on the dress (assuming it hasn’t haunted you since its original infamy, because that would be abnormal), can you see how the current political situation resembles it? On Facebook, I’ll come across a political post that appears beyond doubt, conveying information from a reliable source. (I won’t give specifics, because the post could represent the views of either “side.”) I find myself thinking, there’s no way anyone could dispute the veracity or legitimacy of the point being made.

But invariably, someone will make a comment to the contrary. And I can tell he believes what he’s saying, 100 percent. He sees a blue-and-black dress; I see a white-and-gold dress. And budging, for either of us, would mean distrusting our senses (which we rely on for survival) and rejecting our perception of reality (a terrifying prospect). [End of brilliant analogy.]

I love analogies, even if I don’t reign over them, because they are stepping stones to understanding. If we understand A but not B, and B is like A, then we can also understand B.

Maybe, in this way, we can get all the way to Z.

A Foolish Consistency

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It’s been 10 months since my last post about the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest. If that sounded like the prelude to a confession, here it is: one reason I want to win, or at least be a finalist, or at the very least be a semifinalist, is that my victory (or semi-victory) could then become the subject of a blog post—and I wouldn’t have to come up with another idea for that month. So, laziness.

I have entered the competition every week since discovering it, even when I’ve been out of the country, sick, or busy with work. Ninety-six entries, ninety-five losses. (Hope springs eternal; I haven’t yet lost the current contest, though I’m well on my way.) I could try to analyze my lack of success, but why? Besides, I’ve already done that. Ultimately, the prescription must be this: be funnier, or at least cleverer.

pie-2A recent cartoon depicted Adam and Eve in the garden, before the fall (as evidenced by their nakedness). She is holding out a pie to him, and he looks concerned as he responds. I submitted the caption that was the most popular among my polled Facebook friends and was also my favorite: “Please tell me that’s rhubarb.”

This post would be very different (jubilant, triumphant, gloating) had my caption been among the semifinalists, which were as follows:

  1. “Maybe we should get that to go.”
  2. “Wait, we have an oven?”
  3. “How much sin would some ice cream add?”
  4. “What do you mean it’s your mother’s recipe?”
  5. “Are the apples local?”
  6. “I hope I don’t regret this tomorrow.”
  7. “I’ll be damned.”

The three captions in bold type became the finalists. It remains to be seen which one will win. I voted for “I’ll be damned.”

And I will continue to pursue the popular definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Are You a Consonant or a Vowel?

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img_8883_croppedI apologize in advance for the scatological nature of this post. Sometimes I think in metaphors, and sometimes those metaphors involve excrement. Especially when I’m playing Words with Friends. To get the disgustingness behind us, when my tile rack contains all or nearly all consonants, I liken it to constipation. When the letters are vowel-heavy, it’s similar to diarrhea. Too many consonants, and there’s no flow; too many vowels, and there’s only flow. (Either way, a satisfactory move is unlikely.) I guess that means a word, which has the requisite balance of consonants and vowels, is like a healthy bowel movement. Again, I’m sorry.

The other day, I got to wondering if people (aside from their digestive tracts) might be like consonants and vowels. I recalled a scene from the movie Husbands and Wives, in which Judy Davis’s character muses about whether people in her life are hedgehogs or foxes:

I thought how different Michael was from Jack. How much deeper his vision of life was. And I thought Michael was a hedgehog and Jack was a fox. And then I thought Judy was a fox and Gabe was a hedgehog. And I thought about all the people I knew, and which were hedgehogs and which were foxes.

The scene refers to a famous essay in which Russian-British philosopher Isaiah Berlin puts writers and thinkers into two categories: those with a singular world-view (hedgehogs), and those who have a new idea for every situation (foxes). Though others took Berlin’s metaphor seriously, he had meant it to be humorous. Indeed, applying a dichotomy to the entire human race can be quite amusing.

Referring to this helpful page from Macquarie University, I compiled the following table, which compares the characteristics of consonants and vowels:

Consonant Vowel
Closed Open
Constricted Flowing
Discordant Melodious
Less prominent More intense
Valley Peak

So, which list of characteristics describes you better? Do you seek out those possessing the opposite qualities? Are your relationships with these people balanced? Do you have good conversations? How are your bowel movements?

When I asked my husband if he was a consonant or a vowel, he said both: “FU.”

 

Ten Things I Know about Sophie

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adoption-sophie

The adoption photo I couldn’t resist

When Dante died well over three years ago, people asked if we were going to get another dog. A month ago, when I saw a photo of five-month-old Sophie, I finally thought, “Yes.” She was in a foster home 125 miles away. Though she had spent months with a rescue I follow on Facebook, I had somehow missed all the posts about her. And somehow, she was still available.

Sophie came to live with us two weeks ago. Her introduction to Lucy, 12, and Cota, 9, went more smoothly than we could have imagined; they were all playing together within an hour. Sophie is affectionate, spirited, curious, and a quick learner; I taught her how to sit in the few minutes we were waiting in the exam room for her introductory vet visit. I look forward to learning more about Sophie, as she continues to wag and bound her way into our hearts. In the meantime, here are 10 things I can share about her:

  1. sweaterShe was born on the Fourth of July. Her birthday will be celebrated every year with fireworks.
  2. Her distinguishing features are her big ears, green eyes, and pink nose.
  3. She is very little. She can walk under both Lucy and Cota.
  4. She’s a good watchdog. She weighs 9 pounds but has the bark of a dog of 18 pounds.
  5. She loves the sun.
  6. She gets cold easily, so she often wears a sweater.
  7. She is the subject of numerous nicknames, including Soph, Sophster, Sofía Vergara, Little, Worm, and (Wiggliest of the) Wigglebottoms.
  8. She possesses unbridled enthusiasm.
  9. She murdered a pillow.
  10. She poops Tootsie Rolls.

Visit Cuddly Canines or the website of another animal rescue or shelter, to find your Sophie or to support the valuable work they do.