Scribblerati Flash Fiction

This week I thought we'd try something new.

Writing a novel on your own isn't easy during the best of times. The real world can often work against you, making each page an uphill slog, facing down giants and monsters. I recently started a new job. This new time requirement has severely interrupted my writing schedule, my current WIP's fight for the high ground has slowed to a crawl. As writers, I'm sure this sounds familiar to you, it's an issue we all face, we fellow part-time writers still shackled to our day jobs. It's definitely something I've had to deal with before, and I've found the best thing to do, at least at first, is to just focus on the new job. Don't worry about the work. Go. Settle in. Establish your new schedule. Learn the ropes. After a week or two, you can come back, sit down, pick up your work, and start slaying those giants again.

Granted, sometimes this can be a whole new issue...

You must be worthy...

To combat this, I've decided on a new schedule, a somewhat flexible two hour block of writing each day, some dedicated time to sit down and work on something. Y'know... to ease back into it. It's a new thing. It's only been in place for a week or so, and to be honest it's only been mildly successful so far, hence the inclusion of the word "flexible", but I'm working on being better about it. An important facet is there's no pressure, just continual effort. Butts in seats, people. Butts. In. Seats. Focus on that. That's important. The rest will come.

Working on some side-writing is one thing that can help get you back into the fight. Blogging, for instance. Short stories, maybe. Or maybe, if you don't want to veer too far from your WIP, how about Flash Fiction? Flash Fiction is a style of extreme brevity, 300 to 1000 words. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Let's try it out, shall we?

I posted a picture below. I found it on-line, I'm not sure where it came from, so if it's yours, let me know. Otherwise, for the rest of you... Click on it. What do you see? Write it down, and if you're so inclined, post it in the comment section. It'll be fun. Just keep in mind: 300 to 1000 words only. Also, I recommend that you write your own story first, before you read mine, just to see how close--or how far apart--our worlds turn out to be...

Ready?

Womb World

by Jonathan Hansen

Harrison Holliday leaned on the chromed railing, listening to the soft clink of ice in his drink and the distant groaning dirge of nascent worlds ripening on the vine.

The great marshland steppes of the World Garden stretched to the horizon. From high atop the lustrous ivory needle of the Sales Tower, cool breeze tickling at his face, Harrison could see dozens of young planets. They rose above the clouds, slowly coalescing, swaying on thick green stalks as wide as a city. He watched oceans of water sluice from them, land masses heaving, cracking and rumbling, crashing together, thundering, booming echoes.

A sound from long ago, from the days of his bone thin youth, days of panting in the stagnant heat, the damp-cotton-thick humidity, knee-deep in squelching muck. Whenever the Overseers and their spark-sticks and the choking diesel smoke of the Weeders were across the fields, in those moments he would pause and look up into the azure sky. The other Sprayers would trudge on, bent under their sloshing canisters of Pesticide, eyes down and hunting for the small green shoots poking from the mud, but he would look up, the huge sphere of a growing nu-world looming overhead, and watch the brilliant white flights of marsh birds wheeling out of the sun’s glare, swooping among the vines, soaring on slow wings.

He would watch them fly away, a molten brand of longing twisting in his guts.

His eyes fell on the Work Camps, the sprawl of muddy hovels clinging like a rotten fungal shelf to the Garden’s edge, to a land of upheaval, shattered by giant arcs of twisted roots. He tossed back his drink, amber fire burning down his throat, and looked up into that same azure sky, seeing a far off gleam floating in low orbit high above.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

He turned. A smiling young woman waited. He recognized her model. Beautiful in a pre-packaged way, precision styled, bred in the Customer Service Vats to be preternaturally personable. Sales. Lens embedded in the center of her pale blue eyes whirred and focused.

 “Words can’t describe,” he said.

“Mr. Holliday,” she extended a slim fingered hand. He shook, feeling warm skin that must have cost a fortune. “How can we be of service today?”

Harrison glanced past her, eyes skipping over the man standing on the other side of the Observation Deck. Big and built, powerful, an aggressive, military grade model, with a neck like a bull and a face like it was cut from granite. There was probably a titanium chassis under his skin and a wolf’s lust for blood programmed into his brain. His black suit hung on him like a Butcher’s Apron. The man didn’t move. He just stared.

