Friday, July 4, 2014

July 2014 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter


Welcome to the July issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts and part four of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker and a look at Neil Simon, a prolific American playwright and screenwriter with 30 plays and nearly as many screenplays to his credit.

July Writing Prompts


Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story. 

1.  I was awakened by the neighbors' barking dog at 3 A.M. to find my husband prowling around the trees in that same neighbors' back yard.


2.  "You will pay for that, Missy," my boss, known throughout the company as Crazy Judy, shouted as she stomped up the stairs to the company President's office.


3.  Old Mr. Williams stumbled down the sidewalk mumbling to himself and carrying a canvas tote bag.


Very Short Fiction Contest


Glimmer Train magazine is hosting a Very Short Fiction contest here . 

1st place $1,500 & publication in Issue 95. Deadline: 7/31.


Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $500/$300, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700.


Open to all writers, this category welcomes stories up to 3000 words.Reading fee is $15 per story. Please, no more than three submissions per category.


Guidelines are here.


Winners and finalists will be announced in the October 1 bulletin, and finalists will be contacted directly the week before.



Sisters Part 4

by Jamie Baker


Mikes whining outside my door pulled me to the surface for a few seconds.  The light outside the window was dim and grey.  I heard my dad telling Mike to be quiet and then I sunk back down again. When I woke up again, my alarm clock said it was almost 11.  Barefoot, I slipped down the hallway to the kitchen, passing my brothers who were both asleep on the living room floor.  Dad was sacked out on the couch. 

Mom was at the kitchen table, her cigarettes, ashtray and coffee cup assembled on the placemat.  She was still in her pajamas, one slipper dangling from her crossed leg, the morning paper hiding her face.  She always got the Tribune, the city paper, no matter where we lived, even like now, 20 miles outside of the city.  And she read it every day, though I don’t know why.  She never went to any public meetings, not even the PTA.  She didn’t vote.  She wasn’t interested in sports.  She never commented on the police blotter, or the war or the protests, not even Ann Landers, and I never heard her laugh at the comics.

If asked, I guess she might say she needed the paper so she could check out the sales, but that wasn’t true.  She only shopped at May Fair, never A&P or Safeway,  and she always bought the same stuff, on sale or not, Starkist tuna, Chef Boy R De raviolis, Campbell soups, Scott paper products.  And her Winstons and the half-and-half for her coffee, always Folgers.

I drank some orange juice, waiting for mom to say something.  The silence made me feel bad, so after I rinsed my glass and put it in the dish drainer, I went back to bed and read my history book until I fell asleep again.

In the afternoon I went outside and stood around by the pool, watching grey clouds rolls across the water.  Lots of dead bugs and leaves floated along the pool’s edges, so I took down the pool net that hangs on the side of the pool shed and started scooping out the junk. 

I had 2 small piles of debris on the deck when pony-tail guy showed up.  He had on the same grungy jeans as last night, but the t-shirt under his jean jacket was different and his hair hung straight to his shoulder instead of being held back by a rubber band. 

“Hey,” he said, “didn’t I meet you last night?” and he thumbed over his shoulder towards Ginger and Marci’s apartment.

“Yeah, I was at their party.”

“Carol, right?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me your name.”

“Roy Brown,” pulling a pack of Camels out his jacket pocket and pointing it at me.  I shook my head.

“My friends call me Reno,” lighting a cigarette with a silver Zippo.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I’m from,” blowing smoke up where it faded into the grey sky.

“I’ve got my van out in the parking lot.  We could go out there and get it on.”
“Get what on?”

He laughed with a snort, smoke spurting from his nostrils.
“You need schooling.  Get it on, ball, have sex.”

“I’m only 14.”

“So, that’s not too young, as long as it’s consensual.  You know what that means, right?  That you give you’re willing, that you want to do it.”

I couldn’t look at him, just kept scooping dead bugs out of the pool.
 
“What’s the matter?  Are you afraid? You’ve never done it have you?” flicking his cigarette into the pool, where it hit the water with a small hiss. 

“I can make your first time really good, believe me.”

“No thanks,” I said, fishing the cigarette butt out of the water.

