Christopher Goodwine, Off the Shelf

Learning a lesson the hard way...

2010-08-28T14:30:00.001-10:00

Ack!

Just noticed that I had a response to a submission in my SPAMBOX! It was a rejection with an encouraging note; I'm fine with that. Now I'm afraid of what I might have MISSED from pubs whose responses were long overdue. And you can't recover stuff that was auto-deleted from google's spam box. Uggggggggh, what if I had acceptances?! This is the only time you'll find me hoping the responses were rejections.

"Ten Words You Need To Stop Misspelling"

2010-01-10T01:20:00.000-10:00

A handy guide. Share it with your friends who need it! I know you've got some.

I must choose my habits wisely.

2009-11-02T20:45:00.000-10:00

I am currently on hiatus from blogging. I'm at a busy place in my life that requires much time, and I had to either stop writing or stop blogging. Not really a choice, is it?

It pains me to not read the experiences and good tips of the writers I'm following, but in order to not allow blogging to detract from the purpose for which I had a blog at all, I'm going to keep my distance. Cliché, I know, but there simply aren't enough hours in the day and night.

I hope to be back on board by springtime!

A hui hou,

Christopher

Dan Brown's 20 Worst Sentences

2009-09-21T18:07:00.001-10:00

I found this amusing, and just had to share!

Dan Brown's 20 Worst Sentences

A Farewell to Facial Hair

2009-09-08T20:33:00.004-10:00

Dear F.H.,

It's time that we went our separate ways. It is clear to me now that I should have left you in Portland where you belong. You're just too close to me. Every day you've been growing on me, becoming an integral part of my life and my very identity, but you just don't fit in here, and I need to breathe. I need to feel fresh air on my face.

It's not that I don't like you any more. I will miss being with you -- and I already do. It's the little silly things mostly, like how you inevitably tried to take up more space while I slept. Or how irritated I would get when someone rubbed you the wrong way. Or how you would bristle when I got busy and neglected you. And how when we would have soup, you'd always save a little bit for later.

It's hard when I sometimes look at strangers and see you, but I can handle it and so can you. You're naturally resilient. I tried to condition you to be soft, but I know you'll come back strong. I can't say when, but I know I will be with you again. It may be sooner than I think, but it may be longer too. There's just no way I can know the future. We've had our off-and-on times before, and some close shaves -- particularly when I was in the marines! -- but I know that I, at least, heal faster from the experience.

Now I've been without you for a day, and I already feel a little exposed, but I will do my best to keep a stiff upper lip and face the world clean. People have already said that I look several years younger, though they're not all certain why. In your absence, I can look in the mirror and see my tabula rasa. Thank you for this past year, our longest time and best together, and I hope that when we meet again you will still have your old luster and volume.

Farewell,
Christopher

Made-Up New Word #2

2009-09-03T18:53:00.000-10:00

contrivity
-noun, plural -ties
[kon-triv-i-tee]

A idea or plot that is obviously planned or forced; artificial; strained.

Contrived? So what?

2009-09-03T18:44:00.002-10:00

The other day, I was watching the uber-popular television show, "Lost," and thinking about contrivities. Since I've been putting ideas to the pen and reading about the process of writing these past few months, I've gained a new sense of appreciation/criticism when it comes to watching or reading fiction. In "Lost," The Pillars of the Earth, and Atlas Shrugged, I felt I could pick out the writers' thought processes at times, and see exactly what they were trying to do with certain situations or characters. This feeling of "ah, I see what you're trying to do there" translated instinctually to my mind as an impression that the ideas were contrived. I knew this wasn't fair, and that all three pieces of fiction were award-winning and widely popular, so I stopped to think about why I felt that way.

The magic of a magician's tricks -- not the magic that enables the trick, but the magic that enraptures the audience -- is rendered inert when the audience figures out the mundane method behind it. I think in some way, this is what I am experiencing with the magic of fiction. I'm peeking behind the curtain, seeing the gears and pulleys, the smoke and mirrors. To a layperson, this can ruin the trick, but to an aspiring magician, it is a wonderful discovery! I can recognize the mechanisms of thought and craft, indicating that I am gaining a greater understanding of the field. I can put myself at the other writer's keyboard, seeing what they wanted to come out, and how they ended up presenting it. Most importantly, I can relate. These people are human, and must go through the same struggles and processes as me, and as my writer friends. A successful product is attainable.

I think that my initial instinct in feeling that what I read and observed were contrived was accurate, and that the tone behind it was not. By definition, all ideas are contrived. We use patterns, structures, archetypes and stereotypes ubiquitously. You don't have to create something new in order to create something great. Heck, there are only 7 or 20 plots out there to use, and Willy Shakespeare's done 'em all. You just need to make them interesting, and create interesting characters. You can smash two ideas together that haven't been combined before or you can drop a different group of characters into an old situation (such as shipwrecked on an island).The more I learn, the more I see that event of stories are awful convenient, but then I realize that this is the manifestation of a piece of advice that is given to pretty much all developing writers: "By the time you get to the end of a story, it has to be inevitable that that is the only way it could have ended."

That said, there are a few things that still make me roll my eyes. It gets on my nerves when small details are terribly cliche -- even moreso than if the plot is. Getting past all the plot ploys and character conveniences in "Lost," the resourceful, rugged, handsome and capable but slightly-troubled hero is named Jack. They're always named Jack. Every time I pick up a suspense/thriller novel in the bookstore, it's Jack. I wonder if this is Tom Clancy's fault. What if he named his recurring hero Archibald Ryan instead of Jack? Would writers worldwide be naming their spies and ex-marines and P.I.s Archie? You know what, since I got on this tangent, I'm going to go ahead and ask: Who do you think started the "Jack Trend"? How many heroes named "Jack" can you name off the top of your head?

Why I Love My Commute

2009-08-29T19:05:00.002-10:00

Four weeks ago, I started my training at the EMT Academy. After six years in college, and two of those in residence life, I have been looking forward to having a job where I get to have my own time once I'm off the clock. Well, this ain't it. I work and train eight hours a day, commuting between ninety minutes and two hours total, and then I have to go home and study for quizzes and exams that take place every other day. I'm not whining... I'm just amused by this. Here's a life lesson for you: It never gets any easier. Just different.

I try to adhere to a philosophy that one should make the best of whatever challenges come up. I think I'm doing a good job with this so far. Instead of paying to go to school, I am being paid to go to school. More than I've ever been paid before. I'm working in a location that many people would love to even visit. The weather is great, I'm always minutes from a beach, and there are rainbows every other day. I'm being trained in skills that I can take anywhere in America and have job. And I get to commute every day!

Why is commuting awesome? So many people complain about it, understandably, having to deal with traffic and wasting up to twenty hours a week just to get to and from work. Few things can be more infuriating than a daily commute. I'm all about it, though. It's my favorite part of the workday, because of audiobooks! With my severe deficit of "for-me-time" this past year, I've gotten more reading done on the road in the last two weeks than I have in the last three months. Audiobooks have given me a book to read at a rate of about one every week and a half, at no cost to my studying or free time. This is good not only because of the removal from the commute, but also because I love reading, and, as a writer, reading is one of the most important things I can do to tacitly improve my own craft.

Sure, audiobooks are about three times as expensive as paper books, but this is why we have libraries! Oh, what a wonderful place, the library. I hadn't been to a public library for years until today. Now, I have a brand spankin' new State of Hawaii Public Library card. It feels good. I've only got one caveat with the audiobooks: Many are cut. Abridged! Why? I can't come up with a good reason. Pillars of the Earth, for example, was a very enjoyable story, but entire sections had been cut that made the ending feel a little like it was from a different book about similar events. I suppose I'll just have to make the best of what I get.

The "Bebop-a-Workshop!" Critique Group

2009-08-21T12:04:00.014-10:00

Hey fellow writin' types! I'm trying to start up an online writer's workshop, since it's so difficult to a) find good people locally, b) meet up at the same place and same time regularly, and c) find one that already exists online that I'm comfortable with. I'm doing this through a private blog. Below is the basic information for the workshop. Let me know in an email or comment if you're interested!

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The Bebop-a-Workshop!
Bebop is a form of music that incorporates interplay of harmonic structure and melody through improvisational teamwork that produces a kind of jazz with a driving tempo and a very particular sound. If you've never snapped your fingers before in your life, listening to bebop music might be a good first step. The freeform stylings and counterculture currents of bebop could be said to have provided much of the beat in the beat movement of the late forties and fifties. This movement produced and inspired a number of prominent poets and writers, from Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg to Ken Kesey, Tom Robbins, Maya Angelou, and more.

The goal of the Bebop-a-Workshop is to channel this sense of teamwork and improvisation into our own medium of writing by providing an online place for like-minded writers to share our works-in-progress, receiving and giving feedback in order to produce a better manuscript. Having this private, invitation-only workshop is intended to allow members the freedom to share works they may like to publish in a way that is secure from risks of plagiarism and of deterring editors/agents due to materials being publicly accessible prior to publication. Only authors have access to read this blog.

