Don't Hate - Celebrate!

The first time I heard those three words, they made me laugh out loud. It wasn't in regards to anything special - if I recall correctly, a co-worker of mine, with a particularly spicy attitude, heard my gasp of envy at the sparkly new piece of jewelry her husband had just bought her.

"Don't hate, girl - celebrate!"

From that day forward I vowed to try to use those words whenever possible.  Eleven years later, they are still at the top of my repertoire.

I mention all this, because today, a writer friend of mine got some truly great news -  news he's been waiting on for the last year and a half.  Not allowed to let the cat out of the bag, so I can't really reveal the name of said author, but in his revelation, I had a revelation of my own.  Hence the need for this post, albeit somewhat anonymously.

Of course, I tell my husband just about everything, so when I give him the news he asks me pretty bluntly:

"So how do you feel about that?  Does it anger you?  Or are you truly happy for him?"

This, of course, stops me in my tracks.  For one reason , I'm astounded that my husband recognizes that even amongst the closest of friendships, there exists a certain element of jealousy.  More so with writers, I believe.

The other reason I'm stopped in my tracks is the fact that, for probably the first time in my writing career, this element of jealousy isn't present.  I mean, not at all.  As I take a moment to dissect and inspect my reaction to this writer's great news of success, I realize I only feel happiness for him.  Not an ounce of envy, not even anger at myself for failing to move as fast as he has.

My answer to my husband?  "I feel great about that."

For the first time the fear of falling behind and getting left in the dust is nonexistent.  I wonder if you know how freeing that feels?

Don't hate - celebrate.

Congrats dude. :)  You rock.

Hitting The Send Button

It's been a week ( I think) since I took a good look at my writing habits (or lack thereof) and decided they needed an overhaul.  It looks like that was a good decision, because I made my deadline. (Cue applause).

Actually, I had three.  Today was the first.  Chizine's Rannu Fund Award Contest Deadline was today, May 31st and I hit the SEND button on my submission at 12:18 pm Arizona time.  The time stamp is for me, by the way, just because I like to be efficient.

It was touch and go, I'll tell you.  I agonized over the finishing touches of my story, whittled it down for three hours, and finally decided it was as ready as it would ever be.

It's a funny thing, hitting SEND.  It seems like a pretty simple action, one click of the mouse and off it goes, but there's nothing simple about it.  There's last minute checks of formatting, last minute checks of the email address, of the bio, etc.  It may sound a bit OCD-ish to some of you, but if you're a writer, I think you can feel me.

It's not that it's been a while since I submitted anything - the end of December I sent off a story to Glimmertrain's Fiction Open Contest (I didn't win, but I was a finalist, and that's better than seeing 'complete' on my submissions page, let me tell you. 

This is different, though.  This is Chizine.  If you write horror, you know what I'm talking about.  Chizine.  I'm not saying it's the 'end all, be all' but it's pretty damn close. I want that feather in my hat.  Is that vain?  Yeah.  Yeah it is.  But I'm a big enough person to admit it, so who cares.

I'll be honest, I want to win.  But I know the odds.  And in reality, even if I don't, it's okay.  It's okay because regardless of the outcome, I'm feeling pretty good about the fact that I hit the deadline.

2nd deadline is in two weeks.  Narrative Magazine's deadline for general submissions.  And then it's back to my novel outline.  That deadline is the end of June.  Wish me luck.  With three kids, trying to enjoy their summer break, I've got my work cut out for me.

Just One More Line Edit.....

I've tried to put this story to bed fifteen times in the last three days.  And it won't go the F%#$@ to sleep!!

I know - that's bad.  But to be honest, no one reads this darn blog anyway, so I'm figuring I'm pretty safe, especially from the Mom's club members who might decide to kick me out due to my crude postings.

I'm kidding...haven't been a member of Mom's Club for almost 2 years now. :)

But I digress--

This story has gone from 6000 words to 5500, back to 6 and then finally finishing up around 6700.  I've changed motive, changed characters, changed dialogue, changed story line --- all for the better, I'm hoping.  But one can never know.  When you have to try to put a story to bed for three straight days, you're tired.  You're bug-eyed.  You're brain can't differentiate between a cliched adverbs and brilliant delivery. 

That's where your readers come in, your writing partners.  Someone to tell you just where you lost the thread.  These people take the place of setting your 'finished' story in a drawer and waiting six weeks until you can look at it with fresh eyes.  Either way works - one is just faster than the other.

