Cliches I Wish I Had

Writers. We're such a strange set. We're such a cool set. I don't much like the stereotypes surrounding writers and their lives. We aren't all recluses - we can't afford to be. One has to actually socialize these days in order to have any sort of following. But there are some stereotypes that I wish I could fit in because, let's face it, the traditional writer (which I'm not) is a pretty cool creature. That being said, I wish I could...

...live in a coffee shop

Looking at my flash fiction, you might think I live at a coffee shop, but that's not true. I would love to be a regular. I would love to have a well-worn corner at the bar and a barista who knew my name and slid a fresh latte toward my laptop because he knew by the knitting of my brow and the pricking of my thumbs that I wasn't feeling the whole editing thing today.

...sit on a white bed with perfectly shaved legs effortlessly balancing a laptop

Confession: I think sitting with your laptop anywhere near your actual lap is cause for ovarian cancer or something. At any rate, I'm sure it's not good for you. Also, who really wants to sit in bed all day? Also, whose feet don't fall asleep, like, right away after sitting Indian-style for more than five minutes? But you have to admit - it looks pretty darn cosmopolitan.

...survive off coffee alone

Coffee is so low calorie, I almost wish I could be one of those writers who gets so absorbed in their work that they can't stop for food. That's how those girls keep so slim. #coffeeislife...I'm sorry, but I'm the opposite. If I'm even remotely hungry, I get the worst hankering to A) stop for a snack B) eat all the chocolate, ever, in the whole world C) browse Instagram ad infinitum. I love coffee...but I also love muffins, toast, Chex Mix, pink lady apples, tangerines, trail mix, chocolate chips, granola, and many other things it's possible to love more than coffee.

...willingly shut out social life

We've discussed before how this aspect of my personality one hundred percent shoots me in the Achille's heel. It's almost impossible for me to choose writing time over people-time and that's why I'm sitting here writing a humorous blog post instead of sharing snippets of all the work (snark) I've gotten done recently. Of any writer stereotype, this one is the one I would give my left hand for. Not my right arm...I need that for writing, when I get around to it.

...achieve the perfect messy bun + bangs

You'd think after all these years I would be able to get this one right. That perfect top-knot that every college sorority girl knows how to do. I just can't. I can coil my hair into a sort of tea-pot handle and stab a pen through it, but that's about all. Rest in peace, hopes for the iconic writer-girl hairstyle. You just weren't meant to be.

....have so much plot it's bursting from my ears

This goes right up next to willingly shutting out social life. How people are overwhelmed with plot is beyond me. I am overwhelmed with atmosphere and characters and setting and clever sentences but plot comes to me only after blood sacrifices. Sheesh. Give girl a break, Plot, for heaven's sake!

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What are some stereotypes you'd like to be afflicted with?

P.S. Good luck to those of you who entered Rooglewood Press's Five Magic Spindles contest! I can't wait to see the winners' names tomorrow. 

In Memory of Harper Lee

Most of you (all of you) have heard that Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird, died last week. I almost said "beloved author" but that isn't exactly true. It would be truer to say that her book was beloved, because Lee preferred to stay out of it almost entirely. Only rarely would Lee submit to an interview, and even then she preferred to be selective in what she showed of herself. I don't fault her for that - I think by the sheer fact that she gave us so little of herself and, really, so little of her talents, makes what we do have that much more precious. For so long we only had To Kill a Mockingbird. Recently added to that is Go Set a Watchman. I've read the former many times. I enjoyed the latter. At times like these, I wonder: how did Harper Lee manage to do what she did in her debut novel? Atticus Finch...I mean honestly. Can you imagine a fuller, more admirable, richer character than that? I can't. I love the world of Maycomb. It's tiny and limited and specific. It could be everywhere but it can't just be anywhere. It's the American South and Harper Lee wrote about it as only a true American Southerner could.
I don't read much "modern" American fiction, actually. My earliest diet was the classic set written in the eighteen-hundreds. You know, the usual Anne of Green Gables, all of Louisa May Alcott, and so forth. From there I jumped to Lewis and Tolkien, bashed through half of Dickens' novels, and took three tries (and, finally, success) fording through Les Miserables. The Brontes, Austen, Gaskell, and Sir Walter Scott have each had their share of space on my shelves. Wodehouse, Henry James, Dorothy Sayers, and James Herriot have had their say. I'm the veritable property of the Brits and pre-modernity Americans at this point. So to say that I'm well-versed in American fiction would be a straight-forward lie. I don't pretend to be up on my American fiction. I don't think you have to be up on your American fiction to appreciate what Harper Lee did with To Kill a Mockingbird. If writers only improve with time and practice, I'm sorry Lee didn't write more. Almost sorry, though. Because if she was going to be a one-shot wonder, she used her chance well. She gave Americans a novel to conjure with, and influenced so many, many people with her story. What more could you want as a writer?