Online, we can share and discuss on our own time, eliminating the need to try and organize meetings with all members. It also opens us up to members around the world. No matter how physically isolated they may be or how busy they are, members can come together through this blog. There are a number of other online forums out there for the purposes of writer's workshops, but these are often very large and impersonal, open to absolutely anybody online, and viewable to the public.

"Fortunately, art is a community effort - a small but select community living in a spiritualized world endeavoring to interpret the wars and the solitudes of the flesh." ~Allen Ginsberg

Rules & Guidelines

1. Bebop-a-Workshop is a private blog for members only.

2. Members may be added through personal reference of a current member only.

Emailchristopher.goodwine@gmail.com asking to add someone you would like to recommend.

3. Members have a limit of two workshop requests per week, containing their own material, and with total content of no greater than 12,000 words. The idea is for a short story, or an essay, or a chapter or two to be shared for critique per week. It is not required for members to post every week, of course.

4. Members may post related information, discussion and links at will.

5. There is no limit to the number of comments a member may leave on posts, and conversation on any given post is never officially closed, unless its author decides to delete it.

6. Members will commit to the reciprocity of this workshop by reading the posts of the other members and offering engaged, thoughtful, and helpful criticism on a regular basis. There is no specific requirement, but you will likely get the same attention paid to your own work as you give to others.

7. Members will recognize that critique is meant to help improve their work or approach, and will not take offense at constructive criticism. Remember: Criticism in a workshop is nothing more than a suggestion. Your work is your own, and you choose what to keep and what to ignore.

8. Members will not copy, share, distribute, or plagiarize any content that they did not produce. All members claim rights to the work in their own posts.

9. For better access and organization, each author will include their name or blogger identity in the "labels" section, and the title of the piece or the project it is part of.

10. While we are being critical of each others' work, please keep it civil. No insults, harassment, or derogatory comments will be tolerated. If someone's work is offensive to you, ignore it unless you can discuss it objectively and for the benefit of the writer.

Do I believe in Writer's Block?

2009-08-18T19:29:00.009-10:00

I commented on a post at Jenny Greenleaf's blog, and realized that I had a particular outlook regarding writer's block. Quick to seize the opportunity for the easy post, here it is!

I believe in writer's wall, but not in writer's block. I see it as an obstacle, not some force we have no control over. It's not like you can only write when your muse pokes you, and you cannot write when the anti-muse says no; The writer has free will.

You've got to find your way to the other side of an obstacle. Push it over, climb it, dig a hole under it, arrange your molecules just so in order to pass through it, or pick a different project or start a new one. The writer's block/wall mantra: JUST WRITE! Even if it's crap, we've got to keep rolling out words; we are logophilic dung beetles. Eventually we'll pick up on something and then realize the worst is over.

But that's just my opinion.

Shifting Goals to Short Fiction

2009-08-17T19:55:00.014-10:00

(art by Boz Schurr)

I've put work on my novel project on hold since I started my new job. I seem to need at elast a few hours at a time to get work on a project of that size. I just can't support the time commitment it requires until everything has settled a bit. Fortunately, I've got a Moleskine addiction and an awesome artist girlfriend with the same compulsion. B designed a Moleskine cover for me, and had it printed on leather, gifting me with it shortly after I made my final trip to Hawaii. Above is the drawing, which exists inside one of her own drawing Moleskines, and is now represented on the outside cover of the Moleskine she gave to me. Apparently there's a guy who runs a bit of a business engraving whatever you like onto covers for Moleskines. And of course, he's based in that best of cities, Portland f*ing Oregon.

At any rate, having the Moleskine around, with its wonderfully inspirational cover, has been very useful this past week. I have dedicated this particular notebook to the first drafts of short stories, and have already produced one. I think I will stick with short fiction until EMT Academy is over. Ahh, the Moleskine... so mobile and useful! I can pick it up and write in it as little as a half hour at a time throughout the week, and then spend four hours scribbling in it, like I did on Saturday. 6,649 words from Sunday the 9th to Saturday the 15th. Now I get to edit it at my leisure! (I actually like that part.)

I would like to set a modest goal for myself of producing a draft of a short story every two weeks. If this proves manageable, I'll bump it up to weekly. Along with this goal, at least half of them must be between 2,000 and 4,000 words. So far, three of the four stories I've written this year that I think could be publishable are between 5,500 and 6,500 words. Most contests and many publications seem to require the length to be in the 2k-4k category, and I cannot cut these stories any further. See, I get my ideas and my characters, and I know where they start, and where they will end up. How they get there is the majority of the actual short-story-writing process for me, and for those favorite stories, it took over 5,500 words. Nine more stories written and revised by New Year's Day should be a good place to start.

I made up a new word!

2009-08-15T11:49:00.001-10:00

Hobotic

(hō-bŏt'ĭk)

Adjective - Pertaining to or exhibiting characteristics of a hobo.

Tales from EMT Academy: The Patient's Point-of-view

2009-08-10T18:52:00.010-10:00

Today at EMT Academy, we were introduced to the various methods of transporting a patient. As part of our training and familiarization with the equipment, each of us got to take turns being carried, dragged, hoisted or rolled. It was a little scary. Concomitant with the activity was an exercise in trust. Being carried by other people, particularly in ways that you have never been carried before can be quite invasive, intimate, and stressful. I was first to volunteer to be the patient in most cases, and even though I have known these men and women for a couple weeks, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous. And this was me in a healthy body and a fit state of mind. Every bounce, jostle, jerk and move is distinctly felt, and it constantly feels like someone could drop you. I don't know if you know it, but you're heavy!

We had some fun with it, making jokes and playing around. Some of us played a patient who was unresponsive, or being belligerent -- Some of us did that very well indeed. We put the smallest recruit in the "Mega-Mover" stretcher (reinforced tarp), meant for patients up to 1,500 lbs, and then rolled two men at one time. Some of us fake-vomited on the others' shoes. At one point, I was strapped in three places to a metal stretcher, and propped up as if on a handtruck. Of course, I couldn't resist mentioning chianti and fava beans.

I had never been lifted onto a gurney and loaded into an ambulance before today, and I took a moment while I was lying in there to think about how outlandish and frightening it must feel to a patient. First, I am injured or sick, then a couple strangers come and ask me questions and poke and prod at me, taking my vital signs. They might be wearing plastic gowns, masks, and goggles. They may put an oxygen mask on me, or stick me with a needle. The strangers lift me onto a slightly cushioned board that is hardly wide enough to be comfortable on and strap me int. They roll me along the blacktop; I feel every crack and groove. It's noisy when they shove the gurney against the back bumper of the ambulance and slide it in. It is all very smooth, except for when they need to readjust the now-collapsed gurney to lock in place in the back of the rig. A couple more jerks to the side and it clicks. I'm supine, staring up at round 4-inch lights, with a wall of cabinets containing various medicines and sanitary materials to my right. To my left are the boots of the medic who is sitting on the bench. I cannot yet speak to what the ride is like, or what being transferred to E.R. care is like either. This is all just the ambulance.

In an ambulance, a patient is being transported physically, yes, but is also transported mentally. They are not in their world, where things are familiar and comfortable. They are already hurt, and then are thrust into this fast-paced relay. I'm not sure how many of the others recognized the importance of understanding how things would look and feel to a patient -- the lesson that is beneath the lesson. I'm sure that many patients will be unconscious, or may not even really be cognizant of what's going on, but our being put in their place is important, I think, for empathy. The ambulance trip is a necessary and helpful stress, but should be made as smooth as possible. On almost every call, we will be dealing with people who are having the worst day of their year, or the worst day of their life. I will endeavor to keep this in mind every time; no matter how nasty a patient might be to me, they will get my best, most respectful and careful care.

From Stephen King's "On Writing" (2)

2009-08-09T20:06:00.008-10:00

... Almost everyone can remember losing his or her virginity, and most writers can remember the first book he/she put down thinking: I can do better than this. Hell, I am doing better than this! What could be more encouraging to the struggling writer than to realize his/her work is unquestionably better than that of someone who actually got paid for his/her stuff?

One learns most clearly what tnot to do by reading bad prose -- one novel like Asteroid Miners (or Valley of the Dolls, Flowers in the Attic, and The Bridges of Madison County, to name just a few) is worth a semester at a good writing school, even with the superstar guest lecturers thrown in.

Good writing, on the other hand, teaches the learning writer about style, graceful narration, plot development, the creation of believable characters, and truth-telling. A novel like The Grapes of Wrath may fill a new writer with feelings of despair and good old-fashioned jealousy -- "I'll never be able to write anything that good, not if I live to be a thousand" -- but such feelings can also serve as a spur, goading the writer to work harder and aim higher. Being swept away by a combination of great story and great writing -- of being flattened, in fact -- is part of every writer's necesssary formation. You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it has been done to you.

So we read to experience the mediocre and the outright rotten; such experience helps us to recognize those things when they begin to creep into our own work, and to steer clear of them. We also read in order to measure ourselves against the good and the great, to get a sense of all that can be done. And we read in order to experience different styles.