Harrison turned back, a friendly smile. “I need to buy a planet.”

“Well, you have come to the right place, Mr. Holliday.” She linked his arm in hers and turned him back toward the slow creaking sway of the World Garden. “Voluspa Origins Industries is the leading producer of Nu-worlds,” she said. “With our patented Hephaestus Forge Engine, we now have over 6 dozen spinning in four different star systems. Building Universes for future Worlds,” she chirped proudly. “Now, if you’ll let me know what you’re looking for, I can help choose a world best suited to your needs.”

A quick wafting puff of perfume.

Subtle tendrils of lilacs, lilting, soft as kisses.

He inhaled, felt it drag down into his lungs, felt it wrap his brain. Intoxicating, stupefying. She smiled, dazzling white. Harrison bit down hard, splitting the capsule hidden under his tongue. A wash of icy cold clarity poured over him.

He blinked and grunted, suddenly wide awake. “Colonization,” he clarified.

Her perfectly arched brows drew together, confused, examining him, lens re-focusing. “Artificial?” she asked, probing.

“Human. Nu-worlds. New possibilities. Right?” He said, “Just like the commercial.”

“Human colonization?” An indulgent look, “The paperwork for an M-class is no small matter, Mr. Holliday, approvals, regulations, controls, corporate licensing,” she said, “not to mention the price...”

“We’re solvent,” He held out an open palm, lines of data hanging in mid-air, sparking like chain lightning between his fingers, “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”

Doubtful, but compliant and Sale-hungry, she reached out; a single fingertip touched his own.

It was like a spark of static electricity, a harpoon spike of data thrown across a vast gulf in that instant of contact. She froze, mouth half-open. He gripped her hand, held her steady, one eye on the Security Bull across the Deck. She twitched as her programming was flayed. The virus was like a squirt of crimson into clear water, staining, infecting, and then leaping across her uplink. She jerked and snapped, eyes rolling white, falling in a heap to the teakwood deck. The Security Drone took a single step, hand inside his black coat, and then he crumpled too.

For a moment, Harrsion Holliday let the cool wind ruffle his hair, listening to the distant creak and boom. The Program pinged as it ravaged the security net, once, twice, all clear. Far below in the bowels of the tower’s command center, he imagined chaos, while out on the vast marshland steppes, he knew the Gardeners were just now noticing, turning in the swampy, fly-swarmed dank as the Overseers dropped and the big chugging bulk of the Weeders rolled to a stop.

He opened his commlink.

“Packaged delivered. Door’s open.”

High above, he saw the distant low orbit gleam respond to his signal, blooming little bursts of orange fire. Tiny shapes darted away, the silver glints of fast attack ships turning toward the surface in a wide arc, engines screaming as they burned through the atmosphere.

Out in the Garden, the Harvest Charges thundered and flashed, the virus igniting them. The stalks splintered and groaned and the nu-worlds broke free.

All the way out to the horizon, he saw Nu-worlds start to rise, half-crumpled balloons, too young, too soon. They cracked and crumbled and broke apart in the freezing vacuum of space.

“Nu-worlds. New beginnings,” he said to the sound of far off cheers.

The End

All right, that's mine. How about you?

On Titles

This past May I had one of my bug stories critiqued at Wiscon. The Pro for our group, Vylar Kaftan was incredibly encouraging as well as generous with her knowledge of writing craft. We spent some of our conversation discussing titles. Because she hated mine.

With good reason. (And that was about the only thing she hated about the story; overall she said very, very nice things and made many perceptive comments toward improving it.)

I struggle with titles. Just like I struggle with names. Sometimes I hit a name/title that I immediately know is exactly right. Once We Were Bears. Scrapie. Odonata. But more often than not I struggle.

Here's what I wrote down as her advice about coming up with good titles.

1) Have movement in the title
    a) Use a verb
    b) Create tension by using two words that don't work well together
    c) Use a title with a double meaning

2) Have sensory images in the title
    a) Especially smell or taste

3) Don't have your title be too long

4) Don't use words that people don't know

5) Avoid one word titles

6) Avoid The ______ of ______. (The Dance of Light, The Pearl of Wisdom, The Fur of the Dog, The Scent of Sour Onions, The Wells of Cyprus, The Hill of Beans...)