“Why not, you’re gonna do it sooner or later.  May as well be now, with someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“Hey, that’s not a problem.  That’s why I take a pill every day, I don’t want any little Renos running around.”

I knew girls could take birth control pills, but could guys?  I never heard of that before.  The sound of a door shutting echoed across the pool and I looked up to see Ginger walking towards us.

“Hey, Carol.  Roy, what BS are you spewing now?”

“Just doing little educating.  Knowledge is power, right?”

“Carol,” it was my dad calling from the open door of the apartment.  “Come up here please.”

Ginger took the pool net from me, “See you later.”

Dad was taking the boys out to play miniature golf and eat dinner to give Mom a break.  I could go if I wanted, but I said no, I’d rather stay home.

“Who were talking with down at the pool?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know, just some people who live here I guess.”

“Well, they looked hippies, like real low lifes.    Not the kind of people you want to associate with.  You can make better friends than that.”

A Look at Neil Simon


Born  July 4, 1927, playwright and screenwriter Neil Simon grew up during the great depression in The Bronx, New York.  He has written over thirty plays and nearly the same number of movie screenplays, most adapted from his plays. He has received more Oscar and Tony nominations than any other writer.

Simon's childhood was difficult and mostly unhappy due to his parents' "tempestuous marriage", and ongoing financial hardship caused by the Depression.  

With his parents' financial hardships affecting their marriage, and giving him a mostly unhappy and unstable childhood, he often took refuge in movie theaters where he enjoyed watching the early comedians like Charlie Chaplin, which inspired him to become a comedy writer.  

His father often abandoned the family for months at a time, causing them further financial and emotional hardship. As a result, Simon and his brother Danny were sometimes forced to live with relatives, or else their parents took in boarders for some income. Simon recalls this period:  "The horror of those years was that I didn't come from one broken home but five. It got so bad at one point that we took in a couple of butchers who paid their rent in lamb chops."

During an interview with writer Lawrence Grobel, Simon stated: "To this day I never really knew what the reason for all the fights and battles were about between the two of them.... She'd hate him and be very angry, but he would come back and she would take him back. She really loved him."   Simon points out that one of the reasons he became a writer was his need to be independent of such family concerns when growing up.

"It's partly why I became a writer, because I learned to fend for myself very early. . . . I began to think early on, at the age of seven or eight, that I'd better start taking care of myself somehow, emotionally.... It made me strong as an independent person."

I think part of what made me a comedy writer is the blocking out of some of the really ugly, painful things in my childhood and covering it up with a humorous attitude.... do something to laugh until I was able to forget what was hurting.

Simon attributes childhood movies for inspiring him to some day write comedy: "I wanted to make a whole audience fall onto the floor, writhing and laughing so hard that some of them pass out."  In referring to Chaplin's influence, Simon noted that it was his "appreciation of Chaplin's ability to make people laugh that was the only thing that I saw in the future for myself as a connection with people. I was never going to be an athlete or a doctor."

At the age of fifteen, Simon and his brother created a series of comedy sketches for employees at an annual department store event. During these high-school 

years, he also enjoyed reading humor by Mark Twain, Robert Benchley, George S. Kaufman and S. J. Perelman. Simon recalls: "I read humorists... I read all the adventure stories... I was at the library three days a week as a kid. I read everything, I think, except the classics—which I'm going to get to one day."

After a few years in the Army Air Force Reserve, he began writing comedy scripts for radio and some popular early television shows. Among them were The Phil Silvers Show and Sid Caesar's Your Show of Shows in 1950, where he worked alongside other young writers including Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks and Selma Diamond.

He began writing his own plays beginning with Come Blow Your Horn in 1961, which took him three years to complete and ran for 678 performances on 
Broadway. It was followed by two more successful plays, Barefoot in the Park in 1963 and The Odd Couple in 1965, for which he won a Tony Award, making him a national celebrity and "the hottest new playwright on Broadway."  

His style ranged from romantic comedy to farce to more serious dramatic comedy. Overall, he has garnered seventeen Tony nominations and won three. During one season, he had four successful plays showing on Broadway at the same time, and in 1983 became the only living playwright to have a New York theatre, the Neil Simon Theatre, named in his honor. During the time between the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, he wrote both original screenplays and stage plays, with some films actually based on his plays.

