Marian Allen's Blog, page 457

Go To Fatal Foodies

I'm rushing off to get my hairs cut, but I've posted a yummy peanut butter truffle recipe at Fatal Foodies. Go. Read. Fix. Eat. Enjoy.

WRITING PROMPT: Where does your main character get his/her hair cut? Write a scene where it happens, just for fun.

MA

Wagnerian Triumph!

Whenever I finish a story, a full Wagnerian orchestra breaks into music and I ride onstage on a big white horse wearing a helmet with wings on it (I'm wearing a helmet, I mean, not the horse) and I sing, "I finished a story! Finished a story! Finished a STOry! Ha-ha-ha-HAAAAA!"

I've been working on a (supposedly) humorous mystery called "Still Life With Peanut Butter", and I finally finished the rough draft. Mamie, who, along with her fiance's sister, does a webcam cooking show called The Kitchen Bitches, decides to promote the show by catering her own reception. She gets sponsorship from Jumbo All-Natural Peanut Butter, a local business trying to recover from a dead body having been found on its premises. During her pursuit of the sponsorship, she stumbles onto more than she expected.

I can't seem to outline a short story. I have to approach it like Sleeping Beauty's castle, with a machete. Hack through all those thorn bushes. Hack through! Then I find I've hacked through to a blank wall, and have to hack my way to an actual DOOR, duh. Then I have to get through the door and search the whole stupid palace and when I finally find her and wake her up, that's the triumph. But THEN she's a mess, you know, all covered in dust (no cobwebs or mouse poop, thankfully, since the spiders and mice have been asleep for 100 years, too, could be worse, right?). Rough draft.

The anthology I want to submit this to closes at the end of October, so I need to get beyond the rough draft stage, but finishing the rough is the hard part. Now is the Time of Wagerian Triumph! "I finished a story! Finished a story! Finished a STOry! Ha-ha-ha-HAAAAA!"

WRITING PROMPT: What is your main character's Time of Wagnerian Triumph outside of the extraordinary circumstances of your book? When he balances his checkbook? (That's another one for me.) When she parallel parks? (Again, me.)

MA

Sample Sunday – Excerpt – Brave Andrew

I'm thinking of putting together a couple more collections of my short stories. Like LONNIE, ME AND THE HOUND OF HELL and THE KING OF CHEROKEE CREEK, they would include some previously published stories and some new ones.

The following excerpt is from "Brave Andrew and the Crop-Haired Lass", a story I wrote when I was doing Locks of Love. I let my hair grow out three times and got it cut for Locks of Love. But my hair is old, unlike me (shut up!), and I don't do that anymore. This story was published online at the now-defunct E2K, a magazine that specialized in stories of 2000 words.

Brave Andrew and the Crop-Haired Lass (excerpt)

by Marian Allen

    Once upon a time, there was an accountant named Andrew Cashel, which is a funny enough name for an accountant, and you may be sure he heard many a joke on the subject. Andrew had clear and attainable career goals, but the desire of his heart was to find and marry his one true love. Unfortunately, although he could force himself to attend school and interact in class and to function satisfactorily at work, the young man suffered from severe social anxiety which made dating unpleasant, to say the least. By the time he reached the age of thirty, Andrew's career was right on track, and he had resigned himself to bachelorhood. He was not the man to believe in magic carpets, yet there was one in his future, as you will soon see.

    One day it chanced, when Andrew was sorting through the newspaper sections in search of the financial news, that his hand fell upon a K-Mart ad, and one of the items advertised was a "three-by-five-foot Persian-type area rug carpet, many patterns available."

    Andrew's principal reading had long been the newspaper, biographies, and Westerns, but his childhood library had consisted mainly of the works of another Andrew: Andrew Lang's rainbow of Fairy Books. The words "Persian-type area rug carpet" conjured up visions of barefoot princesses draped in layers of film and brocade, their knee-length hair spilling from under bejeweled turbans, their bare arms encircled with spirals of gold, marrying Serpent Kings and pointing accusatory fingers at cringing Evil Councilors and whatnot.

    Andrew prudently clipped the advertisement with its promised discount price, tucked it in his pocket, and drove to K-Mart. There, he not only found a rug of intricate design that couldn't have matched his living room colors better if it had been woven to order, he also found a clerk who told him the price would be reduced a final time the next day, and that he could bring his receipt and be given the difference in cash.

    That night, Andrew dreamed of a figure in a black cloak carrying a rolled-up area rug. The figure unrolled the rug at Andrew's feet, and a fortune in jewels scattered across his penny-loafers.

