Working Through Writing Excuses Episodes 8.5 and 8.6

I'm putting episodes 8.5 and 8.6 together, in part because I am having a devil of a time writing something for the prompt for episode 8.5. That episode talks about breaking the rules of writing, and it made me realize that I never really learned the "rules" for writing. I've never taken a class on writing fiction; all of the instruction I've ever received with regards to writing has been related to writing academic papers, non-fiction persuasion or position papers, essentially. I've had some experience in writing documents for work, things like standard operating procedures (SOPs) and minutes from various meetings, but none of that explains how best to handle point of view or whether you should move from one character's thoughts to another. I've obviously read a lot of fiction in my life, and so I have an idea of what I think works and what doesn't, but I also, embarrassingly, have to say that I don't pay super close attention to what - or rather, how - things are done. I've been known to read a book and not realize until about a third of the way through that it's written in the first person present tense, because I got caught up in the story.

That doesn't happen quite so often anymore, because I have been spending more time trying to figure out how to write fiction for myself, but even when I do focus on what other writers do, it's much more likely to be on what kind of word choices they use. I want to know how they keep me from falling out of the story by describing just enough to keep me engaged without giving me too many details to get hung up on. One of my favorite anthologies is still "Help Fund My Robot Army!" edited by John Joseph Adams, specifically because the way each story is told is so limited, and yet they manage to get across so much information and character and world-building. That's what I notice, and that's what I try to figure out for myself when I write, but I have no idea if that means that I'm following a proper three-act structure or if my third-person perspective is omniscient or limited. It's really hard to write something deliberately breaking the rules when you have no idea what the rules are supposed to be.

Writing prompt: Here is a rule for rule-breaking: The best format for experimenting with rule-breaking is the short. So! Pick your three favorite rules and break all three in a short story. I'm going to have to come back to this prompt at some point, after I've done a little more reading and maybe taking a class or two to help me figure out what rules I want to break. (If anyone has any suggestions for classes they recommend on basic "here's how you write fiction good," drop me a line! I clearly have no idea what I'm doing.)

Episode 8.6 is about retellings and adaptations, and that is much more my jam. I really liked hearing how the team discusses retellings and adaptations, and why we would want to read or watch the same story being told in different ways. Over the last year and a half, I've definitely found some comfort in the familiar, which I think is probably true of all of us, and while I do appreciate watching or reading the same things time and time again, it's nice to find something new or strange in the midst of the familiar. A retelling gives an audience the opportunity to find that strangeness and novelty, just by shifting the focus of the story that they know. There were some great examples of retellings mentioned, where stories are being told from different perspectives (like Gregory Maguire's Wicked) or in different genres or time periods (the movie Clueless). I also really liked the way they distinguish between fan fiction and retellings - fan fiction takes characters that are familiar and builds a different story structure around them; retellings take a story or plot that is familiar and gives the opportunity to build new characters on them. Just that distinction makes me want to give fan fiction a try, maybe.

Writing prompt: Do a retelling of a Bible story in a science fiction space setting.

Joseph watched through the window as the space ship left the station, almost expecting to see his traitorous brothers counting their money on the port like some kind of movie villains. He knew that they were long gone, and had been gone well before the ship had even finished loading the cargo, but it still made him wonder if he could see them and expect to watch them, watching him being sent away forever. With a sigh, he turned away from the porthole and surveyed the room that would be his prison for the next... well, until the captain decided otherwise.

Joseph didn't know exactly what it was that his brothers hated about him so much, just that they hated him. He was constantly being told that he wasn't their real brother, and he knew that they didn't share the same blood - anyone who looked at them could tell that they weren't completely related. It wasn't his fault that their father had had a dalliance with a member of a different humanoid race, and she had left Joseph at their doorstep before he was old enough to put words together in any language. She wasn't motherly material, he was told, particularly not toward one who wasn't completely of her race, and he should be grateful that she had left him with his human father, rather than leaving him exposed to the elements on some planet somewhere. He supposed he was grateful, to a certain extent, but it was a little difficult to feel anything but anger toward someone who didn't want him around at all.

