#FridayFlash: The Way It's Done

Carla flipped the presentation-sized pages on the easel as she spoke.

"NovoGene - because there's nothing wrong with you that some fresh DNA won't fix."

Flip.

"NovoGene: For the best you money can buy."

Flip.

"NovoGene: For the life you were always meant to live."

Flip.

"When it's time to get great, it's time for NovoGene."

Flip.

"NovoGene: You, only better."

After the last page, Carla flipped them all back over, bringing the pad back to the first page, the one with all the what-do-we-want-the-ads-to-do scribbling. She hadn't given the executives more than 10 seconds with any of the taglines. As expected, there were at least five voices asking her to go back and let the see them again. She ignored them and fussed with the multicolored markers for a moment. The voices increased in volume, as they called out to her and to each other.

She made a point of dropping the markers, which gave her twenty seconds' worth of stage business in which to continue to ignore the room full of vice-presidents. It was only when she heard the voice of the CEO that she turned to face the room again. The rest of the room fell silent quickly, with only one of the members of the board of directors continuing to whisper a side conversation.

"Ms. Gorten," the CEO said, "would you mind reviewing those again? You went through them a little too quickly for us."

"Certainly, ma'am," Carla said. "Which of the taglines did you want to see again?"

"Which one? I want to see all of them, of course."

Carla nodded, as if in complete agreement, but she made no move to flip the pages again. "Of course, ma'am. I'll put them all up around the wall so we can properly workshop them. Before I do that, though..." Carla looked around the room, tilting her head in a manner that conveyed open curiosity. Getting the right balance of knowing expertise and feckless innocence was something that had taken hours with an acting coach. "Before I do that, could I ask the room, which of the taglines stuck with you the most?"

She let the question hang until she saw the first furrowed brow clear with understanding. "The reason I ask is that..." Carla paused, feeding the words out as a softball. As she expected, one of the junior VPs finished her sentence for her, eager to show how much he knew about advertising.

"... is so you can introduce the one that did well in the focus groups. If it's sticky with them, it should be sticky with us." The man finished on a self-satisfied note, pleased with himself not only for figuring it out, but for beating his rivals to the punch in explaining it to the room.

Carla tilted her head and acknowledged him. She, of course, saw what he did not: the rest of the executives, having missed it, resented having it explained to them, and therefore treated it as an obvious ploy on Carla's part. Rather than admit to themselves that they were late to get the joke, they acted as though they'd been in on it with Carla all along.

Exactly as she'd intended.

"That's right," Carla said to the junior VP, "so with your indulgence -" this, to the CEO, who nodded her permission, "- I'll ask you to consider which taglines stuck with you. Obviously, after taking a major position in the ad space, the tagline will get solid repetition, ensuring verbatim mindshare. For now, though, please make a note of the couple you remember, and write them down." When few people made a move to actually write anything, Carla spoke to the CEO. "I can assure you that this is a worthwhile exercise." The CEO paused, shrugged and scribbled something in a margin of one of the financial reports. The rest of the room followed suit.

Carla turned back to the pad and flipped the pages again, peeling off four of them. They functioned like huge Post-It notes, allowing her to stick them to the walls.

"Now then," she continued, "I'm going to guess that not all of you remembered the same ones. As you might image, we focus-grouped these taglines extensively, with all fourteen of the major potential demographic slices. The most statistically significant breakdown runs like this, in order of expected revenue stream." She pointed to each of the four slogans as she spoke.

"For Caucasian women over 57 with no serious health issues: NovoGene - because there's nothing wrong with you that some fresh DNA won't fix."

"For Caucasian women between 24 and 38, irrespective of medical history: When it's time to get great, it's time for NovoGene."

"For Asian men between 38 and 57, irrespective of medical history: NovoGene: You, only better."

She stepped back from the pages on the wall, gave the room a moment to absorb the overview, then nodded to her assistant. Brian opened the file box by his seat against the wall and pulled out copies of the demographic survey reports. He began distributing them to the executives seated around the table.

Carla looked around the room, drilling her words into everyone except the CEO. "Yes, we're going to be first to market. Yes, we're going to have the most diverse product line. Yes, we're going to have repeat customers when the replicant plasmids wear out and get metabolized. But we're not going to make the kind of money we could make unless we reach the customers we need to reach and lock them in early." With her final words, she made eye contact with the CEO.

The CEO nodded and said, "Agreed."

And THAT'S how you get a $12,000,000 bonus, Carla thought. It's all about the show business.

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Belated 1000th post celebration giveaway

Time flies when you're having fun. Without noticing, I blew past my 1000th blog post here on Landless. It was a limerick about the self-publishing debate. Hardly an auspicious post for such a round number, is it?

In honor of this occasion (which I kinda missed), my collection of flash fiction and short stories, "Blood Picnic and other stories" is free to download for the next month from Smashwords. Just use coupon code LA38K and you can have this collection for Kindle, iPad, iPhone, PC, Mac, Android or three-ring binder. Totally free. You can still send me a couple of bucks if you want to, but it's not necessary.

Also, what should I have done for my 1000th blog post? What's below is a screen capture, but there's an actual poll up on the left side. People who read this blog via RSS will have to actually come visit http://www.TonyNoland.com to register an opinion. You can select multiple options, so feel free to let me know.

To everyone, reading here at the website, via RSS or via e.mail, thank you! The first 1000 posts have been fun and I look forward to the next 1000!

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That first story idea - skeleton or scaffolding?

By the time it's finished, every good story will need structure - compelling plot, interesting characters who grow and change, etc.  However, every story begins with an idea. Maybe it's specific, maybe it's nebulous, but they all start with that first concept.

The question is, how do you use that starting point?

