Tag: Writing

You Write by Sitting Down and Writing

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Jon Winokur, on his ever inspiring website, Advice to Writers uses the words of Bernard Malamud for today’s quote of the day:

You write by sitting down and writing. There’s no particular time or place — you suit yourself, your nature. How one works, assuming he’s disciplined, doesn’t matter.

— Bernard Malamud

It’s true. How one works doesn’t matter, as long as one IS working. But that’s the challenge, isn’t it? It’s so easy to get caught up in the endless distractions that pull us away from writing. A few distractions can turn into a few days, or weeks, or (yikes!) even months, of not writing and then our excitement turns to dread.

The only way to break out of that cycle is to follow Mr. Malamud’s advice:

Sit down and write.

If you have a hard time motivating yourself to do that, join The Silent Writer’s Collective for our Silent Write-Ins.  By committing to a group effort, many writers find it’s easier to stay motivated and reach goals. Writing, as we’ve all heard many times, is a solitary endeavor, but sharing our efforts with a group makes it easier, and can help us reach our writing goals.

Next Write-In, Tuesday 4.13.2010

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Our next Silent Write-In will be this Tuesday, April 13 at 9 pm EST (6 pm PST).  We will meet via Twitter using the hashtag #silentwriters.

The Write-In begins promptly at 9 pm EST, with a few minutes of chat, news, tips, questions, etc. Then the we go silent and commit one hour to writing.  At the end of the hour, participants can continue writing (and are encouraged to do so).

No RSVP necessary, just show up on Twitter, watch for the hashtag and join in.

If you aren’t on Twitter, you must be on Facebook, right?? Search Silent Writers Collective on FB and you’ll find us there.

Email me if you have any questions, and hope to see you Tuesday!

Welcome to the Silent Writers Collective

Posted on Posted in The Silent Writers Collective, WritingTagged 2 Comments

Time to be quiet and write

.

If you find it difficult to put distractions aside and just write, you might want to join us.

Our mission, quite simply, is to write.

My name is Olivia and I started this group in 2008 when I realized that I wasn’t writing as much as I wanted.  Between work, home, family, and all the other distractions of life, writing had dwindled to grocery lists and work memos.

I talked to other writers I knew who faced the same challenge, and we committed to meeting for at least one hour each week to write in silence.  One hour may not sound like much, but it’s a start.  We found our successes building on themselves, and once again, writing became a priority.

When I moved from Baltimore to Phoenix, our group did not want to end, so now we meet online. Our gatherings start with a few minutes of socializing, sharing info, etc, but after that we agree to shut up and write.

I decided to open the Silent Writers Collective up to anyone who is serious about finding the time to write. We’re in the early stages of organizing, but we welcome you to join us.

Feel free to email me for more info or sign up for the RSS feed to get details on our next Write-In.

Thank you for visiting the Silent Writers. We hope you’ll join us.

Lit Bit: March 28, Nelson Algren

Posted on Posted in Authors, Books, The Writer's Devotional, WritingTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment
Nelson Algren won the first National Book Award for "The Man with the Golden Arm."

Unless you live in Chicago, you probably don’t hear much about Nelson Algren anymore, and that’s too bad.

The Chicago writer would have been 101 years old today, and it’s likely he wouldn’t be surprised by his obscurity.  Even at his most popular, after winning the first National Book Award for The Man with the Golden Arm, and earning the praises of Ernest Hemingway, Simone de Beauvoir, and Richard Wright, among others, critics either ignored or condemned him.

His subjects, his voice, his own personality was not as polished and presentable as other writers of his day, but he wrote what he knew.

Algren grew up in Chicago, where most of his stories are set in the city’s seedy underside. His subjects were equally dark: Drug addiction, racism, poverty, crime. He wrote of junkies, pimps, prostitutes, and grifters. He addressed pressing social issues long before it was fashionable, and he wrote about them with an authentic, strong, unforgiving voice that brought his characters to life and still rings true.

Algren’s black humor novel A Walk on the Wild Side is the story of Dove Linkhorn, a naive Texan who travels to New Orleans to find his lost love, Hallie, who turns out to be a prostitute. This novel is often called Algren’s masterpiece. He describes it this way,

The book asks why lost people sometimes develop into greater human beings than those who have never been lost in their whole lives.

Lou Reed’s song about male prostitutes and transvestites, Walk on the Wild Side was inspired when Reed was approached to write a musical version of Algren’s novel, which never materialized.