The earliest memory he had was of being stared at by a group of boys, all human, all older than he was, all giving him the same look of disdain and irritation mixed with fear that he would come to expect from humans in general. These, he was told, were his brothers, and he would learn to love them, as they would learn to love him. They would take care of him, when his father couldn't be around, and they would make sure that nothing bad happened to him. He learned quickly that this wasn't entirely true, particularly when it came to Simeon. He was one of the oldest of the brothers, and the one who took the most offense at Joseph's existence in the house (and, he told Joseph repeatedly, his existence in the universe at all - Joseph was offensive to his very soul, and there was no reason in the heavens why he should be permitted to live). So when Joseph was told that Simeon was taking him to the trade ports, along with two of their other brothers, he knew something was up. He just didn't expect it to be quite so permanent.

Joseph pulled the collar of his coat closer to him, thankful once again for the colorful, warm garment that his father had made for him. Even though the coat had driven his brothers mad with jealousy, they hadn't taken it from him when they sold him to the captain of the mining ship. The coat would have done them absolutely no good, after all - the fabric was made for his race, and not humans. Simeon had still made a grab for it, and managed to snag a part of the hem in his hand before Joseph was dragged away. Joseph imagined that it would help Simeon sell the story of Joseph's death to their father - he'd heard the brothers discussing exactly how they were going to explain his disappearance before he'd been pulled onto the ship. They hated that his hearing was so very good, but he'd tried not to use it to his advantage over them too often. Still, it had hurt to hear how little any of them cared, and how none of them had fought to keep him with them.

Before long, the station was out of sight, and Joseph was off to begin his new life. He had no idea what that would bring, but he was certain he would never see his brothers again.

Working Through Writing Excuses Episode 8.4

Side characters are the subject of Episode 8.4, which is definitely something I could use help with. I usually have a decent idea of my main characters, but everybody else tends to just show up on their own, and I don't know too much about them until they start taking over the narrative. It's something that I could definitely afford to work on a bit more, so that I can get a better handle on who is in the stories I write, at least to begin with. What happens after they show up, well, that tends to be less under my control than would probably be considered healthy.

Writing prompt: The Hero of the Most Boring Story Ever—your job is to make it interesting. (I'm going to cheat a little bit with regards to the "most boring story ever" aspect - I have a meditation app, Calm.com, that has sleep stories which are deliberately written to be the kind of thing that will help a person fall asleep. I'll riff on one of those.) I'm also just going to remind you all that this is draft zero, because this one is...not my favorite.

She was always inside by the time the sun started to set, watching through the window as the city began to slow down. The city she lived in was one that rolled up the streets after dark, so it wasn't unusual to have things slow down and get quiet after the evening dinner rush and the commute back home. Still, she sat in the window, waiting for the evening to roll in completely before she finally allowed herself to relax.

She kept a diary that listed all of the tasks that needed to be dealt with for the day, all of the different times she would need to interact with the world and things she would need to do in order to keep the precarious balance between her discomfort with the world around her and the things she was obligated to do in order to maintain the lifestyle she had cultivated so far. Her journal held doodles and drawings, proof that she had been outside of her apartment or at least, had seen things that hadn't been within the walls of her living space. It was as much a record of what she'd done as it was a list of things she needed to do.

Her list for the next day contained phone calls and a lunch with people she knew she would have to interact with, but she had no interest in doing any of it. She focused instead on the tasks like cleaning the kitchen, ordering her groceries, watering the various plants that breathed life into the small space. The lunch, in particular, made her anxious, but she knew it was the best way to keep her family and co-workers from worrying about her too much. If she made an appearance once or twice a month, then they wouldn't have need to come by her apartment unannounced again. An afternoon of discomfort was more than worth another month of peace.

Mentally aware of what she would need to approach the next day, she turned the page in her journal and began jotting down her thoughts for the day that had just passed. She'd made it through two in-person meetings and a phone call with a client, as well as an impromptu discussion with a co-worker who was determined to bring her "out of her shell." He didn't seem to understand that, like the turtle, if she came out of her shell completely, she would die. He was certain she was just shy, and just needed to allow herself to step outside her comfort zone and try to make friends with other people. She made sure to note his name and what department he worked in, so she could prepare herself for the next time she would need to be in his area and hopefully find someone else to communicate with there.

With a sigh of relief, she closed the journal and began the rituals of getting ready for bed. Choosing the appropriate soundtrack, lighting a scented candle, putting on the kettle for a cup of soothing tea - all the things that would help her close out the day and put a period at the end of the waking hours. It was her favorite portion of to day, and she tried to remind herself that the point was to calm her nerves and relax into sleep. Still, finishing the day and preparing for sleep was the most exciting part of her day, and she couldn't help but thrill with the joy of it. It wasn't until she went to bed that her life truly began, after all. Everything else was just window dressing, essentials she was forced into by the needs of her body for shelter and food. Her soul, her spirit? That needed only the night.

