Flash Fiction Chronicles

Finding time. Most of us have a life besides writing, and even if you don’t commute to some horrid little cubicle, drive a bus, work nights at the hospital, dig in the ground, or construct buildings—you still must walk the dog, get the kids to school, get to school yourself, or make friendly with neighbors and family.

My muse will keep me up nights, get me itchy when I’m out with friends or family, nag at me incessantly at times. All of which keeps me focused on writing, but it isn’t always practical to put your life on hold to write.

And so I attempt to put aside a time of day, for me it is mid to late afternoon. I also find the midnight hour alluring since the phone is mute and my mate is away many a night working the graveyard shift.

But mornings still come at precisely the same hour every day so that later bit of time can be a bother if you lose track touching up the short story or novel chapter a bit too late and the alarm sounds too soon after you’ve nodded off.

 Rule 1 is write every day. Sometimes as little as a sentence, or less! But do something every day! If you’ve been spirited away to some quiet restaurant take a moment when the others have run to the ladies, or gone to grab another round, or even have struck up a long conversation across the table, to grab a napkin and jot down a bit of something you can work up into a thought, paragraph, or chapter later on.

The other issue is when the muse abandons you, leaving you blocked up and frustrated as it spends time with a younger, more attractive writer, or whatever the muse does when it’s not being a nag. The best idea I believe is to go to some prompts, Even if you have zilch, you can write them down and save them for more inspirational moments which surely will return.

And lastly, don’t beat yourself up! The editors of all and sundry markets will be happy to do that for you. Your job is to write, practice it, hone it until it’s sharp and witty, and become your own biggest cheerleader. Put aside a chunk of time every day—and write, write, write!

DJ Barber writes stories, flash, poems, and novels. He was born in the northeast and lives in the northwest. When not writing he has a wife and two dogs that keep him busy.  He has been published online at Every Day Fiction, Moon Drenched Fables, Tales From the Moonlit Path, Big Pulp, Every Day Poets, and Everyday Weirdness.

In print, DJ has been published by Darker Intentions Press, Odyssey Magazine, has a short story in the anthology, Damned in Dixie, and has a flash in the Best of Every Day Fiction 2008.

DJ would like to remind everyone that even a broken clock is right twice a day.  DJ’s website is located at http://canyonsofgray.blogspot.com.

1.

I’m just sitting here on this futon and staring for hours out the window, so turn to one of the many quotations of the 1^st century Greek philosopher/statesman/dramatist Seneca (I was forced to memorize these as a child, as punishment for my relentless shoplifting). This one seems to address flash fiction: “To enjoy the present, without need for amusement and anxious dependence upon a construct—failing, rising, change—but to rest satisfied with The Spark, the flung knife of conflict, the eye contact and thrill in the after-burn quivering of the pelvis, the sound of river over stone, or car tire over an adulterous companion, the image of skin against white cotton curve, the image of a car antennae bending in the wind (or even clenched hand—snap!), which is sufficient, for he that is so wants nothing. The significant moments of mankind can be caught in etched stone, like a broken windshield, or legal summons. A quality story has seven dimensions, as you know. That souvenir Graceland coffee mug is my property. A wise man respects the Spark of Life, whatever it may be, without wishing for what he has not. I tried, Sarah!”

That may not be the exact quote; I’m paraphrasing here.

What the? A squirrel missing a front paw keeps trying to rifle my birdfeeder. You have to respect its perseverance, though I have greased the birdfeeder pole with sun block. The squirrel leaps up, grips with his three limbs, slides back down. Again. I bet he smells like coconut by now

2.

Find a story, a sparkle. A boy-crazed ruse. I mean essence. There are many ways. Here’s one of my little tricks (feel free to try this yourself, or use in the classroom): I drink a pint of schnapps (to open the doors of perception) and go people-watching at the world’s largest daycare/rehab center, Wal-Mart. Observe the ill and obese, the trodden and tired and pissed off and screaming and slouchy. Straight out of Bobbie Anne Mason, or maybe Chekhov (a fine flash fiction writer in his day). I stagger along, noting down a story for everyone. Pay attention, and everything hatches open like a chrysalis. This is your job as artist, to capture, to glow and craze.  See that little girl with a head like a canned ham? She has a sister who will form her own line of grooming products for dogs. She’ll probably run off with a salesman named Drew. On a sleeting Tuesday in November. Unfortunately, she will be eaten by a chow. That rotund woman over by the toilet paper works at the Mercedes plant. She cleans the robots that make the SUVS. Her dream is to save up enough money to purchase her very own SUV, a sickly bright yellow one (a superficial goal in my opinion). That will never happen because one day she overheats and explodes into confetti. See that ugly dude with a body like a tire iron? He resembles my brother. Wait, it is my brother.

