writing snippet - phonecall (Chayla)

Chayla dialed the all the numbers but one, waited a dramatic moment, and then forcefully punched the 4.

Rr-ring. Rr-ring. Rr-ring.

“C’mon, J-hole, pick up already!” She rolled her eyes in exasperation and stretched, holding the phone out at arm’s length for the last two rings.

Hi, this is James. I’m not available right now but leave a message and I’ll get back to y….what the fuBEEP.

Chayla grinned, just like every time. She remembered what she’d been doing when he was recording that message. She started yelling at the phone, still arms-length away.

“James! James! Pick up your end of the goddam tin can, James!” He always called her phone a tin can, giving her a healthy dose of teasing for still using a landline when literally everyone else they knew had cell phones. In return, she would usually give him a healthy dose of middle finger.

“But seriously, though. Don’t call me back because I won’t be here when you get this message. I’m going to Taveston’s. Meet me there in, oh, 45 minutes or something. If you don’t, you better expect the worst. You know, like the time I stopped shaving and swore at you in French with an empty wine bottle whenever you had a girl over. Or the topless thing. Oh by the way, tell your uncle I said hi.” Chayla could barely suppress a giggle. “Anyway, see you soon!”

Now she just needed to get dressed and head over to the bar. James would be there, almost exactly on time, and she’d get huffy about how she’d waited so long for him to arrive, and he’s apologize profusely, and she’d act like she had been snubbed but would still allow him to escort her inside. She didn’t want to call it a tradition, because she wasn’t sure he’d caught on yet that the same thing happened every time, or that it was just a game.

Actually, James was a great guy, and Chayla considered herself really lucky to have a man like him in her life. As she picked through the pile of clothes on her floor for underwear and a tank top that wasn’t too wrinkled, she tried not to dwell on her secret fear that he’d get tired of her fond abuse and stop spending time with her. James was a really good friend and didn’t deserve to be treated so shitty; she didn’t know why she couldn’t stop.

A quick look in the mirror to see if she should put on a shorter skirt (nah, I haven’t shaved in days), the she pulled her hair back, tied a bandana like a headband, and drew the top card of her tarot deck to tuck in it for accent. Empress reversed? Damn, that means something but I left my stupid book upstairs.

Anywhere else, her exploded-new-age-shop couture would probably get a load of nonplussed stares, but she’d been so many times to Taveston’s, with groups or with James, that they were used to her stylistic affectations. She was pretty sure at least one of the bartenders knew her by name. Oh well, that just meant that sometime soon she’d have to shake things up by going in wearing a regular jeans-and-t-shirt outfit. That might raise a few eyebrows.

writing snippet - driving (Rob)

Those who knew him would probably say that Rob had no imagination. Those who knew him best would probably tease him about how boring he was, and he needed to start playing video games or something. Rob was simply a practical-minded man, and preoccupied himself with the things around him, rather than engaging in flights of fancy. Elizabet kept telling him he needed to lighten up a little bit, encouraging him to “exercise those mind muscles.” In return, he’d just chuckle and make sure that the equipment at the station was in good working order. 

He had a soft spot for Elizabet. He wasn’t secretly in love with her or anything, at least he didn’t think he was, but he felt a definite fondness for the dark-haired woman.  He’d noticed that she seemed a lot less of herself recently, almost seeming harrowed, and had made an effort to pick up more late work at the station so that he could be around if something happened to her. That’s where he’d been tonight, why he was driving home at 2 in the morning. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he’d done all the regular maintenance and Elizabet had shooed him home, insisting she’d be alright. He’d still been reluctant to go, but she was very persuasive. Or maybe he’d just been very good at letting her persuade him. He didn’t think their friendship was different from any other, but he felt obliged to admit the possibility that he might let her influence him more than he let other people.

It was too late to hit up Taveston’s and he wasn’t really in the mood anyway – his work and Elizabet’s health had put him into a more somber mood. Rob guessed he’d just go home. Late spring warmth had given way to late night chill, but for some reason he felt stifled in the car so he rolled down the windows and switched on the heat. The mingling sensation of warm air from the vents and pre-dew coolness from the windows played across his skin, raising the hair on his arms. The radio was tuned low, so that he could just make out guitars and drumbeats above the noise of the wind. God, I don’t think I’ve done this since college.