Working Through Writing Excuses Episode 8.3

Pets! I love reading about how animals interact with characters in stories, but I'm so bad with it myself. I know the way I interact with my cats is not necessarily the way the average person interacts with their pets, and it makes me nervous to write characters who have pets or service animals or other animals that they interact with on the regular, because who knows how "wrong" I'm getting it. But meh, let's give it a go.

Writing prompt: Write a human interacting with an alien, and the alien has a conspicuous companion animal who is critically important to the alien’s life.

Steve was nervous, as usual, while entering their new ship. They were never particularly comfortable around others who were not of their species, or their planet, and a spaceship just exacerbated not only the strangeness of the situation, but also highlighted all the ways the sentient races didn't truly understand each other. It was their third spaceship since they had begun their travels from their home planet, but it had yet to become any more comfortable or easy for them.

In the bag that hung behind their head-stalk, the reassuring weight of their quanaco settled and gave them some warmth. The creature was one of the few living things that Steve had been able to bring with them from their home planet, and they hadn't known what they would do if they hadn't had Vikka with them through all the changes in their world. They could only hope that their newest bunkmate would be able to understand the importance of the quanaco better than the last one had.

Steve found their way to the newest berth that would be their sleep space and entered cautiously. So far, no one else was settled into the space, and so they had their choice of sleep surfaces. As usual, they chose the one closest to the exit portal, allowing them the easiest path to freedom if and when their bunkmate required "space." Steve had never understood the phrase that the humans used so frequently. Everyone on the ship had the entirety of space available to them outside of the ship, and between all of the planets; why did a need for "space" mean that Steve had to leave their comfortable bunk? Nevertheless, it was easier to make way than to make waves, as their first captain had said. (Steve still wasn't entirely sure why waves were such a thing to be avoided, either, as sound waves were the source of so much good in the universe, but they had learned to stop questioning. Eventually.)

Steve relaxed their top tentacles to allow their bag to slide down and land softly on the bunk. A small squeak sounded from within, and Steve quickly manipulated the straps to open the bag and allow Vikka's head to pop up. "There, there," Steve crooned subsonically, running the tip of one tentacle over the soft fuzz on Vikka's head. "We'll get your habitat set up in just a moment, once our trunk arrives." The quanaco trilled in response, eyelids closing lazily. Then her eyes opened wide, suddenly, and she let out a sharp, subsonic bark - stranger approaching. Steve froze, tentacles tensing as they awaited the stranger that had gotten within Vikka's range.

Soon, a human male entered the berth, looking around warily as they crossed the threshold. "Oh!" they said, sounding surprised. "I guess you got in first. Uh, nice to meet you, roomie." The human continued to the other sleep surface, dropping a backpack onto the surface with considerably more force than Steve had, and rummaging around within the contents. Vikka had ducked her head down at the stranger's approach, but had cautiously poked out again, watching the human with curiosity but not, Steve noticed, fear.

It was a good sign. Vikka was well-versed in the pheromones of anger and fear, and would alert Steve to any stranger who came close exhibiting those traits. Steve had had several unpleasant experiences in the past with beings who had not taken kindly to beings of his race and planet, and their family had decided that a quanaco was required before Steve was allowed to take another mission away from the home planet. While Steve had initially resisted, they had quickly bonded with Vikka, and now they couldn't imagine travelling without her.

The human cleared their throat, and Steve turned cautiously around after checking with Vikka one last time. She gave no indication of danger, so Steve straightened and faced the human. "Um, hi," the human said. "I guess we'll be bunking together for a bit, so I should probably introduce myself. Um, can you understand me OK? I know some of the universal translators aren't great with some of us who have what we call accents, so I don't want to be accidentally offending you or anything." The human had put the ends of their two tenta- arms, Steve reminded themselves, together, and was squeezing them tightly. Steve recalled that this was frequently a sign that a human was feeling distress, and they felt more kindly toward this newest roommate.

"Do not fear," Steve said, working to keep their voice in the sonic range so the universal translator could pick up and amplify their voice for the human's hearing. "I am able to understand human, even when it is non-standard. Do you have a name I may use?" Steve had learned in some of the early species relations classes that it was best to ask for a name, rather than assume that one would be given freely, and that the name Steve was able to use may not be the same as the name a being used for themselves. It had all been very confusing.

