Well played

Sunday Photo Fiction time (I’ve been away too long) and another opportunity to turn a picture that’s worth a thousand words into a picture of 200 words or fewer — hopefully.

Where to go with that oh-so-harmless-looking well?

“Back to the well,” Jax said, a wry smile on his face.

It was a running joke. A well with no water, sandwiched in an alley and flanked by a flower bed that never needed watering. No one knew why. The soil was permanently wet and the flowers forever nourished.

“I’m welling up,” I replied.

The running joke had become a game. How many bad puns could you come up with before drawing a blank.

“Well said,” Jax answered.

“Well played,” I replied.

“Well enough?”

“I’ll allow it, though I don’t feel well about it.”

“Well done.” Actual awe in Jax’s voice.

“Well, I am the best.”

“Well, why not feel that way,” he said. “You’ve done well for yourself so far.”

“Ouch, a double helping of wellness,” I mocked.

“That doesn’t count,” he jumped in.

“Well, if you’d have waited I would’ve had another retort,” I smirked. “But you were well ahead of me getting out a response.”

He looked at me, then back at the well. It just sat there, not even echoing our bad jokes because there was no depth to it. Jax had no response.

“Well,” I stood up. “I guess I win.”

Friday Fictioneers: Sheepish beginnings

Another chance to join the Friday Fictioneers club and follow the most-interesting photo prompt. I assume I’m not the only one that feels like a lamb being led to the laughter.

The first day of our honeymoon and it had started off on the wrong foot.

We hadn’t discussed it before the marriage, but here it was. Move into his place or mine?

The argument grew heated quickly.

Then the traffic stopped.

“I’m going to walk,” I said, opening the door.

“Sam, wait,” John started.

I swung the door open, only to have it pushed right back in, the first of what seemed like thousands of sheep streaming against us.

“Guess this road was a baaaaad idea,” John said.

My giggle turned into gales of laughter for the two of us.

Friday Fictioneers: Moving down river

A weekly photo prompt challenge from Rochelle that I’m excited to delve into. My first attempt at Friday Fictioneers. Check it out too, so you can take a shot at it. And see if you too can keep it under 100 words.

Last night the kids took to dumping an old shopping cart into the muck.

Ever since the power plant up river had built a dam, Laketown had dried up.

With no river lifeline, the jobs had set sail along with the fish.

Even the schools were dwindling. Most of the time my two didn’t go, and I didn’t see much point in sending them.

We’d be shoving off too, and soon. Before I spent my last twenty on a forty. The RV was on empty. And so was I. Not sure which one I wanted to fill up more.

 

An InLinkz Link-up

Sale of the century

An “Odd” contraption is this week’s centerpiece for Sunday Photo Fiction, a weekly journey that has writers delving into their imaginations to create flash fiction in 200 words or fewer. So let’s see what we come up with.

“I can’t believe it,” Farmer Joe hooped after watching the stranger drive off. “Sam Hell, I thought there was no way in tarnation that contraption would sell!”

His wife watched the pickup truck disappear around the bend.

“Joe,” she said, “now that it’s gone, will you tell me what that was?”

Farmer Joe started laughing with a merriment his wife hadn’t heard in years.

“What’s so funny, honey?” she asked.

“You don’t know what that was?” he asked back.

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, you ain’t the only one,” he smiled. “I’ve never known what it was. It’s been here since we moved in forty-two years ago. I’ve fiddled with it multiple times over the years. Never was able to get it to do nothing. Never moved for me no matter what dials and switches I pushed and pulled. So it’s just been settin’ there.”

“Did he know what it was?” she asked.

“Nope,” Joe answered. “Said he liked the way it looked. Thought it might look nice in a ‘gallery’ I think he called it.”

“Well I’ll be,” his wife smiled, thinking of the man in his fancy clothes. “City folk, they just don’t make no sense.”

An InLinkz Link-up

Searching for an answer

A challenging Sunday Photo Fiction this week — at least for me. But that just makes it more enjoyable, testing a writer’s skill to see what they can come up with. With that, off we go into a thickening fog that is quickly consuming everything our eyes perceive.

As the fog swallowed the bridge, the waters calmed. The waves that had been slapping the shoreline were now simply pawing at the sand that warmed Johnny’s toes.

He dug them deeper before he turned to Jules.

“So, what do you think?”

