Writing–March Projects

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment
The Daffodil, the floral emblem of March

My dedication to short stories last month didn’t exactly work out as well as I’d hoped. I did manage to get four done, but only one submitted. Progress was made, but victory was not established.

Obviously, if I’m going to make my goal of getting 50 rejections this year, I’m going to continue to work on my short stories. But they won’t be the big project this month.

The focus this month will be on putting together the first draft of a personal essay I’m hoping to submit to a contest. I expect it to be difficult simply because I’m venturing into new territory (I’ve only written one other essay that I submitted to a different contest, and that was only done for the experience) and because I’m really going to be pushing myself to really put my emotions down on paper. But that’s another post for another day.

Last month, in taking a break from working on the short stories (I’ve got a post about the outcome of that, too, but for another day), I read the first few chapters of A Tale of Two Lady Killers. I was less than thrilled with the draft. But! I do have a couple of ideas that I might work on to give myself another project when the essay and short stories start to frustrate me.

March should prove to be an important month if only for the essay part. If I can put together a satisfactory first draft of it, I’m going to call that a big win.

Remembering Davy

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Davy Jones of The Monkees passed away on February 29, 2012 and he took with him to the great beyond my love, respect, and a little bit of my heart.

The Monkees are my favorite band. I make no secret of it and I admit it with pride. I love them. I love their TV show. I love their music. I love them individually and together.

I first became acquainted with The Monkees during their 20th anniversary tour. I was six and it was love at first sight and sound. Davy was my first favorite (over the years, they’ve each been my favorite to the point that now I can’t really pick). He was cute, he was small, he had a tambourine…what more could a six year old ask for?

Mom let me watch the show in the afternoons when everyone else had to be outside playing. I’d stay up extra late on the weekends to watch it, sneaking out of my room while Mom slept (Dad worked nights) to watch it on the TV in the living room (we only had one TV).

Then and Now: Best of the Monkees was the first tape I ever asked for. It was the first of ANYTHING I ever asked for, as I was raised by parents that didn’t abide by children asking for things every time we went to the store. But I saw the cassette among the others in the rack at Wal-Mart and I couldn’t stop myself. I asked my mother for it and instead of getting the negative answer and the lecture, Mom ended up getting it for me.

I still have that tape.

The first story I wrote (okay, maybe not the first, but definitely the first one I remember writing) involved The Monkees. Today it’s commonly known as fanfiction, but at six or seven, I had no idea there was a name for it. It was a “book” I wrote, complete with illustrated cover and big words (albeit misspelled). I was very proud of that story.

I still have it, tucked away with the papers I never want to lose.

Ten years later, I was living with Dad in housing and my parents were going through a rather bitter divorce. The typical challenges of being 16 were compounded by the war zone my parents created. Most kids hated going to school, but it was the only place I got to feel like an actual kid. At home, I was expected to be the adult.

As my luck would have it, The Monkees decided to celebrate their 30th anniversary, reminding me of the happy fun-times of my childhood. I dug that old tape out of the few things I had and it became my life raft in the stormy sea of what had become my life. I submerged myself into rediscovering The Monkees. I constructed a happy place out of their music and the show, filling it with news and stories and CDs and solo work and pictures and memorabilia and fandom.

The summer before my senior year, 1997, I worked for my cousin in her daycare. When I found out that The Monkees would be in Chicago in August, she became my partner in crime so that I could go to the concert.  Not only did she help me get the tickets, but she also took me and paid for the hotel room. The entire Monkees Trip Experience deserves to be retold in another post (and probably will be), but suffice it to say, I had an amazing time at the concert, watching three of the four men that I credited with keeping my head above water perform on stage.

My senior year is forever tied to The Monkees. I listened to Justus so much I’m surprised the CD didn’t wear out. Mom enabled my obsession, getting me a cardboard cutout of the group from a music store. Papa got me a few their CDs. My sister helped me decorate my graduation cap with the Monkees logo. I had all four of their names written on it. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have made it through high school with any sort of sanity intact (though, friends might argue the sanity part, since my graduation cap also featured “Loco 4 Life” written on it and my nickname was Skitz, short for skitzo, but I stand by what I mean).

