Friday Fictioneers: The ‘D’ In DIY Stands For Divorce

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

photo credit: Sandra Crook

Before Jamison could explain, Suzanne dropped her suitcase outside the front door, ran through the living room and out the newly installed patio doors leading to the garden. Seeing the roof she closed her eyes. Her heels sunk in artificial grass, freshly watered but empty of the pleasant dew smell.

“Fuck, James. You had ONE job.”

Suzanne grabbed her phone and speed-dialed the construction manager, one finger in her ear to block Jamison’s noise.

“Ned! Thank God. About the roof…. Well, my husband’s clearly incompetent!”

Jamison opened his mouth to speak then thought, “Why bother.”


This flash fiction is based off of the photo prompt above for Friday Fictioneers – flash fiction under 100 words. This was my first time participating and it was a lot of fun, so I look forward to joining in for more!

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I’m Baaaack

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This post comes as I sit in a coffee shop with an $8 latte and plain bagel. There’s a kid watching an action movie without headphones on, clearly unaware coffee shops are a sacred space for writer’s who can’t write unless people are there to witness it. I came with the intention of editing my most recent short The Great Tribulation, and as I stared at the screen with my fingers and creative brain cells numb, thoughts turning to how terribly hard and pointless all of this writing stuff is, I realized it’s been a whole month since I’ve written anything other than a few passing thoughts. So here I am!

My time away at the farm taught me that as a farm-hand you’ll never have time for lounging over a book or jotting down all the stories that pop into your mind while doing some repetitive task. I started reading Here Comes The Sun the day I left and it’s been such a struggle I’m only 47% through. I’m having a hard time caring about the characters and what they’re going through, I think it has a lot to do with my not finding the characters very definitive or interesting. It’s a bit like a drama where the writer wants to keep things suprising but holds your hand the whole way through. Still, I’ll probably keep reading because

  1. I paid full price for the ebook…
  2. I’m curious to compare it to the other First Novel Prize finalists and understand why it was nominated. The writing is good, but my guess is because the plot falls nicely into this year’s selection of finalists that are culturally rich or have LGBT related plots that are all the rage right now.

It’s been about 10 days since I got back and in my time offline I’ve started applying to some Upwork jobs (a freelance website) and am looking for work slowly, applying to jobs that sound within my capabilities and interesting. If you’re new to freelance writing and have little to no experience Upwork is a great website to gain experience and get the ball rolling.

Before I left for the farm I was undecided whether I wanted to keep this blog as it is or focus more on my fiction. I’ve since decided I’m going to keep things mostly story-oriented with the occasional book review or gif related post, especially because improving my creative writing was why I first decided to start Drunk Off Rhetoric. So expect some short stories and flash fiction in the next few days.

That’s all for now, it’s good to be back and I look forward to checking in with you all 🙂

Home: Haiku

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Maui, Hawaii

She felt most at home 

when she bathed in salt water,

and was flanked by green.

 

 

I’m in an honest and fully committed same-sex relationship with nature. Bite-sized poem to put my photographs to use again 🙂 – I miss this creative outlet to my creative outlet.

The Great Tribulation: A Short Story

Woah, it’s has been a minute since I’ve posted a story. Here’s one inspired by way too many wasted Sunday mornings… I tried to make the title a little less obvious, and failed. Ah well.

Curtis roasted like a pig. He moved in a fever between two pots, holding a wooden spoon the length of his arm. The doors and windows of his small shack were open but the heat was unmoved. He looked to see the girl was still naked and sprawled out on top of his bed with a filthy rag on her forehead. The girl’s breasts spilled away from each other like two repelling magnets, a steady stream of sweat licked her from chin to navel. Her mouth was open and dry and it had been minutes since she’d blinked or sighed.

“Hey you. Hey, you still alive?” Curtis said.

The girl made a sound, something like a squawk and wheeze, and managed a few licks of her lips.

“I think so.” she said.

“Unlucky you. Why aren’t you blinking?”

“Oh… I wasn’t paying mind to whether I was blinking or not.” she said.

“You weren’t.” Curtis dashed a palmful of salt into a pot, “I thought I was cooking for a dead girl.”