She glanced at him and then looked away, staring somewhere into the fog that now enveloped the Atlantic Coastline as far as the two could see.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know it’s not much of a response, but it’s the only one I have now.”

Johnny let out a soft sigh — something between frustration and resignation.

He put his arm around her shoulders to pull her close. She shrugged him off.

“I love you, Johnny,” she said. “But it’s not the right time.”

The fog had sifted its way ashore, lapping at Johnny’s toes, Jules’s sandals.

Johnny said nothing. Instead, he watched the fog climb his legs, swirl around his midsection. His eyes followed as it climbed Jules’s bare legs, for she was standing now. Soon, its density had grown so thick, he couldn’t see her.

From somewhere not close, he heard her.

“Bye, Johnny,” her fading voice said. “I won’t forget you.”

Searching for the write words

Whenever I hit a snag — known as the accursed ‘Writer’s Block’ — I’m instantly cast back to “Throw Momma from the Train.”

An odd reference? Maybe. But Billy Crystal’s character of Larry constantly searching for the right word to end the sentence, “The night was…” is the perfect example of writer’s block. Throughout the film Larry is searching for that missing word, and that’s just in hopes of starting a new novel. Never mind the rest of the book’s plot. Just the idea of how important that lead sentence is, is a great example of how one word can get you on a roll.

So often the flashing cursor is unbelievably intimidating. Like it’s waiting for you, beckoning. Maybe even taunting.

“I’m not stuck,” you tell the cursor. “I’m just waiting for the right words.

“And they’ll be here any second.”

Stop waiting for the words and just start typing. The first thing that comes to your mind could lead you down an entertaining path. I’ve written on a similar topic to this in the past, especially on just getting going.

How about a gentle push. Here’s your start:

“The first time the alarm didn’t go off…”

Take it from there. Don’t let that cursor hold you up.

 

Sorry about the moon!

Sunday, time for Sunday Photo Fiction, a chance to turn a photo into Flash Fiction of somewhere between 100-200 words. This is my first shot at it. Follow the link and give it a try, too.

I was just washing my window, the living-room one that overlooks the Pacific, when I rubbed the bottom of the moon away.

I wasn’t using anything other than plain-old Windex, when, poof, I smeared a piece of the Earth’s satellite from the sky.

One minute it was a full moon, the next it was, well, you see it. It’s not all there any more.

The sad thing is, I have no idea how to undo it. I would’ve tried spraying and wiping again, but I was worried I’d make more vanish. And the moon is so little as it is, I can’t bear the idea of making more disappear.

Please forgive me. I’m truly sorry and would never have cleaned my window at that time of night if I’d known this was going to happen. I promise, I won’t ever do it again.

But let me know if it’s too hot one day, and I can try cleaning the window when the sun is out.

The right place to write (a short short story)

Writing in the study never worked for Peter.

The author who had had a best seller every year for the past decade couldn’t make it happen.

His study contained a desktop computer, a desk made of oak and at last count 3,439 books — all but a handful fiction.

Guests and acquaintances loved seeing Peter’s study. The marble inlaid between the shelves of oak that matched the desk made for endless conversation.

Peter loved it too. It might have been his favorite room in the 10,500-square-foot mansion. But only to read or diddle around on the Internet.

For writing, he would’ve picked the bathroom ahead of the study. Though he never had.

He’d tried numerous times over the last six years, since moving into the place. But every time he sat in front of the computer his mind went blank. He didn’t know the reason. Maybe it was because he’d never had a study before this place. He’d always just sat down where his fancy took him and started working on his laptop. He’d tried that too once, took the laptop in the study with him and spun his chair away from the desktop. No luck there either.

A new novel had sprung to his mind on his walk this morning. It would be another best seller, he thought to himself, not that that mattered to him. He already had enough money to last him through his kids’ kids. The writing was the fun part for him. It always had been. He’d adored the challenge of getting to a finish line when he’d started there. He’d reveled in the plot when it started in the middle. But he preferred solving the puzzle when his idea started at the beginning of a book — as the one this morning had. He never knew where those stories would lead him, and as usual, he was eager to find out.

And he was determined to solve the latest puzzle in the comfort of his study.

He had the first few pages already drafted in his head when he opened the French doors to his oak-scented room. Had them nearly word for word when he sat down and pushed the power button to his computer. Felt them tingling in his fingertips as the word-processing document sprung to life.