----

I've often noticed that there are books that motivate me because I can feel I could do as well or better, and that there are books that demotivate me because they are so gosh-darn good. I find that there is a bit more of a spectrum in this regard. From the top of my head:

Angels & Demons by Dan Brown was one that I read and thought to myself, "Man. I can write better than this, and this guy is selling MILLIONS OF BOOKS."

Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon was beautiful and well-written, even in translation from Spanish, and swiftly made its way to my top five favorite books. Even so, it felt like with some practice, I could write that well, and it now sits as an attainable goal on my shelf. Actually, 3 of my shelves.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman sparked a slightly neurotic personal vendetta against Mr. Gaiman because I feel that I can write just as well as he does, and also that he beat me towriting and publishing story and character ideas I've had for about ten years. I don't actually have a problem with Mr. Gaiman, but I find it more amusing to pretend to resent him for that book.

Anything by James Michener leaves me feeling extremely satisfied as a reader, and as weak as a mewling kitten as a writer. Most recently, it was The Novel. Even so, I definitely recommend it to anybody who likes to read or wants to write.

What books have you read that have motivated or discouraged you as a writer?

From Stephen King's "On Writing"

2009-08-09T20:00:00.003-10:00

Someone out there is now accusing me of being tiresome and anal-retentive. I deny it. I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I will shout it from the rooftops. To put it another way, they're like dandelions. If you have one on your lawn, it looks pretty and unique. If you fail to root it out, however, you find five the next day... fifty the day after that... and then, my brothers and sisters, your lawn is totally, completely and profligately covered with dandelions. By then you see them for the weeds they really are, but by then it's -- GASP!! -- too late.

----

He said snidely, sardonically, and apprehensively.

Starting my first "real" job. Sigh

2009-08-02T08:38:00.002-10:00

No more summer breaks.
Fond farewell to leisure time --
We hardly knew ye.

Flash Fic: "Another Day In the Wilderness" (449 words)

2009-07-31T10:56:00.007-10:00

I cranked out a little impromptu (not spending time revising it) flash fiction thanks to a prompt from Eric. I guess it's kind of an historical joke :p. It was fun, at least!

---

The raindrops stung his bare scalp as Tad struggled up the slope, the rocks scraping against his toes. His eyes were downcast, intent on the climb. As he neared the crest he felt a surge of excitement. At last, he finally got to be the scout, to be the first civilized man to see a brand new part of the frontier! Stony mountains were all over the region, concealing God knew what. His orders for this first scouting mission were to stop at sundown, or when he found a body of water, whichever came first. He reached the top and removed his cap. Steam rose from his scalp as he mopped sweat and rain out of his eyes.

Once his vision was cleared, he found he was looking out over a river valley. The river was certainly smaller than the Missouri, but big enough to be important. Under the overcast sky, the water was a deep blue-gray. Tad smiled to himself. He found it, so maybe the captains would name it after him! The Tad Willard River, a permanent piece of the frontier.

Tad put the cap back on his head and sat down for a minute to rest and drink from his waterskin. Pleased with himself, he made a good clip back down the ridge and back to camp.

"Where's Captain Lewis?" he asked the sentry.

"He's asleep. Captain Clark is on duty. He's in his tent."

Tad headed to Clark's tent and tapped on the flap. "Excuse me sir? It's Tad, reporting from my scout."

"Hm? Come on in, Tad. I was just writing a letter to my Virginian girl. You know, sometimes I just don't know what to say."

"Well, good luck, sir. I don't really have anyone to write to, so I'm not sure I could be much help. I found a river on my scout, Captain, about 8 miles to the west, in a valley of its own."

"Excellent. We will have to find our way over there."

"Yes, sir." Tad hesitated in the door of the tent. "Um, sir, I was thinking that since I found the river, maybe you could name it-"

"That's a good idea!"

Tad's face lit up. "It is?"

"Yes, indeed. But wait, tell me, is this river pretty?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. It's in a nice valley, at least."

"Perfect." Captain Clark grinned at Tad. "I'll name it after Judith. She'll love it." The Captain turned back to his letter and dipped his quill in ink. "Oh, and Tad, could you relieve John as sentry? He's been standing duty since dawn."

Feeling dejected, Tad headed back outside and relieved the sentry. Just another day in the wilderness.

Well, Gawrsh! I'm a Scribbler!

2009-07-30T14:43:00.006-10:00

Novice Writer has graced me with a Superior Scribbler Award! It was unexpected, but comes with a surprisingly nice feeling. Thank you.

Now, it is my duty to pass it on again to 5 more bloggers. I know one or two of you have already received one, but you didn't from me, so you get it again! I don't think you're obligated to pick another five. ;)

If you aren't one of the five, blame the award for not letting me choose more. I would. If you don't follow these blogs already, check them out! They certainly deserve a few more followers.

To those of you listed below, the rules are thus:

Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.

Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to this post, which explains The Award.

Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!

Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

My "Most-Deserving Bloggy Friends":

Novice Writer, of Chronicles of a Novice Writer

Melanie Avila, of What Am I Doing in Mexico?

Eric, of Working My Muse

Jenny Greenleaf, of, well, Jenny Greenleaf!

TereLiz Luziana, of The Lesser Key

I may not comment frequently, but know that I am here, lurking and reading. I don't know you very well yet, but on some level, through your writing, I sense a sort of kindred spirit. I appreciate you for our similarities and shared struggles, and also for the greater understanding of writing that comes from your comments and posts. Your scribblings are, indeed, superior. Thank you.

Short Story Studies 3: An Issue with How Writing is Taught

2009-07-29T12:16:00.006-10:00

In all of the short fiction and creative writing classes I've taken, the instructors have given us short stories to read and learn from. These most frequently consist of classics and timeless stories that are widely regarded as "literature." We are meant to read them, to study them, and to glean from them a better understanding of the nature of a story. They are in the form of printouts (possibly violating copyright policy) and anthologies, such as Fiction 100, or Crafting the Very Short Story. Some stories are ubiquitous in all beginning and college writing classes: Conrad's Heart of Darkness, Gabriel Garcia Marquez' A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings, Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper, to name a few.

The thing about these stories that we are supposed to learn from is that they stand apart from the stories that we will be writing. A great many of them don't follow a "recipe" or "guidelines" of plot or structure, as beginning writers are expected to do (i.e. beginning, crisis, climax, resolution). Many instructors and bloggers say this is the way it has to go. I don't think they serve well as a model for novice writing students. The stories explore themes and ideas that involve plots and characterizations that exceed the standards; they have more than one main character, or don't follow a standard plot arc, or do unconventional things with their prose.

Two remedies are apparent to me: Either the material we give to beginning writers needs to be more conventional and contemporary, or we should tone down the weight that is placed on the standard forms. Yes, you do need an understanding of the basics before you can experiment, but should you be punished for doing so just because you are not yet published or accepted? In both the literature and the art worlds, there seems to be a harsh truth that even if your work is brilliant, unless you are already established and accepted in the writing or art community (and in many cases dead), it won't be taken seriously. I think that, in an educational setting, it is more important that we give learning writers the freedom to write how they see fit, and then let them know what works.

The best fiction class I've taken (taught by Michael Guerra) was presented more in the form of a structured writer's workshop than a class, and I think all of us students benefited from it. We were told to write our first story without any instruction regarding howto write a story, which left many of us feeling miffed at first. Then, as a class, we discussed the content and organization of the stories and what we got out of it, leaving aside nitpicky things like grammar and conventions (plenty of editorial corrections were made on the 25 copies we shared and got back from the class). We gave the same treatment to the "professional" stories we read from the anthologies, illuminating what worked and why, while illustrating other methods of executing what didn't. In this way we were free to work with and develop our own style, unadulterated by the pretention of the literature elite. A handful of the writers in the class produced work that was absolutely exemplary and could readily be published. It is these writers that we should be encouraging to push their limits rather than discouraging and forcing to fit their material in a set structure.

I don't mean to say by any means that following the basic "rules" is a bad thing. The "rules" are a great place to start from, to reference, and to fall back on, but they should not be preached as writing law. An environment has been created by writers, editors, and teachers who give advice on writing in which it is scary for a beginning writer to push their imagination and skills to try something new. Stephen King says it very well in his book, On Writing: "...Most books about writing are filled with bullshit. Fiction writers, present company included, don't understand very much about what they do -- not why it works when it's good, not why it doesn't when it's bad."

I think we can reduce this bullshit. Writing is scary enough as it is, and only gets more frightening as you graduate to new levels. We should be teaching writers to respectfully embrace the risk inherent in originality, not to back away from it.

Short Story Studies 2: 131 First Lines Analysis

2009-07-27T11:14:00.006-10:00

In hopes of getting something useful out of it, I've been applying some research methodology to these short stories. I frequently read or hear abotu how important it is to have a compelling first line in a story, something that makes the reader want to keep reading, so I thought I would look at some first lines from pieces of writing that are widely accepted as good literature. It's possible that nothing practical will come of it, but at any rate, I think it will be interesting. From the 131 first lines I posted below, I've divvied them up into 10 categories and assigned them accordingly. These are based solely on the text of the first line, with no other context or content, and are subjectively based on my own viewpoint. Some repeat, since they fit in more than one category.

