Tag Archives: writing

March 21, 2013 · 9:35 am

Losing (and Finding) Your Voice

Last week my cold developed into bronchitis and took up residence in my throat–and I lost my ability to speak. My voice wavered between a whisper and nothing all day.

It was incredible how one small change dramatically affected my whole day.

My cats were thrilled that they weren’t getting a stern “NO” when they clawed the couch (but upset I wasn’t calling them “nice kitty” either); I communicated with my boyfriend with hand gestures; I used my phone’s keyboard feature to write out notes to the doctor and pharmacist. I still managed to make my needs known, but I felt stunted, awkward.

A few filled prescriptions later, my voice bounded back, but in writing, finding a voice is just as important. Probably more so. And sometimes it is harder to hold onto.

I was trying to explain the concept of “writer’s voice” to a non-writing-inclined friend the other day. He was concerned his writing seemed stilted; I told him it was okay, because, being a rather direct person, that was the way he talked. But voice isn’t truly the same as “the way you talk.” After all, I don’t have a either a thick West Texas accent or a high-English voice when I speak, but hopefully I managed to get those in my writing.

Voice is writing that always sounds like your soul, even when written in different styles. It’s not just the words you use, or the pacing, or the language, or the sporadic use of commas: it’s all of these things. That’s why, in part, it’s so very subjective. I received a rejection letter from an agent that said “the voice just wasn’t as developed as I’d hoped.” I found that very frustrating–I mean, I thought it sounded like my writing voice!–but I was also grateful just for any response.

Because my nuts-and-bolts writing education began in journalism school, where voice is important but, for the most part, clinically detached, I think it’s one part of my writing I do need to continue to develop. Then again, I don’t know that you’re ever “finished” developing a clear voice. I think it continues to layer on with experience and practice–another good reason to have this blog!

How did you find your voice? Was there ever a time that you “lost” it?

Sidenote: I’m hoping to attend this panel by author Jenny Martin. I got to meet her last year, and I’d love to hear more from her!

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

Tagged as ,

March 20, 2013 · 9:35 am

A Calendar of Tales: October

“A djinn. Not to make a wish. But for the very best advice on how to be happy w/ what you already have.”

431. 433. 435…ah, there it is. David stopped in front of the sliding metal door marked 437. He savored the possibilities for a moment—what treasures might be held in this nondescript storage locker?–before fitting the small brass key to the padlock. The lock snicked open and David felt his back twinge a little as he pulled the door up.

Inside, the room was stacked with… boxes. Just cardboard boxes, smelling of old paper and dust.

Well, it’s not supposed to be obvious. David sighed and stepped in to open the boxes, carefully. His wife had been encouraging him to find some kind of hobby; he found fishing boring and he scored too high for golf. While watching TV one night, she’d suggested this: searching for treasures by buying abandoned storage units. She’d made it sound fun, exciting; an adventure!

This was not an adventure. This was an awful lot like work.

David went through the boxes, one by one. It seemed like the contents of a shabby apartment, mostly. Now that he was a quarter of the way in the room, he had revealed a beat-up couch with monstrous red rose fabric. It probably wasn’t sellable—he’d more likely have to burn it, it was so hideous—but it made a good place to rest for now. He flopped into it, sending up a cloud of dust that made him cough and sneeze.

He opened the next box. It held a bunch of knickknacks, mostly. One looked like a kids’ trophy; maybe he could Sherlock-Holmes it and find the kid and return his long-lost trophy!

David rubbed at the dust, trying to read the inscription.

“ALA-KAZAM!”

A voice boomed and echoed in the metal-walled locker, and David doubled-up, trying to clear the sudden smoke from his lungs and eyes.

“What the hell?!” David said.

“IT IS I, THE GREAT SAFWAT, DJINN OF ARABIA,” the blue smoke-monster grinned down at David from where it hovered. “WHAT IS IT YOU WISH OF ME, LORD AND MASTER?”

“Um,” David said. “Sorry, gin? I haven’t been drinking the right mix. I only get a hangover.”

“I AM NOT A BEVERAGE AND THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER,” Safwat said. “I MAY GRANT YOU THREE WISHES, AS YOU DESIRE.”

David scratched his head. “No kidding, wishes? Huh. What do other people wish for?”

“TREASURE BEYOND IMAGINING,” Safwat said. “POWER. LOVE. VENGEANCE. PEOPLE WISH FOR MANY THINGS.”

“And you just give it to them?” David shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve gotten a lot of junk mail in my day, and this frankly sounds too good to be true. Am I on a reality show? Where’s the camera? Don’t I have to sign a waiver or somethin’?”

“MY OFFER IS TRUE,” the djinn said.

“Rrriiight, sure it is. So the person you gave ‘treasure beyond imagining,’ what happened to him?”

“HE WAS SULTAN OF THE KINGDOM.”