He set his fingers to the middle row of keys and watched the cursor. It blinked at him, like an eager puppy awaiting a command. Soon, the cursor was mocking him. Here I am. Now I’m gone. Here I am. Now, gone. Here. Gone. Here. Gone.

He started to sweat. Felt the beads ooze through his skin, build until a few trickled down his temple. He had no idea what he was going to write. Didn’t know what the cursor wanted him to do. Didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

He took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. Then stood up and walked out. He closed the French doors behind him. Grabbed his laptop off the kitchen counter and walked into the bathroom. He sat down on the tile floor, between the toilet and the sink.

He began to type.

Where do stories come from?

So many people wonder where writers get their stories.

Are they personal experiences? Are they old tales turned into new ones?

The truth is, writers make them up. That’s why they’re called writers, and why so many of their stories are called novels or fiction.

One of the greatest examples of a writer telling a story that he completely made up yet nailed so accurately and hit home with so many of his readers is Stephen King’s effort with Hearts in Atlantis. The second novella in the book takes place at a college and focuses on a group of friends who take to playing the card game “Hearts.” So many readers (your truly included) found King’s recounting of the addictive nature of the game so realistic that we could’ve sworn King must have loved playing Hearts too, and fallen into a world of serious Hearts.

Not so, said King. Essentially, the story was completely fabricated. Proof of a true legend at his craft.

The most important thing to learn when wondering where a story comes from is understanding that a story can come from anywhere. It can come from a photo, a painting, a dream, an idea. Maybe it comes from thin air, just pops up in your mind one day. What you as a writer have to do, is grow that story. Much like raising a plant from a seed, you have to feed that story idea. Add to it so it germinates, sprouts roots and expands into different avenues. The more you feed and water it, the more it takes on a life of its own, with you gently guiding the way.

And that’s the fun part. Personally, I have to remind myself throughout my writings, that there is no right or wrong path for a story. It’s not math. (And that’s why I’m doing it, because it’s the opposite of math.)

One way to come up with a story starter is using writing exercises, whether on the Internet or in a book. Maybe a one-sentence lead can get you going down the right path. But don’t cling to that crutch. Push it away. Stand on your own two writing feet. Make up a sentence all your own, and move on from there. Even if you don’t like where the story starts to lead you, just keep writing. Keep generating words. The more you write, the more you learn about your craft, the more you understand what you’re capable of. At some point, you’re going to realize you’ve been carried off in a writing frenzy — disappeared into that magical place that writer’s love. It will feel like you’ve been transported into that make-believe world that exists only in your mind, yet is so real you forgot you were writing.

And the more you keep doing it, the more the story ideas will flow. You’ll find your mind naturally generating ideas without you forcing it. The key is getting going. Don’t stop. Don’t think about it. Just write.

When do you consider yourself an author?

With the upcoming debut of my fist novel, The Soul Detective, I’ve been wondering at what point do writers consider themselves authors?

For me it is as soon as you’ve typed in “The End” to conclude that book or short story. It doesn’t need to be published, it doesn’t need to be read by anyone, it doesn’t need to be edited.

When you feel that book has reached its conclusion and you can honestly tell yourself, “I’m finished,” then you’ve become an author. Congratulations!

Of course, getting it published traditionally is an entirely different topic. For me — like so many thousands of other authors — I’m going the e-publishing route. I don’t think a story such as mine is one agents feel is marketable. Never something any author wants to hear. But unless you find an author willing to risk their neck on something out of the ordinary, it’s going to be tough to break into that traditional-published market.

It’s one of the great things about being an author in this day and age. After you’ve endured enough of all those “thanks, no thanks,” letters, sending you back to the drawing board to rewrite your query and synopsis for the umpteenth time, you actually have a legitimate option.

And it’s not like you’ll be going it alone. There is so much information and opinion throughout the Internet on what to do and what not to do regarding e-publishing.

A couple of great blogs that have helped me:

David Gaughran’s blog, especially the entry under Basics 

Another with links to multiple reference sites is Jane Friedman’s e-publishing blog

J.A. Konrath’s blog is inspiring and empowering for the neophyte e-publisher

As most of them will let you know, pick and chose from all the info you run across and find out what works best for you.

Regardless, whether you want to go the traditional route, prefer e-publishing, or just love to write for no one but yourself, type in those little words, “The End” and understand you determine when you’re an author, nobody else does.