Wednesday, September 13, 2017

NYCM R1 2017 - Kittens and Lobotomies!

The NYC Midnight flash fiction season is upon us. And hey! Happy news to report. I've finally cracked the "15 point" (1st place in heat) achievement. It only took eleven stories and four years.

My round 2 prompt arrives in about 48 hours, so before I melt down over whatever that will turn into... have a story!

For those who don't know, the competition basics are as follows:
- 4 round of competition (this year roughly 2,500 writers split into 80 heats)
- Every writer gets to compete in the first 2 rounds; from there, the top 5 writers in each group move on to a semi-final round. From there, the top 4 in each group (about 100 writers) move to the final round.
- Prompts in each round consist of a genre, location, and object.
- Writers have 48 hours to write, edit, and submit a story and synopsis.
- The story cannot be longer than 1,000 words.

Round 1 NYCM 2017

My prompt:
Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: A mansion
Object: A kitten

Here's what I spun up...

Synopsis: At 23, Rosemary Kennedy was nothing like her ambitious siblings. A botched medical procedure that her father hid from the family for decades ensured she never would be.


Through Rosie-Tinted Glasses
I saw the black cat on the steps of the Capitol building last night. It means bad things. But I suppose it wouldn’t come out just for me. I’m being absurd.
Daddy says he’ll take me for ice cream after. That’s how I know I’ve done it. Never in twenty-three years have I been rewarded on purpose with something that will make me fat. Mother would never allow it. But she’s not here. It’s our secret—mine and Daddy’s.
My life is a series of mansions. This one reminds me of an old prison or a hospital—large and industrial. But Daddy tells me that’s nonsense, so I dare not say another word about it. It’s only that I love things that aren’t as they seem. I always have.
She’s simple, Daddy said one night when he didn’t know I was near.
She’s something, Mother replied. Nothing good, I could tell.
Maybe I am simple. I confess, I was not born to memorize books and dream of greatness. I prefer small pleasures. A walk on a beautiful evening. A man who sees worlds in my eyes. A joke that does not try to be clever, only funny. I love to laugh.
Daddy’s face twitches when I ask what the doctor will do. He says it will make me better. That word can mean so many things. Better like Jack, I wonder? Clever and driven. He would never throw dishes at Mother. He would never scream in the face of a nun or thrash about when he’s told he must stay in. Will the doctor change the way I think, so that when I look at my studies I don’t see a window and a world beyond that wants exploring?
It would be selfish to argue. I see how I harm them all. Mother, Daddy, and all of my clever siblings. I grow angry, and I cannot help it. Sometimes I hate who I am. I hate how they look at me when I tell a joke and they are all too smart to laugh. I hate how Eunice bites her lip when I whisper about the warmth of men on a cold D.C. night. I hate it because I know she wants to hear every word, but then her back stiffens, and she shakes her head, and she is already off to tell Mother.
“He will fix your brain,” Daddy says. “You’re a lucky girl. The procedure is brand new. One cut, and you won’t have to feel angry the way you do, Rosie. It’s a small matter. Think of pleasant things now.”
It doesn’t sound like a small matter. But I am too ashamed to argue. I want to be better.
I swallow the drugs, though they are bitter. I am drunk, but not in a happy way. They do not fizz in my belly like a pint of Ballantine's. The doctor orders me to sing God Bless America so he will know I am okay. For a moment, I know peace. I am so proud of my family. They are good people, and they will do good things. Maybe I can too.
God Bless America,
Land that I love
My arms are strapped tight for my own protection. The knife goes in the top of my head. Is it strange that I can’t feel it? I hope I won’t have to wear a bandage for long. I must be presentable.
Stand beside her,
And guide her
They ask questions. She can’t answer because she’s singing. I am me, but I am also watching me. So I am she.
Through the night with the light—
She stumbles.
From above.
The singing ceases. They know something is wrong. It’s not, maybe, the best way to have done it. A warning bell that only sounds when it’s too late.
I want to say what happened next. I don’t recall ice cream. Or tutors or school. Only strangers and silence.
I see the homes of my lifetime. Huge, magnificent structures, polished and fashionable. Comfortable. I see the stars over Washington D.C. at night. I taste Ballantine's on my lips. I scream, because I feel nothing.
I’m not less angry. That was a lie. I don’t know when or where I am, but sometimes I am filled with rage that is no less potent than it was years ago. So the procedure failed. The numbered candles on the cake are reversed, because they say 32 and not 23. Then they say 45, and that doesn’t make any sense at all. But one nun says to another, “Her mother said not to give her too much cake.” And so it must be real.
It is 1963. I am 45 years old. I know this because the nurse reads me a letter from Ted, and he always writes the date just like we learned to do. I can’t recall his face, but I love him so much. He says Jack is on his way to Texas next week. I’ll bet he’s getting there today. Jack is the president now. I’m not so surprised. Kennedys are born for greatness. I never forgot that. Ted wants to visit while Jack is away.
I’m stronger than I was. I can communicate my wish to be left to my thoughts. I don’t know what I will say yet. I have to think. I want to tell Ted a joke, but it must be clever.
The grounds beyond my window are frosted—shiny and delicate—like monuments in marble. I imagine my breath in the air. A small, dark shape moves through the grass. A kitten. My heart stops. It grows larger, contorts, and comes closer. I cannot breathe. Her white, dripping fangs open. She’s in my room. She lunges.
I am on the floor. I’ve fallen from my seat.
Something bad is going to happen. To Ted? To Jack?
Maybe it already has.
I cry out. Like a warning bell that only sounds when it’s too late.


