Maybe Keep Going

This may be the end.

Well, of the whole National Blog Post Month is over for me. Whew. I tried this a couple of years ago and it may be a couple more years hence before I do it again. Maybe! You never know.

In the meantime, I’ll be hanging out at the roller rink because that is what I do.

my speed skater

There was a time when I thought the strangest place I’d ever written was in the car, sitting with my laptop on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. Now, I write at the roller rink while my son skates.

The first time he put on a pair of roller skates was at a birthday party. We rented the quad skates (you know, traditional skates), and he got on the rink and fell. He fell. He fell. He fell. He cried. He fell.

He wanted to go back. We went back, and eventually he managed to stay up all the way around the rink. Then he saw Rollerblades. We rented Rollerblades. He didn’t fall so much. He got faster. He began participating in the open session races–the races during regular public skates times, races that are just for fun, and where most participants stumble along and barely stay up. He began winning all those races–until speed skaters showed up.

“Mom, can I do that?”

I saw how fast the teenage speed skaters went around the rink. “You don’t really want to do that, do you?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Rollerskates (yes, that’s what all the kids call him and he gives skate lessons) encouraged my son to talk to the speed skate coach. The coach said he’d seen him skating during open session, and sure, he could come watch a practice any time.

I rather hoped that the first time my son saw a serious spill, he’d change his mind.

The coach lent us a pair of speed skates (because they are insanely expensive and you want to be sure you’re going to stick with it before spending that kind of money).

My son goes to every practice–4 days a week. Usually two hours at a time. Practices are boys, girls, women, and men. Ages 5 to 50. At meets you only get a medal if you place. Lots of kids and grownups go home without medals. They don’t give ribbons or anything for showing or participating or for being a good sport. If you win, you get your medal (sometimes trophy!). If you lose, then practice more.

racing

He has fallen and lost skin. He has fallen on his face. He has been kicked by skates. He has seen other skaters lose skin to the floor. Bloody patches the size of a baseball. Bruises. Twisted ankles. Pile ups. Crashes into walls.

My son is 8.

My nerves are getting stronger.

Speed skating is not a popular sport around here and most people have no idea what we’re talking about. My son is the only kid at his school who speed skates. Roller skate, sure. Other parents look at me as if I’m nuts. And there is no skate season. Skate practice is all year round.

But you can see the writing metaphor here, can’t you?

You start writing. Stories fail. You keep writing. You practice regularly! You might win–publication! You might (most likely) get nothing. Practice more! And other people will look at you as if you’re nuts. You may not literally bleed (should hope not!), but metaphorically you will. And it’s all year round.

What isn’t all year round (thank the merciful heavens) is Story-a-Day May. But that crazy month is over and I’ve written story 31! This doesn’t mean I’m done writing stories, of course. (Of course!) But tomorrow starts The Summer of Submission.

Write. Edit. Submit. Write. Edit. Submit. Write. Edit. Submit. Around and around we go.

What are you submitting these days? Come on. Put on your crash helmet and go!

No Maybe about This Baby

I may be excited.

my art of the imaginary lake

No. Definitely.

I have story and my art published over at Scheherezade’s Bequest! Please take a look.

The online journal has lots of great stories and links.

Wahoo!

And as always, I’m putting up some of my other stories over at The Imaginary Lake.

Thanks to everyone who has encouraged and supported me. And you keep writing too.

Maybe You Should Fret

Maybe I fret too much. Sure. Fret. Sounds like a knot to me. A knot I can’t possibly undo.

If no one says anything about my stories, I think the stories are bad. Or at least failures. Or boring. Or something generally not nice. If someone says something nice, I think awesome and OMG I’ll never manage that again. They shall be so disappointed. If someone says something bad…well, I try not to think about it.

This is a lose/lose situation.

You know what else is lose/lose? Sleep deprivation. Which I am experiencing and which is going to make me draw this post to a close.

But first a question: Why do you think some people tie themselves into knots and others don’t? Why do some people accept a compliment and other foolishly react to them? Nature or nurture? What?!

And last, I’ve finished (kind of) story 29.

Whew.

Maybe You’re a Winner!

I may be jumping up and down in a panic.