“Well that sounds pretty good. Lived happily ever after, I suppose?”

“LIVED HAPPILY UNTIL HIS REIGN ENDED.”

“Long and happy life as a king? That sounds decent.”

“HIS REIGN WAS 4 DAYS. THE PRIOR SULTAN DID NOT APPROVE OF MY FORMER MASTER.”

“Heh, yeah, I can bet that didn’t go well. You didn’t say that he’d replaced another guy to take the king gig.” David shrugged. “So what about someone else—how about vengeance? How’d that one go?”

“MY LORD WISHED FOR HIS LIFE’S WORK TO BE REMEMBERED FOR ALL TIME, WHILE HIS PEERS WERE FORGOTTEN.”

David nodded. “That sounds like a pretty good wish. How’d it work out?”

“SHIPBUILDER THOMAS ANDREWS IS FEATURED IN MANY MUSEUMS AROUND THE WORLD, AND ALL KNOW THE NAME OF HIS PRIMARY VESSEL.”

“Oh? Which one was that? I’m not a big naval buff—“

“TITANIC,” the djinn interjected.

“—Oh. Yikes,” David tutted through his teeth. “Apparently these wishes need to be specific. So what did you give the last person you talked to?”

“HE WISHED TO BE REUNITED WITH HIS LOST LOVE,” Safwat said. His voice continued to echo in the small space; David hoped no one could hear it.

“And you did that for him?” David asked.

“YES.”

“And then they were, what, happily ever after?”

“I DO NOT KNOW THEIR EMOTIONS. BUT THEY ARE TOGETHER. FOREVER UNITED IN DEATH.”

David’s mouth hung open. “See, that’s just what I’m talking about. I bet the guy didn’t even know this ‘lost love’ of his was dead. And so he made that wish and you killed him and oh my god that’s why he stopped paying for the storage unit!”

David stood up and paced the room, then turned and shook a finger at Safwat. “That’s what we call a bad deal. You’re not really providing a good incentive to make wishes here.”

“IT IS MY PURPOSE,” Safwat said.

“Yeah, well, I think I’m good. All your wishes end in death! No thanks, I think I’m set. I’ve got a nice—small, but a realtor would call it ‘cozy’—house, a wife who cares about me and makes excellent pies; I’ve got a job that pays the bills. The only problem I had was a lack of a hobby. And I think I’ve found another one to cross off my list. This one’s no good either!” David threw up his hands.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO WISH FOR ANOTHER ONE?” Safwat said, sounding almost pleading.

“No thanks, I’ll figure out the hobby on my own.” David approached the cloud of blue smoke with hand extended. “Nice meeting you Safwat. Can I drop you off somewhere or something?”

The cloud of smoke eyed David’s hand and continued hovering. “I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. EVERYONE WISHES.”

“Yeah, well, I’m good, thanks. I’m heading out now, so go back into your trophy or let me know where to take you. I’ve got gas for a good 50 miles.”

Safwat hesitated. “YOU WOULD ALLOW ME TO LEAVE MY VESSEL?”

“Sure, go ahead, why not. Nice talkin’ with ya, Safwat. Have a good life, or eternity, or whatever.”

The blue mist swirled and spiraled. David took that as a sign the conversation was over, and slid the door down, locking it again with the key. A moment later, a handsome man dressed in a blue tunic appeared outside the storage unit.

“Woah there, startled me,” David said. “That you Safwat?”

The man nodded. David smiled. “Well then, here, why don’t you take this key? You’ve got enough in there to set yourself up with a decent apartment.”

Safwat took the key uncertainly, and David went home. When he arrived, he kissed his wife and told her he’d give fishing a second chance.

Read more of the calendar tales.

1 Comment

Filed under Short Stories

Tagged as , , , , ,

March 15, 2013 · 9:30 am

A Calendar of Tales: September

“My mother’s lion ring, lost & found 3 times over… Some things aren’t meant to be kept.”

Nothing among the fey is upfront; I knew that. Still, when Mother gave me the lion ring, I believed it to be a genuine gift, freely given from love.

‘Twas foolish of me.

It was a test. But now I have caught wind of it, and know just what to do.

—

‘Twas the spring of my Awakening year. Immortal we may be, but not ageless, and Mother’s gift marked the beginnings of my adulthood. The little daemon in the ring was now my responsibility, to be fed three drops of mortal’s blood every day and thus kept complacent. That was my duty, and my honor.

The first time the ring was out of place, I admit I panicked. I ransacked my bower, overturned my bed of petals and dew, upheaved the thistle and grass. With burgeoning wildness I ran through the gardens—I must have been a wicked sight, a holy terror to behold. Just as I was ready to throw myself upon my Mother’s mercy, beg for her aid, did I hear the titter of laughter on the quietest breeze. I found the leprechaun hiding in my eaves and snatched him up, shaking him until he released my precious ring.

