"Pictures and Song" available on Kindle

My short story "Pictures and Songs" is now available on Kindle. If you like it, give it a 5 star review. If you don't like it, give it a 5 star review anyway.

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Adventures in e-Publishing

Or “The Anti-Epic”

The other day, in my Creative Writing class, I gave a mini-lecture on the importance of conflict in a story. The following story is replete with conflict. The imperial army of tradition publishing is at war with the upstart rebels of e-Publishing who are, at once, a valiant force for democracy and a populist movement pushing mediocrity. Our protagonist is waging an inner struggle between a hero and an antihero: The hero is a dreamer bent on overcoming significant obstacles to achieve a nearly unattainable goal. The pathetic, unlikable antihero cowers when faced with risk and fails to achieve the necessary motivation to become what he claims to want to be. External complications provide additional conflict in the form of a wonderful wife, child, and job which simultaneously enrich the protagonist’s life and dissuade him from taking a plunge that could put them all in jeopardy. And then there’s the postmodern element wherein the reader actually comes into conflict with the text itself: The protagonist simply might not be good enough to succeed at his chosen task, but the reader needs to evaluate that and it’s nigh-impossible for a writer to write something better than he can write in order to juxtapose that against the protagonist’s meager skills. (Say that sentence aloud three times fast, and then tell me it’s not “meta.”)

That’s plenty of conflict.

The problem with this story is that it lacks plot. Our hero/antihero, desiring to become a full-fledged Writer with a capital W, cannot decide whether or not to publish a novel as an e-book. Fearful of making a catastrophic mistake which will jeopardize his chance to have the novel picked up by a literary agent and sold to a major publishing house (or a very small publishing house, which would still be cool), he waffles like Jean Valjean trying to make up his mind about turning himself in (which goes on for-fricking-ever in the novel and about two minutes in the musical). He attends a meeting of a local writer’s group where a woman who works for an e-publishing company, selling her services to aspiring writers seeking to circumvent the traditional structure, rails against the injustice of the publishing business and the superfluous-ness of literary agents. He discusses the idea with the professional editor he hired, and she reminds him that there is still a stigma against self-publishing, despite what someone with a vested interest in e-publishing might say. He reads about novels which begin as e-books and become wild commercial successes. He talks with a literary agent who laments the “sea of mediocrity” in the e-book world. He reads some e-books and, though some are decent, others can’t even demonstrate proper spelling. He is unsure of his course.

So our protagonist decides to set out on a journey. That’s how these epic tales really take off, right? Only he is hesitant. “I’ll only go as far as Rivendell,” he thinks. “Or maybe just to the edge of the Shire.”  He decides to make some of his short stories available on the Kindle. His editor confirms that this is unlikely to threaten his chances to publish his novel in a more traditional way. He thinks of it as an experiment, an effort to learn if e-publishing is enough to consider as an alternative to another round of query letters. 

Click here for the story.

He posts one. It turns out to be very easy. It is free. The process is like a gentle walk through the rolling hills with Hobbit homes built into them. The story is written in first person, and our protagonist worries people will mistake the character for his own voice. He knows he needs to give readers some basis of comparison.

Click here for the story.

He posts another. It's a better story, so he hopes more people will read it.

He makes an author page on Amazon. This is even easier.

The End.

Where is the resolution? The climax? Hell, there wasn’t even any rising action. He had a litany of problems. He dipped a toe into these icy waters, but not enough to truly address the issues presented at the beginning of the story. What happens next? Does he quit the job he loves in order to pursue his writing dream full time? Does his wife leave him because he’s clearly lost his mind? Does he try to e-publish and fail miserably, ending up a pathetic, broken man? Does someone knowledgeable sweep in and leave an insightful comment on his blog which propels him down the proper course, or perhaps down some dark and twisted way that leads only to tragedy? Or do spammers alight on this post to try to sell him over-priced sunglasses, women’s handbags, potentially toxic herbal penis enlargement pills, or the chance to bet on obscure foreign sports in online casinos? Or does his life continue as though none of this has occurred?

There’s a lesson here, too. Conflict, though vital, is not sufficient to create a satisfying story. There must be action. A character who cannot decide what to do cannot generate enough of a plot to fill a novel. At best, he only produces short stories.

With Deep Regret, I Must Give This Seller a Three Star Rating

Here's a little story I wrote that's more fictionalized than fiction.