"Oh, good." The human's relief lit up their face light a blooming fireplant, and Steve hoped that this was an indication of how easy the human would be to read going forward. "Um, yes, I do! My name is Steve, he/him. What can I call you?"

Steve froze, their tentacles fluttering in surprise. "Oh, dear. This could be...you see, my name is also Steve, though I do not have the male gender pronouns." The two roommates stared at each other blankly, until the silence was broken by Vikka, of all creatures. The quanaco had climbed out of her bad and was standing on the sleep surface, unhidden by her Steve's body. She stared at the human Steve, then gracelessly hopped down from the sleep surface and trotted on her six legs over to the human. The human Steve stared as the quanaco stood in front of him, coming up to the middle of his leg, until she let out a single, audible bark. Her Steve recognized the sound, and began to laugh.

The human Steve turned between the quanaco and his roommate, his confusion writ large across his face. "Uh, what is...what was...the hell is that thing? Should I be worried?"

Still laughing, Steve undulated forward on their three other tentacles and scooped up the quanaco, which was still staring at the human Steve expectantly. "No, human-Steve, not at all. This is Vikka. She is the safety companion from my home world, and she has decided that you are more than safe. You, it appears, are now family." 

The human Steve still looked baffled, but a smile was beginning to spread across his face as well. He reached out a hand toward Vikka, then hesitated. "May I pet her?" he asked, looking between both his roommate and the quanaco for permission. It made Steve feel that much more kindly towards him. Vikka solved the problem by stretching her long neck out and knocking her head into the human Steve's hand, and he began to laugh. "I guess so!"

"I think," said Steve, watching their personal safety detector demand attention from their new roommate, "that this may be a good match this time."

Working Through Writing Excuses Episode 8.2

 Episode 2 is all about the Campbellian monomyth/Hero of a Thousand Faces, which is one of those things that always sounded vaguely interesting from a distance. Even just listening to the beginning of this episode, though, it's sounding so much like a prescription for a story (at least, that's how way too many people look at it or treat it), and that kind of prescription has never felt organic or, frankly, interesting to me. This is probably why I was never a huge fan of literary criticism - so much of it seems to be focusing on labeling the different pieces of a story to fit into some kind of formula, and it just takes so much joy out of the experience. No wonder I fled academia.

Writing prompt: Take Goldilocks and the Three Bears, apply the Campbellian Monomyth, and give us a short story.

Babe opened the door wearily, slumping into his home just ahead of his two brothers. All three had been pulling extra hours at the mines lately, because money was tight, and Christmas was coming. He moved toward the kitchen, dropping his thermos and lunchbox on the table as he started thinking about what to make for supper.

"What a day!" Mitch groaned as he hung up his coat. Paul grunted in response, maneuvering his big body around to the armchairs angled in front of the TV. "I swear, it feels like the days are just getting longer and longer."

Babe nodded, hardly hearing his middle brother as he stared down the half-empty shelves of the pantry and started the calculations of the cash-poor. They had enough rice to get through the week, and enough dried pasta and canned beans to bulk out at least another two days. He could have sworn there'd been another couple of cans of tuna in the cupboard early in the week, but he knew Mitch liked to have that at lunch, so that was probably where it had gone. If he used the can of tomatoes he had there and some of the pasta, there was some ground beef in the freezer-

"What the hell?" Paul's voice boomed from the living room. Babe and Mitch turned and hurried over to their older brother, who rarely spoke above a mumble. If he was shouting, something was Wrong. Neither of the brothers was particularly small, but Babe was able to move around more easily to see what had caught Paul's attention.

There, on the coffee table in front of Babe's chair (the smallest and ricketiest of the three, of course), was a plate and a half-eaten sandwich. It was a tuna melt, which Babe hated, and it smelled like it was still warm - he wasn't sure how he'd missed the smell earlier.

"Yuck! Who left a sandwich out?" Mitch yelped, looking all around the floor frantically. "That's how we ended up with ants a couple of years back, remember? I am NOT putting up with that again!"

Paul just glared at Babe, who shook his head firmly. "Not mine. You know I hate the stuff. It's still warm, anyway, and I came home with you two." Paul stared for another long moment before nodding, then narrowing his eyes. Both of the other brothers were hit by a similar thought at the same time - if it wasn't one of them, then who was it? And were they still in the house?

