Early!

I'm updating a few days early this week because I'm not sure if I'll be able to make my normal Saturday update on account of graduation that day. That's right, folks, I'll finally have that BA in liberal studies with a concentration in writing that I've been claiming in my query letters (I figured with a  month or so left before graduation, I could basically say that I had a degree, right?). On top of the ceremony and subsequent celebrations, I'm also getting kicked out of the dorms, showing my parents around Anchorage and getting ready for a flight back to Colorado. Busy, busy, busy.

This week, I'm also going to skip an excerpt (though I assure you, I've been working very hard; I rewrote an entire chapter and, after months of mucking about in the Land of the Unmotivated, that was a very big deal), and talk about this article. For those who won't click on the link: basically, a high school English teacher was found to be writing and publishing erotica on the side. I, personally, am not a huge fan of erotica, but I fail to see how in the world it should affect this teacher's classroom. She didn't expose the students to it, use them in the book, or even talk about it until some parent found out and flipped. Doesn't a teacher have a right to her own life, too? I mean, they have homes and private space for a reason. Right? Okay, I can understand bringing a teacher under fire if he or she is having an affair with a student, or is dealing drugs to the students, or is a mass murderer or something, but for writing something she enjoys writing? And under a pseudonym, no less!

In all honesty, this kind of freaks me out. If I were to become a teacher for any reason (not likely, but let's roll with it), and some parent found out I write gay romance, could I be brought under fire for preaching homosexuality? Even if I only wrote on my own time, never talked about it with the students, never brought the school into it, etc. etc.? When did asking teachers to separate their school lives and their private lives become asking them to deny their private lives, their desires and goals, altogether? It just doesn't seem right to me.

Oljiru kovy.

Another Slow Week

Not much to say on the writing front this week. Again, packing and finishing up the semester seem to have made my words all dry up. I get restless every time I sit down to work, and it's tough pounding out at least a few paragraphs a day. Oh, well. I'm almost done.

I did get rewrite my query letter, though. That's always fun and exciting.

This week, your bit of fiction is the beginning of an old, old story that I'm reworking. Enjoy.

“Get down!” Ellianna T’fos shouted as she leapt from her hiding spot. She easily cleared the man’s head, landing heavily in the mulch. Dead leaves and debris scattered from the place her boots touched down. Without a moment of thought, she drew her sword to parry the  attack aimed at her head. Steel sang against steel. She moved one foot back a step to brace her against the force of the blow. Recovering quickly, she forced her attacker’s blade back at him and followed with a quick thrust at his gut. 

He barely managed to knock her blade aside in time. 

“This really isn’t—” The man behind her, who had been the target of the attack, spoke in a soft, pleading voice. Until the attacker’s dagger landed in the tree behind him, inches from his hooded head. 

“Shut up,” Ellianna hissed, ducking a blow aimed at her head. She rolled into her opponent’s guard and drove her blade up, into his stomach. If he was what she thought he was, her strike would do nothing but slow him down. Worth a shot, at least. True to her instinct, the man simply staggered back, cursing. She felt a sharp tug at her chest, the center of the magic that kept her alive, as the wound in his stomach knitted itself together again. So he was an Andra, after all. Damn it. That would make things much more difficult.

Metamorphosing Queries

Ever have one of those days when you just have to wonder where your life is going? I'm there. In a good way, though. I'm graduating in a month; I have a full manuscript that really only needs some minor editing to be finished again; I have several short stories I can fix up and try to submit to various magazines and anthologies; I'm heading back to Colorado soon. And, yet, I still have no idea if/where/when I can get a job. Oh, well. I shan't mope about that here.

This space is for writing and arts and creative things. Like Metamorphoses. I don't think I mentioned it here previously, but I'm currently in the play, as "Eurydice and others." For those unfamiliar with it, Metamorphoses is a one-act play written by Mary Zimmerman, based on the writings of Ovid. In other words, it's all about Greek myths. The big brouhaha of the show is that it was originally produced with a pool of water on stage, so our director decided he wanted to do the same thing. It turned out all right, but it's been a bit of a hassle and I won't say I'm not happy to see the last of it. Overall, though, it was a wonderful experience. If you get the chance to see a version of it and are at all interested in mythology or different types of theatre, please do so.

And now onto the writerly update of the week: WriteOnCon is my new favorite website ever. Q&A sessions with agents, query letter critiques, an online conference in the fall; what more could you want? This month, there are three literary agents going through query letters and saying whether they would request pages or not, and their reasoning. Not only is it absolutely wonderful of them to give their time like that, but it is also much more useful for us, the authors, than a form rejection. At least, I think so. The thing that bothers me about form rejection letters is not knowing why the agent didn't want my work. I understand completely that they're very busy people and they don't have time to personally comment on everything, but it's also a bit confusing not to know whether it was a poorly constructed query letter, an unappealing premise, or simply the wrong time to query. So having someone comment on my letter will at least confirm whether or not I need to rework my pitch, in addition to fixing up bits of the manuscript. I'm looking forward to it.

Onward! To the senior project presentation and graduation!

Oljiru kovy.

Waiting and the Tarot

The worst part about where I'm at right now is waiting. Waiting to get feedback on my senior project; waiting to hear back from the University of Iowa, where I've applied for graduate school; waiting to hear back from the agent I most recently queried (which may or may not ever actually happen, since it's a bigger agency). I'm normally pretty good at patience, but sometimes I just want to know what's going to happen. Especially with things like Iowa, which are going to determine what I'm doing next year--more school trying to find a job. I'm really, really hoping for the former.

Now, onto the writing portion of this week's post. Last time, I mentioned that I have been working on a collection of flash fiction-esque stories inspired by the major arcana of the tarot. I say flash fiction-esque because most of these stories took more than a few minutes to write, and several of them are much longer than a typical flash fiction piece. Anyway, I finished the series earlier in the week. The entire piece totals at roughly 12,000 words. A little long for a short story, but much, much shorter than what I'm used to writing.   Overall, I consider the experiment a success, though several of the pieces were rushed and I'm not entirely sure if I pulled off all the little challenges I incorporated. My favorite is a second-person piece (aka, written using "you" instead of "he/she" or "I"), inspired by the Devil card. Unfortunately, it's a bit long to share here, so I'm giving you "The Fool," instead.

This story is different from what I normally write, both because of the semi-ambiguous ending, and the use of present tense narration. So, basically, I present a slice of what I completed last week. I certainly hope you enjoy it, whoever actually reads this.

0-The Fool

Infinite possibilities stretch before him. They expand like a map, flowing away from him as far as he can see. Different paths, different futures, all mingling at the point where he stands, all rippling out from under the souls of his feet. Which path will he choose? Which story will he write?

He turns to the left, toward the path that leads down a series of ever-darkening tunnels, toward a distant, barely visible light, and crouches down. His fingers are steady as he takes hold of the path and lifts it up, into himself, pressing the entire story into his chest. For a moment, he is frozen as he absorbs this knowledge, an entire lifetime of journeys.

The other possibilities slither away, back into their red-checked bag.

He turns to the shadowy figure that holds the sack, opens his mouth to speak, and falls. The newly gained knowledge is stripped away from him as he drops. Down, down, away from everything he has known. A sudden jolt ends his descent.

A baby boy cries as it is born.