Yeah, who I am.
- Nick Jonas and the Administration

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Here’s the assignment: Your two-page story must be written in the THIRD PERSON, must be written in the PRESENT TENSE, and must be written entirely IN ACTION—what can be SEEN. No dialog. No inner thoughts. You are a camera.

Sitting in a large, LA Metro bus are three African-American girls. They sit towards the back of the bus, obvious to any of the other seats. Sharonda, is a bit more buxom than her counterparts, but still cute. She’s got a scrap piece of ribbon tied under her shoulder-length dark hair and flourished with a bow at the top of her head. She has a tight white t-shirt, short dark blue mini-skirt, black nylons that are shredded on purpose and then bright pink thigh-high pink boots. She fiddles with one of the giant bracelets on her arm and looks off to the side.

Then Sharonda starts picking at the shredded nylons, tying together some of the looser strands with the air of a delicate craftsman. She is thus engrossed when the bus stops. There’s a hiss as the hydraulic doors open and Jerry, a white 20something jumps on.

Jerry greets her as he stops in front of Sharonda, putting his butt in the face of her friend Lily. Jerry slips sunglasses on top of his head.

Sharonda blinks in response to his greeting. Her fingers hesitating over her thigh and she doesn’t respond for at least five seconds. Then the fingers fall into her lap, tightly interlaced together. Instead of greeting she merely inquires how he’s doing with a thin smile. He shrugs as he sits beside her she shifts slightly away. Her fingers wriggle out of the intertwinedness and she starts picking at her nylons again.

Jerry leans in, whispering in her ear. Sharonda doesn’t even look up. “No.” Her voice is flat, short and she continues tying. He attempts to say something again, but she ignores his questions.

It’s two months later, Sharonda is wearing a dark blue sweater, picking at dark black nylons without any holes. Once again she sits in the back of the rumbling orange Metra bus. She brushes back a stray hair, tucking it back into the silver ribbon that ties her hair off of her face.

Looking out the bus window Sharonda stares for a long time. The seats of the bus are nearly all empty, a couple of elderly folks dot the front of the bus. She furrows her eyebrows and squints out the window of the bus, then she looks at the LED sign at the front of the bus. Checking her purse she digs out a small Metra map and consults it.
With a small nod she pushes it back in the bag and picks up a single white rose and a thick envelop from the seat beside her. There’s a large, garishly decorated “sorry” handwritten on the envelop.

Sharonda sighs as she looks out the window again. The city gives away to rolling green hills covered with tiny gray headstones. An imposing gray stonewall is topped off with rings of barbwire. A large white sign, or at least it was probably supposed to be white, officially says Angel’s Cemetery. Unofficially the spray-painted parts of the sign mark it as Piru territory.

Sharonda picks up her rose and an overly photocopied bulletin with Jeremy Jones in a cursive font right above a series of dates. She stands by the back door of the bus, looking at the bulletin with a sigh. The bus doors hiss as the bus stops across from the cemetery.

Stepping off the bus Sharonda waits for it to pass. She stares at the bus as it leaves. Then steps off the curb and she heads towards the dark iron gates of Angel’s Cemetery.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

There’s nothing about Tola that screams of her importance. China white skin gleams except for a long dark smudge along her leg. Zosia touches the synthetic curls with a finger and lets her eyes lose focus. Tola’s eyes are blue, bright and unblinking. It was a while since Tola had been removed from her sacred cardboard box under the bed.

Holy, bright light jars Tola as she looks at the older woman who holds her.Tola is young and old at the same time; she tries to push out that thought from her head. Her eyes are always open. She’s seen everything. Never blinking, never shielding and never unseeing. Tola, for the first time, notices her nakedness.

Zosia clicks a tongue and touches Tola’s hand. Only Zosia knows Tola’s story. Sighing Zosia licks a thumb and runs it along the smudge on Tola’s porcelain skin. The dirt responds to the slight moisture.

Tola would shiver, but being a doll, she can’t.

“We need to get you a dress,” Zosia says softly.

Her voice is warm, but Tola can hear the slight breaks in it. The last time Tola had seen Zosia she had been young, tiny and moved like a chased rabbit. Tola thinks Zosia’s gray hair and crow printed eyes are merely curtain dressings on the soul. Behind the bespectacled eyes Tola can still see the little girl who snuck into her mother’s room and pulled Tola out. Zosia had been very young and there was longing in her touch that Tola could feel. Zosia’s mother returned and Tola had been put hurriedly back in place and not brought out again.

Tola knew Beata had died. The musty smell of the house sings the news. Beata believed the house should be clean and placed in order. And the sounds of the house tell Tola cleaning had not happened in a long time.

Zosia sets Tola on the hard, oak desk. Tola watches, again unblinking, as a shiny silver needle weaves in and out of a lacy material. Tola stands at attention, the amount of colors in the room astounding the senses. Reds, blues, whites all mix together and play off each other like a field of children. The laughter of their movement fills Tola with brightness.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

I never know what I’m going to write when I get a topic. Though I often try to puzzle it out before I start. Once fingertips are on keys it just comes (or doesn’t). But I often have the “jump to the end” mentality that tries to anticipate where my writing will go. It’s as if I’m a kid again opting to switch to the last chapter to find out what happens.