After winning the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 1991 for Lost in Yonkers, critics began to take notice of the depths, complexity and issues of universal interest in his stories, which expressed serious concerns of most average people. His comedies were based around subjects such as marital conflict, infidelity, sibling rivalry, adolescence, and fear of aging. 

Most of his plays were also partly autobiographical, portraying his troubled childhood and different stages of his life, creating characters who were typically New Yorkers and often Jewish, like himself. Simon's facility with dialogue gives his stories a rare blend of realism, humor and seriousness which audiences find easy to identify with.

Theater critic John Lahr describes Simon's primary theme as being about "the silent majority", many of whom are "frustrated, edgy, and insecure". Simon's 
characters are also portrayed as "likable" and easy for audiences to identify with, often having difficult relationships in marriage, friendship or business, as they "struggle to find a sense of belonging".  

And Finally...


We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to Colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.


If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email Colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.



Sunday, June 1, 2014

June 2014 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter


Welcome to the June issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts, part three of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker, contest information and a very short story I wrote several years ago. We hope you enjoy this issue.

June Writing Prompts


Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story. 
( I found a couple of really fun prompts at the Warren Wilson College website)

1.  Create a story using words of one-syllable only, beginning with a phrase such as:

    "The last time I saw her, she...”

    “From the back of the truck...”

    “On the night of the full moon...”

    “The one thing I know for sure…”

    2.  Create a short story that is 26 sentences long, each sentence beginning with the next letter of the alphabet. 

    (Add other, arbitrary conditions, if desired, such as one sentence should be one-word long; there should be one question mark, one quotation, etc.) Rigid rules often produce fascinating results—such as with well-written sonnets, which have 14 lines and tight rhyme schemes, each line governed by a specific number of syllables and alternating stressed and unstressed syllables.

    3.  Describe a routine or holiday ritual, using the 2nd person “you”:

    For example, “You stand in the steaming kitchen with people you haven’t seen in almost a year. You wish your shirt didn’t have that tiny stain on the cuff. You wish your aunt’s laugh wasn’t quite so brittle. Feet stomp on the porch and you hurry to let your tall uncle in, forgetting to keep the dog from escaping outside…”


    Glimmer Train Writing Contest


    Glimmer Train Magazine's Upcoming deadline: 

    Fiction Open. 1st Place: $2,500, and publication in Issue 95. Deadline: 6/30.

    This category is our most "open"—all writers, all subjects, all themes, and just about any lengths are welcome!

    Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $1,000/$600, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700. Winners and finalists will be announced in the September bulletin, and contacted directly the previous week.

    Most submissions to this category run 2,000 - 8,000 words, but can be as long as 20,000. Please, no more than three submissions per person.

    FICTION OPEN guidelines:

    Open to all subjects, all themes, and all writers.
    Most entries run from 2,000 to 8,000 words, but stories from 2,000 to 20,000 words are fine.
    Held twice a year. Open to submissions in JUNE and DECEMBER.

    Next deadline: June 30*

    Winners are announced in the September 1 and March 1 bulletins, respectively, and contacted directly one week earlier.
    Reading fee: $19 per story. Please no more than three submissions per contest.

    Prizes:

    1st place wins $2,500, publication in Glimmer Train Stories, and 20 copies of that issue.
    2nd place wins $1,000 (and 10 copies, if accepted for publication).
    3rd place wins $600 (or, if accepted for publication, $700 and 10 copies).
    Please make your submissions at Glimmer Train's online submission site. We look forward to reading your work!

    * There is always a one-week grace period.


    Sisters, Part 3
    by Jamie Baker


    New Year’s eve day dragged like it was 100 hours long.  Dad slept most of the day.  Mom was tense and  reminded me 100 times that she was expecting me to take care of my brothers while she and dad were out for the night.  Like I never baby sat them before.  Like I wasn’t responsible. 

    “This is my only night out in months.  I don’t want to have to worry about you all night long.”  She said this, or something like it, about every 20 minutes. 

    By dinner time, she had made me so nervous, I couldn’t eat.  I pushed the food around on my plate.  The bites I did take turned to paste in my mouth from all the chewing and I could hardly swallow them.