Rob turned onto Old Orchard Road and his mind began to wander. He may not have much imagination, but he had plenty of memories.  Sometimes he felt like maybe his life was a sequence of memories that got replayed, over and over again. He’d certainly lived this one before, driving down Old Orchard with the windows and the heat, the radio playing low, head all wrapped up about a girl. It hadn’t been Elizabet back then of course. Her name was Erin, and she was an old sweetheart – not the first girl he’d ever slept with, but the one before.

“…Widening the corridors, and adding more lanes…” a stray lyric made itself audible above the road noises. Damn it, Cake. That was a weird coincidence. Maybe I’ll tell Elizabet about it tomorrow. In the years since the night he had driven home from Erin's, Old Orchard had been widened. Now there were extra lanes where the honeysuckle used to grow wild.

He felt a sudden pang of sadness. It had been a couple years now since any part of this road smelled like honeysuckle. He missed it, and he didn’t know why. Rob took a deep breath, entertaining the absurd notion that maybe some of the scent was left. He knew there wouldn’t be, and there wasn’t, but he was still a little disappointed that there was nothing flavoring the night air. He pulled up to a stoplight with a sigh. This one was always red, no matter what time of day he came to it. What was the deal with that?

Kid cousin - Chayla (writing excerpt)

Chayla took one last drag on the nubby Parliament clenched between her lips, then dismembered it in the cheap ashtray (stolen from the Waffle House before it closed), looked at it gloomily for a moment, then flicked it out the open window. Her kid cousin was coming by later that afternoon, and Chayla wasn't thrilling at the idea of a reunion.

She didn't have anything against the girl, personally. She had always been kind of quiet and kept to herself at the holidays, and always seemed more interested in reading than talking. Sure. Chayla could appreciate that; when Steve and Mark and the two Kathys (one of them kin by blood, the other by marriage) were all under the same roof, there was no telling what was going to happen...but it usually involved football or NASCAR, and lots of swearing. Was it two Thanksgivings ago the next door neighbors had called the police on them, reporting a domestic disturbance. The Burgens weren't their next-door neighbors any more. Even though Chayla'd had no involvement in the fight—was sometimes appalled at how her uncles had escalated the feud—it gave her a grim sort of satisfaction that her family had won. Steve had invited the whole family over for a cookout the day after the Burgens had moved out. On the front lawn of the newly-vacated house. Sometimes blood runs thicker than water, even when it shouldn't.

The girl, though, had come from a slightly saner side of the family. She read books and didn't talk much. Didn't seem interested in cars or sports. The had probably been in girl scouts. She probably went to church on more than just Easter, and didn't feel like a guilt-ridden whore afterward. She probably volunteered at the local retirement hom oon Saturday mornings, and did her homework on time, and got straight A's (except maybe in gym class). She probably played clarinet or flute in marching band. She probably knew how to make a fucking diorama. Actually, that's why she was coming by. Not the diorama, but because she was touring Trinity, the little private college on the other side of town. Chayla had never looked into it, but she suspected they had a literature program. She sneered a little, and reached for the cigarette pack again. Damn, empty. She fidgeted with the carton, tearing it into little pieces.

No, the reason she wasn't fond of the girl were extremely simple. They didn't have anything to do with convoluted family politics, or academic rivalry (Chayla had finally made it out of high school years earlier, and was content to put that part of her life well behind her), or even honest and true bullyish rancor (although she would have been a positively brilliant target for it). It was because she was tall, she was skinny, she was blond, and she was totally oblivious. As far as Chayla knew she hadn't ever even been kissed, and here she was getting ready to graduate. And what's worse, she didn't seem to care about all that. It was little putting a hologram of a sandwich in front of a hungry man. Or describing a waterfall to someone who really had to pee. Infuriating!

Well, maybe it wasn't really that bad. After all, there was way more to life that sex. It's just that it was such a fun diversion. And it was maddening to see someone with all that potential so obviously wasting it. Aside from that, she really was a pretty alright kid. A little geeky, but, eh...what can you do about family?

The knock came on the door. Chayla dropped the mutilated cigarette carton and sidled downstairs to answer it. "Hey kiddo. how's it going? Come on in! How was Trinity?"

A bright smile flashed across Rose's face as she stepped into the duplex, then shrugged as she kicked off her shoes. "It was alright, I guess. Just another college I guess, you know? I don't think we could afford for me to go if I don't get scholarships or anything."