SKELETON I almost always take my first idea and build on it. Follow it out to a logical conclusion, expand its ramifications, find characters and voices to express the idea, pick location(s) that provide a good backdrop, etc. No matter if the final piece is 1K, 6K or 100K, deep down in the center of it is that first idea, fully integrated.

But does it have to be that way?

I've been thinking about some of the pieces I wrote part way, then abandoned. Among other reasons, it was because the story wandered so far from the original concept that I felt it had just lost its way. Without the bones to hold it up, the story can't stand... can it?

SCAFFOLDING Many structures have temporary supports, designed to hold it up until it can stand for itself. When the mortar sets or the glue dries, the scaffolding is disassembled and taken away. The structure is usually much more graceful and beautiful for having been built this way. Great soaring arches, cathedral ceilings and huge domed atria are impossible to build without scaffolding.

What would happen to the final story if you began with the assumption that the first idea is only there to give you a way to assemble and support all the other ideas, the ones you would never otherwise have been able to work with? Could it be all the more intricate, beautiful and intricate without the central idea?

Conceptually, this is different from simply changing the skeleton from one thing to another. Great soaring structures are as much about the negative spaces they define as it is about the structures themselves. Can you think of some examples of great works of literature that allude to, encompass or even define something that isn't directly part of the story? The Old Man and the Sea, perhaps? Or Great Gatsby? Or My Antonia?

What are some others? Do you write using skeletons or scaffolding? Which is easier? Which gives better results?

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Images:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0e/Skeleton2.jpg
http://www.infoflorence.com/Photo/Brunelleschi/Scaffolding%20for%20the%20cupola%202.jpg

Wednesday limerick: flesh, novice, sear

Each Wednesday, I compose a limerick based on the prompt from Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are: flesh, novice, sear

  I'm a novice at this, yes it's true,

So "I'm sorry", though tepid, must do

For the horrible sear

To this salmon flesh dear,

But wait 'til my NEXT barbecue! 

~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~

I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!

Oh, wait... the "angry salesman" thing isn't very good book promotion, is it? How about this:

My book of limericks inspired by Three Word Wednesday is FREE to borrow from Amazon:

Poetry on the Fly: Limericks Inspired by Three Word Wednesday

"They made me laugh, they made me sad, they made me think and squirm and reflect. ... Tony Noland has a way with words that is nothing short of astonishing" - Jeff Posey, Amazon review

That's right, FREE. Of course, if you're not in Amazon Prime, it still only costs $0.99. That's less than a coffee. And I'm not talking Starbuck's, I'm talking about the burnt mud they sell at the convenience store. It's worth the buck - you'll love it!

Don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. You can read "Poetry on the Fly" (or any of my other great writing) anywhere you like!

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The self-publishing argument

"Self-pubbing's only for fools!"

"The Big Six have out-of-date rules!"

It makes my head spin,

This publishing din,

A pox on these loquacious duels.

This limerick is in response to the blog post I read this morning that made me feel like a goddamned loser idiot for even considering doing something so breathtakingly stupid as self-publishing my book, since self-publishing is OBVIOUSLY a sign of a horrible, worthless crappy book.

I made the decision to stop reading that blog a long time ago because its author is steeped in bile, vitriol and contempt. It's touted as an "important" blog, one that all early-career writers "must" follow. However, reading it always made me feel angry and rather dirty, as though I'd gone for a walk over a badly leaking septic tank. I don't miss it a bit.

Still, this morning I clicked on a twitter link, thinking maybe for once the value of the message would outweigh the acid packaging.

Nope.

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My deepest fear

On today's Write Anything post, I reveal my deepest fear about my own writing.

Go check it out, but please... be kind.

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#fridayflash - Beautiful Creature

Beautiful Creature

by Tony Noland

The regular customer came into the quiet dimness, took one look at the man at the end of the bar and said, "What's his problem?"

Without looking up from his newspaper, the bartender said, "Ah, he'll be OK. He's only exercising poor judgement."

"A lot of guys do. Just how poor?"

"It took eight shots for him to quit swearing and start sobbing, and another nine shots for him to quit sobbing and pass out."

The regular whistled. "That's poor judgement, all right. Was it over money or a woman?"

"A woman."

"His wife leave him? Cheat on him?"

"Nope," said the bartender, "he said his wife is a good woman. He's married fourteen years, has two kids, one dog, and a house in the suburbs with good schools and high property taxes."

"Jesus, if there's anything worse than a drunk it's a talkative drunk."

The bartender shrugged. "I don't judge."

"So if it wasn't his wife, it was his mistress? Man, my mistress dumped me, I'd get drunk, too. If I had a mistress, that is."

The bartender looked up from his paper, then shrugged again. "Like I said, I don't judge. But no, it wasn't his mistress. He ran into an old girlfriend. Hadn't seen her since before he got married, but he ran into her downtown. They had a cup of coffee, talked about old times, hugged goodbye. From there, he came into the first bar he saw -"

"Which was here?"

"- which was here, yes. He came in, slapped two hundred dollars down on the bar and said, 'Keep 'em coming as long as that lasts.' After that it was drink drink, talk talk, sob sob, and night night."

The regular whistled again. "So the poor bastard has been carrying a torch for an old girlfriend for fourteen years? Through his entire marriage?"

"Nope. He said he got over her long before he got married."

"What? Well, if he doesn't have a broken heart, then what's his problem?"

"Turns out his old girlfriend has been happily married for nine years. Two kids, thinking about a third. Condo in the city, thinking about a house in the suburbs."

With a frown, the regular looked at the sleeping man. A pool of whiskey from the final shot spread on the bar, making a puddle around the man's cheek.

"So," he said, "his problem with his old flame is...?"