My Monkees Happy Place was built to last and over the years, I’ve only added to it with more music (not just The Monkees, but their solo stuff as well), shows, and memorabilia. Family and friends see Monkees stuff and they think of me. I had a friend bring me a Monkeemobile model car from Canada because he saw it there and thought of me. I’ve grabbed unique items off of eBay and been able to find the not so easy to find music on Amazon. I visit it often; my iPod is full of Monkees music and on shuffle. I don’t go a day without hearing one of their songs. Bummer of a day? Nothing an episode or two can’t fix. I’m working on a collage of their album art. It’ll be really great addition to the happy place when it’s finished.

But first, I need to fix the happy place.

On Leap Day, the Universe kicked down a wall of my happy place. Davy’s death leaves a pretty big hole, one that I will patch up with memories and music and pictures. It won’t be the same, of course. But even though Davy slipped from the mortal coil and crossed the horizon into the next world, he left behind a lifetime that he shared with the world. His smile, his laugh, his voice have all been preserved. It’s not the same, but it’s not that different, in a way. At least for someone like me, a fan that only got to see the star from a distance. It’s the future that’s been compromised, not the past. He can’t do anything more, but he’s already done so much.

And he did more for me than he can ever know. Except maybe now, he’s in a place that he does. I hope he knows how much I appreciate it all.

Catch you on the flip side, Davy Jones.

On Writing by Stephen King

~ Kiki Writes ~ 7 Comments

I believe I’ve mentioned before, at the very least in passing, that my writing bible of sorts is On Writing by Stephen King. I try to read it at least once a year. I’ve read other books on writing, but this is the one that really resonated with me.

It’s divided into two sections (okay, there’s also a postscript as well, but let’s not go splitting hairs just for the sake of splitting them). The first section, the C.V. is a biography of sorts, detailing memories and events that he believes helped shape him as a writer, or at the very least, pushed him on his writing path. The second section is the toolbox, in which he provides all of the “tools” he believes a writer needs. (If you’re curious, the postscript recounts his being hit by a van, nearly dying, and how writing fit into his recovery.)

It’s the toolbox portion of the book that really got to me, though I have to admit, I loved reading about his life (I’m voyeuristic like that). Stephen King was brought up lower middle class and that’s how he presents the toolbox. It is what it is without pretension. It was the first writing book I read that didn’t leave me feeling stupid afterwards. It didn’t leave me feeling like I was doing it wrong.

The book is very much “Here’s how I did it, here’s what I do, here’s what I think works, here’s what I think might help you, now go and work it out for yourself”. Like I said, no pretension. He acknowledges that there’s no one way or right way to writing success or even writing period. He makes me feel like not only is it okay to do it my way, but to experiment without abandon to find out what my way is. I appreciate that.

I appreciate the advice, the experience, and the straightforward way he presents the sometimes aloof subject of writing. There’s no glamour, no nose-in-the-air snottiness. It’s a job. It’s a lot of work. And if you really love it, then it’s more than worth it.

As I said before, I try to read it once a year to remind myself what I’m doing. It’s like a map. I read the book to get my bearings so I can plod on. I don’t belong to a writer’s group. I have a few writing friends, by not many. This book is my guide, which may be a little silly, but it works for me.

And thank you, Stephen King, for giving me the freedom to find out what works for me.

What You See Ain’t All There Is

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

What you see is what you get. That’s a good description of me provided that it’s put into the context of me not putting on airs or presenting some false version of myself. In other words, I don’t change myself to fit in with what’s fashionable.

Do I mute some personality attributes while bringing out others to better fit the group of people I’m engaging with? Sure. That’s only good sense in order to better communicate and get along with a group. But that doesn’t mean I completely alter my personality to fit in. I don’t take on new traits or completely obliterate entire bits of myself.

What you see is what you get.

But I’ll be the first person to tell you that I don’t show everything.

I’m a very secretive person. I admit that. There are just some bits of myself that I don’t feel comfortable presenting to the world, some thoughts and ideas and feelings that I think are best kept to myself.

At least I think I keep them to myself. Sometimes I feel completely transparent when these thoughts or feelings bubble too close to my surface. I think everyone can see them. I try not to panic as I try to nonchalantly push them back down, but I feel like I’m just drawing more attention to what I’m trying to hide.

These aren’t big personality flaws I’m hiding. They’re not huge, image changing ideas I’m keeping to myself. They’re just little things I’d rather keep to myself. Little secrets that I don’t think anyone else needs to know. Because while they’re not huge image changing things, they are image changing things. Little tweaks maybe that would make people see me in a slightly different light.

