Publication Alert: "Something"

Dear Reader,

No, the title is not a joke. "Something" is really the name of my newly published piece.

I was delighted to have this little flash fiction piece picked up by Cheat River Review, a lovely journal run by the MFA program at West Virginia University. You can view my piece here.

About the Work:

I consider this piece as proof of my conviction that intimate conversation fuels creativity. I was working on a series of experimental forms for a Writing Fiction class. After playing around with condensed prose, parables, and strategic conceits, I had only the flash fiction form left (also known as micro-fiction or a short-short), which essentially means an extremely short story. Having never written a story without all the usual elements of plot, I found myself suffering from severe writer's block with this assignment. At dinner with some college friends, I lamented to a buddy of mine about my futile attempts to start and start over this project, to which he perked up and replied, "I know who you should talk to."

Ken (name changed for privacy) is a mutual friend known among our school's music students for three things: his dry sense of humor, his insane sax skills, and his habit of having crazy things happen to him. When he told me one of his ridiculous experiences at dinner that night, the wheels in my head turned madly. As soon as I finished eating, I rushed to a computer lab and typed up an off-shoot of his story (taking creative license, of course) in about 45 minutes. For someone who usually takes half-a-day to write the first words of a story, that kind of inspired drive is refreshingly thrilling -- that excitement is what writers live for.

Moral of the tale: converse with others often. You have no idea what amazing stories they have to share.

In other news, I am happy to say that I wrote my first decent poem in months yesterday while recovering from a cold. It's been a slow process, but with more reading and hard work, my writing confidence is gradually coming back. Hurrah writing!

Grace and peace to you.

Publications and Goings-On

Dear Reader,

You are beautiful and kind for your patience as the old soul in me gets used to keeping up with this befuddlement called the Internet. As evidenced by my creation and consequent neglect of a Twitter account (God help me, I succumbed), maintaining a reliable presence on social media is a skill I have yet to master. (Seriously, how do I not bore you with random 140-character spats throughout the day?) However, I am determined, and hope that with more practice I can improve.

My recent absence on this blog, however, is not due to inactivity. On the contrary -- I am happy to inform you that my writing life has been rather busy in the past few weeks.

First, I have two exciting publication announcements. I was recently informed that a flash fiction piece of mine has been accepted for publication at a national journal. That should be out in April, so I will be sure to provide a more formal update when that appears.

Secondly, after a lovely Spring Break in sunny Southern California, I came home pleasantly surprised to find that one of my pending publications had now been sent to me in print. My short story, "Big Things," is now available in the current volume of The Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, an international journal featuring the creative works of chapter members of the Sigma Tau Delta English Honors Society. As far as undergraduate-level publications go, this is huge; my understanding is that I'm one out of only two or three students from my college who has ever been printed in STDR. I am deeply humbled, then, to have my little story (one of my best, I think) published by such a distinguished journal.

You can view the story via PDF online (page 116) here.

Third piece of news: two days ago I returned from my first Sigma Tau Delta International Convention, held this year in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I have to admit, I truly loved this trip -- all day, every day, the convention offered numerous student readings, round-table discussions, featured speakers, and all-around geekiness to satisfy any English-loving heart. I was elated to experience the intellectual stimulation I've been missing through some lovely presentations and discussion sessions (I got to witness the full meaning of "Janeite" at a round-table discussion of Jane Austen fan-fiction). My muse went crazy hearing some wildly talented peers at creative writing readings. And Bad Poetry Night? Well, overused sexual puns aside, at least I got to see the amusing side of the English language.

The Westfield State University chapter of Sigma Tau Delta
at the Sigma Tau Delta International Convention's Red & Black Gala Dinner

Additionally, I read my one of my own short stories at a student reading session on Thursday. I'll have you know, as a crowd-fearing introvert, I was terrified for this occasion. In the days leading up to the convention, I can't remember how many times I made family and friends listen to me rehearse, stumbling over piled adverbs and awkward conception jokes (why do I even put those in there if I can't stand to read them aloud??). However, karma was kind to me, and the overpopulated audience I had envisioned turned out to be an intimate group in a tiny corner room of the convention hall. I was relieved, preferring this setting not only for the smaller numbers but for how freely it allowed me to express myself. Literature was never meant for the stadium, folks -- as a written form, it is meant to be experienced closely, quietly, conversationally, never flaunting loudly in the stage-light (at least, that's how I feel about it). So the small group was a welcome venue, and in spite of slightly shaking knees, my reading went rather well.

What I enjoyed most about that reading, however, was the discussion afterwards, in which audience members were invited to pose questions to the writers. Speaking extemporaneously is not one of my strengths, but I was surprised to find that it came easily when asked about my writing. If you ever want to make an artist's day, ask her about her work -- and I mean, really ask. Dig deep beyond the general "What do you write?", and ask about her inspiration, her process, her philosophy. It's not so much a desire to brag (hey, I still think my story sucks) as it is an unbridled passion for one's field and its possibilities. A wise poet once told me that writing is conversation. However awkward I was, then, I was unexpectedly thrilled to further an appreciation for art by participating in such wonderful dialogue.

