Flash Fiction Experiment

The man does not say anything.

The woman gets up off of the sofa, walks into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water, and drinks it silently in the dim bluish light of the television screen. The man looks at his hands. The woman sighs and turns to put her empty glass in the sink.

"You want anything, then?"

"Nope."

The woman walks into the bedroom and quietly closes the door. The man walks to the bookshelf, picks up a book, considers it for a moment, replaces it, and returns to the sofa. In the dim bluish light of the television screen, he reaches for a half-empty can of soda that sits on the coffee table and finishes it in two or three gulps.

***

Not really sure what this is. I've been wanting to write some "flash fiction" ever since I was exposed to Amelia Gray's "AM/PM" a few months ago. I've also been wanting to see if and how characters develop when writing takes on a distant and observational tone, relaying actions and words without adding any kind of meaning to them that an omniscient narrator or first-person perspective allows. I kind of like this minimalistic form. We'll see what comes of it.

I hate not writing for so long, so here I am. I'm in Zimmerman Library (the main library at the University of New Mexico), and I have a stack of six books about Oscar Wilde on the desk waiting for me. In the next couple of hours I'll be - I hope - finishing up a paper for my English Lit class that's due tomorrow.

I'm writing about the significance of fractured identities in Wilde's famous "The Importance of Being Earnest." If it turns out to be any good, maybe I'll even post part of it. Lately I've found myself wanting to "publish" bits of my schoolwork that I'm particularly proud of.

I thought about writing on Stevenson's "Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde" for this topic, but I chose the play because I've never thought of it as anything more than a ridiculous, witty comedy. But, thanks to my English Lit class, I see it in a new light: a biting commentary on Victorian society and ideals, a practical mockery of traditional forms of theatre and character, as well as traditional ideas about romance. Well, I'm not sure about that last part. In my paper, I'm more arguing that Wilde is not saying that love and marriage in Victorian society is shallow and foolish; my thesis is, roughly, that Wilde respects love, marriage and commitment, but the strict standards of Victorian society stifle and hinder his character's achievement of them.

We'll see how it turns out.

In terms of publishable work, I got a pleasant surprise in the form of my graded short fiction story that I turned in for my creative writing class. My professor LOVED it; I got a 100%, and I'm not even sure if it's entirely possible for anyone to get a 100% on a paper, especially a piece of creative writing, but it's nonetheless flattering. Aside from some minor suggestions of paragraph placement, sentence editing and perhaps one or two paragraphs added in to expand on some ideas, my professor thought it was great. He told me I should submit it to be published when I'm done revising it, and that he can help me do so.

The shocking thing about all of this is that I felt like my short story was crap. Well, not complete crap, but I certainly wasn't intensely proud of it. It was really challenging to write; I feel that poetry comes much more naturally to me. But that's the funny thing I'm learning about being an artist, of any form; you never know how your work is going to be received, which is a good and a bad thing. I may hate a piece, but my professor turns around and adores it. On the flip side, though, that leaves the possibility for me to love a work of mine, and others to think it's not that great.

It's so tricky with writing. There's definitely a line between good writing and bad writing; if something's bad, you know it's bad. But on each side of that line, there's a very large gray area in which it's hard to say, especially, I find, when I'm critiquing my own writing.

And, of course, what constitutes "good" writing has changed throughout the centuries, as well as with different cultures. For example, when the Enlightenment swept through Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, good writing was concise, rational, an adequate representation of life and society and, above all, a criticism of the foolish. Think Alexander Pope, Moliere, and, of course, Descartes, who famously split the mind from the body.

Then along come Blake, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the rest of the Romantics, and they turn the focus to the emotions, to nature, to spirituality, and that's the stuff that makes good writing.

So the fact that my creative writing professor loved my short story is both encouraging and discouraging. Well, it gives me pause, at least. Maybe it's just because I'm new at this, and I'm still developing myself as a writer, but I'm not sure what to make of the fact that art is so subjective in one sense, and yet in another sense it's entirely objective. Like I said, there is good art, and there is bad; it's trying to find the distinction that's the challenge.

