G.P. Ching's Blog, page 23

#Fridayflash - Lucky Noodle

Hsiu Mei watched the noodle vendor outside her shop window list precariously in the wind.  She couldn't remember a time when he wasn't standing on her sidewalk, in rain, snow or sleet but this was unreasonable.  At half past noon, the storm had painted the sky black as night and she was beginning to wonder if she might be witnessing the beginnings of Wuhan City's first tornado.

"Jia," she called out the door, "Come into the shop until the weather dies down."  Even under the protection of her canopy, the rain pelted the door, spritzing her exposed skin with icy mist. Jia's umbrella vacillated in the gathering storm and he was all but soaked under its inadequate protection.

He did not meet her eyes but busied himself with his cart. "Thank you for your kindness but it would be inappropriate for me to leave my cart.  It will pass," Jia said.

Hsiu Mei eyed the flurry of newspapers and other loose debris circling the vacant street and suppressed a wave of panic as an unmanned rickshaw bounced down the pavement. "Please Jia, it would give me great comfort if you would bring your cart into my shop," she insisted.  When it looked as if he might refuse, she added, "I am hungry and your noodles are my favorite."

This time Jia turned toward her and smiled. "Anything for my best customer."

They worked together to get the cart inside and Hsiu Mei bolted the door.  By the time she turned around, Jia had a bowl of noodles ready for her.  She bowed and took what he offered, although her fear of the squall had ruined her appetite.  Smiling, she sat down at the table in the middle of her bookstore and slurped the noodles noisily for his benefit. 

"Please, sit with me Jia, so I may have a proper lunch," she said, patting the chair next to her in invitation.

Jia sat, but stared over his cart to the grey-green torrent going on beyond the glass.

"May I ask you something, Jia?" Hsiu Mei inquired.

"Of course."

"Why do you park your cart outside my store everyday?  Most vendors find better business on the square."

Jia frowned and folded his hands.

"Please, Jai, the truth."

"I used to have a spot on the square.  Business was good.  But when you opened this shop five years ago, I moved.  It is an auspicious location.  I do well."

"Surely, not as well as the square."

"No."

"Then why do you stay?"

"I enjoy the view."

"The view?  What view?  All odd shops and the drippings of hung out laundry from the families upstairs!  What is there to see?"

The lights flickered.  Hsui Mei and Jia looked up at the ceiling lamp just in time for the bulbs to go black, plunging the room into darkness.

"Perhaps, the beauty I see is not in the street but in its people.  Perhaps a young man such as myself finds comfort in protecting such a jewel.  A jewel alone and precious in a city that does not appreciate such things."

Hsiu Mei was thankful for the darkness as she felt a blush creep up her neck. "Who is this Jewel? I have not seen anyone here worthy of your attention, Jia."

The sudden moan of the building, holding back the gale with steel girders and glass, interrupted them.  Jia leaned in close until his nose was almost touching hers.

"Then you must not have a mirror in this fine shop," he said in a loud whisper.

Casting propriety aside, Hsui Mei flung herself at Jia, her arms encircling his neck with five years of pent up desire.  They fell to the floor, lips meeting halfway to the carpet and rolled beneath the table where they declared their affections at the foot of Jia's noodle cart.

The groans of the building gave way to shattering glass as heavy steel crashed through the front window.  Jia twisted around Hsiu Mei, shielding her from the onslaught. She rode out the thrashing storm clinging to her beloved. 

When finally the shop grew quiet, they climbed from the ruble hand in hand to see that the neon sign from the grocery across the street had blown loose and crashed through Hsui Mei's storefront, only to be stopped by the steel noodle cart propped against her table.  Hsui Mei looked at the shattered glass strewn across her counter and knew without a doubt she would be dead if not for Jia. 

He turned to her, taking her hands in his. "As I was saying, a jewel of this worth needs protecting.  Perhaps my mistake was thinking I could do the position honor from the outside."

"Yes. I agree," she said, tears flowing despite her beaming smile. "You must take this duty more seriously, and devote yourself fully to the task."

"Anything for my best customer," he said, and so began a very auspicious union.

I Have Turned To The DarkSide!

I am pleased to announce my partnership with DarkSide Publishing.  A few weeks ago, DarkSide approached me with a proposal to join their cooperative of artists. At the time, I wasn't sure about my intentions to go indie.  After my last post, Megg Jensen and Karly Kirkpatrick were quick to convince me of the merits of collective editing, publishing, and promotion in the indie world.  For more details about DarkSide Publishing, please visit http://darksidepublishing.blogspot.com/The Soulkeepers will debut in 2011 under the DarkSide label, joining Karly Kirkpatrick's Into The Shadows , and her forthcoming Bloody Little Secrets, as well as, Anathema by Megg Jensen.  More news to come on The Soulkeepers but, for now, suffice it to say that I am excited about this joint venture and optimistic about the future of The Soulkeepers.   