"His problem is that she went on without him." The bartender folded his newspaper and put it away. "Instead of being shattered with loss forever, she got over him and went on about living her life. Seems to me that it takes a pretty damned big ego to think that the ones you leave behind will be so torn up that they'll sit at home weeping for the next forty years. Big egos make for easy targets." He nodded at the sleeping man. "When a big ego gets kicked, it hurts worse than getting kicked in the balls. It's better not to have a big ego in the first place. But, what the hell, like I said, I don't judge. What can I get you?"

"Is there any of The Great Lover's two hundred left, or did he drink his way through it all?"

"Not even close."

"Why don't you give me a shot and a beer, on his tab. I'll drink a toast to his old girlfriend."

The bartender paused, then said, "Sure, why not? He won't miss it." In a moment, a draft and a tall shot of top shelf were on the bar.

"What was the girlfriend's name?" said the regular. "Who am I drinking to?"

"He said her name was Estella."

The regular raised the shot glass. "To Estella, who I'm sure was a beautiful creature."

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Wednesday #limerick: fawn, juggle, navigate

Each Wednesday, I compose a limerick based on the prompt from Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are: fawn, juggle, navigate

  I juggle two lives every day:

First fawn over words, then away

Lest I should be late

For I must navigate

To the place of my other love's sway 

 

~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~

There are so many great limericks in my book. The only thing separating you from them? A lousy buck. But maybe you don't like to laugh?

You can read more of my limericks inspired by Three Word Wednesday in my e.book, which is cleverly titled:

Poetry on the Fly: Limericks Inspired by Three Word Wednesday

Only $0.99 - less than a hot dog at the convenience store!

Don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. You can read "Poetry on the Fly" or any of my other great writing anywhere you like!

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One day giveaway: some great anthologies

Today only, a couple of great anthologies from eMergent Publishing are at literally giveaway prices: $0.00 and $0.00, respectively. You can read the opening of my story, Dogs of War, right here. You can get the books by clicking on the links below:

KINDLE LINKS

The Red Book

The Yin and Yang Book

WHAT MAKES CHINESE WHISPERINGS ANTHOLOGIES UNIQUE

Each anthology is a collection of interwoven short stories by emerging writers handpicked from across the English-speaking world. Unlike other anthologies, Chinese Whisperings is created in a sequential fashion and each story stands on its own merits while contributing to a larger, connected narrative.

The Red Book, the first of the anthologies has each successive writer taking a minor character from the preceding story and telling their story as the major character in the next story. Each writer also references events from the preceding story to tie the ten stories together. The anthology can be re forward, or backward, or begun in any place because of its circular nature.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Mercurial Jodi Cleghorn (Ed)

Something Mean in the Dream Scene Jason Coggins

Kraepelin’s Child Annie Evett

Discovery Paul Servini

Innocence Tina Hunter

Not Myself Dale Challener Roe

Not My Name Jasmine Gallant

Out Of The Darkness Rob Diaz II

Heartache Emma Newman

One in the Chamber Paul Anderson (Ed)

The Yin and Yang Book takes the concept a step further, with the anthology played across parallel airport universes stemming from a decision to retrieve a stolen painting or to leave without it. It's a sliding doors/spider web hybrid. Readers will see common characters slipping across the two universes, some of them behaving in slightly different ways. The parallel universes are anchored between a common prologue and epilogue.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue Jodi Cleghorn (ed)

Three Monkeys Paul Servini

Three Rings Chris Chartrand

Dogs of War Tony Noland

This Be the Verse Dan Powell

Providence Dale Challener Roe

No Passengers Allowed J.M. Strother

Thirteen Feathers Rob Diaz II

One Behind the Eye Richard Jay Parker

Chase the Day Jason Coggins

Somewhere to Pray (Kurush)  Benjamin Solah

The Guilty One Emma Newman

Excess Baggage Carrie Clevenger

Where the Heart Is Tina Hunter

The Other Side of Limbo Claudia Osmond

Freedom Laura Eno

Cobalt Blue Jasmine Gallant

The Strangest Comfort Icy Sedgwick

Lost and Found Jen Brubacher

Kanyasulkam Annie Evett

Double Talk Lily Mulholland

Epilogue  Paul Anderson (Ed)

The edited short stories in these anthologies are 4K - 6K. That's a lot of terrific fiction to make your Kindle happy, all for the price of a free click!

Want to enjoy this great writing by authors you love, but don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. Read them at home, in your favorite coffee shop or on the go!

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Virus laden poetry

We shiver, cough and wheeze,

We snuffle, ache and sneeze,

Fatigue caused by a virus,

This cold so apt to tire us,

Has screwed our pronoun usage, if you please

Not my best limerick ever, but I feel like crap.

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Why 90,000 words?

Is 90K still OK?

In discussing the book I'm writing, "Goodbye Grammarian", I've referred to word counts. This book started life as my 2010 NaNoWriMo, so hitting the 50,000 word mark was part of its genesis. In revisions, though, I set a goal of 90,000 words for the finished product.

Why the insistence on a particular word count? Why not just write it and let it be the length it wants to be? Because it's a science fiction book.

In a recent #askagent chat on Twitter, I put the question to Janet Reid and Laura Bradford, well known and well respected literary agents.

Janet's answer was succinct:

Laura's answer was more expansive, but agreed with Janet's:

My book is about a superhero who does battle with the forces of evil using the power of words: freezing people in place with a full stop, slicing through steel chains with a cutting remark, blocking a blast from a plasma cannon with a flat refusal, etc. All of the superpowers are hard sci-fi, with technological underpinnings, and there is plenty of high-tech gadgetry to go with the puns, wordplay and double entendres.