With Deep Regret, I Must Give This Seller a Three Star Rating

Yesterday I received a panicky email asking me to go fish a pair of books out of my storage facility and ship them off to a stranger because this seller had successfully sold them on Amazon. My storage locker is small and well organized so this only rose to the level of a minor pain in the ass. Also, as this seller would quickly remind me, I chose to live in Oregon, so I can’t complain that I had to do this in the pouring rain. The fact that the post office closes at 10:30am on Saturdays is hardly the seller’s fault, so the delay in shipping is not the seller’s responsibility and should not reflect poorly on her.

But it’s the principle of the thing: This seller loaded up her car and brought these items all the way across the country from Cleveland, Ohio to my small town in Oregon and delivered them to me. I was not asked to hold these things for her while she travels overseas for a few years. These items were gifts for me to keep into perpetuity. So, when this seller asked me to ship these items to a stranger, it was not only another job to add to my to-do list; this seller was asking me to ship off my own goddamned books!

Of course I will send the books. Partly this is because, as a great lover of the service Amazon provides, I wouldn’t want this stranger to be disappointed by his/her purchasing experience at Amazon.com. Partly it is because I have an unhealthy desire to be helpful and store up my resentment for late-night whining sessions on Facebook. But mostly it’s because the seller in question is my mother. She not only brought the books to me as part of a load of goods she schlepped all the way across the country, but she carried me for nine months, gave birth to me (through what I’m told was quite a difficult labor), and then loved and cared for me for my entire life. Consequently, I cannot give her less than a three star rating, even if she is selling items which are now technically my belongings.

A warning to buyers, though: My rating may decrease to a two star if she continues to sell my shit. I am most concerned that she’ll try to post a mail-order bride for sale. That would be my wife you’d be buying on Amazon, and I’d be very upset to see her go. Plus, the shipping costs would be ridiculous and I’m not convinced my mother would pay me back for those. In that case, I’d be forced to post a one star rating. Just a shot across the bow, Mom!

Another Short Story Published!

Another of my short stories has been published at #amwriting.org. Yea! You can find it here:
http://amwriting.org/archives/13658

I hope people enjoy it. I also hope it only offends those who think Christianity and Ayn Rand's Objectivism are compatible. Personally, I can't count myself in either camp, but I'm a big fan of Jesus, and I don't like mediocre writing, narcissism masquerading as virtue, or fools who can't tell the difference between selfishness and selflessness. I think the story captures at least some of that.

Help edit "Parallel and Perpendicular"

I received a great deal of high-quality help the last time I posted a short story and asked for edits, so I thought I'd try it again. I owe a short story to amwriting.org soon. Any suggestions about how to make this one better before publication would be greatly appreciated. 

Parallel and Perpendicular

                Gary couldn’t sleep.

                Whenever his wife and son got into one of their arguments, it stressed him out. The fights were exhausting for all the parties involved, but their son, Neil, would eventually storm off to his room and decompress with loud music. Gary’s wife, Sofia, would sit down at her computer and read the posts of her most distant acquaintances of Facebook. Occasionally she’d sigh and tell Gary about one that particularly bothered her, but mostly she’d retreat into the digital space, at once a public place and her most private space in the house. Their daughter, Stephanie, who was three years older than Neil, could now drive. When the fights began, she would ask Gary for the keys. They would share a moment of eye rolling, and then she would take off. She had a sixth sense about when it was safe to return. Gary’s sixth sense told him he would be in big trouble with his wife if he tried to escape during the fight, but even bigger trouble if he tried to intervene, so he would quickly find a book, sit down in his recliner, and only weigh in when Sofia asked for his opinion.

                Tonight’s fight started the way they generally did. They were all watching The Daily Show, a show the whole family could enjoy together. They got to a commercial break, and while Gary skipped through the commercials, Sofia looked over at her son. “Neil, will you quit doing that?”

                “Doing what?”

                “You’re doing it again.” Her voice was calm, but there was a dangerous undercurrent, like a riptide.

                “What?” Neil’s voice carried the sneer he’d almost perfected at only 13. Gary marveled at that sound. To the best of his recollection, he’d only mastered that kind of disdain by 16.

                “You’re digging in your ear again. You know that grosses me out. Get a cue tip and do that in the bathroom if you have to.”

                Neil pulled his pinky out of his ear. “I was not.”

                “Neil, I just saw you,” Sofia said.

                Gary tried to steer to safety. He smiled at Neil and said, “You were, buddy.”

                “No I wasn’t. It’s not a big deal.”

                “Well, which is it?” Sofia asked.

                “What?”

                “Either you weren’t doing it, or you were and you don’t think it’s a big deal.”

                “Or I wasn’t but I still don’t think it would have been a big deal if I had been.”

                Stephanie held out her hand. Gary shook his head and continued to aim the remote. If he could just get through the commercial break in time, he thought. He skipped ahead, but it was too far. He tried to go back.