While critics weren’t kind to Algren, the city of Chicago actively berated him, saying his characterization of the city was grotesque and exaggerated. The city held a grudge, too.

After Algren died on May 9, 1981, when Chicago’s West Algren Street was named in his honor, the residents complained so much that the name reverted back to West Evergreen Street. Even the Nelson Algren Awards, an annual writing contest for short fiction created by the Chicago Tribune was discontinued after a few years.

Algren died on May 9, 1981, and by 1989 all of his work was out of print.  Thankfully, The Nelson Algren Committee founded by Studs Turkel changed that and Algren’s work has been available print ever since.

I’m inspired by Nelson Algren, by his writing, by his voice, and by his commitment. He wrote what he knew with brutal honesty. It wasn’t the fast path to celebrity or success, but through the years he has finally gained the respect he sought. He’s not remembered or read as often as Hemingway, Faulkner, or Fitzgerald, but he’s still read and that’s a testament to his dedication and his talent.

There’s Just Something About a Quote

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…They are tiny flashes of inspiration, illumination, humor, hope. After reading one that resonates, I feel a connection, not just to the writer, but to the world. It’s a shared experience that reminds me I’m not alone out here. So for that reason, I created this page: To share some of that “inspiration, illumination, humor, hope” with you. See that? I just quoted myself!

Originally, I planned on including only quotes about writing, but I don’t want to restrict it that much. Those quotes will be included here, and will probably be in the majority, but I decided to also include any quote that floats my boat, as it were.

I invite you to add your favorites, of if you have a link to great quote site, add that, too.

To start things off, Woody Allen:

I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.

Isaac Babel: No steel can pierce the human heart so chillingly as a period put just at the right place.

Hilaire Belloc: When I am dead, I hope it is said, “His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

Anton Chekhov: Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

Jack London: You can’t wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club.

Flash Fiction: Bottom of the Ninth

Posted on Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, WritingTagged , , , , , 27 Comments

© Olivia Tejeda
Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs. It’s the final game of the Cinderella Softball League Championship, my team is down 4-1, and I’m up.

I haven’t hit the ball once this season and now it’s all up to me. The only way the team can win is if I hit a grand slammer.

We don’t have a prayer.

The championship title is in my hands, my sweating pudgy little hands. My stomach hurts so much I’m afraid I might poop my pants. I swallow hard and wish I could hide until this is over. I want to go home to my bedroom with my books and my Scott Baio posters.

I love that. I hate this.

When Kayla was up, I figured that if she didn’t make an out, I’d have to bat. I’d have to be the one to lose the game, because I know I won’t win it.

Even though there hasn’t been any divine intervention so far this season, I start praying again anyway.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

This feels like the hour of my death.

If I do die, at least my parents won’t have to pay for the funeral. Our team is sponsored by a funeral home.

The Colonia Funeral Home …

Owned by my grandfather …

I have the same last name.

The embarrassment never ends.

Coach Rockman gives me four hard raps on the back. “We’re counting on ya,” she threatens through clenched teeth. She takes her game seriously, and even though we’re a klutzy group of 9, 10, and 11 year old girls, winning matters to her as much as it does to Steinbrenner.

I walk to home base with my shoulders hunched over, wishing I could disappear. The stands are quiet. Everyone knows how hopeless I am at this. They’ve watched me strike out all season, and they’re just as embarrassed for me as I am for myself. I can feel their pity. I see it when I look over and see my Mom hugging her arms in front of her. She cringes when she tries to smile and gives me the most feeble thumbs-up I’ve ever seen.

As I get ready to bat, I try to remember everything Coach has told me. Plant your feet a little wider than shoulder width apart, keep your knees loose, stay relaxed. Check the opponents’ position.

The shortstop and second base are chatting. Right field is waving to someone in the stands. Third base is playing an invisible game of hopscotch. They know the ball’s not going anywhere. I know it, too. I’m just not any good at this, but I have to be here because of my grandfather’s funeral home. He says he sponsored the team for me, but I know he did it for the cheap publicity, and I have to stand out here and deal with the humiliation until it’s over.

Everything goes slow-mo as I watch the pitcher start her wind up. My hands shake as I grip the bat. I want so desperately to hit this ball. I want so desperately to prove to my team, to my grandfather, to myself, that I’m something more than a fat little pile of nothing.