I chose 90,000 words because, as Jacqui Murray notes in her blog, the preferred word count varies depending on genre. Jacqui reprinted some word count guidelines from the Southern California Writer's Conference, broken down by genre. 90,000 - 100,000 has traditionally been regarded as a good length for my kind of book.

A shorter, tighter book will be a better book. Putting a defined limit on its size will guide the edits. I also believe a shorter book will be easier to pitch to an agent, and easier to sell.

What do you think? Does this insistence on genre-defined word count hold true the way it used to?

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The Fate of Camellia, Queen of the Sun

Some time ago, I told a story on twitter about Camellia, the Queen of the Sun, also known as Camellia sinensis, my Japanese tea tree which has been suffering in the heat of recent summers.

I described how I put together a slow-drip irrigation system to keep poor Camellia alive this summer. By "put together" I mean "avoid spending any real money on".

Without further ado, the pictures (click any of them to enlarge):

The $7 trash can

The 30 gallons of water

A hole in the can, with a $3 hose bib attached. Also a hunk of old hose.

Camellia herself, with the drip irrigation end of the hose.

The drip end was made by plugging the end, drilling some 1/16" holes in the tube and wrapping it with several layers of landscaping fabric (I had some scrap in my workshop). This not only keeps the holes from plugging up with dirt and debris, it slows the outflow to a steady drip. I secured it all with a dozen zip-ties.

Finally, the drip irrigation system in action:

That 30 gallons will slow-release over (roughly) 48 hours, which is MUCH better for deep root structure than 30 gallons dumped on in 20 minutes from the end of a garden hose.

Use that water and thrive, Camellia, thrive!

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Death of the Cowboy

Death of the Cowboy

by Tony Noland

The stranger walked up to the brunette behind the counter, trail dust sifting down from his worn leather chaps. She was a pretty little thing - skinny, but soft-looking and painted like Saturday night in Topeka. He hitched himself forward and laid an elbow down, pushing up the brim of his stained, sun-faded Stetson.

Without looking up, the brunette said, "Not interested," and went about her business.

The bright July sunlight slanted through the dirty windows, giving everything a glow that, a few minutes ago, looked warm and inviting. Now it looked jaundiced and sickly to the stranger's eye.

"Well, ma'am, you ain't even given me a chance to introduce myself."

"Don't bother. I've got no use for cowboys."

He smiled, putting on his best gap-toothed grin. His smile was probably his biggest asset when it came to tumbling reluctant gals, and he knew it. "Is that a fact? And if it happens that I ain't your usual kinda cowboy? How's about then?"

She finally looked up. For a moment, he thought he had her. Then she rolled her eyes, pointed at the door and said, "Goodbye, cowboy. Not interested." She went back to work, leaving him with his sun-faded Stetson, his gap-toothed grin and a sinking heart.

After a moment, he let the grin fade to a grimace. He bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing the words he wanted to spit out at her.

Little Miss Priss, he thought, just like all the others. Won't even give a fella a chance.

The anger and resentment boiled up within him. Had he snuck across Apache territory carrying $40,000 in stolen Spanish gold for this? Had he rescued the Governor's kidnapped daughter and protected her honor against the enraged McCloskey gang for this? Had he rallied the defenders of San Cristobal and driven off the corrupt, murdering Mexican army... for this?

"Why?"

The brunette put down her pen and looked up, exasperated. "Why what? Why are you still here? I have no idea."

"No, I mean why won't you even talk to me? Give me a chance to tell you about myself, about the things I've done."

"Because I. Don't. Care. That's why. Are you stupid, cowboy?" She stood and waved. "Look around you. What do you see? Do you see any cowboys in here?"

He turned. Some of the people standing in the room were obviously in couples: an antebellum blonde and a handsome, arrogant-looking Union army captain; a corseted baronet's daughter and a handsome, disreputable-looking pirate; a slim woman in a simple sundress and a handsome, wounded-looking man in a dark, tailored suit. They all looked flushed and wound up, as though they were ready to have sparks fly at the drop of a hat.

However, most of the people were alone: pale, good-looking vampires; dark, good-looking werewolves; regular-looking folks carrying magic wands they didn't seem to know how to use right; aliens, spacemen and a few people in Victorian wool-and-velvet garb adorned with gears, cogs and glowing tubes. He even saw two caped superheroes standing in the corner looking self-conscious.

But no other cowboys. He was the only one.

"Don't you get it?" the woman behind the counter said. "Nobody wants cowboys anymore. We don't accept Westerns. Can't sell them. Get it?" She pointed to the door again. "Door. Cowboy opens door. Cowboy goes through door. Cowboy closes door. Cowboy go bye-bye." Blowing out her breath, she sat back down and picked up her pen.

The other people in the room were pretending not to have seen or heard. They just stood and waited, probably dreading their turn at the slush desk as much as he had.

They don't want to blow their shot, the cowboy thought. But what about me? I'm just as interesting as them... aren't I?

He turned back to the brunette. "But I've been all over this town. Who does take Westerns? Isn't there anybody who wants cowboys?"

"Your problem, pal. Not mine. There's the door. Don't come back."

It was over. The cowboy stepped back, straightened up and turned away from the desk. Holding his head as high as he could, he walked slowly toward the door, still a cowboy, still a stranger, and still alone.

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Its sad when you cant use an apostrophe

Today over at Write Anything, I'm bemoaning the failing health of the apostrophe key on my old laptop. This has graver consequences than you might realize.

Go check it out.

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Wednesday #limerick: dampen, keep, tremble

Each Wednesday, I compose a limerick based on the prompt from Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are: dampen, keep, tremble

Oh, dampen my "lust" if you must,

For the hand that I thrust at your bust

 Was to swat that wasp dead

And keep you safe instead!