Self-Publishing: What's your opinion?

A few years ago I wrote the first version of "The Soulkeepers".  It was barely more than on outline, completely underdeveloped and at that time titled "A Different Paris".  I wrote it for fun and never intended for it to see the light of day.



A year later, I pulled that manuscript out and completely rewrote it.  This time I thought it had potential.  So, I had two strangers from a local romance writers group read it.  They connected with the story emotionally but had some advice on the writing and characterization.  I was a busy mom and a part time student, so I put the manuscript aside again.



Months later, I had a break from school and made the corrections to the manuscript.  A handful of readers, some friends and family read it and loved it.  This time, they said it was ready for "The Show".  So, I queried five agents.  I had no clue what I was doing and my query was horrible.  Not surprisingly, I received five rejections.



Then I joined SCBWI.  I went to classes on craft.  I read books on plot and character.  I finished school and rewrote the novel a third time.  This time I had it beta read by writers, professional authors and editors who I'd come to know through social networking.  After overwhelmingly positive feedback, I queried fifteen more agents.  My query was much better this time.  Three requested the manuscript.  All ultimately rejected me but were complimentary of the book.  I was close, very close.



Based on the feedback I received during this process, I'm halfway through a fourth and final revision.  I won't call this one a rewrite, just a nip and tuck.  This book is awesome.  It is amazing. And very soon it will be as perfect as I can make it.



At this point, I could go back to querying.  It's the traditional thing to do after all. But instead, I'm considering self-publishing.  Why?  Mainly because querying takes time and energy away from writing.  I have a second book (a romance) that is waiting to be edited and the idea for a third book I've had on the back burner.  Each time I query someone, I research their agent page, tailor my query for them specifically, and fret endlessly over every detail before I send it.  It takes hours, days, weeks, and there is no benefit to the time spent unless someone asks for the manuscript.  Even if I was able to get an agent in a reasonable amount of time, they would have to sell the manuscript and then I would have to wait for the publisher to publish it.  That's a whole lot of waiting.



I have simple goals.  I don't need to be the next Dan Brown, I just want to sell a few copies and share my story with the world.  So what do you think?  In your opinion, if this was your novel, what would you do?

#Fridayflash - Better to Have Loved And Lost

Two men in hospital scrubs walked into Beverly's room.  One checked the bag of fluids dripping into her, the other sat down on the mauve chair next to her hospital bed.  The bag checker left quickly without saying a word but the one who sat down took Beverly's hand in his.  She wasn't surprised; the hospital often sent people to sit with the dying, volunteers to listen when no one else would.             "You're quite a looker," she said to him.  Easily a quarter of her age, the comment was probably an inappropriate thing to say to such a young man, but what the hell did she care.  At her age, when you thought something you said it.

"Thank you," the young man said, "But not everyone would agree with you on that point."

"Fiddlesticks. You are!  Actually, you remind me of a young man I met in the '40's. "

"Tell me about him, Beverly," he said.

She licked her lips and tried to adjust herself in bed but she found she couldn't move.  There wasn't pain exactly, but a pressure over her chest.  Getting old sucked.   She decided not to think about it, to enjoy the young man's visit while he was there.  She decided to tell her story.

"Back then, I was an Army nurse working in the field.   Don't even ask me where I was—somewhere in Europe I guess.  It seemed like we moved our hospital tent every couple of weeks. 

Anyway, it was a particularly hard day.  I'd seen boys coughing up black pieces of lung, limbs blown away, and soldiers so full of bullets you didn't know were the blood was coming from.  I was covered in it: blood everywhere.   I don't even know how many people died that day but eventually, you know, you grow numb to it.

As soon as the next nurse relieved me, I ran to the edge of the barracks and threw up.  I'd been up for something like thirty hours straight and I should've gone straight to bed, but who can sleep after seeing something like that?

This man I'd seen around but never met before offered me a drink.  Well, you didn't turn down whiskey during the war, I'll tell you that.  We drank and we smoked.  He was dark like you, and pale… with the same sunken eyes.  God he was handsome.  We talked about the war, and the blood and the death.  And do you know, somehow that man made me feel all right about it all, like it was what was supposed to happen. "

Beverly paused and took a deep breath.

"What happened then Beverly?"

"Well, we kissed and some other things a lady shouldn't admit to.  And do you know it was absolutely heart stopping.  I remember kissing this boy and thinking I might die from the pleasure of it.  But afterward, he said I had my life and he had his and that was that.  I never saw him again.  But you know what they say, it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

The young man was shaking his head, smiling wickedly.