As if Mondays aren't bad enough already, my Mondays are always the longest, most tiring days of my week. I have four classes on Mondays - and in earlier semesters I've never had more than two classes in one day. World Lit, break. English lit, break. Creative Writing, break. Honors class. And today, I and another girl in my honors class are co-leading, which I'm a little nervous about but not nervous enough to really do anything else beforehand (although I may look over the readings again and jot down a few back-up discussion questions, just in case). My partner has never seemed too worried about the whole thing, so I'm following her lead.

I feel like I'm just doing work all day on Mondays. Most of the time I use my breaks in between classes to catch up on some reading I didn't finish, or edit whatever is due in Creative Writing that day. It takes about ten minutes to get from class to class because the campus is so huge, so a big chunk of my time is spent just commuting. At the end of the day, I'm mentally and physically exhausted.

On a sort-of related note, I'm going to post one of the exercises I did for Creative Writing today. We're focusing on setting, so the instructions for this particular exercise were to take a typical scene from your childhood and write about it using the long-shot, middle-shot, close-up method. If you're unfamiliar, it's basically a technique in which you begin describing your scene in a broad sense ("it was summer of 1995"), zoom in a little to the middle shot range ("the street in front of our midwestern house was deserted as usual") and then end on a tightly focused image ("I squirmed in my chair at the lemonade stand, shifting my legs every few minutes to unstick them from the hot plastic"). I don't know if those are the best examples (since I just made them up on the spot), but hopefully you get the picture.

Here's my piece. Honestly, it's probably my favorite bit of writing that I've done for this class so far.

The campus baked in the mid-afternoon sun, empty playground equipment and the metal sheeting of low-cost portables wobbling in the heat waves. There’s no bell, just a clock in every room watched by the teachers, and watched more closely by the students. At three o’clock it’s finally time, and we dart out of the low-ceilined classrooms, sneakers shuffling over the blue carpet and out onto the asphalt and dirt. Some parents are already idling in the pick-up line, and their corresponding students separate from the sticky herd, beckoned by air-conditioned vehicles. The rest of us make our way around to the backside of one of the buildings near the parking lot, a designated space of ground separated from the cars by a chain-link fence. I drop my purple backpack in the shade of the building, myself following. I wait, playing tic-tac-toe against no one, digging moats and constructing cities for ants until my mother’s minivan joins the cue of cars, kicking up dust, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

I've lately developed an interesting, and probably strange, habit. When I'm going about my day, in my various tasks and activities, I've noticed that my thoughts have become more of a formulated "inner monologue". I start to think as if I'm writing in past tense about what's going on in the moment. For example, yesterday I was going to take a shower and I couldn't find my normal body wash. After looking through the drawers and cabinets in my bathroom and deciding that my little sister must have stolen it for the road trip to Idaho she and my parents took this weekend, I broadened my search to include my parents' bathroom.

As I rummaged around, I became oddly self-aware of my own thoughts. I suppose that during a task such as wandering around your house in your bathrobe looking for body wash, most people will lend themselves toward thinking about something else, something totally unrelated. After all, how thought-consuming can looking for body wash be?

Instead, my thoughts went something like this: I opened drawer after drawer, checked under both sinks, looking behind bottles of rubbing alcohol and cologne for body wash, or at least an unopened package of hotel soap.

The cause for this, I think, is my ever-increasing interest in being a writer. Because of this, and also thanks to my creative writing class, I have become more observant, more aware of my surroundings, and even of my own thoughts. I'm always thinking about to turn something into an interesting narrative. I'm always asking myself the question, how would I write about this if I wanted to post it in my blog, or include it in a creative writing project?

Maybe I should make myself a woven bracelet, embroidered with the acronym W.W.I.G.D - What would Ira Glass do?

Or maybe that sounds a little too crazy-obsessive.

The Sarah/Julie/Julia Project?