With only minutes remaining, I slipped into the village of mortals and squeezed the drops of blood from the seamstress’s pricked finger.

To prevent further loss, I wore the ring on my right hand, so I could never forget it. While I bathed in the deep foamy surf, a selkie  appeared. My kind don’t often interact with the seal-swimmers, but she was friendly, and we soon set about to splashing with great joy.

It wasn’t until she swam off that I realized the ring had gone. White with rage, I dove into the sea and chased the blubbery villain. I followed her into the depths, but that is where she is mighty and I am weak. Thinking she had won, she splashed about, mocking me, the ring held firmly in her teeth.

But the fey are never without friends. I called to the dolphins, friends of the court, and their hard noses and strong fins showed the selkie how foolish she had been.

Now not trusting the ring even on my finger, I wore it on a shining silver chain around my neck. I was in the human village, visiting the houses of those who honor the fey, leaving gifts where appropriate and snatching trinkets from the unwary. I had slipped the gold from a drunkard’s pocket when I ran—quite literally—into the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His skin oozed loveliness, and I wanted to melt into his arms forever. We talked, and I walked with him into the fair places in the woods, and all was wonderful. Heady with love, I brought him to my bower to enjoy the riches of life, and he asked me for the ring. Drunk on his affections, I slipped the chain off my neck—

–and how he howled in pain as the iron I’d had inlaid burned his skin, shattering his glamor and revealing him as the gancanagh he truly was.

That last incident was too much; for a fey to use his glamor on another of our kind is high treachery. He kneeled there, weeping in agony, and in my anger I scalded him again and again with the wicked ring, ‘til he confessed his motive: my Mother had sent him.

—-

So now I know just what to do. In the village is a man, too proud and brash. He disrespects the Old Ways and shows no graciousness for the fey. I have left the little daemon where he shall find it. Now it shall not trouble me further, and it shall have all the mortal blood it needs.

Some gifts aren’t meant to be kept.

Read more of the calendar tales.

Leave a comment

Filed under Short Stories

Tagged as , , , ,

March 14, 2013 · 9:15 am

It Adds Up: The “Real” Cost of Self-publishing

I found this Bloomberg article on the costs that (can) go into self-publishing really interesting. I don’t think it’s 100% accurate in all cases (for example, some of their steps are skippable or there are cheaper options out there), but it is a good snapshot. Just like the article I found about how much you can expect to earn at each “level” of self-publishing success, I felt this article provided a good benchmark.

In summary:

  • Editing: $500 – $1,460
  • Cover art: $200
  • Interior design: $0 – $1,400
  • Book printing: $6.77/book -> $8,800
  • eReader formatting software: $39
  • Single ISBN: $125
  • Kirkus Review: $550
  • Website: $2,300
  • Color business cards: $45
  • Press release printing: $100
  • Facebook announcement: $300
  • Direct mail: $1,000
  • Distribution: $200 up front (plus a cut)
  • One-stop shop: $5,000 – $6,000

Potential total (leaving out distribution and one-stop shop figures): $13,959 – $16,219

Ouch.

Even considering that I wouldn’t do some of the above, or would do them much more cheaply, those numbers are very scary.

If you are self-publishing, what do you expect it to cost? How do you plan on paying for it? Because I seriously doubt most “starving writers” would front even that $5,000 cost, but then, maybe it’s my sensibilities that are off.

29 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , ,

March 12, 2013 · 9:30 am

Verbal Migration: UK English and its American Cousin

I had the excellent fortune a few years ago to make a friend in England (the marvels of the internet!) who, after listening to me whine about wanting to go abroad long enough, invited me over.

And wonder of wonders, he actually meant it.

Much to my mother’s chagrin, I went. Yes, I spent 12 days in a foreign country with a stranger I met online. And it was the best thing I’ve ever done.

I hadn’t been able to study abroad in college because of time (and money) restrictions, but, having spoken to a lot of people who have, I think my experience was even better, because I was able to hang out with people just going about their daily lives, giving me a very real and personal welcome to their country. (Okay, those lucky folks who can spend months abroad maybe have it better, but still!)

I kept a journal of my trip (I highly recommend it!), and one day while on the Tube to London I made a list of all the English-y words I was learning that I would never get to use at home in Texas.

This week I found this lovely Wikipedia page—List of American Words not Widely Used in the United Kingdom—and was reminded of my little list of British Words Not Widely Used in the United States. (Maybe it’ll be of some use to Doctor Who, Downton Abby, and Harry Potter fans.)