Friday, October 16, 2015

Why Stories Matter: My NerdCon Experience

NerdCon: Stories

The first annual NerdCon: Stories happened last weekend (Oct. 9th and 10th, 2015), and ever since I've been...refreshed. I've wanted to make and consume stories. I've want to share and discuss my favorites. I've want to curl up inside stories, like it's a physical place, and ride the creative thrum to something better. It's the best feeling.

Hank Green's kickoff introduction confirmed my suspicions about NerdCon:Stories...that it was not exactly a fully-fleshed, specific idea. It was in the process of being defined even as it happened. I wasn't sure what to expect, but "stories" are important (inadequate word) to me...and I saw that Rainbow Rowell and Patrick Rothfuss would be there, so I came.

My expectations were met and exceeded. I expected big things from the panels I'd targeted ahead of time. While they were as great as I'd hoped they would be, the real winner of the weekend was the Mainstage. More specifically, the Why Stories Matter segments.

So many of those talks struck cords. Sarah Mackey's (leader of NaNoWriMo) left me in tears. Some were hilarious, and others cut directly at the heart of the point. It was amazing to hear others discuss why stories matter, and I wanted to try to express my version of the same. So...

Why Stories Matter

Stories matter because they translate the teller's truth into something others can consume and recognize at a soul level.

Stories are how I make sense of the world. They are an abstract "between" that takes your observations, truths, and feelings and allows me to ingest and experience them.

This is no light matter. Every day, every conversation in some way feels distant. Life is a mess of trying to understand other people -- to sympathize, empathize, and coexist. Sometimes that's incredibly difficult...even if you already like a person. In the harder moments, your closest friends can be on a totally different page, and you just can't quite connect. It's a lonely feeling. It's infinitely harder if you either don't know or actively dislike a person with whom you must connect. Trying to understand another person based solely on the things that come out of our mouths is exhausting, and it takes a toll.

Stories break barriers that conversation (even great conversation) leaves standing.

When I read or watch a story, there are no other voices telling me how I should process it, or what I should see. It's the depths of someone else's imagination, informed and shaped by their own truths, speaking directly to the place inside me that receives, interprets, and feels. There's no fumbling middle-men of mouths and ears and misunderstandings. When I read someone's writing, it's the closest I've ever felt to existing in another person's headspace. And sure, afterward, there might be blog comments or the chatter of reviews picking away at my impressions...but WHILE I'm reading, it's magic.

While I'm writing, it's the same. I don't know why half the words I say aloud in day-to-day life form in my head or make it out of my mouth. Speaking is my clumsiest attempt to translate my feelings to others. It never feels like enough. And spoken words are gone so quickly, left for the speaker and the listener to remember accurately, inaccurately, or somewhere between. It's messy. It's prone to error. It's inefficient. When I write, I see the actual me on the page...and I get to at least hope that others can as well.

Some of the best storytellers are famous for their stories. Authors. Podcasters. Bloggers. These are people who tell a story that so clearly translates and transmits their headspace that thousands of others get the message. In my eyes, these people are heroic for managing that feat. It doesn't necessarily mean that their headspace is superior; it just means that they have the golden key...they have the talent and ability to speak their internal landscape in a way most do not, and they have a platform for it.

I don't geek out over fame. I can meet a famous person (even an author!) and keep my head on. Even with authors I love, like George RR Martin or Patrick Rothfuss. I've attended signings for both and said my hellos and told them how much I enjoyed their work. I thought this was sort of "how I do" with authors. Then, at NerdCon, Rainbow Rowell walked into the hotel restaurant while I was eating and chose the table next to mine.

I decidedly...did not keep my head on.