I've started reading Julie Powell's Julie and Julia, the middle installment of the movie-based-on-a-book-based-on-a-blog process that ended with last year's theatrical release starring the brilliant Meryl Streep and the adorable Amy Adams. At first, I was a little put-off by her crass language; it's not too much to be totally inappropriate, but it's enough to make her seem a little prickly around the edges.

But now I'm hooked. It's addicting, and a little inspiring - after all, Julie Powell was somewhat of an aspiring writer who got started by documenting her thoughts and impressions on a blog. I guess I take for granted how easy it is to be self-published these days. If you're good, it's a good way to get your foot in the door in the new-media/publishing industry.

Which begs the question: am I good? A college professor said in a lecture once that if you're posting online, you're findable. And if you're good, people will come to you. As of now, I don't exactly have a fanbase, outside of immediate family and friends. Maybe I need some kind of short-term goal to give my writing a more concrete direction and framework, like Julie Powell. That seems to be key to that kind of success, that is, having a goal, a thesis statement of sorts, to guide you as you present to the world something it's never seen before: life through your eyes.

All good things to keep in mind, but I think I'd have to start a new blog if I began a project like that. Which, of course, is the easy part.

Seasons

I need another accordion file. Probably a couple, actually. I just spent some time cleaning up my desk space, which was covered in papers and mail and books. I am not a naturally organized person, and sometimes I don't know how my (more tidy) room mates put up with me. Clothing is the worst; when I get lazy, I don't bother to fold or put away clothes when I take them off. Especially if I'm just stumbling in after a long day; all I want to do is get in bed ASAP.

Another thing I need: to write something, even just a little something, every day. I think I'll set a goal for myself - maybe to spend fifteen to twenty minutes writing, either in my journal or on here, every day. The past few days I've been thinking to myself, I need to write, I need to organize my thoughts; but I haven't made the time, and if I put it off, those thoughts slowly fade away.

I think I could be a writer someday, in some form. I enjoy it, and my mentor says I've "got the chops" for it. But I am learning that, like almost everything in life, it is definitely a craft that needs to be practiced and perfected. One does not become a brilliant writer with charming syntax and a polished voice in a day, or a week, or a year. Life is all about the process. Life is, itself, one continuous process of continuous change and growth. As is writing, I think. As are most things.

This semester. Sheesh. So much has happened, most of it unexpected. I was in the play, which was one of the most formative experiences of my life; I made friendships I never knew I would make; I read a TON of theology; I got engaged. I feel like a totally different person now than the scared, insecure girl who began this semester. I'd almost forgotten about that girl entirely.

This semester, this crazy, wonderful, life-changing semester, finally feels like it's really coming to a close. Today, my good friends Anna and Christine threw me a bridal shower. It was so much fun, with lots of laughing and food and games. God has blessed me beyond words with the people, and the friends, that are here. In all of the heights and depths this semester has brought, they have rallied around me with encouragement and tender, genuine love. I think it's rare to find that in a group of people.

When the shower was over, it was a little bittersweet as I realized that it might be the last time for a long time that I see some of those friends. When the term's officially over next week and everyone has scattered in the wind, there will be some people I won't see until, perhaps, the day before our wedding - if then. It's really ending, I've realized. It's caught me a little off-guard; mostly, I think, because this semester has been jam packed with business and change. So much has happened, it's hard to believe it's almost over. This adventure is finally ending, and a new one is about to begin.

But, I do know that while it is more sad to leave this place because of the deep friendships I have gained, there is comfort for that very same reason. Although this is an end, it's not the end, and there are few people I'm saying goodbye to now whom I doubt will remain a part of my life, in some (if only small) shape or form for a very long time.

But even if not. Even if after a couple of years I lose touch with people, even if this is the last time I see some of them (I pray that's not the case), it will be okay. Because it has been good. It has been painful, and hard, and unbearably scary at times, but it has been good. I have tried, I have learned, I have grown, I have loved. And that will only continue in the future, whatever happens.

I have regrets. But this time, this season in my life - it has not been a waste.