So what's my story?

I have a confession to make: I'm a bad parent. I get these incurable urges to create and then produce the inevitable offspring only to leave them hanging, barely giving them another thought after I've pushed them out into the world. Sometimes they nag their way back into my consciousness, and sure I'll give them the time of day for maybe, oh I don't know, a day. But then they're shunted relentlessly back into oblivion. Out of sight, out of mind.

This is the part of the post where I tell you I'm not actually a parent. I'm a writer. Well, a wanna-be writer. Because the title "writer" signifies that actual writing is taking place and sadly, that hasn't been happening much for me. I told myself all school year that this was the summer I'd brush the dust off my many half-finished story ideas and get cracking again. Maybe even (gasp!) attempt to write a novel. June passed by in a hazy, humid blur and then July came storming in like an angry toddler, all fluster and bluster. I had to take notice. And reader, I realized that I HAD to take action. So I put down my Candy Crush game (damn you, level 65!!!) and goshdarnit, I started writing again.

The good news -- I officially have 15 full pages for a potential novel, a story I shelved about two years ago before I took it back out today. The bad news -- I am not really sure where to take the story next. But I guess this is the fun part. The unexpected part. The part where anything can happen.

So what's my story? It's about a young man named Jack who has trouble getting over his first love Ingrid after she mysteriously disappears. Especially when she starts mysteriously reappearing in his life again in brief is-she or isn't-she-there flashes. I'm at the part of the story where I have to decide whether to keep it in the real world or venture into the sci-fi/fantasy realm. And it's a hard, hard decision to make. Because as much as I love reading sci-fi/fantasy books, it's not an easy thing to write because you have to make it believable to your reader. Buuuuut.... I have a feeling that I might just take it in that direction anyway. At least to try it out. If it doesn't work, whatever, I can always rework, revamp, re-re until I find my way back.

In the meantime, here's the last page of what I have so far, just to give you a feel. I'm writing the story from Jack's point of view, which has been fun, trying to get into the mind of a guy. No doubt I'll be asking my boyfriend for pointers to make sure I've captured the voice right.

I welcome your comments and thoughts! Thanks for reading. :-)

~*~

Remember when I said this wasn't a love story? Perhaps I should elaborate. This isn't your typical love story. By that I don't mean that this is your usual unrequited love story, with your usual lovesick hero mooning after his usual oblivious heroine. (Though mind you, I've done my fair share of mooning. My darling siblings can both attest to that.) I guess what I mean to say is that I'm not your typical hero. And Ingrid is certainly not your typical heroine. She's not even my first heroine.

In grade school I was forever looking for my new crush. My new heroine. I blame too much exposure to New Wave music. Depeche Mode and New Order were the soundtrack for those heady, formative years. First there was Miss Sharon, my kindergarten teacher. (Yes, I know I started rather young.) I used to love hearing her read to us, and I would spend all of nap time just staring at her, marveling at this creature who was so unlike other women her age, women like my mother. In first grade there was Pamela, a pretty brunette who sat at my table and shared her lunch with me one fateful autumn day. Then from grades 2-4, I was all about Amy, a redhead who lived on my block. I used to sit on my porch for hours just waiting for her to pass by on her roller skates. Grade 5 brought me the exotic allure of Maria, a newly immigrated Cuban student. Our teacher used to pair me with her for group work so that I could help her with her English. Grade 6 introduced me to Mrs. Donovan, my first crush who was (dun, dun, dun) also a married woman. I blush just remembering the unnerving way she had of dropping the chalk and then bending down ever so slowly to pick it back up.

I guess I'm a lot like Romeo, in the way that I can fall in love at the drop of a hat. Only I'm still stuck on my Rosaline, that nebulous, formless character we never even get to meet in Romeo & Juliet -- the one he was supposedly in love with before Juliet? Yeah, her.

