Chalk Outline

You know how everyone who's ever put words to page has a bucketload of advice for the beginning writer? Endless rows of books in the writing section promise guidance, bolsterment, and the ONE piece of advice that is GOING to UNLOCK YOUR AWESOME POTENTIAL.

And for a long time I bought into that. I took classes in creative writing, read endless books on the subject, still to this day read article after article online about how to break through the mental hurdle of whatever your demon might be.

I think that's how you can tell you're still a beginning writer. Not how many clips you have but how many articles you're reading on how to write better. Moving on--

I tried every method, every guaranteed-surefire-success-maker touted by writers I'd never heard of (and some I had), kind of like the overweight person who buys every diet book, diet food, diet pill, determined to figure out how to lose weight without exercise and sensible meal regulation. Point being? Yeah. I didn't see marked success with my writing until I made up my mind to let it happen. Not that I'm a millionaire novelist yet but I'm plugging away at it. I finally started a rigorous routine of writing a set number of words every day, whether it was fiction or poetry or journal entries. Some days, the words aren't so profound. But they're necessary.

And it started to happen.

I picked up a critique partner, a coach, a few people who wanted feedback on their work. I network, have made contacts, enter contests, and read literary journals. I subscribed to a listserv (CRWROPPS, so should you!), follow Duotrope on Twitter, and carry a notebook everywhere. Not just to jot down ideas, but to record books and authors to check out.

That's what's been working for me. Putting energy into activities that feel like they're moving in a positive direction, outlining ideas, building, building, ever building--staying conversant with the industry--this is what's working for me. And most important of all, listening to what's working for me, not what I'm told will be successful for me.

So when I quit trying to live the lives others have already lived, I found my voice.

A Walk Through

I live a few blocks from the university where I'm taking a philosophy course this semester. That's my area of study, philosophy, with a healthy dose of English and writing. I like to think--I like to read--I like to think about what I read, and write papers discussing what I thought about what I read. It's not like I'm planning a sojourn into law school or anything like that. Philosophy sets my mind on fire, and when my mind's on fire, I have the most fun.

So that's been today, thus far, is walking to class, taking notes, walking back. Doesn't sound like much, put that way. But it was wonderful. Today's skies are sunny and almost warm, and late January brings the beginnings of re-waking. I felt the breeze in my hair, felt my leg muscles stretch and flex as I headed up and down hills, felt the small of my back pressing into the bookbag with its texts and notebook cheerfully snugged inside. I could smell damp earth, which, after last night's storms, I was surprised they were as dry. Yeah, it stormed last night--heavy rain, hail, winds. Tornado watch at this time of year. But the day after? No limbs down that I could see, no torn roofs, just a brisk breeze and scuttling clouds. And hints of green at dead edges.

1,200 steps from my front door to the classroom. I don't own an iPod, don't have music on my phone, don't have headphones or earbuds or any of that. Sure, I could be using that fifteen-minute walk to listen to podcasts or audiobooks, or I could use it to reflect.

I like reflecting.

Pop Ups

Reading an online journal I hadn't seen before, enjoying the free-flowing poetry and prose, engaging with the work, I saw a familiar-yet-common name in the table of contents. I wondered.

Years ago, while studying creative writing at the nearby university, my professor told me I would be seeing fellow students out in the publishing world for the rest of my life. I believed her, sure, in theory. But while I've kept in touch with several friends and acquaintances from the department, it wasn't until today that it was brought home to me--people I studied with are finding niches of their own, all over the place, and that was strange and beautiful to me. Like the way the sun gilds storm clouds as they roll away. I waved a little at her, reading her essay about growing up in the same area where I grew up, our similar backgrounds fodder for her story in a journal I'd never read before today. And I think this will keep happening, again and again, seeing people I knew, people my work appeared next to in our student literary magazine, people whose pens scratched in tandem with mine while we worked our way through course material.

I can't wait.

Patron

She trailed her fingers through the air between herself and the great works. Kept well back from the velvet ropes and security features, content to look, to be in a place of amazement. She didn't want to touch, to create the beauty for herself. She wanted only to look, to gasp, to think, to be transported without ever being the artist herself. Almost vulgar to press brush to paint, to trail and smear it across a virgin canvas, to decide where which color would evoke emotion. And with what? She imagined herself whispering to the canvas, reassuring herself as well as it that they would always have this moment, that others would see but by then it would be another experience, another time, another reason. To create art is to be entangled with art, to press flesh to bristle, liquid to yielding surface unforgiving in its eternity. She wanted no part of that. But to look, to imagine, to feel—oh that, that was sublime.

Heated

She pressed the button on the space heater. Its red light blinked on—high power. The green light next to 60 lit up, and she pressed the button again. At 70, the heater ran for five minutes, then clicked off. She huffed absently, pressed the button again, again, again. At 90, she smiled and sat back. “You'll work forever now,” she said, and went back to what she'd been doing.

News!

Two major developments in the last several days!

A longtime dream has finally come true. Well. Two longtime dreams have finally come true.

