Herb

Herb's family had long since grown used to his eccentricities: Sault Ste. Marie Polar Bear Club, a commitment to riding his unicycle to work until that unfortunate incident with the moose, and his brief foray into kazoo symphony podcasting. His latest announcement, a burning desire to captain a Great Lakes ship, elicited no more than half-amused chuckles from his family.

"But Mo - om," he said in a nasally whine wholly inappropriate for a forty-year-old man, "it's a respectable job!"

His abiding love of the 70s song "Edmund Fitzgerald" gave her no reason for calm in this situation forsooth.

"Herbert," she said, "you've pushed my patience past its limits. Have you even THOUGHT about this? They won't hire you as a captain with no experience!"

When he rolled his eyes at her, she fought the urge to slap him into severe strabismus. That he chewed Dramamine like candy when spending too much time watching the plastic scuba diver in his fish tank and that he suffered from claustrophobia seemed never to have entered his mind. She couldn't help but continue to wonder why couldn't he just take that carpet cleaning job with his Uncle Lester.

Herb took his father's miner's helmet from its hook on the wall and rubbed his thumbs over its scarred surface. Touching it had earned him a whipping once as a child, but he hoped to channel strength from the father he worshiped but barely knew. His voice a barely a whisper, he turned to his mother and said, "Pops didn't walk into that mine as a foreman either. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up. It's what I'm meant to do, Mom. I have to. You don't have to like it, but can't you at least act like you're happy for me?"

She saw the want in his eyes. Her heart hurt for him. She gave it six months but would pray for longer.

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Isobella

Another one sentence story:

Her family, Mississippi born and bred for more than 5 generations, bestowed names like Charlene, Lavenia, Hazel, Pearl, and Beulah on its daughters, so Isobella always wondered if she had more in common with Ferdinand, that long-ago foreign exchange student her mother often mentioned, than with Billy Earl--the man she had always called "Daddy."

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Novel Background

Some writers have a writing process best described as organic, with characters and scenes emerging as the words appear on the screen (or for some, the paper). They cannot sit and plan characters, plot, symbolism, theme, & etc., but through the process still produce well-crafted (and commercially successful) work. Others insist on following strict plans with high levels of organization. Taking a Baby Bear approach, following either of those methods exclusively would drive me crazy; my own writing has elements of organization to it, but I have to be open to a change of flow mid-stream.

For instance, I wrote a book several years ago. I loved the characters, felt at home in the setting, and could see the action in it as clear as if I was in the room watching it happen. It was a very organic process (after I made detailed plans about the long list of characters, that is). Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I realized that this was not the story I had to tell and that many characters would have to leave. Hacking and chopping would not do. I did manage to salvage a core of characters but with an entirely different focus. 

I've made some plans (a general list of scenes I think need to be included to move the character through the conflicts and an intricate set of family trees, primarily), but characters have changed their names on me, dates and time periods have had to adjust, and complications to the original plot continue to unravel before me.

A writer whose work I admire greatly has said that whatever the research required for a novel, what's important is to simply keep writing. I've researched and planned, and I have no doubt that I'll continue to do so throughout the course of this novel--and any others I write in the future, of course--but whatever the plans are, I shall always strive to be open to change.

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Interesting Alternative

I heard about this band's new video today on the way home from work. I can't say I'm a fan of this particular song--I'll have to listen to it a few more times to make up my mind for sure. What interests me is the initiative these guys took in going out and finding a way around their lack of money to still get their video out for their audience (and one they want to build). 

Why people see this type of innovation as fresh, brave, and a general positive when it's music or independent movies but continue to be so vehemently opposed to it when it's pointed towards publishing books, stories, or poetry seems counter-intuitive. 

I have to say, though, that this idea is why I decided to start this blog in the first place. I wanted to find a way to introduce my writing and myself to an audience. 

Vanity publishers are out to make a buck off writers. I don't have any doubts about that. I'm not interested in pursuing that avenue for my own work. Also, I'm not out to suggest that big publishing does not have its own important place in the mix. I'm not dissing established publishing houses--after all, my goal is to have my work accepted and printed by one, one day. 