Don't tremble at this fuss unjust!

~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~

There are so many great limericks in my book. The only thing separating you from them? A lousy buck. But maybe you don't like to laugh?

You can read more of my limericks inspired by Three Word Wednesday in my e.book, which is cleverly titled:

Poetry on the Fly: Limericks Inspired by Three Word Wednesday

Only $0.99 - less than a hot dog at the convenience store!

Don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. You can read "Poetry on the Fly" or any of my other great writing anywhere you like!

===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.

The end of a book in progress

I just finished writing the ending to "Goodbye Grammarian". While my first instinct is to celebrate this, I'm too aware of the work yet to be done on this before I can send it off to beta readers on June 1. Even as I lay that date down onto the screen - JUNE 1 - it seems to loom impossibly soon.

As I've gone through this draft, I first made notes on the whole thing, then went back to the beginning and started implementing them, typing things in, revising plot, structure, characters and language.

There have been lots of characters who deserved more screen time, some who needed to be repositioned, and others who needed to be cut. Actions needed to be explained and justified, events needed to have rational links to what came before and to set up what comes after. There are still some minor scenes to be written according to notes I made as I revised. These are to provide a more coherent structure, and to make some of the relationships more believable.

I'm not even sure what to call this draft. I've been thinking it as a first draft, now having gone through the first edit. However, I read someplace that until a manuscript can be read cover to cover without any missing chunks, fill-in-the-blank placeholders or other gaps in the writing, it doesn't even qualify as a bad first draft, but should instead be regarded as just an incomplete rough draft.

I've been revising for language and sentence structure as I went along. Does this mean that as soon as I slot in the missing bits, I'll jump from rough draft to second draft? This is so far from a linear process that I'm not at all sure what milestones I should use to judge my progress.

The fact that I'm shying away from this "incomplete rough draft" designation tells me how much psychological value I'm placing on being able to say, "I've finished the first draft". That, in turn, should tell me something about myself... but what?

===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.

p.s. "Goodbye Grammarian" - I've been thinking for some time that this book is going to need an new title. Changing the way I refer to it is going to be hard, though.

Word counts in flash fiction

Icy Sedgwick has an interesting blog post up, discussing the recent prevalence of drabbles and other shorter pieces among online flash fiction. It's worth reading, whether you write flash or merely enjoy reading it.

I tend to think of a flash piece as a thousand words or fewer. There was a time, when I was more dogmatic than I am now, when I saw that ceiling as absolutely unbreakable. Now, I will let my stories roll up above that if I feel they need the room. I will also let a story be complete in only a few hundred words, if that's what it wants to be.

It's possible that the longer ones needed to be edited down and the shorter ones needed to be fleshed out. Perfection is a process, not an endpoint.

Here are the word counts for FridayFlash stories I wrote in the latter half of 2011:

Click to enlarge

And here are the word counts for my FridayFlash stories written so far in 2012:

Click to enlarge

Do you see any trends?

Update: I graphed out the story lengths of all my FridayFlash stories since the first one appeared on September 9, 2009. Aside from a flirtation with rather short pieces in the fourth quarter of 2010, they tend to be around 800 words on average. Longest was 1442 words, shortest was 64 words.

Click to enlarge all that graphical goodness

Interestingly, although I haven't missed a week since posting that first story, this data set is clearly incomplete, since the dates are off at the end. I write & edit in yWriter first, then copy over to Blogger. It seems there were some stories I typed directly into Blogger, which I then failed to copy back into the yWriter file I use to keep everything organized.

I wonder which stories they were?

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DON'T Be Yourself

On twitter last night, I had an interesting exchange about how ISFP
and INSP personalities interpret the way us INTJ types go through the
world. You may see us as arrogant, insensitive asshats who always know
better than you.

You are partially right. We ARE insensitive, but not intentionally so.

To my INTJ brethren: lighten up. Don't be yourself. Shut up and listen
a bit; the effort is worth the social rewards.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flash fiction and poetry anthologies, now available.
Buy your copy today!


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#FridayFlash: The Sound of Daffodils

The Sound of Daffodils

by Tony Noland

"Dad... please come inside. Can you hear me? Do you understand? Dad?"

"I can hear you perfectly, Summer. In fact, you're drowning out the rain."

"Dad, please, this is crazy." She spoke much lower now, hardly more than a tense whisper. "You can't just sit out here. You'll catch pneumonia."

"I didn't mean your voice, kiddo." He looked up at her from the old teak bench, squinting through the water running down his face. "Can't you hear it?"

"Hear what? The rain?"

"Your umbrella. That pattering of raindrops on the nylon cloth. Can't you hear it? Doesn't it seem loud to you? Or don't you even notice it?" He lowered his gaze again, looking out over the flower beds, lush with spring growth. "Put down your umbrella and listen with me for a while. For as long as the rain lasts."

"I'm not going to sit out in the rain and get soaking wet, Dad."

She clearly would have gone on, but the wave of pain that passed over her father's face stopped her. For a time, they said nothing. The rain fell on the two of them, alone together.

"Did you know," he said at last, "it was the rain that led us to move here from Philadelphia? We told everyone it was for work, but really, it's because the rains are always warm here in South Carolina."

"Mom always said the warmer the rain, the bigger the flowers." It was her turn to look out over the beds. "Mom sure loved gardening."

"No, she didn't," he said. "Mom loved the rain. She just used the flowers as an excuse to be out in it."

"Dad..."

"I'm serious, Summer. It was always about the rain. She loved the feeling of the water in her hair, on her skin. She loved the sound of the rain falling on the leaves, the grass, even on the gravel. It was never about the flowers."

Summer stared at him from under her umbrella. "But she worked so hard on these beds!"