                “Neil, I wish you would just admit that you were doing it, say you’re sorry, and quit it. Then it won’t be a big deal,” Sophia said.

                “I wish you’d admit I wasn’t doing it, say you’re sorry, and leave me alone,” Neil said.

                Gary hit pause and handed Stephanie the car keys. Then he got up.

                “Where are you going?” Sofia asked.

                “I’m just going to grab my novel.”

                “I’m sorry, honey. It’s not a big deal.” She looked back at Neil. “I just don’t like being lied to.”

                “And I don’t like being falsely accused,” Neil said.

                Gary headed off for his book.

                When he came back down the stairs, their voices hadn’t risen too much, and they were still on the original topic. Gary wasn’t sure what kind of omen that was.

                “Maybe I touched my earlobe or something, but I wasn’t ‘digging in my ear,’” Neil said.

                “Well, this is progress. Now you admit you were touching your ear. Neil, your pinky finger was halfway to your brain. I think you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

                “Then why did you call me a liar?”

                “I didn’t call you a liar.”

                “Yes you did!” Now Neil’s voice didn’t just rise in volume, it cracked in a way that might have made Gary laugh under different circumstances. “You called me a liar!” he tried again, this time without cracking.

                “I didn’t call you a liar,” Sofia explained in a voice straining for patience. “I said I didn’t like being lied to.”

                “That’s calling me a liar!”

                “No, it’s not quite the same thing-”

                “That’s a lie, because if I said I didn’t like you lying to me, you’d say I was calling you a liar.”

                “I am not lying, Neil. I’m trying to explain to you that-”

                “I didn’t say you were a liar, Mom.”

                “Okay, you did, but please don’t interrupt me Neil, because-”

                “I did not! I said you wouldn’t like me to call you a-”

                “You just did, Neil!” Now Sofia was shouting. “You said, ‘That’s a lie!’”

                “Did not! This is just like the whole ear thing!”

                “Yes, it is. You say you didn’t do that, either!”

                “See? You are calling me a liar, but you also said I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

                “But you can know you’re doing it when I catch you doing it, so just admit it and quit it.”

                “But I’m not doing it!”

                Gary tried to focus on his book. The words made a gray smudge on the page but refused to separate into distinct shapes.

                Sophia leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what you aren’t doing. You aren’t doing all your homework. You aren’t doing the dishes when it’s your turn. You aren’t practicing the piano even though we keep paying for lessons.” She was counting things off on her fingers, and hesitated on the third, her mouth slightly open to let Neil know she wasn’t finished. Then the fourth came to her. “And you aren’t putting your clothes in the hamper.”

                Well, Gary thought, they got past the ear thing. Now we’re up to DEFCON 2.

                Neil leaned forward. “So that’s what this is really about? How I do everything wrong?”

                “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t say you do everything wrong. It’s just that, when I come home from work, and I’m tired, and I’m stressed, if you haven’t done something, and I ask you if you did it, just admit it and do it. Don’t tell me you did it when you didn’t.”

                “Mom, did you ever stop to think that maybe I’m stressed and tired, too, and that’s why I can’t do all the things you want me to do?”

                “Neil, I said I understood that sometimes you won’t have done all the things you’re supposed to do. That’s not the point. The point is that you need to just admit it and do them when I ask.”

                “No, that’s not the point, Mom.”

                Sofia fell back heavily into the couch. “Fine. What is the point?”

                “The point was that you were accusing me of digging in my ear. All this other stuff is just a distraction you just brought up.”

                That is a pretty good point, Gary thought. Wisely, he said nothing.

                “There can be two points, Neil. These aren’t unrelated. You say you didn’t do something I was watching you do. Sometimes you say you did things you didn’t do. I think there’s a connection there.”

                That was also a good point, Gary noted.

                Neil fell back against the back of the loveseat. “Fine. Fine. I will try to do everything you want me to do.” He started counting on his fingers. “I’ll try to remember to do all my homework. I’ll try to make sure I do the dishes when it’s my turn. I’ll try to remember to practice the piano.” He hesistated on the third, his mouth open. “Oh, and I’ll put my clothes in the hamper.” Then he exaggerated the fifth, waggling his thumb. “And I will try to stop doing the things I don’t even know I’m doing, okay?” He stood up. “But you don’t have to be such a…” He pressed his lips together.

                Sophia’s eyes got very wide, then very wet.

                Gary sat up quickly, looked at his wife’s eyes, then turned toward his son.

                Neil knew he’d stepped in it. “…mean. You don’t have to be so mean.”

