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Back Online and Dreaming

I’ve had little time to write lately, and that disconnect is beginning to wear on me.

Today, I stared at a blank screen.
The blink
Of the cursor,
A taunt.

“Write something. Anything.” I told myself.

I searched through my files for an old writing prompt to stir me into new material, and I found this one from an online course I took with Ariel Gore:

Allow a beautiful vision of your life to come to mind.

As cliché as it sounds, this is a great time of year for me to reflect on the past and envision the future — especially when I sit in front of a screen and wonder, what do I, little writer that I am, have to offer?

Reflecting on the past year, I see that I passed more benchmarks in writing this year than in the past:

  • I saw my work in print on the pages of a few different publications.
  • I “met” several writers online who offer encouragement, support, and excellent feedback on my work.
  • I wrote almost every single day, in the form of a post or a rewrite or morning pages.
  • I signed on to Twitter and found an even greater pool of resources and authors online.

Small successes, I tell myself, are as important as signing with an agent for a three book deal (though maybe not quite as exciting).

This year, I dream:

  • I find time to write every day — not just minutes pieced together here and there but good, solid, time.
  • I see myself opening my email to a message from a literary magazine, saying “yes.”
  • I watch my hand reach into an envelope and pull out a check for a story published.
  • I envision holding a finished manuscript, passed through the virtual hands of beta readers, reworked, and queried.

Then, I imagine I put down my manuscript and turn away. Let the story go, I tell myself, and let it land where it may.

I step outside into the brisk air of early summer. The wind raises goosebumps on my arms, but the sun warms my back. With bare hands and a spade, I dig in the ground for a while. I turn the soil. I wake the earthworms. I plan a plot of fresh herbs, tomatoes, maybe some wildflowers.

What do you envision this year?

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Junior Stood Up and Shook Up the Story

My inbox showed an email from a literary magazine, and I read what I expected:
“Thank you for your submission. However….”

I knew the story I submitted needed work, but I half hoped it would get accepted for publication anyway. Still, I archived the email – what else do you do with rejection letters? – and set my mind on a rewrite of the story, sooner than later.

I pulled a scene from a different story and wove it into the beginning of my rewrite. I changed the title to “Borrowed Time.” I liked the new title and the way the new first scene reshaped itself. When I got to the middle of the story, I let one character leave the chair that he sat in through the entire first version. Once he got up and started walking around, his persona changed and shifted the entire tone of the story.

Junior started out as a rough, lanky, balding guy who smoked too much, ate too little, and wasn’t shy about his chauvinism. In the rewrite, he was taking up more space and air. Junior grew more sinister, and then he turned up dead.

Junior’s actions and his demise left me in a lurch. I wrote Junior’s death scene with my eyes fixed on the screen, my fingers typing non-stop. My mind was fluid in every direction that played out. But because I have been over dramatic before, in life and in my writing, I questioned those changes minutes after I saved the draft and closed my laptop.

Do I rewrite through the darker tone, or do I settle Junior back down and re-revise the original scene?

How do you know when a significant rewrite, not just an edit, adds strength and life to a story and doesn’t just blow up a scene with unnecessary tension?

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Falling

It’s Wednesday. Wordsmith.org probably published a great word of the day today, but I wouldn’t know. I am currently south of the Mason-Dixon line, sipping as much sweet tea as I can get my hands on, reviving my southern drawl, and loving my family I haven’t seen in a very long time.

Access to a computer is limited, and time with family precious. So, here’s a rewrite of a quick write I wrote last spring on my draw from a word bag: falling.

***

Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.

“Dammit.”

I un-crease the corners.

Dollar in. Dollar out.
Dollar in. Dollar out.

“Come on.”

I rub the dollar along the edge of the machine in a heated effort to straighten it.

Dollar in.
No return.
I roll my eyes.

“Finally.”

My stomach grumbles as I scan the rows, bottom to top. There, A2, bag of Munchos — salty like pork rinds but a lot less cruel.

I press the “A” and ignore the committee in my head as they shout.

Trans fats!
High blood pressure!
Msg!

My stomach flip-flops with hunger pains and a fluttery reminder of the walnut-size baby growing in my belly.

She wants those munchos as much as I do, I justify as I punch “2.”

The metal spiral holding the bag begins to turn, turn, turn, loosening its grip. The bag leans to the left and slips, but not enough.

I lean towards the glass.
The turning stops.
The bag sticks.

Heat rises from my gut to my face and I place my sweaty palms on the vending machine.

The Munchos taunt me — a hungry, pregnant woman in desperate need of some salt. My palms slide down and I turn away. Dejected, I walk back down the hallway to my office, where the yogurt I arrogantly shoved aside waits for me, patient in its offering.