Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 50

#WRITELIKECRAZY

If you’re a fan of the writer Tayari Jones (and if you’re not, I highly recommend becoming one, because she is wonderful), you may have noticed on her blog that she is going to spend the month of August writing like crazy, and she’s invited other writers to join her—working at whatever pace and toward whatever goal works for them. Her goal’s to spend two hours a day writing.

My goal? Finish the revision of the second book.

Oh, I have other small goals too besides this one; I have an essay I need to finish, an application I need to submit. If I get those done, there’s also a story about a ten-foot-tall cat that I’ve been trying to get done for the better part of a year. But the book comes first.

First things first: preparing your space. You can see what mine looks like in the picture over to the right. Click through to see notes on what everything is (hint: that’s not vodka in the glass—yet). I don’t have to be at work until 3, so as soon as I’m done posting this, the laptop is closing and I’m picking up the pen. Hopefully, I’ll finish marking up the current chapter before lunch.

Got a goal? What’s yours? Share it in the comments or  over on Ms. Jones’s Facebook page. The more the merrier!

On the trail

The Katy Trail runs most of the way across Missouri. At 240 miles along the right-of-way of the former Missouri–Kansas–Texas Railroad, it’s the largest rails-to-trails project in the country.

The first time I rode along it was in 1990, not long after the first stretch of it opened near Columbia, Missouri, where I was at college. At the time I had to ride my bike along winding roads beyond the stretch of trail created on a spur of the MKT. Once I finally made it to the trail, I got a flat and ended up walking the rest of the way to Rocheport. Nowadays, the trail along the MKT spur connects to the Katy Trail near McBaine, and it’s a pretty easy, flat 18.5-mile ride between Columbia and Rocheport, where we stayed last weekend.

Normally, we take this trip in October with a lot of friends, but after skipping it last year and nearly freezing our tails off the year prior, we all thought it was a good idea to try going sometime warmer, maybe in the summer.

In hindsight, that may not have been the best idea.

Missouri’s officially been in a drought since, I believe, April, and it was evident on the trail. Even the invasive honeysuckle looked limp and dried out. The chalky trail dust clung to any exposed area of skin. Whenever we got out of the shade, it felt like Shake ‘n’ Bake.

It’s a bit cooler this weekend, but Monday it’s supposed to be back up to 101 here. That’s 38 in Centigrade but no matter what scale you use, it’s “Dang it’s hot.” Be smart out there, kids.

Hitchhike, bus, or Yellow Cab it

So, this past Friday I sold my car.

I think I may have mentioned that this was in the offing, but I had taken the day off, we were about to head out of town (more on that later), and I figured “Why not? I’ll go see how much it’s worth.”

In short, it was worth enough to sign the papers that day.

The car’s seven years old already, and for the next two years while I’m in graduate school, it would be spending most of that time sitting around not being used. Since I work about a mile from home, it wasn’t getting much use as it was, period. Whenever the weather cooperates, I ride my bike.

Except now I’ll be riding my bike regardless of what the weather decides to do. (If it rains, I suppose, I’ll leave the bike at home, opt for the golf umbrella, and walk instead—at the rate the Midwest drought is going, rain seems pretty darn unlikely. At least once a week, the clouds make promises they have no intention of keeping.

Anyway, his is the first time in 20 years I haven’t had a car, and I’m kind of looking forward to it. And admittedly, Mike still has his car (his commute is considerably longer than mine) so we’ll just have to plan our errands and grocery shopping a little more now. I don’t see that as a bad thing.

And the extra exercise certainly won’t hurt, that’s for sure.

Which one do you see in pictures?

When in doubt, crowd source.

So, recently I got a call for submissions from someone seeking an adaptable short story to use in a film production project. Naturally, this got me thinking. At the moment, I’ve got sixteen stories that have been published or will be soon. Which one do you think would make the best transition to film? Would it be the desperate housewife with fangs in “Maternal Instincts“? Or would it be the Gateway City gumshoe in “Murder on the Midway“? I think the strangers on a Martian Train from “Mount Olympus” would probably require too large a budget (not to mention an NC-17 rating), but the star-crossed dog walker and his client from “At the End of the Leash” would be much tamer (and lower budget).

I think I have an idea which one I might submit, but I figured I’d ask the crowd (all three of you): Which one would you pick?

Tonight’s special—a giveaway!

So, last week I got my contributors’ copies of The Dirty Diner, a collection of, shall we say, naughty stories revolving around restaurants and other eating establishments. My story, “The Key Ingredient,” is about a pastry chef wallowing in heartache by making bread pudding. Add a little magic, and strange things start happening to the people who eat it.