He smiled and shook his head. "Didn't you ever notice what she planted?" He pointed at the various raised beds as he spoke. "Tulips, daffodils, Siberian irises, tiger lilies. Each of the beds is lush and thriving, sure, but they're all self-naturalizing perennials. Once they got going, she could let them take care of themselves. Left alone, they grew like crazy. There was some weeding to do, but mostly, she was able to just sit back and let them flower on their own, enjoying their blossoms as they came."

"No," he continued, "she came out here for the rain. Always, it for was the rain. She showed me how to appreciate it, too, but she was the one who loved it. On rainy nights, after we put you kids to bed, we'd come out here and sit. We'd talk and listen to the rain, feel it wash away the difficulties of the day."

A dull roll of thunder passed over them. The soft, steady rain began to thicken into heavier drops.

"It was right here that we grew together, that we smoothed over the bumps in the road," he said, "that we worked out the daily decisions of how we would live our lives together." He smiled. "It was right here on this bench that we decided to have another child after we'd spent eleven years thinking we were done having kids."

"You mean... are you saying that you and Mom... conceived Gerry up here? In the rain?"

He laughed. "No, I mean we talked it through and came to the decision. Oh, we made love in the rain a couple of times, but rolling around in the mud wasn't your mother's style. This bench is great for necking and fooling around, but not so good for actual sex."

"Dad! I really don't need to hear this!"

He shrugged and looked out at the flowers again. The rain fell and ran down his wrinkled face, over the slight smile his memories brought him.

Summer said, "I remember now. The drying rack by the back door, the one in the mud room. I remember how there were damp clothes hanging on it on some mornings. I always thought Mom did laundry after us kids went to bed."

"She loved the rain," he said, "but she didn't want to get the floors wet. She always took off her wet things before coming into the house."

Under her umbrella, Summer looked out at her father. For a long time, she said nothing. The rain fell on the garden and on her umbrella, dripping down onto her legs, soaking her shoes on the pea gravel path.

She put a hand on her father's shoulder. "I'll set out a towel for you by the backdoor." With a gentle squeeze, she left him and went back down to the house.

===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.

Wednesday #limerick: Generous, Just, Penalize

Each Wednesday, I compose a limerick based on the prompt from Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are: Generous, Just, Penalize

I can't quite believe my own eyes;

Like the ad said, "Generous Size!"

A convert I am,

though it read just like spam:

"To joy her, for big penalize!!"

~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~

There are so many great limericks in my book. The only thing separating you from them? A lousy buck. But maybe you don't like to laugh?

You can read more of my limericks inspired by Three Word Wednesday in my e.book, which is cleverly titled:

Poetry on the Fly: Limericks Inspired by Three Word Wednesday

Only $0.99 - less than a hot dog at the convenience store!

Don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. You can read "Poetry on the Fly" or any of my other great writing anywhere you like!
===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.

Defining science fiction: Hard vs. Soft

Have you ever wondered if the science fiction you read (and perhaps write) is "hard" or "soft"? Use this handy guide to help you understand the difference between hard science fiction and soft science fiction.

Story element	Hard science fiction	Soft science fiction
Story is set on Earth, in the present day	Today's technology offers many opportunities for dramatic tension	Are you kidding? Where's the fun in that? BORING!
Story is set on Earth, in the future	Mapping out a logical forward evolution from today's technologies sets a plausible framework	Spaceships! Unitards! Laser guns! PEW! PEW!
Story is set on another planet, either in the near future or distant future	Only if the planet a) was originally Earth-like, b) was terraformed, or c) is home to a closed-environment base with breathable air.	Sweet! I hope the alien dancing women have green skin and loose morals.
Main character is human	Descendant of a diaspora from Earth	Who cares where he came from?
Main character is an alien	OK, but even if he/she/it is able to tolerate the temperatures and humidity levels that humans do, he/she/it is unlikely to be able to comfortably breathe the same mixture of nitrogen/oxygen humans do. He/she/it will require a gas mask of some kind.	Is she hot?
Faster than light travel is not possible.	Of course it's not possible. Why would it be?	"Not possible"... what does that phrase mean, exactly?
Faster than light travel is possible, but arduous	*sigh* Fine, but it has to be a result of some fundamental aspect of the structure of spacetime of which present day science is as yet unaware. Wormholes, quantum foam transsubstantation, ancient alien node-point teleporters, etc. The workings of these MUST be explained in detail.	"Warp 4, Mr. Sulu."
Faster than light travel is not only possible, it is easy	Have you ever even opened a physics textbook?	"It's the ship that made the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs."
Main plot: Hunt the MacGuffin	This can certainly be done in a science fiction context. MacGuffin stories are all about character interactions, anyway.	I love MacGuffin stories!
Main plot: Rescue the princess	Sure, but where is the science fiction element in this? Is the princess a prisoner of some advanced technological enemy?	Does the princess have green skin, a fast metabolism and an open mind?
Main plot: Avenge the death of a loved one	Look, you can't just bolt on some laser pistols, spaceships and robots and call it science fiction. That makes the sci-fi elements just superficial window dressing. Where is the consideration of the ramifications of technological change?	Revenge? Sweet! Can I use laser pistols?
Words expended on infodumps explaining the technologies present in the story	As few as possible, but some infodumping is unavoidable. In order to establish plausibility, some technical detail has to be presented.	None. (Thank God! Infodumps are tedious.)
Readership	All right-thinking science fiction fans should insist on a scientific and technological underpinning that is consistent with the known laws of physical, chemical and biological science.	Hey dude? You're getting in the way of a good story. PEW! PEW!

I hope this clears things up for you! Did I leave anything out?

Riding to the rescue

For anyone who ever wanted to don the cape, strap on a pair of laser guns and ride to the rescue.