I am going to try to be stricter with myself in the coming weeks (i.e., not leaving blog-writing to the last minute) so that I can bore you at a more regular pace. ;) In the meantime, thank you to all who have followed me up to this point, and for all those who have supported me in my silly writing pursuits.

Grace and peace to you.

Blue Writings

Self-Doubt, Self-Reliance, and Sad Inspiration

This, surely, is the greatest test of my writing.

I am not, officially, a depression patient. (The time at the doctor's office where I failed the test doesn't count -- who the hell circles "never" instead of "sometimes" for Do-You-Ever-Feel-Sad questions?) There is no clinical diagnosis attached to my mellow, melancholic nature. No significant presence of tell-tale signs to link my off-days with WebMD-listed symptoms. No daily feelings of worthlessness (since age 19), regular insomnia (unless it's writing-spree-induced), or impaired concentration (well, aside from ADD-esque tendencies). The Thinking Frown is misleading; in general, I am a happy person -- easily pleased, easily awed.

Yet, some strange little anguish has been seeping its way into my system lately. Much of it is likely a simple case of Senior-Year Blues -- graduation denial, job search bargaining, the usual stages. But this little anguish has nestled itself in other areas. It's found the guilt-producing sector of the brain and choked out the geek-on-steroids motivation that I'm used to. "Where is your inspiration?" it's whispered. "What are you going to write now?"

I had no idea how much of a transition this semester would be. I have a significantly lighter academic load (una clase en español), and thus a lot, lot more free-time. It's the first time since my sophomore year that I haven't been in a writing course, with some kind of paper or creative work due every week. As a hardworking student, I thought the transition from deadlines and scary professors to independent writing would be seamless, even welcome. Think how much more time I'll have to write, I thought, and how much more freedom to write what I want. I was foolish to think that. I'm beginning to realize that, for the first time, I'm on my own. I have no threat of a lowered grade, no one to hold me accountable but myself. And oh sweet mother of Faulkner, it sucks.

It's a chicken-and-the-egg scenario, but whether strange little anguish caused it or vice-versa, inspiration has been scarce these days. Who would have thought that those nasty deadlines were actually helping to force the ideas to come? Now the ideas have laid low. Ghosts of them flicker by every so often, long enough for me to jot a few words in my notebook, but nothing more. On a recent blizzard night, I fled the house and discovered pieces of the sky crumbling in white, and thought: I have something now. But returning indoors to my laptop,  the resulting strained phrases were disheartening: they were words only, not life, not flame.

This, surely, is the greatest test of my writing. To still feel dependent, to survive a dry spell, to make my writing entirely my own.

When inspiration came at last, it was through somewhat unusual means. An open invitation to students popped up on social media for participation in a small study, involving three days of writing flanked by two in-depth surveys. "Why not?" I thought, wishing to assuage the guilt of being unproductive. I didn't know what to expect, especially after submitting the 20-minute pre-survey of psychoanalytical proportions. The rules were simple: you get one prompt for all three days, then write deeply about it each day for 15-20 minutes. (Diary time. Whoopee.) The evening before Day 1, the prompt came: write about the most upsetting experience in your life.

Oh. Something erupted. Strange little anguish temporarily lost its hold, and glimmers of inspiration were flashing wildly before I was even prepared to write. Oh, I realized, I can do that. The next morning, I got up earlier than usual, grabbed a notebook, and wrote the first day's work. These were handwritten notes, not prettied-up. No delete button, no stopping to look up words in the thesaurus. No limitations except to explore my feelings deeply. When I finished, I hesitantly put down the pen and sat back, looking down in shock at the scrawled notes.

Oh my God. I just wrote something good.

Feeling like I'd stepped off a roller-coaster, I glanced over at the clock, wondering where the time had gone. Oddly, in the rush of energy, I didn't question the possibility of what just occurred. I didn't ask how I was finally able to break the cycle after months of wordlessness. Because somehow, in the settling calm, I knew the answer.

This, surely, is the greatest test of my writing. To write about sadness.

Inspiration doesn't want to come to me in pretty things, not right now. With strange little anguish in my skull, I could only write by indulging it (in it?), by channeling that despair toward the page. I was forced to dig deep through that despair and find it in past forms -- my age 19 feelings of worthlessness, my writing insomnia miseries, the trenches that carved and twisted me into a sad little person who needed writing (and eventually, into the easily-awed writer I am today). Is it a sorry predicament that pain is the easiest thing to write about? No, not right now. That's what's growing and growling most strongly in me at the moment, so best to feed it while it's here.

This, surely, is the greatest test of my writing. To live with despair a little while. To ride out the storm.


Grace and peace to you.