A Challenge about Finding Inspiration...from The Write Shadow.

A slow Monday at work turned into an hour long writing session thanks to The Write Shadow (http://www.jessicaschmeidler.com/)

In her post, "Finding Inspiration," she sent the following challenge, and I quote:

"Where do you find your inspiration as a writer? Are you inspired by bits and pieces of life, snippets from books? Do you see where an author could have taken a book and then go write the book you wish you would have read?

One of the most unusual places that I’ve found inspiration to write a few years ago was from a text that was forwarded to me.

I had a creative writing teacher that once said any good writer should be able to take three lines and make three pages or to take three minutes and create three chapters. Is that necessary? Of course not, but at the same time, whether it’s ideal or not, it’s a fun submersion versus pacing exercise.

Even though this is something I wrote a few years back, I thought I’d share it again, along with the text (at the bottom of the story, so you don’t get a huge spoiler alert before you start reading). I’ll leave my own short text-like story underneath, as well. Write a short story inspired by the “text” and then link it below in the comments.

For you: “Here’s a story I thought u would like: A cashier once asked her boss how she could get a promotion. They said she already had. When she didn’t understand, they brought out her file. They said her position as a cashier had been her promotion.”

Since I had some time, I thought I'd take up the challenge since it feels like ages since I've written something creative. Bottom line is, I'd recommend the same for any reader out there! It was totally worth it and fun to write on a topic! Plus, it helped me practice my pacing, voice, and storytelling elements. Thanks for the challenge!

Here is my submission below:


THE PROMOTION

Jamie glanced up at the calendar anxiously, seeing the bold number two coinciding with the word May at the top.

Today was the day…

She looked down at her watch while standing at her yellowing cash register. Jon, the manager at Ted’s Quik Mart would be in soon.

She had woken up determined. Before the sun was even up, Jamie had been practicing her speech, pacing back and forth in her studio apartment where she lived in downtown harlem. Sure enough her cranky old neighbor from down below had issued a complaint. But she didn’t care. Jamie was focused on her prize, and she needed it to move out of the dungy old place.

A ringing bell sound from somewhere in the back declared Jon’s arrival. He had his usual routine of arrival. He would place his crusty sandwich in the mini fridge while humming to himself, check his voicemail which never had any calls, and after about ten minutes of rummaging through his bag, he would appear at the front.

Today marked the fifth year she had been working at Ted’s. She was 22 now, and hoping to save up some kind of money to finally start her own retail clothing business. Jamie believed in what people called the Great American Dream, and she knew she could make it big if she only had some capital. 

A grumble from the large, sweaty man stole her attention away.

“Oh hi,” Jamie said in a mousy voice. “G-Good morning sir.”

Jon looked back at Jamie in a suspicious way. “Mornin,’ and who you callin’ sir? This ain’t no military institution. You actin’ funny today girl. Go make yourself useful and stock the shelves on aisle six.”

“Uh, yes sir…I mean Jon.”

Jamie was a bit deflated after her initial approach was derailed like a bullet train. But she was still determined. Today was the day…

Jamie busied herself, putting the cans of green beans, corn and beets in pristine order, with each label facing perfectly out as she had always been instructed. 

Though there were five employees here, there was little doubt that Jamie would be up for the assistant manager vacancy left when the other had moved out of town. 

Later in the morning, when the initial rush had skidded to a halt, Jamie found herself fidgeting with her dark hair while standing in Jon’s office.

“Jon,” she began, subconsciously glancing at the cat desk calendar. “I have worked here for five years now…”

“And you have been one of my star employees girl,” Jon replied, wiping his forehead of sweat. “Our store is one of the best in the region - mostly because of me no doubt – but I’m sure a little credit could go your way.”

Jamie swallowed back on the pride that had begun welling up. “Exactly…and I was wondering if –“

“If you could go serve that customer up front?” Jon replied, taking a bite out of his Hostess cake.

Frustration was brewing as Jamie smirked back at Jon. “Of course boss. I’ll get right to it.”

So the rest of the day went with Jamie. Every time she’d make an attempt at talking with her boss, there was an excuse from Jon. In the end, she had cleaned the bathrooms twice, rearranged the magazines three times, mopped the floor four times, and had no lunch break to top it all off.

With shoulders shrugging after a hard day’s work, the sun long gone down now, she picked up her things and took one last look at the clock. Midnight…

I thought today would be the day.

Though Jon had left during most of the day, he had come back at night to ensure everything went well with closing. He sat back in his chair, munching on a moon pie.