I hope you'll all join me in remembering Harper Lee and the fine legacy she left American fiction. If you'd like, leave your favorite To Kill A Mockingbird or Go Set a Watchman quote in the comments below as a little memorial to the author who left us Atticus, Scout, Jem, Dill, Calpurnia, and the rest. Rest in peace, Harper Lee.

Lyrics: Manhattan

I have recently taken to copying down lyrics to songs I love and really taking the time to relish the words and their meanings. Sometimes I come across a song I love and though I don't identify with the exact scenario laid out in the song's story, I treasure it all the same. Maybe it's the words themselves or the way they sound when combined with the music. Maybe it's just the fact that somewhere deep inside, I know I could feel this way, or that I have felt this way; the details are just different. Regardless of the real explanation, I love the power of music to sway and gentle me or rev me up. A couple weeks ago when we got #Jonas2016 and were buried under days of winter weather, “Manhattan” by Sara Bareilles kept me company as the perfect, wistful, snow-day song. Enjoy.

"Manhattan"

by Sara Bareilles

You can have Manhattan

I know it's for the best

I'll gather up the avenues

And leave them on your doorstep

And I'll tip toe away

So you won't have to say

You heard me leave

You can have Manhattan

I know it's what you want

The bustle and the buildings

The weather in the fall

And I'll bow out of place

To save you some space

For somebody new

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

Ahhhhh

You can have Manhattan

The one we used to share

The one where we were laughing

And drunk on just being there

Hang on to the reverie

Could you do that for me?

Cause I'm just too sad to

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

And so it goes

One foot after the other

Til black and white begin to color in

And I know

That holding us in place

Is simply fear of what's already changed

Ahhhhh

You can have Manhattan

I'll settle for the beach

And sunsets facing westward

With sand beneath my feet

I'll wish this away

Dismissing the days

When I was one half of two

You can have Manhattan

Cause I can't have you

Weaver Birds Aren't My Area of Expertise

Just a bit of writing I did for fun. I feel like I hit my best stride when writing fiction for children, even though I've never pursued that avenue farther than "just for fun." I've been pecking away at this the past few days as the mood strikes me and I figured I would share it with you to help you, in turn, pass the time. Happy Monday, darlings!

An Untitled Story (With Birds)

by Rachel Heffington

“The world, my dear, is very full of things you shouldn't touch.” Miss Crust's voice curled back on itself, purring. She pulled her crotchety old fingers through Maribelle's hair.

“Ow!” Maribelle yowled. She didn't think Miss Crust pulled her hair on purpose, but she certainly didn't not pull it on purpose. That was the point on which Maribelle took issue with her nurse.

“Is it my fault if you got half a jar of molasses stuck in it? Your hair's more tangled than a weaver-bird's nest.”

Maribelle wouldn't know. Weaver birds weren't her area of expertise, though they were her father's and Miss Crust's. Her father and Miss Crust were very well-known ornithologists – bird people. They were the sort of important people other important people came to if they had questions about puffin migration (“Do puffins migrate?”) or parrot-speech (“Just how many words can the average parrot learn in its lifetime?”) or the habits of displaced bluebirds. How Miss Crust went from studying birds to untangling Maribelle's hair, Maribelle didn't know. She wasn't quite sure where her father had picked up Miss Crust. Miss Crust just had always been. Maribelle couldn't remember a time when Miss Crust hadn't been part of life at 34 Bleaking Street. In her earliest memories there was sunlight, plenty of dust-motes swirling glitter-like through the beams, and Miss Crust. Funny enough, there was never a memory of a mother. Just Miss Crust, Assisting. She was very good at Assistance – Assisting Father with bird-work and Maribelle with tangled hair and grammar-work and stains on the fronts of her dresses. Sometimes Maribelle thought she might like to do with a bit less Assistance. Maybe only on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays generally weren't the best day of the week. Miss Crust could be on-call the rest of the time and only Assist when Maribelle really wanted her.