Which you will, Chayla snarked silently.

"But I guess it's a pretty good school, and the campus is pretty. The journalism and the American lit programs both sound kind of interesting."

Called it. Chayla chuckled. "Oh yeah? You'll have to tell me more about it. You want a drink? Got some PBR in the fridge."

Rose made a disgusted face, but there was a twinkle in her eye that made Chayla uncertain if she was serious or joking. "No thanks. I'm fine right now. Oh, but that reminds me. Mom gave me some money to order a pizza or treat you to supper or something, since you were nice enough to let me hang out for a while and take me home this evening."

Chayla tensed at the fridge, grappling the can in her hand. No one had said anything to her about taking Rose home. I guess she didn't have a choice, though. There was no way in hell the kid was going to stay here tonight, that was for sure. "You sure? No water or nothing?"

"No, I'm fine! I guess the tour was alright, but it was kind of boring and the tour guide was this junior, except it was just me and one other student and that student's mom so it was a small group, and the tour guide was just acting really weird and it was awkward and he wouldn't make eye contact and...I don't know. I just think he wasn't very good at it."

Chayla kept her thought to herself and dropped onto the other side of the ancient sofa, leaning against the armrest and crossing her legs. "Uh-huh?"

"That's...there's not a lot else, I guess."

Several moments passed, punctuated only by the sound of Chayla drinking.

"...I met a boy."

"At Trinity?"

"No. At the arcade."

"There's an arcade where you live? I thought the nearest one was in Madison."

"Well, there's not. Not really, at least. It's abandoned. Downtown. It closed down in the 70s. Seventy-eight, I think. I looked it up once."

"Huh. So, what's he deal and can you get me a discount?"

"Oh, shut up! Now you're making fun of me!" Chayla wasn't sure she'd ever seen someone smirk and glare at the same time before. Rose was an amusing mark.

"Well, okay. Maybe a little bit. But seriously, why were you hanging out in abandoned buildings? We haven't won you over to the dark side, have we?" Chayla mimed lighting a cigarette.

Rose made another face. "I found a pinball machine there. It still works, and I love it. I had never played pinball before. That's actually how we met. I was playing the machine, and I was really into it, and then when I lost I looked up and he was just there staring at me like he couldn't figure out why I was there."

"I bet it's because he couldn't figure out why you were there."

"You're doing it again. Making fun of me."

"Sure am." Chayla leaned precariously and set the half-empty beer can on the floor beside her. "But, for the sake of argument, let's assume this guy isn't a rapist or drug dealer, and I suspect you're going to tell me he's not homeless either, right? Because that's the other reason I can think of for someone to just hang out in abandoned buildings. And I can't help but think you're doing your damnedest to prove me wrong?"

"He's not homeless. I saw him a couple times at work before I ever met him. He wears some sort of uniform. He probably works at a restaurant or a store."

"You don't know?"

"We don't really talk about work."

Chayla's brow furrowed, partly out of curiosity, and partly because she was becoming increasingly confused. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but what do you do?"

Who had replaced her stupid kid cousin with this person who, while obviously still stupid, was teetering precariously close to being an adult? Chayla wasn't sure how she felt about having to get used to talking to Rose like she was a real person now.

writing snippet - radio (Elizabet)

"It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Elizabet cued up the CDC bit that Cindy and Shawn had given her earlier, and collapsed back into her chair. She'd been the "Witchy Woman" for almost a year now. She'd been delighted to take the spot, in fact, because she'd just gotten out of grad school and couldn't fathom what a normal person's sleep schedule was like, or how it could possibly apply to her. Play whatever seemed like a good idea, take requests (there were a few, but not usually too many), and make sure the studio didn't burn down. Not a bad gig at all.

A few weeks ago, she'd started getting headaches, some of them bad. Maybe they were migraines, but they never lingered like her mom's had. Just here, there, and gone all in the course of a night. Still, sound hurt. Lights hurt. No one else could take her spot for more than a night or two, though, and she was too damn stubborn to let the WDTZ go off the air during her shift. So rather than admit something was wrong, she started "flying blind" in the studio. Eyes shut unless she absolutely needed them, and blocking out as much of the music as she could. The "Witchy Woman" had always been secretive about her playlists, and that worked in Elizabet's favor now; she really had no idea what songs she was queueing until she worked up the gus to open her eyes and sneak a glance.