7) Keep a title file

8) Know that you can't always come up with a great title; sometimes you have to settle for the best you can do

And here were the pre-Vylar titles for the currently written bug stories:

Supersedure
Exuvia
Prion

Look again at her advice and ask whether I've even come close? No, no, and no. I kind of liked the mystery of those titles. They are all cool words and are integral to what happens in the stories, but I do think Vylar's right; they just aren't going to pull anyone in. She came up with the second story's new title "Old Glassy's Way." I loved it as soon as she spoke it. It captures what the story is about and gives a better sense of the world I'm creating than "Exuvia" ever could.

But I still haven't figured out what the other two should be called...

Got any favorite titles that keep to or break Vylar's rules? (The Lord of the Rings, for one.) Comment or Blog away!

To Genre, Or Not To Genre

I’ve been thinking a lot about genre lately.

Specifically, genre as it relates to the speculative fiction we write here at the Scribblerati, as well as my Work in Progress, To Kill the Goddess.

Exhibit #1

It all started while reading Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson. This was a recommendation by my editor (I’ve made a habit of asking her what’s good) and I read it over our Fourth of July vacation to San Francisco.

In case you’re not familiar with it, Life After Life is a story about this woman – Ursula – who is reborn into the same body every time she dies. Each life is a redo, starting in the 1920s, and going through World War II or beyond, assuming she lives that long.

It was a fascinating story – mostly. Sometimes she made terrible choices and the story was hard to read, other times she chose better and the book was fun. But the longer it went on, and the more times Ursula died, it became… tedious. This is not to say it was a bad book, or that it was poorly written, because it was none of those things, but the author shied away from getting into why Ursula kept being reborn. What was the point of it all? Was there intent behind this miracle? Was there a lesson to be learned? A change to be made?

None of those questions were answered, and maybe I’m reaching here, but I think I know why. The answer to those questions would have taken the book out of the realm of literary fiction and into genre.

Exhibit #2

My own writing has been coming along quite nicely. I finished a new draft based on my editor’s comments, and now I’m making one last cleanup pass before I send it back to her. The process has taken about six months, which is longer than I’d hoped, but not as long as I’d feared. During that time, I’ve become a whole new writer. I’ve refined and honed my style, vastly improved my self-editing, but the most important thing I’ve learned is how to focus the story around character.

Character, is entirely what Life after Life was about. Ursula was the same character throughout the book, but her character changed (impressive, eh?). In regards to my own work, To Kill the Goddess has (I hope) become as much about the characters in it as it is about the fantastic world they live in, or the terrible/exciting events taking place around them.

A confession

I have – and this is an entirely unexpected development – thought about giving up writing speculative fiction.

It is, I think, a bit of snootiness, and a notion that will fade with time, but there is merit behind the thought. I still think about those cool sci-fi/fantasy things that used to completely melt my butter, but the more I think about character, the less I think about the facets of my story that make it genre.

I see now why so many choose to write literary fiction. There is a purity there, a laser focus on character that can so easily get buried within the fantastic elements of genre.

Genre, whether it’s fantasy, science fiction, dystopia, or something in between, allows the writer to confront their characters with challenges entirely outside the experience of our normal lives.

If I wasn’t writing genre, I could never so completely turn my characters’ lives upside down, not in any sort of way that wasn’t retreading events we’re all intimately familiar with (e.g. World War II), or turning it into a historical fantasy. Genre lets me tell a story that is fresh, engaging, and exciting.

Could I tell a fresh, engaging, and exciting story without writing genre?

Absolutely.

And I might even do that someday.

But I could never write To Kill the Goddess that way.

Great Retellings of Classic Stories

“There are no new stories.”

Ah, yes, that old trope. Tarantino took all of his ideas from Asian films, Kurosawa borrowed all of his plots from Shakespeare, Shakespeare ripped off everything from Homer, and I suppose then Homer fashioned all of his stories from the cave drawings of that great prehistoric storytelling duo, Thog and Uk. 

