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Found Artifacts

You know how meal time conversations go. The other day, we sat at the lunch table with my father-in-law. One minute we were talking olives, are you partial to green or black. The next minute, the topic switched to “Kansas City.” Then, “Hey. Who sang that song?” And, suddenly we were on a kick about one-hit wonders from the 1950’s.

In the discussion with my father-in-law about “Kansas City” being a Chuck Berry song or a Wilbert Harrison hit (Harrison, by the way. My father-in-law knows best), I said I had a whole box of 45’s somewhere in the house, would he like to hear a few? His eyes lit up, so I set off on a mad hunt, searching in almost every closet and both attic spaces (twice), and digging through two small trunks that my kids like to call “treasure chests.” Everything in those trunks is old (though the word itself is relative…I’m “old” to my kids). I couldn’t find the records that day, but in my obsessive rummaging, I uncovered some other interesting artifacts of note.

Evidence of rumor.

I’ve mentioned before that I was a Lions Club member, a experience worthy of a story in itself. I wasn’t a Lioness, crocheting doilies with the wives in the back room. Oh no. I sat at the table up front, with the graybeards who eyed me up and wondered, like me, how the heck this skinny girl got a plate?

My first collection of short stories.

Stories: About Love, Life, and Luscious Red Hair, Copyright 1986.

With riveting titles such as “Secrecy — Unknown” and “Brought together by Bon-Bons,” plus prose like “he dreams of the day when her braces are de-banded,” I can’t imagine why this collection never made it to the presses.

The first Valentine from the man who would become my husband.

A seven word flash narrative revealing conflict and plot, from the simple opening of “Hey” to the final line: I Love you!”

The 45’s that brought on this whole search and find experience.

Now, I’ve got a date with my father-in-law.

What have you got hiding in your attic or your secret treasure chest?

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Recovering, Published, and a Flash Fiction Flashback

I’m coming off of a weekend sequestered at home because of a marathon run-in with a stomach bug. That virus is still lingering in corners, threatening to zap the last standing victim. In fact, it may have just tagged my son. And, I’m still recovering.

‘Tis the season.

At times like this, I appreciate the work of those around me, like my husband who kept the house running and the kids moving all day, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus. And like fellow authors of the Dead Shoe Society who ramped up big time over the last few days and pulled together story submissions to create a cool, new anthology, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.

20111213-161346.jpgThe anthology is up and ready for your Kindle. You can read more about it and the stories within (including mine, “If It Wasn’t for Sylvia”) in this great post on Victoria Flynn’s blog, Penny Jars. Then, if the stories intrigue you, click on Amazon or on Smashwords to purchase your own copy. If you prefer books in hand rather than on screen, rumor is that paperback copies will be available in no time flat (those Dead Shoe Society folks work fast, like little elves).

The other thing I did during Stomach Bugapalooza was think back through my flash fiction archives for a piece apropos during this time of year, the giving season (if you don’t have the energy to write a post, you can always re-post a post). This piece, first published last year around this time, introduces you to a woman named Cecilia, who does what I wish I had been doing on Sunday…while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.

Hope you’re all staying healthy, finding great new books to read, and keeping up with your lists!

~

Celia Loves

Paper Flowers for the HolidaysCelia only had three things left on her list of Christmas gifts: a book on wolves for her nephew, Dylan, wild animal that he was; a cookbook for her sister, Mary, Paula Deen’s latest convert; and a gift card for her brother, Jim, who never latched on to anything, not even a wife.

In the bookstore, she wandered past the Bestsellers and paused at the New Fiction. She thumbed through calendars and flipped through books filled with quotes. She was drawn to the display of journals and pens, unable to resist the feel of fine paper between her fingers and the weight of a good pen.

She eyed a travel journal; but she had no where to go. She picked up a nondescript diary with a brown leather cover, smooth and tempting: a classic. She considered a package of fountain pens; the things she would write.

Carol of the Bells rang out from the store lobby and pulled her attention toward a group of young adults. Dressed in Christmas Story costumes, they had stationed themselves near the front doors and begun a chorus of holiday cheer. A young man singing tenor looked a lot like her nephew might in a few years.

Dylan. She turned back to her list.

From the shelves of the Young Adult section, she grabbed an old classic, Wolfling. In the cookbook section, she reached for Paula Deen’s It Ain’t All About the Cookin’. Celia agreed with that title, knowing that behind every recipe is a good story. Then, Celia went back and picked up a small book of quotes she’d been reading before. She paid for the books, a gift card, and a package of pens for herself. Then, she sat down in her car and wrote inside each book’s cover.

To Dylan. Dear Lover of wolves, You’ll find plenty of facts about habitats and behavior in other books, but the real learning is hidden in stories. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said it best: “The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books.”

To Mary. Miguel de Cervantes in Don Quixote said “All sorrows are less with bread” – or, if you’re Paula Deen, a red velvet cake. Let’s bake one together. I miss you.

