Seven Years Don’t Mean Shit

It’s been an interesting week full of, well, I’ll just say, surprises. Overall it’s been good. I’ve had time to think and re-imagine my life. In March I’ll be going back to school after almost 10 years off. Time sure creeps, huh? Aside from school, I’ll be focusing on writing, and hopefully, somehow, keeping food on my cat’s plate—because thats the most important thing, or so he tells me, and he only eats the primo shit. No Friskies for this cat.

I’ve been working on Bloodlife again, hopefully I will finish it for real this time. It’s hard to get started, mostly because I know the work that awaits within. Black pools of swamp that I must wade through, purify, and somehow polish into something that fits with the rest of the book. It shouldn’t be this hard, but I’ve been building it up in my head so it’s become this epic, looming mountain I must conquer.

I’m approaching it cautiously, bit by bit, and as I sink into the familiar narrative, I’m surprised to discover some of it isn’t all that bad. I won’t say it’s good, because what does that even mean? Good is subjective and whimsical. However, speaking of good…

I’ve been reading Ursula K. Le Guin’s, “Lathe of Heaven.” It’s amazing, and I can’t stop scribbling in her margins, micro-printed notes, hearts—little smiley faces. I’ve probably underlined a third of the book.

I love how she handles character, each with a their own unique tics, speech patterns, and styles of observation. I know this is something that is supposed to be standard in novels, but so often I feel it is something writers either ignore or do sloppily. I also really enjoy the way she peppers in backstory, unobtrusively with so many interesting and beautiful images and observations.

Another thing I found interesting, there have been a few places where I was jostled out of the story. Wait, you say, that’s a bad thing, right? You would think so, but no. It’s awesome. One example:

Early in the book, there’s a scene where one character, relaying a dream he’s had about his aunt Ethel, says: She was “usually disguised, the way people are in dreams sometimes; once she was a white cat, but I knew she was Ethel.”

It doesn’t seem like much, but upon reading that line, I laughed out loud and exclaimed, “SO TRUE!” (I also underlined it, and put a heart in the margin, in case you were wondering.) Why did I love this bit so much? Because it happens to me often. The strangest shit happens in dreams. I’ll have a dream where I’m doing something with my husband, but he’s also my sister, but at the same time he’s a parrot.

Until I read this book, I had never really thought about it, even though my dream diary is full of instances just like this. It never would have occurred to me to include something like this in my fiction. It’s details like these that make books fun. They draw parallels in our lives and add meaning—they create freakin’ connections. They add realism. In that moment it is real, and you and the character share a secret.

Anyway, that’s just one example, and not even the best one, and as I’ve said, it’s all subjective. Either way, go get a copy. It’s a great book, especially if you are a writer. Once I finish, I’m going to immediately read it again, there’s just so much to learn!

Haven’t read it yet? Please do, and after you’ve had your ‘conversations’ in Ursula Le Guin’s margins, please, tell me all about them!

Also, moderately interesting, I may have given Ursula Le Guin a fan letter last week. It was just like grade school: handwritten, folded into a little rectangle, complete with a smiley kitty face. I thrust it into her hands and ran, then I nervous cried the whole way home. *facepalm*

What’s New and MEAT Excerpt

As usual, I’ve been busy. I finished MEAT…(still thinking on a new title) and wrote a cute little, super short story (1,500 words) called Midnight Snack, which, after some more editing, I plan on submitting to some magazines! *crosses fingers*

Aside from that, I’ve been avoiding Bloodlife and stressing about a new novel I’m attempting to write, one I haven’t told you about yet. Currently untitled, it’s a different direction for me and something that kind of came out of nowhere. One day I woke up and decided I wanted to write a novel with a 13 year old protagonist who, upon meeting her father for the first time, meets an awesome guy (not a psycho) who has legitimate and heart-warming(ish) reasons for having abandoned her as a child. I intend it to be what I wished would have happened (but didn’t) when I was reintroduced to my father at a similar age. So it’s a happy book, in a way, but of course, it’s a fantasy novel as well because otherwise that would be some boring shit!

