Writers in the Storm

But first, an announcement~ The winner of Chuck Sambuchino's book, How To Get a Literary Agent is...morgynstarz!  Chuck will be in touch, and will send you the book. Now, on to today's blog.

I’m a tight writer (I’m cheap too, but in this case, I mean no spare words), so short-short fiction has always fascinated me. But deadlines for novel-length fiction means experimenting with short has remained on  a way-back burner. But I’ve just turned in two proposals, so I'm shuffling burners, and playing with this. I thought I'd pass on what I've uncovered about this type of writing.

What is flash fiction? Definitions vary, but generally, they’re complete stories of anywhere from 100 to 1,500 words. All genres lend themselves well to this type of story.

How do you write it? There are some guidelines:

• Few characters – Many I've read only have one, but you don’t have time for more than three. Make them count with good, short descriptions and unique voices
• Show vs tell – short-short means your words have to do double duty
• Verbal efficiency and tone – Margie Lawson is the master here. Use her power words, backloading, alliteration and other rhetorical devices to set the tone throughout
• Big impact in few words: think Hemingway’s, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
• Use few elements, but use them wisely for best impact
• Complete story. Beginning/middle/end. Shouldn’t leave the reader wondering what happens next
• Focus one conflict – one theme – in one scene
• The first, last line and title are crucial
• Surprise the reader

More wisdom from STACE BUDZKO

• Start at the flashpoint –By definition Flash begins at the moment of conflict, when all the action is nearly complete. Think: the final gesture of a love affair, or the start of a good old-fashioned gang fight. All of this is to say we need to avoid preambles or introductions (unless working on a specific conceit).
• Focus on the powerful image(s)- Find one or more powerful images to focus your story on. A wartorn street. An alien sunset. A Going Out of Business sign. They say a picture worth a thousand words. Paint a picture with words. It doesn’t hurt to have something happen inside that picture. It is a story after all.
• Hit them where it hurts- Go for an ending that offers an emotional impact. As flash writers, we are in the punch-in-the-gut business. Play against expectations with a sense of narrative mystery or devastating twist, a poignant implication or declarative last sentence that leaves the reader breathless, and going back for more.

Why write it?

• Get your name out there
• People can read it fast, so they're more likely to read
• You can write it fast
• Sharpen your skills, learn to write tight
• Can count toward membership in professional writing organizations
• You can use it as free content for marketing
• Competitions
• Inspiration

Example: Warning – the visual is a bit brutal

Forecast by Nik Eveleigh

The wrinkled man pokes a finger in to the slew of guts strewn across the parched ground. The day-dead rabbit that had previously contained them lies on its side three feet away facing east.

A drag of the finger further displaces the ropes of intestine. Cocking his head the man lifts the finger to his lips and tastes. He hops from foot to foot and rolls his eyes in rapture.

Several minutes pass before his eyes drop and regain their focus. With a nod he creaks to his feet and turns to face the silent, expectant crowd.

“Rain. Two Days.”

I'm all in. How about you? Have you ever written any Flash Fiction? Share with us in the comments!

photo credit: Dr. Frankenstein's dream II via photopin (license)

A bit about Laura's latest release - Days Made of Glass:

Harlie Cooper raised her sister, Angel, even before their mother died. When their guardian is killed in a fire, rather than be separated by Social Services, they run. Life in off the grid in L.A. isn’t easy, but worse, there’s something wrong with Angel.

Harlie walks in to find their apartment scattered with shattered and glass and Angel, a bloody rag doll in a corner. The doctor orders institutionalization in a state facility. Harlie’s not leaving her sister in that human warehouse. But something better takes money. Lots of it.

When a rep from the Pro Bull Riding Circuit suggests she train as a bullfighter, rescuing downed cowboys from their rampaging charges, she can’t let the fact that she’d be the first woman to attempt this stop her. Angel is depending on her.

It’s not just the danger and taking on a man’s career that challenges Harlie. She must learn to trust—her partner and herself, and learn to let go of what’s not hers to save.

A story of family and friendship, trust and truth.

How To Close an Open Book

Lynda Cohen Loigman

I’m an open book.

