Google Analytics

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

A New Year with Bigger Challenges

I just got done with a truly challenging project. We were trying to duplicate part of the look and feel of a physical book in an ebook, with elements that did not always translate well. The client had a very clear vision of what she wanted, and I wanted to give her exactly that or a close facsimile. It wasn’t always easy to get there. We did maintain a good working relationship and great communications—despite being half a world away.

I found a humble point where I had to recognize that my finesse is finite. Don’t misunderstand, I hustle for my clients and always try to find ways for them to be satisfied with the process and the final product. But at the same time, any project where I learn something is a success! After all, a limitation can turn into a new goal to learn more and become better. Getting a payday and a good review is worth the few frustrations.

Freelancing is how I remain relevant in the workforce, but it does cut into the writing life!

So far this year, I’ve started one new story. I have no idea how much time or energy (or indeed creativity) there will be for my own stories and books. Perhaps I’ll spend more time working on getting others published. Certainly any good fortune in terms of business is welcomed. I love writing, but I really enjoy having electricity, Internet, a roof over our heads, and food on a regular basis. We’ve gotten used to eating every day now!

The way I look at it, helping authors get their work published is still a learning experience to help my own publishing in the long run. And, who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and start making a serious dent at the total debt.

My biggest goal this year is to actively try to find the time (to learn, to read, to create).

I want to write too, but there is a parade of ducks that must be lined up in some sort of formation first… It is clear that we are living in interesting times and it is imperative that adjusting to the times we all expand in whatever ways are necessary to meet new roles we must fill to move everything forward.

This year will not be an echo of last year. This year will be better and bigger and brilliant! And if we keep the theme going, 2018 should be bookish in many splendorous ways. Of course, I can afford to remain even a little excited. I haven’t paid my taxes yet! There might be a fantastic story right there.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Write What You Know

The scene plays out in her mind almost on a loop. It’s not continuous or it would make her insane. No, little things trigger it and it starts all over again.

Someone she has not seen for a long time, someone who did not approve of her choices when she decided to assert her independence comes back into her life. Not by choice but mostly by circumstance.

Their distaste for her very survival is clear and palpable. It’s in the way they pronounce her name, adding a syllable by lengthening the first to almost a full five seconds of psychic venom. Hell it might as well be Parseltongue she can almost hear the hissing!

First, she left. For that alone, for thinking she could make it on her own, they want her punished in perpetuity. How dare she go against the grain, giving the other females highfalutin ideas about their self-worth and whatnot? Then, she let out a big secret and contradicted all known authorities—planting seeds of tolerance and acceptance where it was not her place to declare that love is love. No, that’s not so, because it is only so as decreed by those who know God-love is what God says it is and there are people who speak for God. And why would God tolerate a nasty little girl like her who claims God accepts aberrations as loveable? And finally, she wrote truths long buried. That she’d fictionalized them meant nothing because those who knew the truth recognized it, even as they denied it.

And so, face to face again, after so many years, she inched in carefully for an embrace. Instead, they throw her book at her feet.

“You read my book?” she says, unsure how to take the moment but already fearing the worst.

“I will never forgive you,” they say. Rancor carried in the breeze, the words becoming a distant melodic percussion, almost a prayer. No, a mantra! A fortified and extended mantra: “You will never [amount to anything, be anything without us, be beautiful, be smart enough, matter].”

Her childhood hurts come crashing down on her to remind her that death is a way out. Welcome death!  

“I will never forgive you,” they say and she feels a thousand stabs prickling her deeply inside her soul because she realizes there will never be a moment she won’t be at war with them unless she acquiesces. She is reminded why she left. She survived because she left, she remembers. She can live. She can breathe (but only apart from them). Living, existing, surviving, thriving—none of these depend on their forgiveness, because she never had it and she never will.

“Then don’t,” she says and starts writing another memoir.

Write what you know, they said. But all that does is piss the family off until you can never go home again!


I was reading a piece about writing and the author made the point that if you only write what you know there’d be no science fiction or poetry or horror. I took it a little more literally and thought that what you know would comprise mostly memoirs materials, and those of us who have used our personal truths know how hard it is sometimes to release them to the reading public. And then, sometimes even veiling these truths in fictionalized accounts—changing names and details to protect the innocent as well as the guilty—it does little to ease the guilt that you may be overstepping. And then you realize that even the nightmares it produces make for interesting writing . . . and as long as you can’t go back home anyways…

Write what you know, write what you imagine, write what brings you peace, write what makes you laugh, write, what makes you cry, write what you fear. Just write and don’t listen otherwise. Just write!

