After a very rewarding week at the beach, I’m back to the grindstone! I’ve got a new resolution to write 1,000 words a day, which was put a little on hold due to vacationing. Bad writer! Nonetheless, I’ve been very penitential and written more than 4,000 words of a cracktastic novel, in the NaNoWriMo tradition of quantity-before-quality. While I see what’s salvageable from that hot mess, I thought I’d share a bit more about my writing portfolio. The following are the four stories I’m concentrating most on for publication. Crow Black Rooster and The Garden House have both been submitted to the Claudia Ann Seaman competition, which I’ll find out about in late September.
Crow Black Rooster: Short Story—Folk Tale
Blurb: When Lucy’s brother offers to steal a hen from Black Agnes in order to impress a girl, she considers kicking him out of the house. However when Tommy disappears, it’s up to quick-thinking Lucy Sherman to save the day.
Excerpt: Lucy followed the voice into what seemed to be a small kitchen. Everything in the house was dark and crooked with age. Agnes didn’t seem to notice her presence, she just kept singing:
Crow, black chicken and fly away
Crow, black chicken and crow for day
I love chicken pie
Sure enough, that seemed to be what she was preparing to make. She had chopped some rather weak vegetables and had a nasty looking meat cleaver on the lopsided table by the window. The window was so dusty that the light filtered through it was a dun as the room it barely penetrated.
“Mrs. Agnes, has my brother, Thomas Sherman come to visit?” she phrased tactfully.
“Chicken crow for midnight, chicken crow for day.”
“He’s about this tall,” Lucie continued, holding out a hand high above her head. “And he’s got hair like mine and a grin like the devil.”
“Along comes an owl, ooh-haa.” And on the last word, Black Agnes brought down a knife on a head of cabbage with enough force to crack the cutting board. Lucie gasped.
“And knocked that chicken away,” Black Agnes continued sadly, studying the knife. Then she broke into a fit of guffaws.
Author’s Notes: I thought a lot about those “Girl to the Rescue” anthologies while writing this story, and I think it would fit right in, for better or for worse. I tried to capture the feel of folk (listened to a lot of Nickel Creek while writing!) and I’ve been told it sounds Irving-esque. I went back and thoroughly revised after reading “As I Lay Dying” by Faulkner, which I think has also impacted the story. Black Agnes is a real character from Scottish mythology who I adapted somewhat by blending with the hint of Baba Yaga, especially by making the central focus a hen. The title derives from the song, which is also a real folk ditty.
The Garden House: Short Story—Young Adult
Blurb: Ana has always been aware of the differences between her family and Julia’s manicured world, but one summer shines a harsh light on their friendship.
Excerpt: At nine years old, Julia had her own house. Three tiny rooms, hidden in the rhododendrons. Two windows that peeked out across the Shaw garden. It looked like a garden shed. Only we knew about the mini-kitchen fully stocked with raw cookie dough, or the stacks of Beatles CDs and old copies of Seventeen beneath the bed.
There was a time when I wanted my own house so badly it hurt. My mother had the worst excuses. I love you Baby, why would I keep you in a garden shed? You’re my heart, not a sack of bulbs. I would tell her that she didn’t understand, and she would tell me exactly what she thought of the Shaw family, and I had to put my hands over my ears since I kind of agreed, and I hated that.
Author’s Notes: I came up with this story after hearing a pretty amazing story just in casual conversation. My friend mentioned that she no longer saw a best friend whose mother ran off to another state with my friend’s uncle. I can’t really say why this idea fascinated me, but I knew I had to work it into a story. I sat down at a computer and out came a story that ultimately proved to be more about class conflict then family tensions. I too was always fascinated by the idea of having a play-house like our neighbors. But as it does for Ana, the play-house eventually became a symbol of dysfunction.
The Girl with the Clockwork Heart: Short Story—Fairy Tale
Blurb: Where others have flesh and blood, Lark has steady gears and little springs; the masterful craftsmanship of a strange genius. But Thomas, a would-be lover, is determined to rescue Lark’s heart from the Odd Doctor, no matter the price.
Excerpt: When Youngest emerged from behind the closed door to find Little Bird alert and gurgling. Her skin was no longer blue and chilled. Her eyes were the color of a crocus and gave the same impression of emerging from beneath the snowy white of her skin. Youngest loved her at first sight, but when she pressed her ear to the child’s heart, she nearly fell over.
The fluttering little bird had been replaced by the steady ticking of a clock.
Author’s Notes: I love to get ideas from dreams, or from the weird trance-like period before sleep. This was one of those times, when the phrases “Clockwork Heart” and “Odd Doctor” just appeared out of thin air. I devoured fairy tales as a kid, and I think this story incorporates a lot of the classic elements in voice that’s delightful to write in. I’m considering writing more worth short stories called “The Odd Doctor’s Collection” to incorporate into an anthology-like novel, where the clues the protagonist needs to solve a modern mystery are hidden in the history of the Odd Places– the Odd Doctor’s home.
Guitar Ashes: Short Story—Young Adult
Blurb: When Kate’s childhood friend and sometimes-boyfriend dies, cremating a guitar and throwing the ashes from atop of the highest roller coaster becomes a soul-searching adventure.
Excerpt: There was a kid over in Jefferson last year who shot himself. He left a two-sentence note for his parents and a three-page love letter for his girlfriend of six months. I wondered sometimes if Cullin had had the chance, would he have done something like that. I know better, though. If Cullin had known about the car wreck, he would have run his callused fingers through his hair and give me a sad smile. Then he’d do something goofy because he couldn’t stand being sad, like winking and saying “here’s looking at you, kid.”
Author’s Notes: There were a surprising number of deaths connected to my high school this past year, and I found out about all of them through facebook, which is thoroughly surreal. I wanted to write something about the way that teenagers deal with death, and it merged with some nonfiction attempts to recount my first roller coaster ride. The two seemed a natural fit, and the story of Cullen’s ashes was born.