You know I mentioned going to Benton Arkansas last Friday.
It was a nice break. We shopped a little, ate too much, chattered like magpies and — well, I just had to see the old sanitarium/asylum aka “nervous hospital” where Karl spent most of his life.
Thank goodness my family is as adventurous and crazy as me.
There were no observable signs that forbade us from entering, so…
We considered going in a window but oddly enough we did not have to.
The doors seemed to beckon and willingly opened without the slightest resistance and ta-da, we were in.
Exploring the dilapidated history in search of answers and ghosts and what-ifs.
And possibly inheriting a demon or a deadly disease.
What does this story have to do with writing?
This: Every now and then you have to break the rules to spice things up.
Of course you need to know the rules before you break them and sometimes the rules are not obvious.
It will be necessary to choose a genre (or a narrow list of genres) when you get ready to submit/publish but don’t let that annoying detail inhibit your writing.
For now just write; your story can be catalogued later.
Here is a brief overview of primary genres. Glance at them and move on. Action/Adventure: fast paced exploration with conflict. Erotica: focuses on the sex, not the romance. Fantasy: Magic other worldly, mystical and mythological. Horror: anything that invokes fear/dread. Literary Fiction: focus on the quality of writing style/prose over the narrative/plot. Mystery: involves solving some sort of crime. Thriller/Suspense: creates tension which can involve action or mystery. Romance: love and intimacy without the down and dirty details of said intimacy. Science fiction: think aliens, alternative worlds and high tech Westerns: usually taking place in America’s ‘Old West’; cowboys, etc… Women’s fiction: all about the woman e.g. growth and hope.
I just finished packing to head to Benton Arkansas for the weekend and I thought about the movie Sling Blade.
Sling Blade is a drama. No, there is not a drama category listed above because drama is written for performance. The paperback copy is categorized as screenplay. As a screenplay it is listed on Amazon as follows:
#1100 in Books > Humor & Entertainment > Movies > Screenwriting
#5851 in Books > Humor & Entertainment > Television
#26979 in Books > Arts & Photography > Performing Arts
Now allow me to detour a moment because I do love me some Billy Bob Thornton. I am also excited about visiting Two Peas in a Pod Flea Market and some dear kinfolks in Benton where Sling Blade was filmed.
Ahhh. I still cackle when my [adult] kids slip into character and quip, “fried taters, Mhm.” “With mustard and biscuits. Mhm.”
If you are familiar with the movie Sling Blade you’ll be familiar with this line, “Some folks call it a sling blade; I call it a Kaiser blade.” Yeah, I heard some of you saying, Mhm.
Well I have a sling blade too (along with a few other tools) but I call it a limb-chopper.
People can call it what they want but that will not alter the way I use my limb-chopper. I use it to chop limbs — all sorts of limbs.
I call it what I want to; I use it however I please BUT if I decide to sale my tool… my merchandise, I will need to identify it properly and list it in an appropriate category.
See what I mean? Mhm?
Whether you have written a paragraph or five hundred pages so far this month, you’re doing great.
I once wrote 500 pages in one day. Yep, the Ctrl+v got stuck on my keyboard. When I returned from my walk I had five hundred pages of totally inconceivable gibberish.
I jest, but speaking of taking a walk…
Where are your characters going? Why are they going? How are they going to get there?
Feel free to use the photographs to get the creative juices flowing.
NaNoWriMo has barley started and you’re giving up? If you quit at the starting line how the heck are you going to reach the finish line?
Okay. I understand the pressure and the frustration and the fear and the time crunch you have to contend with [really, I do] but don’t quit. Take a deep breath. Let your shoulders drop (it is okay if the world has to float on it’s own for a minute or two) and remind yourself why you took the challenge to begin with.
The above was my partial response to an aspiring author I sometimes guide (guide sounds less hoity-toity than mentor). She continually strives to improve her skill and decided to challenge herself this year with NaNoWriMo. I was so excited for her.
When she said she was throwing in the towel one week into the 30 day challenge my heart sank.