But I’m not comfortable with that. Not yet anyway. It’s more comfortable for me to keep the secret.

I’ve known all of this for a while, but it’s really been brought into sharper focus recently as I’ve been working on a personal essay for a contest. I’m writing about something that I’ve only ever put into words before in the privacy of my journal. I wouldn’t think to discuss it with anyone else. And yet, the prospect of having total strangers read it doesn’t bother me. I suppose that’s because they’d only be judging me on my writing, not on the content of it. And even if they did judge the content, well, they’re strangers, aren’t they? I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the aftermath, wouldn’t have to answer any questions and pretend not to be affected by the funny looks.

It’s funny how I am perfectly willing to open up a vulnerable bit of myself to someone I don’t know in the context of writing for a contest, but I’d never dream of telling my closest friend the same thing. I think it’s the emotional distance involved in the former that I find comforting. That and the only fallout I’m concerned with is whether or not I win the contest in question.

It’s not that I want to keep myself emotionally closed off from my friends and family. I’m just not good with emotions. They’re messy, illogical things (sort of like teenagers, now that I think about it), and I’m just more comfortable keeping some of mine under tight reign and out of sight.

So, I keep bits of me secret.

I guarantee that what you do see is definitely what you get, though. Position yourself just right and who knows? You might end up seeing a little more.

Writing–When the Brain Has Other Plans

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

I have trouble with my brain sometimes.

Here’s an example:

Last month, I got pretty tired of rewriting Spirited In Spite. It turned into quite the slog that I couldn’t wait to get through. And while I was doing this slog, all I was thinking about was how much I wanted to work on my short stories. In fact, towards the end of the rewrite and the end of the month, I did start working on my short stories as a kind of reward for getting through the rewrites.

It was easy to come to the conclusion that I was going to spend February working on my short stories.

About a week and a half into the month, I was tired of looking at these short stories (to my credit, I had three of them ready to submit and one of those I DID submit) and wanted to work on something else.

For some reason, that happens. My brain acts like a spoiled child. It gets what it wants, plays with it a minute, and then immediately wants to play with something else. It’s ridiculous and frustrating and clashes with my stubborn self and need to adhere to the goals set for me.

This time, though, I decided to compromise. After submitting one of the short stories, I took a break from them. Instead, I took the weekend and read one of my novel manuscripts (A Tale of Two Lady Killers), making some notes on it. On Monday, I went back to the short stories. The break helped me avoid the feeling of slogging. It helped me to avoid resenting the goals I’d set for myself and in the long run, accomplish them.

I have to remember that my pig-headedness is an asset only when I use it correctly. I also have to remember to be flexible with my goals. Sometimes my spoiled brat brain has a good point and maybe a day or two spent indulging it is for the best.

It’s more cooperative when I compromise.

The Addict

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

The same day my Twitter timeline was filled with people rallying around Josh Hamilton falling off the wagon, offering him support and informing anyone that making any joke about it was in beyond poor taste, someone else on my timeline, one of those supporters actually, complained that smoking hadn’t been outlawed in bars in Indianapolis.

And this led me to wonder…why aren’t smokers considered addicts, too?

They’re not, you know. I’m considered a former smoker, not a recovering addict. Why?

Let’s take a look at some of the common thoughts on smokers and smoking that I’ve encountered (sometimes rather loudly).

Smokers are stupid and disgusting. They smell. They’ve got nasty coughs and yellow fingers. They KNOW smoking is bad for them, but they do it anyway. It’s common knowledge. It’s all over EVERYTHING. They poison the air and contaminate other people’s lungs. They affect everyone around them. SMOKERS ARE STUPID.

Alcoholics and drug addicts are viewed like this, though. They’re to be pitied. They have a disease.

Yet they start drinking/ingesting/smoking/shooting up/snorting despite all of the knowledge of how bad it is for you. Alcoholics will reek of booze. Drug addicts will reek of other things, depending on their drug of choice. They all have health problems, some more disgusting than others. Alcoholics drive drunk; drug addicts drive high. They lie to their families. They steal from them. Poor decision making due to drug/booze affected minds leads to fights, rapes, robberies, and terminally offensive/embarrassing behavior.

But they’re not stupid. They have a disease. It’s a shame.

Nicotine doesn’t affect the brain as severely as alcohol and drugs, but it still has an effect. It still affects the chemicals of the brain. It’s still a way to self-medicate, which is what so many alcoholics and drug addicts do.