Anyway, I said I’d post my short story MEAT here…but now I kind of don’t want to. Yes, I’m nervous. People reading my work…eep! Not that many people come here. It’s just us and the bartender—oh wait, that was my band’s last show—but really, the interwebs can be a scary place. So how about an excerpt to test the waters:

MEAT (excerpt)

Ryleigh opened the fridge, condiment bottles tinkled softly in the door. It was a small fridge. Everything had been half-sized since she had packed up her life and fled to the desert in her parents’ Winnebago.

As she’d backed the Winnebago out of her parents’ driveway, something in her chest had loosened. The road sped past, and she screamed her victory, feeling lighter than she had in years. Until she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, and her elation turned to ash in her throat. His work stared back at her—the large frames of her dark glasses did little to conceal the purple bruises that spilled across her nose and cheeks.

He would do worse if he found her.

Marrying Chris had been the biggest mistake of her life. He was a police officer, she thought he was one of the good guys, but quickly it went to shit. Her second mistake was staying. She’d told herself a baby would change everything.

Part of her always knew she would have to run. Chris had grown more and more violent ever since she’d lost the baby. The doctor said nothing could have been done, a stillbirth was no one’s fault, but Chris never believed that.

His name would have been Daniel. She still remembered the perfect pink of his skin, his miniature hands, the warmth of his tiny body. But it had been a borrowed warmth that had soon faded like the last of her bruises, which now, two weeks later, were little more than yellow shadows.

Ryleigh pushed the thoughts away, pulled a five-gallon plastic tub from the camper’s fridge, and thumped it onto the counter. Thin strips of meat swam in coffee-colored marinade. The smell brought her back to happier times. Winter days with her father, boar hunting in the mornings, followed by sunny afternoons making jerky. The days when she’d have him all to herself.

She snapped the lid back on and hauled the tub outside, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The scabbed over split in her lip hardly hurt anymore. Dry heat greeted her. It was only seven in the morning, but the thermometer outside the door hovered slightly above eighty degrees, and the sun had only begun its climb in the brilliant, cloudless sky.

The camper sat huddled on the wide, soft shoulder of the two-lane highway outside of Holbrook, Arizona. The black ribbon of tar stretched endlessly, flanked by thirsty dirt and blue sky. Settling the tub on the hardpan, she removed the glass covers from her homemade dehydrators, already warm from the morning sun, and arranged the meat on the screens.

This would be the last batch, and maybe then she could move on. Start over in a new city far away from this arid desert where only stunted and sharp things grew and coyotes yipped in the night. Ryleigh wiped her hands on a towel hanging from the belt loop of her shorts and returned to the cool of the camper.

One more day.

She smoothed her long blonde hair into a loose bun. Donning her sunglasses, she headed back out into the sun, dragging two coolers behind her. In the shade of the camper’s awning, Ryleigh set up her makeshift shop. She propped up her hand-painted sign so its message would be visible from the highway: FRESH LOCAL JERKY.

An hour passed, and she was considering heading in for a book, when a car slowed and pulled onto the shoulder, its tires crunching on the loose dirt and pebbles. A heavyset, middle-aged man heaved himself from the car and shuffled forward.

He smiled, took in her tanned legs, and licked his thick, rubbery lips. “Did you make the jerky?”

She nodded. Her hand wanted to dip toward the hunting knife on her hip, and she hooked her thumbs into her pockets. “Sure did. It’s my dad’s recipe. We’ve been making jerky since I was a kid.”

He grinned and licked his lips again. A quick movement, like a frog catching flies. “You’re still a kid. Hardly look old enough to drink.”

She suppressed a shiver and gave him a polite smile. “Would you like some jerky? . . . 

So, there you have it, some of it anyhow. Let me know what you think. Give me the good and the bad. Constructive criticism only serves to make one better, so have at it.