    “Why aren’t you eating?”  This from Dad.  “You’re mother cooked this great stew and you’re turning your nose up at it?”

    “Don’t tell me you’re getting sick.  That would be just like you.  Get sick when I have a chance to go out for a change.”  Mom said.

    “I get her dessert if she doesn’t eat.”  This from Jeff, which started an argument with Mike over who was going to get extra dessert.  One good thing about all my brothers’ squabbling, it usually took the focus off me.
     
    While my parents got ready for their big night out, I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, stretching it out as long as possible.  Finally they were ready.  They gave us another lecture about behaving and where they could be reached if there was an emergency and to call the apartment manager if we needed help.  When the door finally clicked closed behind them, I stripped the beds, put on clean sheets and headed out the door with a laundry basket full of not-very dirty sheets and a pocket full of quarters. I told my brothers I was going to the laundry room.

    “Don’t burn the place down or blow up the TV again.”  They made faces at me in response.

    From the laundry room, I could look right into Ginger and Marci’s apartment.  The curtains were open and I could see Ginger standing in the middle of the living room talking to a guy with a pony tail.  When he put a cigarette in his mouth, she leaned forward with her Zippo and lit it for him.  Then they both laughed, though I could only see them laughing, not hear them.  I was nervous about going over there.  Ginger had invited me, but I hadn’t seen her for over a week.  Maybe by now, she’d forgotten she’d invited me.  Or changed her mind. 

    I was putting the wet sheets into the dryer when the laundry room door opened.

    “Jesus, it’s cold out there.  Hey, you’d rather do laundry than party with me?”
    It was Ginger.

    I made some dumb excuse about coming over as soon as I checked on my brothers.

    “Merry Christmas and Happy New Years, by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she ran back across the courtyard.   “Hurry up and get over here.”

    “Hey, kid, you want some of this rum in that coke?”  I was standing in the kitchen, the guy with the pony tail was pointed a bottle at me.

    “My name’s Carol and no thanks.”

    “Whatever,” he said and went back to lean against the wall near the front door.  I was in the kitchen because the living room was filled with people, most of them a few years older than me, some of them a lot older.  They were packed onto the old sofa, draped across the overstuffed chairs, and a gaggle of skinny, long-haired hippie girls sat cross-legged on the floor.  The air was hazy with smoke and the trash can in the kitchen overflowed with beer cans.  I hadn’t seen Ginger or Marci in a while.  The bedroom door was closed but every few minutes someone would come out and someone else would unfold from whatever seat they had and disappear into the bedroom.

    The radio was tuned to a station I hadn’t heard before.  The music was rock and roll and I didn’t know any of the songs.  The music was hard to hear over all the different conversations that were going on.  Every few minutes the guy with the pony tail would turn the volume up and one of the girls on the floor would get up and turn it back down.

    It was turned down pretty low when I heard the knock on the front door.   Leaning across the counter I could see out the window over the kitchen sink.  The person knocking was the apartment manager.  I bolted from the kitchen, right into the bedroom. 

    “What’s happening, Carol.” Ginger was sitting on top of the dresser.
    “The apartment manager’s at the front door.  She can’t know I’m here.  She’ll tell my parents.”

    “Stay in here.  I’ll handle it.”

    Ginger went out, closing the door behind her.

    “Marci, quit bogarting that joint,” a guy with really short hair said, “you already had 2 hits, pass it this way.”

    After he’d taken a couple of deep drags he passed it to me.

    “Don’t hit it too hard, it’s pretty harsh,” he choked at me, trying to hold in the smoke while he talked.

    I’d smoked a few cigarettes, but nothing else.  I didn’t even know a marijuana cigarette was called a joint.  I took a small puff, held it in and passed the joint back to Marci. 

    “I’m ripped, no more for me.  You guys finish it,” she said and flopped back on the bed.

    “Take another hit,” the guy with the crew cut said to me, “I’m Richie and if you’re wondering why I have this convict haircut, I’m in the army.”

    “I’m Carol.  What’s that like?” I asked after inhaling another small drag.  This time it burned down into my lungs and I coughed. 

    “Told you, it’s some harsh shit.  The army?  Mostly it’s bullshit, but I’ve got 20 more months to go, so I’m trying to be flexible and just go with the flow.”

