What Might Have Been – A Quick Fiction Story

A tear rolled down her cheek as she was sat there, alone, coffee in front of her.  She had the window seat in the small coffeeshop, and she quickly wiped the tear away, angry with herself for allowing it.  She resolved to keep the rest from flowing, and she took a sip of coffee to relieve her distress.  It didn’t help.

Five years.  It had been five years, and now it had come to this.  Alone, watching the snow drift down on another dreary Pittsburgh winter day.  She loved this city, had stayed here long after many of her friends had gone.  She enjoyed every season, even the winters.  She had dreamed of raising children here, of showing them the–

But no.  This wasn’t a good train of thought right now.

She forced herself onto another track, tried to focus on the book she had brought.  It talked of Italian cooking, had recipes from the southern part of Italy.  She loved Italian food, for some reason.  Thanks to her blonde hair and big blue eyes, she was pretty sure she didn’t have any ancestors from the Mediterranean, but she adored pasta and olives and good crusty bread and all the other wonders of the cuisine.  She had loved learning to cook various recipes, from Tuscany, from Naples, from glorious Roma itself.  She had planned, in her mind, family dinners, where she would surprise her–

No.  Stop.  Again, don’t think of that.  Think of something else.

A man walked in, wearing a Penguins jersey, and she wondered if the Pens would get to the championships this year.  The Steelers hadn’t done too well, and the Pirates seemed like a hopeless cause at this point.  Like most pittsburghers, she was a fan of all the region’s sports teams.  Her blood was probably black and gold.  She knew her children would be fans, raised that—

She choked then, and rose from her seat, fleeing blindly into the night.

The barista came over a little later, found the piece of paper sitting on the floor, picked it up.  Seeing the hospital logo on the top, she scanned it in case somebody might need to come back for it.  Then she closed her eyes and said a grateful prayer she had been able to have children, even as her heart broke for the poor woman who never would.

The Inspirer – a quick fiction story

I was sitting there on the Boulevard Montparnasse, notebook in front of me, and I was frustrated.  I had been trying for hours to come up with just the right look, the flash of inspiration that would turn into a trend that would justify the pay I earned.  But everything was eluding me.  Beautiful women strolled by, and I was watching them – it’s always been a weakness of mine.  It’s why I went into fashion in the first place – the desire to be surrounded by them.  Unlike many of the designers, I didn’t “bat for the other team.”  I appreciated the female form – my models were a little curvier than most, less of the stick thin little boy figures.

But still, designing the trend for spring, I was having no luck.  I had left New York for Paris, hoping that the inspiration would strike.  All the latest trends paraded by me now…thigh high boots (both done well and with the stripper look), peep toe boots, tweed, sweaterdresses.  All for Fall.  But I was working on spring…and nothing was striking me.  Hemlines were high, shorts were ridiculously short, but I could only tweak trends like that.  I racked my brains.

And then she walked by.

I don’t know who she was, but it seemed as if she went by in slow motion.  This happens to me a lot.  I see a woman and the right look for her jumps out at me, and I know – I know – that this will be the look everyone is wanting to wear.  She was tall, curvy.  Her hair was thick and wavy, her olive skin shining in the wan light of November in Paris.  She wore a beige trenchcoat, grey tights, high heeled boots…but that wasn’t what I saw her in.  No, in my imagination it was spring, and she was casting off the warmth of winter and embracing the sun, and what would she wear underneath?  It would be light, diaphanous, even.  Floating around her torso, it would allow her to feel the warm breeze of the Mediterranean places she called home.

I picked up my pencil, opened my Moleskine, and begin to sketch as she disappeared down the Boulevard.

What I’m Reading – The Tides of War

So right now I’m reading Tides of War by Stephen Pressfield.  It’s about Alcibiades in the Peloponnesian War.  Pressfield is a damn difficult writer to read, but I imagine he’s easier than Thucydides, the author of The History of the Peloponnesian War, from which Pressfield gets much of the story.  The History has been recommended by many strategists and politicians and bloggers about the same, such as Ryan Holiday.  Supposedly Rumsfield was a big fan and that was part of what led to the Iraq invasion in 2003. Opinions differ on whether the USA is represented by Athens or Sparta (Sparta being located in the Peloponnesian peninsula, and thus the name).

I’m only part way into it, but I will note that he takes a charismatic but flawed leader and runs through his rise and fall.  Conn Iggulden does this with Julius Caesar and Genghis Khan in what I have to say is a much more readable fashion.  Pressfield wrote a book called The Hot Gates about the battle of Thermopylae – this was before the Movie “300″ – and it was a struggle to get through it even though the subject itself is fascinating.  I mean, three hundred and something pages for one battle?  So he fills it with training and childhood and all that character development stuff.  It’s told from the point of view of a Spartan slave who survives the battle.  And it’s said he writes awesome battle scenes but I think Bernard Cornwell blows Pressfield away here.