True confession time: I’ve never actually made bread pudding.

Oh, it’s probably not that hard, but the idea of knowing how to make this delectable (and high-calorie) sweet treat in the comfort of my own home is a recipe for plus-size pants and heartache of a different kind (that is to say, heart failure). Whenever we go out to eat, though, if bread pudding’s on the menu then it’s more than likely that I’ll order it. My favorite bread pudding is the caramel brioche pudding at Cyrano’s, a restaurant in Webster Groves, where they serve it with a cherry bourbon sauce. Not quite a bread pudding but in the same family is the sticky toffee pudding which they serve at the Schlafly Tap Room as well as the Schlafly Bottleworks. When we took my parents there, even the four of us couldn’t finish the serving. It’s a dense, dark cake in a caramel sauce with a mountain of clotted cream holding it down.

They’re both phenomenal. I won’t say they’re better than sex because, honestly, if you think something you eat is better than sex, you’re doing the sex wrong. However, I think they’re best enjoyed as a sometimes food, not one you have on a daily basis.

So! I have two copies of The Dirty Diner courtesy of my editor, the lovely Jerry Wheeler, and I want to give away one of them. Here’s the deal: between now and July 30, go to Goodreads and enter to win. (Not a Goodreads member? Join—it’s free—and add me as a friend as well.) The winner will be chosen at random.

Don’t wait, enter today! Operators are standing by—well, you know what I mean.

Class of 2014

Part of me sometimes wonders if I’ve lost my mind. You might think I’ve lost my mind too when I tell you what I’m doing.

I’ve sat in a quiet daze on more than one occasion since I got the letter from the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. I wasn’t expecting to get in at all. On more than one occasion I wondered why I’d applied in the first place. Off and on, I’ve been applying to graduate school since 2002. Nonetheless, with three letters of recommendation in hand, I sent off an application to UBC’s MFA in creative writing program late last year.

In late February, I got a letter from them indicating I’d been wait-listed, and I thought, “Well, that’s that.”

Then I got the second letter.

Ever since then, I’ve been oscillating wildly between giddy excitement and dead cold terror. Am I shooting my career (such as it is)  in the foot by taking off now and pursuing an advanced degree? Am I too old for graduate school?

Am I good enough?

Add to that the difficulty of being so far away from Mike for protracted periods of time. Yes, I’ll be home for Christmas and summer, and Mike will come up to visit me at least once a semester (he’s already planned his first trip), but in between there’ll be long stretches where we’ll have to make do with phone calls, email, and Skype. Granted, not too long ago we wouldn’t have had all of that. Still, it won’t be easy.

Nothing worthwhile ever is. Easy, I mean.

(Let’s not even talk about my beautiful, faithful companion of the last eleven years, who’s loping into his twilight years with a bit of arthritis and doddering absentmindedness and shut up he’s going to live forever.)

When I told my parents (because even at this age, I still have a desire for their approval; they’ve kept me from driving off the cliff on more than one occasion, after all), my dad said he could always picture me as a teacher. I think knowledge is at its best when it’s nurtured and shared, so I see his point. I’ll be a teaching assistant this spring. That’s daunting on a whole ‘nother level.

A writer I respect said, “An MFA program is a place you really meet yourself as a writer.” I’m wondering how that person will be different from the writer I am now. Ask me the same question in two years, and I have a feeling my answer will change.

More than anything, that’s what I’m really looking forward to: two years where I’m putting writing front and center.

So, hi. I’m a student again.

Steamy windows—and doors, and everything

Today is my niece Sam’s high school graduation. We’re all really looking forward to the outdoor event in the middle of the afternoon, when the temperature is supposed to hit 92 degrees. With 70 percent humidity.

I think it crossed everyone’s mind to just ditch it.

But, I’ve been tasked by Sam’s grandmother aka my mother dba She Who Must Be Obeyed to take photos of the event. I think by the time everything is over, I may jump into their pool and sink to the bottom for a while.

Where was I? Oh yeah, graduation. I was trying to remember my own high school graduation and realized I couldn’t recall much of anything about it. Granted, it was 24 years ago (hush) and a lot has happened since then. I don’t even remember where it was held—was it in the gym? Was it at the community college? Here’s all I remember: my friend David was the salutatorian, and he sounded really nervous giving his speech. Also, I forgot to put in an earring before I left the house, and my friend Leah gave me one of hers to wear. It was an ankh, maybe about an inch long. After that year, guys were not allowed to wear big earrings. Sexist bastards.

I was valedictorian, which just goes to show how much of an impact that makes on your future success—i.e., not a lot. I don’t even remember anything I said in my speech. I just hope I didn’t stutter.