Why isn't Ingrid my Juliet? Perhaps it's because sometimes I wonder if Ingrid ever existed at all, or I somehow made her up inside my head, like some mad opium dream. Then I sift through my memories again, digging through the years as if I'm trying to excavate the past, and the confirmation of her existence overwhelms me once more, as it inevitably does. Flooding me with recriminations and regrets. 

But if there's one thing I've learned it's that memory is never precise. It's like an overexposed photograph. The colors may be heightened, but the details are blurred, caught somewhere between existence and dream.

You asked...

Before I continue with this post, I wanted to say thank you so very much for your recent blog comments. Every time you comment on this blog, I receive an e-mail notification, and it's just so great reading them throughout my day. They really do make me smile!

Speaking about comments, Claire posted this comment yesterday for this post:

Well, if you really want to read it... ;)

I'm currently writing the first draft of my novel, which is tentatively called Catching Fireflies. What is it about? Well, I like to think of it as an anti-love story. It's more like a mystery story meets a ghost story meets a love story. Or something like that.

I am writing this story for NaNoWriMo, which means I want to have 50,000 words completed by November 30th. Yikes! I hope to meet that goal, but I'm also being realistic with myself. If I don't reach it, it won't be a great tragedy. If I get to finish the novel at all, it will be a great success, however, because I've never been able to finish a novel before. I tend to write only short stories and poems since I have such a short attention span.

I am currently writing Catching Fireflies on the collaborative writing site Protagonize, and you can follow my updates (and leave ratings and comments) here. In addition, I created a blog just for my story, which you can access here:

http://www.catchingfireflies.net/

I welcome your comments & critique for my story! I've included the prologue to my novel below for you to read. Please let me know what you think. :)

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Prologue

I run faster, even though the stitch in my side is now a throbbing mass of pain, even though there is now the taste of blood in my mouth, the metal tang of it heavy on my tongue. I fall twice, tearing my jeans open at the knees and skinning them, but I don’t stop. My legs are propelled forward by something stronger than urgency, harder than fear.

What if it isn’t her? What if I'm just chasing a stranger? Or worse – an illusion? Have I finally cracked? I’ve been mourning her for almost a year. Surely, that is enough time to come to terms with her loss. I should be better by now, fully functional and all that. I know this. Or at least, the rational side of me does. But I haven’t been able to sleep a full night in months and my stomach still turns at the thought of food. Even though I force myself to eat at least one full meal a day, I’ve dropped a few pant sizes. My sister Angie has been threatening to force-feed me, which is something she normally threatens to do, us being Italian and all that, but there is an undertone of menace to her threats now.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Jack. It’s not your fault she died.”

“Who says she’s dead? The authorities still list her as missing. And I’m not doing anything to myself.”

“Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, hon? You’re practically a skeleton. You’ve got to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine. You and Mom need to get off my case already. I’m fine.”

“I think Mom’s right. Maybe you should see a shrink.”

That conversation took place about a month ago, and it was the last time we’d spoken. I’d stormed out of her house, slamming the door so hard the windows shook. Her pleading voice cut short. I won’t pretend I don’t miss my sister, but I will be honest and admit I miss her more. Her absence feels like a vital part of me has been amputated, leaving a gaping hole in its place. Nothing can fill it – not food, not another girl (though my friends have tried to convince me this is the antidote I need), nothing.

Speaking of nothing, my wild goose chase hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I’ve been chasing her phantom for countless blocks now, all for nothing. I come to a stop at a corner, forced to a standstill by the oncoming traffic. And that is when I see her again. She's standing on the opposite corner, facing the horizon. The setting sun making her golden hair catch fire. There is a look on her face I couldn’t read. Is it sadness or peace? I can’t tell. I can’t breathe. I just stare at her, drinking her in like a drowning man, feeling her presence fill my lungs, my heart.

