Better Fiction: The Blog

Adam was born fully mature, so, yes, there are exceptions to every rule. When it comes to writing, though, few of us are Adams. Yet, many of us enter this process believing otherwise.

Our writing has a life cycle that looks something like this: unpublished short stories; stories published in non-paying magazines; stories published in token-paying magazines; semi-professional paying markets; and professional paying markets. Along the way, novels are written and go unpublished. Eventually, the writer will gain a contract on a novel, with or without an agent. Depending on the market, sometimes it takes a contract to get an agent, sometimes it takes an agent to get the contract. On occasion, a writer will garner interest with his short work and be given the opportunity to publish a collection even before his first novel. It is safe to assume that the writer who has secured an agent or a publishing contract is now publishing short stories on at least the semi-professional paying level. To have one's stories published at the professional level without having a book on the market is quite a coup, as novelists use these markets to keep their names before the public between books.

There are exceptions to this. On occasion, stages in the cycle are skipped and writers seem to emerge fully mature. A first-time writer may break into a major magazine. A budding young novelist may sell his first work without ever having sold a short story. These events are rare and the stuff of dreams. The problem is that we, as writers, burden ourselves with the expectation that we will be an exception to the rule. Instead of creating quick success, however, these unrealistic expectations too often undermine a young writer's career.

Write short fiction and get your work critiqued. If your story is torn apart, good for you. The idea is not to be told how wonderful you are but to help you grow as a writer. Submit your work. Get it published. Try the major markets if you want, but get the story published somewhere. Keep at it. Grow as a writer. Get paid for your work. Oh, the money stinks. The days are gone where a writer could make a living this way, but this is how you grow.

Don't push yourself too far, too fast. Be sure that you are using your energy to the best advantage of your art.

Let the process take its time, but make sure you are in the process. Taking time while you fail to grow does you no good. Write. Critique. Publish. Repeat.

Writing is the labor of dreamers. Don't let unrealistic expectations cripple your budding career and knock you out of the dream.

(A reprint from the lost Better Fiction Blog)

Rick Bragg Retreat
By
Mary Ardis

The Sloans, who sponsored the retreat at their home in Northport, have their very own stop sign at the end of a long winding gravel driveway. We drove up the hill and pulled in behind two other cars that had just arrived. Two female writers getting out of their vehicles greeted us. We followed each other up the brick steps guarded by concrete angels up to the front door. A note taped to the door read “It’s open. Please come in.” We stepped inside. A spicy aroma drifted in the air. Artwork adorned the walls. High ceilings and lots of windows made the home feel spacious.

Joanne Sloan was the first to welcome us. She pointed to a large sunroom off the living room.

“That’s where all the sessions will be today with Rick so just go pick a comfortable spot to sit and put your things down. Then come out to the kitchen for a bite to eat.”

A 4th grade school teacher from Mississippi had joined us, and a gray bearded devotional writer. The youngest writer in the group was a black female from Birmingham who said she tried to start her own magazine last year, “Christian Lifestyles”, and “fell on my butt. It takes a lot of money,” she sighed. The last to arrive was the one we were all waiting and watching for. Rick Bragg entered the room doing his morning stretch, wearing a blue shirt the color of his eyes and a pair of faded blue jeans.

Joanne said, “I’m so sorry your pretty new wife couldn’t be here today.”

“She’s mean,” Rick said. “Really, she is so mean; you just don’t know how mean she is.” He continued to reiterate just how mean his wife is while we ate Joanne’s Morning Glory Muffins, and stared wide-eyed at this Pulitzer Prize winning author. We were in for a Rick Bragg down-to-earth kind of day.

Once settled in the sunroom, Rick got out an outline the Sloans prepared for him to follow. Rick said he wasn’t much into outlines. He just started right in telling us how his Momma is such a good cook.  He said when she goes out to eat he knows when she doesn’t think something taste just right because she shakes her head and then says, “The cook’s afraid of the salt shaker.” He said that’s how our writing is if we don’t add description which is like our salt and spices. He told us how growing up he loved to read but there were so many chores to do that the only time he could read was while he ate. The books he loved so much are marked by the food that fell onto the pages as he read.

“Metaphorically speaking, that’s what our writing needs, flavor,” Rick said.