Yet, I never can. Very often in the middle of my final journey to the end of a story I realize that I knew nothing. My characters know everything. I’m, once again, a doofus.

So when handed a writing assignment in class I endeavor not to skip to the end. Yet, I couldn’t help myself. In the lull of conversations over dinner I find myself wondering. “What do I do with a drunken sailor?”

Only a writer, I imagine, has these thoughts. I know from experience most of the folks in my immediate life can’t put themselves in the eyes of a best friend, let alone a character in another historical time period, gender and culture.

But here I sit, fingers posed over keys trying to get into the mind of the imaginary Sanchez, the lazy and drunken ship’s cook for Cortez’ trip to Eastern Mexico. I’m trying to decide on voice and style and my own distance from the character. I’m trying to decide what a drunken ship’s cook in 1519 would say about Cortez deciding to scuttle the ships and burn them. Trying to decide what a drunken person would do in such a situation at all is a bit of a stretch.

What does one do with a drunken sailor? I’m not sure, but I can’t wait to find out.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Talking about space and routine is kind of like asking what makes the sea come in and out. There’s something about telling me that the moon’s pull that causes the sea levels to change that takes the magic out of writing. And it truly is a magical experience. My routine is: I never realize that I’m writing until it’s done. It’s almost like the siren’s call that causes me to write. I could write for ten minutes, ten hours or even a full day and not realize that the world has passed me by. I write every day, it’s just never the same thing. I write on Twitter, I write about my cats, I write long emails, I write blogs, I write because I can’t “not write”.

My writing space is here. In the moment and now. I write wherever I am. I feel comfortable writing in the middle of chaos or at home where two cats vy for my attention. I’ve written cross legged in the middle of the floor at a convention. I’ve written sitting on a rock by the ocean. One of my current favorite audio drama scripts I wrote in the middle of a large thanksgiving dinner. My space is my laptop and a warm cat. I get teased often that my laptop is glued to my body, but is an extension of my being. It doesn’t have to be my own laptop, though the words start easier on my own. It’s been a close friend for years and it knows all of my secrets. One of my co-workers once told a fellow co-worker, “all your problems today have been solved by God, a computer and Tabz.” And really, that’s what it’s all about.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

So we trudge through the snow, wear big coats and funny earmuffs and get laughed at for thinking the weather is cold (apparently it’s not THAT cold from what everyone says), but my idea of cold at this present juncture is 58. Thankfully I was somewhat prepared after going to Moody. I know what cold is. But I never got used to it. I am just not an extreme temperature kind of gal.

Other than that, so far so good. Can’t wait to see what the rest of the week holds since yesterday was kind of a “intro” day. And I never do good with “lets get everyone on the same page” kind of days.

~ Tabz, the frozen one.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Dear Mr. Stephen King,

While I admire your writing and your success (as twisted as your stories themselves may be) and couldn’t imagine anyone denying your claims to fame, I do feel it necessary to balk at your suggestion that writers should not watch television (though, I will again admit how funny the twisted suggestion was).

It is also true that I spent a good deal of my early years attached to the TV (though my adoration was severely limited by my parents’ insistence that it be regulated to an hour a day). In fact, my parents enjoy regaling audiences (made up of whomever is listening) with stories of how they could never get my attention whilst the television was on. It was only when they stepped between myself and the TV that they could, in fact, break the seeming mystical hold the glowing box had.

And yet, I can not tell you the untold wonders that awaited me in television. True, it was not TV alone that inspired me to be a writer. I read almost as veraciously as I watched TV (emptying out the local library and having to move on to the college town’s library). And my family and friends also encouraged the budding imagination I had to such lengths that I never thought of “not writing”. But it was in television that my voice grew bold. It was because of television I found an audience. And it was because of TV that I realized that being a writer wasn’t as fruitless as some naysayers would have lead me to believe.

I remember the first TV shows I fell horribly in love with – Sesame Street, Sledge Hammer, MacGuyver and others. They shaped some of my favorite things in the world (mainly humor and smarts). It was in the clever, subtle writing that I learned the difference between “Near” and “Far” (thanks again Grover). I was inspired to sing, to laugh and to play. From Sledge Hammer I learned a love of the absurd. From MacGuyver that superheroes should be as smart as they are strong (or even more so).

Then came my favorite shows of the 90s – Darkwing Duck (again absurd, witty comedy), Anamaniacs (so smart and funny it’s a surprise someone hasn’t brought it back), and then Due South, Pretender and Homicide. My own writing had become serious. After winning a couple of awards and prizes for my writing I decided to get serious (or as serious as a 12 year old can get). By the time I entered college I had finished a full-length novel, been published more times than I can remember and started my own Sherlock Holmes fan email newsletter (that I edited) and sent out to 200 folks from around the world (which was unheard of in the late 90s).

When I hit college and my TV watching took a nose dive, but as soon as I was home I caught up on all my favorite shows (my parents would record them for me). Movies were also a favorite. Both of them only fueled my imagination – not squished it.