I had to remind myself of two things: #1 this is HER journey. #2 despondency is common among authors, young and old, aspiring and established alike.
The exchange ended with us both feeling more optimistic. For now.
Another handful of emails followed (not participants in WriMo) mostly venting about criticisms which they said too often feels like bullying.
I read some of the criticisms. Honestly, I considered most of the comments as constructive – a little blunt and crude but valid observations. Constructive criticism is valuable.
There were a few however that did have a malicious feel about them. Asshats!
It is not always easy doing what you love… what you feel driven to do… following your passion. Self-doubt is relentless and Asshats… don’t get me started?!!
Insecurity fluctuates; it lessens with experience as the skin thickens but don’t expect Asshats to turn into compassionate humanoids. Why? Because misery loves company.
I cannot count the number of times I have heard/felt, “I’m too old”, “I’m afraid”, “I am not good enough” or “I’ve been ridiculed/rejected”. Self-doubt
Nor can I count the times I have heard of/read/experienced pointless insults that serve no purpose other than to humiliate a person. Asshats
So it seems Asshats and uncertainty will always be a part of life; a thing we all have to contend with. “But how?” some ask. Don’t quit.
You can’t lie down and quit. I guess you could but then you would be in a coma. Being comatose is not the answer.
You can’t throat-punch or cuss everyone who hates on you. Well, you can but the fines start racking up and…
Before I confess digress I think I’ll just send you to a more inspiring, graceful article.
Oops, a quick tip: Embrace your feelings (pain, anger, fear, etc.) and use them in your writing. Assign your feelings of defeat and grief to a character and then show the character how to overcome. It can be very healing.
If you are not already following Story Empire you should.
Why?
Because they offer countless resources for writers (especially new writers) and they are a great group of people. They don’t allow Asshats and trolls to hang out there.
November is (among many other things) National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month.
Go Purple with a Purpose
Alzheimer’s is a cruel stealthy cat that lurks in the shadows. It leisurely pulls its prey into the darkness, steals their reasoning, their memories and eventually their life. The only kindness this disease provides is a cocoon that leaves the victim in a state of oblivion. However it shows no compassion to loved ones and caregivers left to witness the slow death and decay.
Let’s not give up on finding a cure.
If you know someone touched by Alzheimer’s take a moment to make a difference no matter how small. A hug, a helping hand or just acknowledging a caregiver’s struggle can mean so much.
Mad as in angry, insane, enthusiastic or in a swift manner.
I was driving 90 mph down the highway with my camera beside me and I snapped…
I was in a mad dash and mad in every sense of the word. (Some of that lunacy is revealed in the poetic memoir Getting Me Back.)
The above photo is not one I would usually keep in my collection; it is dark, out of focus and lopsided yet I like it. Why? Because it reminds me of the world as I saw it at that moment in time.
I will probably be the only one to ever appreciate this inferior blurred image but maybe it will spark something in a stubborn character you are trying to bring to life.
Maybe the character is hiding something from you; afraid to reveal their passion, their fury or the fact that they are bat-shit crazy.
Tell them it’s okay. Everyone… every living creature [even saints] have moments of madness at some point in their life. Heck, even Jesus got mad. Wasn’t he ticked-off/pissed/irate when he turned the tables over and cleared the temple? Damn right he was!
And what about the insanity so many of the great artists/creators in history suffered from? Think about that, eh?
Allow your characters the freedom of expression. Let them be mad.
Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush pile. The photos below show the cover from start to finish. Hold out your eyes and I’ll give you a little insight plus the beginning and the ending of Smoke Free.
Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)
I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.
Shall I cue the witch’s laugh again?
No!
Okay, here you go.
In the beginning…
Irwin marched down the stark white hallway with the impudence of a man on a mission. At the end of corridor, a glass door awaited with the words FREE YOUR SELF painted in large gold letters. He raised a curled fist to knock but decided against it. Easing the door open he called out, “Yoo-hoo. Is anyone home?” when no one responded he grudgingly entered the room and scanned its contents.