Curtis took the joint from the corner of his mouth and passed the dregs to the girl. It was mostly ash, but it was familiar so she inhaled and held anyway. Even bare skin felt like one too many layers, she made herself as wide as she could to cool down. Arms and legs spread open so she looked like she was making snow angels in the sheets. And when was the last time she’d seen snow? Heat had built up slow then wrecked them all at once, writhed out of the ground like some vengeful spirit ready to drive them delirious – and succeeding. The girl was half blind and shriveled like a newborn pup when he found her stroked out in the dirt and sand, the poor godless and sun-bleached girl.

Curtis brought a bowl where the girl laid and she finally sat up at the smell. The bowl overflowed with rice and meat, two spoons for sharing. The chunks of meat were mysterious but they both guessed it was goat’s meat; fibrous and swimming in it’s sweetness. He watched the girl’s mouth work the steaming chunk and wondered how she could put her lips on something so hot without batting an eyelash. She caught his slack look and laughed a crack lipped riot saying, cool as anything, “Man, when you’ve been raised by the sun a little heat don’t hurt.”

The girl’s body looked like a heap of Himalayan salt in the distance. Curtis had watched her crawl on her stomach from noon til late, the cloud’s bellies burnt orange and only a few hours left before they’d disappear. If the girl was going to make it, she’d have to drag herself to salvation and prove she wanted it. To be out at this time of the day was a show that at some point she wasn’t sure she did, and Curtis didn’t have time for people who’d given up on themselves. The girl passed out on the steps to the smell of starch and boiled meat.

From the empty bowl of her stomach, Curtis guessed it had been weeks since the girl had eaten. She downed a mug of water and refilled the mug to cleanse her ruddy face, before starting on a plate of sweet bread rolls and jam. They sat on the bed and the girl appreciated not having to move to sleep, the meal formed a content lump in her gut. The solitary candle wisped around in a moment of breeze and they both held their breaths while it bathed them. Curtis pushed the empty bowl away from himself and wiped a rag on his mouth and all around his forehead and neck.

“Why were you out there like a damn slug?” he said.

The girl didn’t open her eyes but cupped the new pouch of belly in her hands like an expectant mother with little more than a peanut in her womb.

“I was trying to find somewhere cool I could lay a while.”

Curtis lit a fresh joint on the candle, the light sparked the girl up like an angel and blasted the rest of the room into void.

“Hm,” he said, “You can crawl all the way to Lakeland and not find a lick of shade.”

“I don’t know. My daddy told me there’s still some places where it’s cool and maybe not so crowded.” she said.

“And where’s your daddy at now? Nowhere good, I bet.”

The girl shrugged and took the offered joint into her fingers. She tried to remember the last letter she’d got from her father and retrieved a memory from a year prior. She waited as the ocean crept closer and swallowed homes in front of hers, before it finally knocked on her own door and swept her inland. She’d stopped believing her father was alive, but not that there was somewhere else to go. If there wasn’t, they would be alone in the dark when the curtain fell on Earth, leaving only godless souls to crawl on their bellies like blind snakes in a barrel, one climbing on top of the other for a chance at dying last. The girl looked at Curtis’s smushed face and missed when there was only man to fear, and the ground boar more than death.

Curtis poured cold water in a large bucket outside and the girl had a good go at washing herself. Her skin was virginal and free of scars; flesh like the smooth hat of a mushroom. He watched steam rise from the pool at her feet. The girl paused scooping water on her body, opened her arms and face and mouth to the black sky in a silent scream. She gave up bathing when a hot wind kicked up and coated her in dust.

Curtis had craned his neck to the clouds in a similar way but let out a primal scream with his own girl’s body laid in his arms and her looking up, too. The gaze was absent and her neck was cut and leaning awkwardly curious. It was done, but she didn’t fly into grace with open arms. Her body laid useless and Curtis left her there knowing this was their punishment and nothing would lessen the sentence.

The girl fell asleep as heavy as a child with a fever, her garish frame barely enough to make a real lump in the bed. Curtis sat up in bed beside her. She looked like a corpse, her skin opaque and veins ribbed up and down her arms and legs. He watched her and grew angry at her carelessness. Dragging herself through the rotten desert for what – she only had to take one look around and it was obvious; this was it and no magic man saved a place for her, or any of them, in the shade. You could live in a dream or with the steady footing and firm disappointment of reality, and he preferred the latter.