Our first descriptive exercise was to go around the room and describe our hometown. We tried to put into practice what Rick had just shared. I began to see not just a gray bearded man or a young black female, but I began to see them in the their hometown settings. My favorite was the woman who ended her piece, after describing scenes from everywhere, "my hometown, you see, is the world."

We were now at our first writing break. Our assignment was to write about the person we love most in the world and describe their face and their hands. David Sloan told us we could go to several areas inside their home or outside, although it was still a bit chilly. Nothing was off limits. I chose a quiet reading room upstairs. My dilemma before I even began to full the blank page was who to describe. My loves in life were many and each one held a special spot in my hear: my husband, my parents, my son, my grandson my sisters. The two i kept coming back to were Daddy and my soul mate, Dwight. I plunged forward, conjuring up the face of my father. I struggled with describing it with the salt and spices Rick told us to use. I could hear his Momma whispering in my ear, "Don't be afraid of the salt shaker." The session ended before I got to Daddy's hands. How fast time flies when a pen in in my hand.

Gathered back in the sun room, other writers admitted they had not come close to finishing. Rick said to hold onto what we had and then after lunch we could work on it during our next writing session. So we held on and listened with fascination to how Rick Bragg describes life. "Don't force feed feelings. Let the reader develop them on his own from the description you give them of the person, the place, etcetera." When writing memoirs, he said to ask, "Who story is this?" Then use common sense and conscience. "You may have to make someone cringe to make someone else shine." Rick also said memoirs freeze life so it's not really lie, which is constantly changing, but it's the best you can do when writing about it. He talked about interviewing folks in his own family when writing "Ava's Man", the story of his own grandfather, a man he never met. He would ask people who knew him, "What did he say?" and "What happened next? Were you scared?" Then relax, he said, and enjoy their language and if version vary just state: "One version says... While another version says..."

We broke out for lunch where again Joanne had laid out a spread on her kitchen countertops. I fixed a ham sandwich on two slices of healthy brown bread and found a seat available at the table where Rick Bragg was just biting into his own sandwich. I asked him when he wrote for the St. Pete Times in Florida. It was the same time we were living there, around 1989. Rick's words were probably he first I read many a morning out on my deck, surrounded by flowering hibiscus is Largo, Florida. I told a woman sitting on the other side of me how I had worked with an assisted living home in Florida with Alzheimer's patients, encouraging them to recall stories from their childhoods. One lady was able to recall with vivid detail her girlhood days raised on a tobacco farm in Tennessee. The woman at our table said her Genealogy group had discussed trying this in their local nursing home. Later in the day, I would learn this woman's mother has severe Alzheimer's. She tearfully read to us the description of her mother's hands scarred from picking cotton in Georgia. I hope then that I had not said anything to offend her back at the lunch table, wishing I had saved my words for paper instead of talking, another bad habit of mine.

After the sandwich, I took a piece of Apple Spice Cake and my cup of soda and ventured outdoors. The sun was shining and an outdoor patio near a butterfly garden and bubbling fountain looked appealing. The Apple Spice Cake drew the attention of one fat bumble bee buzzing overhead. I stuffed the cake into my mouth and crumbs descended onto my open page. Rick Bragg would be happy to know I was adding flavor to my writing. I took up my pen and wrote about Daddy's hands. For some reason the hands were easier than the face. What Daddy did for me with those hands began to stir a lot of feeling and emotion in me. I wanted so badly to capture this on paper. This session too ended all too soon.

Back in the sunroom, full of food and feeling a little sleepy, we sat back and relaxed and listened to what other writers had just written. One by one we read our pieces. Each time Rick found something in our writing that stirred up memories of his own and he shared them with us, with rich detail so we could see the person or the place or his Momma's miniature donkeys, Mimi and Buckey. I also learned how Wayne and Carolyn met at the Dairy King over an ice cream cone, how the color brown became exciting for Wayne and how much love and respect they have for each other.

Rick then read to us something he wrote when he was angry with his Momma, when he sat by her hospital bed for days, afraid he was going to lose her for not take care of her gallbladder before it turned gangrene. It was a piece about The Boy and was full of rich detail, raw emotions and real drama, not melodrama. One writer objected to his feelings but most of us had been there and related to his story written with such honesty. We knew he was falling in love with The Boy just like he had fallen in love with The Boy's "mean" Mother.