    “Were you drafted?”

    “Not exactly.  I was given a choice, army or jail.  The army seemed like the better choice.  And it’s working out ok so far, I’m getting some pretty good pot, pretty cheap too.”

    I took another hit on the joint and managed to tamp down the cough that wanted to burst out of me.
     
    “Will you go to Viet Nam?”

    “If I do, I’ll be screwed, but maybe I’ll get lucky and get sent to Korea,” he pinched the butt end of the joint, took the last drag and then popped the thing in his mouth and swallowed it, “or maybe Germany.”

    “Why was the other choice jail?”

    Richie stretched out on his stomach on the bed and pulled a cigar box out from under one of the pillows.  Inside was a pile of dry, herb-like stuff and Richie started crumbling it apart.

    “I got pulled over for a busted tail light and the cop found my stash.”  He sprinkled a row of the herb across a cigarette paper, kicked the edge and used his thumbs to roll the new joint against his fingers.
     
    “I got caught shop lifting when I was a juvenile, so the judge said army or jail.  What a jerk, like he really believed that offering me the army was some kind of gift.  But hey, as long as I don’t get my ass shot off, it could be a gift.  After all, I could be visiting foreign lands, meeting interesting people and killing them before they kill me.”

    He was handing me the lit joint when Ginger banged the door open, laughing loudly as she stumbled in, bringing the pony-tail guy with her.

    “What did she want, Ginger?  What did she say?”

    “Who?” Ginger pulled the joint from my fingers with a puzzled look.

    “Mrs.  Duncan, that’s who.  Did she say everybody had to leave?”

    “No, she didn’t even realize we were having a party.  But somebody parked their car in a tenant space.  BFD, right?”

    “Whose car was it?” asked Richie.

    “Havisto’s.  And guess what?  He was passed out in the back seat.”

    “Couldn’t even make it to midnight, huh?” pony-tail guy said.

    “He just moaned a little when I frisked him for the keys.  I parked him down the street aways.”

    A while later, I heard the people in the living room doing the count down to mid night.  Pony-tail guy, Richie, Ginger and I were still in the bedroom, smoking cigarettes and pot.  Marci was asleep.  When the count got to zero, Richie kissed me on the cheek, while pony-tail guy and Ginger kissed on the lips.  Then Ginger turned to me and gave me a long kiss on the mouth.

    “Happy new year Carol.  You’ve been initiated.”  I didn’t know if she meant the kiss or the pot.

     Not long after that, I went over to the laundry room and got the basket of neatly folded sheets and let myself into our apartment.  My brothers were still asleep on the living room floor, just as they had been when I’d checked on them 2 hours ago.  I turned off the television, left the basket of laundry on the kitchen table so my mom could see I’d been making myself useful and went to bed. 


    Curled between the clean, cold sheets, I thought about the party.  I could still smell the weird pot smell, I think it was caught in my hair.  I thought about the skinny hippie girls, bare foot and braless, and Richie.  Would he go to the war?  I forgot to ask him what his army job was.   I wondered if I would ever see him again, if this was the last party he would ever go to.  I thought about Ginger kissing me on the mouth.  That was weird, sort of.   I was almost asleep when I heard my parents in the living room getting my brothers, but I was asleep by the time Mom came down the hall and opened my door to check on me. 

    9-1-1

    A Short Story
    by
    Colleen Weikel


                Sunlight filtered through the grimy window to cast a dim gray eye on the chipped Formica table.  The aroma of perking coffee mingled with the stench of the overflowing contents of a long-neglected trash can and floated under the door of Cal’s apartment, joining similar noxious odors from the other apartments in the crumbling relic of brick that contained others such as my old friend.  They had all given up on life at some point for reasons known only to them. 

                I couldn’t understand what would cause people to abandon their hopes and dreams, their families and friends, but I know that whatever the scenario, it had to have been a catastrophic moment that had crushed the spirit of each of these defeated creatures who go through the motions of living each day, hoping that each day would be their last.

                I stood in the hallway. Hands jammed into the pockets of my leather jacket, toying with thoughts of going back home without visiting Cal.  He wouldn’t know the difference.  He wasn’t expecting me, and he didn’t pay much attention to me when I had stopped to see him on other occasions.