Nice.

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The Tale of Camellia, Queen of the Sun

(A story told in tweets, reprinted here in the order they appeared.)

Once upon a time, there was a Japanese tea tree. Like all Japanese tea trees, her name was Camellia sinensis, "Camellia" to her friends.

Camellia was adopted by a family who loved her on first sight. They knew she would grow up to be tall, shapely and beautiful.

Carefully, the family dug a hole 2X wider and 2X deeper than Camellia's root ball. They set her gently in a bed of well-composted leaves.

Camellia thrived in the lovely spot her family picked for her. Sheltered from winter winds, shaded from summer sun, she grew and grew.

In Camellia's fourth year with the family, she felt a great stirring within herself. It was like nothing she had ever felt before!

As spring warmed into summer, the tips of her branches tingled, swelling with a delicious, heavy ache. Camellia trembled in anticipation.

On a bright day in early summer, the breeze caressed Camellia's branches and she burst forth into blossom. White petals exploded in the air!

For a season, Camellia was the happiest of Japanese tea trees. Graceful and curvy, her incandescent blossoms smelled of cinnamon and lemon.

But then...

... tragedy struck.

The great silver maple, which had shaded her from the morning sun, choked, withered, and died. In a single season, she was struck down.

Camellia hardly had time to weep for the loss of her friend the silver maple when an even greater tragedy intruded on her world.

The fine old pin oak, the tall, spreading giant that towered over all the trees in the yard, the heart of the garden... was dying.

From halfway around the world it came: a disease that struck without mercy at maples and oaks alike. It choked them, killing from within.

Camellia , who had always been a little afraid of the great old oak, whispered up into his dying, bare branches, "Does it... does it hurt?"

The oak, who had seen many, many young trees come and go, looked down on Camellia and said, "No, my child. As I die, I make way for you."

When the trucks came, the men rose up high and cut into the kindly old giant. Chainsaws roared and tore at his flesh, rending him into dust.

Alone, Camellia shook with fear for the future, and wept.

Without her friend the silver maple, the cold spring winds tore at her. Without her protector the pin oak, the summer sun burned her.

The spot her family had chosen for her was no longer an oasis, no longer a sheltered and protected Eden.

It was a killing ground.

Her leaves curled and fell. Her spring blossoms withered without opening. Her branches dried, cracked and died.

Would it be another season, she thought, or another two? How long can I last? I thirst so, the hunger for cooling water so insatiable!

Although her family, who loved her as they had loved the cheerful silver maple and the majestic pin oak, tried to help her, they couldn't.

If Camellia were given a steady supply of water through the dreadfully hot, dry, bright summer, she might cool herself and survive.

Alas, the family had no money for in-ground sprinkler systems or lawn care services. And when they left on vacation, Camellia suffered so!

One day, the patriarch of the family that owned Camellia , decided that he would not let summer sun take his beloved Japanese tea tree.

But how could he save her with what little he had? No money to speak of, certainly. Only love for his tree and a fine, clever mind.

He thought and thought, consulting his gardening books and his engineering manuals and delving deep into the wisdom of the Internet.

When he spent a clear April day trimming away Camellia's topmost branches, dead and dry, he knew he had to act soon.

With a $9.89 plastic trash can from Home Depot, Camellia's owner set out to defy the Sun and his terrible summer heat.

Carefully, lovingly, thinking all the while of Camellia and her evapotranspiration potential at full insolation in a USDA Zone 7, he acted.

A 3/4" wide-auger drill bit, operated carefully, cut a clean hole in the plastic trash can.

A 2" section of old garden hose (which he had saved in his workshop for just such tasks) fitted into the hole cleanly.

A slathering of waterproof, hard-set plumber's epoxy made the joint water-tight. A hose repair fitting made the job complete.

Camellia , who knew nothing of hoses and clamps, epoxies, drill bits or basement workshops, could nevertheless feel her owner's love for her.

"When the epoxy sets hard," Camellia's owner said to himself, "I shall attach the rest of the homebrew drip-feed irrigation system."

"Camellia will have a steady, slow trickle of water through the hottest part of the summer, and she will live. I swear: SHE WILL LIVE!"

In the yard, Camellia, like all trees, knew when someone loved her. Though her once-shaded oasis was now bright, hot and sunny, she did not fear.

Her owner loved her. Camellia knew this from the tips of her branches down to the fine hairs on her uttermost roots.

In the warm sunshine of a Philadelphia springtime, Camellia stretched her blossoms upward and got ready for summer.

The End.

(Note: this story originally appeared in my twitter feed on Sunday, April 29, 2012, beginning with this tweet. Corrected for typos, spacing and Latin declensions.)

UPDATE: Learn Camellia's fate! See pictures of the device I built to save her! Click this link!

On writing a book: me and Spongebob

There's an episode of Spongebob Squarepants where he visits the Hamburger Museum, pulls King Neptune's Golden Spatula from an ancient keg of congealed grease and becomes the Greatest Fry Cook Ever.

Rather, he would get that magical power, were it not for the fact that King Neptune shows up and demands that Spongebob prove himself worthy in a cook-off. In the middle of a ring set up at the Posidendome, they do battle to see who can make the most burgers.

King Neptune, using his magical powers, conjures hundreds and hundreds of burgers, flipping and frying them in their massed ranks on giant grills. Spongebob anxiously waits for one burger to cook over a hibachi grill. King Neptune laughs in triumph.

King Neptune slices barrels of potatoes and onion in an instant, bushel baskets of lettuce and tomatoes rendered into thousands of perfect slices. Spongebob carefully slices one tomato. King Neptune laughs in triumph.