"Characterization" lines begin the story by revealing to us something about at least one of the characters.

Stories in this category: 28

(20, 25, 27, 30, 39, 40, 41, 44, 47, 52, 53, 54, 78, 79, 80, 88, 89, 90, 91, 95, 100, 103, 108, 109, 110, 122, 125, 126)

"Setting/Environment" lines begin the story by introducing elements of the physical setting or environment.

Stories in this category: 28

(12, 29, 36, 37, 38, 39, 45, 48, 49, 51, 55, 57, 61, 63, 64, 65, 68, 69, 70, 72, 83, 92, 101, 106, 112, 116, 124, 126)

"Raises a Question" includes first lines that directly ask a question, or lead the reader to generate one.

Stories in this category: 20

(1, 6, 16, 18, 21, 25, 41, 42, 56, 58, 60, 66, 71, 75, 80, 85, 102, 107, 119, 127)

"Nonspectacular" lines simply didn't stand out to me in any regard.

Stories in this category: 16

(10, 11, 22, 23, 24, 32, 34, 50, 81, 82, 99, 121, 128, 129, 130, 131)

"General Statement" lines make a statement about the world or people's behavior.

Stories in this category: 13

(13, 14, 16, 19, 28, 31, 33, 62, 64, 92, 93, 97, 98)

"Introduction" lines give a sense of beginning with no other particular information.

Stories in this category: 13

(3, 7, 9, 26, 35, 67, 75, 84, 87, 104, 114, 177, 118)

"Sensory/Imagery" lines begin with a description that incorporates the senses or imagery.

Stories in this category: 11

(43, 12, 36, 38, 51, 72, 73, 76, 86, 106, 113)

"Bad News/Change" lines start out the story with bad news, such as of a death, or a mishap.

Stories in this category: 8

(2, 8, 30, 46, 96, 111, 115, 120)

"Instant Tension" lines are my favorite from this study. They instantly evoke emotion or curiousity to see what happens next.

Stories in this category: 7

(15, 42, 77, 94, 105, 115, 120)

"History" lines begin the story with an historical fact or description of an historical event.

Stories in this category: 3

(4, 17, 59)

As you can see, most of the stories began with a line about the characters or about the setting, followed by lines that raise a question in the reader's mind, and by lines that I didn't find particularly interesting. I think it is interesting to see these first lines and their distribution out of context of their stories, but it is pretty clear that there are no particular rules about what makes a good opening line.

Is there a lesson in this? I think so: Setting and characters are good to get into the story right away because in a short story you need to ground the reader and get to the dramatic action swiftly, but, that said, don't sweat the opening too much. Just write the story to the best of your ability and come back to the first line at the end. If it fits the story, then good; if it doesn't, play with revision.

Have you got any thoughts on first lines or about the 131 lines?

Short Story Studies 1: 131 First Lines Data

2009-07-27T11:04:00.004-10:00

As part of my exploration of short fiction, I've transcribed here the first lines from 131 short stories from James H. Pickering's Fiction 100 anthology. The book includes stories that have been selected for their quality and that are meant to be used to better the reader/student's understanding of short fiction.

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1. One dark and rainy Boston spring of many years ago, I spent all my afterschool and evening hours in the living room of our antique-crammed Cedar Street flat, writing down what the Ouija board said to my mother.

Alice Adams, Roses, Rhododendron

2. Just after Victor lost his job at the BIA, he also found out that his father had died of a heart attack in Phoenix, Arizona.

Sherman Alexie, This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona

3. We got up at four in the morning, that first day in the East.

Sherwood Anderson, I Want to Know Why

4. When the Paiute nations broke westward through the Sierra wall they cut off a remnant of the Shoshones, and forced them south as far as Death Valley and the borders of the Mojaves, they penned the Washoes in and around Tahoe, and passing between these two, established themselves along the snow-fed Sierra creeks.

May Hunter Austin, The Land

5. Mrs. Wills had lived seventeen years with Mr. Wills, and when he left her for three, those three were so much the best of her married life that she wished he had never come back.

Mary Hunter Austin, The Return of Mr. Wills

6. I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.

James Baldwin, Sonny’s Blues

7. Back in the days when everyone was old and stupid or young and foolish and me and Sugar were the only ones just right, this lady moved on our block with nappy hair and proper speech and no makeup.

Toni Cade Bambara, The Lesson

8. When he and Cath broke up, he thought about joining the Ramblers, but it seemed too obviously sad a thing to do.

Julian Barnes, Trespass

9. When they met, fifteen years ago, Jonathan had a job teaching botany at a small college near Albany, and Ruby was teaching invertebrate zoology at a college in the Berkshires.

Andrea Barrett, The Littoral Zone

10. For whom is the funhouse fun? Perhaps for lovers.

John Barth, Lose in the Funhouse

11. The balloon, beginning at a point on Fourteenth Street, the exact location of which I cannot reveal, expanded northward all one night, while people were sleeping, until it reached the Park.

Donald Barthelme, The Balloon

12. An ice storm, following seven days of snow; the vast fields and drifts of snow turning to sheets of glazed ice that shine and shimmer blue in the moonlight, as if the color is being fabricated not by the bending and absorption of light but by some chemical reaction within the glossy ice; as if the source of all blueness lies somewhere up here in the north – the core of it beneath one of those frozen fields; as if blue is a thing that emerges, in some parts of the world, from the soil itself, after the sun goes down.

Rick Bass, The Hermit’s Story

13. The bowl was perfect.

Ann Beattie, Janus

14. Hard work? No, it wasn’t really so hard.

Saul Bellow, Looking for Mr. Green

15. A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below.

Ambrose Bierce, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

16. You wouldn’t have known me a year ago.

Amy Bloom, The Story

17. On page 22 of Liddell Hart’s History of World War I you will read that an attack against the Serre-Montauban line by thirteen British divisions (supported by 1,400 artillery pieces) planned for the 24^th of July, 1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29^th.

Jorge Luis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths

18. Towards the end of her day in London Mrs. Drover went round to her shut-up house to look for several things she wanted to take away.

Elizabeth Bowen, The Demon Lover

19. There is an evil moment on awakening when all things seem to pause.

Kay Boyle, Astronomer’s Wife

20. They wore each other like a pair of socks.

T. Coraghessan Boyle, The Love of My Life

21. Before going up into the Blue hills, Tomas Gomez stopped for gasoline at the lonely station.

Ray Bradbury, August 2002: Night Meeting

22. The schoolmaster was watching the two men climb toward him.

Albert Camus, The Guest

23. We had both been involved with other people that spring, but when June came and school was out we decided to let our house for the summer and move from Palo Alto to the north coast country of California.

Raymond Carver, Call If You Need Me

24. This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.

Raymond Carver, Cathedral

25. It was Paul’s afternoon to appear before the faculty of the Pittsburgh High School to account for his various misdemeanours.

Willa Cather, Pauls Case: A Study in Temperament

26. To begin at the beginning, the airplane from Minneapolis in which Francis Weed was traveling East ran into heavy weather.

John Cheever, The Country Husband

27. Olenka, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor, Plemyanniakov, was sitting in her back porch, lost in thought.

Anton Chekhov, The Darling

28. People were telling one another that a newcomer had been seen on the promenade – a lady with a dog.

Anton Chekhov, The Lady with the Dog

29. The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain.

Kate Chopin, The Storm

30. Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

Kate Chopin, The Story of an Hour

31. We didn’t always live on Mango Street.

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

32. In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result.

Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain), The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

33. It was many years ago.

Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain), The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg

34. I knew about wild plums twice before I tasted any.

Grace Stone Coates, Wild Plums

35. The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest.

Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

36. On my right hand there were lines of fishing-stakes resembling a mysterious system of half-submerged bamboo fences, incomprehensible in its division of the domain of tropical fishes, and crazy of aspect as if abandoned forever by some nomad tribe of fishermen now gone to the other end of the ocean; for there was no sign of human habitation as far as the eye could reach.

Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer

37. The palace hotel at Fort Romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background.

Stephen Crane, The Blue Hotel

38. The Great Pullman was whirling onward with such dignity of motion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove that the plains of Texas were pouring eastward.

Stephen Crane, The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky

39. The boy hitchhiking on the back-country Kansas road was nineteen years old.

Stephen Dobyns, Kansas

40. To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman.

Arthur Conan Doyle, A Scandal in Bohemia

41. “Do you know, Alyosha – don’t laugh! I made a poem about a year ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I’ll tell it to you.”

Fedor Dostoevski, The Grand Inquisitor

42. The Policeman’s boots had more eyelets than could be counted easily, and all the people in the Road House – the cook, the bartender, the waiter, the cabaret-style singer, the customers – waited on his words.

Tom Drury, Chemistry

43. The woman in front of him was eating roasted peanuts that smelled so good that he could barely contain his hunger.

Ralph Ellison, King of the Bingo Game

44. I was the first one to drive a convertible on my reservation.

Louise Erdrich, The Red Convertible

45. The store in which the Justice of the Peace’s court was sitting smelled of cheese.

William Faulkner, Barn Burning

46. When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiousity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant – a combined gardener and cook – had seen in at least ten years.