She'd never thought she knew the studio like the back of her hand, but she made out with minimal screw-ups (somehow), and no one had called to bless her out about her show sucking. Either she was doing alright, or no one was bothering to listen to her any more. At this point, either one of those seemed like they could be okay. Maybe she'd offer to pick up Rob's tab at Taveston's—the bar down the road—if he'd record her show one night so she could actually hear how the "blind" Witching Hour sounded.

Or maybe she didn't want to know.

Ugh, the PSA was ending. Time to get back to work. She dared a quick peek around, trying not to wince. "This is Elizabet wishing a happy Witching Hour to all you boys and girls out there, and we are back to cast a spell on you with this classic track from Beck."

writing snippet - radio (Chayla)

Chayla grinned wolfishly as the last haunting strains of music faded into the air. The DJ's voice crackled across the speakers of the 30-year old transistor radio, announcing the time. "It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Chayla hated the breaks. Not that she particularly cared for the music, but the breaks were worse. The Witchy Woman put together incredible playlists, and played it like she thought of them off the top of her head. Chayla had never heard a disc jockey pull that off as well as she did, and she had listened to a lot of radio shows over the past few years. Elizabet never really played music that Chayla liked, but that was beside the point. Chayla didn't even want to try to imagine the hours she must spend going through the station's catalog. It was rarely the kind of music she liked, but it always worked. And more importantly, it always read.

The temptation to fidget with the radio dial was more and more powerful, but Chayla didn't dare - on this old junker, she'd never be able to get the station back. It was an accident she'd found this station in the first place, while looking for a local classic rock station James had told her about. One that didn't suck, he'd said. Besides, by then the PSA was almost over. That was the great thing about these little stations; they played commercials about as often as ska bands played sonatas.

The Witchy Woman's voice came back on the air, and she started to talk in the next song. Something she'd never heard of by Beck. Chayla huddled even closer over the card table, her ear trained intently to hear the opening riff while she unconsciously fidgeted with the ballpoint pen in her hand. The table was littered with scraps of scribbled paper, snack food wrappers, an torn-up cigarette pack, empty cans of diet Pepsi, and a deck of tarot cards carefully divided into seven different stacks.

Those were just for double-checking, though, and Chayla hardly ever used them any more. Somehow, Elizabet's playlists always gave good readings.

writing snippet - becoming the game (unrevised)

Buzzers and chimes formed a raucus chorus and small lights blinked smugly as the pinball fell into the gutter. Again. Angel's look of concentration warped into an expression that was equal parts grin and grimace. "Rats. I'm out of quarters. Do you have any more?"

"No, I don't. I only brought enough for a couple games and I went before you, remember?"

Angel sighed and wistfully flipped the flippers one more time before coming over to sit next to me. "I know, but I wanted to ask anyway. Who ever knows when quarters will magically appear out of nowhere?"

"And maybe someday I'll be the queen of France," I teased, and hugged her shoulders.

Angel rested her head on my shoulder. "That would be horrible. You'd look funny without a head."

"So, um, I was just wondering... Why do you always go straight for the pinball machine when we're here? Please please please don't take this the wrong way, but you're not very good at it..." I tensed up, worried she was going to be mad at me for saying it.

She looked up at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was really stupid of me. Awful. I mean..."

"Stop talking."

My voice quit. I was shocked; I'd never heard her use a sharp tone like that before. Oh boy. I must have messed up bad.

Angel looked at me with a smirk, and then her smirk broke into a wide grin. "I always wanted to try that on someone. Don't worry, I'm not mad."

I took a deep breath of relief. "Bene Gesserit witch."

"Enormous dork."

"I thought you were really mad at me for a second there. I was about prepared for emergency last rites."

"No, it's okay. It's a fair question. But I need you to promise you aren't going to think I'm weird or anything, okay?"

"Promise."

"Well...I'm becoming the game."

"Huh."

Angel's normal playful smirk clouded over as she searched for the words to express herself. "I mean, think about it. Pinball is a game that you can't win, right? Like, unless you wanted to play forever, you can't win. It's a game that's all about losing, right? Except...except it's not just about losing, it's about losing in the best possible way. But that's still about losing, if that makes sense. So, it's like you've got to learn the game, become one with it or something. Because it's a game about losing, and there are a million different ways to do that. So then you've got to become the game, so that there's no difference between you and the machine. And then losing doesn't bother you any more, because it's what's supposed to happen. And when it doesn't bother you any more, you can do what really needs to be done. So I don't keep losing because I want to or anything. I'd love to be able to top the high score list. Maybe some day I will, but I'm not going to do it by trying to cheat the game. I'll manage it by doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, by being the game. Does that make sense? Maybe? Sort of?"