I’ve daydreamed about hitting the game-winning home run, and my team carrying me around on their shoulders. I think about that now, and I want so desperately for that to happen, but I know it won’t. I hold my breath and feel sweat rolling down my back.

The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, and I watch it sailing straight toward me. I keep my eye on the ball and try not to wince, like Coach told me.

Without wanting to, I shut my eyes. I pull back on the bat and swing as hard as I can.

My eyes open, shocked by the feeling of the ball cracking against the bat.

Holy Mary, Mother of God!

I hit it!

Stunned, I stand there with my mouth hanging open.

“Run!” Coach Rockman screams, “RUN!” And I do, with all my might, I do.

Post a comment

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Thank you for reading my flash fiction. Please share any constructive criticism and feel free to let me know about any errors you find here. To read more flash fiction from a great group of writers, search #fridayflash on Twitter or visit Mad Utopia.

“Creative Writer” Blogger Award

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Thank you to Anne Tyler Lord at Don’t Fence Me In for bestowing on me the dubious distinction great honor of Lesa’s Bald Faced Liar “Creative Writer” Blogger Award. I certainly appreciate the award, but my natural cynicism curiosity begs the question, Who’s Lesa, and why is she annoying liars awarding writers? A quick google tells me Lesa is a Library Manager and book reviewer living in Arizona… quite possibly within a few minutes of where I live. Cool coincidence. She started the award on January 22, 2010. Her post can be found here: The Inaugural Lesa’s “Creative Writer” Award.

In accepting the award, there are some rules to follow. This is I hope going to be a fun exercise and a nice little break from the fiction slog. But,

First: The Rules:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you. [Thanks again, Anne!]
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.  [Done]
3. Link to the person who nominated you. [Done]
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth or six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie. [Coming up]
5. Nominate seven “Creative Writers” who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies and truths. [Stay tuned]
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate. [Working on it!]
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.  [I’m getting there, I’m getting there]

Second: Lies and/or Truths:

Here’s my list. I’d love to know which ones you think are which. After some comments, I’ll tell you which one is the truth. Or is that a lie?

  1. I worked as an extra in Woody Allen’s movie Sweet & Lowdown and was called back for a walk-on role in Small Time Crooks.
  2. I jumped off the back of a moving yacht to save my dog.
  3. When things were going bad in my marriage, I used to spit in my husband’s dinner before serving it.
  4. It took me seven and a half hours to run the NYC marathon.
  5. At 12 years old, I was so superstitious that I was petrified of turning 13.
  6. Security at a Las Vegas casino detained and questioned me for over an hour on suspicion of cheating.
  7. I order veal and give it a name whenever I go out to dinner with my vegetarian friends.

Now, it’s time to share the love and award this honor to seven more  “Creative Writers.”  Sorry, gang, but now’s your time to shine.  To accept the award all you have to do is follow the rules.

Third: And the Winners Are:

  1. Dennis Tafoya at Dennis Tafoya’s Bad Neighborhood
  2. David G. Shrock at Draco Torre
  3. Cathy Olliffe at Life on the Muskoka River
  4. CJ Hodges MacFarlane at Mostly Other Things
  5. Tim Van Sant at otoh
  6. Cecilia Dominic at Random Oenophile
  7. Deborah Szajngarten at DeborahShinegarden.com

Okay, here are some truths … honestly! This took some time to put together, but it really was a lot of fun! Thanks again to Anne Tyler Lord.

Flash Fiction: Just Like Her Mother

Posted on Posted in Fiction, Flash FictionTagged , , , , , 26 Comments

by Olivia Tejeda
Sunday mornings were special for Penny. It was the one day a week Julian didn’t rush off to work and they could spend time together. This Sunday was especially exciting. It was Valentine’s Day and she had plans.

Shortly after waking up, she took a deep breath and cuddled against Julian’s back, feeling his familiar warmth. He stirred slightly and she seized the opportunity.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dreamboat,” she whispered into his ear.

“Oh, that’s right,” he mumbled. It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember, Penny said, niggling him with her finger. He rolled his eyes, but was grateful for her trust. The truth was he hadn’t really remembered, not for her.

“I have a conn-fehh-shuuun,” Penny said, drawing out her sing-song statement.

She has a confession? Julian thought.

“Do you?” he said, forcing a smile and turning to face her in bed.