William Faulkner, A Rose for Emily

47. Some of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green’s father owned the second best grocery-store in Black Bear – the best one was “The Hub,” patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island – and Dexter caddied only for pocket-money.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Winter Dreams

48. When I saw Mack Bolger, he was standing beside the bottom of the marble steps that bring travelers and passersby to and from the balcony of the main concourse in Grand Central.

Richard Ford, Reunion

49. It was late in the afternoon, and the light was waning.

Mary Wilkins Freeman, A New England Nun

50. For no intelligible reason, Mr. Lucas had hurried ahead of his party.

E.M. Forster, The Road from Colonus

51. On the third day of rain they had killed so many crabs inside the house that Pelayo had to cross his drenched courtyard and throw them into the sea, because the newborn child had a temperature all night and they thought it was due to the stench.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings

52. The pump repairman was cautious.

Tim Gautreaux, Same Place, Same Things

53. “If I were a man,…” that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to – which was seldom.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, If I Were A Man

54. It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wall-Paper

55. When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf.

Susan Glaspell, A Jury of Her Peers

56. In the department of… but I had better not mention in what department.

Nikolai Gogol, The Overcoat

57. Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the long, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are called according to their kind, that fill a large area of certain counties in the south and south-west.

Thomas Hardy, The Three Strangers

58. I did not think that we ever knew his real name.

Bret Harte, Tennessee’s Partner

59. After the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and general approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under the original charters.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, My Kinsman, Major Molineux

60. Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset, into the street of Salem village, but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, Young Goodman Brown

61. The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white.

Ernest Hemingway, Hills Like White Elephants

62. When he says “Skins or blankets?” it will take you a moment to realize that he’s asking which you want to sleep under.

Pam Houston, How to Talk to a Hunter

63. In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town.

Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

64. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle

65. The morning of June 27^th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green.

Shirley Jackson, The Lottery

66. I saw her but four times, though I remember them vividly; she made her impression on me.

Henry James, Four Meetings

67. When the porter’s wife, who used to answer the house-bell, announced “A gentleman and a lady, sir” I had, as I often had in those days – the wish being father to the thought – an immediate vision of sitters.

Henry James, The Real Thing

68. The woods were already filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o’clock, though a bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the trunks of the trees.

Sarah Orne Jewett, A White Heron

69. Mr. Chiu and his bride were having lunch in the square before Muji Train Station.

Ha Jin, Saboteur

70. North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free.

James Joyce, Araby

71. Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet.

James Joyce, The Dead

72. It was still warm in the late-afternoon sun, and the city noises came muffled through the trees in the park.

Bel Kaufman, Sunday in the Park

73. The idea of pouring warm soapy water into overshoes and wearing them around the house to give yourself a relaxing footbath while you work is one that all fans of WLT’s “The Tip-Top Club” seem to have remembered over the years, along with the idea that if you’re depressed you should sit down and write a letter to yourself praising all of your good qualities, and the idea of puffing a cigarette smoke at violets to prevent aphids.

Garrison Keillor, The Tip-Top Club

74. I am not a very old man and this is something that happened to me when I was very young – only nine years old.

Stephen King, The Man in the Black Suit

75. My father said he saw him years later playing in a tenth-rate commercial league in a textile town in Carolina, wearing shoes and an assumed name.

W.P. Kinsella, Shoeless Joe Jackson Comes to Iowa

76. One view called me to another; one hill top to its fellow, half across the county, and since I could answer at no more trouble than the snapping forward of a lever, I let the country flow under my wheels.

Rudyard Kipling, They

77. This time it was a girl Halverson knew, halfway eaten and her hair chewed off.

William Kittredge, We Are Not in This Together

78. I got another barber that comes over from Carterville and helps me out Saturdays, but the rest of the time I can get along all right alone.

Ring Lardner, Haircut

79. “Well, Mabel, and what are you going to do with yourself?” asked Joe, with foolish flippancy.

D.H. Lawrence, The Horse Dealer’s Daughter

80. There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck.

D.H. Lawrence, The Rocking-Horse Winner

81. All the other Seniors were over at the street side of the parking lot, but Sal stayed with her sister Norah while they waited for the bus drivers.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Horse Camp

82. A man and woman walked toward the boulevard from a little hotel in a side street.

Doris Lessing, Wine

83. Day had broken cold and grey, exceedingly cold and grey, when the man turned aside form the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland.

Jack London, To Build a Fire

84. Not long ago there lived in uptown New York, in a small, almost meager room, though crowded with books, Leo Finkle, a rabbinical student in the Yeshivah University.

Bernard Malamud, The Magic Barrel

85. Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say.

Katherine Mansfield, Her First Ball

86. Although it was so brilliantly fine – the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques – Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur.

Katherine Mansfield, Miss Brill

87. Checking the dirt-streaked window, Mary saw the little boys slipping around through the woods again.

Bobbie Ann Mason, Three-Wheeler

88. She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks.

Guy de Maupassant, The Necklace

89. During his whole life, he had had only one insatiable passion, love of sport.

Guy de Maupassant, Rust

90. Chet Moran grew up in Logan, Montana, at a time when kids weren’t supposed to get polio anymore.

Maile Meloy, Travis, B.

91. I am a rather elderly man.

Herman Melville, Bartleby the Scrivener

92. You had to get out of them occasionally, those Illinois towns with the funny names: Paris, Oblong, Normal.

Laurie Moore, You’re Ugly, Too

93. Offerings, the book is called.

Alice Munro, Meneseteung

94. Flo said to watch for White Slavers.

Alice Munro, Wild Swans

95. “My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”

H.H. Munro (“Saki”), The Open Window

96. Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years.

H.H. Munro (“Saki”), Sredni Vashtar

97. Anybody who ever worked for long making minimum wage at a little business knows how the family thing gets going: you all play a part.

Antonya Nelson, Goodfellows

98. It is some kind of special day.

Joyce Carol Oates, Four Summers

99. Her name was Connie.

Joyce Carol Oates, Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

100. First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.

Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

101. Mr. Head awakened to discover that the room was full of moonlight.

Flannery O’Connor, The Artificial Nigger

102. The Grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.

Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man Is Hard to Find

103. At dusk the big Englishman, Belcher, would shift his long legs out of the ashes and say, “Well, chums, what about it?” and Noble or me would say “All right, chum” (for we had picked up some of their curious expressions), and the little Englishman, Hawkins, would light the lamp and bring out the cards.

Frank O’Connor, Guests of the Nation

104. Late on Saturday afternoon Fallick, still in his bathrobe, unshaven and unshowered, is sitting in front of the TV watching a basketball game when he hears knocking at the front door.

Robert Phillips, Surprise!

105. The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.

Edgar Allen Poe, The Cask of Amontillado

106. During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

Edgar Allen Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher

107. The grandfather, dead for more than thirty years, had been twice disturbed in his long repose by the constancy and possessiveness of his widow.

Katherine Anne Porter, The Grave

108. In the long unfurling of his life, from tight-wound kid hustler in a wool suit riding the train out of Cheyenne to geriatric limper in this spooled-out year, Mero had kicked down thoughts of the place where he began, a so-called ranch on strange ground at the south hinge of the Big Horns.

Annie Proulx, The Half-Skinned Steer

109. With Marley it’s all or nothing.

Elwood Reid, What Salmon Know

110. Locate me in a swing.

Annette Sanford, Nobody Listens When I Talk

111. The brain cells slip away, one by one by one.

Jo Sapp, Nadine at 35: A Synopsis

112. Fifth Avenue was shining in the sun when they left the Brevoort and started walking toward Washington Square.

Irwin Shaw, The Girls in Their Summer Dresses

113. My thigh clung to his with dampness, and I watched the sun rising up through the tamaracks and willows.

Leslie Marmon Silko, Yellow Woman

114. I am Gimpel the fool.

Isaac Bashevis Singer, Gimpel the Fool

115. Three women have vanished, a mother, her teenage daughter, and the daughter’s friend – purses and cars left behind, TV on, door unlocked.

June Spence, Missing Women

116. The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world.

John Steinbeck, The Chrysanthemums

117. For my eighteenth birthday Jack gave me a five-year diary with a latch and a little key, light as a dime.

Elizabeth Tallent, No One’s A Mystery

118. Mr. Martin bough the pack of Camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway.

James Thurber, The Catbird Seat

119. During an interval in the Melvinski trial in the large building of the Law Courts the members and public prosecutor met in Ivan Egorovich Shebek’s private room, where the conversation turned on the celebrated Krasovski case.

Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

120. After Marvelle Lyle’s husband, Morgan, committed suicide – his body being found on an April evening in the willows that grew along Black Creek – Marvelle stopped going to church.

Judy Troy, Ten Miles West of Venus

121. One autumn, on the way back from an outlying property, I caught a heavy chill.

Ivan Turgenev, The Country Doctor

122. They had always been a lucky couple, and it was just their luck that, as they at last decided to part, the Puritan Commonwealth in which they lived passed a no-fault amendment to its creaking, overworked body of divorce law.

