Say What? #2 - a manifesto

People who know me (or have spent any time in my vicinity) likely know that I hate, and vehemently renounce critique workshops. I think they hinder creativity and encourage people to be mean and bland and the same. Of course I’m generalizing, and there are exceptions, like the San Mateo writing class I’ve been involved with for the last few years, a group of writers who genuinely celebrate and revel in the work they share with each other. But groups like this are rare, and most writers suffer at some point the shaming and destructive advice of a bitter writing community. Whatever. We don’t have to play with those kids, or even spend time with them, but it is hard to find a kind, encouraging community of writers to work with (without having to pay lots of $).


As writers, we benefit immensely from sharing ideas and the anatomy of our solutions to common and unique problems. In its best forms, the practice of exchanging tools helps us generate new ideas and bring slumbering projects to fruition. Since I’ve found so few examples of this type of community, I’m devoting a section of this blog to contribute some more space where my writer friends (and I) can find fellowship (and help) when needed.


Please, please participate as often and as much as you like.

Say What? #1 - a series of questions on writing

Back in college, I mastered the art of writing a 15 page paper in a matter of hours. For the duration of my undergrad education, I did what most kids do and waited until the absolute last possible minute to sit down and bang out every essay, no matter how complicated the topic or how much research it required. While this approach has its obvious drawbacks, it did make it easy to maintain a consistent voice throughout each project.

Now the game is different. Without answering to deadlines or teachers or formal writing groups, I can labor over a project for months at a time, and by the end (or halfway through) I notice that the voice is completely different from what I started with.

Yesterday, I opened up a story that’s been sitting on the shelf since last summer because I didn’t know how to end it. I finally had an idea of how to wrap things up, and when I tried to tack the ending on, I realized that it, and the bulk of the story didn’t fit with the opening paragraph at all. The easy solution seems to be scrapping the first paragraph and replacing it with something that fits better. But there’s a certain sorrow in letting something like that go. I remember vividly a time when that paragraph was all I had, and I was proud of the phrasing, the imagery, the life it was setting up for the reader. Now it feels strange to hack it off like a gangrenous toe.

I wonder how other writers work this out. Do they bite down on a leather strap between their teeth and hack, hack, hack? Or do they find more graceful ways of blending the diseased limb into the fabric of the story? I’d like to hear what works for others. If you have ideas or suggestions, or if you want to open a discussion of your own writing challenges (or victories!), post a comment here, or drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you!
x to the o to the i

Hey There, Where Ya Goin'... Not Exactly Knowin'?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a truck driver. No shit. I thought there could be nothing more bitchin' than traveling around the country in a big-ass big rig with a chimpanzee at my side. We’d hit the open road and roll/bounce from town to town, getting into whatever misadventures we found, including brief encounters with sexy bearded men in plaid flannel and faded denim. Unfortunately, I’m a terrible driver, and monkeys make bad travel companions, and at the end of the day, I was just watching far too much BJ and the Bear. So I traded that dream in and became a traveling salesman, hitting the open road (one open road) in a big-ass Ford Taurus that seats about 20. I haul books along one stretch of highway, from town to town, college to college, trying to sell textbooks to professors who don’t want them. Is it the worst job in the world? No way, but 4 wheels is a lot less than 18, and a laptop in the passenger seat is a lot less furry than a chimp.

I imagine that if I’d wanted to be a rock star, I’d be playing a rendition of Marky Mark's Good Vibrations on a piano in the mall by now. If I’d dreamed of painting The Next American Masterpiece or Antimasterpiece, I’d have found steady work scribing weekly specials on a chalkboard at my local Trader Joe’s. But I wanted to be a truck driver, and I suppose this job is my equivalent consolation prize for such lofty aspirations. It makes me wonder if there’s room in the world for all our dreams, and also whether “what do you want to be when you grow up?” is a fair question. Should kids be relied upon to make such crucial decisions given the information available to them. I mean, what does a four year old know about how hard it is to stay on the right side of a double yellow line?

Are there even enough spaces in the world of dreams realized to accommodate all the little critters vying for them? And what should you do if you find yourself in one of the soul-numbing consolation slots? Is it better to keep striving like Sisyphus or convince yourself to acquiesce into your given groove? Should you concede defeat in your chosen arena and seek refuge in greener pastures, like the TSA job board? Of course there are other alternatives. There will always be ads on Craigslist seeking “[failed] Rockstar to manage our fast-paced office, must be AMMMMMMAAAAZING and willing to work for minimum wage,” but where’s the middle ground? There has to be some way to make a living wage, and something to sit behind during all those hours of your life that should’ve been spent behind an oversized steering wheel. There...has to, right?

Lines on Blue Willow

After the summer heat, the flames
scorch filaments from the surface,
stripping full figures down
to skeletons, brittle forms rising
from a charred desert.

We blame the wind
that winds its way
through canyons and
into the heart of a barren valley.

Among the ash,
one art.

A translucent vase
remains
resistant
to thermal shock.

Lens Cleaner

He'd watched Joyce's right hand resting, wrist up on her knee, for the entire ride home that day. She'd pinched the bridge of her aquamarine bifocals between her thumb and index finger as if escorting a specimen to a laboratory. When she'd walked into their bedroom, she pulled a supple lens cloth from her bedside table and swabbed it smoothly across the left lens capturing a sample of the coarse grit of their son's ashes. When she was done, she'd placed the cloth into a tiny plastic zip-pouch, and tucked it away. On her way out of the room, she'd dropped the glasses into her pink plastic wastebasket with a hollow plunk that neither startled nor soothed either of them. Today, the loose ends of her illness, their life together sufficiently cauterized, Omar rescued the sealed up lens cloth from it's place in her nightstand drawer, and moved it to his side of the bed.

Ventura Highway in the Sunshine

Jonah touched down in the middle of the southbound lane, tallons clicking against the asphalt as he paced slightly east then west, dismayed by the flock of crows feasting on the tender, dew-kissed fawn. His breath quickened to a soft huff as he struggled to figure how to squeeze in among their sharp, eager beaks and join them in ripping strands of moist pink flesh. A bold male scuttled up and pecked once at Jonah's creamy underbelly, leaving a streak of the deer's blood on the fluffy down and startling Jonah who grabbed a wingful of air and pumped against it, lifting himself high enough to kick the crow away. His tallon plunged through the silky black feathers, through the brittle shell of the crow's skull and caught in the squishy gel of his brain. Jonah began to kick frantically trying to shake the crow loose, but came away with bits of bone and syrupy blood coating his craggy skin and collecting granules of sand from the road as he backed away, sending the feasting flock into the air while the shattered crow spilled onto the road and scavenger flies set to work on the leaking blood. Jonah stepped forward, gently shaking the sticky grit from his claw and sunk his beak into the fawn's cooling belly and tore a satisfying chunk of delicate meat away.

What Color is Your Masochism?

accounting+finance
admin/office
arch/engineering
art/media/design
biotech/science
business/mgmt
customer service
education
food/bev/hosp
general labor
government
human resources
internet engineers
legal/paralegal
manufacturing
marketing/pr/ad
medical/health
nonprofit sector
real estate
retail/wholesale
sales/biz dev
salon/spa/fitness
security
skilled trade/craft
software/qa/dba
systems/network
tech support
transport
tv/film/video
web/info design
writing/editing
etc.