Englishisms (and my understanding of their meanings**)

  • biscuit > cookie
  • black pudding > not pudding, best not to ask; doesn’t taste bad, though
  • blimey > an exclamation, mostly of surprise
  • Bubble & squeak > dish made with leftovers, potato, cabbage, and onion (also peas and carrots); like a hash brown potato
  • cashpoint > ATM
  • chips > fries (but thicker)
  • chuffed > pleased, thrilled, excited
  • city > a populated place that has a cathedral
  • cream tea > hot tea served with scones, butter, jam and clotted cream
  • crisps > chips
  • cuppa > a cup of (hot) tea (correct use: “do-ya wanna cuppa?”)
  • curry > all Indian food
  • downs > hills, an old English deriviation
  • dual/single carriageway > highway
  • feck (Irish) > shockingly not a curse word, but used for mild frustration…used liberally
  • fings > Welsh accent for “things”
  • footpath > trail/path
  • hamlet > a small village without a church
  • half-seven (ie. time) > “half” and a number indicates it is half-PAST the following number; ex. Half-seven = 7:30 (note: they’ll also tell time in either 12-hour or 24-hour increments without any trouble at all)
  • holiday  > vacation
  • HP sauce > A-1 steak sauce, served with a full English breakfast
  • innit/indidn’t > “isn’t it,” particularly heard in the West London accent
  • knackered > tired/tuckered out
  • Lockets > a brand of lozenge, only available at a candy store (rather than at a pharmacy as in America)
  • mate > friend/pal/chum
  • mental (gone mental) > crazy
  • moor > upland hilly area with acidic soil
  • myself (Irish) > dropped frequently instead of I or me or my
  • pavement > sidewalk
  • petrol > gasoline
  • (feeling) poorly > to be sick, ill
  • posh > fancy
  • queue > line you wait in
  • quid > pound (like “buck” for dollar) whether in paper notes or coins
  • Rock > hard stick candy found in Brighton; has words inside
  • roundabout > circular road switch point in which is recommended you pray for the right exit
  • scone/scon > deliciousness in breaded form, eaten with butter, jam, and clotted cream
  • spend a penny > to go potty/use the restroom. Comes from penny-pay public bathrooms
  • Sunday roast > roasted meat (beef, lamb, chicken, or pork) served with peas, carrots, broccoli/cabbage, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and gravy
  • scrumping > old word for stealing apples
  • tat > cheap crap
  • tings > Irish accent for “things”
  • toilet/loo > restroom/bathroom
  • Tube/Underground > subway
  • twee > over-the-top whimsy, so overdone and fake it loses any real charm
  • village > populated place that has a church
  • weald > a certain flat plain in the middle of hills
  • Yorkshire pudding > not at all like pudding, actually; resembles a bread bowl
**Any mistakes are either my own doing…or because my host willfully misled me. But they’re probably right. He’s a good bloke.
Yes, it’s true; I mostly ate my way through South England. Can you tell?

What words have you picked up in your travels?

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

March 11, 2013 · 12:47 pm

A Calendar of Tales: August

“August would speak of its empire lasting forever whilst glancing, warily, at the leaves cooking on the trees.”

“’Course there ain’t no chupacabras. But that don’t mean they ain’t real. They usedta run all round these parts. No, chiyle, there ain’t no chupacabras no more cuz Lucky Lyra Riley done cooked ‘em all up good.

Now, if yer thinkin’ this is gonna be one-a dem Pecos Bill tall tales, don’t. My stories are all true. I ain’t got no time for bullshit like them stories. Who ever done hear of a blue ox anyhow? No, chiyle, this story is the truth, God’s honest. I done seen it with my own two eyes.

It happen one summer back when the whole family lived in west Texas, back when the plains was still wile’. Now I was just a little sweet thang, cuter even than you, if’n you can believe it.

It was August, back when there weren’t no school cuz the days was too hot. Sometime I’d sit out behind the dogs just to catch the breeze off their tails, true enough.

August in Texas lasts ferever. It’s jes’ like today, but worse by a million degrees. Ain’t nothing you can do about it back then, neither. You wake up hot, you sweat all day an’ taste like salt, you go to bed hot, and even the lightest sheet weighs heavy like 15 blankets. Mmm-mm. It was godawful hot. An’ this August was perticularly uncomfortable. It jes made you want to up and die already. Even if you went to tha bad place, you was probly better off.

We was all layin’ about on the porch, hidin’ from the sun and prayin’ for a breeze, when in to down comes Lucky Lyra Riley. She’s ridin’ her horse, the finest animal you ever did see, with eyes like rubies and hooves that could crush a man an’ keep on goin’. I ain’t never heard tell of no otha animal half as wondrous as that horse.

An’ there on top is Miss Lyra. Oooh-ee. She was a fine lookin’ woman, and brave, braver than 10 men, though you wouldn’t see them say so.

She was comin’ to town cuz she done heard tell we had a chupacabra problem. And boy did we! Every night we done had to wrangle up all the littlest kids and our animals  so’s that those dread beasts wouldna come suck up all their blood. That meant we had 5 people, 18 goats, and 14 chickins in our little 3-room shack when it was hotter than hell!