“What are doing here?” I ask him. “I thought you were moving to Alaska.”

“Alaska?” he says. “No. That was just a figure of speech. The idea being that I was spiritually dead and shallow, and thought maybe a regional change might lead to a psychological improvement. It was all metaphorical. I’m not moving anywhere. I’m too scared to truly grow. How’s the separation going?”

“I don’t want to discuss the separation,” I tell him. Let’s move on.

3.

I wrote this next part while on Xanax and beer. (Long story, but I self-medicated early one morning. I thought I had a flight to catch and am terrified of flying. Ends up I missed the flight by a week or so, so now I just sat in my empty bedroom with this massive Xanax/Budweiser buzz. Sort of floating. Sort of single cloud.) So anyway, I opened Word and wrote this about flash fiction: Find something antediluvian. Find something fashionable. Visit a dentist’s office and record the amount of time you spend in the office waiting. Go to Russell Edson’s house (he lives in Cincinnati) and feed his dog, by hand. Wow, OK, throw in the word resonant. Listen, the man riding the motorcycle we will now call biker. That woman on the bike? Cyclist. Observe the making of their love. The child is an enigma. Don’t blame the TV, which I mean as the mirror. Put down the revolver-shopping and write. Nothing is happening? That’s OK. Most of the good stuff ends up off the page.

4.

Some things so small to be actually large.  Haiku or hydrogen atom, for example. Or take a phrase, an ordinary nothing phrase, three letters short (or long? Now you understand me): I do. These words can change your everyday reality from existential dread and alienation to a shared value and love of life. The exact inverse is likewise possible.

Throw in the term evoke an emotion. Oh hell, go ahead, let’s all say compression. Finally, add the only word in the English language with the letter sequence UFA. Rinse and repeat, repeat and rinse.

5.

Dad called and asked if I needed to borrow money. I screamed No, no, what I need is a story so moving no one will skip even a single word. That’s what I need, dad!! Jesus.

Close your eyes and press your index finger to the page, any word of your draft. Open your eyes. Why does that word matter?

(answer or delete)

6.

Treat an adverb the same you would a fruit bat in full daylight.

7.

When I was a child I ate pepperoni pizza for 41 days straight. On the 42^nd day I swore I’d never eat another slice of pepperoni for the rest of my life. That was 25 years ago. My point is to have more than one type of sentence. Length, arrangement, flow—change up something on the page.

I just noticed a water stain on my ceiling in the shape of a city burning. It looks like Memphis, either ancient Egypt, or Tennessee. Odd.

What exactly is a statesman? You know, Seneca was a big fan of self-restraint and personal discipline, but also really enjoyed having sex with married women. I’m just talking ancient history here. Factoids, glitters, questions of the mind—scatter them throughout your flash like thrown sapphires. Jerome Stern (fiction critic, flash master) labeled these as “intrigants.” Have a few.

8.

Leap for the pole.

Grapple, grip, flail your amputated heart and soul.

Slide right back down

Fall…

9.

You ever seen a squirrel exhibit self pity? Me neither. Best thing to do now is stop reading. Stop waiting on the phone to ring. Or for the bourbon and fried onions to stun you into sleep. Wake! Then wake up. Then manufacture.

(And so on.)

Sean Lovelace reads, writes, publishes flash and other fiction. In Diagram, Crazyhorse, wherever. His collection “How Some People Like Their Eggs” won the Third Annual Short Short Chapbook contest at Rose Metal Press, and will arrive in summer 2009. He teaches at Ball State University, but you can find him on the river, or in front of a platter of nachos.  Sean blogs at http://seanlovelace.com/.

Editor’s note: Sean’s story “Notes from Matrimony, # 9″, by the way, was selected as one of Wigleaf’s Top 50 (very) Short Fiction List.  Read it here: “Notes from Matrimony, # 9.”