It was a pure adrenaline rush. I could not compute.

I flashed back to the first time I opened Fangirl, and how I was in tears by the third page because I recognized Cath's reality so distinctly. I was her. I wrote fan fiction in college. I shared her feelings, her habits, her weird thoughts, her talents. It was so jarring to read because I knew other people liked those things...there are whole communities surrounding them...but I didn't know others knew that Caths existed. It was like reading proof that someone else could understand exactly who I am, and I didn't have to say a word. And the author didn't know me. And the book was so popular. And that, logically, meant that it wasn't just ONE other person. It meant that one very good storyteller happened to be among the (likely) many who knew and understood Cath's (and my) truths. Reading that story wasn't about "just" reading a story. It was about making a connection so deep that when I saw the author, I felt a connection I knew was not reflected by physical or social reality...but was certainly real. It also meant I couldn't sit still and thought I might pee my pants.

While at NerdCon, my friend Beka started throwing around the term "soul book" regarding Lev Grossman's The Magicians. I'd only just started reading The Magician's, but I didn't need an explanation to know what she meant. I like the book, maybe even love it. But "liking" is not what soul books are about. Fangirl is one of my soul books.

It doesn't have to do with the plot or the writing or what happens. It's a connection. 

The weird part about making a connection with a story is that it still doesn't necessarily make human-to-human interaction easier. Talking about stories is still talking. There's still so much that goes unsaid for lack of the right words.

Having Rainbow Rowell in close proximity was the strangest experience. I knew her work (all of it) inside and out. I felt like I knew her. I also, logically, knew that she didn't know me even a little. I didn't want to interrupt her and be another fan who demanded more from someone who had given me so much. I figured I would save that for the allotted "mob" time of book signing the next day. But I also wanted to thank her for writing the books that had so much impact on me -- for reminding me why stories matter. So I hatched a plan, which was about as clumsy as my speaking. I paid for her dinner in what I thought was a super sly fashion, with my cheeks burning the entire time, telling the waitress I was a fan.

I guess in my mind, I saw the server telling Rowell after we left that a fan who loved her books had wanted to thank her by treating her to dinner. Instead, the server approached her table immediately and let her know...while I was still there, quietly dying in my seat, waiting for our check. Rowell came over to thank me, and I, having no time to prepare something rational to say, think I said something like "You'rebetterthanJaneAustenandIloveyou." Which seems a little crazy and inadequate. But so it went. She hugged me, and I felt stupid and lucky and emotional to get to have a few seconds with someone who wrote one of my "soul" books.

Stories matter because they can reach and interact with a place inside that nothing else can touch. They translate the world into something that makes sense.

So that is why stories matter to me. And that is why, no matter what else life tosses in my way, I won't forget that stories are the perfect refuge -- a place to sympathize, empathize, and learn -- a place to connect and feel.

Back to reading now...

-- Meg


Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Coming Up for Air

In that way that happens sometimes, writing (my own stuff) seems to have slipped to the back burner. It was a sneaky transition. One minute, I was cheering on the roof as I tossed my beta draft in ten directions. The next, I was frantically stalking my email. And then, finally, I convinced myself to give it a bit of time.

I don't do well with "bits of time." I fill them. And, oh boy, did I fill them. Work swelled, turning from an editorial assistant gig into a fairly well-paid writing gig. For someone who thought the end of teaching was going to be the end of steady income, this was a delightful surprise. It's been a wonderful, if busy ride.

Then there's derby. I love it, of course. And I let it fill in whatever remained of my time. I volunteered, and created, and brainstormed. If I wasn't working, I was either skating or thinking about ways to improve the team's business. Every spare second that wasn't spent on work or the kids went to derby. And that, too, was great...for a while.

It was great until it all started to feel like a machine that required (rather than desired) my constant and unwavering attention. I will say, I have the capacity to get a LOT of shit done. But when it's time to breathe and breathing isn't really possible, it's a pretty harsh reality check. The last half of July was essentially one long run of impossible decisions where my options were to disappoint person A or person B, both of whom assumed I would pull through. I was over-committed to everything, and barely sleeping. I tried to gently set limits, and they were bulldozed in every way. I heard my share of snide remarks, and every single one made me wonder why I didn't just quit volunteering for things and disappear into a cave of work and reading and literally anything enjoyable where I wouldn't have to deal with people. It sucked. 

It especially sucked when I got the familiar nagging urge to return to my book. Not only could I NOT return to my book, I couldn't see a spot on the calendar when I could begin to convince myself it would be possible. By this point, I actually had a pile of fully reviewed beta drafts (the very thing I'd been stalking my inbox for before) waiting on me. On two occasions I sat down to try to work something out--to try to sift through beta comments. On both occasions, my phone exploded with poorly-timed messages about problems that could only be solved by...you guessed it...applying more of my time to a thing that wasn't writing.