John Updike, Here Come The Maples

123. The day was fair.

John Updike, Separating

124. Mr. Sweet was a diabetic and an alcoholic and a guitar player and lived down the road from us on a neglected cotton farm.

Alice Walker, To Hell with Dying

125. “Reach in my purse and git me a cigarette without no powder in it if you kin, Mrs. Fletcher, honey,” said Leota to her ten o’clock shampoo-and-set customer.

Eudora Welty, Petrified Man

126. One day, during my tenth year a long time ago in Boston, I came home from school, let myself in the back yard, stopped a moment to scowl at the tall sunflowers which sprang up yearly despite my dislike of them, and to smile at the tender pansies and marigolds and morning glories that Father set out in little plots every spring, and went on into the kitchen.

Dorothy West, My Baby

127. They were new patients to me, all I had was the name, Olson.

William Carlos Williams, The Use of Force

128. Dr. Booth took several wrong turns during the drive upstate.

Tobias Wolff, Nightingale

129. Just before Christmas my father took me skiing at Mount Baker.

Tobias Wolff, Powder

130. Dave struck out across the fields looking homeward through paling light.

Richard Wright, The Man Who Was Almost a Man

131. My sister, Jean, has sent a fifteenth birthday card to my daughter, Rebecca.

"The Cat's Gas" (811 words)

2009-07-26T14:50:00.005-10:00

I'm going to share a short story with you, since I'm pretty darn sure it will never see print. I wrote it as a bit of a gag, and it might cause you to gag as well. You see, I had an assignment in a creative writing class last year which required us to take an implausible or unlikely idea and use it in a story. I told myself that I would make the first thing that came to mind into the first sentence of the story. Thus, it begins...

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Goddamned cat farts saved my life. Aunt Marmalade says she saved my life, but she’s just the one who gave Siam the old milk in the first place. It was the farts that did it. What’s that? The cat? No she’s not Siamese, why? Are they known for farting or something? …Oh, the name. That never occurred to me before: Siam… Siamese. Ha! But yeah, Aunt Marm was staying with my wife Peggy and I that weekend on a visit, then drank too much wine to drive home. At her place, she’s got nine cats, and the last thing she does before going to bed is to put out bowls of milk. She must go through a gallon a day at that rate. What she just doesn’t get is that cats aren’t meant to drink cow milk. It gives them the shits. That’s what the vet said! Well, not in so many words, but still, the shits. And Marm, she lost her sense of smell years ago from smoking, so she isn’t bothered by the stench of her house. But anyway, she wouldn’t go to sleep until we let her put out a saucer for Siam, in the little laundry room that leads to the back door. It’s where the cat sleeps.

So here’s the part you’ve heard, about how the Suburban Slasher himself broke in through our back door. I don’t know why he chose our house for this particular holiday. The last couple he did in was some well-off professional couple in Orange County. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing alike between us and them, and the police couldn’t figure it out either. Me, scared? Well yeah, when we first found him and learned who he was, but I’m over it now. It was nearly a year ago, and we really landed on our feet. We’re doing fine now.

In the morning, we found his body sprawled in the laundry room, with that Siam sleeping away on top of him. Peggy swore that the stench was from the body, but I told her she was dumb, that it couldn’t have rotted that fast. Siam just looked up at us with her big green eyes and meowed. We were crouching and just about to poke the thing when Aunt Marmalade stumbled in behind us and screamed. I nearly jumped out of my skin. That’s when Siam farted, kind of a squeaking gasp out her rear, flooding my sense of smell. Eyes watering, I immediately knew what the smell in the room was. I told Peggy and Marm. I said to them, “Jesus, but I do believe our cat farted this man to death!” The women just looked at each other dumbly and then back at the cat.

I called the cops, not knowing then who we had in our laundry room serving as a cat pillow.

The first car took a long time to get there. I think it was because the police didn’t believe me. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the cat farts when I called 911. When they saw the body though, they called their sergeant in right quick. They fingerprinted the body, and put us up in a motel for that night and the next. We locked Siam out of the house… We all agreed we didn’t want her stinking up the motel room and killing us too!

Next day, the sergeant came by our room and told us that they had positively identified the serial killer and that the reward was ours. We didn’t even know there was one… twenty thousand dollars! What? The farts? You don’t believe they killed him. Well, they did, and the coroner’s report says so. Not in so many words maybe, but the meaning is there. See, as it turns out, this killer was highly allergic to milk, himself. Siam, since she couldn’t digest that milk, had released molecules of the milk protein into the air, and sure enough that killer must have gagged at the smell, or coughed, and inhaled enough of it to cause him to faint on the spot. I’m pretty sure the coroner said it was something called a “prophylactic sock” that made him pass out. His face landed in Siam’s water bowl, and he drowned. Simple as that.

Peggy and I took that reward, and it just didn’t feel right to spend it on ourselves, so we talked for a long time and decided that we’d start this here cat adoption shelter. We’re still getting on our feet with it, but we’ve saved some lives and think it’s going to work out real well. The Siam Cat Adoption Team, we call it, after our heroic kitty. I didn’t think much of her before, I’m the first to admit, but since she saved my life, I’ve come to love the little stinker.

"Random Word Generator" Writing Exercise

2009-07-24T16:09:00.008-10:00

Evil Editor has posted a fun writing exercise involving this random word generator.

What he recommends is writing a scene in 250 words or fewer, using 21 generated words and a randomly generated sentence. See his post about it for more specific instructions.

I will share mine below, with the words and sentence I had to use in bold. I love little exercises like this. What fun, and a good stretch for the ol' brain!

----- "A-dancing." 250 words. -----

“The brave ancestor interrupts the wrong.” Evil Editor was reclining on the picnic table, watching William balance on the tree branch.

“Ack! Maître, why can’t you just say ‘excuse me’ or clear your throat? You scared me. I almost fell out. Just a moment.”

“If you were doing it right, I wouldn’t have to say anything at all. Now get yourself adown from there immédiatement.”

“Fine. I’m a-hurrying, ‘a-boss.’”

“Insolent! I should put you athwart my knees for a thrashing!”

Feeling sulky, William dropped and sat against the tree. Embarrassed, his face was red, burning as hot as the thoria in the Coleman propane bedlight that illuminated the campsite. He could smell the Minoxidil from E.E.’s balding pate. “Nothing’s ever good enough, is it? I came camping with you because you said to practice outside. Three days now, in the midst of mosquito swarms, getting sunburnt, and fer what?”

“To teach you freedom. You’re prohibiting yourself from full expression. You must learn nonprohibition of the body -- Kind of like a chick with nymphomania.” E.E. blinked, distracted.

“Ahem. Anyway. I shall show you how a true terpsichorean dances!” E.E. struck a noble pose, saluted, and danced. Despite his largeness, he performed the most graceful dance William had ever seen. “You must be a contrapuntist of your limbs, meshing with the wind!” E.E. grinned breathlessly.

“Sur vos pieds! Now you do it. After you show me prosecution of the dance we’ll go home.” William did, and E.E. hid an approving smile.

-----

If you do one, I'd like to see it too! I think he generally posts his favorites, but not all submissions.

Admittedly, some word uses were awkward, but you've just got to do the best with what you have to work with! I do stand by each choice of use, however. With only a the tiniest bit of stretching I can defend them all. I think.

Tuning up the Writing Machine

2009-07-22T09:42:00.002-10:00

Now that I am moved and settling in, I am faced with the task of breaking myself back into writing. It's been about four months since I've done any real amount, and it's been a little difficult to get the old gears turning again. Spring quarter was about 80 hours a week of class and studying as I finished up my undergrad at PSU. This didn't leave any room for writing, or even reading for pleasure. Then it was all transition and getting affairs into order for the move... And now I have a couple weeks with plenty of time to be productive before my new job starts.

Getting the writing beast rolling again is somewhat ponderous. It's a big machine, a clockwork juggernaut with rusty axles that has settled into the sod. I've just got to get it moving again, and then, with momentum and a recovered familiarity with the controls, we will be rolling down creativity road again. I've done the prep work for HGP; I guess right now I'm tuning up the Machine. Yesterday: 750 words in 3 hours. Steam and black smoke issue from the Machine. Joints creak and it shakes in place. Today's goal: Pull it out of the rut and onto flat ground. Then we'll start testing the lower gears.

Dr. Strangeroach, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Swiffer.

2009-07-19T16:55:00.001-10:00

I arrived in Hawaii on Thursday, and B and I have been spending the past three days unpacking and cleaning the new apartment. It's been a lot of hard (and sweaty!) work, but we've hit a nice calm now that we've finished nearly all of it. Today is a day for reading, drawing, writing, and generally chilling in our nice new home, and I would like to talk to you for a moment about filth.

The man who lived in this apartment prior to us was here for two years, and we are pretty sure he never cleaned it. Not once. I imagine meeting him. First there is a smell, then a greasy dark cloud as he approaches, creeping ahead of him like a smokescreen that leaves all it touches gray and slimy in its wake. His hair is dark and matted, and he makes Charles Schultz's character Pigpen look like a paragon of purity. I watch him pluck an insect out of his hair and eat it as he grins at me, one twitching leg sticking out from between his two remaining teeth...