Babe's mind raced. "Who breaks into a house and makes a sandwich?" he said out loud as he pulled out his cell phone. He lit up the screen, then hesitated. "Paul, should we call the cops, do you think?"

Mitch inhaled sharply. "I don't know about that, brother. You know what happened last time." Babe felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. Maybe not the cops, not yet. Paul shook his head slowly. "Not yet." His voice had dropped back down to its usual quiet volume, but Babe could tell he was still on edge.

Babe turned the flashlight on on his phone instead, and light up the area around the sandwich. He frowned, staring at the small bites taken out of the neatly cut bread and tuna, then shone the light around the windows, looking for broken glass. Nothing seemed to be smashed, so whoever broke in had done so without making a mess. However, there did look like a path through the stacks of books that filled much of the open space in the hall had been made. He gestured, and Mitch and Paul both nodded.

Babe went first, tensing as he passed each doorway that branched off the hallway. The house was small, but there were rooms enough for each brother and two bathrooms, which had never felt like so many doors before. His door and Paul's were both open, as was the main bathroom. Mitch's door, however, closed securely. "Mitch?" Babe tried to keep his voice low, to keep from surprising whoever was behind the door, if they were still there.

"Go ahead, kid," Mitch replied, only the slightest tremor giving away his nerves. Hearing his brother's voice made him more confident, but also pissed Babe off more - someone had made Mitch feel uncomfortable. Someone had messed with his family. That was not allowed. Someone was going to need to answer to him.

Babe felt the doorknob and gently turned it, grateful to discover that the handle hadn't been locked. He looked back again to his brothers, who had stayed near the living room end of the hallway, and Mitch gave him a thumb's up. Paul, he was relieved to see, had his cell phone out, camera facing the hall. Whatever happened next was being filmed, so no matter what happened to him or potentially his brothers, there would be evidence. That should have been comforting, but Babe still felt a little hollow and alone at the idea. Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and pushed the door in dramatically, hoping to catch whoever was on the other side off guard.

It was a dramatic gesture, and completely lost on the woman lying in the center of Mitch's bed, fast asleep. Babe stayed near the door, but shining the flashlight over the bed, he could see what looked to be a young woman, fully dressed in jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt with a yellow hood, curled in a ball on top of Mitch's blankets. She still had her shoes on, even - this wasn't someone who was sleeping because she was comfortable. She was taking a moment to rest before she had to do something else, and wanted to be ready to run at a moment's notice.

Babe backed away from the room, keeping his phone's light shining in her direction as he moved away. "Well?" Mitch demanded in a loud whisper. "Is there someone there?" Paul snorted and kept the camera pointed at Babe, just in case. Even if it didn't turn into some kind of murderous situation, you never knew what might turn out to be a good TikTok.

Once Babe reached his brothers, he turned fully around to face them and smacked Mitch's arm. "Did you give your new girlfriend a key or something, idiot?" He shot Paul - or rather, Paul's camera - a withering look, which Paul returned before lowering the phone. "She's curled up asleep on your bed. We talked about this, dude."

Paul turned to face Mitch, and Babe almost felt badly for his middle brother. "We did talk about this, Mitchell," Paul rumbled, and Babe winced in sympathy with Mitch. Only their mom and dad had ever used Mitch's full name, and only when he was in Deep Trouble. Mitch looked like he was shrinking in front of them, but to his credit, he held Paul's gaze.

"She doesn't have anywhere else to go, man. I told her to only use the key if things were really bad, and it was an emergency, so it must have gotten really bad. Let me go talk to her, see if there's anything she needs from us right now." Mitch pushed past Babe, who moved aside to make the way easier. Mitch entered the room and pulled the door closed most of the way, and Babe could see the light come on once the door was closed.

Paul grumbled under his breath, but moved back to the living room, picking up the remnants of the sandwich on his way. "No use letting the food go to waste," he muttered as he got settled into his recliner. "Set the table for one more, would you? And uh, did she look like she was hurt or anything?" Paul reached for the remote for the TV, but hadn't turned it on yet, waiting for Babe to respond.

"Nah. She was asleep, but she looked ready to run." Babe moved back to his spot in the house, and heard the TV turn on, the volume low. Babe knew they had enough ground beef to stretch some pasta and sauce for four people, so he might as well get that started. As far as he knew, Mitch's girlfriend didn't have any food allergies or anything, and she clearly wasn't a vegetarian if she ate tuna fish. He turned up the lights in the kitchen and started putting the water on for the pasta. He also turned on the stereo in the kitchen, getting it started with the audiobook he'd been listening to the other night. Even if there was a new person in the house, some rituals remained in place - it was the way the house worked.