“Well, I didn’t want to spoil your surprise, but …” she said, stretching the short word into three syllables. “I stopped at the post office yesterday? To pick up the mail for you?” Her nervous habit of turning statements into questions infuriated Julian but his impatience was tempered by what she just told him. His smile froze as heat started prickling up his chest and neck, and his mind started running through the possibilities.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sweet Dumpling?” He feigned patience. “You know I like to go to the post office. I drove all the way over there yesterday, and didn’t even need to.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Daddykins” Penny said, deflated. “I was on that side of town, and I thought I’d do you a favor. But then I saw something I shouldn’t have, and I … I just didn’t know what to do.”

Julian’s heart stuttered. Why would she pick up the mail? He didn’t even remember giving her a key to the box. He kept calm and turned his smile into the glare that kept Penny in line. Penny stayed silent.

“Well, Gum Drop,” he said in that clenched-jaw way he had that allowed him to be menacing, but didn’t allow her to protest. The few times she did, he told her she was being overly-sensitive and ridiculous, just like her mother. “Are you going to tell me what you saw or are we going to play guessing games?”

“Oh, Cuddlebug,” Penny sighed. “I’ve upset you.” She looked at Julian with puppy eyes. “I guess I have to tell you now.”

She took a deep breath. “There was a little envelope from Pamela’s Floral Cottage in the mail. I thought it was just an old ad, so I opened it,” she glanced up at him, his handsome face was not so menacing now. Penny blinked a few times, looked down, and continued.

“I’m sure you know what I found and … and … Well, I just think you are the sweetest husband in the whole wide world to spend that kind of money on roses for my Valentine’s Day gift!” She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight.

“Well,” Julian breathed, relieved at having the moment to figure something out. “You’re the sweetest wife in the whole wide world, and you deserve them.”

“But listen, Sugar Cube,” he continued quietly. “Since you spoiled my big surprise. I think I should have a chance to get you something else.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that. I’d love to get those flowers. I’m sure they’ll be beautiful considering what you paid for them. And the invoice said two dozen red roses for delivery on February 14, so they’ll probably be here any minute!”

“But Angel Face, it is Valentine’s Day and you should have some kind of special surprise, so …”

Penny interrupted. “Well, my Prince Charming, when I was at Schneider’s Jewelers yesterday with my mom, I saw the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. I didn’t want to get it without asking you first, so we put it on lay-away and …” She looked at him again, batted her big browns and looked away.

“Don’t say another word,” Julian said, happy to be reminded that his wife was so naive.

The next day when Penny and her mother met at the mall, her mother saw the necklace right away.

“He went for it again,” her mother said.

“He sure did,” Penny smiled as she twisted the necklace around her finger. “He got me roses, too.” she said.

“That’s my girl.”

Penny leaned over and gave her mother a squeeze. “You’re the sweetest Mom in the whole wide world,” she said.

“Come on,” her mother smiled. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

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Thank you for reading my flash fiction. Please share any constructive criticism and feel free to let me know about any errors you find here. To read more flash fiction from a great group of writers, search #fridayflash on Twitter or visit Mad Utopia.

Flash Fiction: A Day’s Work

Posted on Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, WritingTagged , , , 21 Comments

by Olivia Tejeda

Last night my husband announced he wasn’t happy. No explanation, no discussion. He calmly packed a bag and ended our life.

I spent the night in a bombardment of confusion and pain. My marriage meant everything to me, it defined me and happily so. Now it’s over, and I am paralyzed by it. This morning I’m so lost I don’t even know how to begin the day. The activities that mattered before, don’t anymore. I need something that still feels real.

I don’t know what to do, but I know that I have to get out of this house where I have nothing and go someplace where I have something – anything but the loss of a life I believed in. I work a menial job, shelving books at a store, but my passion for books makes the work meaningful for me and now it feels like a lifeline.

Like a robot, I get ready for work, allowing myself to feel nothing but numb. I follow the route and realize as I pull into a parking spot that I don’t remember any of the drive. I was in a mindless trance, putting myself and everyone else on the road in danger, but I don’t care and even regret arriving safely.

As I walk into the store I get the strange but comforting sense that unlike my home life, everything at the store is the same. A co-worker greets me as always, but I hurry off before responding. I’m so raw that the simple kindness of her greeting breaks me and the tears come back stronger than last night.