There is going to be a contest over at Story-a-Day. An author is going to judge stories written for the challenge—-one story per writer.

So, you know I’m staring at what I’ve written wondering which story to choose. It isn’t life or death or anything…but still…

If you happen to have read any of them, your opinion would be appreciated.

Do you enter contests? Why or why not? What has been your experience?

*

I wish I could say every story I’ve written is a winner! Alas. But at the very least, even though I’ve been awake since 3:45 am and spent most of my day in a roller rink or disappointing my in-laws, I have written story 28! Wahoo. And the end of May draws ever closer…

Maybe Not Everywhere

This may be a lame excuse, but I’m in Waco. Waco! And I’ve got to be at a roller rink tomorrow morning and the next at 5 am. These are the joys of being a mom to a speed skater.

I have trouble writing in hotel rooms. I can write in my home, in cafes, in parks, in cars, in stores, but hotels rooms… So I finished story 27! Whether I write anything else…

ah, excuses, excuses.

Oh. I can’t write back in my dad’s house either.

What about you? Are there places where you can’t write? I don’t mean you aren’t allowed to. I mean, psychologically you can’t get into your writer mind. What is it about these places that makes writing hard?

Maybe Not What You Thought

Maybe I’m not as neurotic as I think I am. I like to think I exaggerate. That is what writers do, right?

Anyway, my bosses bought some of my art and put it up in the school. This semester I happen not to have any classes in that corner of the school, but it is near the vending machine and the back entrance.

I pretend it isn’t there.

Yes, I am flattered, flattered, flattered they bought the piece. (One of my favorite lines spoken by Judi Dench, “Perhaps we should retire to a home for the flattered.) But. People come up to me and say, “Hey! I saw your art!” or “Did you see they have your art on the wall?” And now the introduce me to people with, “This is one of our teachers. She’s also an artist.” And about here someone chimes in with, “And a writer!” And then, “We have her work right over there. We’ll show it to you.”

And I stand there trying not to look mortified, say “Thank you” or “Yes” or whatever is polite and I follow that with something like, “Um, I can’t get the printer to work.”

Sometimes getting what you want is just weird. One of these days I’m going to have the classroom with the window that will let me see it while I’m teaching.

Luckily, I’m good at pretending I don’t see things.

Why, for the love of the gods of common sense, would anyone work hard to put their work out into the world, go through a lot of trouble (you’ve no idea) to show that work and sell it, and then have to fight the impulse to hide?

I imagine that if I should ever manage to have a book with my name on the cover in a bookstore, I shall stand next to the shelf filled with great happiness and a desire to throw up.

Are you going to tell me I’m alone in this?

Are you ever contradictory?

Oh well. I’ve written my shortest short story ever. But at least story 26 is done! Hurray for Story-a-Day!

Maybe Epic

This may be meaningless to you, but did you know that today was the 34th birthday of Star Wars?

I was nine. I saw it in an old theater with balconies. I went with my dad, his second wife, and her youngest daughter. My father and I loved it. My step-sister thought it was okay–but the guys were cute. And my step-mother hated it.

But who cares about that?

And maybe you don’t like it.

But that film influenced thousands. What if you ever wrote something that had that kind of impact? It’s a bit harder to get that with print, but JK Rowling managed it. Can you aspire to a story on that scale or does it happen with the writer not even realizing what is coming next?

My stories are certainly not epic. No maybe about that. But I have finished story 25! Really it’s a story drop in the world’s narrative bucket (or maybe that should be ocean).

“Stay on target!”

Maybe the Stars Know

You may belittle horoscopes. As well you probably should because there is no sensible reason to think anything light years away can guide you anywhere in the tiny swath of land that is your life.

All the same, I like my horoscope–and I don’t see why you have to believe something to enjoy it.

Here is my Rob Brezsny horoscope for this week:

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): According to the *Guinness Book of World Records,* the longest love letter in history was written by an Indian man named Harish Kondakkuli. The gushing 143-page message took him over three months to complete. Oddly, it was addressed to an imaginary woman, since there was no one in his life he was actually in love with. I encourage you to consider the possibility of exceeding his achievement in the coming weeks, Libra. You’re at the peak of your ability to express wickedly delicious passions and profoundly tender intentions. There may even be a real person, not an imaginary one, who warrants your extravagant outflow.