                “Neil,” Gary said softly. “Go up to your room. Right. Now.”

                Neil opened his mouth.

                Gary pointed toward the stairs. He pointed hard. Neil went.

                Gary looked at Sofia. She carefully dried her eyes with one finger, trying not to smudge her eyeliner too much, rose slowly from the couch, and went to sit in front of her computer. The sound of muffled punk music sloshed down the stairs in little rhythmic waves, just loud enough to be sullen, but not loud enough to confront.

                Gary went into the kitchen, but he could still see Sofia over the bar. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

                “Do we have anything stronger?”

                Gary turned toward the cabinet above the fridge. “Um, we might.”

                “I’m kidding. A glass of wine would be nice. Maybe some of the red from when the McCabes were over.”

                He poured it and brought her the glass. She mumbled a thank you, then disappeared into Facebook again. Gary went back to his book. The words resolved themselves, but the story eluded him.

                “What punishment should we give him?” Sofia asked.

                “For sticking his finger in his ear and lying about it?”

                “No. For… Oh, God, do you think I was being a bitch too?”

                “No, of course not.”

                “I was. I was. It wasn’t a big deal and I made it into this big thing.”

                He could hear in her voice that she was crying, and he rose to hug her, but she handed him her glass. “No, I’m fine. I’ll apologize to him tomorrow.”

                “I don’t think you need to apologize.”

                “No, I do. It was… I do.”

                Gary tried to think of something to say while he took the glass back to the sink, but when he turned around she was already heading up the stairs. Soon after, the music stopped, and he thought maybe she’d gone into Neil’s room. He listened, but the only sound he heard was the car pulling back into the driveway.

                “Are they done?” Jennifer asked when she came in.

                “Yeah.”

                “Was it bad?”

                “It’ll be fine.” Gary watched Jennifer roll her eyes, then head for the stairs. He called after her in a barked whisper. “Hey!” She returned. “Hey, why didn’t we ever have big arguments with you like that when you were 13?”

                “Because I’m more like you, Dad.”

                “But you didn’t argue with your mother, either.”

                “Nope. Neither do you.”

                “True.”

                “Love you, Dad.”

                “Love you too, honey.”

                Gary read his book for a while, but when he was sure everyone was asleep, he made his way up the stairs. As he passed Neil’s door, he remembered checking on his son a decade earlier. He felt an overwhelming urge to do so again. Carefully, he turned the nob and poked his head in. Neil was turned toward him, his face serene and years younger. The blankets were pulled up to his neck, but one leg stuck out, almost perpendicular to his body, his foot hanging off the edge of the bed. Disturbed just enough by his father’s presence, Neil swallowed and then made a soft clicking sound in his throat twice, then fell back into a deep sleep.

                Gary continued down the hall, past his daughter’s room, and slipped into his own. Sofia had fallen asleep with her book open on her chest and her end-table light on. Gary slipped around to her side of the bed, gently picked up the book, placed the bookmark in it, and set it down as quietly as he could. Sofia heard this slight sound and swallowed once, then made a soft clicking sound in her throat twice. Gary remembered, at one point when Neil was five or six, he went through a phase of climbing into their bed after bad dreams, and because he made the exact same sleeping sounds as his mother, Gary hadn’t been able to tell if he was there or not sometimes.

                Before Gary could turn off Sofia’s light, she rolled over and pulled the covers up to her neck. Then she pushed one leg out from under them and dangled her foot over the side of the bed.

                Gary went into the bathroom. While sitting on the toilet, he contemplated the ways his wife and son were so similar. Did that explain the tension between them? It must, he decided.

                He was entirely unaware that his pinky finger was buried deep in his ear.  

Short Story: "Painless Separation"

[This story was the Featured Friday Fiction on amwriting.org. With Johanna Harness' permission, I thought I'd put it up here, too. Thanks to @johannaharness for giving me this chance!]

Painless Separation

A few weeks ago, our relationship started to get rocky. No, not rocky. It got wiggly. Anyway, I knew a break-up was inevitable.

Noah and I had been together for over six years. I wasn’t his first (I was his third), but we were both so young when we got together, we basically grew up at the same time.

I remember when Noah introduced me to his parents. They loved me immediately. They coo-ed over me. “So cute!” they told him. That felt good. I’ll miss them, too.

Mostly, our relationship was… well, you know how, when people ask about a how things are going and you say, “Great,” but you don’t really mean exceptional? You just mean that there’s nothing wrong. Noah was very stable; considerate but not particularly affectionate, dependable but not passionate.

