Jake sat in the grass at the foot of the great statue. He didn’t know what the statue signified, but he was drawn to it for some reason. Every day at lunchtime he would leave his office on the 15th floor of the shiny blue building, walk across the courtyard, and take a seat beneath the stone giant. Jake would lay out a hand towel on the grass and then place his sandwich, chips, and soda on top of it. Some days, today included, Julia, from the 12th floor, would sit with him and eat her bagel and cream cheese. They would discuss the doings on the 15th and 12th floors. Jake managed the A-L accounts, and Julia handled M-Z. The conversations were not at all interesting.
They sat and ate until Julia abruptly stood up and pulled Jake to his feet. His sandwich dropped to the ground, and he looked at it forlornly. Julia swiftly kicked the sandwich away and looked pleadingly into Jake’s eyes. He understood her request and answered with a nod. The pair then ducked under the statue’s parted legs and strode away in the opposite direction of the office building. They did not look back.
A response to Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner, Week 3. 199 words~
The woman found she was on her feet and walking along a winding highway. She could see mountains in the hazy distance. She looked down at her feet to see shoes that she didn’t recognize. The shirt and jeans she wore did not seem familiar either. She thought she must be dreaming, because when a person finds oneself in an unfamiliar place wearing strange shoes and clothes, that person must be in a dream.
The dream was boring, so she decided to make something happen.
She moved to the shoulder as a light blue sedan rolled to a stop beside her. The front passenger-side door opened. She looked and saw that there was no driver. She considered getting in and going for a ride. That didn’t seem safe, so she decided to do the driving herself. She walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. To her surprise, she saw herself sitting behind the wheel. With a feeling of relief, she went back to the passenger side and got in the car. The car began moving forward. The driver and passenger glanced at each other and smiled knowingly. They would soon reach their destination.
Response to challenge from Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner (196 words)
I’ve been feeling the urge to write something substantial. I want to work on something, really work.
I want to develop a writing practice. The problem is, I don’t know if I can muster up the discipline.
So I’m thinking I’ll try NaNoWriMo for the umpteenth time. And maybe this time I’ll think of it as a start. The start of living the life I want to live. I’ve always thought I was supposed to be a writer, maybe it’s time to move from thinking to doing.
This sketch might be symbolic of something if you want it to be. Maybe I’ll call it “No Time to Lose.”
I recently listened to The Good Luck of Right Now by Matthew Quick. I’m going to write about it, but I’m not calling this a book review. I don’t feel like I know enough about literature to write a proper review. Perhaps, if I start reading book reviews regularly I’d get a feel for it. So this is going to be me talking about a book that I enjoyed
Click the image to see it on Amazon.
The Good Luck of Right Now is the story of a 38 year old man named Bartholomew Neil. He has spent the last several years of his life taking care of his mother who was sick with cancer. He’s never had a job or lived on his own, so his mother’s death is particularly difficult for him.
Bartholomew is someone who is not quite right. I get the feeling he is somewhere on the Autism/Aspergers spectrum, but his diagnosis is never revealed.
Much of the story is told as a series of letters that Bartholomew writes to the actor, Richard Gere. Gere becomes his imaginary confidant, helping him get through various difficult situations, including the task of getting to know the girl of his dreams.
Bartholomew becomes friends with Max, another ‘not quite right’ guy he meets in group therapy. Max says the word “fucking” a lot. The book’s narrator did a good job of portraying Max; a childlike man with quite a coarse way of expressing himself.
This book is about people who don’t fit in, and I think that’s why I enjoyed it. I have always fit in. Even when I was the only black kid in the neighborhood and school, I was accepted. There was a place for me. Though I like to think of myself as artsy and weird, I’m pretty much a part of the mainstream. The characters in this book aren’t like that. They’ve been misfits since childhood, and they always will be. I liked looking into his world, maybe getting a taste of what it’s like to live on the fringes.
So I’ll give The Good Luck of Right Now five stars out of five for story, and five out of five for Oliver Wyman’s narration. You should go and read it (or give it a listen)!
November is over, and that means all of those people who did NaNoWriMo will stop posting Facebook updates about their progress. I tried NaNoWriMo a couple of times and failed quickly. There are two reasons for my failure, I think. First, I don’t have enough time to write that many words every day. Well, I do have the time, but I apparently would rather be doing other things. The second reason is probably a better one. I don’t think I enjoy writing fiction. At least I don’t think I like it.
Do I really not like writing fiction? When I ask myself that question, I have trouble answering it. I’m always thinking of story ideas, but I don’t jot down those ideas and keep them on file like real writers are supposed to do. When I do start writing a story I start thinking of so many details to include that it makes me tired. I feel like I just want to get to the point and then wrap it up.
A few years ago I had this idea that I would write story components that I could hyperlink to each other at strategic points. I was creating something interesting, I think, but it wasn’t a story. Maybe it could have been. Maybe I should try that approach again.
I just Googled the terms “hyperlink story” and got some results, including this one. So it’s actually a thing! Gotta look into it.
I reckon I’ll continue to struggle. I will also grapple with dance and with art. I hope I can get some enjoyment out of it.
I signed up for The Fiction Project. Now I’m writing a story to put in the little book they sent me after they received my $60.00. I think I signed up so I would be forced to write some fiction. I’m not really being forced to do it, but wasting $60.00 would be a silly thing to do.
Here’s the thing; writing fiction takes a lot of work. I have to wonder why I’m compelled to do it. It’s kind of not fun. It’s kind of grueling.
Today I watched about 6 episodes of the X-Files on Netflix. That was easy. That didn’t require any effort. I also fed the outside dog, Annie; I fed the other two dogs, picked up their poo with a plastic bag, and fed the cats. None of these tasks were difficult.
Finally, I sat down to add some more words to the story I began last week. I like the story, and I think the idea is good, but I’m finding it mentally exhausting to write. I keep adding all of these little details, and quirks to the characters’ personalities, and a back story about the main character’s schizophrenic aunt. Why do I put myself through this?
I don’t expect to have my fiction published. I’m apparently doing this just for me, but I don’t know why.
I once started writing a novel, thinking that if I were a novelist, I would be important. I would deserve to be here on this planet. I don’t feel that need anymore, but for some reason, I still write. It just doesn’t make any sense!
Annie-I call her Annie Bannanie
I have a character named Cynthia that I sometimes conjure up when I’m trying to write fiction. Here’s a little scene that has never gone anywhere. I think it has some promise though.
Cynthia sat at the kitchen table waiting. She wasn’t waiting for the toast to pop up. That happened five minutes ago, and she had smeared enough butter on the multi-grain bread to negate any positive health effects that the bread was supposed to provide.
The kitchen table was bright white except for an unsightly pink stain that would never go away. When you don’t clean up your mess quickly enough, you can never quite get rid of it. Cynthia learned to tolerate all kinds of messes. She’d devised strategies for dealing with problems long after they’d spun out of control. A red wine spill on a white table, a dented car door, a misunderstanding with a friend; Cynthia ignored all of these and ended up with a permanently stained table, a car door so rusted that it had to be replaced, and a friendship dissolved.