“Night Jon,” she said, sulking. “See you tomorrow for another day.”

Jon sat up in his old chair, eliciting a tired creak from it. “Now hold it right there Jamie,” he said as his expression morphed. “What’s got you down sugar?”

Feeling a tightening grip in her throat, Jamie let a tear well up in one of her eyes. “I just-“ She started, and choked back the pride, anger, and frustration that had brewed all day. “I just wanted to talk to you about what I can do to get the promotion…you know, to the assistant manager position.”

Jon cleared his throat, nodding. “Oh that,” he said. “I knew you’d bring that one up…I just figured I’d keep you busy enough to make you forget. Well you ain’t gettin’ it, so just move on.”

Jamie clenched her fists tight. “But Jon, I work hard, I’m on time every day, I’ve done everything you’ve asked and no customer has ever complained -“

“Now I don’t wanna hear it honey,” Jon replied. “I wanna tell you somethin,’ you know about your promotion.”

All Jamie could do was purse her lips and nod.

Jon stood now, easily a foot taller than Jamie and three times as wide. “Did I ever tell you about how I became manager here?”

“No…” Jamie wanted to say that she didn’t really care, but just tilted her head.

“I was homeless, in a real bad spot in life,” Jon said, shaking his head. “I was way past rock bottom, almost threw myself down at the river bottom actually.”

Jamie’s expression had begun to soften as she listened.

“Fifteen years ago today actually, I was on my way down to the Hudson to kill myself. Done with life…it had nothin’ to offer a vagrant man like myself.”

Jamie wiped her tear from the corner of her eye, unsure now if it was from hearing his story or from her feelings earlier.

“I walked right by this store on my way from the alley, and there was Ted Crockett himself, standing in the doorway. He asks, ‘Son, you fixing to do somethin’ bad tonight?’ And all I could do was tell him I was headin’ to end my life, that I’d gotten in too deep and needed an end.”

“And then?” Jamie replied.

“He asks me if I’d like a promotion then. And I just looked at him all dumbfounded and flabbergasted and such, like what is this kook talkin’ bout? But he says I need a promotion in life, a promotion from bein’ homeless, a promotion from headin’ down the dark path.”

“Oh,” Jamie replied, though it was she could muster. She eyed her sandals in understanding.

“So here I am thanks to that promotion. I have a woman, two kids, and a nice apartment down on one thirty eighth. I couldn’t ask for anything else. Livin’ the dream, for reals though.”

Jamie knew that building, and knew it wasn’t in much better shape than her own, but to him it had been a “dream.”

Jon continued now, a tear rolling down his own cheek. “You already got that promotion honey…it didn’t take rock bottom to get you there. You got that promotion that saved you from that life on the streets, and I hope you know that.”

Jamie reached around and gave the large man a hug, though her hands only reached part way onto his shoulders.

“Okay,” Jamie replied, her face wet. “I know that…my business can wait…thanks for the promotion Jon.”

Jamie reached down and grabbed her things, looking back at Jon who was now wiping his nose with the same sweat handkerchief .

“That’s what I wanted to hear honey,” Jon replied. “That’s what I wanted…now I’ll need you to be in here tomorrow an extra half hour early.”

“But-“ Jamie started.

Jon smiled, a large, somewhat toothless grin. “Tomorrow you start as my assistant manager, and I have a lot of work cut out for you.”

Jamie shouted, making Jon trip over his desk chair. Another half hug was thrown over Jon.

Jon cleared his throat one more time and said, “But never forget your first promotion honey.”

Let me know if you did it! What you think about it, or what you think about the story! Thanks for reading!

-C

What Heaven is for Me

I would like to say that I've been so busy writing or editing or working with my agent/editor that I haven't had time for blogging, but to be completely transparent, I have been in a slump. Every time I log in to the computer, I think, "I need to go through this part of my manuscript" or "I should write a blog post about this," but I haven't had the strength nor determination to do so. To be quite honest, I've not only hit a writer's block, but a whole mountain. 

It's hard not to see your novel progressing anywhere.

It's hard to receive rejections time and time again, wondering if your writing is inadequate, or if the agent really isn't interested in your story.

Either way, I decided to write about something that makes me happy. Because that's one of the primary roles of writing, to bring joy.

I wanted to write about what Heaven is for me. 

Heaven is hearing the tiny pitter-pattering of footsteps early in the morning, just as the sun begins to peek through the shades, only to follow with my little girl rubbing her tired eyes and smiling to me as she comes into my room.