By the time the beef was browned, the sauce was bubbling away, and the pasta timer was down to its last two minutes, Mitch and his girlfriend had emerged from his bedroom. All of the boys had their own distinctive footfall, and Babe could tell who was moving through which part of the house just by the series of creaks and groans from the floor. He paused the audiobook and turned the heat down on the sauce before entering the living room.

Mitch and his girlfriend were standing next to the TV, which Paul had also paused. The big floor lamp was on, letting Babe see the woman clearly for the first time that night. Her blonde curls were pulled tightly back in a ponytail, and there was a dark shadow on one cheek. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, gripping Mitch's hand tightly as he spoke in low tones to Paul. He looked up when Babe came into the living room fully and got close enough to hear what they were saying.

"Hey, kid." Mitch gave him a tired smile. "I was just telling Paul here that Gilda was going to stay here for a bit. She, uh, she needs a better living situation than what she's got right now. That OK with you?" Mitch's tone was mild, but his eyes were pleading with Babe. Babe looked to Paul automatically, who was watching the interaction with interest but not showing much emotion.

They'd all lived together, on their own, for long enough that they were able to say a lot without words anymore. Mitch was furious at whatever had caused Gilda to be in pain, and he just wanted her to be out of harm's way. Paul didn't think it was a great idea long-term, but he didn't see a better way to handle it right then, and clearly, she needed help of some kind. He was also pretty pissed at the whole thing - all of the Bauer boys were sensitive about people beating up on people who couldn't defend themselves properly. Ultimately, though, they wanted Babe to weigh in, since he handled the food budget.

Babe looked back at Gilda, who was still watching the floor, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She was holding one arm across her stomach tightly, and the way she was standing gave Babe the impression that her face wasn't the only place that had been hit recently. "Hey. Gilda, right?" He smiled, trying to make his tone friendly, even though he felt wildly out of his depths. She looked up quickly and nodded.

Before he could say anything else, the timer for the pasta went off. All of them jumped, showing just how tense everyone had been. Babe laughed, and that seemed to lighten the mood a little. "It's just spaghetti. Why don't you come in the kitchen and help me plate up?" He nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen, then turned and started moving that way. If nothing else, he needed to turn off the damn timer - he always forgot how loud the thing was.

He drained the pasta, putting it in the sauce and giving it a stir, when Gilda came in. "So, um, where are the plates? How can I help?" Her voice was lower than Babe imagined it would be, and a little bit shaky. He pointed to the appropriate cabinet, then to the silverware drawer. "Come on. Everything's about ready. You want something to drink? I think we still have a couple of cans of soda in the fridge."

He knew it would take a little while, but Babe was pretty sure that the routines that ran the house could probably be adapted to add one more person. He'd just have to find another chair, that's all.

Working Through Writing Excuses Podcast (Episode 8.1)

(What? Two posts in one day? I know! Don't get used to it.)

I'm starting something new now that 31 stories is winding down. I'm going through old episodes of the podcast Writing Excuses and listening to one episode at a time, then following the writing prompt given at the end of each episode. I had listened to the podcast regularly for a long time, but like so many other podcasts, I've fallen behind to the point of ridiculousness. (I'm not the best at keeping on top of things with regards to podcasts, but I'm also very fond of being complete in my listening habits, which makes for an interesting combination - I'm sitting at about 40 months' behind on most of my podcasts, for reference.)

To start this thing, episode 8.1, "Microcasting," has this writing prompt: What does SFPA stand for? (It figures that the first one I pick is one that's the hosts being smart asses, but what can I do?)

The old-fashioned phone rang on the wooden desk next to Sandra, who stared at it for about two rings before she sighed and picked it up. "Story Figure Placement Agency, this is Sandra, how can I help you?" Her voice was pure light and good customer service attentions, while her face remained cold, her brows drawn over her forehead. Around her, at several other desks just like hers, other women were answering their phones in a similar way, but only her face had such a sharp contrast to her tone of voice.