The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.
The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.
Smoking cessation.Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day. A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie. His wife was a non-smoker and she did not mind, she had never complained, but again, Evie never complained about anything. Evie was a saint. So what am I doing here? Peer pressure. That was the only logical explanation. All of his friends had stopped smoking months ago. There is nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker. Irwin’s mind zigzagged trying to connect the dots, the trail of crumbs that had lead him here to this place where he was expected to free himself.
Evenings at the local tavern were not the same, instead of cheers and jokes the gang sat around bellyaching about a handful of smokers in the far corner. It wasn’t fun anymore. Irwin thought as he strained to recall the last time he had hung out with any of them, the last time he had stopped by the saloon on the way home. He could not remember. A few of his buddies had dropped by the house for a beer once or twice a week but then…
It occurred to Irwin he had been isolated for some time; cut off from society. Who needs them? Not me, I don’t have time for chewing the fat. He dug his heels into the armrest, tensed his abdominal muscles and forced a few halfhearted sit-ups. I’m healthy, a hell of a lot healthier than those slobs. Heck, Frankcan’t see his ding-a-ling without a mirror. Irwin laughed aloud at the image of his friend groping for his penis. Poor bastard. He groaned, starring up at the flat alabaster ceiling, Frank’s a good guy. The kindest, most nonjudgmental man I have ever met… hey! Irwin bolted upright, Frank is my best friend.
When the sparkle abated from the realization, Irwin flopped back into a prone position and began a set of leg-lifts. Good ole Frank. Poor bastard. Dean and Will, now there is a couple of bonafide jerks! Irwin scoffed to himself, holding his un-embellished feet at heart level, Health fanatics! You can smell Dean a mile away— wreaking of curry and cumin. And Will, with his dead man farts –methane poison. Both of them—with their stained yellow skin.
Irwin snickered at the memory of Frank again, the last memory of the saloon he could clearly recall. Dean and Will who were frequently referred to as Mutt and Jeff, and the sight of their jaundiced eyes–unwavering. Long, lanky Dean slumped over his mug of warm Bud, squatty Will knocking back shots of cheap Vodka and the rank cloud of gas that always followed them. “Dang! What are you two eating?” Frank had asked. When neither answered he pressed on, “It smells like you’re on the verge of shittin’ a dead man. What are you little tree huggers eatin’? Are y’all eatin’ people?” Irwin recalled Frank’s hearty laugh at his own joke and smiled, until he remembered the response. Dean– shivering but never looking up. Will with that cocky glare, wriggling his thin eyebrows and slamming his glass down on the table for effect, grinning through pink jagged teeth. “No one under the age of eighteen.”
“Screw it.” Irwin said aloud as he swung himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the package of Camels from his shirt pocket. Despite the shaking, he managed to free a cigarette without breaking it. He tapped the filter against his palm a few times and gently set it between his lips. His right hand habitually swept the pocket of his 501 jeans to retrieve the Zippo. Irwin studied the chrome lighter, rubbing his thumb across the engraving. “I loved your heart too Evie.” He whispered. Within the sound of two clicks, a beautiful orange flame emerged. Irwin closed his eyes and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. The hissing crackle of dried tobacco had always eased his trembling. The feel of his Zippo, a gift from Evie, had always soothed his mind. I LOVE YOUR HEART was barely visible after years of stroking. He exhaled and imagined the writings of e.e. cummings. i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart). He fantasized about Evie, her soft white breasts against his back as she convinced him to be more accepting of lowercase letters and lower class people. Perfect breasts that now–
Just before The End…
Irwin and Evie spent their days and nights exploring endless trails. Time meant nothing to them now. Irwin was not sure how long he had been in this place, but it had been long enough to learn a few things. One, the sun never goes down. Two, there is no need for sleep and three; sometimes the boils come on slowly. He consoles himself with knowing Evie never minded his smoking.
The Real Janna Hill in 