Then came work, which was creative but more in the graphic design area than writing. I decided to find some outlet (professionally) for my writing and became an “intern” in social media. Soon I was writing again and my desire for great TV increased.

Finding my current TV demigod (Joss Whedon) in my 20s only fueled the fire. Whedon’s stories were complex but incredibly simple. With the backdrop of vampires, space ships and singing super villains Whedon is able to tell the simplest of stories about the human soul. Yet they are utterly and intensely profound. Whedon’s writing (and that of the other TV writers) sparked my re-entry into the world of fiction (even though I never really left). From watching his shows I started into the world of podcasting, I launched a successful audio drama group and I scaled the heights and depth of my own human experience. I wrote fanfic, poems, letters, articles, audio drama scripts, essays and so mcuh more — all because of TV.

Perhaps you are discussing more of the mindless, time-suck that TV can become. Since I never have been one to just sit and watch TV I am probably not the general reader you pictured reading your novel. In fact, I’ve written this entire “letter” to you while watching TV. My laptop is always close at hand and I can always find myself able to complete some kind of task or writing even in the midst of a great drama.

In short Mr. King, don’t think of me as being too upset with your suggestion of ripping out the TV. Rather, this is a contrary viewpoint that can extol the great virtues of programs. When paired with an imagination that thrives on stories with heart, humor and beauty – they can be the catalyst for greatness, not the soul-crushing opiate that you may assume.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

I’m not a fan of rules. I’ve found that to be true when I read how to books. My back goes up when they tell me “you must”. I’m not entirely sure why this is true. Maybe it’s a rebellious nature, curled out of nothing. I was usually a rule-keeper when I was growing up. I kept rules, I whistle-blew on folks who didn’t keep rules and I was very happy about it. But not anymore.

For example, I’m fairly sure the good folks at Wilkes want me to keep an actual notebook. Something that feels like paper and tangible. Not, the hard cold light of a virtual document in my laptop. Truth is though — my laptop IS my notebook. It’s an old friend that follows me everywhere. I’m rarely without it. I’ve just realized I hate this font.

Now, font change. Good. This one fits better.

Anyways, so my observance is that I hate rules. I hate the idea that I “must” do something in order to be a great writer. Perhaps that’s why I fail at Grammar and sometimes at spelling. I don’t want the rules. I spent the first 20 years of my life learning them – it’s time to break them. Or so my subconscious thinks.

I had a professor in undergrad who would always say, “learn the rules — then you can break them.” Of course, for the longest time I thought that meant “know them”. I knew the rule of thirds in photography (that framing subjects off to the left or right of a photo made it more beautiful). But what I didn’t realize is my professor never said “know”. He said “learn”. So.. here I am to learn. Taking that student position again when I read my books. Being the thirsty well trying to soak up information. Once I’ve “learned” then I can break. I think my psyche can handle that.

But I’m still not keeping an actual journal.

My laptop was a huge purchase for me. I bought it with a bonus from my first full-time job. I felt grown up and scared all at the same time. You drop enough cash on a Mac and you’ll understand. Yet, the Tardis (as my laptop is named) has been a constant companion. I’ve written stories, scripts, letters, missives and more on here. But more than that my laptop stores my life. Photos, emails, graphics I’ve saved, MP3s, scraps of documents and PDFs that spell out the past three years. And believe me, that’s a lot of junk.

I don’t just write — I live on this laptop. It’s the first thing I touch when I wake up (unless of course I’m touching my cats to move them away from my face) and it’s usually the last thing I touch before bed. My laptop sings me to sleep and is there in the small hours of the night. It’s my confident friend, it’s my lifeline to far away places, and a gentle friend itself. It entertains and informs, guards and protects, connects and releases.

Of course, I must name my things because they are more than things. My laptop, my iPod, my camera, My phone… all of them have carried names of places that live in the imagination. The Tardis, Doctor Who’s time and space device is known for being bigger on the inside than it is on the outside — so is my laptop. It’s such a thin black thing, it can deceive you into thinking little of it. Yet, you open it and instantly you can be talking to my friend Emma — in England. Or my friend Elle in Singapore. You can see photos of me in Las Vegas or send a PowerPoint I designed to Australia.

There’s nothing I can’t do with this laptop. For the past two years it’s been the only thing I needed to work. Every morning I’d roll over, pick up my laptop and start my job as a Social Media Expert at a PR firm.

When the Tardis was finally sick and in need of repairs it was hard to let it go. I dropped it in the hands of a man who looked too young to have my baby. Like an anxious parent I waited and called to check on it.

“Hello, is my laptop ready?” I would say.
“What’s your number ma’am?” The chipper voice would say on the other end of the line. How dare she be so chipper? Doesn’t she know my baby is sick?

After giving my number they’d say I’d have to wait. After all they said it might take a week. And so I waited. It was like Christmas morning to have the Tardis back.

I had a replacement computer while he was gone, but it wasn’t home. It was like sleeping in a Motel Six and dreaming of home. But once the Tardis returned – life was better.

So, why am I not going to write in a normal notebook? I’m stubborn and horribly in love with this laptop.

Now, I’m heading to bed.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.