“What happened to my mother?” Maribelle asked suddenly. Miss Crust's finger twitched through Maribelle's hair, not in a surprised way but in a “Dear heavens, this again?” way.

“Died,” Miss Crust answered.

“From what?” Of course she knew – galloping consumption – but it was needful to hear it again, just to remind her that there had been a mother once upon a time. It bothered Maribelle sometimes, how often she nearly forgot most kids had two parents.

Here it came -

“Galloping consumption,” Miss Crust said.

There it was.

“Now you,” she pulled Maribelle upright off the stool and smacked her bottom, “get downstairs. Your father wants to speak with you before he leaves.”

Glad to be free of the dreadful hairbrush, Maribelle skibbled out the nursery door and wandered down their great big staircase, pausing on her favorite steps as she went. Her favorite steps were as follows:

twentieth,

sixteenth,

eighth.

The reasons why were these:

The twentieth was the step at the landing with a peculiar, round window looking out onto a bit of scrappy yard and a trashcan that always had a cat of some color turned upside down, fishing for something inside it.

The sixteenth step was exactly halfway which, as anyone can tell you, is a special place.

And the eighth step was the step whereupon Maribelle's front teeth had been knocked out when she tripped on it two years ago. There had been no other six year old girls missing both their front teeth that year so though it had given her a bit of lisp, Maribelle thought the distinction quite worth the trouble of pronouncing “stork,” “sausage,” and other like words.

Maribelle tromped into Father's study without knocking. She never knocked, on principle. People seemed to stop doing interesting things when you knocked first. It was much more gratifying to throw open a door and see someone look like they'd seen a ghost. Maybe you'd see where they hid those scrumptious chocolates, or maybe you'd hear things they wouldn't otherwise have told a little girl. And Maribelle did very much like to know. Knowing was probably the thing she liked most in the world, besides maybe chocolate ice cream and splashing in puddles barefoot when she ought to have worn boots.

Father sat at his desk, balding head between his bird-claw hands. He looked up as she came in. Pale gray daylight flashed at her off the little round lenses of his glasses.

“Hi,” Maribelle offered.

“Oh. Hello, Maribelle.”

“Miss Crust said you wanted me?”

Father perked up a little and ran his fingers through his hair. Two grayish-black puffs of it stuck out on either side of his head and made him look like a ruffled owl. The top of his head was utterly bald. “Just so, my dearling.”

When he put out his hand, she walked to him and settled her little palm in his bigger one. Hot. Dry. Shaky. That was Father's hand. Not liking to keep hers there very long, Maribelle gave Father a quick smile and put her hand in her pocket where he wouldn't think to ask for it again.

“Been studyin' birds?” she inquired.

“Oh, hrm. Birds, birds. Is there anything like birds in the world?” Father's lenses flashed again and his smile was a little less hampered than usual. He did so like birds.

Maribelle wanted to help him in any way she could to not seem so picked-over and trembly. “Well, Miss Crust says there was a sort of dinosaur way back in the dinosaur-days that flew like a bird.” It mightn't help much but Father might find it interesting, and that would at least distract him from whatever it was he worried over.

“Oh, ha!” Father chortled. “Ha! Ha!”

Like a jay, Maribelle thought. Crisp and short and unaccustomed. She liked to think of Father as all sorts of birds. He laughed like a jay and looked like an owl. He walked like a heron and spoke like a wren in terse, tentative chirps. She liked to watch him and he liked to watch birds. It helped to pass the time in the few months of the year when they weren't bopping around the Congo or Peru or someplace.

The Extrovert As Writer

When it comes to “ease of peeling away from real life to write,” the extroverted writer is at a distinct disadvantage. To begin with, we defy the traditional stereotype of writers being quiet, reserved individuals who observe life at a distance and go home to discover rich depths in their souls and write about it. Because stereotypes are often based, in the main, off truth, this means that the majority of our fellow writers won't empathize with our wiring. They won't understand how hard it is to cut the chatter and buckle down to a writing session. To the extroverted writer, peeling away from social life and other humans' presence is quite an effort before we've even opened a Word document to begin pouring more energy into our WIP. To leave the presence of other humans means to cut ourselves off from our “charger” so, unlike the introverted writer, being alone is not rejuvenation, it is slow (and sometimes rapid) depletion.