So -- to put this damn thing to sleep.  All I need is one more line edit.  One.  And then I'm done.  Or maybe I should just keep those 4 words to myself.  Just in case I believe in jinxes.  One more line edit.  Then please --- please-  Go the F&%$@ to SLEEP!!!!!!!!!

Death Of A Facebook Addict

There comes a time in every writer's life, when she has to decide what is more important, two sentences on a status update, or one thousand words a day, give or take.

For me, that time in my life was yesterday, 8pm or so Arizona time.  It was one of the most freeing decisions I've made in a really long time.

Freeing.  That's a huge word.  Especially when you consider how extremely tight our ties are to that social media monster.  Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently wrong with Facebook; on the contrary, it's what's wrong with us as a society. One views the deactivation of Facebook almost like a divorce, if you will.  You fear you'll be alone, with no one to understand what you're going through.  That you'll lose all the friends that you and Facebook once entertained together. And what about the children you created together - by children, I mean the photos you uploaded, the creative and witty posts you made, the awesome events that helped bring everyone together?  Yes, those were your children and now with the divorce, will you ever see them again?

Dramatic, I know, but a truth of sorts nonetheless.  There's many people out there adept at handling all the juggling required to maintain a Facebook page, write everyday, blog, network, family life, all while working full time job. But I am not one of those people.  I tried to kid myself for a while, but when it came down to it, I was not that multi-talented.  My production of work had stalled, my focus was out of whack, I became too caught up in what 'The Jones' were doing, instead of being caught up in what my characters were doing.

So I deactivated it.  No notice, no tearful goodbyes, just rip the band-aid off and let the quick sting of pain come and go.  And it did.

The thing is, while I expected it to be a really difficult decision, with just two clicks of my mouse, (along with a small explanation as to why I was leaving, which is kind of ridiculous if you ask me, especially because Facebook requires it, but so be it) it was done.  And I found myself kind of smiling a little.

The withdrawal symptoms are almost non-existent, thank the Lord, but I still find myself hearing something funny my kids say and think to myself, "Oh my gosh, I need to Facebook that!"  And then I remember and I laugh. And then I turn on my computer and pull up the story I'm working on.

I don't know if it will be for good, or if it's just a temporary situation, but I will miss my friends in the industry with whom I became great friends over the years - Ray Garton, Jeff Brown, Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Brad C. Hodson, and of course my Snutch Lab writing partners whose links you'll find on the sidebar of my blog.  But then again, it's not like I'm falling off the face of the earth just because I won't see them on Facebook.  Right?  :)  I still have Snutch on Zoetrope, and everyone else still has email...I think.  Heh. :)

The important thing is I'll be making my writing my priority, not some funny quip I decided the whole world had to know right then and there.  And maybe one day I'll be back.  Who knows.
Until then, as always,

Ciao!

Editing Is The Devil

Why can't the damn story come out right the first time?  Seriously, I'm about to dump all 6000 words into cyberspace and not feel one bit of regret.

Call it the flaw of perfectionism, OCD, or just plain sitting on a pitty potty, it matters not.  The end result is the same:  I can't stand editing.

It's not the hard work that kills me, the constant deletion and additions that take up more time than the actual writing of the story. It's the feeling I get as every hour passes, that NOTHING I do will make this story worth something.  That every single deletion or addition is only serving to reduce my words to meaningless dribble, and the more I touch, the more I harm.  Until, by the time I've finished, I can't distinguish between a brilliant sentence and a fifth grader's attempt at what he or she did last summer.

Why can't I realize during the actual writing, that the paragraph I just wrote doesn't do squat for the momentum of the story? Why can't I realize, right then and there, as I'm typing my thousandth word, that I have completely screwed up the story logic, or better yet, never got to it in the first freaking place???

I'll tell you a shameful secret -- it makes me want to quit.  Seriously.  And what makes it almost unbearable, is that writing is the loneliest freaking business out there.  I see all these opportunities out there, all these great posts about people selling their novels, getting a story accepted to a great magazine, and it energizes me into action, because I'm a writer, damn it! I can DO this. I HAVE done it.  But then, that old devil called doubt creeps in and stomps on me.Yes, writing is lonely.

I hate it.