Ask the people who know me best, and that’s what they’ll tell you. I’m not secretive. No one has ever described me as “aloof.” I’ve never answered an invitation with the phrase “I have other plans,” because I’m fine just telling you what my other plans are. If you ask me something about my personal life, chances are I’ll give you the answer, even if I don’t know you that well. There is nothing enigmatic about me, and I’ve always been comfortable with that.

Except now that I’m working on my second novel, I wish I knew how to be a little more mysterious. Now, for the first time ever, I’m beginning to realize the importance of keeping my thoughts to myself.

Part of why I’m having such a difficult time keeping silent about my second book is because of the way my first one developed. That story had been in my head for over a decade before I wrote a word, and I lived with the characters for almost as long. They were part of my life, so I spoke about them with my husband and friends. Their saga became part of my conversational repertoire. I never cared about keeping it secret, because I had no expectations. Even when I began to write the words on paper, the idea of publishing a book was just a far-away dream. And after the dream turned into reality – after the book was out in the world – it was even more fun to talk about.

With my next novel, I’m finding that talking isn’t such a good idea.

First of all, I’m not sure what to say. Even general questions like “What are you working on?” have begun to confuse me. When I started writing this second book, I thought I knew my story. I thought I knew my characters. But in the process of researching, another path began to show itself, a path with richer history and more compelling people. My ideas began to shift, my priorities changed, and now, my story is not the same. Answering questions prematurely has made me a little bit of a liar, and there is no guarantee that it won’t happen again. I have learned that ambiguity can be more virtuous than honesty, and a lot less likely to generate regret.

The same is true for sharing excerpts of my unfinished story. I’m not saying I want to lock up my laptop until this novel is finished, but I have begun to understand that sharing incomplete work is a risky endeavor. What if a friend wants me to keep a character I’ve eliminated? What if a necessary plot point is somehow unpopular? Even if I do away with it in the end, the act of writing it might still be necessary in order for another aspect of the story to emerge.

I love my writing group friends and I adore my classmates. But right now, I’m not ready to share too much. Even the thought of it makes me feel vulnerable – like I’m letting go of something that isn’t mine to give away.

Because she is so wise and generous, and because this isn’t her first second novel, my agent instinctively understands my position. Mine was a single book deal, and though the publisher has asked about my next novel, my agent knows me well enough to know that I’m not yet ready to pitch the manuscript. She knows that my story is still developing, and that adding outside voices or deadlines at this point will only muddy my thinking.

Imagine watching someone learn to ride a bike. The rider hits bumps and falls down. The process is messy and it’s easy to criticize technique. There are plenty of moments where you might want to cover your eyes rather than watch the rider swerve around with no apparent control of where she is going.

If I speak too much about my second novel, or if I give too much of it away in advance, it feels like the people listening or reading are watching me learn how to ride a bike. I want them to trust that I am capable enough not to crash, but the fact is, until the words are printed, there are an infinite number of choices and mistakes to be made. I think it’s best if I make those in private.

So I’m going to try to close the book. I’m going to try to hold my cards a little closer to my chest. I’m going to try, as much as possible, to offer the literary equivalent of “I have other plans” when people ask questions. I suspect that most other authors have already mastered this practice, but for me, it’s something new.

If I happen to meet you sometime soon, I hope we don’t talk about my next novel. You already know my weakness – if you ask, I’ll probably tell you everything. I might even confess that I never learned how to ride a bike.

Damn. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.

Tips To Avoid Discussing Your Novel-in-Progress

Tip #1: Blame Research

When someone asks:  What’s your new novel about?
Answer this:  I’m still in the middle of my research.
If the follow-up question is asked:  What is the subject of your research?
Answer this:  My research takes me in so many different directions. It’s difficult to describe.
If there is additional follow-up:  Your research sounds so interesting. Tell me more about it.
Look for the nearest exit and say this:  I’m sorry, but I have to go. I need to get back to my research.

Tip #2 Feign Ignorance
When someone asks: When will your next novel be published?
Answer this:  I don’t know.
If the follow-up question is asked:  When will you be done writing it?
Answer this: I don’t know.
If there is additional follow-up:  How long does it usually take you to finish a novel?
Look for the nearest exit and say this: I don’t know.