                It wasn’t this place filled with smells of hopelessness and failure that made me desperate to turn and run, but the thought of Cal himself.  His dull gray hair, cloudy blue eyes and wrinkled skin made him look ancient, even though he was 2 years younger than I.

                None of the guys at the station knew exactly what had happened to Cal, but we were all sure that it had something to do with Jim Kingman’s death.  Cal’s sudden decline began the moment that we determined that the 9-1-1 call was not for Jim’s wife, but for Jim himself.  And we were too late.  

                If we’d gotten there just 10 minutes sooner…  But we hadn’t, and Jim was still dead, and Cal was still bat shit crazy, existing in this hovel, wearing the same clothing for weeks on end, not bathing, and only leaving his filthy digs when he ran out of cheap booze or cigars.

                I didn’t knock.  He wouldn’t answer anyway.  I pushed open the door and sat down across from him at the table.  He didn’t acknowledge me, but sat watching a small brown mouse nibble at the edge of a cracker that had been crushed underfoot some time earlier.

                “Hey Buddy!” I smiled at him.  He reeked of old whiskey, sweat and stale cigar smoke.  He looked up at me, then back at the mouse.  He creaked audibly when he stood, like some rusted erector-set toy robot, and lumbered over to the mouse and crushed it beneath the heel of his thick soled boot.

                “Just like Jim,” he muttered.  “Just like Jim.”  I couldn’t answer him.  Hell, I didn’t even know what he was talking about.

    I watched as he scooped up the tiny corpse and tossed it onto the top layer of the trash in the bin.
     “Why is that little mouse just like Jim?”  I asked.  Cal turned quickly, looking me in the eye for the first time in a long time.  He picked an empty whiskey bottle out of the trash can and darted across the room with the bottle raised above his head.

    I ducked just in time to avoid injury.  Cal grabbed his heavy coffee mug from the table and lobbed it at me.  I heard it hit the door and shatter just as I closed it behind me.  That was the last time I ever visited Cal.

     A week later I saw his obituary in the newspaper.  Cal had committed suicide.   He had put a bullet in his chest.  He left a note that only said 'Just like Jim'.

    And Finally...


    We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to colleen at: colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.



    If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.

    Saturday, May 3, 2014

    May 2014 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter


    Welcome to the May issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts, part two of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker. We hope you enjoy this issue.


    May Writing Prompts
    (courtesy of Writers Digest)


    Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story. 


    1.   You wake up one morning to find that you are your three year old self, with your parents again, with all of the memories and experiences of your current life.

    2.  Your computer won’t shut down when you are getting ready to leave work at five. Instead, it is looping a message, and then attempts to tell you something. What is your computer doing?

    3.  Daydreaming on your way to work, you get into a car accident. Frustrated because you will be late for an important meeting, you curse and yell as you get out of the car. When you go to confront the other driver, you find out it is your boss.



    Target character and conflict with a handy checklist

    From The Writer magazine

    To write a compelling story, you must thwart your character's desire. These questions will keep you on the right track.
    By Gregory Martin | Published: December 29, 2009