"Yes, hi, I'm working on a story?" The voice on the other end of the line was hesitant, sounding young and like it wasn't entirely sure it knew how the interaction was supposed to go. Sandra struggled to keep her world-weary sigh from becoming audible over the phone. "My teacher gave me this number, because he said that I needed to get a character that could help diversify my cast, and you might be able to help me?" The expectant silence at the end of the last question was the verbal equivalent of lobbing a ball over a tennis net - a nice, slow ball that should be easy to return, if Sandra was willing to put in the least bit of effort.

Sandra was tempted to sit in silence and make the caller spell out their problem in detail, but she knew that would just make her boss more angry at her than she wanted. Suppressing another sigh, she pulled out her pen and notebook. "What kind of character traits are you looking for? That will give us a good start for our search."

"Oh, wow, thanks," the caller gushed. "So, like, I'm writing a story set in the inner city, and I need some people, you know, some people who know what it's like to live in the inner city." The voice remained hesitant, and the half a statement hung in the air, waiting for Sandra to pick up what the caller was laying down.

This was why she had problems with her job, she thought to herself. "Do you mean characters who live in the inner city of bigger cities? Characters who have experienced poverty and living paycheck to paycheck? Or characters who own large portions of the inner city and are thus the landlords for those other characters, and able to jack up the rents whenever they see fit?" Sandra's rent had just gone up another hundred dollars, and she wasn't happy about it. "You're going to need to give me a few more parameters before I'm able to help you fill that need."

"Oh, uh, sure! Yeah, that makes sense." The caller went silent, and Sandra began doodling on the notepad she kept beside her phone for just such lulls in the calls. No matter who it was that called, they never seemed to be fully prepared for these kinds of questions. "I guess I need someone who's on the lower end of the economic scale, not one of the building owners or whatever. Uh, not, like, homeless, or whatever, but... I mean, you know what I mean." There was a world of meaning in those last few words, and Sandra did not appreciate any part of that world. "You know what I mean" was shorthand for a myriad of -isms - racism, classism, sexism, most any other that the speaker wanted to name but not really name - and Sandra hated them all. She wished she could demand that they state their prejudices out loud and clearly, but she'd been spoken to about that in the past, so she bit her tongue this time.

"Right. Well, let me see what we can do. How large a role do you need this character to fill?" She pulled her Rolodex closer and began flipping through the cards with expert precision. "I don't have any placements right now for a main character, but I have a few available for side characters, love interests, wise mentors...do any of these sound appropriate?"

"Oh! Uh, let's see... not love interest, that would be weird. Uh, what do you have by way of a plucky sidekick?" The caller sounded genuinely interested in that one, which just made Sandra sigh even more. Why did the sidekicks always have to be "plucky" when they came from the disadvantaged part of the world? She flipped through a few more cards that had appeared as she spoke to the caller, pulling three of them out of the Rolodex for further review.

"What age range are you looking for?" Please don't say a child, Sandra thought as loudly as she dared. Please, just once, not a kid...

"Uh, maybe around high school age? Fifteen, sixteen maybe?" The caller was making things up as they went along, but Sandra wasn't going to stop them. "Yeah, that sounds good. Young adult-ish. Boy or girl, doesn't matter. Attractive, but not, like, super-model or whatever, just kind of nice looking. For who they are. You know what I mean."

One of the cards Sandra had pulled out had vanished, but another two had appeared in the Rolodex as the caller spoke. She looked at both of them and grinned to herself. "Oh, I think I might have just the character. Let me get your details, and I'll send them right over to you."

"Oh, awesome, thanks! And they'll just do what I tell them, right?" The caller's enthusiasm was like that of a puppy, and Sandra almost felt badly. Almost.

"Of course! Just like any other character you write. They'll do everything you say, no problem. You have a wonderful day!" After noting the caller's details, Sandra hung up the phone and turned off her ringer, allowing herself a moment to gloat. Then she moved to her typewriter and put in a transfer request form, humming to herself as she entered the details of her client's newest character.

Genevieve, one of her coworkers, noticed Sandra's grin and stopped by her desk on her way back from the coffee station. "Uh-oh. You look way too happy about something. What did you do?"

"Me?" Sandra's tone was pure innocence as she completed the form and pulled it from the typewriter with a flourish. "I'm giving the client exactly what they want. A 'plucky' teenager from the inner city to act as a sidekick." At Genevieve's raised eyebrow, Sandra continued. "The client never said that the teenager needed to speak English. Or be willing to deal with rich white kids. Or have a mother willing to let the kids spend time outside of school doing anything that might get them in trouble." She grinned again as she added the form to her "out" tray. "The client should have been more specific. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

"I didn't hear a thing," Genevieve said a little too loudly as she walked back to her desk, but Sandra's grin had passed to her own face along the way. Some days, you had to make your own fun.