I smoked to ease stress and anxiety. No kidding. I smoked after I ate, I smoked after sex, I smoked when I drove (which was kind of a bitch because I drive left-handed and I smoked left-handed), I smoked when I wrote, I smoked when I drank, I smoked when I socialized. But I also smoked more when I was stressed. I claimed that the third cigarette on my 15 minute break was to buy me more time, but in reality, I needed the nicotine to mess with my chemicals a little more. Driving somewhere I’ve never been before? Going somewhere I didn’t really want to be? I smoked a couple of extra cigs to “calm my nerves”.

It was no exaggeration. I felt better smoking. The anxiety decreased when I was smoking. During the time that cigarette was burning between my fingers, I was much more capable to deal with life.

In order for alcoholics and drug addicts to achieve and maintain a successful recovery, they have to basically restructure their lives to learn how to live without their drug of choice. They have to learn how to function sober, avoid temptations, and sometimes they end up cutting out people in their lives that are bad influences. It also takes a lot of self-control and willpower.

I had to do the same thing when I quit smoking. I had to learn how to function without a cigarette in my hand or my mouth (I swear my pool game has suffered because of it). I had to learn to cope with stress and anxiety differently. I had to learn how to drive, write, drink, and socialize without my cancer crutch. I had the added hurdle of living with a smoker. I had to pursue my smoke-free life while watching him continue his smoking life, one that I never wanted to give up.

That’s right. If I could have kept on smoking, I would have. I didn’t quit for health reasons. I didn’t quit because I finally gave in to all of the nagging and harassment. I quit because I couldn’t afford it. It was too expensive and I was too out of work at the time.

Like a recovering alcoholic or drug addict, I think of smoking every day. I wish I could go back to it. I don’t because I don’t want to go through the unpleasantness of quitting again. I dream about smoking. If there was an option to smoke without any harmful consequences, I would do it (I’ve considered getting one of those electric cigarettes, but so far, I’ve resisted). I quit smoking about two and a half years ago and I don’t think I’ll ever not miss it.

Now, here’s the thing. I’m not looking to add any more labels to my name or anyone else’s. I’m not going to be going on talk shows talking about my smoke-free life. I’m just wondering why smokers and former smokers aren’t treated with the same kind of consideration as other addicts if we’re all addicts.

Oh, that’s right.

Smokers are stupid.

Writing–Happy Endings

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I don’t write happy endings.

Okay, I do, but I don’t.

It’s something I’ve noticed as I accumulate short stories and novel first drafts and it’s not just because I write a lot of horror. That’s not to say that I don’t write satisfactory endings in the sense that the plot is tied up and the questions are all answered because I do that. Sometimes I even do it in an a happy way. You have to offer up a satisfying conclusion if you want to write a story worth reading.

The happy endings I’m talking about are the stories that end with the girl getting the guy or the guy getting the girl. I’ve written a few stories and some novels in which that is a possibility. The set-up is there. But I don’t do anything with it. I might play a little with flirting or a smidge of sexual tension, but in the end, the characters ride off into the sunset…alone.

It seems to be an expectation for most stories involving a man and a woman that they’ll end up together. It’s an expectation I don’t live up to and I don’t live up to it on purpose.

I don’t think it’s always necessary. Just because two characters share the same story doesn’t mean they have to hook up by the end of it. Maybe they’d really like to. Maybe they do hook up at some point after the story ends. But for the time period that’s written about concerning these characters, it doesn’t happen. It happens if it’s necessary for the story and so many stories I write don’t find it necessary. And that’s okay! It’s better to serve the story rather than shoehorn something in to satisfy a reader expectation that clashes with everything else about the story.

I think that frustrates people. The last paragraph coupling happens so often that they’re disappointed when it doesn’t happen and they somehow interpret that as an unhappy ending, no matter how upbeat the story ending was. And though I have quite a few upbeat endings (I may be over estimating a little), I still manage to disappoint people.

This doesn’t bother me as much as it should. I’m satisfying people whether they want to admit it or not. Not every ending has to be happy.

Those last two sentences are filled with a lot more innuendo than I intended, but when talking about satisfying happy endings, you run into that risk.

Happy Vincent Price Day!

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

While couples are celebrating love through jewelry extortion and single women are bitterly cursing their lack of a mate and single men are happy to be off the hook for forgetting the date, I am once again dedicating this hearts and flowers day to the one and only Vincent Price.