    Your character wants something badly. Your reader wants your character to get what he wants. Your job is to disappoint both of them.
    Ironic? Sure. Narratives are driven by desire: 1) the character’s desire, 2) the reader’s desire that the character succeeds, or at least, the reader’s desire to see what happens to all this yearning, and 3) the author’s desire to thwart both the character and the reader.
    It’s this thwarting of desire that beginning writers need to cultivate. It doesn’t come naturally. Far too often, writers are unwilling to let their characters make mistakes and get themselves into trouble that has both cost and consequence for which the story holds them accountable. In stories with this kind of trouble, the protagonists are too passive, too coddled by their author, to make the kind of graceless mistakes born of the yearning and desperation that create good fiction.
    You, the writer, can be as poised as you want, act with aplomb, reserve, tact, polish. But your characters can’t. Your task is to put your characters in true dilemmas, where they make hard choices and don’t always make good decisions. These situations, and these choices, ought to be open to the reader’s moral imagination, allowing the reader to participate in the life of the story—so that the reader has to ask: What would I do?
    The following checklist is a craft guide to characterization and conflict. It’s not a crutch or simple remedy. It’s asking a lot of you and your story. It should make you feel slightly despairing. It’s designed to help your draft become more of a story, less a rough assemblage of unsuspenseful, incoherent narrative-ish moments.
    The checklist is also a form of triage. It helps you to focus on necessary elements, without which your draft is not a story. The movement from an early draft to a middle draft is predicated entirely on focusing on major flaws. Your job is to stop the bleeding where the bleeding is most profuse. Don’t worry about hangnails. Too many beginning writers think that tinkering around with syntax and punctuation constitutes revision. Not at the early stages it doesn’t. Steven Koch, in his great book The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop, says, “Don’t polish a mess.”
    Some students find applying a rubric like this “constraining”; they feel less intuitive and spontaneous. It’ssupposed to feel constraining. Form is a container, a constrainer; it gives shape to what was amorphous and lacking. You need it because your intuition and spontaneity are not enough to render meaning to readers.
    1. What is your character’s ground situation? The ground situation, according to John Barth, is the unstable but static (tense but unchanging) situation prior to whatever comes along and kicks the story into gear.
    2. What does your character want?
    3. Why? What are your characters’ motivations? Why do they want what they want? Often this is related in some meaningful way to the answer to question No. 4.
    4. What is your character’s problem—rooted not in the situation but in the character? Put another way: What is your character’s existential dilemma? Dumbo’s problem is not his big ears. His problem is how he feels about his ears.
    5. What’s in the way of your character getting what he or she wants?
    6. What happens to make this static situation dynamic? I sometimes call this the story’s trigger. Things were like this and this, and then one day … a wig turned up in the garbage … a blind man came to spend the night.
    7. How does this trigger change the nature of the ground situation? How does this trigger present new obstacles that weren’t there before?
    8. Are these obstacles formidable? How? (Each one needs to be formidable.)
    9. Is there complication or rising action? Are these obstacles of a different kind? (They can’t just be, in essence, the same obstacle but in a sequence.)
    10. How is the story a record of choices? Are these choices true dilemmas, open to the reader’s moral imagination?
    11. Describe your character’s reversal. In order for your story to be a story, your character must, in some way, change. No one grabs your collar and says, “You’ve got to listen to what happened to me. After this happened, I was the same as I was before.” That’s not a story.
    12. How is this reversal both related to a) action—to something that happens in the story —and b) a choice the character made, and how is it related to some kind of c) recognition on her part?
    13. Do your characters get what they want? They shouldn’t, at least not in some meaningful way.
    Are these questions hard to answer without first having a draft finished—without a beginning, middle and ending? Yes, so write your draft first. How do you write something that has a beginning, middle and end, without first knowing all the subtle, profound complexities? Here’s how. Write down the basic sequence of events. This happened. And then this happened. And then this happened. And then this happened. Until you’re done.
    Then, apply the checklist. Revise accordingly. Then, go back and make it subtle and profound.
    Gregory Martin is the author of the memoir Mountain City, which was named a New York Times Notable Book. He teaches at the University of New Mexico. This article first appeared in The New Writer’s Handbook 2007: A Practical Anthology of Best Advice for Your Craft and Career, edited by Philip Martin, from Scarletta Press.



    Sisters, Part 2
    by Jamie Baker

    Christmas day was both better and worse than a normal day.  My mom is really big on tradition and doing things the right way, which usually means her way.   My first brother, Jeff, was born when I was five and at his first Christmas, mom decided that we would always open our presents on Christmas morning and I should be the one to pass them around.  That tradition lasts until my other brother, Mike, came along four years after Jeff.  At the next Christmas Jeff pestered to be allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve.  So the now the tradition is, everybody gets to pick one present to open the night before, and I pass all the rest the next morning.

    My brothers woke me up while it was still dark, Jeff whispering in my ear to wake up while Mike switched the ceiling light on and off.  So that was the beginning of the bad part of the day.  I made it worse by screaming at them to get out of my room.  My alarm clock said it was only 5 o’clock.  Then I heard mom and dad’s bedroom door open.  Mike flipped the switch, the room went dark again, and they ran into each other, tripping and fighting each other, trying to get back into their own room.  I heard dad’s slippers slapping past my room and I went back to sleep.