Enough pontificating, you say. Where's a story? Where's the creativity? Soon. I promise. 

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Too Much Funny

I love this site and can spend waaaaaay too much time browsing through--sometimes giggling quietly, sometimes rolling my eyes, and sometimes laughing so hard giant tears roll down my face. It's a few months old, but I found this one today and laughed an evil, throaty laugh. It inspired another one sentence story:

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I thought it was wrong that warping his little mind made me smile almost as much as watching him graduate from high school, but then he introduced me to his recruiter and horse-laughed when I passed out and cracked my skull.

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This, however, made me laugh so hard I scared my dogs. I'm not recovered enough to write from it, though.

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One Sentence Stories

I challenged myself to this earlier, and while I've posted other stories, still no one sentence efforts. That changes here. Now. Mine are fiction, though, unlike these. 

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The smile beaming across your face when you showed me your new wedding dress broke my heart because I knew he had yet to ask his first wife for a divorce.

I found Mom's hiding place when I was six, so I could only ever pretend to be surprised at my Christmas presents.

Giselle realized at last night's dinner that the crazy, drunk neighbor from her childhood is her fiancé's mother, and while his father blushed, the woman still doesn't know.

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Rescue Us

As the proud companion to a rescued dog, I'm thankful to have saved the life of a precious little one that has brought so much joy to my life. I highly recommend it--after all, these animals are terrific companions that are incredibly loving. 

This story is born of a newspaper column I read that broke my heart. As as challenge to myself, I wanted to work in the micro short story or flash fiction (I really need to look into this more and see if the terms are, indeed, interchangeable). Therefore, it has to be 200-500 words. After some editing, it comes in at exactly 500 words.

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Moving down the row of cages, one soulful pair of brown eyes after another stared. All recently rejected but ultimately with innocence of fault. Intentions hardened to resolution. I couldn’t rescue them all, but two would find reprieve with me. Memories of my own loss stabbed afresh in my heart and tears welled in my eyes.

Inside the cacophony of barks, a deafening silence stopped me. Halfway down the walk, a black lab/chow mix—scrawnier than a dog her size should be—lay curled up in the back of her cage. Her swollen teats looked painful.

“What about her?”

“Came in with a litter of puppies, but they’re all gone. She’s out tomorrow,” the attendant said. “Been lethargic since the last pup left.”

I called to her, and she thumped her tail once, twice. Raised her head before looking away with a sigh.

We continued our walk. I stood in front of a cage housing a wiry little multi-colored mutt. She fell into a play stance, front legs and head on the ground and rump in the air, barking and wagging her tail frenetically—an amusing sight considering she had no right rear leg.

Did she know her life depended on winning someone’s heart? Some may think not, but I’m not so sure she didn’t. She sat up to beg, and I swear I saw a smile on her face.

“And her story?” I asked, bending down to scratch her ears through the links in the gate.

“Old woman brought her in. Her kids thought Francie would be a perfect pet for her. The woman couldn’t keep up with the dog’s energy, and little Francie here developed a taste for leather shoes and upholstery.”’

“She’s not had any lookers, though. It’s too bad, really. She’d make somebody a really sweet pet.”

“It’s too bad for all of ‘em,” I said.

“I want her,” I said.

The woman nodded and unlocked the cage; Francie bounded out, leapt into my arms, and licked my face.

“I think she likes you,” she said, laughing at us.

I smiled, a portion of my heart healing at last. “You’ve found a forever home with me,” I whispered to Francie.

The woman led me toward the front office, but I stopped. “I want the black mama dog too,” I said.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “They might not get along.”

“Just open the cage.  Let’s give ‘em a chance,” I said.

Francie bounded towards the mama dog, who came alive; tail thumping steadily, she moved to the little dog. Introductory sniffs attended to, they danced around each other. Fast friends indeed.

“Looks like they’ll get along just fine,” I said, snuggling against both dogs.

We leashed the pair and made our way to the office. I made appointments for vaccinations and spayings, paid my fees, and left with my two girls. As we embarked on our life together, I marveled at this beauty in the midst of sorrow. We three will survive. We have lived to love again.

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