When I write short fiction, I like people to have to think about what they’ve read. I tend not to over-explain things – I think of short fiction the way I think of a joke. If you have to explain it, it loses something.
My father had a very dry sense of humour. Think John Cleese, and you’ll have an idea of what my dad was like. For years I didn’t “get” his jokes – say from the ages of 0 to 4. After that I learned to think about what I was being told, and to this day I prefer dry humour over any other kind. So my fiction – at least anything shorter than a novel – leans that way, especially the funny fiction. It’s different with longer works. I know when I don’t understand a novel I usually end up putting it down because it only gets worse.
But I often wonder if I’m being too obscure. Take the little story I wrote yesterday. It makes sense if you can figure out what I’ve done with it… but I have no idea if anyone who read it, did. If you’d like to humour me and give it a read, it’s only about 100 words long. Here it is: http://lindaghillfiction.wordpress.com/2014/07/03/fishin-pole-blues/
Otherwise, I’d like to hear from you. What do you prefer? Do you like to think about what you read in fiction? Or do you prefer to have it all laid out?
When asked by a reader who complained that a gay couple was moving in across the street what he could do to improve the quality of the neighborhood, “Dear Abby” replied, “You could move.”
― Abigail Van Buren
Anyone who would like to try it out, feel free to use the “One-Liner Wednesday” title in your post, and if you do, you can ping back here to help your blog get more exposure. As with Stream of Consciousness Saturday, if you see a ping back from someone else in my comment section, click and have a read. It’s bound to be short and sweet.
The rules that I’ve made for myself for “One-Liner Wednesday” are as follows:
In my infinite wisdom borne of never having enough of a challenge in my life, I’ve decided to join Camp NaNoWriMo, which starts July 1st. My goal is to write 25,000 words of the sequel to the novel I started and failed as a NanoWriMo project in November of 2011. That one took me 18 months to finish. I’m not under any delusion that I can get the sequel done in a month, so I won’t even try.
But wait, Linda, I hear you saying. You can’t even reply to the comments on your blog, what makes you think you can take on another project?
To answer that question, I have no idea other than that I need to start being creative again or I will go completely around the bend. I’m halfway there now, and let me tell you, the scenery ’round there is scary-dark and smells ominously like a fart.
Is it worse than getting lost in the woods while at Camp Nano? There’s only one way to find out. I figure I should be okay as long as I don’t come across any bears — ‘coz you know what THEY do in the woods.
I invented “One-Liner Wednesday” mostly as an excuse to post something small – be it an inspirational quote or something humorous – that is equivalent to Facebook blather or a tweet. I often get more out of the comments on these sentence-long posts than other articles which take me minutes, or even hours, to write. It’s you, my amazing followers, who make it happen. Thank you.
And so I’d like to extend an invitation. Anyone who would like to try it out, feel free to use the “One-Liner Wednesday” title in your post, and if you do, you can ping back here or on my weekly “One-Liner” post to help your blog get more exposure. As with Stream of Consciousness Saturday, if you see a ping back from someone else in my comment section, click and have a read. It’s bound to be short and sweet.
The rules that I’ve made for myself for “One-Liner Wednesday” are as follows:
1. Make it one sentence.
2. Make it either funny or inspirational.
That’s it.
I’d be delighted to make this a “thing,” so to speak. At the very least, I’d love to give back to my lovely audience by connecting you all to each other.
C’mon – give it a try, and find some new, interesting blogs!
The Grin Reaper (typo intentional) stopped by my table at Starbucks tonight and introduced himself. Seriously – he reminded me of the childhood image I have of Beelzebub.
I was sitting at a table working on my laptop, minding my own business and drinking a grande Mocha. Channing Tatum sat two tables away, alone, (yeah, unlikely, right? Okay, so it wasn’t him, but the guy I sat beside was the spitting image) facing the same way I was, doing something on a tablet. Our backs were to the wall. Here’s how it went:
Grin Reaper: (approaches my table and smiles, saying nothing)
Me: (looks up at him and tries not to shrink back)
Grin Reaper: (finally) Hello. I think we’ve met before.
Me: I don’t think so.
Grin Reaper: (holding out his liver-spotted hand) I’m Leo. Nice to meet you.
Me: (shaking his hand and deciding not to give my name) Nice to meet you too.
Grin Reaper: (smile slips) Do you come in here often? (smiles again)
Me: No, maybe once every six months.
Grin Reaper: Hmm. I sit in the mall every day and read four newspapers. And I play the piano at nursing homes so I keep busy.