It was time for a short beak. Many made their way to the television set. Alabama and Tennessee were battling it out on the field. Rick stood with his back to the screen and spoke some more about The Boy. I was glad Rick Bragg was going to be a part of The Boy's life.

On the bookshelves near the television were photos of David and Joanne's family and a plaque with the words: Never, Never, Never Give Up. Joanne had told Carolyn and I earlier in the day, when she saw us standing near the group of photos admiring her beautiful grandkids, that the plaque was a gift from her daughter Cheryl Wray. Cheryl always remembered that quote of Winston Churchill's being a favorite of her Mother's and one she would often hear her Mother repeat to her. When Cheryl found the plaque, she knew she had to buy it and give it to her Mother. So, there it sat next to the family that she never, never, never gave up on. Joanne said one her grandson's said to her, "Grandma, always, always, always quit." This was another memory to take home with me and a new quote to spur me on when I felt with my writing doing what Joanne's grandson recommended.

Our last time together gathered in the sunroom was bitter sweet. We knew the end of this special day was fast approaching. Rick read to us and told more great stories. He admitted to us that he had times when he wonders if he'll ever be able to write another word and that the writing process is hard. He apologized that we didn't have more writing sessions and that he hadn't quite gotten the hand of the outline for the day. Then he did and amazing thing. He gave us his phone number, his email addresses both at work and at home, and his mailing address and encouraged us to contact him with any questions we had on writing and to even send our manuscripts for him to read and comment on. My mouth fell open. No other writer, not even close personal friends, had ever given me such an open invitation. I jotted down this valuable information and prayed I would not lose it and, more importantly, that I would use it wisely.

Class was over. Cameras came out. There was a quick photo session. For the group photo I quickly scrambled for a spot behind the couch to hide my biggest faults. I didn't realize I was going to be right next to the Guest of Honor. David Sloan took the photo with his digital camera, and when I arrived at work on Monday morning, with my feet back down on solid ground, there was the picture to remind me of one special day on earth when I felt I had entered a section of Heaven reserved only fro writers.

Before we left that day, we stood near the concrete angels out front and said our thanks and our goodbyes and got to hear Rick complain about his honey-do list and we shared a few storied of our own with him under the warmth of the slowly setting sun. On the drive home, we listened to the rest of the Alabama/Tennessee game. I sat in the back seat, copying Joanne's recipe for those Morning Glory Muffins. By the time I complete my copy job, Alabama had lost, but I thought about how we had just won at Breeze Hill. That day we had won at the game of writing. We won inspiration and we won new friends. I hoped this would carry us through all of life's seasons and that there would be no cure for Bragg Fever, and that it might, in fact, even be contagious.

The Beginning

(reprinted from the lost Better Fiction Blog)

I was in Shanghai when I received word that my story, "Window Blind", which is set in an unidentified Asian country, was accepted for publication in the Christian science fiction magazine, "Mindscapes". Though I was happy with the story early on, I have revisited it several times, not so much for artistic purposes as political ones. One of the concerns was the fairly mundane issue of its religious content being unpalatable for secular markets. My other concern was closer to home.

As I write this, my stories are of little consequence to this world, and that might never change. I am aware, however, that the Chinese government is concerned about its image, and the original version of the story would not have been taken well. Since we have family in China and travel back and forth at least every few years, I didn't want to publish something that would cause any difficulty.

The need to adapt the story in this way bothered me. After all, my intent was not to make any particular anti-Chinese government statement. I could have set the story in America's near future, and the point of the story, and it cultural comments, would have remained the same. Still, I knew changes had to be made.

At first, I removed specific references to any particular Asian country, believing I could make the setting more generic. I don't think that was too successful. Eventually, though, I adopted a solution that I think served the story well.

"Window Blind" is a blending of the types of fiction I usually write, being both crime fiction and mundane science fiction. I chose to emphasize the futuristic aspect and bring in Christen speculative standards by setting it at a time when the country in which the story is set is on the brink of joining a fledgling world government referred to as the Global Community. Thus the much of the controversial aspects involved could be shifted off of the local government without jeopardizing my setting or story.

Now I have one more concern. There is so much that I just didn't understand about this country, and so much more that I know I need to learn. I'd made a few trips to Hong Kong, but this was my first mainland experience. Getting their viewpoint of their own history has been eye-opening.