I also love it.  But I'm not loving it now. Now, all I want to do is cry.  And throw my laptop out of the window.

It's almost 11pm Arizona time, and I'm grouchy because I've been at it all day.  I'm nothing if not persistent. So maybe tomorrow, I'll get it right.

Let's hope so, at least.

Okay, rant over. For now.

Want To Play A Game?

It’s a rare thing, to constantly read a author’s work and then sit for days on end,  wishing you had thought of that yourself.  Wishing you had even the slightest bit of fortitude to even attempt to write it yourself.

It’s not such a rare thing, however, if you write with a group of authors like the members of Snutch.  And it happens quite a bit, with a particular writer, Kurt Dinan (pronounced Die-nan.  Just in case you weren’t sure.)  

His stories have this nasty habit of luring me in all nice-like, before turning on me like a rabid dog, chewing me up and spitting me out.  I could blame it on my own naivety, my insane desire to hide my eyes from the ugly truth of the world, fixating instead on the all that is good and wonderful and right. But that would be bullshit.  It’s him.  Kurt Dinan.  It’s his writing that does that, not my puppy-dog outlook on life. 

***Note***  Those of you that know me, might be thinking this very moment, Puppy dog outlook???  Who the F is she talking about???  But it’s true.  I may hide it well beneath my tough girl exterior, but it’s there all the same.  ***End Side Note***

And every time it happens, every time I’m socked in the face with an unconceivable twist of events, or a phenomenal phrase that turns his great story into a F-ing Fantastic story, I feel that pull of envy, that tinge of self-doubt that tells me I will never, EVER be as good as him.  Even now, after writing with him for five years and counting, he still manages to do it, and his story, The Darkness Game, is no exception.

It is a great honor to work with each and every one of the writer’s of Snutch Labs and when you read this excerpt below, you’ll get an idea of what I am talking about.

Breaking into the Keller’s was when I first felt the ripping. It was a tiny tear at first,

almost imperceptible, like a scratch at the back of my throat, but deeper down.

That Thursday I called in sick, from the dark of my closet nonetheless. When the Kellers pulled into the Pizza Tower lot a few minutes short of seven, Gibb and I pulled away from our spot in a dark area of the lot and drove toward their house.

“We’re not really doing this, are we?” Gibb said.

“Rule one,” I said. “Anything goes.”

The evening was cloudy and threatening rain. Gibb was so full of adrenaline he could

barely keep the car on the road. I had my shoes on the dash. I wore a Lycra red tank top and running shorts that bunched up against my hips. In case anything went wrong, I’d told Gibb we’d look like we were out for a run.

We parked a block from the Kellers at Orchard Hills Elementary. I got out, and on the

pretext of stretching my hamstrings, doubled over at the waist in front of Gibb so he’d follow. He ran beside me down the street, his hands covering his crotch.

“The key to the backdoor is under the planter on the deck. We’ll be in and out in five

minutes. Find something small,” I said.

Once we turned onto the Keller’s street, I scanned for anyone who might be outside. No one was. We passed the Keller’s house, then slowed, stepping onto the edge of the lawn and heading around the side. I’m pretty sure the moment I stepped off the sidewalk was when I felt the first rip happen.

The plan went off like I’d hoped – the key’s location, a five minute visit, no one home.

What surprised me was how easily I handled it. I’d half-expected myself to chicken out, maybe even having Gibb take me to church afterward so I could talk to Ray, our youth minister. But I didn’t feel bad about what I’d done. It was like I was traveling down a path that had been rough at first, but the farther I’d walked, the more assured my footing became.

We didn’t talk again until we were back on the road, well away from the house. Gibb

couldn’t stop checking the rearview mirror.

“What did you get?” I asked.

Gibb pulled a folded-up picture from the waist of his shorts. In the photo are Mr. and

Mrs. Keller, probably in their early twenties, all smiles as they emerge from the church door to a shower of rice.

“Why that?”

Gibb checked behind us again, then stared out the window at the passing streetlights in the dark.

“I was going to pick something dumb like a spoon or pencil, nothing that really counted.  But then I saw the wedding album and found this. Something about it pisses me off. Maybe it’s that they look so happy and are still together, going to family dinners with their kids at the stupid Pizza Tower every Thursday. So I took it.”

“God, that’s shitty, Gibb,” I said. I’d been swearing more and more, and finding I’d liked

it. “That picture is probably irreplaceable.”