He's the arsenic in my champagne.

When it comes to Valentine’s Day dates, this man never lets me down.

The Single Life

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

By now it should be common knowledge that I’m single and have been for a while. I don’t consider it to be the worst aspect of my life (right now my dying TV is the worst aspect of my life; I’m materialistic like that), but some might think it is.

See, most of the people my age, the ones I went to school with, all followed the natural progression of getting married and having kids (okay, some had the kids first and some didn’t wait until they were out of high school to do it, but let’s not go splitting hairs). In my neck of the Cornfield, that’s just what you do. And I didn’t. I didn’t do any of it.  So here I am at 32, never been married and without kids, while some people I went to school with are on marriage number 2 and working on half-siblings for their existing kids.

And that bothers people. I guess it’s something to be pitied that I didn’t follow that natural track that they followed. Like there’s something defective about me. After all, there MUST be something WRONG with me, right? Who wants to be single? If you want to be single, you’re weird. If you don’t want to be single, but can’t land a partner, then you’re defective. Either way, there’s something wrong with you. With me.

Maybe it would be different if I dated more. At least then I’d be trying, right? But it’d still be a failure. That’s what being single is to some people. Failure.

While these people still think there’s something wrong with me, they’ve become accustomed to my singlehood. They don’t like it, but it’s what’s now considered normal for me. I am that spinster that everyone knows. And that leads to a different problem.

What would happen if I got into a relationship?

See, I’m not single because it’s the only life for me, which I believe is the common misconception people have. I’ve got this reputation for being strong and independent and being single has bolstered that because look at Christin, she doesn’t NEED a partner.

That’s true. I don’t NEED a partner. I’m happy enough being single, but that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t also be happy enough in a relationship. It doesn’t mean that I don’t WANT a relationship. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t one day get married if the right person asked (so far, only the wrong ones have). Being strong and independent doesn’t mean that I want to be alone. It just means I can be.

The truth is, I don’t mind being single. There are a lot of advantages to it that I enjoy. I don’t have to worry about jealousy, clashing schedules, extra laundry, warring over what to watch, or remembering anniversaries. I don’t have to worry about the other family not liking me or being forced to endure them if I don’t like them. There’s no complaining about being ignored or misunderstood, no worries about loyalty or infidelity. I just have to worry about and take care of me, and believe me when I say that sometimes I’m a handful.

That’s not to say that I don’t know that I’m missing out on the good aspects of relationships. I know that I am. And sometimes it bugs me. But not enough to march out and throw myself at the first man I find that’s remotely interested just so I can experience those things (I likely wouldn’t in a situation like that, but you know what I mean).

I’m comfortable being single. I’m okay with it. It’s not a bad thing. And if the right person comes along, then I don’t mind stepping out of that comfort zone to create a new one.

I don’t live and die by my relationship status.

You shouldn’t live and die by my relationship status either.

Writing–50 Rejections

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Sometime last month it occurred to me that I should try to get 50 rejections this year.

Now let me explain.

There’s someone I follow on Twitter that counts her rejections. She tries for a lot more in the course of a year (like 150). In the course of those rejections, she does manage to get some acceptances. And after watching her do this for a year, I thought to myself, what a great idea.

So naturally, I stole it.

I need something get me going and keep me going when it comes to writing/revising/submitting short stories. It’s like I go through bursts of productivity with them, but never fully commit to the constant progress. Aiming for 50 rejections will help me do that.

In order for me to obtain my goal, I need to be more proactive. I can just rely on sudden bursts of time. I can’t let stories languish on the shelf. I can’t just stick to the horror genre to submit to, especially since it’s not the only genre I write in. I’m going to have to broaden my horizons and be more dedicated to my work.

I’ve already got my first rejection for the year (also my first acceptance) and I’ve still got four stories out. I’m on my way. Now I just have to keep moving.

This doesn’t mean I’m solely after rejections. I’m not going to be sending out any stories that aren’t ready to go just to meet my goal. The idea is that I accumulate my rejections through the legitimate act of trying to sell my stories and get published.

I admit, it’s kind of daunting sitting where I am right now. I’ve kind of got a plan in place. I’ve got stories I’m working on. I think that once I get a few more stories out and I rack up a few more rejections, I feel better about this challenge.

For now I’m just going to keep my head down, keep working, and try not to think about it.

Let’s get those rejections flowing.