As an extrovert, the way we experience life is very different from the majority of other writers. Rather than writing out of careful observation and analysis of the world without, the extroverted writer builds his work out of a plethora of personal experiences. In the words of Anais Nin, we “write to taste life twice.” And in order to taste it twice, we jump at the chance to taste it at all. Any bottle, any flavor, any way. We want to live. Later, we'll write, but for now to live is the thing. It is easy to become wrapped up in tasting once. It is easy to choose to continue tasting, rather than to savor the flavors and mellow them into a literary vintage because, I don't know, we might miss the most savory experience yet if we've pulled away and stopped tasting for a time!

I can see many of your faces bent in puzzlement and I freely admit that the extroverted writer is somewhat of a unicorn. At the time of writing this article, of the seventeen writers who responded to the question on Facebook twelve were self-identified introverts and three were ambiverts. Only two of the self-proclaimed writers define themselves as thoroughly extroverted. I don't pretend to be apt with numbers and statistics, but it is fairly easy to see that only two out of seventeen in the surveyed writing population would identify as extroverts. When I look at it from the logical angle, it makes total sense: what sort of person has the most to say? He who has hitherto said the least. And who speaks in social situations less than your average, observing introvert? Introverts crave quiet, if not solitude, and such conditions are naturally more welcoming to the Muses who don't feel pushed out by the Life of the Party already abiding in the house. Introvert writers, are, in my opinion, the real MVPs.

Great, my fellow extroverts are thinking, is there any hope for me? I am here to tell you that, yes, thankfully there is hope – quite a lot of it. Here is a list of things the extroverted writer is very, very good at:

Writing authentic dialog – extroverts are experts at conversation. It only makes sense that we'd be able to translate this capacity into writing. In this respect, your chat 'em up is a lovely, pre-forged tool for hacking through the forest of traditional filler dialogue. You know where you're going with this.

Including vibrant details – one advantage of living on the go and tasting lots of life, is that you have much to give back. You walk into a new place and take everything in, scanning the environment for every possible conversation, adventure, and interaction and then systematically sampling them all. An introvert will go into the new place, pick a chair, sit down, and observe everything within that corner of the room. Use your “birds eye view” to pick out details the stationery observer misses and include them in your fiction.

Writing from personal stories and experiences – the more people you meet, the more places you go, the more first-hand reconnaissance you'll have as lumber for building your stories. When you pair your affability with question-asking, you'll often be rewarded with the gift of hearing peoples' stories...and I can affirm the fact that truth is often stranger than fiction. In addition to getting accounts from those you meet, you'll also be far more likely to meet with your own adventures than you would be at home on your Macbook, googling the effects of the Black Plague and what they mean for modernity.

Writing believable characters – though the extroverted writer might have to work harder to plumb the depths of human experience (after all, we tend to not think as sensitively as an introvert might), when we harness our considerable energy and brainpower, we are able to understand as thoroughly as any classic deep-thinker. In fact, our understanding of a person or character will often be very complex because the knowledge is paired with deep and often intuitive care for the person or character. Writing them, therefore, is a chance to interact a second time with someone of whom we are very fond and which extrovert will not absolutely pour out her soul for that?

Lending prose new paint – because extroverts are usually possessed of excellent people skills, we are good at gauging how our words will affect our readership and tailoring them to exact a particular reaction. We're accustomed to using this skill in daily life as we interact with people and it is therefore easy for the extroverted writer to foresee readers' reactions and curate a certain tone to court the projected reaction. I love nothing better than writing a piece in a particular voice for a particular reaction and hearing feedback from readers that affirms my ability to achieve the goal I had in mind. This ability is especially helpful in journalism, blogging, and non-fiction, as it can be hard for some personality types to state the facts from any angle but straight-on. Not so for the blendable, bendable eight-armed extrovert! Octipi, unite!

I hope that my fellow extroverted writers (if such there be) will find themselves refreshed and inspired by this list. We may not be as naturally equipped as the amazing introverts for the writers' life, but we also have a few super-powers of our own. When paired with determination and a daily hour sector'd off strictly for no-contact writing, the extrovert can overcome his native sociability and become the writer he has always wished to be. Then, when the word-count goal is met, it's back to hobnobbing with us. We have people to meet and places to see.