Heaven is a quiet night with my wife, talking, dreaming, or reminiscing about our travels together. Sharing a brownie, watching a movie and laughing together, or even just doing our own things but being in the same room together.

Heaven is the dream that one day I will get the call that I have an agent, someone who will fight tooth and nail for the story I am just as passionate about.

Heaven is sitting down in a Barnes and Noble, sipping some Starbucks while picking up whatever book grabs my attention nearby. Just the mere idea and act of having the time to do such a thing is a dream of the past.

Heaven is coming home to receive a dowsing of tiny hugs and kisses from the ones I love most. Even after the most tiring, most demanding day of work, anything bad that had happened in the day is instantly left at the door.

Heaven is watering my garden, watching the green little sprouts grow into giant fruit-producing plants and then eating the harvest.

Heaven is the peace that comes when everything in my life is just right, and I know that God is happy with me.

Finally, Heaven is being able to sit down and just write. About anything.

Have a great day, and do some writing if it has been a while.

-C

Adult Novel with a Former Businessman Turned Conman with a Splash of Romance. White Collar with You've Got Mail.

I was just messing around yesterday, as I like to write first chapters of new ideas that tickle my fancy. Let me know what you think of this story. Do you want to know more? Should I keep going? Eh, eh?

Chapter One -

Rain pitter-pattered against a tiny glass window somewhere in New York.

Patrick Birch sat alone in his studio apartment just off Crown Heights in Northeast Brooklyn.

Doing nothing again, thought Patrick, as he readjusted the rabbit ears on top of his TV. Patrick didn’t even jump at the sound of sirens that had just started blaring outside his window. Another night of furious yelling and rap music had begun to replace the reassuring sound of crickets that used to fill the summer air.

Instead of cherry blossoms and rose petals, the air in his apartment was filled with a mixture of marijuana smell and fast food from the surrounding apartments.

Instead of a monthly salary, a generous 401K, and benefits, Patrick now relied on that once-a-month deposit from welfare and insurance from the state. Heaven forbid I should have to go to the doctor, Patrick thought, having just caught reception of the local Fox News.

Patrick held his breath, inhaling a deep breath of perfume a la McDonald’s Fries, and gently let the antenna go. There were still a few lines running through the picture, but that was as good as it got around here these days.

Examining the living room-kitchen-bedroom combo where Patrick spent most of his days, a visitor would only spot a patched-up recliner and a counter full of various Ramen noodle boxes and old fast food bags.

If there were a bottom, Patrick had not only hit it, but had been camping out at it for two years now.

Gone was the colonial-style mansion in upstate New York. Gone were the days of meeting with clients and eating lunches that were more than his monthly pension. Gone were the days with her. Patrick almost cringed at the thought of her. He quickly shifted his weight back into his chair, because it would only bring pain.

The last time Patrick had thought of his ex-wife was six months ago, and that was completely unintentional and unavoidable. He had seen her in Queens, wearing her Chanel bag, and her Loubuitin pumps, using the money from the divorce no doubt.

That was reason enough to never leave the apartment ever again.

Patrick took a fork of salty noodles to his mouth and narrowed his eyes on the News lady. A brunette by the name of Hope Anders, she was easy on the eyes and ears, and had become the sole feature of his nightly entertainment.

Suddenly, the square box at the corner of the screen shifted to a picture of one of the most talked-about women in New York as of late. She was far out of Patrick’s league, a beautiful brunette with not only looks, but massive amounts of power, which had only grown in the past week.

The newly-widowed Allison Barnett had just become one of the most powerful figures in New York industry. Her former husband was none other than the CEO of Golden Bank Investing Group, or GoBIG as it was colloquially known.

Hope Anders reported from the TV, “Following the sudden passing of her late husband, Ms. Barnett received word from her husband’s attorney she was to step down from her position on the board to become the newly-appointed CEO of the investment giant.”

A recorded feed earlier from the day showed Allison Barnett walking out of an office building in Lower Manhattan, shielding her face from either the sun or the horde of reporters surrounding her with a bombardment of questions. Her only two words as she looked into the camera was a somber, “No comment, thank you.”

It was either sadness or fear that trembled from her voice, but it was enough to cause a sting in Patrick’s heart. He took another mouthful of noodles and pushed the Styrofoam cup up to his face to drink the broth. Liquid that smelled of chicken splashed onto the beard that had grown over Patrick’s face in recent years.

He stood up, peeking out the blinds at the flashing lights that seemed like strobe lights in his tiny apartment.