So we says ‘thank ya Miss Lyra,’ and invited her in fer dinner. She said she would mighty well like a bite, and she came in and tole’ us all her ‘ventures. Anyhow, Miss Lyra finishes eatin’ and she says ‘thank ya kindly’ and heads off into the night.

The nex’ mornin’, roundabout 10 a.m., we sees Miss Lyra come cloppin’ back to down. Her horses’ whithers is all foamy from runnin’ and it drinks up enough water for our whole herd-a goats. She tells us she done been chasin’ them chupacabras, but they’re wily, ohhh how wily they is.

She stayed an’ rested in the shade all day—us kids went fer rides on her great big horse—and at night she went off again into the wilderness. In the night we heard a mighty scuffle way off in the plains—barkin’ and shots fired an’ whatnot, and it was very excitin’ but we was all scared for Miss Lyra because we got bigger chupacabras than anywhere else in the whole state. We’re afraid she got et up.

But no, come mornin’ there she is, her horse walkin’ behind her. She got a bandage on her arm, but it’s ok, and she got a brace of jackalope to boot. She says them chupacabra’s built a trap fer her out in the wild places, an’ they nearly got her, but she is smart an’ got away.

We cooked up those jackalope fer dinner that night, and dem horned rabbits was the best tastin’ food I ever did et. You better believe it.

We kids knew what was comin’ next, and we was all so excited we couldn’t sleep none. Daddy let us sit on the porch an’ wait up. The moon was high and we could very nearly see all the way to El Paso, an’ we sat there an’ watched Miss Lyra ride off into the wilds.

It was a frightful scene. Them chupacabra ain’t nuthin’ like what you see on the tellyvision now; no sir. They was as big as a mule, but could shrink up real small, too, to sneak in and bite ya. Miss Lyra was out there with her mighty horse, and we can see she ropes the biggest one up good, but it pulls and pulls and pulls.

Her horse, it digs in its feet, but them chupacabras runs in packs, and they all get on up to the rope and pulls back. Well, Miss Lyra ain’t called Lucky fer nuthin’, cuz alla sudden, out comes a big ole’ rattler, angry at bein’ disturbed in his sleep. He jumps up and bites the chupacabra, and it lays down dead.

Now Miss Lyra only got the weaker chupacabras to deal with, and she sets  her horse up into an amazin’ gallop, draggin’ that dead blood-sucker all around the plain. The other beasts, seein’ their leader so shamed, come runnin’ along after it, howlin’ and barkin’, but see, that jes’ be part of Miss Lyra’s plan. She spurs her horse to run faster, faster than any beast ever did run, and the chupacabra draggin’ along behind. Well, the horse ran so fast, that chupacabra jes’ burst right into flame!

The others are quite surprised by this, as you might imagine, but they keep on chasin’ Miss Lyra. So she has ta keep runnin’, and her horse, it is draggin’ this fiery devil dog along behind.

My daddy, seein’ what’s comin’, rounds up all us kids in the wagon and we runs away, fast as we can. You see, Miss Lyra’s chupacabra chase done lit the west on fire!

Them dogs stayed on her heels all night long, and half the west got done burned right up, in a fire so fierce it made smoke thicker’n night—so we got the cool weather we had prayed for. Miss Lyra done ride off, right into the sunrise, and took them devil dogs with her.

And that’s why there ain’t no chupacabra ‘round no more. They all got burned up by Miss Lyra and the sun.

Now go run along to bed, ya hear? Go on, git!”

Read more of the calendar tales.

Leave a comment

Filed under Short Stories

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

March 8, 2013 · 10:00 am

Identifying Writing Success

From http://public.wsu.edu/~hughesc/1990.24

That is one fine lion coat, sir.

Since writing my first novel two years ago, I’ve learned a lot about the publishing industry. I’ve learned that writing a book–while a Herculean task in its own right sometimes–is barely the beginning. (Don’t forget, Hercules had to deal with 12 labors, including mucking out a seriously grody stable and killing or capturing a bunch of murderous monster-animals. But he did wind up with a nice fancy lion-coat! So that’s something, right?)

I’ve learned about query letters, networking, meeting agents and publishers, and the several varied paths to publishing. I knew it wasn’t as easy as “write book, get published,” but even with the wonders of the Internet and mass communication, the actual process of getting published is mysterious. It’s been hard for me to figure out which way is up, who is honest, and how to avoid hucksters.

That’s why I was so excited when I found this post (Measuring Success via IndieReCon) so reassuring: it’s a pretty clear road map for what it means to be a financial success as a self-published author.

Author Susan Kaye Quinn breaks down indie success with actual dollar amounts. If I decide to self-publish someday, I’ll be grateful to have this as a guide to understanding what I should be aiming for. Heck, even if I find some success in the traditional publishing route, I find these numbers reassuring. I’ve read many resources, in print and online, and most of the time, dollar amounts and sales targets have just been hinted at. While making my own goals is essential, having a sense of the industry’s markers helps me feel grounded, and I hope it will help me make reasonable decisions.