I’m hoping this means I can write a wickedly delicious passionate story with profoundly tender intentions… What would that story be about?!

Can a story be a love letter?

Well, this posting every day for the month of May is almost over. Thank goodness.

And so is Story-a-Day. Whew. And while my horoscope suggests I could write a 143 page love letter, I could barely manage a proper paragraph for today’s story. Today’s story is, in fact, not the longest but is the most ridiculous. But it’s done!

Maybe You Can Blame Your Parents

Your parents may bequeath you many things… like brown eyes, a house, a fiery personality, an obsession for antiques.

My parents have not left me any of those particulars.

One thing about writing a separate story every day is that you notice what your repeat. In fact, I think I’m repeating that idea. Was that in an earlier post? Maybe. But this time I want to focus on a particular type of character of issue that keeps appearing in my stories. What you think of someone who kept writing stories about bankers? Or construction workers? Or nuns?

Literature students do this all the time, right? They look at a writer’s collection of works and they notice threads, themes, motifs…like bullfighters and rich men who throw too many parties. Next thing you know, you’ve got a thesis.

I noticed a lot of my stories have prostitutes in them.

Why the blue blazes is that?

Of course, marginal characters, people who live on the edge of society, who skirt danger, who make terrible choices, they are more interesting to write about. Sure. But I don’t write about homeless people much.

Sex sells. There is that. But I’m not sure I’ve ever written anything with a market in mind. And I’m not really writing stories like that even if there are prostitutes in them.

When I was 14, I was traveling alone on a plane for the first time. At the Houston airport my mother decided before sending me on my way to give me advice about how to stay out of harm’s way. Almost 30 years later and I can still remember the chairs we were sitting in when she explained to me how certain types of men and women trap girls into lives of prostitution. I’ll spare you the details. But not only did she give a deep fear of strangers, but she very likely if inadvertently ruined years of dating.

What character keeps appearing in your stories? Why is that do you think?

*

And so I’ve got part of story number 23 posted. Make of it what you will.

Maybe! Are you surprised?

Surprise may be something you avoid.

Years ago, a friend’s husband asked me to get his wife out of the house on the day of her surprise birthday party.

“It’s your birthday! What do you want to do? My treat!”

“I want to see Life is Beautiful.”

“For your birthday? Won’t it be depressing?”

“Yes! I’ve been dying to see it and if I don’t see it now, I won’t get to. Come on. it’s my birthday.”

“Okay. Sure.”

She started crying about half-way through. She cried through the credits. She cried on the drive home.

And I know that home is filled with people ready to jump out and shout, “Surprise!”

But I’m crying too and trying not to panic.

I believe her husband said something along the lines of, “What the hell have you done to my wife?” Then he laughed. Everyone laughed. Eventually she laughed too.

That’s also when I swore off WWII films. Usually by the end I am crying and I feel like I will never stop. But that’s another post.

Sometimes when I’m writing, I surprise myself. Yes, I know I’m writing it, but as I realize where the story is going to go, I think–hmm. I didn’t see that coming. Because I don’t outline. I don’t plan. I just start with a sentence and build on that. Once in a while I have a general idea, but that’s it.

And there are those moments when I’m driving or in the shower (these seem to be common idea springing places–why is that?), and idea surprises me. A that’s-it moment!

With any luck, the story will surprise the reader—-in a good way. Not in the what-in-the-hell-is-going-on way. More in the oh-my-gosh-I’ve-got-to-keep-reading way. This I have no idea if I manage.

Some people love to spoil surprises. They might open presents Christmas Eve. When I was a teenager, my father’s girlfriend’s family did this. I would refuse, and then be the only person opening presents Christmas morning.

And some other folks say things like, “I know what is about to happen…” “Oh this mystery is easy to figure out…” “I saw that coming a mile away…”

I hate watching movies with these people. “Yes, you are clever. Thanks for ruining the film for me, Clever Clogs.”

Well, I’ve written story number 22. I don’t know if it is a surprise. I tossed in some violence—-it may be surprising or just over the top. Hard to say.