I’m not sure I believe it, honestly. I can buy that there are no new stories, thematically, certainly, but as Aristotle told us a very long time ago, there’s a lot more to drama than just plot. Character, setting, etc., but also there’s the unique voice of the storyteller. Even sometimes when an auteur is deliberately ripping off a plot, they can come up with something brilliantly new. I’m not talking about remakes or movie versions of 1970’s sitcoms here, I’m talking about reworking a classic drama by making it a comedy, modernizing it, or setting it on an entirely different world.

Of course, in the case of Shakespearean theater: ONION ARTICLE

Here are just a few of my favorites:

Clueless (Film, 1995. Plot based on Jane Austen’s Emma.) How does one modernize Austen, with so much of her plot depending upon out-of-date caste systems? Why, set it in a high school, of course. A hilarious modern take on an already witty tale. Young Alicia Silverstone is spot on as the shallow but completely adorable Cher, a girl obsessed with matchmaking, makeovers and clothes. The lower-class farmer is now a skate punk, the nanny is a teacher, and the ‘secretly engaged gentleman’ is gay. Pitch perfect.

Throne of Blood (Film. 1957. Plot based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth.) Akira Kurosawa takes on Shakespeare, and sets it all in 15^th century feudal Japan. Starring the incomparable Toshiro Mifune. Nuff Said.

His Dark Materials Trilogy (Books. The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass, by Philip Pullman. Plot based on Milton’s Paradise Lost.)

I love these books. They are usually housed in the children’s section of a bookstore, but, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, they are no more children’s books than the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Parallel worlds. Talking warrior polar bears. Parents trying to kill their children. Trips to Hell. Epic battles with God. You know, typical kids’ fare. Read these, they’re terrific.

Young Frankenstein (Film. 1974. Plot based on Frankenstein.) There are many genre and film spoofs out there, but let’s face it, this is one of the best. It's certainly Mel Brooks’ strongest film. Also, it remains funny after many, many viewings. 

The Gap Cycle (Books. The Real Story, Forbidden Knowledge, A Dark and Hungry God Arises, Chaos and Order, and This Day All Gods Die, by Stephen R. Donaldson. Plot based on Wagner’s Ring Cycle.)

Donaldson takes an opera, and turns it into a space opera. I read his Thomas Covenant books when I was 14, and these books when I was in my 20s, and honestly, I’m not sure if I’d have the patience for either series today. That said, I’ve recently read all of the extant Song of Ice and Fire books, so perhaps I would. Be forewarned: the Gap books are terrific, but harsh, especially the first book, which sets up the whole story, but provides you with no relief or redemption. No, as in all of Donaldson’s books, redemption is very hard-earned, mostly because he has his characters commit seemingly irredeemable acts, and then spends several dense books having them attempt to crawl into the light. Sound painful? Perhaps – but these books are also nail-biting, addictive, well-written and complex.

O Brother, Where Art Thou (Film. 2000. Plot based on Homer’s Odyssey.)

This one is a family favorite, and one of the most fun of all the Coen Brother’s films. It's set in the deep south during the great depression, and stars a never-livelier George Clooney: if you haven’t seen this flick, run home and rent/stream it now. Very quotable. Plus, that soundtrack! 

Other goodies:

Scotland PA. (Another Macbeth)

Roxanne (Cyrano)

My Fair Lady (Pygmalion)

West Side Story (Romeo and Juliet)

Bridget Jones’ Diary (Pride and Prejudice)

What are your favorites? Again, not remakes, but reimaginings? ( And I’m really sorry for using that word.)

Cheers!

Q

All Things Radioactive

My writing this week has been mostly limited to a few notes or impressions jotted each day in a journal I keep in my car, what I’m calling for now my “Radiation Journal.” I started my radiation treatments this week. For a few minutes each day I travel to the hospital to be strapped down on a flat bed, have my custom, purple, mesh mask snapped down tight over my face and shoulders and am raised up close to the “Linear Accelerator” to have cancer-preventing radiation buzzed at me for a few minutes. By having this treatment my chances of having my neck/throat cancer stay away for good will be greatly increased—and I like that idea.