I’ve yet to decide which publishing path is right for me (though I am currently seeking agent representation!), but I will be using that Measuring Success post to help me suss out my personal writing goals.

What are your goals for your writing?

10 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , ,

March 6, 2013 · 8:11 am

A Calendar of Tales: June

“A refrigerator. Summertime always makes me wish they’d make large refrigerators that people could squeeze in.”

Sarah stared in dismay at the stacks of applications on the desk. She’d joined the DHS because of her love for the animals, but most of her job was this: sitting at the front desk, waiting for someone to turn up, and filing—in triplicate!—the endless applications.

And hardly anyone filled them out correctly. She sighed, and pulled out her red pen.

Sarah had used her big red “Rejected” stamp 6 times before she came to an application that did not require it. She held up the application in joyous surprise. They seemed to have done their homework, had all the proper background.

She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Mr. Vasquez? This is Sarah at the Dragon Humane Society. We’ve received your application and I’m happy to say you’re approved to come in for an interview. Can you come by today, by any chance? Yes, 3 o’clock will be just fine, thank you. You have our address? Great, see you then!”

Sarah hung up the phone with satisfaction. She didn’t get to make enough of those calls. She hoped the Vasquez family was as good as they seemed on paper.

—

The bell jangled on the door, minutes before 3 p.m. They were prompt; Sarah made a note on the file—that was good. There were five of them; a tall, handsome man with lightly tanned skin; a woman with soft curves and long dark hair; a girl, about 15; and two boys, anxiously clinging to each other’s hand’s. Sarah made a note to ask about the boys’ ages; they looked rather young.

“Hello,” the man said. “Are you Sarah? We’re here for our adoption interview?”

“Mr. Vasquez? Yes, I’m Sarah. Is this the whole family?” Sarah said brightly, picking up her clipboard and walking around the desk to shake hands, even with the boys.

“Yes, this is all of us. I’m Emilio, this is my wife Juanita, my daughter Serena, my sons Luke and Javier,” Emilio Vasquez squeezed Sarah’s hand. “We’re just so excited at the prospect of bringing a new friend into the family.”

Sarah liked them. They had an earnest wholesomeness about them. But she forced down her smile. She had to remain impartial. “Just a quick interview to ensure you can provide a good home.” She led them into a small room with a table and three chairs. Serena stood behind her parents, and the boys sat on the floor.

“Now,” Sarah said, settling into her chair and poising her pen above the clipboard. “Where will you keep your dragon? Inside or outside?”

“Inside,” Juanita said. “I’m at home with the boys most of the time, so it would stay with me. But we have a lovely backyard for it to enjoy on nice days.”

Sarah chewed the inside of her lip and made a note on the clipboard. “Are you aware of the fencing requirements?”

“Yes ma’am,” Emilio said. “In fact, I finished covering the yard with some high-quality fencing wire just yesterday.”

“Mm hm,” Sarah said. They were sailing through the interview. That was so unusual that Sarah felt wary. “How old are your boys? Will they understand how to treat an animal of this caliber?”

The small boys looked up. “Yes!” one of them cried. “We’ll be good!”

“Hush, Javier,” Juanita said. “They’re 7 and 5. But Luke will be 6 next month; I read on your website that that’s your cutoff, but frankly, we didn’t think we’d hear back so quickly.”

“Well, that may be a problem,” Sarah pursed her lips together and decided, to hell with it, she’d ignore regulations. “You are aware of the $350 adoption fee? That includes the shots and neuter, of course.”

“Yes, I can write you a check right away,” Juanita said, digging into her purse.

Sarah finally allowed herself to smile. “Then let’s go pick out your new friend.”

She led the family to the refrigeration room, and handed out jackets and gloves. The jackets were cartoonishly large on the boys, who drowned in even the smallest sizes. “Why do we need coats?” Serena said with her teenaged rancor. “Aren’t they naturally hot?”

“We keep them in refrigeration while they’re here at the center. We couldn’t contain 25 dragons if they were allowed to roam as normal. The cold slows them down; it also keeps them from growing up as quickly,” Sarah said, pulling open the door. “The sad truth is the kits do get adopted more often, so we try to keep them young as long as possible. Here we go.”

The door swung wide, revealing rows of cages all along the room. Sarah ushered them all inside, careful to close the door. “Any in particular you are interested in? Here at the DHS we’ve got several colors. I’m fond of the iridescent ones, myself.” She gestured to one cage, where a palm-sized dragon yawned. Its scales shimmered like a pearl in shallow water.

The boys ran down to the back of the room, pointing and clamoring excitedly at each new potential pet. Emilio and Juanita followed, considering each infant dragon in turn. Serena stuck her fingers through the cage of an ebony dragon, its back curling away from the bars of the cage.