"I think so. You're saying that if you learn all the ways you can lose, eventually you'll know exactly how to win, right?"

"No, that's not it at all." Angel frowned, the first time I'd ever seen her do that, and then sighed. "Maybe I'll be able to put it in better words someday. But until then, you'll just have to believe me, okay?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "You have it on my honor that I will take you at your word."

"Thanks." She rested her head on my shoulder again, and looked up at me with another playful grin spreading across her face. "Now are you SURE you don't have any more quarters?"

Excerpt: Reading at Night

I flipped through the folded pages slowly. I was trying as hard as I could to stay focused on the words in front of me, but I always had trouble reading for someone when they were with me. It was easily three times more difficult tonight because I was reading it for her, and double that because she was sitting right next to me. Maybe I was imagining it, but every word on those pages was contending for my attention against the warmth coming off her skin, every soft whisper of her breath. It was short—only three pages—but it might as well have been in Latin, as long as it was taking me to read it.

"Well, what do you think?"

I responded slowly, trying desperately to remember what I'd just read. "It's good. I, I definitely liked it."

Her lips smiled, her eyes gleamed with a knowing smirk that would cause me to stammer like an idiot and blush if I looked into them any longer.

If anyone else had given me that kind of I-told-you-so stare, I would have just gotten up and walked away. "Well, okay. I guess I have some questions..."

"Sure! what's up?"

"Well, you've asked me to read a couple other things and I don't think they're related, but some of the same names come up over and over again. Is it the same characters in all the stories?"

Angel played with her collar thoughtfully. "You know, I'd never really thought about it before. I guess they sort of are, except...not really? Like, the names represent a specific archetype or something in my head, so if there's a story with James in it, for example, he'll be similar to any other James, but not necessarily the same one? So, like, Lord James will be similar to James Jameson, P.I., but it won't be the same guy who's like 600 years old now. Even though I haven't ever actually written anything Medieval or a detective story..."

"That makes sense, I think. I guess the other thing I wondered about it why it's always raining. Isn't that a sign that something bad is happening when it rains? None of your stuff I've read is particularly sad."

I was staring at the empty space somewhere between the pages in my hand and her jean-clad knee when she stretched out, leaning back on her elbows, but I didn't have to see her face to imagine the smirk she was wearing. "They say you're supposed to write what you know. And it rains here. All. The. Time."

And like a switch had been turned on I started to notice the thickness in the air and the touch of chill, the dull hiss of rain against pavement seeping in through one of the cracked windows, the slowly fading dampness of my own jeans that made them cling to my knees uncomfortably. Damn, she was right. It had started raining this afternoon. It had rained two days ago. It had probably rained here every few days for as far back as I could remember, if I tried to remember.

"Anything else?"

"Huh? Oh, no. I think that's it. I'm sorry. I got distracted listening to the rain outside."

"It's alright. Just don't get too distracted. Rain makes people sleepy, and you're a lot more fun to talk to when you're awake." She leaned over take the folded pages from my hand, rested her head on my shoulder for a moment before she stood up and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. "I really do like it here, but it's always so dark when it rains. I mean, it's dark at night anyway, but with all the clouds there's no moon or anything. If it wasn't for us bringing it with us, there might not be any light at all. If this place could talk, I bet it would thank us."

I nodded dumbly, as though struck by the most profound thought that had ever come to mind.

Between Friends - dialogue sketch

Isabelle pouted playfully, looking up at Will over her glasses. "Why do you always make fun of me like that? Is it because you don't like me?"

Will dropped the goofy grin he'd been sporting. "Actually, it's because I'm completely, one-hundred percent infatuated with you."

"See? That's what I'm talking about - you're doing it again!"

"No, I'm serious. I never planned to tell you but I guess I just boned that up pretty bad... 'Cause, well, y'know, you're in a relationship, and I have a strict policy about being a homewrecker. 'Don't do it,' actually. That's my policy."

"Oh, wow. I had no idea."