And if writing depends on using your experiences, remember that your recollection is yours. If anyone begs to differ, they can write their own damn book and sweat out the details and how to finesse the truth into palatable morsels that readers can digest.

I take your disdain and double down with a piece of crazy Mexican music. 

Monday, October 23, 2017

Terror is Here and it is Us

Does art imitate life? If it does, can we expect darker stories in the books being published in the near future? Or does art make us strive for better, and thus fantasy is likely to explode in every genre and category because we desperately need escape? Or will life infect fantasy and bring more mashups like Nazi zombies?

Our current reality includes an interesting shift in crime in the last couple of years, but especially in the last year, where assailants (mostly male) either randomly attack, rape, or mug victims by striking them hard enough to knock them down.

The pure anger fueling the action is terrifying. The randomness makes it terroristic. Victims range from men to women of all ages, color and ethnicities, age, sexuality… I don’t think it matters. And there is nothing sacred: Clergy, elderly, disabled. They all get hit with equal hostility.

There is power in striking another down with enough force to maim and possibly kill, to feel their bones break under the force of contact. But I suspect that this new crime trend may have more to do with accumulating felonies. A good punch doesn’t score as high in the criminal justice system as assault with a deadly weapon.

This doesn’t make the incidences any less horrid or less terrifying. They happen at all times of day and night, in public places (train stations, in restaurants, in the street), inside residential buildings, in urban as well as borderline suburban areas.

You never know where or from whom the attack will come.

So I listened with a non-committal face, with no trace or tick that would betray my queasiness or my broken heart that the horror has probably reached us in the mythical borough (we were never crime-free in Brooklyn, but we have been pretty shielded from it in our little corner for almost 30 years now).

Mom told me how she went to buy the Sunday papers and noticed a young man in a leather jacket outside the supermarket. She went in and picked up a couple of staples that'd just gone on sale. She noticed him again after she’d cross the street to make a stop at a green grocer a block away. The third time she spotted him; she slowed down and stopped abruptly. He stopped too and began a pretend conversation on his phone.

She was almost home but now had to consider whether she wanted to try to outrun him or fight him, if he tried to attack her. She backtracked half a block, crossed the street again and stuck her face in the biker bar.

“Excuse me,” she announced, “I think I need some help.”

The customers are all local and so more than a few recognized her.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” the bartender asked.

She explained her suspicions, and as she expected, the young man, had remained across the street, still watching her.

One of the bikers said, “Alright, gimme the bat!” and walked out into the street resembling a bigger and taller Negan, with three others following him out to go have a word with the young man—who suddenly decided he needed to be someplace else, and stepped it up quickly and out of arm’s reach.  

Mom made it home without the need of a protective biker escort, but she was nervous enough as she told me the story. She tried to sound nonchalant but the truth is neither of us can or will pass the moment off as blasé.

We are living the origin days for Thunderdome… Perhaps it is the right time to start writing revenge porn where the little guy can still win a battle or two with some modicum of cleverness because I am afraid we’re losing the coming war.

Forget the zombie apocalypse, the criminally poor will get us all first—and the label will fold onto itself as we all become equally unrich. Happy Halloween, suckers and losers all!

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Finish What You Start

The last couple of years have been trying for a good number of us for a variety of reasons; not the least of which seems to be that the world is upside down and insanity rules our world. It’s hard to maintain your head clear under the circumstances.

My biggest worry was that I’d lost my ability to create. But I was churning out story ideas and creating a portfolio of projects for the future. Still, there was a growing concern that as that portfolio grew no finished work materialized.

Was I unable to put “The End” to anything? I know I can finish a story, a collection of stories, novellas, memoirs, cookbooks. I remember finishing books. And it felt so good! Nothing replaces that feeling you get when you finish a writing project. I sometimes think writers write chasing that feeling, like addicts chasing a high.

I finished two stories for the final infidelity collection, He Done Her Wrong, and one was relatively decent (for having undergone no rewrites yet). I tested its mettle. The beta readers responded in a mostly positive manner and guided a few changes, necessary for clarity. Once I got that done, an improved ending suggested itself.

While there is still feedback due, and we shall see if they agree with the rest of the panel; I am done with that story and confident it will make the final manuscript.

The real problem is me, of course. I have lost focus and let my discipline trail off. I answer to no one, but right now I am not even answering to myself. It’s total anarchy in my head! And while the freedom to create is a good component in the creative process, so is a work ethic.

And even as it is fascinating to observe the craziness that happens daily in our world (from the sublime to hilarious to the truly horrifying), unless it’s research (YEAH, RIGHT!) it does nothing for productivity. You can promise yourself to do better, but you’d be lying to yourself. It’d be more effective to create deadlines and serious consequences for missing them.