Then she turns towards me suddenly and smiles her special smile, the smile she reserves especially for me, the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and a dimple appear in her chin. She looks exactly the same. Exactly. Her green eyes sparkling at me. Her lips curving in a mischievous grin. Her name bubbles up to my lips, and I feel myself step off the curb, preparing to run toward her. But then the light changes and the cars spring forward, angry honks startling me back onto the curb. The traffic blocks the opposite corner, and I try in vain to peer over it, to catch her eyes again.

When the light changes back, she's gone.

Read more here:

http://www.catchingfireflies.net/

A Lolcat and a Question.

Apologies for the lack of blogging -- you can blame NaNoWriMo.

Not that I've been doing much writing lately! I had an upsurge early last week and then Thursday I just... I don't know. I just crashed. There's writer's block and then there's WRITER'S BLOCK. When the characters stop speaking to each other and your muse decides to stop speaking to YOU. It's pretty bad. And I had it pretty bad these past few days.

Instead of getting frustrated at my lack of productivity, I decided to take some time off and scare up some inspiration. I finished reading The Girl Who Played with Fire on Saturday. I relaxed at Ricky's house on Sunday. And then I came to work today only to find out my co-worker really, really likes my story. I gave her the first few pages last week and she had it all annotated and stuff today (we're such English teachers). She had the nicest things to say about my story! So that inspired me to continue writing.

I won't promise I'll produce anything fantabulous today as far as my story goes, but I will say I'm feeling inspired again. And it feels damn good.

Here's my Lolcat of the Week, which I think you'll agree is very apropos:

via

And here's my question: What do you do for inspiration when you really need it? Whether you're a wanna-be writer like me, a budding chef, or whatever. What do you do to light the proverbial fire under the proverbial hiney? Let me know in the comments! :)

The Impotence of Proofreading

As an English teacher for students in grades 9-12, looking out for spelling or grammatical mistakes isn't just my day job, it's my passion. I get a kick out of catching mistakes in published books, magazines, or newspapers. I really do. I have even been known to manually correct these mistakes on the printed page. Something about finding those mistakes, whether it's the writer's inability to distinguish between than/then, theirs/there's, or my personal favorite, its/it's, makes my brain hurt. So I just have to correct them. You know, to make my brain happy.

Now I know that mistakes happen sometimes. I'm not trying to say I'm perfect. God knows I'm not! I'm sure some of my blog posts might have an error or two in them. And mistakes aren't necessarily a bad thing, because they can serve as learning tools. But when the mistakes are plentiful, when it's obvious the writer did not even glance at his/her paper before handing it in, that's when I take it personally. Because it's a lack of respect to the reader, which is motivated in turn by a lack of caring on the part of the writer -- he/she couldn't spare the extra second to proofread his/her work because he/she just doesn't care.  He/she doesn't care about you, the reader. Or if the paper ever gets read. In fact, he/she is probably hoping it never gets read. Especially by someone wielding a red pen.

What did you think of the video? Do you proofread any work you write before submitting it, whether academically or professionally?

Kudos to my bloggy friend Asheyna for sending me the video! You inspired this post. :)

Brief Midnight Poem

Blech, I can't sleep! I blame my impulsive, post-work trip to Starbucks. :-/ The silver lining? My muse came back! Here's an itty bitty snippet of a poem that just came to me:

Contusion

shudder shock of blood that rises
lava-like
beneath my skin —
crimson in its urgency
sudden in its intensity
all my limbs are frozen, inarticulate
as I am made newly aware
of the fragile cage that houses me
I rub at the unfurling bruise
as if to blot the pain
that pulses, bell-like, in my thready veins

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All content on this site is the sole property of Ana Cristina Simon, unless otherwise stated, and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Everything in the right place. [short story]

Stories sometimes fly into my mind like stray birds, their wings leaving random feathers behind. This is one of those feathers:

"Everything in the right place."