According to my doctor and nurses most people feel nothing during their first couple weeks of radiation treatment. Apparently I’m not most people. To be honest, radiation, this week, has kicked my ass. My neck and ears feel lightly sunburned, the inside of my mouth swollen, my neck tight, and my body mildly nauseous and fatigued. When I get home from work I’m good for mostly laying down and falling asleep. Don’t even get me started about the horrible taste that lingers in my mouth. Bitter/tinny/sour—kinda like Godzilla’s ass, I’m guessing.

I'm waiting for my radioactive breath and or super powers to kick in. Maybe next week?

Today will be my first complete week of radiation treatment, 

with five more to go. Wish me luck. 

In honor of this I’ve decided to blog about 

My Favorite Radioactive Things, in no particular order.

Cosmic Radiation

Some say 1/10^th of our annual radiation dosage arrives from space.
Honorable mention: The Sun.

Air Travel & Airport Security Scans

Fun Fact: The higher elevation of riding in a plane exposes you to a higher dosage of radiation than if you’d stayed at home.

Radioactive Comic Book Characters (and there are many, many more)

Doctor Manhattan (disintegrated in the “intrinsic field”)

Spiderman (bit by radioactive spider)

The Incredible Hulk (gamma ray radiation)

Radioactive Man and Fallout Boy from the Simpsons (atomic bomb)

Superman (gets power from the Sun) Note: The Animated Series rocks!

Microwaves

Safety tip: don’t stand in front of them while cooking your food. Faulty microwave door seals can leak harmful radiation.

The Earth

Soil and water are sources of radiation that can be absorbed by breathing, and/or eating crops and drinking water. Some foods that supposedly have been tested to have a higher level of radiation: bananas and Brazil nuts

The Neutron Bomb

Cell Phones

Nuff said.

Godzilla
Of course!

Medical Radiation

Me (and You)

Right now I’m feeling a bit more radioactive than the typical person, but supposedly we American’s take in on average 360 millirem per year into our bodies.

These Radioactive Songs

The Firm’s Radioactive

Imagine Dragon’s Radioactive

(best stuffed animal fight, ever)

Wishing you health, peace and as little radiation as possible.

Mark

@manowords

Wiscon Recap - With Reading Assignments

For the past seven years I've spent my Memorial Day weekend with a thousand fans of speculative fiction in Madison, Wisconsin, the host to Wiscon, the World's Leading Feminist Science Fiction Convention. Every year I divide my time between panels and readings.

In the early days I focused more on the panels discussing writing craft and publishing. These days I find that I get more inspiration from the readings. Getting to hear folks whose work I love is a pure joy. Especially when those authors have amazing reading voices.

Here are three folks who were highlights from this year's selection of readings. Highlights not only because the works they read brought me to tears, punched me in the gut, and made me giggle, giggle, giggle, but also because each of them was such a fantastic reader.



Sofia Samatar: I got to hear my friend Sofia at two different readings, one for her poetry and one for her fiction. She was in a writing workshop with me a couple years ago and her book AStranger in Olondria, has just been published by Small Beer Press. I sobbed while listening to her poem "Long Ear." The piece tells the story of a Somali version of the mythic boogywoman who eats small children, but here told from the perspective of the woman and her daughter. Mostly, I sobbed inwardly, so as not to interrupt her reading with my wailing, but there was a bit tearing up on the outside, too. Here's a short short of hers that reminds me of some of the settings of Jon's stories: "Undoomed"

Kathrin Koehler: Kat I met at the same workshop I met Sofia. She's an amazing poet and an amazing reader. Her poem "Sea Change" twisted up my insides and wouldn't let me go. Here's another one by her, also about the sea, and, even better, you can hear her reading it! Listen for when her voice goes all spooky at the end of the first stanza: "Submersion -- stuckweise" (And, for Scribblerati fans, there's a parallel to Mark's Blackheart.)


Will Alexander: Will lives in my neighborhood. He writes at the Blue Ox Coffee Shop. He won the National Book Award for his middle grade novel, Goblin Secrets. I got to hear him read from the next book in this world, Goulish Song. And holy smokes is he good at reading his own words. So good they let him do his own audiobook. I'm reading the first one aloud to my son right now, but I think I'm going to get the audio version so I can have Will read it aloud to us both. Here's a short story of his; it is charming and slicing at once: Nicholas Went Looking for the Mayor's Right Hand

Cancer vs. Writing

In Stephen King’s book On Writing he has a postscript called “On Living”—about his nearly fatal accident that happened in 1999. He was struck by a van and ended up spending many months (perhaps longer) recuperating and learning to walk again. From what I recall during this time he pretty much announced his retirement. While he was recovering he didn’t have the drive or desire to resume his work as a writer.