"Really? I'm kind of surprised. Subtlety ain't exactly my string suit."

"I know, I know. I guess I didn't notice because of all my stress from school and practice and no sleep. But, wow...you really like me?"

"Mmhmm. I mean, I wasn't going to tell you or anything." Will pointed toward his eyes, and then his glasses. "I may be mostly blind, but I've got four eyes and sometimes even I catch on about stuff. Like how it's a generally bad idea to hit on someone who's already in a relationship. Besides, there's already a waiting list."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do..." Isabelle threw her arms around Will, hugging him fiercely. "I'm so sorry, darlin'. I wish this situation was different."

"I dunno. If it was different, you might be having this conversation with me instead of the other way around. And I don't think I would wish that on you. And you've got enough going on."

"Meh."

They both stood in silence for a few moments.

"Well...it's late. I need to be going. I have work in the morning. I can walk you back before I go, if you want. Unless you're going over to his place. Then it probably wouldn't be a great idea. Could be funny, though." A wry smile touched his lips.

"Yeah, no... probably not. I'll see you soon, though?"

"Not sure. I don't have another day off until Sunday. Call me if you need anything, though. And good luck with stuff. I hope you get some sleep."

Writer's Bloc

There are a lot of reasons (excuses) I give myself not to write, but there's one that stands out as an extension not only of the trouble I have thinking of stories, but also an issue I find myself considering (in various aspects) on a regular basis.

The main purpose of a fictional work, in a traditional sense, is to tell a story about a character, typically focusing on a single character more closely than others even in a story with a stable of protagonists. (I know this is a generalization, and that there are specific examples that break this trend, but I'm making no attempt to cover those specific cases - in my mind I'm addressing literature in general)

The "problem" I run into is that for a story to catch the attention of the readers, the character about with the story is written must be interesting in some way - exceptional in ability, motive, or circumstance...in short, a character who is expressed as an individual, rather than as a thread in a collective narrative.

The collective narrative is the "background" of a story that we, as readers, share with each other and with the characters of that story as being a common set of assumptions about the way the constructed reality of the story works. In general, these assumptions are causal and ubiquitous - in a story set in the modern day, the collective narrative tells us that (barring exceptional circumstances) turning a key in the ignition of a car will cause it to start. Flipping a switch will turn on a lightbulb. Educated people, white people, males, and urban/suburban-dwelling people typically enjoy certain privileges less likely to be shared by their less-educated, non-white, female, and rural counterparts. In a historical setting, the collective narrative might suggest different ethical norms, or different styles of dress. In a fantasy setting, the collective narrative might suggest that—so long as the prescribed formulae are observed—magic works, or that dragons eat peasants. The collective narrative provides the framework (often drawn from tropes already present in the genre, or normative cultural memes) through which the author, the characters, and the reader can come together and create a common understanding of the world the story exists in.

What makes most stories interesting, however, is that the central characters exist beyond the collective narrative - the characters, and consequently the stories, that we enjoy the most are decidedly non-normative. The stories we are drawn to are the stories of characters who defy normativity and pursue, either voluntarily or by necessity, goals that exist outside the realm of their typical experience.

Let's imagine the renown Lord of the Rings trilogy. Would Tolkien's famous story have been nearly as compelling if Frodo had remained in the Shire and pursued the normative goals of his hobbit community, rather than embarking on an adventure that would become a world-saving quest? I suspect most readers would say "hell no!" to this.

And yet, for me, this is one of the hardest parts of writing. Partly by upbringing, and partly by scholastic training (I studied sociology as an undergraduate), I have a strong tendency to seek out and identify institutions and cultural norms, and to try and intuit how they operate individually and collectively. I've developed certain schemata to a level of sophistication so that when a person mentions a certain action in a certain context, my mind immediately begins to identify cultural and institutional factors that would come to play, and probably series of events that would result from the interaction of the person' action, and the collective response to that action. In short, these institutions and norms create a sort of system that informs the collective narrative (in this case, the narrative being real life). And in most instances, the major purpose of the collective narrative is to preserve and iterate itself, to ensure the longevity of the society it reinforces.

With this in mind, every fictional story (and a great deal of non-fiction as well!) becomes, in addition to everything else it is, a story dealing directly with the role of an exceptional individual in a society with a self-defensive resistance to exception. It automatically becomes a narrative relating the conflict of the individual against the collective. By their roles and their actions, the central characters of a story challenge some of the basic assumptions of the collective narrative they exist in.