Since 2001, I've been writing for The Journal of Asinine Poetry under three names, all of which have their own social-media profiles, which is not in any way weird or creepy, thankyouverymuch. This site and all it stands for--community, laughter, parody, out-there-ness--has meant so much to me for so many years it's hard to remember what life was like, pre-asinine. They kept publishing me through the darkest times of my life, and the happiest. They published an anthology and included me, and at the book launch I signed autographs for the first time. They invited me to New York, where I read at a poetry club with other poets who have books published and everything. In other words, they gave me my first taste of what it really means to write, Kept me going through slow periods, revved me up through speedy ones. I own merch. (You should too!) And finally, finally, after nine years of submitting, I made the Halloween Issue. I'm very excited about this, see. The Halloween Issue is my favorite, the one I read and re-read every year, the one I desperately wanted into. Because Halloween is my favorite holiday and, try as I might, I couldn't write about it. Not as well as I wanted to. And even when I submitted the poem that made it in, I told the editor I had plans for a Halloween verse. Which he promptly pointed out was already in. You talk about a frabjous day, man. Frabjous.

Then, I decided to join PubIt! Barnes & Noble now has a program for authors to self-publish their books for free, royalties paid, etc. More about it here. I read through all the legalese, details, and guidelines. I put together an anthology of stories I've produced in the last couple months. I uploaded it. It's available now for sale. Not as if Penguin-Putnam has picked it up, or anything, but still, this is a move forward, and an exciting one at that.

And that's what I have today. A good day, this.

Apartment Complex

I can't believe the last words I ever said to my best friend were “Hey, later!”

Because they weren't true, and they weren't enough.

I don't guess any last words between anyone are ever enough. Such finality and words aren't about finality. Language is alive. Maybe all last words should be in Latin.

But I'm okay now. That's more than any of them can say.

I was leaving Jenna's apartment. We'd been drinking cider and playing Pictionary. Two-person Pictionary isn't a lot of fun but the cider helped. We laughed, we joked, we drew pictures that only we thought were hilarious. And they were. To us.

It was getting late, and I had a test in the morning. I left. She waved as I yelled to her. The door closed behind me, and I was in the hall. No one was lingering or lurching, which was fine with me. There was this creepy guy who lived down the hall and I tried to avoid him whenever I could—he thought we were soul mates or some crap.

I headed out the front door, key in hand. I was walking down the concrete stairs, lightly like I'd done a hundred times before, not even holding the center rail.

I guess that's what saved my life.

I saw a group of girls standing at one corner of the building. I smiled and waved, and they waved back. Friendly place. But as I turned my head back toward my car, I heard a shink! and felt the stairs go out from under my feet.

They're concrete, how can they do that? I thought. But my feet went with the stairs and I dropped, rolled to my left. I heard the girls screaming, but it was like it was happening to someone else. I came to a stop and rolled over, looked first at the stairs, then at the building.

The stairs were a ramp now, sure enough. And the railing had bent and twisted and … grown teeth? It was buzzing, chainsaw-like, and I saw one of the girls standing to one side, holding a spurting stump that used to be her hand. Staring at it like she didn't know what was going on. As I watched she fell to the ground, eyes rolled back in her head.

The garden in front of the building had opened and was screaming, a high-pitched grinding noise like a backhoe without an engine. I couldn't see the rest of the girls. I heard them, though. Oh. I could hear them.

But the building itself—that was the worst part. It had ripped apart in the middle, and I could see all kinds of crappy furniture and small electronics falling out. The building was shaking, hard, like a dog after a bath. I looked for Jenna and didn't see her. Everyone was screaming, shouting. People were trying to get out but couldn't get their feet under them—the floor was moving so fast they couldn't correct for it. And then the building stopped shaking and uttered a horrific cry.

“You will feed me, all of you!”

What did that mean, I wondered?

I thought I'd better move away.

I thought I'd better call the police.

I thought right.

I rolled further back, grabbed my phone, stabbed 9-1-1 onto the keypad, shouted my location, and begged them to hurry.

And then the apartment building exploded.

A fireball so huge it couldn't have come from the furnaces or the water heaters alone—it was like hell itself opened up from under the building. The whole hillside blew out in a fantastic shower of debris and rock and dirt. I felt myself get picked up and thrown back, toward the pool. I saw others get thrown, to the tasteful knot of trees, to the parking lot. They weren't as lucky as I was.

I hit the water, which was hot all right, but not boiling. I heard my phone splash and sizzle, and I pulled myself toward the ladder. I crawled out and lay on the deck, gasping, staring at what used to be my best friend's place.

Right about then the first fire trucks showed up, and ambulances, and the police cruisers. It being late at an apartment complex, they'd all been nearby anyway. I couldn't move. Not because I was hurt that badly (even though my ankle was killing me) but because I could not believe what I'd just seen.

And what I was seeing now.

The stairs flipped back into stairs. The railing was just a railing. The huge crater in the side of the hill was still a crater, smoking and spewing water and natural gas, but I started to wonder if I'd really seen what I thought I'd seen.

“Are you all right?” It was an EMT, holding an oxygen tank and a blanket. He rolled me over on my back and felt for a pulse. I nodded numbly at him, and he called for a stretcher.

They asked me about it.

I lied.

I have a life to live, after all.