There was no judgment. If anything, I was envious.

“Pull in there,” I said.

Gibb parked out of the glow of the lights in the lot behind the church my family attended. I crawled in the back seat, the satin of my running shorts brushing his cheek as I went.

“Come here,” I said.

Gibb climbed in back and I lifted my hips and nodded towards my shorts, which came off easily. Gibb was still so high from everything the next day that he never thought to ask what I’d stolen.

There's more.  Much more. And it only gets better.  If you've already ordered, well, you're halfway there.  If you haven't, go here.  Yeah, I know I'm pretty demanding.  But do it anyway. You'll have long forgotten my bossy attitude, once you turn that first page.

Excerpt from Tales From The Yellow Rose Diner and Fill Station

Thought I'd post a little taste of The Yellow Rose Diner, just to give you all a glimpse into the dark minds of

Snutch Labs.  Read yourself a little preview of my story, Knowing The Deal.  

I once saved a man’s life. He had three days to live before a shotgun blast would disintegrate most of his head. Without a second thought, without an ounce of hesitation, I saw how he was going to die and I stopped it.

I should have let him do it. I should have let him eat that motherfucking buckshot when I had the chance. Things would have turned out a whole lot different if I had.

One more night and a wakeup. That’s all that’s left of the three year sentence bestowed upon me by the great state of Missouri. Manslaughter’s what they called it, that’s what I copped to, but that’s a load of bullshit. It was murder, plain and simple, and if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe make it a little less quick and a little more painful. But we rarely get second chances in life, so I just need to be satisfied with the outcome.  Or at least as satisfied as one can be in this situation, I guess. Bitter, I know, but considering the fucked-up outcome of a seemingly benign decision, I don’t begrudge myself a little cynicism.

Death. I’ve been seeing it since I was a child. My mother was the first. I was ten. I saw her blackened and charcoaled face three days before the fire that took her life broke out and consumed our entire house. She burned to death before I knew what I needed to do to save her.  That knowledge kept me up at night for the better part of my teenage life. Nowadays, the only thought that keeps up at night is Panda.

It’s in the flicker of their faces, shimmering back and forth between present and future, life and death. I see that, I know they’ve got some short time of their own and not in the good way. The closer it gets to that third day, the faster the shimmer. Sometimes it’s pretty easy to tell what the deal is. Like my mother. Pretty hard to screw that one up for sure. Some though, well, it’s not so black and white. Like Cissy Shumaker. She was the prettiest girl at St. Anne’s Catholic Montessori School and Orphanage, right up until the day she came to class, her face blue-white and bloated. Her golden locks were dripping and soggy. It didn’t take me long to figure out what I was seeing and I didn’t waste any time letting everyone know, including Cissy.

That was last time she sat next to me at lunch, because let’s be honest - predicting the mode of a person’s demise isn’t actually the smartest thing to do, and it doesn’t make you many friends.  Three days later she was dead, drowned in the lake behind the school. It only took a couple of schoolyard beatings to do the trick and after a few black eyes and

one broken nose, I got it through my thick skull that people were better off not knowing the deal.  I kept my mouth shut for twenty five years. Until Seth. He was my brother-in-law, my best friend. I didn’t think I had any other choice.

The breakfast buzzer interrupts my thoughts and I jump even though I’ve been expecting it for the last half hour. The letter in my hand is smudged and crinkled from weeks of reading and re-reading it. Panda. I sigh and fold it along its worn creases, slipping it between the pages of my pilfered copy of last year’s Times Magazine. The pages are as crinkled and worn as Panda’s letter, but it’s the cover I’m drawn to every time I pull it out. That little girl who looks nothing like my daughter yet reminds me of Panda every time I see it. Pulled from her mother, ripped from her mother. I hate that picture, and at the same time I can’t stop looking at it .

I close my eyes as the obnoxious alarm continues to drill a hole in the back of my head. I hate that buzzer, but come tomorrow, I won’t have to hear that son-of-a-bitch ever again. 

I shake the thought away as the buzzer stops and the sound of fifty cell doors sliding open on their tracks takes its place, along with two hundred of the finest state-issued slip-ons taxpayer’s money can buy. I catch a couple of quick glances my way and wonder what kind of shit I can expect before I hit the gates tomorrow.