In 2007 while attending the Maui Writer’s Conference I got to hear first hand from author Ann Hood about the tragic death of her young daughter to strep throat—and how for years after that she couldn’t write (and she wanted to, it just wouldn’t come).

To a lesser extent, this is where my writing is at this week: stalled, reprioritized, put on a back shelf, waiting to heal.

I’m in the midst of my fight with cancer. A little over two weeks ago I had a cancerous tumor removed from my neck along with some additional suspect tissue. Since then I’ve been in the hospital and at home sleeping, recovering, waiting. There is the possibility I’ll be having radiation treatment, TBD late June.

Before going into my surgery I told my friend Chuck that the moment I most dreaded was the moment when I woke up—but also added this was the moment I most looked forward to. To not wake up after the surgery would be bad. Fortunately I did wake up. But not knowing exactly what to expect when I woke up from my operation—that bothered me.

So after my five hour surgery when the initial drugs wore off in the intensive care unit and I came to with more hoses and lines going in and out of me than the Batman character Bane, the first thing I tried to do to communicate was to write.

Granted, I had a tube down my throat, and was restrained, but each time I was able to I grabbed hold of the nearest nurse or family member’s hand, I’d open their palm, and using my index finger I’d start to scrawl out letters.

T-O-N-G-….

“Your tongue is swollen? We know that.”

C-H-O-K-E-

“Choking? No. You’re not choking. That’s the breathing tube.”

They had to keep sedating me. Each time I woke up I was agitated—and I’d start spelling out my condition, my worst fears, falling back on my writing in the only way I could.

During my surgery a metal, spoon-like object was used to crush my tongue flat to keep it out of the way. It is still painful and swollen and not much good for talking yet. After having some of my many tubes and restraints removed I still had to resort to writing in a notebook or on a little white board to get my ideas across. I found out in short order this was much better than any of my attempts at charades—take it from me, you do not want me on your charades team.

Looking at these notebooks what I had to say those first days after surgery wasn’t very deep:

“I need to pee.”

“Sitting up is a big deal.”

“Is the fishing opener tomorrow?”

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Do I need the leg massager things hooked up so I don’t get a blood clot?”

“What is the first pain med you gave to me?”

But I was still turning to my default as a way to communicate: writing.

Me, with new neck scar and start of a beard. Radiologist told me
if I have radiation I might lose part of my beard. Worse things could happen.

But since getting out of the hospital, coming home, I haven’t thought much about my writing, especially working on my fictional stories that I’ve spent so much time on (literally hundreds of hours) over the years. But on days when taking a good breath and being able to drink soup without choking were priorities, what is going on with my made up characters in my made up world(s) doesn’t seem to matter much in the scope of the here and now.

For now, this is my goal: To heal and get my real-world life back under some semblance of normalcy. To have a day without pain and pain meds, to be able to talk so that someone can understand me. To have a tongue that can once again knot a cherry stem. Once I get these basics back down I can only believe that I will get back to imagining, dreaming, finding out what my characters are up to, putting down fresh fictional words on paper.

Years after Stephen King’s injuries he went back to writing and has published several new books since “On Writing” came out. Ann Hood eventually wrote her memoir: Comfort: A Journey Through Grief that helped her deal with her daughter’s passing. If these successful authors can get through these major issues and find writing and creativity again, so can I.

I have no doubt my desire to write something creative will return, and I suspect sooner rather than later. But like my body, I’m giving my spirit and my “creative bones” time to mend. And when I finally feel inspired to write again I’ll have lots of new material to use. I do keep thinking of my character in my novel Blackheart, Clayton Jaeger—who is a cancer survivor. I have no doubt when I revisit Clay’s chapters I’ll have some new perspective to give to his character and experiences.

For my writer friends out there—wishing you health and peace for you and your writing muses.

~ Mark Teats

@manowords