Lately, the news at home as been abuzz with the views of a certain preacher who sees the United States as if nothing had changed in the last forty years. Those of us who have been baffled by his beliefs admit that America is not perfect, but neither are we stuck in the 1960's forever. Just as that is true at home, it is true here. We cannot allow our views of China to be mired in its own history.

As science fiction, the story stands, but any connection with this story and present-day China would be a mistake.

Our guide asked me how I could write stories set in China, if I don't live here. My answer was, "I make mistakes." He talked about his interest in seeing how others saw his country, and I confessed that was probably my biggest concern: people assuming that the view of a location presented in a work of fiction is a good representative of how the author sees that location. In traditional Chinese painting, the artist does not try to correctly reproduce what he sees. Instead, he is trying to capture a feeling. The writer does something similar. The setting for much of fiction is now about holding a mirror up to life. (We often shade the world darker than it is for crime fiction, for example.) Instead, the setting grounds the story and gives it a sense of reality, but reality is selectively presented to give a certain atmosphere to the story.

Perhaps I can only speak for myself, but I do not write to capture a certain area so much as I want to use that area to capture something about humanity. I do not write about the Chinese, Europeans, or any other group, I write about people, and I depend upon the belief that our differences illustrate how we are alike.

Wade Ogletree

This is a reprint from the lost Better Fiction Blog. "Window Blind" can now be read in the archives of Mind Flights.

Today is Better Fiction's fourth anniversary. By internet standards, we've been around for a while, and I couldn't be more thrilled. Thanks everyone!

A brief history: In the fall of 2004, I experienced a rebirth as a short-story writer. I had just finished a rather rotten attempt at a novel, but I did at least finish the project. I had another project in the works, but I needed a break from the long, drawn-out process of writing novels. I had written shorts stories before, but never really liked the outcome. The closest I'd come was a sci-fi radio play, "The Body Shop", that was produced by USC radio around 1990. I got lucky with that project, and in the fall of 2004, I started getting lucky again.

The writing began to click. Still, I needed help and feedback. I joined a critique group that seemed to have entered into a dormant period and made it my purpose to help pump life back into it. I found the feedback, though imperfect for we are all imperfect people, to be valuable, and I was especially thrilled at the positive response to my own critiques. Within a month, the forum began to feel like my online community.

Then on the first of January, 2005, I returned to the forum to find it shut down. The writing site that sponsored it had decided to abruptly change direction, and I was left virtually homeless. Having put so much into that community, I decided that instead of joining another, I would try starting my own. Better Fiction began January 4th, 2005.

Thank you for the last four years. Thank you for your input and your hard work. Thank you for your support and friendship.

Happy Anniversary, Better Fiction. May there be many more to come.

Wade Ogletree

You are what you do with where you are.

Tonight, I want to write to you about who we are as human beings. Character is an issue I've pondered much in the last year or so, and the more I consider myself, the more discouraged I have become. There is the notion that people do not change. Sometimes, I want to believe that. I believe it when I see myself make the same mistakes over and over again, when I want to change and find that in so many ways I have not. I want to tell you, though, that I have been wrong in the way I've looked at the character issue. You see, I could define what I wanted to be, and I could define who I was, but I didn't know how to deal with the difference. Today, I saw something.

What matters is not so much how I am currently wired. Rather, it is how I deal with the way I am wired.

Right now, wherever you are, whatever the situation, whatever the cause, the biggest character question is NOT what brought you here. No. The question is how will you react now? What conscious decision will you make? How will you move forward? That is character.

Being a writer, I believe, means being less than you intended to be. It pretty much comes with the territory. Some days we don't feel that way. Some days it hits us hard.

One response is depression, which is so often an expression of self love that says we wanted more for ourselves or out of ourselves and we simply cannot handle that we are less than we imagined ourselves to be. Writers are famous for taking that route. There is a better way.

Self-indulgence says we are who we are and gives us permission to drop dreams and levels of expectation all together. Morals collapse. Lives plummet. Again, wrong choice.

First, we need to remember that it's not all about us. Then we make a decision to move forward. When we do that, our shortcomings do not define us, our moving forward does. That whole notion is so clearly part of God's plan. We are forgiven. Why? So we can move forward in Him. Get up and choose.

It's a subtle point. Don't miss it. You are what you do with your mistakes, shortcomings, and failures. Even if this is the millionth time you've done the same stupid thing, you are what you do with where you are.

(A reprint from the original Better Fiction blog.)