Monday, August 31, 2009

chasing pages


- William Moulton Marston
pic copyright pareeerica @ flickr

I am the ultimate flip-flopper. Not in my politics, but in my writing projects.
Remember how I said I had an epiphany to write my Amirah Hassen novel as a part of a short story collection in order to be able to address all the different voices I wanted?
Well last night, I just HAD to come up with an incredible outline for the novel, with tons of great characters and subplots and themes....what's wrong with me?

I guess I don't have to choose between the two. I can still write a short story collection AND a novel. It's just going to take more time to finish either. Especially because I'm juggling my Zac Daniels story (psst:check out the other blog!) It's just so hard trying to figure which form is going to allow me to express myself better, which one is going to describe and entertain and connect more- the delicate short story or the grandiose, epic novel.

But I think with all the time I have between classes and in the mornings, it's good to have some kind of creative outlet depending on the mood I'm in. Or early in the morning like 4:30 am. Whatever:) Some writers say you have to stop thinking about writing as this oh so lovey, wonderful process and treat like work. Hard, frustrating, tearful work. I think the mentality of it is right, approaching it with punctuality and dedication. But if it's work, I'm not going to do it. I have enough of that for me already. I guess the emotions of love and hate are so intertwined, it's almost the same. I love writing and hate it. But the thought of finishing, of hearing my characters talk in my head when I'm walking to class or sitting in my room makes me want to keep going.

I feel bad for my roommate when I wake up and start typing away on my laptop. But I am not the kind of person who can remembers thoughts from the night before. I also cannot do that put a journal by your nightstand and write it down. I tried it and in the morning I read chicken scratch and loopy signatures. I guess turning on the light would help too....

I really want to have a decent amount of writing to show the writing club I'm joining (or hope to join. It better not be some exclusive club for english/creative writing majors grrrr.)

Now I honestly have something to look forward to after class. Having an awesome story to work on is like having a puppy or kitty waiting at home for you lol. Lame, but true. Unless that story starts acting up and making a mess and it won't leave me alone with all its problems.
Then I'll have to put it outside for awhile, let it feel lonely and sad and then come back in when it's ready to behave again.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

lunch is served-short story

So here's the short story I wrote for Sparknotes along with the introduction that MissMarm(the blogger who posts the winners) wrote :D

When you're writing a story, ask yourself, Have I really imagined this scene? Have I pictured it in my mind? Do I know how hot the room is, what the characters are wearing, what the air smells like, what time of day it is? Only if you do the imaginative work of visualizing each moment of your fiction can you write convincingly.

The writer who hasn't done this imaginative work writes sentences like "I have my coworker." Nothing wrong with those four words, but they don't do any work. They don't invite us into the story, and they don't suggest the writer knows what he's doing. The writer who HAS done this imaginative work writes sentences like "I have Mrs. Chen, the cashier lady who loves zebra nail tips." These words are earning their place on the page. They're showing us a vivid, specific character, and they're convincing us that the writer knows exactly what she's doing.

Zebra nail tips are just the beginning of this cafeteria tale. Enjoy!

Lunch is Served

My name is Zachariah Daniels and I have the greatest seat in our school cafeteria-behind the lunch counter of Express Munch Line. Yes, I am one of those student workers who gets free meals for working during lunch and simultaneously doesn't have to worry about whom to sit with. I have Mrs. Chen, the cashier lady who loves zebra nail tips.

On top of getting to serve the charming inhabitants of Ben Franklin High, I do it while wearing a stupid chef's hat, despite not actually cooking anything. But whatever. I stopped caring about what people think of me after the first month of freshman year—I'm a junior now. Everyone knows it's not what's on the outside that counts. It's what's on the inside. Seriously. I've found what people eat is much better reflection of who they are. If more of us paid careful attention to the lunch hour (that for some reason is scheduled three hours after breakfast), we would get to know each other much better.

I, for example, know a ridiculous amount of info about my fellow high school students just by checking out their lunch orders four out of five school days. (Fridays, I go to AV Club meetings.)

The bell rings and the cafeteria begins to fill with the buzzing sound of hundreds of conversations and rumbling stomachs and screeching girls. I pull on my saran wrap gloves, slap on my cream puff hat and prepare to serve.

My first customer is a scrawny boy, freshman I bet, who orders a footlong with the works, two bags of Doritos Nacho Cheese, a Dr. Pepper and a chocolate cookie. This kid is either overcome with joy of high school food or he iss certainly deprived of junk food at home. I want to break it to him that by week two he is going to despise the cafeteria food as much as gym, but his toothy smile is so refreshingly innocent, I simply hand him his food with a nod.

The next group jumps to the counter with smug faces that scream " We just cut in front of the whole line. What you gonna do 'bout it."

Nothing, of course. They've been line cutters since birth. I've no doubt when the nurses were scheduled to deliver in the next room, these wise guys forced their ways out of their moms early just to a pain.

As the dudes shout out their orders, I'm forced to pick up and put items back as one guy chastises them in questionable language that he can't afford to pay for all their crap. They laugh as if I'm some poor pawn in their game and take several more minutes wasting my time and the rest of the people in line. Their final order turns out to be fried chicken boxes and Gatorades. Greasy and neon-colored. And that's why they're such slimeballs.

Following them is Phil, who orders every carb and protein packed item we have. I noticed he's been recently trying to bulk up for wrestling. Plus, he's been trying to impress this girl, Shelby.

