Again With the Critiques

In my efforts to improve my writing and motivate myself, I joined a writing group. Most of the other members of the group give me helpful advice and commentary. As with any group, however, some of the participants fail to provide any useful information. This causes me to critique them in my head. I enjoy critiquing the people who critique me. Such behavior actually makes me aware of my own faults as an amateur editor. Though I have listed some of these before on my online journal, I want to list a few of my own thoughts for those participating in such a group.

1. No matter how much you want to say it, anything that equates to "I would never write this, so it isn't any good" is not useful. The other members of the group offer the best advice that they can give. You should do the same. If you begin reading each submission with an open mind, you might be surprised to find that other genres are just as interesting as the one you prefer.

2. In a similar vein, always telling someone that their writing is almost perfect because they share your genre doesn't help them. Do you really think it helps someone to tell them you love the story but not tell them what they can improve? We all have room for improvement.

3. Learn from the people in your group. Observe what techniques they use to critique your work and emulate those methods that help you. Don't be afraid to ask them for input on how you can offer better advice. For instance, poetry proves complicated for me because it is so subjective, so I tend to ask the poets what kind of feedback they desire.

4. If you don't plan to take the advice of your fellow writers, don't waste their time. At least one member of our group blows off the majority of what other people say to him. This doesn't help him grow. Conversely, I have seen some amazing improvement of one of the other members of our group because he actually applies the advice he receives.

Anyway, those are my beefs for today. Use them to make a hamburger if you wish.

You Be the Teacher

We all remember those themes we were given in English class. Our teacher would tell us to write about our favorite toy, our best friend, our summer vacation or what we want to be when we grow up. I feel I should give all my faithful readers a chance to challenge my creativity. Can I really make any topic worth reading about? I doubt it. For instance, who would want to read a story about fungal infection? Or selling a house? (Sadly, I have at least one friend who insists that this was a major theme of a story I was writing.) I am willing to give all and any ideas a fair chance inside my mind, so give me a topic and prepare to be entertained.

Did I Dream That?

This post may disappoint. It may also never be read. Without loyal followers who are willing to critique, laud, and question, does a blog such as this really have a purpose?

I ask myself that question on a regular basis. In fact, that question taunts me more than the nagging realization that I need to post here more often. So I put it to you again, dear readers, what will bring you back here?

I should assure you before you answer that I really am writing when I am not posting here. I just want to know how fine-tuned a piece must be before you'll consent to read and enjoy it. I also need to stop getting awesome story ideas when I am trying to put my brain in sleep mode, mainly because I tend to dream that I write these ideas down, only to find in the morning that I have neglected to do so.

So here are my questions. Answer them in the comments:

1. What do you hope to see here?
2. Are you afraid to start reading and appreciating because you're afraid you'll be let down by a sudden lack of posts? (I promise more posts when I have more readers. Just click the "Join this site" button and dare me to post more.)
3. How can I motivate you to keep coming back and bring your friends?
4. Of the stories already posted, which did you like best? Why?

Thanks so much for making this a blog to remember. Without you, there is no blog!

Dance Into Darkness

This is another of my flash fictions. I even edited it before posting, so enjoy!

With dark hair and even darker eyes, she invites you to dance in darkness. You know such a dance offers so much more. Dark eyes glitter like onyx as dark lashes sweep down to cover them not once but twice. Take that hand, pull her close, hold her until the dance is done. How can she feel so warm? Cheeks catch fire. Hands ache to touch her more intimately. Your lips long to feel hers. You want to taste her, to see if she tastes like sugar.

Your hands move slowly. She does not resist. She smiles. The coquet laughs as she throws her head back. Her head tilts forward enough for your eyes to meet. Two pairs of lips meet and are locked together. Surely, she
should have stopped this by now. Ah, but the power is in your strong hands. Entrapment is caused by such fascination that your face is always before her. You inhale sharply as her hands caress your cheeks, drawing you deeper into the darkness.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice interrupts the visions before your eyes. Shame pervades the darkness. Light comes through. Eyes blink and then her face looms out of the darkness suffused with light. How can one face such concern? Reality compares harshly to the fantasy. Honesty can do no good here.

"I'm fine. Just fine."

Surely she believes. Yes, she believes. Or she doesn't and says nothing as her heart bleeds. It doesn't matter. The light fades out and darkness beckons again.

Any Excuse Will Do

In a fiction blog, any excuse for not having a new entry will do, won’t it?

As I sat down to write a tale to make the world weep, erratic knocking interrupted my thoughts. The story fled my mind. I rose to see what was causing such a commotion at such an early hour. I opened the door to find no one on the other side of the threshold. I leaned out to look up and down the narrow porch. I even peered at the bushes at the end of the driveway, but they were too scraggly to hide even the thinnest slip of a prankster.

I slowly regained solid ground and paused to look out the door a few seconds longer before I pulled it closed and slipped the deadbolt into place. The knocking resumed. Now it vibrated the floorboards under my feet. I looked down, bewildered. Dust bounced along the floor as the knocking continued. With swift strides, I crossed the floor to the door to the basement.

I paused in the doorway. The dank smell of mold wafted out to deter me, but curiosity beckoned me onward. I cringed as the first step creaked but found the courage to continue down each creaking step. The light from the single bare bulb blinded me as I flipped the switch on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the barren room. Only cobwebs and a few boxes against one wall broke the monotony of chipped concrete and bare rafters. In fact, no way existed for someone to bang on the ceiling. Not even a long-handled broom had been tossed aside in this room of stale air and neglect.