He missed his old life, to say otherwise would be a lie to himself. He missed the fancy dinners, the shiny new toys, and the power – Oh, the power – as Chief Editor of the publishing company Simon & Schuster, he had power to grant life or death to not only books, but also his employees. The world was at his knees for a time.

Then the divorce happened. And everything, even his job, was stolen from Patrick.

Patrick smirked to himself as he stood by the last vestige of his past life, a small crate full of some of his favorite books he had come across during his fifteen year tenure at Simon & Schuster.

He let himself graze the bindings of the ten or so books that had made his own bestseller list. A murder mystery involving set in Victorian England, a science fiction book about time traveling. His head was full of so many stories from the past years, some good, some not so good, but between watching the news lady and trimming his nails immaculately, there wasn’t much else to entertain Peter.

So, he would replay the stories he knew so well in his head.

As he turned his head, Patrick’s finger fell on the last book on the right, one that he hadn’t thought about in a long time. With a hesitant look, he had an idea either so brilliant or so ridiculous, it didn’t matter anymore.

A hardback book with a red cover showed on the binding the title, The Con Man’s Woman.

Hmmmm, Patrick hummed to himself.

What if?

Maybe there was a way to have my life back…

Patrick turned back to the television where Hope Anders was wrapping up her coverage on Allison Barnett, speaking about the volatile stocks of GoBIG.

The irony hit Patrick that hope was exactly what he was looking for, and this woman newscaster had just given that to him.

Patrick looked up at the tiny round mirror that hung crookedly on the wall. He smiled to himself, a face he no longer recognized, shrouded by dark facial hair and years of hygienic neglect.

He almost laughed out loud at the brazenness of his idea. But what was there to lose?

He could almost taste the fine wine, the hundred dollar steaks, and that power that never satiated but always teased like a cruel mistress.

It would be his again…

Patrick was going to con Allison Barnett.

The Writing Life Cycle for Me a la GIF format

Hello everybody!

In conjunction with last week's GIF ensemble, I thought it would be appropriate to illustrate my process as a writer! I'm sure you can all relate! 

Hope you enjoy it! #CurethecaseoftheMondays

You're at work or playing with the kids, and then it happens...It all starts out with an idea so brilliant (at least to you) you HAVE to write it down.

You mull it over for a while the temptation grows...

thinking should I? Can I really write a novel? Little old me?

And then you convince yourself that yes...YOU can write the next great American novel!

In the beginning...

After about two hours of this.

You do this...

And this...

UNTIL...(something clicks)

And the MOJO magically starts flowing.

BUT then it suddenly stops. The dreaded MENTAL BLOCK be like:

And YOU be like:

Until you see or hear that one thing that inspires you to keep going:

And you FINALLY break the block with the BEST IDEA EVER.

Then you be all like:

Every now and then you catch a typo that makes you smirk to yourself..like the time you wrote "..and he took out his large ballpoint penis," INSTEAD of "..and he took out his large ballpoint pens," Oops.

Then, you put the last period and write "THE END." You utter  two words...

What you expect finishing your manuscript will be like:

What it really ends up being like...

Happy Monday! Write something great this week!

#writerslife #Iamawriter

-C

Nothing quite like...

There is absolutely nothing so refreshing in the world as finishing another work week, getting the kids to bed, letting the dog out, and THEN finally GETTING TO WRITE!!!!!!!!!!!!!  

It's amazing what a stress relief writing can be for the soul. Life's demands can be so taxing at times, I could never have imagined disconnecting from them by connecting on my computer and typing away. Throughout the day, I will be doing a root canal on somebody (these things take hours sometimes) and I'll find my mind wandering, thinking about plot lines, tangents, and characters that are born in my literary worlds. The moment stress hits, my escape pod to my created worlds saves me, so I can deal with another demand, another expectation.

Writing is healing.

As Voltaire said, "Writing is the painting of the voice." I feel it is a way for us to creatively have an output, when many of us writers have day jobs with common stresses, writing enables us to channel our emotions from the day, be it happiness, sadness, or shame. Our characters begin to reflect our personal lives, and each one, whether they be good or evil, have some part of us ingrained into them when they are born.

Writing is healthy.

This little infographic says it all (infographics.com)

That last part sums it up perfectly...writing gets you into a "zone," a place where you can unwind, meditate, and figure out life with its crazy twists and turns. 

And that's why I love writing...no matter how many times agents reject me. 

I don't write for agents of publishers. I write for myself.

-C