" Want a try this new granola bar?"

I hold it up over the glass. He grabs it and scans the nutrition facts.

"Sure."

He scoots to the cashier station. His unenthusiastic tone worries me. I wish he hung out with more encouraging athletes that didn't see their diet as a miserable punishment. But who am I kidding? I would sooner down a dozen donuts than a salad.

More students order lunch, nothing special. Which explains why I don't know anything about them. It's the people that like mustard and vinegar on their sandwiches like Victoria or nachos with ketchup and jalapenos like Mark that are worth remembering.

The next customer is my history teacher, Mr. Wahlberg. Instead of being like the normal teachers who collectively put in an order at Wally's Taco Stand and eat in the lounge, Mr. Wahlberg insists on "rubbing shoulders with his pupils" and "dining with the masses." There should be a rule against this.

" Zachariah, my main man," he says, putting his hand up for a high five.

"I touch food,sir."

" Right," he mutters. "So I'll have an iced tea... Uh, a cheeseburger and ... some Cheetos."

He acts like it's a tough choice, but he has the same order every day. The iced tea is his weak attempt at a caffeine source, the cheeseburger a soggy excuse for manliness and the Cheetos-so he can "look cool" licking orange fingers.

I glance at the clock and then she's standing in front of me. She stole my heart when she ordered a salami and swiss cheese sandwich, milk and Double-stuffed Oreos- my favorite snack. I've been taking Katie's order for over a year. She says she doesn't like bringing lunch because she enjoys the spontaneity of cafeteria food. Gosh I love her.

"Hi Katie," I say in my most suave manner.

"Hey Zac." She runs her fingers through her amber hair.

"So I got a great one for you today. How about a teriyaki chicken—"

" I'll have a water and some crackers,please," Katie interrupts.

I laugh.

"Sorry, we're out of the Nurse's Office Special. How about chow mein? Onion rings and relish?"

Katie sighs.

"I don't eat that stuff anymore."

Suddenly a ridiculously skinny girl strolls up.

"Helloo, we're waiting."

Katie eyes me nervously. I look at her, trying to bring her back to me with my stare.

"I'll get right on it," I say finally.

I open the fridge to get a bottle of water, grab a packet of crackers, then slam them on the counter.

"Enjoy," I say lamely.

As they link arms, I remember not to judge Katie by her new fake friend, but by my lunch philosophy. I'm sad to report my soulmate is barely holding on, floating on little salty lifeboats in the choppy waters of peer pressure. I wish I could save her, but from where I sit, I'm not close enough.

a summer whirlwind dies down


pic copyright Claudio.Ar (flickr)

It's been awhile since I've written anything, due to all the traveling and get togethers I've had this summer. So this is going to be a long post to make up for it.

I've also been reading a lot this summer which is soo nice for a change. I've read some great books including the House of Night series, The Interpreter of Maladies, The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane, The Last Olympian, and I'm currently reading Impossible.
As you can see, it's a nice mix between YA, children's and literary reads, which I'm trying to do. I want to broaden my viewpoints and influences in hopes that they will all help my writing.

After reading the Interpreter of Maladies, an amazing short story collection by Jhumpa Lahiri that chronicles the lives of Indian American immigrants and their families, I realized that I could do the same thing with my Muslim American characters. I was having such a hard time coming up with one plot and focus, because there are so many stories to tell that writing short stories solves that problem. It also breaks up the plot lines and allows me to write in pieces instead of a humongous novel, which at my age and attention span, is seriously hard to finish.

I feel bad for steering away from Ambrosia, but I think it's better to channel my energy and time into something I'm passionate about instead of waiting around and hitting dead ends with another story. I will get back to it eventually. I know that there are problems that some distance should solve. That's what usually happens.

I have ideas for 4 different short stories so far and they are all soo different that I'm excited to explore those sides of me. I want to do a bit of research too, so I can accurately depict the character's lives and not sound too stereotypical or melodramatic. I don't want to pity the Muslim characters, but I want to show the range in emotions and humanize their experiences to people who have never met or heard of them before.

Outside of that project, I found out that the ambrosia short story I wrote for 17 fiction contest eons ago didn't make it. I was supposed to hear something in August, but I found out that in the September issue that's out in stores now, they have the winning story. I am disappointed, because I really loved that story and felt that it was really special. I though that maybe it might have a chance at even making it as a runner up on their website, but nope. I'm anxious to read the winning story and compare. No hard feelings though. I have to get used to rejection:(

But what made me feel much better is the fact that another short story I wrote was chosen on Sparknotes Fiction Contest! The comments by readers so far are so amazing and positive and they say it's their favorite one so far. How's that to boost your confidence? I thought the story was really strange, considering it was from a guy's point of view and it takes place in a high school cafeteria, but I had so much fun telling this strange story that wasn't going to be big. I guess when I don't take myself too seriously, my stories take care of themselves and the humor and details spill out.

Writing is so strange, sometimes....

Well, I'm hoping I can still get my writing done when school starts in 2 weeks. I'm going to try again with the 17 fiction contest. It's good thing I have 3 more tries until I am no longer eligible haha. I also plan to write each short story in my new Muslim-American collection. We'll see how well my goals play out. It's a new school year, new experiences (dorming anyone?) and lots of new writing to do.

I love fresh starts:]