King Neptune causes waves of ketchup and mustard to slosh over his burgers, stacking them into a giant pyramid as they fall from the sky, fully assembled. Spongebob gently squirts his ketchup in little smiley faces on each of the two pickles, pulls a single piece of lettuce up to tuck the pickles in to bed. The counter overhead reads NEPTUNE: 1000, VISITOR: 0001 King Neptune laughs in triumph.

King Neptune waves his trident, and the burgers fly out into the hands of the cheering crowd. Spongebob reads his burger a bedtime story, gives it a kiss and gently says goodnight. King Neptune laughs in triumph.

As one, the cheering crowd bites into their burgers and chews for a moment. Then, as one, every single person in the crowd spits out the burgers King Neptune made so quickly and easily. The burgers are clearly so wretched that not one of them is edible. The crowd boos. The counter overhead resets itself to NEPTUNE: 0000, VISITOR: 0001 King Neptune howls with rage.

King Neptune grabs Spongebob's burger in a fury and is going to destroy it and him. Before he can do so, however, he smells the burger. Entranced by its aroma, he gobbles it up. The burger is so delicious, he eats it twice. Spongebob wins.

This blog post is already pretty long, so I guess I don't have space to explain why I'm taking so freaking long to write "Goodbye Grammarian", especially when it seems like other people can write a new book in a month. However, you are all clever folks, so I'll leave it to you to work out the analogy.

Note: this is the episode, but it's playing in reverse... because I got it off the Internet. Go figure.

===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.

#FridayFlash: A Latte, a Biscotti, and a Miracle

A Latte, a Biscotti, and a Miracle

by Tony Noland

She flicked the screen of her phone, hundreds of unread tweets scrolling up and down, up and down, up and down. The usual flood of jokes and quotes, conversation and self-promotion from the thousands of people she followed... it was like watching another person's life flash before her eyes. She sipped at her latte, unseeing. The biscotti was on the plate, untasted. Not uneaten, since she looked down at one point to see that half of it was gone.

It was eaten, but untasted.

Just like she was seen, but unrecognized.

Heard, but disregarded.

Touched, but alone.

She set down the latte and the phone. Carefully, not drawing any attention to herself, she pretended to rub her eyes. Her fingertips pressed into her eyelids, digging hard into the eyeballs underneath. An explosion of incandescent green and purple swirls filled her darkened vision. The pressure was luminous, hot against the back of her neck, as the light of her own making drowned out everything else around her.

When the tears came to the edges of her eyes, she stopped.

Not here. She didn't dare allow herself to weep, not here. She had to keep it together, keep focus and do what she had to do. Blinded by her own inner lights, she lowered her hands and set them on the table. Fingers splayed, she reached out to where she remembered the paper napkin was, next to the plate with the half-biscotti. She brought it up and dabbed at her eyes.

Quickly, quickly... dab, don't linger. Dab and away, and don't cry.

Don't cry.

As if anyone would care if she did.

The competing crowds outside were evenly matched. They had competing bullhorns, competing chants, competing signs. The newscrews, invited by both sides, blocked traffic with their vans. The noise made the big windowpane shake, would have made conversation difficult at her table, if she had had anyone to talk to.

And if she had someone to talk to, what would she have said? That it was too bad? That it was just her luck? That she should have checked her Magic 8-Ball before scheduling her abortion for today? That it was a sign for her to turn away from this decision? That it was a challenge for her to overcome?

But there was no one to talk to, was there? She was alone.

Alone, alone, all alone, alone.

All alone in a crowd. All alone with or without useless fucking Brian eating all her food and drinking all her beer, a constant presence in her apartment, in her life and in her bed. All alone with this miracle of her own making. All alone with this intestinal parasite sucking away her energy and lifeblood. All alone on the path, stumbling forward blindfolded.

She looked, and the biscotti was gone.

Eaten, but untasted. Used up and gone without a trace. The sole purpose of its little biscotti life was to bring a moment's overpriced pleasure to the tongue of some caffeine hound, and she'd ruined everything. All the little biscotti wanted was to fulfill its destiny, that one simple little thing... and she had denied it, made a mess of everything.

Don't cry. Don't cry. For fuck's sake, don't cry.

She pressed the crumpled napkin to her eyes, pressing the crumb-stained, cinnamon-scented paper in hard, bringing back the swirling green lights behind her lids.

Just get up and go. Head down, move fast, get up and go. Ignore them, they can't stop you, just go. Make a decision for once in your miserable life. Just get up and go over there. Go through the doors.

When she lowered the napkin, she was blinded by the lights. As they cleared, she realized that someone had taken the seat opposite.

Brian.

He looked... he looked like he was going to die. She had never seen his face so drawn, like he was made of slowly melting wax.

"There was a message on the machine. They were calling everyone who had... procedures scheduled for today, warning them about the protests." His voice was louder than she'd ever heard it as he tried to rise abover the chanting, shouting noise. He reached out, hesitated, then completed the gesture to take her icy cold hand in his feverishly warm one. "I came down as soon as I understood. When I saw the crowds, I didn't know what to think. It's only luck I saw you in the window."

"Luck. Yes, luck. It was certainly luck."

"Honey... why didn't you tell me? About the baby? About... about this?" He waved his free hand at the protesters, the counter-protesters, the cameras and the lights. "Is this why things have been so weird between us lately? Honey, this is a miracle. Don't you see? This is everything about you, about me, about us together. This -" he waved at her abdomen "- this is our whole future together. Don't you see that?"

Like she was pulling a boot out of mud, she withdrew her hand.

"Yes, I know." She stood and walked toward the door and toward her new life, leaving behind the latte, the empty plate strewn with crumbs, and Brian.

This miracle has served its purpose, she thought. And that's enough.

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