August Debrief and What's Next

I'm drafting this up now, on the 29th, though I plan on posting after the end of the month. I want to get some thoughts down about my experience with the 31 stories in 31 days challenge, because it has been enlightening.

First, I want to shout out to the team that created the challenge, and the community on Discord that was incredibly supportive and enthusiastic throughout the entire experience. The team put out prompts every day (sometimes multiple prompts), worked on giveaways, engaged the community members to discuss what was going well, what wasn't, and being overall incredibly encouraging for all of us. I don't know how many people actually managed to hit 31 stories - I know I didn't, but I also figured pretty early on that writing more days than I didn't each week was what I needed to get things going for my brain.

I have been having a rough time with regards to my mental health of late. 2020 was not kind to any of us, and the combination of that, some physical health struggles, and just general brain goblin shenanigans have made the last year and a half more of a struggle than they need to be. I've been on more ups and downs than the average roller coaster, and it's been a challenge to convince myself to write anything. There's been some kind of wonderful alchemy this past month, though, of not having a word count to hit, not having to work on a specific story or slog my way through a part of my story that I'm stuck on, and knowing that all I'm doing is coming up with draft zero, which may very well not turn out to be anything beyond scribbles on a digital page - all of that together has been freeing for me. 

I know that, in a true definition of the term, the things I've written aren't short stories. They don't have developed plots or characters, there isn't any kind of meaning or depth to them, they're just scenes that I thought would be fun. Several of them tie back to the world of the Infinite Library, which is a novel that I started drafting for Nanowrimo last year and realized I was getting stuck on, and so I took the opportunity to flesh out bits and pieces of the universe in which the Library exists, as well as play with some ideas from the overarching thought of "a library where all of the world's literature exists and characters can travel between their books." It's not an especially unique idea, but it was one I'd wanted to play with, and I like some of what I came up with.

Some of the things I wrote came from a couple of decks of writing prompt cards that I've had kicking around for ages - the Reckless Deck series. Even then, I didn't use the cards quite how they are "meant" to be used, because I didn't necessarily write using a character or world that used all of the traits on the cards that I drew. I looked at the combination of cards (which included things like costume, weapon, integral feature, home land, etc.) and let it inspire something. There was no planning, no plotting or outlining, just a vague notion of "it would be neat if" or "what could be cool would be" and just going.

It's taking me a while to build up to saying this, but I actually like some of the things I wrote this month. I'm well aware of their faults, because obviously - everything's a draft zero, there's been absolutely no editing, and again, there's no depth to the narrative or characters. But I feel like I managed to do some fun things with words that turned out pretty well. I've gotten some positive feedback from people, as well, which is never going to hurt my feelings. Overall, this is probably the best I've felt about my writing in a very long time, and it's writing that I did with very little planning or taking the time to overthink things.

So what happens next? Well, there are two things, separate stories that I started, that I want to go back to and flesh out a bit more, see if I can turn it into something a little more polished and engaging. I've roughed out a shape for the pattern with pencil and graph paper, and now I want to go in and clean up the edges, push out the corners and see if I can make it into something that looks a little nicer overall. I may try to send them out into the world and see if anyone wants to print them, I may decide to just put a prettied-up version on my blog, but either way, I think they're stories that I would like to tell to more people if I can.

At the end of the day, I tell stories. It's what I've done since I was a little kid, and it's what I love to do. Writing stories down, making up characters and worlds and putting them out there for other people to experience, it's all something I like doing. I don't think I'll ever be a professional writer, and I know I'll never be comfortable making a living with nothing but my writing - I'm far too anxious and crave stability in all things, so having an income that varies based on sales of books would be a quick trip to a nervous breakdown, and I've already done that before, thanks much. But coming up with stories and letting other people read them if they want to? I can probably do that.

I want to keep writing more days than I'm not, but I don't think it'll be a new short story each time, like it was for August. I may spend September fleshing out the things I want to hang onto from August, or finishing up the multi-part stories I started - if you have any strong feelings one way or the other about what you'd like to see, let me know in the comments! And thanks. Having you read my stuff, knowing that at least a couple of people in the world are looking at what words I'm putting on a page, has been a really nice boost to the psyche. I'll try to give you more to read if you want it.