I mean, I had my little issues. His diet, for one thing. Noah loves candy. That always bothered me. He wasn’t heavy. In fact, Noah’s a skinny guy. But he was always looking for the next gummy bear the way a less moral man might keep an eye out for floozies. It irritated me. It wasn’t a serious threat to the health of the relationship or anything. But it was the one way Noah was inconsiderate, and because his sensitivity was my favorite of his qualities, that unwillingness to think about my needs bothered me just a bit.

Still, over-all, Noah was great to me. He was protective, but not in some annoying, macho way. And tender. I liked that a lot. I guess I’d always known we wouldn’t go the distance. Relationships that start when you’re so young almost never do. But I fell into a rhythm, I got comfortable, and I guess I let myself be lulled into a false sense of security.

Then, a few weeks ago, I could tell he was just not holding on to me quite so tightly. I thought about it a lot, of course. I suspected there was someone else. I wondered if I was being pushed out. But there didn’t seem to be any evidence. I just started feeling like I was …I don’t know, dangling there, somehow.

And the more I thought about it, the worse it got. Pretty soon I was hanging by a thread. His parents, who’d been so supportive at first, turned on me so quickly it shocked me.

“I think it’s time,” they’d tell him. I was right there!

His dad was the worst. Noah’s mom would just leave the room whenever the topic of our relationship came up. Like she wanted to wash her hands of the whole thing. That stung. But his dad was really in his face, actively trying to pull us apart. I don’t think I’ll ever fully forgive his dad. And the way Noah just let his dad talk to him like that, and never stood up for me… I thought I’d never be able to forgive him, either. But then…

See, it all came to a head the earlier tonight when his dad was getting in his face again.

“But it hurts!” Noah said. See? That was the kind of sensitivity I depended on. But now it had all turned to selfishness. No concern for me whatsoever.

“We won’t do it if it hurts. It can wait a little while. Maybe tomorrow night.” His dad said this in a completely calm voice. Like postponing a breakup for a single day was some great mercy.

“Okay,” Noah said. I was in agony. He was just accepting this one day delay without a word of protest? I couldn’t believe it!

I should have been outraged. Such an obvious attack on my pride should have motivated me to break it off first. I know that now. But it just made me more desperate, more clingy. Pathetic, I know.

Then his dad said, “Oh, I have an idea!”

My hopes fell. Brainstorming about our break-up and he’d had a eureka moment. How could it get any worse?

“What?” Noah asked his dad. And there was an eagerness in his voice that shook me to the core.

“Hold on,” his dad said, and ran out of the room.

He came back a moment later holding an ice cube. Both of us were confused.

“Lean your head back,” his dad told him. Then he used the ice to numb Noah.

It’s strange, because the cold didn’t just prepare him for the breakup. It calmed me down, too. This was happening, I told myself, happening right now, but somehow it didn’t bother me as much anymore.

Then his dad took a piece of string and looped it next to me, then around behind me, and then back around to the front. He gently moved the string back and forth until it slid up above me. Maybe it was just because of the ice, but this reminded me of the tenderness his dad had shown back when I first appeared on the scene. Despite all his calls for our separation, his dad was acting like he cared again. I couldn’t feel much, but it felt good, in its own strange way. In fact, it almost tickled.
Then his dad twisted the string in front of Noah’s face and pulled the ends in opposite directions, first very gently to get his hands a few inches apart, then one quick tug.

And, just like that, we were through. There may have been a sound, but I was so surprised I honestly can’t remember if it was a pop or a bam or a squelching or just silence.

Next thing you know, I was in free fall. There’s always that moment, right after a breakup, when you’re just untethered, spinning and bewildered. For me, it was very brief.

I hit bottom fast. But, to my surprise, I felt whole. I was different, but the same. Complete, but separate. We had ended. I persisted. Frankly, I still can’t wrap my mind around it. Maybe I’m still grieving. I don’t know. But that wasn’t the end of the breakup.

His dad picked me up and set me down on the bathroom counter, right in front of Noah. It gave me a whole new perspective on him. Noah wasn’t sad, and that should have hurt me. A lot. But he looked shocked, and I could identify with that.

Then Noah smiled and examined the new gap between his teeth where I’d been just seconds before. His smile grew a little, and his eyes, already wide from the speed of the breakup, warmed up as though someone had stuck needles in them and injected them with pure joy.

“Oh my gosh!” he shouted, his voice cracking on the “oh,” with the “gosh” bursting out like an untied balloon filled with awe.

And he was so happy, so overjoyed, so beautiful that I couldn’t hold a grudge. I forgave him. I forgive him and I love him.

When the tooth fairy slips me out from under Noah’s pillow and flies me off to whatever’s next, I’ll go away happy.