The cost has to be painful enough to leave psychological scars otherwise you’ll never learn the lesson. I read that a writer pledged to give a substantial donation to a political candidate he hated if he missed a deadline, and gave the signed check to someone else to send it out – making the consequence very real because once he missed the deadline, there was no going back!

Like I said, I now have two stories finished. Surprisingly they both involve food, though in different kinds of engagement. I haven’t decided how many stories in total the last collection will have, but as I went through the story ideas for the collection, I realized that there is a third story involving food (one of the main characters is a chef).

Suddenly, for a woman who a month ago wasn’t sure whether she’d lost the ability to put two sentences together, more creative ideas continue to come to me. There’s a book of food stories somewhere in me… “A Recipe for Disaster” lends itself to consideration, and surely my friends can come up with even better ideas (complete with puns intended).

Ah, but first, to finish what I started and think of consequences for my own inaction.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Saved by Taco Truck

I’ve been having an interesting time with my writing. I have about two dozen short stories started but need closing. For days, and in some cases weeks, I have produced nothing. I have written, but more often than not, I’d write, reread, and delete in disgust and utter disappointment.

No writer likes to talk about her writer's block, but then I am not sure that's what is happening here. I think that a lot of what is happening around me is affecting the writing in ways I did not expect. Writing feels almost frivolous some days. My heart is rejecting the short stories I am working on…

Stephen King wrote a decade ago that, “[t]here may be a stretch of weeks or months when it [writing] doesn't come at all; this is called writer's block. Some writers in the throes of writer's block think their muses have died, but I don't think that happens often; I think what happens is that the writers themselves sow the edges of their clearing with poison bait to keep their muses away, often without knowing they are doing it.”

It is possible that I have poisoned the champagne fountain I keep in the back of my head for the Muse, and she doesn’t want to hang out (I wouldn’t either if my hostess tried to poison me!). I have, in effect, pushed creativity aside because I cannot throw myself wholeheartedly into the process right now – there are extenuating circumstances that are screaming louder than art can.

Sometimes you get bombarded by things that are unrelated to your work and still it affects your ability to create – because it distracts and detracts, because it maximizes stress and minimizes your love for creativity… The reasons are many and it doesn’t matter whether it is justifiable or not, as long as you pick up a pen or tap on a keyboard and cannot come up with true words.

I think I am a little offended that my writer’s block is limited and without nuance. 

When playwright Lillian Hellman lay dying, her writing partner came to her side. Before he saw her, he was informed that Ms. Hellman was in agony. She was blind, half paralyzed, had suffered several strokes and was snappy--just as liable to go into a rage or crying fits, she could not walk or eat or sleep and she could barely find a sitting position that did not cause her discomfort and great pain.

He entered the room and greeted his friend, “How are you doing, Lillian?”

She replied, “Not good…”

He resigned himself to listen to his friend’s endless list of complaints, and said, “What’s the matter?”

Lillian Hellman’s reply was epic and I have never forgotten it: “This is the worst writer’s block I’ve ever had.”

I figure if you are doing better than Lillian Hellman in her deathbed, then you have no right to bitch about it.

And as it turns out, an idea for a quick scene turned into the core of a story. I wrote! I wrote and wrote. I didn’t self-censor. I did not delete. I was not dissatisfied. No block here, then, just life (bizarre as it is these days) getting in my way.

All I can tell you is that a taco truck saved the day (just not in the way you think!).

Monday, July 24, 2017

The Summer of Meh

Knowing summer might slow down in many aspects I couldn’t control, I accelerated work production around here in the spring. That gave me a comfortable cushion to operate with just in case no projects came my way in the off season.

In fact, I thought that would make for the perfect opportunity to start working on my own projects – rather than focusing on stuff for clients.

I cleaned up the coding on my e-books and made the EPUBS flow a little more elegantly. I’d started the process and got interrupted when I landed in the hospital. In my mind I thought the task had been completed.

In the meantime, I am translating some short stories and rewriting some work for a new compilation.

The translation is slow going because some of it was meant poetically and doesn’t quite translate literally. In fact, I may have to drop a couple of stories from the project (perhaps try to add new work to make up for it). Some names were chosen carefully, almost as clues for nerds, but the Spanish translation almost begs not to go that way because the gimmick loses its cleverness. But I also find that I keep using a very rudimentary Spanish to retell the stories, stripped of colloquialism or flavor, and I am displeased with its blandness. This is entirely my fault as I have been neglecting my other mother tongue.