What still causes a great deal of dissonance to me is that so very often, the central characters of these stories are successful in their endeavors. This doesn't equate with either the schemata I've constructed about the way a collective narrative works, or my own personal experience. And so although I find myself continually returning to written word as a means of expression, and discover powerful ideas locked in my imagination, I have a great deal of trouble committing them to paper because the motion of individual achievement is in conflict with my expectation of a collective narrative that represses individualism in the interest of self-preservation.

Now I want to make it clear that I do not have any objection to exceptionalism, or to individual achievement either in real life or in literature. I get just as invested in stories of triumph against overwhelming odds as do most readers. Rather, as I was thinking about writing and storytelling, I began to realize one of the major reasons I have trouble writing stories that I find satisfying...or finishing stories that I do. Every story contains at least two seeds - the story of individual achievement, and the story of the collective narrative. In my mind, I tend to automatically assume the collective narrative carries more weight than the individual achievement, and so I arbitrarily limit myself not to what the central characters can do, but rather what they could do.

When writing, it's important to keep in mind that the collective narrative is a cohesive system, but it's not a closed system. There is no reason that a character can't challenge a very basic assumption of that narrative through the course of a story, and do so successfully. Interesting characters are liberated from the collective narrative, and given freedom to ignore, break, or even change the "rules" that govern them. Don't let anything limit your imagination! Just be careful about how you handle it - an incomplete narrative can destroy verisimilitude, interrupt the natural flow of a story, and potentially confuse and frustrate readers. If readers can't extrapolate the rules of the collective narrative from your story, then they'll be less able to appreciate when your central characters break those rules.

Placeholder - The Fast Food Joint

Once in a while I get in a mood where I want to share things with people. As a follow-up to the post I did a couple months back (November, I think?) here's another short excerpt from a piece I've been working on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes it feels like the only thing that keeps me going is remembering that there's always someone out there whose life sucks more than mine. At least I'm not that guy.

The problem is, the world is full of those guys, and the list can change in a second, and nobody's exempt from it. And at block seven I knew my number was coming up. The first block in the stygian torrent had been a grim camaraderie, a mutual acknowledgment that the rain's bitter path paralleled my own. The second block began the whisperings of betrayal, and by the fifth the rain was battering me as badly as the rest of the city. Weather was a fickle bastard, and I needed a reprieve from its onslaught. I found sanctuary at the next corner, marked by a neon revelation proclaiming

"Fast Food

Open Late"

A half-dozen kids were there, none of them old enough to be out of college, some of them looking like they were still in high school. The girl with braces had a ribbon in her ponytail, and I wondered if she was a cheerleader. I also wondered why she was here. With a figure like hers she could be a hostess at a real restaurant, making twice as much for doing half the work. The guy with braces was wearing expensive glasses, and too much gel in his hair. I wondered if he was gay, or just a big fan of anime. I hadn't seen hair like that since I used to watch Dragonball Z as a kid. He was wearing a tie, so I guessed he must have been the manager. Halfback was joking around with Beanpole in the kitchen (damn open kitchens, no privacy at all), Blondie was scowling while washing things, and...

"Hi there. Can I take your order?"

...Wham. An Angel. Tall, slim, blond, a playful half-smile on her lips that made you want to break out grinning too. And that damn rain outside was puppies and cotton candy if she was a day older than eighteen.

"Er...um...not right now. I just needed to get out of the rain. It's murder tonight."

"Yeah, I can see that. I hope it lets up before too long. I have a test to study for, and I don't want to have to worry about walking home in the rain too."

"Oh...yeah. I know what you mean. I'm in the same boat. I mean, no test or anything, but I'm trying to wait it out if I can."

"That's a good idea."

Shit, THIS was the guy who's life sucked more than mine? This pretty little girl? Something about that made me very uncomfortable.

Hairgel called Angel over for something. "I'll be right back. If you decide you want anything, let me know." Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but that playful, knowing smirk never left her lips. She turned around and bounced over to Hairgel, and I could feel an embarrassed heat crawling across my cheeks.

"Thanks, yeah..."

Halfback looked in my direction, then turned back to Beanpole. I looked for a booth in the furthest-back corner I could find and crashed in it. I could feel prickling heat rising up my neck and onto my face. I crossed my arms and lay my dripping head down on the table. What the hell, man? What the hell?...