To Jim. You’re a man of mystery, impossible to buy for, and you work too much. Annie Dillard offers wise advice: “Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.” I love you.

Celia put the cap on her new pen and slipped it inside her purse. She started her car and turned up the heat, though she was already warm.

*photo credit: PermaCultured on Flickr.com
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Writing Lessons & Pinky MacOinkus: Guest Post by Jan O’Hara

I met Jan O’Hara somewhere along the cyber highway. The when or where doesn’t matter so much as the fact that I liked her immediately. Maybe it’s her red hair or that sassy attitude or the fact that she loves Colin Firth as much (if not more) than me. Any fan of Colin is a friend of mine. I’m thrilled to host Jan today; she offers us great insight into writing and leaves us with a link to a virtual hug any time we want one. Welcome, Jan!

How Introvertus Interruptus Taught Me
Four Simple Writing Lessons

As a self-identified introvert, who generally becomes re-energized in solitude, imagine how surprised I was to find myself rocking a people-filled errand day this past summer.

It didn’t seem to matter where I went, either. Whether I was in the coffee shop, the grocery store, the bottle depot, the library, people were uniformly warm and receptive to my jokes. “Wow,” I remember thinking. “This could be addicting.” For a brief time it almost seemed possible to have a hive-free social life.

Then I caught a woman eyeing my chest.

Now, peeps, you don’t know me, but trust me when I say she wasn’t flirting with me or evaluating me as a sexual competitor. Nor was she a reality show makeover artist who’d found her next hapless victim client. Rather, she was my educator, for as her gaze scanned my boobage and a smile bloomed on her lips, I finally understood what had triggered that morning’s success:

  1. When I’d straggled out of bed and, in an unthinking moment, thrown on my husband’s pumpkin-orange t-shirt – the one with the caption My Mama Thinks I’m Special – I began to project a certain personality.
  2. Presumably thinking I was informal, approachable, and had a healthy sense of humor, strangers engaged me at an atypical level.
  3. We began a positive feedback loop in which pleasant conversation led to more of the same.
  4. The change was so profound I rethought my self-imposed label of “socially awkward.”

Why am I telling you this, and what bearing does this have on the world of writing? Well, I took a few lessons from that experience:

1. When working with people, it’s hard to go wrong if you operate from a place of self-deprecating humor. This is true whether you’re crafting blog posts, tweets, a Facebook status, or simply putting butt in chair to write fiction. People are eager to laugh and connect.

2. If the writing is going well, huzzah! Carry on. But if it isn’t and you’re trying desperately to recreate whatever worked three months or three years ago because that is the way you write best, dang it!, reconsider. Quite simply, we aren’t always the best judge of why things go well or go poorly. All we can do is experiment in a spirit of hope and tenacity until we find the combo that works for right now.

3. Be mindful of the stories you tell yourself about your struggles as a writer, because to some degree, we get what we expect. Optimists label setbacks as temporary, external, and specific to particular circumstances. So for instance, it’s healthier to say, “I haven’t mastered the art of scene transition yet,” than to say, “I suck as a writer.” (And it’s healthier to say “I tend to be an introvert” rather than “I’m a socially-awkward hermit.”)

4. Take the time to view your writing environment with fresh eyes. What does it tell the world about the importance writing plays in your life? What does it tell you? Within the resources available to you right now, are you making it as easy as possible to slip into a productive writing mode?

For instance, I work better without clutter. If my office gets away from me and I don’t have time to tidy it, I’ll head to the coffee shop or library to write, then come back to establish order.

I also work better when I don’t take myself too seriously, so I’ve tried to extrapolate that Forrest-Gump-shirt ethos to my office, using free or reasonably-priced props that require little maintenance. Once set up, they act on a subliminal level to relax me and buoy my spirits.

This is why my office walls feature Betty Boop tin art and I’ve been known to wear Mr. Bean t-shirts. My mechanical timer, which I use to motivate myself for less-pleasant tasks, is a pig named Pinky MacOinkus.

On days where I’m feeling a touch of loneliness, I switch Pinky out for a timer my brother made specifically for me. The latter displays a customized picture and sound, so every time I use it, it’s almost like getting a hug. (If you have a PC and would like to try it, you are welcome to download the TartAlarm with this link).

What about you folks? Are you an introvert who’s discovered untapped depths of extroversion? Have you worked to change your internal dialogue about your writerly struggles? If you could make one modest improvement to your writing space, what would it be? Conversely, what feature of your office brings you the most pleasure?

Jan O’Hara left her writing dreams behind for years to practice family medicine, but has found her way back to the world of fiction. Currently the voice of the Unpublished Writer on Writer Unboxed, she’s hard at work on her contemporary romances, hoping one day soon to become unqualified for the position. She lives in Alberta, Canada with her husband and two children, and welcomes visitors to her citrus-infused blog, Tartitude. You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.