“They will get to be about 45 pounds, and you’ll need to harness train them right away, before they learn to fly. They make excellent companions; superb burglar deterrents,” Sarah said. “We’ll make a home visit in a few weeks to ensure you’re doing alright, and do call if you have any trouble.”

“Mom, dad, can we get this one?” Serena stroked the head of a little brick-red dragon. It cooed and licked her finger with its forked tongue. “She’s sweet.”

“Aw, that’s Agnes. She came here from a hoarder’s house, very sad case, but we’ve patched her up.” Sarah dropped her voice to speak only to Serena. “She’s one of my favorites.”

“She’s lovely,” Juanita said. “Boys, what do you think?”

“Yeah, she’s great! Agnes, here Agnes,” Javier stuck his fingers through the bars, but they were too short to reach the dragon.

“It seems you’re all in agreement,” Sarah said. She unlocked the door and gently placed the little red dragon in Serena’s arms. “Careful, don’t pinch her wings.”

Sarah led them out of the refrigeration room and reclaimed their jackets. Juanita passed Sarah the adoption fee, and the family walked back out to their car, new friend curled happily in Serena’s arms.

Sarah used her green “Approved” stamp for the first time in weeks, grinning madly.

Read the rest of the calendar tales.

Leave a comment

Filed under Short Stories

Tagged as , , , , ,

March 4, 2013 · 9:30 am

A Calendar of Tales: May

“An anonymous Mother’s Day gift. Think about that for a moment.”

The first card arrived in early June. The envelope was pink, with flowers drawn on in childish crayon. It stood out from the business-size white bills. It had no stamp or postal markings, though the address was written in neat print, surprisingly adult, in pen.

Though it was addressed to her, Beth opened the envelope hesitantly, careful not to rip the flap. Surely it was meant for an elementary child’s parent, and Beth was all alone. Probably just an incorrect address; she’d find out who it was from and deliver it. She still knew all the neighborhood children, so it would be easy to return it to the proper house.

The card showed a bouquet of flowers in yellow, pink, and lavender, dusted softly with glitter. The inside was a soft pink, with the words “Happy Mother’s Day!” in a cheery script.

There was no signature, but there was a child’s drawing of a sun in bright yellow crayon in the upper-left corner.

Beth sighed. How she wished for a card like that; but of course, it couldn’t be hers.

Fighting off the quiver in her lip, Beth laid the card on her kitchen countertop, telling herself to ask the neighborhood kids if it belonged to one of them. Besides, it would be good to see them again. They hardly came by for lemonade anymore.

—–

On July 7 Beth returned from her aunt’s beach house to find a page from a spelling tablet tucked between the storm door and the doorframe. Beth put down her suitcase for a moment to retrieve the paper, expecting it to be another charity plea from the local church.

It was a drawing of fireworks, over a stick figure family enjoying a picnic on a red-and-white checkered blanket. It was drawn in marker, and Beth could see where the green ink of the fluffy trees had smudged from the artist’s left-handed coloring.

Written in careful rows on the lined bottom-half of the page was “Hapy FoRth!”

Beth stared at the drawing for a long moment. The stick figure family was three smiling figures: a boy, a man in a red shirt, and a woman with brown hair in a ponytail. It reminded her of that lovely summer years ago, back before Jerry had left. Before…

She shook her head. None of the neighborhood children had claimed the wayward Mother’s Day card, but maybe sweet little Lisa from down the street had given out Fourth of July pictures to her next-door neighbor. Beth resolved to go over and thank the little girl as soon as she unpacked her bags.

—–

A loose pile of wild flowers—red, and pale yellow–and a bluebell from someone’s yard rested on Beth’s car windshield in August, wilted in the heat. Beth smiled at the little love-gift, and set the dying flowers in the grass next to the driveway so that the owner could reclaim them later.

She was surprised to still see them there when she got home from work, but then, children do forget things.

—-

It was just barely October when Beth found the chocolate bar. It had been set on her front porch sometime during the day, while she was at the office, and was mushy from the heat. There was a scratch-and-sniff sticker of a slice of pizza on it.

When she flipped the candy over, Beth found the other sticker: a jolly Santa laughing and clutching his belly. Written next to the “TO:” was “Mommy” in a child’s scrawl.

Beth threw the chocolate in the trash and called her ex-husband. “This has got to stop!” she screamed. “Why are you torturing me?! Do you think this is some kind of joke?”

He denied everything. Beth clicked the phone off, threw it against the couch, and sobbed.

—–

Beth was putting on lipstick, on the way out to a low-key birthday celebration with a few friends, when the doorbell rang. She pursed her lips to set the stain and hurried to the door.

She had expected it to be Dorothy, there to pick her up, but standing behind the glass of the storm door was a woman in a fitted business suit whom Beth did not know.