Characteristic of university housing everywhere, our apartment was cleaned before we moved in. Also characteristic of university housing everywhere, they did a piss-poor job of it. We got to see the place before and after, and I'll tell you here what they actually did: The greatest and most productive of their efforts was to steam-clean the carpet. They removed the waxy tan opaque 2-square-foot mystery stain from the carpet in the bedroom entrance. They painted over the other multicolored mystery stain that stood out on the cinderblock walls behind the head of the bed. It was oily, black and brown and red and yellow, and now is painted over. They picked up the dead roaches, and the moldy hat, and removed the leftover dessicated possessions of the prior tenant, and I think they maybe even washed the windows.

B's boss was apparently impressed with how well they cleaned the apartment, but I suspect from the evidence that he didn't really look. The carpet was still stained and tacky in places. The walls were probably most recently painted a decade ago, excepting the one spot they painted over, and exhibited both shiny and dark spots that will not come off. There are a total of 13 maintenance work orders we need to put in, the highlights being the bath/shower that shoots water out of both ends, as well as the temperature control knob; 5 lights that are out; a handle-less oven; no electricity in the bathroom; no screens in the windows (allowing any and all insects access to our living space); and a toilet seat that's about ready to fall off. The bathroom reeked of urine, the cupboards were covered in roach droppings, and touching any surface resulted in greasy grimy fingertips. Anywhere that appeared safe invariably had an invisible spiderweb, set to ambush our faces and fingers. A column of ants marched its way across the bathroom wall, which B adeptly dealt with with a lethal spray of aerosol cleaner. Minutes later, it was a macabre line of 6-legged corpses we had to scrape off the wall. The fight was on.

B and I became a whirlwind of cleanliness. Scented candles, Clorox wipes and Formula 409 were our tools, fueled by hot coffee and loud pop music. We did the Dance of Disinfection. I developed a new appreciation for the device known as the Swiffer. So versatile! I'm fairly certain the Swiffer can be used against roaches as well... Of course, you couldn't kill the invincible buggers with it, but perhaps you could pin one down and run it out of the house, or at least keep the horde at bay. I don't intend to have to find out though (in fact, at this very second, B is on her knees spraying all the dark corners and joinings with a "house-friendly" anti-roach spray. Chemical warfare; treaties be damned). At any rate, enhanced by my Jeet Kun Do and Marine Martial Art training I wielded the Swiffer smoothly and effectively: No surface was safe! She wiped the tables while I scrubbed the floors and walls. It was hot and muggy, and we worked ourselves exhausted. Then we had some wine and watched a movie.

It's nice to be home.

Encouragement for My Approach

2009-07-14T05:55:00.000-10:00

Just a couple of hours after my last post, Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent wrote in this post:

...we may be doing you a disservice if we contract you when you've only written one book. Yes, writing that book was a huge accomplishment. And if your very first book garnered positive attention from editors and/or agents, that's even more of an accomplishment. It's terrific!

But it's not enough. The hard truth is that it takes a lot more than one book to really know "how to be a writer"...

This reinforces and encourages me in my plan to hold off on what I feel will are my most promising works until I've completed the first one. It seems that I would have to write something pretty extraordinary to be taken seriously the first time around (like all hopeful writers should be, I am delusional enough to think it's possible). Even in this case, however, it is not necessarily enough.

My approach to writing is to balance delusion with humility, to do the very best I can on what I produce, to revise, edit, revise, and to maintain a sense of humor when it comes to rejection. It is with this in mind that I step gingerly into the waters of writing my first novel. I am prepared for the goosebumps, I am prepared to gasp at unexpected waves, I am prepared for the inevitable moment when certain bits of my anatomy get sucked into my body from the chill, and I am looking forward to diving all the way in.

Since I don't want to write "WIP" for Work-In-Progress all the time in reference to this project, I will use a more specific working title in my blog: The Heaven's Gate Project. HGP for short.

Selecting and Starting a Novel

2009-07-13T16:24:00.000-10:00

Now that things are coming together in life, I've been putting some thought towards beginning a proper project again: I'm going to start a novel. I've got a good number of ideas for novel-length projects and even a few series. I feel like I have reached a point in my writing where not only am I ready, but it would be the most beneficial next step to take.

From what I've heard and seen, the biggest obstacle that people who want to be writers -- who indeed sometimes call themselves writers -- face is actually finishing a writing project. It is disheartening to watch friends and colleagues with wonderful ideas and high ambitions never apply them for lack of drive or discipline. While I definitely understand how difficult it can be to sit down and write (a deceptively simple task), I am determined to not be this type of 'writer'! So I begin my test and my challenge.

The first step in this is the selection of a project. I have thought about this carefully, and decided to set aside my favorite ideas and pull one from near the bottom of my pile. It was a tough call to make, because I have given more prior thought to my favorites, I am eager to get into them, and they might be more salable than the story I have selected. The reason I am doing this is that I want to give my favored ideas a better chance at being published. By most accounts I've read, it is especially difficult to get an agent and editor for first novels, probably not least due to it being the novel with the least novel-writin' experience under the author's belt. On the other hand of this, one might argue that I should choose a favorite because I would be more engaged in it and it might come out better than the one I am producing, and therefore have better chances of publication. This may be true, but in many efforts, I prefer to take more difficult challenges early on because I feel it will improve my abilities more in the long run, and even when it doesn't see print, I will have completed a novel and proven to myself that I can do it.

I've got an outline patterned for the story, and I've been working on character profiles. I know where they start and why, and where they are destined to end up. This week I move, and once I settle down we will start to see how they get there...

From Neal Stephenson's "The Diamond Age" (2)

2009-07-05T16:31:00.000-10:00

"Nell," the Constable continued, indicating through his tone of voice that the lesson was concluding, "the difference between ignorant and educated people is that the latter know more facts. But that has nothing to do with whether they are stupid or intelligent. The difference between stupid and intelligent people -- and this is true whether or not they are well-educated -- is that intelligent people can handle subtlety. They are not baffled by ambiguous or even contradictory situations - in fact, they expect them and are apt to become suspicious when things seem overly straightforward.

"In your Primer you have a resource that will make you highly educated, but it will never make you intelligent. That comes from life. Your life up to this point has given you all of the experience you need to be intelligent, but you have to think about those experiences. If you don't think about them, you'll be psychologically unwell. If you do think about them, you will become not merely educated, but intelligent, and then, a few years down the road, you will probably give me cause to wish I were several decades younger."

The Constable turned and walked back into his house, leaving Nell alone in the garden, pondering the meaning of that last statement. She supposed it was the sort of thing she might understand later, when she had become intelligent.

The "Write Worse Than This Guy" Challenge

2009-06-30T14:07:00.000-10:00

What a fantastic contest. I think I may have to get in on this.If you do it, please post a copy of your submission!

Pulled from NPR's News Blog

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A Challenge: Write Worse Than This Guy

The worst of the worst. Courtesy David McKenzie

By Mark Memmott

Think it's easy to write badly? (Yes, yes, I know ... we make it look easy every day.)

Yesterday the winner of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest ("where www means 'wretched writers welcome' ") was announced. It's David McKenzie of Federal Way, Wash., who came up with this:

"Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor' east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the Ellie May, a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests."

McKenzie tells the San Jose Mercury News he sent in 20 entries to the parody contest, which San Jose State University has been staging annually since 1982. "I expected it," he says about winning.

Can you do even "worse"?

Write your own worst-possible first sentence of a novel -- in 50 words or less -- and put it in this post's comment thread. The trick is, it has to be so "bad" it's good. We'll spotlight some of the "best."

As for Bulwer-Lytton, who lived from 1803-1873, he has the distinction for being famous for some of the best lines in history (such as; "The pen is mightier than the sword") and some of the most-ridiculed ("It was a dark and stormy night.")

Or, here's an alternate challenge:

Write a "bad" introduction to a story you might hear on Morning Edition or All Things Considered. Think of a classic kind of NPR story you can have fun with.

Books & Boxes

2009-06-29T20:05:00.000-10:00

I've been moving over the past few days, for the fourth time in the past year, with one more to go before summer is over. This particular stint brings me to my parents' house, where I have been steadily going through all of my worldly possessions in reverse chronological order. My goal is to account for, dispose of, store or abscond with everything that I own. It's a little like geology: I'm starting with the newer stuff, and as I dig deeper, older and more interesting materials have been surfacing.

What you see in the photo here are the remains of my book collection. I have steadily been whittling and paring the numbers down, donating or trading to bookstores and libraries. What a painstaking process! I have long been a bit of a bibliophile. It greatly pains me to part with a book, no matter how cheap (or free) it may have been, or what horrible condition it may have degenerated to. Once when I was 5 or 6, I dropped my Evslin Evslin & Hoopes book on Greek mythology in the toilet, then spent a half hour with Mom's hairdryer trying to dry it out in a way that the pages wouldnt stick (fortunately, it was before I'd dropped any other stuff in there!). I still have that same book. Another toilet-and-book-related incident was when I was grounded from reading (yep, I was punished by being forbidden to read). I snuck into the bathroom with a book in my pant leg under the pretense that I was going #2, but an hour later, Mom got suspicious and I got caught.