"Did I embarrass you young man?  Don't like to hear about an old lady having sex? But I wasn't old back then, dear.  When I was your age, I had many suitors."

"It's not that, Beverly," the young man said, "You were tired and you didn't remember what the man said.  He didn't say you had your life and he had his.  What he said was you had your life and you needed to live it.  It wasn't fair to take it from you before your time."

"Oh, yes, I guess that is what he said. How could you possibly know that?"

The young man stood from the chair and reached a hand toward her heart. "Because Beverly, it is finally your time."  His hand passed through her breastbone and caught on something filmy but strong underneath.  There was a moment of discomfort and then Beverly stepped from her ancient body, her twenty year old hand clutched in the young man's.

"It is you!" she said. "But, how is it you're still young?"

"For the same reason you will now remain young my Beverly, because Death is timeless.  Come, we must go."

Beverly allowed Death to lead her from her body and the beeping machines, into the hall, passed the rushing nurses, and towards a bright light near the elevators.  He paused, as if he'd heard a voice then pressed a kiss tenderly on her lips.  "I hope you won't mind waiting for me a moment longer, my Beverly.  It appears I need to pay a visit to room 305."

Beverly nodded.  She didn't mind waiting.  After all, they had eternity.

My Flashiversary and a Blog Award

Last week, Cathy Webster at Life on the Muskoka River passed on the Creative Genius blog award to me.  If you haven't read her blog yet, stop by and for goodness sakes follow her.  She makes me laugh on a regular basis, a talent in short supply these days.



Anywho, it just so happened that I really needed a pick-me-up last week because the two novels I am editing have become my nemesis.  If you know me, you know that I love to write but hate to edit.  In fact, I rarely do much editing on my flash fiction but thankfully my stories are short enough they don't need much.  Two 90,000 word novels, however, need a ton of editing.  They are desperate and waiting, rustling their pages even now to get my attention, longing to be spruced up and shopped out.



But, editing for me is painful and it forces me to ignore the shiny new voices in my head who want their new stories told.  That's why I've cut back on the frequency of posting stories; I've been trying to force myself to finish what I've started.



By the way,  this month I celebrate my one year anniversary of participating in #Fridayflash.  For me, the #Fridayflash community has been nothing less than a miracle.  The support and friendships I've enjoyed among this talented group of writers carried me through a personally difficult 2010.  With high hopes for a better 2011, I am happy to continue my participation in this worthy community.  Thank you to all of you who stop by here on a regular basis.  You are the reason I keep writing.



Now, to pass this award on to a few newer writers who I think are the bomb and a bag of chips (because  watching the mushroom cloud is better with something to eat).



Rebecca Emin at Ramblings of a Rusty Writer



Denise at L' Aussie Writing



 and Steve Green at The Twisted Quill



Keep writing you creative geniuses!  As for me, I have two impatient manuscripts threatening me with paper cuts.  Back to editing.

#Fridayflash: Antique

"Why does it matter, Caroline?" Tom said with a sigh, running his fingers along the intricately carved banister.  Below his touch, hand painted tiles colored the walls from floor to rail.

As Caroline answered him, she followed the grinning realtor into the next room, her ankle length skirt swishing over her sandaled feet.  "Everything in this house was made by a person.  That banister is more than art; it fed a family once.  Each of these floor tiles kept someone working at one time.  I just can't live in a place manufactured by machines.  A house like that has no soul."

Tom rolled his eyes. 

The realtor pointed to a window at the top of the staircase. "You'll love this Caroline." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The leaded glass was salvaged from a church bombed on the corner a century ago.  They say the bird in the middle had some sort of religious significance."

Light streamed through the multicolored glass. The crimson color washed over the wood of the stair landing and painted a blush across her cheeks.

"We'll take it," Caroline said.

Tom turned towards her, furious. "Do we even know if this is legal?  I don't want the military bulldozing our house because they think we have religious contraband. "

"Actually, this home is considered an historic architectural landmark, so it's protected under their own laws.  Frankly, I don't think any of them even know what the bird used to mean.  I know I don't remember and I've been around a long time. "

"We'll take it," Caroline repeated.   She remembered the meaning of the bird.  She would always remember.

"It's 75, 000 Yuan more than the one next door.  Be reasonable."  Tom 's hands held his head in blatant exasperation.

Caroline walked to the front window and peeled back the curtain.  A tank rumbled past them on the street.  Poking out the top was a soldier put there to intimidate.  He was there to control: every word, every deed, every thought, every belief.

"We'll take it," she said, with a firmness in her voice she knew Tom wouldn't deny.  She would have an antique house to think her antique thoughts.  And maybe, when the time was right, she would share what she remembered.