    It was with a shock of recognition, then, that he saw the woman in K-Mart's parking lot the next afternoon. She wore a black pants suit, and her waist-length hair veiled her lowered face as she rummaged in her purse. Under her arm, she carried a rolled-up rug the twin of his own. She pulled out a set of keys, unlocked her car door, heaved the rug into the back seat, and turned, tossing her head so that her hair flipped behind her shoulders.

    She looked up. Her eyes met Andrew's.

    She had, he thought, eyes like emeralds, lips like rubies, teeth like pearls, and her skin had the soft warm gleam of ivory. Every other part of her was probably like something else precious and beautiful. His heart turned over in his chest, which was not something you would want to have happen all that often.

    She laughed as she gathered her hair and clipped it with a gold doo-dah from her purse, fastening the black mass at the nape of her neck. "I'm getting it cut tomorrow after work. The Shearing Shed is having a cut-in for Locks of Love." As she spoke, she opened the driver's door of her car and slid in.

    Then she was gone, and Andrew had neither spoken nor moved nor breathed, from the moment he first saw her.

And it goes on from there.

This was actually a writing exercise I did for a class I was teaching. I was showing them how to do grab random things and make a story come together, and it happened.

WRITING PROMPT: Grab a few random things, put them together, and write a story arc.

MA

A Very Pleasant Traffic Jam

I drove over to Louisville yesterday. If you live around here, you know that the Sherman Minton Bridge between Indiana and Kentucky is closed, so all the traffic goes over the remaining bridges. We call it Shermageddon. At the time of day I went, I didn't figure traffic would be too bad.

I was mistaken.

Traffic was backed up for at least two miles approaching the bridge, not at a standstill, but stop-and-go-a-couple-of-yards.

But here's the thing. Nobody was honking. Nobody was making rude gestures or ugly faces. If somebody needed to switch lanes, people made room for them. At entrance ramps, people took turns moving forward.

The traffic moved, everybody got where they were going, we were all in the traffic jam together, not individually. We were a community.

It was one of the most beautiful experiences I've had in a long time. Not something I'd actively seek out, but I'm honestly glad to have been part of it. It made me think well of humanity in general and this area in particular.

WRITING PROMPT: Put a character in a major traffic jam.

MA

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Friday Recommends and the Very Naked Girl

That got your attention, didn't it? I think that was the intention of Judith Crist's publishers when they named this 1968 collection of her movie reviews THE PRIVATE EYE, THE COWBOY AND THE VERY NAKED GIRL. Since I was ~mumblety mumblety~ in 1968, I'm enjoying her takes on the State Of The Cinema at the time, and her impressions of then-new work, like the review of my beloved Ship of Fools which Miss Crist calls "Grand Hotel at Sea". Grand Hotel is her benchmark, and she thinks Ship of Fools comes close. Miss Crist, u maek MomGoth smiel.

Today marked the inaugural Interview feature (this one is with Sarah E. Glenn and Gwen Mayo) of That Book Place's web site. That Book Place is a terrific indie book store in Madison, Indiana. While Borders has been sinking like the Titanic, That Book Place and other indies have been developing and implementing successful business strategies. I'm proud and pleased to be a part of That Book Place's site.

If you're into dragons (and who isn't?), I recommend Dragon Jewelry Art. I'm sorry that, as of this writing (10-07-2011), artist Kayla Bell doesn't have pictures up of her dragon sketches. They're striking and charming. If she made a deck of playing cards, I would totally buy it. For money.

Baxter the House Lamb has his own photo blog! If you don't know Baxter, he's one of triplets born to a ewe in the care of Johanna Harness, shepherdess and writer extraordinaire. The other two lambs didn't make it, but Johanna took Baxter into the house for his final hours, where he surprised her by thriving. He has since moved back to the flock, but he's a House Lamb at heart.

I met Sean McCreary at WordCamp Louisville this month. He has a brand new baby web site that's coolio! The pages are not, as we Old Blog Hands say, fully populated, but there's lots of good stuff there, like how to protect your data and a review of the Genesis framework and child theme package as a way to build a customized WordPress web site. I'm like, "Huh?" But Sean knows what he's talking about. If I were afraid of poking around in the guts of WordPress but really really needed a unique site, I would hire Sean. (FTC full disclosure — I am not being paid for anything I recommend (except I am a CommentLuv Premium affiliate). Sean is a guy I met at WordCamp and I like his site.)