Tip #3 Keep Your Answers As Short As Possible
When someone asks: Are you working on another novel?
Look for the nearest exit and say this: Yes.

In all seriousness, only you can decide how comfortable you are sharing the different phases your unfinished work. You might be a person who benefits from brainstorming with others, or you might be secure enough in your abilities that you are easily able to ignore unwelcome comments or advice that is inconsistent with your vision. But if you are like me, too many outside voices might make you doubt your original path or, even worse, trigger you to stop writing altogether.

Of course, we all need to share our work eventually – whether it happens in class, in a workshop or with early readers. I will welcome that point in the process, but first I need to reach a place of critical mass with my story. Despite all my insecurities, I trust my instincts enough to know that I will recognize that place when I get there. I can’t wait to see what it looks like.

How about you? How do you avoid this dreaded subject? Please share with us!

Lynda Cohen Loigman grew up in Longmeadow, MA. She received a B.A. in English and American Literature from Harvard College and a J.D. from Columbia Law School. She is a student of the Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College, and lives with her husband and two children in Chappaqua, New York. She is a failure at enforcing reasonable bedtimes. THE TWO-FAMILY HOUSE is her first novel.

Aimie K. Runyan

When I began writing, my children were very young—4 months and 2 years respectively. Each day at 2 PM, I would tuck them in for their naps and I had three to four hours of uninterrupted writing time. I luxuriated in it, and looking back, I’m glad I did. I would pour a bath, gather a snack and beverage, turn on the classical music station, light my beloved Frasier Fir Woodwick candle, grab my notebook and fountain pen (loaded with violet ink, naturally), perch my laptop carefully on the edge of the tub, and get to work. I was a machine. 2,000-3,000 words daily without breaking a sweat.

But life happens.

My son started preschool. We moved out of the countryside and back to the suburbs in a new city, which meant I lost my ginormous tub. Denver doesn’t have a classical music station. (Seriously, Denver? Get your #$%@ together!) The dreaded day came when my children stopped napping (that one still hurts). I had to completely change my writing routine. I won’t lie; I lost weeks trying to find a way to weave the strands of my writing career into our new lives. I was miserable because I was barely able to find the time I needed to meet my deadlines for existing projects—developing new ones? Fuggedaboudit.

I tried burning the midnight oil, but I’m not one who functions brilliantly at night, so I had to find a way to manufacture some time during the day. Note that word choice. We don’t have time, we make time. My solution was to haul my youngest to the community rec center as soon as I drop my son off at preschool and let her play in the child watch center for the maximum allotted two hours. It’s a waste of a gym membership in the traditional sense, I admit, but workouts will return in due course.

I race to the lobby, set up my laptop, fire up Netflix or Amazon Prime on my iPad and stream a movie or show I’ve seen a zillion times to drown out the noise with my earbuds, and get as much done in those two hours as I possibly can. No candles, no warm bath. If I’m lucky, I get the table that overlooks the swimming pool. I bring a snack so I don’t have to spend the time or money on vending machines. I even make sure my laptop is booted up in the car before I drop off my daughter and that I’ve used the “facilities” before I leave home so I don’t have to spend precious minutes on anything other than writing. I do not move for two hours. My FitBit gets cranky about it. I prioritize so that the key tasks are completed during this window of peak time and do the less demanding things at night when my brain is less than stellar.

It does take some planning—packing writing bags the night before and having ranked lists of what needs to be done each day, but I found a way to keep up some of my former momentum. And after all that work, that routine will go out the window in four weeks when my son is out of school for the summer. And once again when both children start school in August. The advantage is that this time, I know the bare minimum of what I need to be able to be productive and I won’t lose weeks carving out a new schedule. I miss the days of yore where I could revel in the creative process, but I remind myself that they aren’t gone forever—just for the time being. I learned what I need as a bare minimum to write is a block of child-free time, white noise, and a plan. Carbs help, too. I have succeeded in creating my Moveable Muse, which will enable my career to thrive even when writing conditions are less than ideal.

 Over to you—what tricks to you use to carve out extra writing time in your day?