“Can I help you?” Beth asked.

The woman’s eyes went wide and she broke into a delirious smile. “Mommy!” she said in a childish voice. The woman extended her arms as if to hug Beth.

Beth backed away. “I’m sorry, I think you are confused.” She moved to close the door.

“Mommy, aren’t you happy to see me? Haven’t you missed me?” The woman sounded young, and confused.

Beth stared at her with alarm. The woman said, “Mommy, it’s me, Jamie.” The woman tugged at her blouse absently. “Oh, I forgot; this is Susan. She’s helping me talk to you today. Mommy, I have missed you so much. Didn’t you get my letters? And the candy? Isn’t chocolate the bestest?”

Beth backed away, shaking her head. “No no no, go away. Jamie’s dead. My son is dead, he died 3 years ago and you are a very cruel person. Why would you do this? I lost my son. You’re a horrible person, and I’m calling the police.” Beth was closing the door, but the woman with Jamie’s voice stepped forward and pressed her palm to the glass door.

“Mommy, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to make you sad. It’s just that I missed you so much,” Jamie said.

Beth’s eyes filled with tears. “Jamie? Baby, is that you?”

“It’s me mommy,” Jamie said. “If you don’t want me to come back anymore, I won’t. I don’t want to make you sad. But I missed you and wanted to tell you I love you. I am with you every day, mommy.”

“Jamie,” Beth said. She ran out and hugged the woman tightly, and Beth could almost imagine she was holding her son. “Jamie I love you, too. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you could come back. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, mommy,” Jaime said. The woman pulled back slightly. “Mommy, it’s time for me to go, okay? Susan has to go home now. But I’ll keep sending you letters sometimes, if you say I can.”

“Yes, baby,” Beth said, clutching the smaller woman’s shoulder. “I’ll always love you, Jamie.”

“I love you, too, mommy,” Jamie said. The woman stepped back, brushed down her blouse, now wet with tears, and breathed out slowly. Her breath left a fine white mist that hung in the air.

Read the rest of the calendar tales.

Leave a comment

Filed under Short Stories

Tagged as , , , ,

February 28, 2013 · 10:00 am

A World Without Gender

Image from http://raredeadly.tumblr.com/post/1473774370/tilda-swinton-as-80s-bowie-its-the-hair

Try writing your MC as if you don’t know the gender. Just like Tilda Swinton here demonstrates, it doesn’t always matter–your MC can be incredible either way.

Gender is a pretty fundamental part of a character description. Even the name you pick generally gives you a hint of who this person you’re reading about is going to be. Failing that, you can fall back on the physical description; dresses tend to indicate women (sorry Scotland!), while a manly man might wear weathered boots and heft an axe. And if even that is pretty vague, at least you’ve got pronouns to rely on when the author gets tired of calling the character by name.

But in interactive fiction and gamebooks, you, as the author can’t utilize those standbys. After all, your reader could be male, female, old, young, or, heck, even an alien. And since they are taking on your story from the driver’s seat, so to speak, the author can’t be telling them too much about who they are. After all, you can’t address the reader using “he” or “him” without thereby cutting out or annoying half of your prospective audience.

My novel, Undead Rising, is a gamebook for adults. The challenge of gender was one of the most interesting parts of writing it, because it stripped me of so many descriptive options. It was a helluva fun book to write, and I think all writers should give writing without gender a shot. It’s illuminating.

Of course, Undead Rising isn’t completely without gender; all the characters besides the reader’s perspective have gendered names, physical descriptions, and pronouns. But writing dialogue gets extra tricky when your No. 2 character can’t ever say “She did it!” in reference to your MC. And figuring out how to deal with pockets was surprisingly hard; luckily, it’s fairly common for women to also wear trousers, or my MC would never have carried anything around.

I resolved many of the direct references between characters and my MC with filler phrases like “dude”: “Dude, what have you been up to in here?” or “Wow, dude, you are such a great friend.” (I realize “dude” is technically gendered, but, at least among my friends, it’s used for either gender, not just men). The name problem wasn’t too hard, as the novel was written in second-person perspective. Anytime another character is introduced to the MC, I plugged in something like “You say your name.”

I even managed to write in a romantic interlude without any reference to the gender of the main character. That was a sticky wicket!

Gender is typically important to a character, but my experiment in writing a genderless character was very powerful. It really showed me how many things are universal. While writing, I imagined the character as male or female, sometimes one, sometimes the other. I hope that no matter who reads Undead Rising, they feel they are fairly represented.

How important are gender roles and gendered descriptions in your writing? Could you write a whole character without a gender?

(To see a real pro try it, read The Left Hand of Darkness, which is partially about an alien species whose gender shifts based on several factors, but most of the time is genderless.)

6 Comments

Filed under writing

Tagged as , , , ,