If you're in the area of Indiana/Kentucky around the Louisville, Kentucky area and you're looking for stained glass supplies, I think White Cloud Window is just about the last shop standing. We met Roni Cravens, the owner and artist, when Mom was still doing stained glass. Even if you don't work with stained glass, hop over and see these pictures of some of Roni's work. Mom and I stopped in the shop yesterday when we did the town, and had a fine time browsing and chatting, and Mom ended up buying something.

Have a great weekend! I'll be back tomorrow with something or other, and then a writing sample on Sample Sunday.

WRITING PROMPT: Write a review of your favorite movie. By what standards are you measuring it? Why do you like it? Where does it fall short?

MA

4077 Bouncy Castle

I mean Corydon. Out in the country. ~God, please don't strike me dead, I still have a dual passport as a City Gal.~

It may be because I just watched a rerun of M*A*S*H, but I saw this flu-shot clinic set up in the hospital parking lot, suicide is painless (aka the theme from M*A*S*H) ran through what passes for my brain. Truth be told, I enjoyed Richard Hooker's MASH novels (on which the movie and series were based) more than I did the movie or the series. Different animals, all three of them, actually. Hooker continued to write his novels as the series went down a different leg of the trousers of time (to quote Terry Pratchett). Anyway, la-la-la along with me courtesy of Best Care Anywhere.

And, even better, get a gander at this, taken of my back porch. Those ghastly rotting spheres are black walnuts from our trees, drying for the winter. The bright red plant is a blueberry bush. I'm like–Woah! I live where food comes from!

Dessert on the Hoof

Now, if you'll excuse me, Mom and I are scheduled to spend the day touring the town where we live. We're just taking the day to stroll around downtown and poke into the shops that have opened since the last time we "frogged around town", as Mom says they say in Corning, New York.

WRITING PROMPT: Have a song bring back a time/attitude/place–a whole host of associations–to a character.

MA

Farmers' Market Blues

Fall–or, if you aren't American, Autumn–has always been my favorite time of year. The weather turns cooler, especially at night, so the mornings and evenings are as crisp as apples, and the leaves do that color-changing trick they do.

Since Corydon started its farmers' market, though, fall is a little less wonderful. We have a garden of our own, but it isn't a subsistence garden. We grow enough of a few things to enjoy, but not enough to preserve (except for pickles and pesto, of course). The farmers' market is our delight. But October is the last month for it. After this, I'll have to fall back on mass-market food unless or until Corydon gets a Rainbow Blossom or Whole Foods. Without a car that runs on Mr. Fusion, I can't be running all over five counties to buy turnips.

So I'm singing the blues. I'm being accompanied today by Skip James like this.

FARMERS' MARKET BLUES

Went to the farmers' market.

Couldn't find nothin' there to eat.

Lord, I went to the farmers' market

An' there was nothin' there to eat;

Just a couple old potatoes

And a shriveled-up ol' dirty-tastin' beet.

Uh-huh–

I went to the farmers' market

An' it make me like to cry.

Say, I went down to that market

An' I had to sing the blues or cry.

Nobody had they booths up

'Cep' Miz Bruce and that Miller guy.

bl'blang blung

Be no more farmers' market

End of this month to next June.

Ha' mercy!

There be no more farmers' market

From November till way next June.

Be eatin' from the groc'ry

And singin' this sad ol' tune.

–copyright 2011, Marian Allen, tunesmith

WRITING PROMPT: Where does your main character buy his or her food?

MA

 

October Update – Better Late Than Never

I was busy, okay? Anyway, the new Monthly Hot Flash is up and ready to read. In honor of Halloween, it's creeeeepy.

The abfab Damyanti Biswas, who guested here and with whom I guested has reviewed FORCE OF HABIT. She liked it! ~Well, obviously, she liked it; otherwise, I wouldn't be telling you about it. My mamma didn't raise no fools.~

Since it's Tuesday, I'm posting at Fatal Foodies about a sandwich that's MUCH better than it sounds.

I've taken on another regular blog. I'll be posting author interviews at That Book Place on the 7th of every month. At least to begin with, these will be authors who've done signings at the store. The first one scheduled is this month, with Gwen Mayo and Sarah Glenn, who are doing a two-person signing there on October 15.

I'm telling you what–I'm all eat up with blogging, aren't I? If I had a nickel for every blog post I've written, I'd have a sizable chunk of monetization. You'd think I'd cash in on that, wouldn't you?

Question for you, my Sweet Little Baby Angels: Does it bug you, to see ads all over a writer's blog, or do you like it, or do you not notice them? If you've ad-ified your blog, what affiliate links or ad programs do you use?