Me: (staring at his crooked yellow teeth as he grins creepily) That’s nice.
Grin Reaper: (looks down at my laptop) What are you studying?
Me: Oh, I’m just writing.
Grin Reaper: You’re a writer? I’m a writer too. I write about psychology, sociology, neurology, philosophy, religion… (and he named off about four more things)
Me: Well that’s interesting.
Grin Reaper: (stares and smiles)
Me: Maybe I’ve seen you in the mall…
Grin Reaper: Yes, that’s probably it. (stares and smiles)
Me: Yyyeah…
Grin Reaper: (stares and smiles)
Me: (probably 20 seconds have passed but it feels like he’s been sucking on my soul for an hour) Well, it was very nice meeting you.
Grin Reaper: Yes, nice meeting you too. (smiles and retreats)
Beside me, Channing turns to look at me, smiles and shakes his head. I look back, eyes wide, one eyebrow raised, with a frightened look on my face. Channing laughs.
I swear to God, Leo looked EXACTLY like Reverend Kane (Julian Beck) from Poltergeist 2. About 90 years old, thin, and well over six feet tall, he walked with the stoop of a man above average height. He wore a three piece suit and a hat, and had the most God-awful creepy look about him, as though he wanted to tell me how my life is going to end in grisly yet accurate detail.
Had I had my wits about me, I’d have asked Channing if that really happened. In fact, I’d have asked for his number as well – you know, just because he’s my only witness – so I could get another reality check at 2am, after the nightmare I’m sure to have tonight.
I’ve been having a hard time for the past few days getting into editing my novel. I’m able to force myself to work, but then I come up with any number of excuses to do something else, every other sentence I fix.
Candy Crush Saga is only the tip of the ice cream cone. (Make that a mint chocolate chip Klondike Bar.) How about those dishes in the sink? Or is that another email? And let’s not even mention WordPress stats. And if all else fails and I’ve done everything else I can do, or eaten everything in the house (damn, I just ate tomorrow night’s pork chops… and why do my teeth hurt? Must be the fact that they were still frozen…) I start to notice that my butt’s starting to hurt because I’ve been sitting on it too long.
It has to be time for a glass of wine.
You can see how it goes. I sit down to edit at times like this and I get SO MUCH ACCOMPLISHED! just not any editing. Is it really worth spending three hours just to slice the hell out of two paragraphs that I end up not happy with anyway because I wasn’t really concentrating?
How does anyone get this job done for goodness sakes?!?
This morning while waiting outside for Alex’s school bus with Alex and my best friend John, I lifted my right hand to point at something and felt a shooting pain through my shoulder. I moaned. Not normally being one to complain about aches and pains, I thought about what made me so miserable where this shoulder thing is concerned.
Being that I was diagnosed with arthritis in it, I explained to John that pain has never really bothered me that much. I just live with it. But I realise it’s different this time, because I’m not sure it’ll ever go away: I may very well have to suffer with this one for the rest of my life.
I suppose just saying that made me deserve what was to come. At the house of the second customer on my paper route, I missed a step on the way down and landed on my knee on their brick pathway.
It could have been worse though – I could be out in the torrential downpour I’m watching through the window as I type this.
It’s true! A tuna has taken up residence under my front steps. What’s worse, there may be more than one!
Okay, by now you’re probably asking yourself what the hell I’m talking about. Let me tell you a story.
One fine evening when my eldest son was about a year old, my ex and I decided to go for a walk around the block, baby in carriage. It was spring, just like it is now, and the lilacs were blooming their fragrant heads off. The bumble bees were in heaven, and there were plenty of them. Their low pitched drones could be heard as they busily buzzed from blossom to blossom.
In the thick of it all, my ex decided that it might be the best idea for me to push the carriage. When I inquired why, he explained.
Now there are two things you need to know about my ex at this point. One, is that he is French. Quebecois. And two, that he is deathly afraid of bees.
His explanation for not wanting to push the carriage containing our child was as follows:
Because if I see a taon, I’m going to run.
Taon is the French word for horsefly, deer fly… but he meant bumble bee.
What I heard was thon, which is French for tuna.
Many minutes passed before I was able to get up off the ground from laughing so hard. When I could finally speak, with tears running down my face, I told him he could push the carriage because it didn’t matter – if I saw a tuna, I was going to run as well.
So there you have it. I have a tuna living under my steps. I won’t be telling my ex though – I won’t see him again until winter if I do.
That awkward moment when you’re concentrating really hard on making the bed until you realize that all three of you are sticking your tongues out but you’re the only one without ice cream.
lindaghill.com 