So, yes. Something had to give.

GenCon was this past weekend. I've never gone in so completely unprepared. I packed the morning of our departure, one hand on my mouse, one hand blindly tossing crap in a bag. I'm surprised I even had clothes when we got there. I don't know what I expected, but I think I just hoped to catch sight of Patrick Rothfuss and play a few games. Not quite what I got. 

GenCon felt like coming up from an extended dive. I was surrounded by writers talking about writing, the industry, the books I haven't had a chance to touch in a while. It was all just THERE, waiting for me. Yes, it was just as hectic as real life. The schedule was packed with panels and group events...but it was like I opened a box and unexpectedly saw my favorite parts of myself waiting there all "Hey, remember how this is what you love? Where did you go?"

I left a wee bit drunk on the whole thing. 

I'm working to clear some schedule space now. It is the only possible option. I'm sure disappointing plenty of people is going to be part of it, but I think it's time to be selfish. Living like July is not a sustainable model. If I try, I'm going to go batshit crazy insane and end up in like...Canada, living in a tree.

My favorite season is about to roll in. When autumn comes, I don't want to be rubbing my blurry eyes and pouring caffeine into my veins. I want to be sipping chai lattes and typing a Macy scene from an armchair at Boston Stoker. I want to be revising my short stories and cringing at rejection letters. I want to see my kiddo and attend his school events without wondering what that's going to mean for my concrete 8am-midnight schedule. I want to have a life again, not chase a to do list that never ends.

So...yeah. If you wonder where I am, that's where. I'm sorry if you need something from me that I'm not able to give. But please don't be offended if I stop apologizing. Even that is getting very old.

Anyway, by happy accident, this weekend of reawakened writer desires HAPPENED to be the kickoff for this year's NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. Last year, with some quantity of luck and great prompts, I managed fourth place overall. I have no such expectations for this year, but I do plan to have a hell of a lot of fun. Even if I get totally ill-suited-to-me prompts like Romantic Comedy. Which I did in round one. 

Posting the entry momentarily. 

Then...I think I'll spend the evening reading. 

'Til next time,
- Meg


Thursday, April 16, 2015

In the Way of Updates...

A list. Because why not?

1. NYC Midnight Contests

I'm happy to say that I took fourth place overall in the 2014 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest! My final story was called "Elevation."

The prompt was: Open Genre / Location: iceberg / Object: lighter.

Initially I decided to play what have turned into my strengths in these contests -- horror and suspense. When a few attempts there fell flat, I went with a "spinning wheels of academia" piece and was, overall, pretty pleased with the result. Apparently the judges agreed. I am pretty sure this has given me an unrealistically rosy sense of "how contests do" in my first run, but I'm not complaining!

2. Teaching. ... -.-

It only took seven months to determine that, for once and all, I cannot hang with the teaching life. This is a whole blog post in itself. I could rage about the community college system, the students' lack of drive, motivation, and junior-high-level basic grammar skills. I could rage about society, the things student loans are doing to low-income students, and the various levels of WTF I experience on a daily basis. And maybe I will. Some day. Today, I'll just say...I've never been more relieved to near the end of a semester. And I've neared the end of a LOT of semesters in my academic life. With this, I say goodbye to teaching. For good. (For best!)

3. Editing for Life

While the door slams closed (deadbolts, chains, burns) on teaching, freelance editing is picking up steam. I love it. I love everything about it. It is my favorite, and I am ridiculously thrilled to have found work I look forward to doing. It couldn't have come at a better time.

Also, and I don't want to start a flood of competition here, but...editing CAN be done in giraffe pajamas. True story.

4. Editing for Mier

I can't believe this is the fourth item on the list rather than the first. What can I say? Things have been BUSY. But...delays aside, I do believe I will be ready to beta The Accounts of Verdi Mier: The Peacekeeper's Selection in (DRUMROLL)...two weeks!

The binders are purchased. Final edits are in motion. Hundreds of dollars are shivering in their boots and packing bags. (Did I mention that printing twelve 500-page manuscript copies isn't quite...free?) Eleven amazing volunteers will be reading my baby by month's end.

I guess I do know why this is the fourth item. I still have trouble believing it's happening. I can taste a finished book. Agent research is no longer time-wasting nonsense. It's a *step* that I've reached. So next month, wish me luck and untwistable panties of steel as I shove forward into the sharky waters of critique and rejection. (And, you know, maybe just that ONE acceptance. One'll do.)

