So . . .

I suppose I should actually post something that is remotely relevant to this journal. I'm writing what will be my fourth novel length story, and this is the only one that I'm remotely interested in sharing with the general public. Ultimately, this story is about transcendence and grace in the face of horrible trauma. Angst, of course, is ever-present. Wacky, this isn't. Terrifying putting this up? Yep. Thank god no one is likely to ever read this . . . Nonetheless, I should mention that this is completely unedited by anyone who has a clue as to what she's doing. Read at your own risk.

( George took an exaggerated sniff.  )

Short fic about the perils of family drama. Approximately 600 words.

( Death by Letter Dissection. )

Part 4 of the "divorce fic" set. Short. Perhaps if I get enough of these, I'll have some sort of novel-ish thingy . . .


( My life ended in a cramped office, in a nondescript municipal building, at the inauspicious time of 9:05 in the morning. )

Part 3 of "divorce fic." I know your salivating at the thought of more angsty divorcy stuff. I won't deprive you. Honest.


( I dreamed of tornadoes and being sent to Afghanistan to kill teenaged insurgents. )

Part 2 of "divorce fic." This one might actually make you laugh. Intentionally.


( No one tells you how hard it is to date when you're over thirty. )

Part 1 of "divorce fic." How many of these will I torture you with? Sort of depends on my yet-unplumbed-depths of sadism . . .

( No one tells you that when you get divorced, the pleasant, kind conversations with your no-longer-husband are far more difficult to bear than the ones where you scream at him and threaten to cut off essential parts of his anatomy with the butcher knife in your hand. )

An old man smiles.
Laugh lines traverse wrinkled skin,
etched deep by regret.

( How Being an Editor Taught Me a Thing or Two About Phishing Scams )

Maudlin musing. Approximately 200 words

( Condensation )

There are tons and tons of resources about the way people write or the mechanics of writing in general, but my question is this: how much of one's life affects one's writing? How does one's coping mechanisms sneak into one's stories? Is there merit to the idea that writing about other people is just a safer, cathartic way to write about one's self? To me, it brings to light a whole new facet to "write what you know."

Here's where I'm going with all of this. Angst. I write a lot of angst--mostly of the emotional variety. I can be funny (I think, anyway) and I can be bleak (but not often). I don't think I'm ever unnecessarily or illogically cruel. More than likely, if you read anything by me, what you're going to get is angst, peppered with fleeting bits of dark humor, followed by a life-changing/cathartic moment and a peaceful, if not downright happy, ending. Some authors I've read never really make it to the angst stage, and instead present lovely, placid pictures of what we all wish our lives could be. Others consistently portray characters so foul, so bitter and self-interested, that there could never be catharsis or redemption. These characters inhabit worlds colored with pain and wrapped in hopelessness and anger.

I finished a particularly unrelenting, hopeless novel the other day, and it made me curious. The narrative was executed flawlessly and, by all accounts, a good book. But I still found myself wanting to reach through the pages and pet or comfort the writer in some way, to erase the horrors in the writer's life that would explain such a bleak and angry world. Why did I think this way? I just can't imagine one's life not affecting the way one writes--for good or bad.

For example, I've been fortunate to have much love and happiness in my life, but I've also been stung by terrible tragedy, as well. In reality, I never had a stable home life. I suffered through an inappropriate stepfather, have ostensibly "close" family I've never met, a mother who was as manipulative as she was loving, and the complete understanding that, in my cobbled together life, I didn't fit anywhere.

I lost my parents in my teenage years--both in violent, sudden ways-- and, as crazy as this sounds, it was the most freeing experience of my life. I've put that behind me, I thought, but have I? Have I really? These issues of family and finding one's place in the world play themselves out over and over again in most of what I write. Do we all suffer from these same maladies, though? Is that why these particular themes are so pervasive?

What about you? Do you find that your "issues" pervade your writing? Do you think that your 'world view' colors the views of your characters and the way in which you create your universes? How hard is it for you to write a happy ending? Do you believe in them? Why or why not?

Her spirit beguiles,
comely voice begetting hope.
Conjured tongue stills. Grief.

A small musing on the meaning of life as told through the saga of a broken camera. 537 words.

( A tourist broke my digital camera three months ago. )

Words rush over us.
Like water over smooth stones,
Some stay, others leave.