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Navigating Space in Writing

Trapped in a tiny box
via sundaykofax on flickr.com/creativecommons

I have space issues. I’m a confessed claustrophobic, yet I sometimes dream of living in a tiny home, having everything within reach. I like the minimalist philosophy and the idea of using space efficiently. I’m a sucker for pockets upon pockets in a bag, secret drawers in a closet, or hidden compartments in jewelry boxes. There’s so much one can fit into small quarters with the right organization and planning.

That would explain my affinity for flash fiction. I love stories in a compact space, short shorts that insist I take my word limit seriously. There isn’t room for unnecessary details or dialogue. And, in a good flash fiction, more is revealed if you read beyond character gestures and listen to pauses in speech.

Thoughts on my preference for small spaces also helps me understand why writing a novel continues to baffle me. Moving from flash fiction to a novel parallels my experience when we upgraded from a one bedroom apartment to our first home, an overwhelming three bedroom house.

Rooms sat empty for a while.
The sound of footsteps bounced off plastered ceilings and wood floors.
Everything echoed, until we filled the rooms.
With furniture.
A rug.
Curtains.

Filling out a novel with 80,000 words is killing me. And, I’m not alone. Jenna Blum, in her post on Grub Street Daily (“Can’t I Just Write 15 Stories About the Same People: Turning Short Stories Into a Novel”), responds to another writer’s same question: how the heck do you move from short form to long?

If you can write a short story, you can write a novel–because both of them have beginning, middle and end…The short story contains its own arc.  The novel imposes its arc on a series of chapters–or stories.

Blum says, sure, you can write a series of stories on the same person, but there’s more to the novel that comes out in the narrative arc and plot. She says, ” If a short story is…a kiss from a stranger, a novel is a long love affair.”

So, I don’t want to sell my story short (there must be a pun in there somewhere), but I still cringe at the 80,000 word mark. What I want is to merge the idea of a novel being a long series of flash fiction pieces, while keeping in mind Blum’s caution not to lose the novel’s theme throughout.

What about you? How do you move from short form to long, or vice versa? Or, maybe you want to talk about itty bitty living quarters?….

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Wednesday’s Word: Once I clicked, I committed.

I’ve got a long list of excuses as to why today was not a good day for writing a new piece of flash fiction (in fact, if this post gets out by midnight tonight, I’ll be lucky). The problem is, I clicked over to Wordsmith.org this morning and read the word of the day and, therefore, committed myself to write something – an essay or a poem or a very short short – based on today’s word:

phycology: noun. The branch of botany dealing with algae. Also known as algology.

Algae. Green, slimy, stinky snood. Wordsmith never makes it easy, but then who said writing was easy?

(Past pieces from Wednesday’s Word exercises can be found by mousing over to the sidebar on the right and clicking on the Wednesday’s Word category.)

*****

Solitude

Joanne’s canoe glided towards the far side of the lake and carried her into a space void of campers, unreachable by motor boat, and reminiscent of times when the electricity went out at home; the air surrounded her with a heavy quiet.

Relief, she thought.

Sometimes she tired of the constant buzzing or humming caused by electric or other what not noises that smothered her at home and at work, sounds that were noticed more so when they ceased. She thought a weekend retreat to her cabin would offer solace, but the Wisnewskis were up this weekend, too. They were a raucous bunch, even at breakfast, which is why Joanne pushed off in her canoe shortly after her second cup of coffee.

from misserion via www.flickr.com/creativecommons

She relaxed her shoulders and relished her space and didn’t think twice about floating into a blanket of algae. The canoe cut through it like a wedge, splitting the muck and setting off spirals of green around her. She scooped up a handful of slime and rubbed her fingers together, searching for the substance. The algae held together only in mass.

Figures, she thought, just like the Wisnewskis. They thrive in clumps and encroach on the lake just the same.

Joanne breathed a sigh of disgust and, at the same time, lurched forward; the canoe had slowed, almost stopped. She brushed the tip of a sunken log, and as it scraped against the underside of the canoe, it pierced the quiet with a sound that frightened a kingfisher out of the trees just feet in front of her. She about had a heart attack because of that damn bird, and now, with her hands clenched to the sides of the canoe, she watched her paddle bounce and slip right off into the water. Into the muck. Away from her canoe.

Now, she certainly was alone, and the algae was closing in behind her.

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Cultivate Your Story

Last Thursday marked a historical moment for me.

I picked up my daughter, for the final time, from a daycare center that has cared for both my kids for the past nine years. As much as my kids, I’ve grown up at that center, and it felt strange to walk away.

I honored the day as most moms do: I brought cupcakes, and I bought a new book as a gift for her classroom. Decorating the cupcakes was easy; choosing the book was difficult.

But, the one I found bestows a message that’s been sitting with me for days.

In The Curious Garden, Peter Brown writes a beautiful story about a boy who discovers a treasure, a tiny garden in an otherwise barren piece of land. With little knowledge about gardening, but a passion to grow something new, this young boy weeds and trims and waters and sings to his little patch of green. The plants come to life, and they begin take root in new places.

Then, winter sets in, and the boy can no longer get to the garden. He doesn’t despair, though. He turns to books on gardening, and, by spring, he is ready: armed with more knowledge and better tools and an even stronger drive to foster his plot into something bigger and more beautiful.

By the book’s end, the small patch of green has flourished and spread, and the boy’s spirit is contagious. I love this book, for everything it represents: nature’s resilience, the fruits of our labor, the persistence of a young boy who knew nothing in the beginning but did the work anyway.

You can see where this is going, right? Walking away from one phase in my daughter’s life pains me, but the message I discovered in the process was worth it. Not only am I extremely grateful for the gifts of knowledge this daycare center, and the teachers, have given me and my kids. But now, I leave there with yet another lesson: cultivate that which you love.

Here I am, trudging my way through this novel writing business, perseverating (some days) on the fact that I have so much to learn about the craft of writing and story structure. But, the passion is there, and my story is taking root and flourishing, little  by little.

What about you? Are you fostering something new today?

* Read the New York Times Review of Peter Brown’s book here.