'Til next time,
- Meg

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

NYC Midnight Finals!

Some of you have been following my progress in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, and I appreciate all the feedback!

For those who missed it, I was one of the lucky 25 writers who made the final round! My final story (open genre / location: iceberg / object: lighter) is in for judging. The prizes are PRETTY sweet, but mostly I'm just thrilled to be in the final round at all. I can honestly say I never expected it when I signed up for the contest, and it has been fabulous discovering how much I can pack into 1000 words.

Anyway, I'm sure I'll be back with an update soon. Results are posted after the new year. Wish me luck!

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

A NaNoWriMo Pep Talk From Your Trusty ML

It’s the final stretch. Where are you, WriMo?
Are you 5k away, marching confidently toward that finish line?
Have you just dragged yourself across 25k?
Are you despairing with so many back at 10k?
Does it seem impossible?
Regardless of where you stand today, humor me. Root around in this holiday-infested week and find some AIC (arse in chair) time. I don’t care if you stopped back on November 2nd, or if you were, just this morning, pounding out your 1667. Get ready to plop your cheeks and tap your fingers.
You may notice that my word count blows right now. I’m not going to hit 50k this year. I’m 100% okay with that. You know why? The book I’ve worked on for the last FOUR Novembers is months shy of agent submission. Editing that has sucked up every last ounce of my attention, and it’s a wonderful, exciting flurry. But I never would have gotten here without those Novembers. So if you *don’t* have a finished book, if you’re NOT 100% okay with letting this month fizzle away (and returning next year!), then stay tuned.
I want to tell you a story about the final week of NaNo last year, and how it changed the course of my now-complete manuscript.
About this time one year ago, I sat down completely aware that Thanksgiving was about to wreck my progress and threaten my productivity. I decided to write TEN THOUSAND WORDS in one day.
That is NOT an easy feat, in case you wondered. One fifth of a NaNo.
I think I actually ended up somewhere near 8k. That didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the number. It was about writing MORE THAN I EVEN COULD in one sitting.
At first, things were pretty normal. My characters followed my plan. I would pause and think (quickly) ahead, and send my characters where I planned. But eventually, I couldn’t think anymore. I couldn’t figure out where to take them. I wanted to quit. I’d hit 3k. I thought…that’s better than a daily goal. I could try again tomorrow. And then I got annoyed. My GOAL was 10k. I wasn’t even halfway. Surely I could get SOMETHING on the page.
That’s when the Bathhouse Debacle happened. Two of my characters, stark naked, met in a bathhouse. Argument ensued. Fighting. Death. The dialogue was AWFUL. The description was CHEESY. The whole thing was HILARIOUSLY wrong. Worse than bad fan fiction. I didn’t even know these people anymore. I almost quit again. Part of me was worried that I would never look at those characters the same. “What is real?” my existential self wondered. “Did I just make that happen? Can I take it back?”
But I was only at 5k. So I kept going.
The characters did things that 1) I NEVER expected and 2) I knew could NEVER remain in the final draft. That might scream “waste of space” to you. It did to me. But I was determined to finish, so I pressed on. Something fascinating happened. AFTER the characters calmed down and put their clothes back on (and after one came back from the dead, because he certainly wasn’t going to die in a bathhouse brawl), they reached a point in the plot that I’d never thought of, that made SO MUCH MORE SENSE than what I had planned. Later, I deleted the horrible bathhouse scene. I replaced it with completely unrelated story that brought my characters from where they were to where they’d ended up. And it WORKED.
The end of that 8k day remains in my finished product today. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I never would have thought of that plot point if I’d never written the Condemned Bathhouse Scene.
So what do I suggest to you?
Set an unrealistic goal.
Run at it with complete abandon. Do not think. Do not worry. Accept that nothing you write has to remain. Allow that some of it might.
Isn’t that the whole point of NaNo? There are only five days left. USE them!
Much love,
TheScarletLover

Monday, October 6, 2014

NYCMidnight Flash Fiction - Challenge #1 Results

The results were posted, and I got fourth place! I really didn't know what to expect, so I'm pretty excited.

Fourth place gave me 12 points to take into round two, which happened over last weekend. If I place decently this round, I'll have a good shot of making it to round three. Cross your fingers for me.

My prompt this time was: Fairy Tale / Pawn shop / A wooden figurine

Final Stats:
Word count: 999 words
Title: "It Takes a Knight to B1"
Synopsis: A scheming knight intends to make the Game Master a pawn in his plot to woo the queen, but the Game Master will not be played.

Yes. ALL the chess puns.

'Til next time,
-- Meg