I probably would have remembered commencement if the mayor had turned into a man-eating snake demon and the building got destroyed, but apparently that only happens in Sunnydale.

What about you? Do you remember your high school graduation?

Class of ’87

True confession time: I threw away all my high school yearbooks.

Actually, I may have mentioned that already. Oh well. Memory, the first thing to go. Right before… that other thing. I don’t know. I forget.

Where was I? Oh, right. Yearbooks. Homer’s post today about graduating from high school (and Becky’s ongoing Legacy Writing posts) made me realize today that I graduated from high school 25 years ago. My classmate Michael Stachura (hi, Mike!) also posted a photo on Facebook of the class of 2012 from my school, Lackey High School.

Oh yes, laugh if you must about the name. The school was named after a naval officer, Rear Admiral Henry E. Lackey—one of the yearbooks during my time even featured a spread of Admirable Lackey Rears. (No, I am not making that up and no, mine was not included in that feature. I never wore jeans that fit.) Anyway, the school was eventually renamed, I believe, Admiral Lackey High School, which makes it sound like a military academy but is still an improvement.

Anyway, Mike’s photo of the 2012 graduating class made me realize how little I remember of my graduation itself. At that point I was just dying to get the hell out of high school and the hell out of southern Maryland. I’ve only been back twice since then—once for the 10-year reunion and once in 2007 while visiting my friend Holly (who now lives in Baltimore, which is far away from southern Maryland in more ways than one). Honestly, I don’t miss it, but I do sometimes think about what I could have done better or differently at that time in my life. I end up realizing that if it hadn’t worked out the way it did, I wouldn’t be where I am now, which is not a bad place to be.

Honestly, how many threads can you pull out of the tapestry before the whole picture falls apart? Which, paradoxically, is kind of why I threw away  the yearbooks, to resist the temptation to dwell.

And besides, my hairstyles in the ’80s? Oh, honey.

Drafty

I thought I’d never finish this damn book.

Actually, I’m not even finished, but I did stick a fork in the first draft of book number two earlier this afternoon. That’s been my goal all weekend, and it’s been a moving target for a number of weeks. Before I went to the Saints & Sinners festival in New Orleans, it was “I want to finish this before we go.” Then it was “I’ll finish it on the ride down.” Which was followed by “I’ll finish it this week.”

Finally, “this week” got here.

It still needs a lot of work, but seeing the whole story put down in words is a tremendous relief. I got it out. Several times, it surprised me. I had the ending in mind all along, and once I got to the end, it changed. A lot.

Enough that I’m a bit nervous about it. It feels right, but I don’t know what readers will think. Thankfully, I’ve got a couple of beta readers who are good at giving feedback on these sorts of things.

Before I dive into the revision, though, I’m taking a day or two off. My “to be read” stack never gets shorter, and I decided earlier this week to start stacking them in order to be read. At the moment I’m a little over halfway through a novel I started reading last year: Retirement Plan by Martha Miller. I also picked up Rules of Civility upon recommendation by a bookseller at Left Bank Books, who set one aside when she found out how much I loved The Great Gatsby. I also have Saints & Sinners 2012: New Fiction from the Festival, which I picked up last weekend. On top of that, though, is a borrowed book, Catching Fire. I’m sure it’s only going to get worse.

So… what are you reading?

One Chapter to Go

As in, I am one chapter away from finishing the first draft of book 2. I can do this.

In fact, I can do this this weekend. There, I’ve said it. I’m throwing down the gauntlet. By the end of the day Monday (because this weekend is a holiday, for my non-U.S. friends and readers), I will be able to write the words THE END on this. And then go back to the beginning and start revising.

I would say Amazons is why I haven’t been blogging much these past few months, but that’s not exactly true. I haven’t been blogging because I’m utterly lazy sometimes. (Well, perhaps that’s only part of the story, but it is part of it.) I can’t even swear that once the draft is done, I’ll blog more. But—but!—I do have a couple things I want to blog about. Namely, I have some copies of anthologies my work has appeared in, and I’d like to give them away. (I’m taking a page from my friend ‘Nathan’s playbook there. By the way, he blogs lots more than I do, especially lately. Go read his posts about short story month.) I also have a few t-shirts I’d like to give away. No, not just any old t-shirts (I can’t imagine why anyone would want my old clothes; I don’t treat them well), but rather some t-shirts I had made when Detours came out. Here’s the aforementioned ‘Nathan holding one up for size.

Anyway, look for all that soon. Eventually. You know. But first, the first draft. Then I’ll be back.