Satisfied, I turned back to the stairs. I took a deep breath before switching off the light. My footsteps pounded on the stairs to announce my return to the living room, yet I still heard a soft giggle as I stepped out into the brightness of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the bright light, the lights went out. I turned toward the light switch. A movement caught my eyes for a second before it disappeared. My attention was drawn to my desk by repetitive clicking.

A tiny little figure crouched over my keyboard. In the glow of the monitor, her frilly skirt sparkled. I could make out tiny flowers twined in the two braids that held her hair back from her thin face. She looked up at me long enough to smile devilishly as she clicked the delete button. Then she was soaring across the room on gossamer wings. I tried to catch her but she managed to slip through a window left ajar to allow the cool night air to wash over me as I worked.

I sat down at my computer, clicking frantically. She had successfully deleted all of my most recent works of fiction. I did not know why. I probably never will, but I knew my readers would not accept such an excuse. What can I do but slave over a better piece for next week?

Apple of His Eye

I mentioned that I had another take on the previous writing assignment. Enjoy!

Members of the plant kingdom were never meant to understand those of the animal kingdom. The flow of communication doesn’t work any better from the opposite side. The woman at the sink has certainly never asked if I like the bowl that I have been sitting in for the past couple of days. I’d surprise her if I thanked her for picking one of clear glass so I can observe the world around me. But I can’t say anything to her. I am only capable of observing her.

Warm golden hair tumbles past thin shoulders to her waist. Glistening slender fingers pause in midair as she tosses those golden locks back from her face. She begins to cry again. The tears never end, so what brings them on remains mysterious. The most peculiar aspect of the tears is how she smiles, shakes her head, and rests at least one hand on her belly every time one of these fits takes her. She does this now, paying no heed to the fact that dishwater still covers her hands.

Even if we don’t understand each other, it comforts me to know that someone understands her pain. The clearest case of cause and effect is that every time her sobs reach a point where she gasps for air, her husband comes running. Sometimes, the carpet on the stairs muffles his footsteps. Other times, each footfall resounds through the house as he races across the hardwood floor.

This time he responds from the direction of the living room. I bounce against the glass as his footsteps beat upon the floor. He pays no attention to the soap bubbles on her hands or the green and white plaid kitchen towel over her shoulder. He pulls her into his arms. She cuddles into his embrace and almost disappears in the circle of his muscular arms.

“Shh, darling. Everything is okay,” his voice soothes her.

“I’m sorry,” her words are muffled by his arm, “I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

“The doctor said it’s normal. It’ll be okay.”

“But I don’t want you to think you make me unhappy.”

“I know. I know,” his fingers gently run through her hair.

They remain entwined like this for some time without speaking. They communicate now through touch. Occasionally, she kisses his chest. He responds by leaning in to kiss the top of her head. Her sobs fade away.

“Better now?” He pulls her away gently so he can look into her tear-streaked face.

She nods gently and forces a smile, “Yes, go back to work. As you said, the doctor said it is normal.”

“You’re sure?” His hands loosen their grip on her shoulder.

“Yes, love,” her toes straighten as she stretches up to kiss him on the cheek.

He smiles. Two sets of hands slowly slide back down to their respective sides. They gaze at each other for a moment more. Then the spell breaks. She turns back to the mountain of dishes in the sink. Two wet handprints cause the shirt to cling to his back as he turns away. She hums softly as she finishes the dishes.

She finishes drying her hands on the kitchen towel over her shoulder before reaching toward me. Slender fingers circle around my round form. Warm breath moistens my skin. She rubs me vigorously with the damp towel before biting into my skin. The air rushes in to my exposed flesh. A part of me is slowly merging with her as she chews noisily. In two places at once, I finally feel that I have offered her comfort. Members of the plant kingdom can comfort those of the animal kingdom after all.

Apple of Her Eye

I promised an entry today, and an entry will be had. This was another story idea that I received in my inbox. After writing this little snippet, I had another idea as to how to address the topic, so I may be revisiting it next week. So here is one way to address the world through the "eyes" of an apple.

I could have become something to be remembered. When you grow to fruition on a small farm, you expect to make more of your life. You expect to be found. You want to be appreciated for your uniqueness. You desire an existence that will leave a mark on the world. Sadly, some of us are not equipped to make our own dreams come true.

My luck placed me in such a situation. Bad luck cannot be fought nor conquered. It must be accepted. It must be obeyed. Whether you realize it or not, you are always obeying your luck whether it is good or bad. I wish I could tell this to the woman who placed me in this bowl. I am the only one of my kind, forced to share my accommodations with a bunch of long skinny guys with thick yellow skins and a couple of perfectly round midgets with bumpy orange flesh. She really should have known I deserved better companions than this, but she didn’t.

She doesn’t even remember I am here. Most of the time, she seems more interested in what is behind the white doors of the large plastic box on the other side of the room. Creams and meats always have more appeal than apples and oranges. She’ll regret it someday, but I shall not be here to see her regret.

I take solace in knowing the duration of this torture will be short. My rosy flesh already softens as I ponder my surroundings. The juicy white flesh underneath begins to brown. My flavor will never be enjoyed. My last moments will probably be spent rotting away in a black plastic bag, but I will know that I could have been so much more if I had attracted the attention of someone who really saw me as the apple of her eye.

As you can see, this apple doesn't have the best view of the world around him. See you next week.