Here’s the thing - In the last three years since I been here I’ve come to realize that knowing the deal can get you a lot. Let‘s face it, knowing the deal is the American way, is it not? Maybe not in the same way as my deal - I’ve never met anyone with my particular talent -but still, being in ‘the know,‘ no matter how mundane or how extraordinary, is what moves America. You add convicts in the mix and it becomes more than just a way of life. It becomes a necessity of life. And here at Patton State Penitentiary, they pay big for that. Particularly when knowing the deal can mean the difference between living and dying. So let’s just say that I capitalized on my little gift, because, after all, everyone needs insurance, right? Especially when you’re a skinny-ass white guy on a tiny island filled with Chesters, gansters and base-heads.

Problem is, creating a positive cash flow in the pen comes with a price and it’s been building interest every day since my little talent got found out. Steep interest. If it wasn’t for Carl Sherman, not a single soul here in Patton would have ever had a clue that Pax Riley wasn’t just another con paying his debt to society, because letting the cat out of the bag was what got me here in the first place, at least indirectly. After Seth, I had no intention of fucking with fate, or destiny, or whatever the hell you want to call it, ever again. Leaving the living and the dying up to the powers that be was just fine by me. But Carl Sherman was on a mission and I was the target, and sometimes the mouth starts working before the brain can shut it up. He came up to me, about a month after I’d arrived, probably thinking he’d start some shit and move up a couple of steps on the convict ladder.

“What up, Bitch?”

His breath smelled like a diseased cunt, but my back was against the cement wall and there was nowhere to go. I breathed through my mouth but the sensation of actually tasting his breath was worse.

I shrugged cool-like, even while my heart revved up its rpm’s. I thought of Panda, wondering if I was going to be dead before the first year of my sentence was up, and then figured it was pretty fucking likely, seeing as how the day was beginning to develop.

That’s when Carl’s face started doing the boogie, right in front of me. I watched it slide back and forth from the goatee-ed triangular shape to the misshapen balloon that wasn’t too far off in the future. It was the tiny brown speck sticking out of his cheek that clued me in on what was waiting for Carl in the next few days. All these gang-bangers, schitzos and psychopaths cosied up together in one small island resort, and that’s what drops a brother? A simple bee-sting?  Anaphylactic shock- ain’t that a bitch.

I watched as Carl clenched his fists, keeping them low against the side of his leg and I knew the motherfucker was about to grab my balls and squeeze like his life depended on it. That’s when I let him have it, gave him the deal right then and there.

“You allergic to bees, Carl?”

He had stopped cold then, his balled-up fists forgotten. I could read the question in his eyes crystal clear: How the hell would I know something like that? His jaw dropped and fifteen seconds went by before he puffed up his chest and leaned in closer. I stifled the urge to close my eyes against the close proximity of his shimmying face.

“No, greenie,” he whispered, “but watch out you don’t find yourself allergic to me,” and then he double tapped my sack. I counted myself lucky that I wasn’t doubled over in pain or lying curled up on the concrete.

Two days later Carl’s dead. Seems the bee didn’t waste too much time doing the deed, but unfortunately, the word was out. Pax Riley knows the deal. A high profile was never on my wish list, but I got one anyway. Yeah, knowing the deal had made me a pretty lucrative business here in the pen, but it also made me a rival in the convict world of business. Take

Vincent Ramsey for example, better known as the Ace of Spades. He’s the king pin in this wasted community of fucked-up souls, making his cash with drug deals on the inside and gang hits on the outside. Too bad I didn’t realize a third of my clients were ‘green-lighted’ from Ace.  They knew it though, why else bother coming to me?

All of that adds up to two strikes from the get-go: Not only am I cutting in on Ace’s big money, but every so often, I’m turning Ace‘s green lights into red lights. I got one thing going for me, though: Ace doesn’t know how it works. And what he don’t know, he can’t fuck with.  Other wise, I’d have been a goner long ago.

One more night and a wake up. Less than twenty four hours to go, and me and my stash of cash can say adios. Panda’s out there waiting for me, and I don’t plan on letting anything get in my way of getting gone.

Just a little amuse bouche, if you will.  :)  Hope you liked it. And if you did, and you haven't ordered your copy, you still can.  Head on down to The Yellow Rose Diner, you won't be disappointed.  Just make sure you bring company.  You know what they say:  there's safety in numbers.

Ciao!