WRITING PROMPT: Create a character who loves to blog. What does he/she blog about? Pick something out of the paper that doesn't particularly interest you and have the character post often and passionately about it.

MA

I Can Haz Earworm?

Mom and I went to see Carmen a week or so ago and a bit I had never paid much attention to before got stuck in my head. I'm going to pass it on before I'm reduced to singing my two go-to earworm replacements.

The only video I could find of it is this wonderful silent film with music over it. Remember Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard? "We had faces then."

You're welcome.

What is your go-to earworm exterminator?

WRITING PROMPT: How does your main character get rid of a song or bit of dialog or poetry that's stuck in his/her head?

Sample Sunday – Crocodiles

The full story appears in my short-story collection, LONNIE, ME AND THE HOUND OF HELL. Here's the beginning:

THE DAMNED PLACE WAS FULL OF CROCODILES

(excerpt)

by Marian Allen

The river teemed with them. They were the true, traditional Crocodylus niloticus, or Nile Crocodile, not the saltwater or estuarine variety (Crocodylus porosus) from India. I could see their narrow heads and elongated snouts, so graceful, so filled with sharp white teeth, the fourth lower teeth on the sides of each jaw gleaming in the fevered light. Some of the crocodiles were nearly invisible, only their eyes, nostrils, tails, and the armor on their massive backs showing above the water.

I was with Professor Campbell and Mr. Moyers, who might have been chatting in a studio for all the notice they took of the very sharp teeth very close by.

On the near bank, a dog with three heads barked at us in close harmony, like a '30's movie they never made, The Andrews Sisters Go to Hell. On the far bank, a ferryman stood up in his boat, thumbed his nose at us, and wiggled his backside. Childish.

There goes your tip, I called over to him. No pennies for you!

He stuck out his tongue and turned his back to us.

Now what are you going to do when you need a ride? Mr. Campbell asked. Golden boughs don't grow on trees, you know.

Moyers and I exchanged looks and made good one signs to each other.

A couple of the crocodiles got into a deep philosophical discussion with one another, and one of them didn't come back up.

They looked dangerous, and I said so.

Nothing to worry about. Mr. Campbell's eyes twinkled reassuringly. They're only literary crocodiles.

They must use waterproof ink.

Be Your Own Three-Hole Punch, said Moyers, and we all cracked up.

The biggest, scaliest, toothiest croc of them all—nine meters if he was an inch—clumped up on the bank and hissed.

I watched with interest, certain he would make for the three-headed dog. Instead, he lunged at me. In vain I protested that I was unfit for human sacrifice, being neither young nor a virgin, but he didn't seem particular. He began with my feet, and gulped until I was up to my ears in crocodile; then he gulped again, and I was gone.

I counted my blessings: First, it was lucky for both of us he started with my feet, because I get carsick. Of course, a crocodile is not a car. Cars are not on anyone's endangered list, and I never heard of anybody paying five hundred dollars for a purse and matching shoes made out of a Chevrolet skin. Still, I think it would have made me carsick if I had gone in head first.

In the second place, not only had I not been chewed to pieces—I didn't even have a scratch on me! The only way I could explain it was the double-capful of Avon's Skin-So-Soft(TM) I had put in my bath the night before. I made a note to write to Avon, to tell them of this new use for a fine product.

A third blessing: this crocodile, unlike the one in my NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, was not physiologically advanced. Its internal anatomy did not resemble that of a bird, with a four-chambered heart and a well-developed nervous system. This beast was, in fact, empty. Except, of course, for myself.

Mr. Campbell, you were right—at least this one is a literary crocodile. He's hollow, like the one in the Dostoevsky story, and he smells of gutta-percha, just like that Russian crocodile. (I don't know what gutta-percha is, but it sounds like something that would smell distinctly funky, which is how the inside of this crocodile smelled.)

You mean just like that German crocodile. Moyers likes to get things right.

No…. I could hear the indulgent humor as Campbell set us straight. You're both wrong. It was an African crocodile, exhibited in Russia by a German.

And he was right, of course.

There's plenty of room in here, just like in the story, and I wouldn't mind some company. It was lonely in there in the dark. There was very little light, except when the crocodile opened his mouth, and then I was nearly blinded.

Before they could move or answer, my host decided to take a powder. I shouted Whoa! but he lumbered and slithered and flopped until the sound of the three-headed dog and the cries of Good luck! faded behind.

WRITING PROMPT: A character finds himself or herself in an afterworld from mythology.

MA