Rhodes vs. Card, round 3

For those of you who have known me for any length of time, you almost certainly know that I'm embroiled in a long, bitter, and utterly fictitious feud with notable author and professor Orson Scott Card.

We've had a few face-to-face encounters, both of them dramatic. In 2006, I attended the Summit Players production of Romeo & Juliet he directed (mentioned after the first "*" page break. I was in the audience). Last spring, he came to see me perform in New Day at First Baptist Church (look for it after the second "*" page break, although the review of Star Trek that makes up the bulk of the article is also an interesting read).

This weekend, it was time for round 3. Orson Scott Card was offering the one-day workshop Roads Into Writing, and I knew I couldn't give up the opportunity to learn Mr. Card's deepest secrets and use them against him. My fiery temper was quelled when I arrived at the workshop and realized he's brought a posse along with him, the estimable writers Edmund R. Schubert, Aaron Johnston, and Brandon Mull. I would just have to sit and observe; the challenge would have to wait for another day.

The deadly quartet—cleverly disguising themselves as a "panel"—introduced themselves to the attendees, a mixed group representing a range of ages, ideologies, and interests (although many were identifiable as SVU students). As the introductions wound down, I knew it was time to prepare myself for the main event.

Pen clutched like a dagger at the ready and notebook brandished like a shield, Orson Scott Card himself led off with a vicious double-header. Back-to-back discussions on "Viewpoint & Structure" and "Inventing the Story" with but a brief break in between left me reeling, and even that break barely gave me a chance to catch my breath, as I scrabbled furiously with dagger and shield to prove, along with the other greenhorns, that I knew the subtle but effective "Third Person Limited" technique. As the second session came to a close, we were commanded to share our training with our peers during the mid-day break. At the table I had infiltrated, I and my other colleagues seemed satisfied with each person's mastery of this technique. For our efforts, we were rewarded with lunch (and even a brownie!).

After this precious period of repose, Aaron Johnston demonstrated his own formidable expertise in "Finding Time to Write". Having heard of his background in improvisational theater, my attention was rapt since I knew I may not know what to expect from him, and when. And that attention was well-warranted as he managed to divide a typical schedule into "have-to-dos", "like-to-dos", and "time wasters", then proceeded to perform combinations on "have-to-dos" to decimate their numbers, and then like a master of t'ai chi to use the momentum of their own inevitability to change "have-to-dos" into writing opportunities. Johnston's assault continued as he demonstrated how to viciously cut "like-to-dos", and to eliminate all "time wasters".

Appropriately impressed, my initial dire intent was tempered by humility as Brandon Mull took the stage. His presentation—"Essential Elements of Story"—wasn't as insidious or complex as Aaron's, but his mastery of the basics marked him a true expert. Characters-Relationships-Trouble-Decisions-Consequences! As he demonstrated how each of these five fundamental tenets of writing interwove with the others to create a story, my admiration only grew.

The last of Card's companions was Edmund Schubert. Edmund was wounded; a pulled tendon in his shoulder kept his arm in a sling for most of the day. He took the stage however, and removed the sling, eliciting a collective gasp from his captive audience. Even injured, Ed would allow himself no limits.* His discussion on "Query Letters" revealed him as a man who was no stranger to intricate tactics, and he discussed the advantages and drawbacks of such maneuvers as multiple and simultaneous submissions, submitting query letters, and the importance of "knowing thy enemy/agencies/publishers/editors". To most effectively deal with these individuals, it is essential to know their submission guidelines and follow them. This will allow you to approach closer to the agencies, publishers, and editors safely. If their guidelines are not followed, you will never be allowed to approach close enough to demonstrate your skill. He also warned to beware bogus agents; fiendish mercenaries who prey on the weak and inexperienced.

As the day ended, I knew that in this arena, at least, I was no match for my nemesis, Orson Scott Card. My challenge to him would have to wait for another day, and our raging feud to be set aside for a brief time. Humbled, I began the 3 hour journey back home.

*To alleviate potential concerns, Mr. Schubert did clarify to us that he was recovering nicely from the injury and that the sling was no longer necessary; he was wearing it more as a reminder not to over-extend himself. Removing the sling allowed him to more comfortably write on the chalkboard while holding the microphone.