The rewrites are something else. I can’t complain that my muse is silent, but I am also not pleased by her morning-after pronouncements. Rereading the work, it feels as if my muse is sneaking out of my head when I fall asleep, partying like it’s 1999, and then handing me the worst hung-over ideas!

The other day I wrote for hours and left the document open. I napped. I made a salad and ate. I watched the news and shook my head a lot. I reread the work I did and closed the document. When it asked if I’d like to save it, I clicked no and let it go where bad documents go to die. Then I cleared my memory and turned the laptop off to make sure it would never again pop up as a temporary file archive.

At least I got one thing done! Perhaps I ought to look at it as a deserved vacation from everything.

I also wanted to learn a couple new tricks but it’s hard to learn when all I want is to fit inside my freezer (and not just because the ice cream lives there). Nobody writes songs, poems, or even worthy blog entries about summers like this. I officially proclaim it the Summer of Meh.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Write What Scares You

Smart cats, writers, teachers, coaches will advise you to write what scares you. Much like acting, writing scared is about the courage to dig deep and the choices you make to portray that fear.
For a long time I considered this question. Was abandonment my thing? I tried to write it but reached no emotional climax, no closure… All I was sure of was my own apathy.

Flying bugs scare me, but that fear is temporary and you can end it in one of two ways: you get stung or you kill the bug. Not much creativity needed to complete that journey.

I considered fears I’ve had or experienced since childhood – the ones that left scars. For a long time I thought I was afraid of death and dying, but it was far more horrific than the existential nature of it.

When I moved to my grandparents’ home in Puerto Rico, there was a period when there were several deaths. To be fair, a good portion of the homeowners were retirees, so it was natural that some would die off. I even recall that, in one case, there was a terminal patient and a mercy killing--my very first murder/suicide. 
My grandmother never quite took the time to explain what was happening, and made death akin to a long sleep that we never wake from (but I was a toddler and never was not in my vocabulary). Try explaining zero to a two year old and see how long you can keep your own sanity! She did not think it was something I’d be too curious about and once suggested that an old fellow I’d befriended – with a granddaughter around my own age – had died from swallowing gum (a white lie she invented to give me an incentive to stop swallowing gum).

Funerals and the novenas involved were a social event, and not having the benefit of a babysitter, she took me with her to each one. I think I had seen or been in a room with a cadaver more than I had seen television by the time I started school.

Death did not scare me. A big sleep was not scary. The problem was some throwaway comment Mami made when I asked where the dead went to sleep – because I noticed that they were taken away after the prayers were over.

I had not seen nor been witness to burials, so the question remained what was done with the remains. Mami did not think I could handle the idea of burial, so she told me they closed the casket and threw them in the ocean.

And that’s where the fear began.

I began to have nightmares about being trapped in a glass box, but the glass was opaque and could not see out--not clearly, just patterns of light. I knew the swaying of the waves and the feeling on the box sinking. I also knew what drowning felt like, the panic and horror of gasping for air and finding the dreaded wetness wouldn't allow it. All this I experienced in dreams but could not articulate clearly so she'd understand it was her that brought me to those nightly terrors. Soon enough, even that was muted in my head. It evolved.

Of course, I have avoided closed, cramped spaces since. I grew up in an island and do not swim because I always had a healthy respect for the water and its ability to make me sleep long…

But that never stopped me from doing death-defying things in my teens and twenties. Nor have I obsessed with death and dying as the decades piled on me.

So, can I write about my fear of death? It turns out, other than one instance in 2001 when I was struck with a sudden existential angst that gripped and shook me deeply for almost two minutes, I rarely think about it. I accept its inevitability and when the probability of it arriving sooner rather later comes up, it doesn’t stir me.

That leaves me with snippets of emotional context for a scene or two in a larger story, but not the meaty idea of writing what scares me as the foundation to some foreshadowed emotional catharsis.

So I began searching for things that scare most normal humans: Darkness. Change. Aging. Silence. Poverty. Failure. Rejection. War. Pestilence. Most of these I can surpass and have. I have not added political fears because I firmly believe those can be overcome, even in the face of blatant corruption. I fear not lies for truth always finds a way to shine brightly.
Then it hit me! Fear is losing control. I define control simply as having my wits. Control means mastery of language and memory. The enemy then becomes dementia.

I have the story cued, waiting for me to tackle it. Every time I try, it swallows me whole and leaves me floundering on the side of a surreal road in my head. At least for today, I lack the courage to write scared. (On the other hand, the anxiety just thinking about it should make for interesting nuance when I am ready to let the words flow.)

To be continued...