    It seemed like it was only five minutes before they were back again, but the light was coming in from the window and my clock said 7 o’clock, so I got up.  Mom and dad were in the kitchen, making coffee and pouring the orange juice.  We always ate breakfast after the presents were opened, so we took our cups and glasses in to the living room and I started reading the tags and passing out the presents.  I also make sure everyone has one and wait while those are opened and fussed over before I pass out the next batch.  I tried to stretch out the best part of the day, but it was all over by 9 o’clock.  My brothers ruined breakfast by trying to steal each other’s French toast and Mike knocked over Jeff’s milk.  That really set my mom off.   Things got worse in the afternoon, when they started bouncing on the couch to launch themselves across the room.  Jeff bounced in the wrong direction, banging into the TV, knocking off of its stand.  The picture tube broke with a sound like a thousand light bulbs smashing.  Then the Christmas tree fell over. 

    The next few days dragged by.  The library was closed all week.  I did laundry whenever there was enough for a load.  I checked Ginger and Marci’s plants.  I rode my bike over to the school, but that was sad and stupid.  Why would I miss a place that I hated so much?  One of my Christmas presents was a new record player to replace the one that Mike had dropped over the railing, watching it blast apart on the concrete yard.  I had a few records that I played in my room, but if I turned up the volume loud enough to matter, mom banged on the door and screamed at me to turn off that blatty music.  Whatever blatty is.  Then it got really cold and rained for two days straight, so I was stuck in the house.  So were my brothers and with no TV they were worse than ever.  I finally stuffed my ears with cotton and resorted to doing school work.

    The day before Ginger and Marci were supposed to come back, dad asked me if I wanted to go to a store with him.  The boys starting screaming that they wanted to go too, but dad said no.  In the car, I asked dad why we’re going shopping when we just got a bunch of socks and stuff for Christmas.  He said it was a surprise.  He took the freeway into Oakland and we went to a big discount furniture store and he bought a new TV.   Then we went to Woolworth’s and ate hot dogs.  It was kind of fun.  I think we were both sad to go back home, back to the music hater and the TV destroyers.

    An even better part of the day was that night at dinner.  The boys were quiet for once, their mouths full of mashed potatoes and baked ham, when mom made the big announcement.

    “Tomorrow night is New Year’s Eve.  Your father and I are going out for the evening.  We deserve a night out.”

    Jeff opened his mouth, gluey with potatoes, but dad cut him off. 

    “No. The night is just for your mother and me.  Carol, you’ll be in charge.  We’ll leave phone numbers where we can be reached and Mrs. Duncan, the apartment manager, knows we’ll be out.  She said she’d check on you and you can call her if you have any problems.”

    I almost cheered. My parents hadn’t been out for a long time, not since dad got laid off, so I was glad for them.  My parents having a night out, plus the new TV on top of all the Christmas stuff, made me think things were getting back to normal.  Even better, I’d been worrying about how I was going to get out of the house for Ginger and Marci’s party.  Mom would never let me go if she knew about it, but since she wouldn’t be here, she wouldn’t know.   I’d still be sneaking, but at least it would be easier.

     (to be continued in the June issue)

    Writing Advice, Templates, etc.


    Throughout the month I receive a lot of emails, newsletters, etc. regarding writing and I keep them in order to pass them along in the hope that someone reading this newsletter will find them helpful or at least interesting.  This is a list of websites that you may find helpful in your writing:

    8 MS Word Templates That Help You Brainstorm & Mind Map Your Ideas Quickly:

    GET ME WRITING
    Get it finished, Get it published (eventually), but most of all, Get Writing:

    How to Write a Children's Story
    Sample Children's Stories, Writing Your Own Children's Story:

    How to Write a Short Story
    Sample Short StoryWriting a Short StoryEditing a Short Story:

    Manuscript and Cover Letter Formatting for Short Story Submissions:

    Proper Manuscript Format, Short Story Format (includes a free plagiarism checker):

    Write Your Ass Off
    Because sometimes, you just need a kick in the pants:

    And Finally...


    We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to colleen at: colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.



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