The sky was lavender and a steady heat of steam rose from cracks like geysers. The girl was gone when Curtis woke up and he saw her naked body merge with the mirage of wavering air in the not so far distance. She’d taken his boots, but they both knew he had no use for them. She would hear him call her name if he knew it. If he screamed it loud enough and knew he wanted her to stay. Soon the distance was too much and the heat too strong to see her without straining. He went back inside to the unmade bed, still musty and covered in her dirt, stripped the sheets and dumped them in the sink, running water on them until there was a stream of murk. The girl could have her shade, and Curtis would have his. The comfort that even Earth was mortal, and as long as there were sinners you could crawl for eternity and never leave suffering.

An Update on My Writing

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Photo: my little editing corner

Otherwise titled Life and Other Things That Get in the Way Of Writing.

I was planning on posting a short story this week but sacrificed my usual writing time for a little bit of a social life, and now look what happened – no stories! This is exactly why having a schedule is important. It’s hard to get family and friends to understand that writing takes up a lot of my time (especially since I’m not getting paid to do it), so whenever I tell them I’m going to be busy writing at a certain time, they think it’s something that can be put off until later. It’s really frustrating, but probably something I should speak up about more. Or maybe it’s good to live in the world every once in a while if you want to write about it. I don’t have much of a creative mind this morning so I’ve been tackling an old revision that I’ve been avoiding like the plague. Black tea, smooth tunes on the radio, and an early smoking session have eased the pain, though, and it’s been fun to revisit the story.

My creative writing class starts up again tonight so hopefully that’ll put the fire back under me. Last semester I was churning out stories like no one’s business, but this semester I want to focus on one or two longer pieces so I can get more feedback on story arc, character development, and narrative from beginning to end. I haven’t started the story or got a particular one in mind, but have been thinking about a theme focused on the ways people let each other down. We’ll see how it goes. In the mean time, when I do post a story here it’ll be flash fiction so I don’t get too distracted from my main project, but will be a nice break.

Well, that’s an update on my writing – not much. Maybe I’ll make this a monthly post, just to check in with myself and flesh some new plans out.

Have you got any short term writing plans? Do you sometimes have to sacrifice writing for actual social interaction and life-living? How do you balance the two?

Organizational Tips for Writers; How To Prioritize Like a Boss

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Photo: Josh Ginter

When I realized I had a solid date and plan of action for becoming vegan, but no deadlines or real plan for how I would achieve my writing goals, I took a long look at myself in the mirror, wiped the pizza grease off my mouth and said, Minelli, your priorities are fucked. It’s easy to claim the title as a writer, but what happens next? How do you land that writing job or actually finish that collection of poems you’ve been harping on about for so long? I’m a naturally disorganized person, but when I took my “temporary” hiatus from college it wasn’t long before I found that I could not carry on this way and expect to get anywhere in writing, professional or otherwise.

I’ve had more on my plate writing-wise with trying to post more frequently and taking on a few projects. I’m working with two illustrator friends and my husband (who’s a 3D modeler) to create a small videogame, and I am writing the content and story. I am also finally (finally) editing Melancholia in Molasses for my creative writing class that recommences at the end of the month. It’s been so long since I’ve touched my 5500+ word count story and there’s still so much that needs to be done. Outside of those more elective activities, I have been working on my professional writing; refining my resume, applying for freelance writing jobs, writing proposals and cover letters left right and center. It’s impossible to get through anything without some pre-planning.

Staying organized saves time so you’re more productive and able to stay on top of different projects. Fiction writers have to organize outlines and find writing time outside of their day jobs; while freelance writers have to be on top of their schedules, clients, research, and due dates. Here is a list of organizational tips (and helpful links) to prioritize your writing life like the boss you’re trying to be.

Cleanliness is next to productiveness

Did you know productive writers are God’s favorite children? Clean that desk or dining table (or the bed you use as a table) so you have a de-cluttered space to write and you will be highly favored. Oh, you don’t have a designated place to write? It’s better to be a Starbucks cliche than have no place to write at all.

Your Messy Desk is Hurting Your Writing Career. Here’s How to Declutter

Set a large goal, then establish small steps to achieve it

You can’t become a novelist and freelance writer extraordinaire without a (realistic) plan to get there. Set smaller goals to achieve larger ones so you can measure progress and stay motivated.

