Seven things about My Writing

1– I have this thing with blue pens.

I’m not sure when this mess started, but shortly after my first blank notebook, I switched to only writing in blue pens. Sure, at first I’d use a black pen when I needed. I dare say there are a few drafts in purple out there somewhere… but not recently. Blue it is. Preferably cheap papermates.

Though, funny enough, the darker the ink, the better.

2– I skip the first page of a new notebook

First page jitters. There was this mental paralysis with the first page. I mean, it is the FIRST PAGE. This is the first thing anyone will see… not that anyone else was reading my notebook. The solution? I skipped it. Moved to page 2 and started writing.

Doesn’t that make page 2 by default, page 1?

Quiet you.

3– My notes / writing is chaotic

There is little in the sense of order in my notebooks, or in the manner which I tackle my writing. A journal note can turn into a blog post, jump into poetry. A character analysis from a fantasy novel can sit in between scenes from a horror short I am working on. I learned long ago to just write it down when it comes to me, rather than try to force focus. This does, however, mean there a lot of unfinished things in my backlog.

4– I read aloud while editing

I blame, and affectionately so, poetry for this. When I edit fiction I will read it aloud. Usually first as a whole, then parts over and over, listening to the sounds and word choices. Often I will restructure parts based more on how they read aloud then how they read on the page–making word choices based on sound and rhythm, rather than some more conventional fictional wisdom.

5– First Drafts are King

This is something I struggle with still, but it goes like this: If the first draft isn’t nearly the final draft, it doesn’t work out well. Work that needs a lot of edits somehow never turn out how I want. More often, I will take what I wrote (the thing that really needs edited), push it aside and completely re-write it fresh, reconstructing the story/chapter/section from scratch. But even then, there is a momentum issue, each word building on the previous. Often this has caused me to abandon stories.

6– I write short

This is something else I blame on poetry, but also on my own reading habits. I live in the shorter end of fiction, keeping words and phrases tight and scenes short. I’ve been working on this one, trying to change from a poetry / flash fiction flow to a novel one, but I struggle.

7– Most of the time, I do not write a story in order

Perhaps with the exception of flash fiction, I usually start with a scene, something that gets me, and jot that down. Then I’ll think about, talk about while driving, and word play with other parts and dialogue, getting the voices of the characters, and the scenes I do know flushed out some. These scenes and moments jump around in time and narration, forcing me to figure out how everyone got from A to B to C, especially when I started at H, then wrote E before dreaming of the sequel, X, Y and F.

During this time I am seeking the plot. But not just that, I call it THE THING, but the part of the story that makes it all click together. THE THING is the difference between a completely competent telling of an event and a great piece of fiction. Usually it alludes me, but when it hits, boom, lightning.

Anthology Year Three

I have a new story out, “Knock at the Door.” It is in Anthology, Year Three – Distant Dying Embers, a great collection of stories edited by Tim Deal and brought to us by the Four Horsemen.

“Knock at the Door” was inspired by a dream–a well timed dream, too. A friend and I were having a competition, a 7 in 7–seven stories in seven days. And it turned into a good week for me, as five of those stories were keepers, and a sixth was a solid idea that is searching for a better execution.

There are 29 works in this anthology, filling it with great stories, poetry and art. It is an amazing line-up, from a great small press.

Kindle: http://amzn.com/B00RVNF3Z6

 

Table of Contents

FOMORIAN, by Ogmios

KNOCK AT THE DOOR, by Jacob Haddon

OZARK, by Scott Christian Carr

THREE LITTLE WORDS, by Michele Mixell

RASPBERRY SUMMER, by Diana Catt

THE MILLER’S TASK, by Jonathan Dubey

NORTHERN LIGHTS, by Rob Smales

HE ROAD HOME, by Sheldon Higdon

BATTLE OF WILLS, by Tracie Orsi

THE ELEVATION OF OLIVER BLACK, by Errick Nunnally

SPACE STATION OVER THE NORTH ATLANTIC, by Esther M. Leiper– Estabrooks

THE SUN STRUCK, by Gregory L. Norris

RUSH, by Andrew Wolter

CROSSBACK, by Barry Lee Dejasu

ONE SHOE, by Laura J. Hickman

DARK HIGHWAYS, by Dan Foley

A CHORUS OF PLASTIC SONGS, by Scott T. Goudsward

TSUNAMI, by T.T. Zuma

A TALE OF CHIVALRY, by Ogmios

FUND-RAISER, by Thom Erb

THE LOOMING TREES, by Penny Fey

skin& hair teeth& bones, by Kristi Petersen Schoonover

how you killed me, by doungjai gam

INVIDIA, by Marianne Halbert

DEAD THUNDER, by D.B Poirier

ENCROACHMENT, by Craig D.B. Patton

DOLLY, DO I HAVE A SOUL? by Philip C. Perron

REDEMPTION, by Timothy P. Flynn

GOT YOUR BACK, by John McIlveen.

Poetry, Emotion and Editing

We often associate poetry with a more pure out pouring of the mind, or soul, than other forms of writing. For this reason, most who approach it tend to link the work emotionally with themselves.

The result can be an over weighing of comments, criticisms and reactions to the work, since the work is seen, not as it is–a piece of art–but rather the person themselves.

In this, it is often difficult to approach younger poets about there work, as I have found. Some will take any writing advice with the wrong heart.

One of my writer friends is fond of saying “we bleed on the page,” which I think is a good analogy.

We have to dig inside for these things, whether we are writing a poem about our past, a fictional character, drawing on forgotten fears–we dig, deep. That is only part of the creation.

The words on the page are now their own, they stand or fall now independent of the person. The poet needs to treat them, to honor them, as such. A poem about the last moments of your Grandmother’s life deserves the same editorial afflictions as one about a flower in a field. The personal matter–while important to the creation of the work–cannot be a roadblock to its maturation.

A first draft is owed a critical eye on diction, structure–an eye on the art, not the moment that birthed it.

So take that emotion and do what you will with it–bleed onto the page. But remember, when the blood dries, it is no different than any other ink. Take from it art that is full alive, that stands on its own right.