Lydia walked up the stairs with a weary tread, a sheaf of dark hair covering her face like a raven’s wing. She littered raindrops as she moved, her heels leaving dark prints on the carpeted steps. “Brian?” she called out as she reached the second landing. "Are you here?" Her voice echoed back in the cavernous silence, the sound of it mocking to her ears.

She stepped out of her shoes and left them by the stairs. This was uncharacteristic of her; she was usually the one to straighten frames, to pick up Brian’s dirty socks and make sure everything was in the right place. But lately Lydia had been feeling decidedly un-Lydia-like.

A bolt of lightning lit up the room before it plunged her back into the half-light. Lydia went flipping on lights methodically from room to room. She had the habit of turning on every light when she was home alone. She was aware that it gave her a false sense of comfort, but it was comfort all the same.

Lydia shrugged out of her raincoat as she walked into the kitchen, thinking some coffee would ease the cold ache in her bones, and then she noticed the answering machine was blinking. She rushed towards it, the coffee forgotten, leaving the raincoat draped over a chair and pooling water on its seat. She didn't notice, she only had eyes for the flashing red semaphore of her answering machine. She pressed play and stood breathless by the machine, her wide eyes unblinking.

First there was a crackle of static and then a voice. “Lydia? It’s your mother…”

Disappointment crashed over her like a wave. She sank into a chair. There was another brilliant blaze of lightning followed by the afterthought of thunder. And then the electricity went out.

Lydia sat there in the dark for maybe an hour, maybe more. Finally understanding for the first time, seeing what she’d been too blind to see before.

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All content on this site is the sole property of Ana Cristina Simon, unless otherwise stated, and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Why I Write [ficlet]

Logging into ficlets today, I learned from another member, Robotech_Master, that the license for this website is due to expire on October 31st. Yikes! I cannot imagine my life without ficlets...

I wrote a poem in my sad, sad mood. :(

Why I Write
I write:
because the page is empty
because my days are full
because he forgot to call
because I met someone new
because I heard my favorite song
because I bought new shoes
because I yelled at my mother
because my mother yelled at me
because my cat curled up just so
because I caught the sunset
because these memories need a record
because my pen carries farther than my voice.

Ficlets Are Awesome.

If you visited my blog recently, you may have noticed something different about the side column - I posted a list of some of my ficlets along with the links to read them.

If you don't know what a "ficlet" is, it's a short work of fiction 1,024 characters in length. Similar to flash fiction, but even shorter. A previous student of mine introduced me to it, and it's been a year-long addiction ever since. I've written more in this one year than in the past 6 years I've been teaching - something about this job just drained the creative energy out of me, until now.

Now, if only I could refocus that energy towards my thesis...

My first post (whee!!)

I'm never very successful with blogs. I have a couple abandoned blogs floating out in the ether right now. Here's hoping I'll be a better mother, if and when that time comes, than a blogger (gulp).

I will try to be good to you, blogspot. I hope this works out.

I stayed home from work today, played hooky so I could grade and write ficlets. Though in truth I am feeling a wee bit sick to my stomach, which was the excuse I gave. (I think I make myself sick with guilt when I lie to my work like that. Like it's psychosomatic or something.) What are ficlets, you ask? Well, they are short, short stories (and I mean short), of only 1024 characters in length that can be sequeled or prequeled. Go to http://www.ficlets.com for more information.

I recently finished up a couple of series on ficlets. One was about Henry VIII and his six wives, the other was about a boy and a girl who meet and fall in love in Paris. I'm quite fond of both, truth be told, and sad that those series are over. But I'm looking forward to writing a new series. Don't know what it will be yet, but it's out there...

Ficlets can be quite addictive. I have written about 350 ficlets in less than a year. I joined in October or so. I've never been this prolific. I didn't think I had the time or energy once I started teaching five years ago, but this year, I've found the time and energy to write, somehow. Thanks to this wonderful website.

OK, well it's off to grade papers and make up for playing hooky today. It's back to the drawing board tomorrow.