Lion-Pestered

One change I've already implemented into my writing strategy this year is to keep a journal. That way, even if schedules conspire against me being able to get in any actual writing time, I can still make sure I've written something. Another upside is that I get to find myself hilarious and occasionally make sense of life as a by-product. How do you keep a journal? For me, I've begun keeping mine as a sort of art-journal, lyrics-keeper, and first-person factual novel. So take that as you will. I find this format encourages the sort of fiction-creativity I don't get to practice if I'm not writing, while still serving as an outlet for my thoughts and mental-processing. Here, then, is a harmless extraction from a couple weeks ago:

(after entering the complete lyrics of Ex-Ambassadors' "Renegades")

January 6, 2016

I copied those lyrics at Cure Coffee this afternoon and yes, I was suitably ashamed of how many times I've been there since the new year began. It's a shocking lot. It's late -- nearly 11 -- but I find I'm not super sleepy yet and I've been lying in bed with my head skibbling from one thought to the next. Mama was in my room relating a story so she tucked me in -- SO LONG SINCE THAT HAPPENED -- but I wanted to write and anyway I'm hot on account of this plush blanket that seems to be woven of MAGMA or something, it's so pulsing with heat. I flicked on the closet light and presently I will bestir myself enough to turn on the fan. Notice my strong aversion to throwing off the covers? I like to "sniggle up," as Levi has it.

Today was my day off so I spent the AM tidying up the room and water-color sketching a pommelo for the blog, then caught a couple hours of wifi work at Starbucks. One of the hitherto cross-at-me baristas made a foam heart in my latte so I felt all kinds of undying affection for her. No, but she really meant to be nice just for me!

IS THIS REMORSE?

Then, when we got home (Anna'd gone out with me), Mama wanted to space out with us. We had "no money" of course (surprise!) so we realized with out membership the Norfolk Zoo is free, so yes: Mama, Anna, and I went to the zoo on a frigid day. We were rewarded with seeing all the usually somnolent big animals being active, though all the cute little ones were either asleep, depressed, or both. The elephants were behaving as if they'd got earbuds in, listening to a waltz, and I expect that's the last time I'll ever see them because apparently they're lonely and there are to be no more elephants at the zoo. 

I ask you! A zoo with no elephants???

And the lions were actually roaring! I confess, I never before realized how loud a lion's roar can be, and how unearthly sounding. It positively rattled the air and ground. We made our skins crawl deliciously by talking about if one got out, but one didn't so we left. There was hardly anyone else there besides us. Quite fun, actually.

Of course, being so frozen and lion-pestered as we were, coffee was necessary so AWAY TO CURE. I had already had a flat-white this AM so I ordered a pot of strawberry kiwi tea from Will, that interesting barista-man, and thus established that I'm not a dull, predictable girl who gets her almond-milk, skimmed latte each visit. Last time (I quote) I, "flouted all that advice -- I'll have a lavender mocha latte, please." And this time it was tea.

Take that, sir.

I also partook in the most wonderful charcuterie board and none of us knew what half the things were before tasting them and even after had only the vaguest notion of some but I think it was brie & fig-preserves, some salt & pepper cheese, some odorous, strong, lovely cheese, a ginger-balsamic reduction, strong mustard, dill pickle slices, proscioutto (sp?), and salami. And bread a'course.

Mama ordered a de-caff latte and Will brought over a caffeinated one with the PRETTIEST latte art. So he had to take it back and I felt shame but I saw him drink it so oh well. The second one had art just as pretty. I saw my Asian-friend man who studies, like every time I come in. But I've been 3 times in the last week and I live a full hour away so who's the real crazy here?

The store was playing the best vintage/swing/classics playlist so I left a note, knowing Will ( the only barista/waiter-on-duty) would see it.

Immediately after I felt so silly -- why did I do that? *shakes head at self* So silly. On the way back to the car (and Boteourt looked SO charming at sunset!) I popped into Hummingbird Macarons and got a pale blue Earl Grey Tea one but it didn't taste like tea at all -- got lost in the ganache. Still yummy. 

I was brave to go in there after the shop girl saw (and smiled at) me tripping on a loose brick and jolting to my balance again. Mad skills.

I am looking back on the first six days of 2016 so far and feeling that I've courted adventure pretty fiercely. I mean, really. I've done a lot. Most of it has been arranged around "Where is it possible to get a good latte?" but hey. (...even in Appomatox.)

I'm sleepy now. I have a coffee date tomorrow with a girl I haven't caught up with since August. More coffee.

What is life?

....what is my coffee bill?

Goodnight.

Wordless Puzzling

//Without words, you may deduce what I have been doing.//