Hiding in a bathroom stall, I’m doubled over and heaving with sobs that I try to keep quiet. I don’t want anyone to hear because I don’t want anyone to know. I’m deeply ashamed. I had complete faith in the security of my marriage. I thought it was stronger than any other marriage I’d ever seen. Now that it’s over, I’m humiliated by my arrogance.

I have no answers for all the questions I know my co-workers will have. They’re the same questions I would have had if this was happening to someone else. But it isn’t happening to someone else, it’s happening to me. Now I’m stuck crying in this bathroom stall.

What the hell made me think I could work today? How did I ruin my marriage? How can I live through this? But here I am at work, and I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go home, so I need to find the strength to get through this horrific day.

When I finally recover enough, I go to the stock room where there are no customers, and I can work in solitude. I unload boxes and drift between numbness, misery, rage, and fear. I have to go out to the sales floor at some point, but I do everything I can to delay it. I don’t want to lose control out there. At least in the back I am alone with my loss, and I don’t have to hide when it overtakes me again and again.

I can’t put it off any more, so I roll my cart out onto the floor and start shelving. Again, I get the strange sense that everything’s normal, and I hide behind that false comfort.

As I shelve books, customers stop with their usual questions: An author’s name, the latest bestseller, directions to the bathroom. Some part of me grabs onto those questions and hopes that maybe each time I take care of a customer, I’m doing a little bit to care of myself.

At the end of the work day I know my broken life is waiting for me. I don’t know how I’ll get through it, but at least I made it through this day. Even if my husband doesn’t need me anymore, my customers do and my books do, and I wonder if that will be enough.

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Thank you for reading my flash fiction. Please share any constructive criticism and feel free to let me know about any errors you find here. To read more flash fiction from a great group of writers, search #fridayflash on Twitter or visit Mad Utopia.

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© Olivia Tejeda and Liv Loves Lit, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Olivia Tejeda and Liv Loves Lit with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Flash Fiction: I, Zombie

Posted on Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, WritingTagged , , , 34 Comments

by Olivia Tejeda

Living dead. That’s what I am. A zombie. A corpse. It took me a while to realize it, but now that I know, it makes sense.

I try to pull myself out of this brain-dead stupor, but its allure is undeniable.  I’m seduced into surrender, and I let it bury me. I don’t know what time it is, or even what day. Something deep inside me wants to claw its way back to the surface and escape the pain, but I know it’s futile. I lie in the darkness, twitching and shivering.

Something was wrong. I ignored the foreboding and focused on everything else that needed my attention. Now I’m paying the price.

When I wake again, I want to get my bearings, but a hazy film crusts over my eyes, blurring everything into a jaundiced fog. Whatever’s left of my body twinges with pain. My joints feel too big for their crumbling sockets. I feel a deep ache in bones I never think about, my femur, my clavicle, my nasal concha. I hear groans and labored wheezing. A fire fills my nostrils and burns a path to my lungs as I gasp and realize it’s me. I’m making those disgusting snorting sounds. I think my nose has fallen off. Everything goes black.

Nightmares trap me in a leaden limbo filled with fear and anger. What’s happened to me? Who did this? I think of that Goth freak at Safeway. She had a zombie look, and she was standing so close I could feel her tainted breath. I bet she put this voodoo whammy on me when she saw me staring. I didn’t mean to stare, but I’ve never seen so much metal in one face before. Is that what my zombie future holds? Is that what I’ll become?

My pulse flutters, and I try to move again. I strain to shift my legs off this suffocating slab, but their dead weight exhausts me before I make any progress. What remains of my will to live begins to decompose. More shivering. More pain. More darkness.

A tiny crack of light wakes me and slowly widens until I’m squinting into its brightness. I sense that my misery is reaching its end. My salvation is near, or my damnation, I don’t care which anymore.

An astral image looms closer until it’s shadow overtakes me. I see it reaching toward me. I can’t move away. I give up and wait for its touch to end my suffering.

A hand rests gently across my forehead.

“Your temp’s back,” my husband whispers.

‘”Huh?” I grunt.

“This flu is kicking your butt. You want more Dayquil?”

“Dot yet,” I slobber, grateful for the attention, “but I deed more tissue.”

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Thank you for reading my flash fiction. Please share any constructive criticism and feel free to let me know about any errors you find here. To read more flash fiction from a great group of writers, search #fridayflash on Twitter or visit Mad Utopia.

________

© Olivia Tejeda and Liv Loves Lit, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Olivia Tejeda and Liv Loves Lit with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.