At any rate, I suspect that what you can see in this photo now is about half of the number of books that I had a year ago. I amuse myself by epiloguing them as if in an epic adventure or coming-of-age film: I never saw Golem in the Gears again after that day. The Nibelungenlied says he saw him on the bus, in the hands of a younger teenage girl. I still see the cover of my extra copy of Siddhartha every time I see the one I kept, and wonder if I kept the right one. Paradise Lost is now working as a doorjamb at a men's restroom in a factory. No one ever heard from that weird vampire Nazi one again, until a reunion at The Book Bin... You know, stuff like that.

It's wonderful to be with the parents and sister again for a little while, and very satisfactory to tidy up my things, but it hasn't left much room for writing. I am at a point where I feel like I should be spending as much time as I can with friends and family when I'm not working or cleaning or packing. Sure, compared to the time that I've known them, a few days isn't much. The thing about love is that I know it won't matter if I don't see these friends and family for any given length of time, because when I do see them again, we will still love each other. It still feels important to get a last few hang-out sessions or hugs in, though, and I want to make that a priority. I've decided to put off any major writing projects until after I've moved, after which I will ease into it until I've started my new job and have something akin to a schedule. And - oh yes! - after the surfing and SCUBA lessons.

From Neal Stephenson's "The Diamond Age"

2009-06-23T16:48:00.000-10:00

We ignore the blackness of space and pay attention to the stars, especially if they seem to order themselves into constellations. 'Common as the air' meant something worthless, but Hackworth knew that every breath of air that Fiona drew, lying in her little bed at night, just a silver glow in the moonlight, was used by her body to make skin and hair and bones. The air became Fiona, and deserving -- no, demanding -- of love. Ordering matter was the sole endeavor of Life, whether it was a jumble of self-replicating molecules in the primordial ocean, or a steam-powered English mill turning weeds into clothing, or Fiona lying in her bed turning air into Fiona.

Enchanted Forest

2009-06-22T18:18:00.000-10:00

Today I got to visit Enchanted Forest, a children's amusement park just outside of Salem, Oregon. I absolutely loved it. The temperate rainforests of Oregon are the perfect setting for enchantment and wonder, and the attractions were hand-crafted with obvious care and imagination. You enter through the gates of a castle and find yourself on a woodland trail, accompanied by hand-carved and hand-painted fantasy characters, in poses or situations characteristic of their fairy tales. As you continue along, through Alice's rabbit hole (curiouser and curiouser!) the structures become more elaborate and you notice the faces in the stone walls alongside the trail. Caves and tunnels and magical pools lie around each turn. It sets a tone of antiquity and childhood fantasy, which have been largely lost on even the most imaginative of adults.

Enchanted Forest was built 40 years ago by the same family who runs it today. Throughout the years, the Tofte family has expanded the park to include a slightly off-kilter wild west town, a cobblestoned 19th century English lane, a spine-tingling haunted house, and a small variety of thrill rides. This may sound like many amusement parks across the US, but this family really hits the mark. I could describe the park with words like "quaint" or "charming" or even "magnificent," but I think that if I were to choose one word it would be "authentic."

Roger Tofte, who had the original vision for the park, taps into a sense of true childhood wonder, and has a talent for including features that children love. While other amusement parks seem to focus on how extreme the rides are or what movie characters are hot right now, features like Enchanted Forest's Indian Caves are just plain FUN. Secret entrances, hidden lights, and dark corners all add to the experience. I could go on and on with examples, but instead I submit that you just imagine whatever you thought would be really really cool when you were a kid -- It is probably at this park.

The authenticity really comes in because every aspect of the park is about imagination and fun. There is no commercialism here, no dirty grandiose rides or Disney characters. The prices of food and drink are perfectly reasonable, and the few gift shops have items that fitting for where they are located in the park. Every single building, carving, model and cavern in the park was built by hand, with a care that shows how committed the Tofte family is to making the park a success.

"Why the slightly gushy endorsement, Chris? Are they paying you for this?"

Well, I had a lot of fun there today, and I am blogging about it here because it reminded me of the purest sense of the words wonder and imagination. It seems to me that our sense of imagination as adults -- even in the more creative writers and artists among us -- gets suppressed as we grow up, or at least narrowed, and we tend to forget that it's okay to relax and do something inane or silly now and then. Having this kind of fun reminds me of what a child's perspective and interests are like, which I think will help when I write about children in my stories. That, and I think it helps to enjoy life just a little bit more.

Scaffolding of a Platform

2009-06-21T19:06:00.000-10:00

According to publisher and agent blogs and recent writing conferences, the big word for writers who want to get published is spelled P-L-A-T-F-O-R-M. A writer who wants to be seriously considered for sponsorship or publication is expected to have a following of people who are interested in his or her work. The handy convenient way for them to check this is through the internet: Social networking sites are a click away and have handy numbers of "friends" or "followers." Whether these numbers actually mean anything is in question in my mind, but apparently it is important.

So, being a writer who would like to be published someday, I am supposed to build a platform for myself from which I orate and expostulate and create and share. This sounds fantastic! An intuitive difficulty, however, is that I can't share anything that I ever want to submit for publishing. If it hits the internet in its complete form, a work is generally considered to have already been published and won't get picked up. Any work that I do share, therefore, is going to be work that I don't want published, which means it's not my best work and probably won't make me as attractive to readers as I would like. I question the merit of this system, but I have no choice but to embrace it.

I HUG YOU, WRITER'S PLATFORM BECAUSE I LOVE YOU! Squeeze. -- Okay, well maybe not quite that enthusiastic of an embrace. It begins with a handshake, and a peck on the cheek, les bises. We'll see where the relationship goes from there. Right now I'm at the practicing-in-front-of-a-mirror stage, as I don't think anyone is reading this blog at this point. But I swear, platform, as soon as you manifest yourself, I'll be really good at embracing.

How I have decided to handle this situation is to write in this blog regularly, and write it for you, the reader, as opposed to myself. This is not a personal journal; I don't expect you to be interested in the daily goings-on of my life. It is my task and goal to write here what I think will interest you. My ideal situation is that you are entertained or intrigued, while I practice finding the fascinating in the ordinary. (More on finding the fascinating in the ordinary later.) Whether this blog becomes a workable platform (I'm still not exactly sure what the requirements are) or not, we will both come off better for it.

Hello, Blogosphere

2009-06-20T18:30:00.000-10:00

I have begun this blog in an effort to practice my writing and improve my abilities as a writer. I hope to find others whom I may read and interact with for a mutual benefit, and -- perhaps most importantly -- for fun! Let's dialogue.

I used to blog on LiveJournal (back when blogging was new) but as I became more committed to my studies at Portland State, I let it slide. Time became my most precious commodity, and I was unable to write for myself much, or even to read for pleasure. Now that I have graduated, I am finding myself with more free time than I know what to do with, and I like it. Even facing the prospect of a full-time job, for the first time in 6 years I will have time to do what I want to do, without some extraneous responsibility hanging over my head. Time to get cracking in the wordsmithing department!

Here I will share with you the steps and progress of my writing process, as well as thoughts, ideas and observations; quotes, critiques and reviews; narrations, tales and fibs; and whatever else I think would be interesting to share. Some of what you can expect will be stories about my days in the Marines, sharing of the experience of moving to and living in Hawaii, and what life is actually like for an EMT.

I hope you enjoy your time here, and would be honored if you would "follow" me.

Christopher Goodwine, Off the Shelf

Learning a lesson the hard way...

"Ten Words You Need To Stop Misspelling"

I must choose my habits wisely.

Dan Brown's 20 Worst Sentences

A Farewell to Facial Hair

Made-Up New Word #2

Contrived? So what?

Why I Love My Commute

The "Bebop-a-Workshop!" Critique Group

Do I believe in Writer's Block?

Shifting Goals to Short Fiction

I made up a new word!

Tales from EMT Academy: The Patient's Point-of-view

From Stephen King's "On Writing" (2)

From Stephen King's "On Writing"

Starting my first "real" job. *Sigh*

Flash Fic: "Another Day In the Wilderness" (449 words)

Well, Gawrsh! I'm a Scribbler!

Short Story Studies 3: An Issue with How Writing is Taught

Short Story Studies 2: 131 First Lines Analysis

Short Story Studies 1: 131 First Lines Data

"The Cat's Gas" (811 words)

"Random Word Generator" Writing Exercise

Tuning up the Writing Machine

Dr. Strangeroach, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Swiffer.

Encouragement for My Approach

Selecting and Starting a Novel

From Neal Stephenson's "The Diamond Age" (2)

The "Write Worse Than This Guy" Challenge

What a fantastic contest. I think I may have to get in on this.If you do it, please post a copy of your submission!

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A Challenge: Write Worse Than This Guy

Books & Boxes

From Neal Stephenson's "The Diamond Age"

Enchanted Forest

Scaffolding of a Platform

Hello, Blogosphere

Starting my first "real" job. Sigh