Writing a long story? Establish daily word count goals and log how many you complete.

Looking for writing jobs? Establish a weekly goal of how many you will apply to, then send out proposals/resumes daily to break application time into manageable sessions. No one likes spending hours searching jobs and emailing resumes (unless you’re a resume writer, bless your soul if you are).

Goal-Setting For Freelance Writers: A Crash Course

Get all of you work in one place

Organize as much of your work as you can electronically and take advantage of apps like Evernote or Google Drive. These apps are great for planning stories and articles, taking notes, planning your schedule, saving images, and everything is automatically synced to your electronic devices. This means you will never have to wait until you get to your home or office to find out information for a client, or the details of a story you’re writing. I personally prefer Google but know many people like Evernote’s interface and ability to save articles and images with their original links and references.

How To Use Evernote for Fiction Writing

Set a schedule (AND stick with it)

Life does not need to look like a planner and mine often doesn’t, but when you’re a freelance writer it’s good if your life resembles some of the rigidity of pre-scheduled days. I’m hardly a fan of them, but if you expect to get a job writing you might as well start acting as if you’re doing it already (my ideal workplace is cat friendly and pant-free, so that is the work environment I perpetuate at home). For creative writers, use your schedule to plan writing around your work schedule.

Do more creative/time consuming projects first

Unless you have something that needs to be done right away or a meeting that has to be attended, start off with the more creative tasks. Our brains are the most alert in the morning so it’s a good opportunity to tap into those creative juices before they’re all drained from other activities. If you don’t work with creative writing, do the harder and more time consuming tasks first rather than leaving them for last – you have to do it regardless, why let it weigh you down at the end of a long day?

Don’t take on every project

You will be tempted to, but if you do you’ll likely take on too much, get burned out, and leave a terrible impression on any clients you’re working with. How productive is it to start a fourth short story when you’ve barely pieced together the second and haven’t revised the first? I know; you’re a writer, you’re broke and motivated, but that practice is not productive. It’s easy to get excited once you get the ball rolling on a story or when the job interviews start rolling in, but the more you do the less time you can spend doing one thing very well.

Take care of yourself, too

I mentioned acting as if writing is your job (if that’s where you’re trying to take it), but remember it’s not just any job-it’s the job you want. Have you had enough sleep, food, and water? If not you’ll be fatigued and won’t make it past noon without several cups of coffee to help you keep up the work. Remember to take breaks, fifteen minutes to every hour, rather than working like a Hebrew slave for hours in a row. Most of us have day jobs; I work 7am-7pm three days out of the week so do not write (or even think about writing) on those days. I’m off four days in the week and spend three of those days writing from 9-4ish. Work on a write-work-life balance that doesn’t burn your out, hopefully these organizational tips will help along the way.

 

Here’s to productive work and no burn out! Do you have any tips for getting organized? Let me know in the comments!

A Sleight 21st Century Love Poem: A Short Story

Is this a poem or flash fiction? I don’t even know. I hope you enjoy this fun exercise in bad language and other steamy things. And remember, any writing is good compared to no writing at all, right…? Thanks for stopping by. 🙂


Beneath the gallantry and fuckery,

as fun as she

(and she hopes he)

finds it,

it seems there should have been something else by now.

A slow dig in search of something palpable and wonderful,

electrical and whatever other adjective to describe the build up she feels when he

touches, kisses, works her legs open.

Boundless and burning, but oh is she misty!

So the tune of fuck you, what the fuck are we doing, and are we still fucking other people?

is overridden by the steady skipping track of a whisper to a dancing ear,

fuck me,

until neither have anymore fucks to give. They’re spent and everyone knows it.

And where were we?

The dig, that grueling chore of getting beneath the Earth’s crust, not nearly as attractive in the day time.

The slight unfurled mouth is now a gaping canal that sucks him in but the sun is up again and he wants out of this unholy rebirthing.

The sun is up and the beast run off.

But wait, what happened to the gallantry and fuckery?

What of those steamy windows of his old mustang where the girl’s head appears, disappears, then reappears like some magic trick that would get an illusionist fired?

His best trick is making the audience believe what he tells them,

that there is wonder and electricity and more beneath the fuckery.

But, what a thing it is to find the Earth is hollow.