This book is told by Polemides, a fictional character made up by Pressfield that was a good friend of Alcibiades but also his assassin, in the end.  There’s a whole lot more to the story but seeing as how I’m only a third of the way through it I’ll leave it to later to talk more about it.

I’ll say this – it’s a shame we didn’t read the classics in school.  I’ve been reading Aurelius and Herodotus and Thucydides and even a better version of Homer these last few years and these guys are good.  I’d rather read these than Wuthering Heights or Great Expectations.  But who knows, at this rate I may end up enjoying Shakespeare too…

A New Story

Not my best, but scribbled on a Sunday at Starbucks.  Anne LaMott was right – crappy first draft.

Comments welcome.

            She sat in the café, her hands wrapped around the hot cup of tea, and a tear rolled down her cheek.  It was cold outside and she shivered – the scarf around her neck was of no help in reducing the chill, nor was the pink cap with red hearts on it.  This was probably the worst Valentine’s Day she could remember.

            It wasn’t that she was alone, nor was it the loneliness of being in this city, of being in a place far from home.  That was nothing new either, and really, she didn’t mind travelling.  She knew she always had a place full of warmth and love to return to, a family that truly cared about her.

            No, it was for him that she was crying.  They had been lovers once, long ago, and each had moved on.  She had moved on to a literary career, writing articles for magazines, even a few chick-lit books, and finally several full length novels.  She had made a good living, and she knew that she lived a good life.

            But him, that was another story.  He had been a lover of many women, had been a traveler, an inveterate gourmand.  But he had never found his role in life.  He had wandered from place to place, never truly finding a home.  He had never known the joy of a child’s love – although he certainly had a few scattered here and there.

            He had been a dilettante, always dabbling in some new subject, participating in some new get rich quick scheme.  On the occasions when they worked, he had gone through the money quickly, spending it on women and dissolute living.  He had enjoyed all kinds of experiences, from skydiving to rafting, to backpacking through foreign countries.  When he ran out of funds he had friends all over that would send him money.  She herself had, on several occasions – it was to his credit that he had remained friends with many of the women he had bedded.

            It had never been a one night stand thing.  He had carried on extended affairs with each of his conquests.  For several months he made them feel like the most special woman on earth – and eventually, as the flames of passion faded, they came to see that he would leave, and eventually even the most infatuated woman had to let him go.

            The letter had come on a Friday – he was bedridden in a small town, and could she please come – he needed money to pay for his treatment and he needed someone that cared.  So she came, astonishing herself, and by the time she arrived, he had died of complications.  There was nothing left but the clothes he had worn into the hospital, and a note, to her, dictated to the nurse.  “Please take me home.”

            The body had been cremated, the little urn sitting on the dresser in her hotel room.  And now she cried, because she was unable to fulfill his last request.  For she didn’t know what place he could ever call home.  The best she could do was to scatter his ashes to the winds and hope that it would bring him peace, wherever he was.

Scott

Homework from Dawn on Character Creation

Homework from Dawn:

http://dawnpapuga.com/?p=271

It was a cool autumn evening in Prague as Lenka walked home through Stare Mesto.  She had been at Jo’s Bar across the Vltava discussing her favorite book, The Sun Also Rises, by Hemingway.  It had been a spirited discussion with some of her American friends, who didn’t always take kindly to Hemingway’s chauvinism.  But that was the times he had lived in.

 

Speaking of times, she smiled as she entered the town square.  Fall was her favorite time of year here in Prague.  The only way it could be better would be if she had someone to share it with.  Currently, though, she was single.  She had come close to marriage once, but her brother, her only sibling and her best friend, had helped her to see that it wouldn’t have been in any way good for her to marry that particular man.

 

She passed a street vendor selling nuts, and shook her head as she sped up slightly.  Nuts gave her the sniffles, and she avoided them for that reason.  She’d heard that some people were so allergic to them that their throats would close up if they even tasted one.  She shuddered, thankful she didn’t have that particular reaction to them.

 

She could see the Powder Tower now and she stopped for a moment, remembering the man she had met there a year ago.  He was visiting from America and he had hesitantly struck up a conversation.  Upon finding out he was a writer, she had excitedly told him that she hoped to become one someday as well.  He had smiled and encouraged her to follow her dream.  And ever since, she had continued to write, buoyed by the fact that surely if he could do it, she could too…

Writer’s Block Angst

From my journal.  Kind of whiny and angsty and stuff…

So what concerns me is this:  If you say you want to write, but you’re not writing, because you can’t think of anything you want to write, does that mean you really don’t want to write or that you have too high an expectation of yourself and you’re afraid or maybe you’re afraid that this is just another time you’ll start and not finish or is it that you have one big gorram case of writer’s block?

 

‘Cause that’s where I’m at right now.  Can’t think of a bloody thing I want to write, at least for longer than a few seconds or so.  And I sure don’t have any stories just bursting to get out of me.  It used to be easy.  First there were the post-nuclear war stories with me and a friend.  Then there were the World War III stories with me and all my acquaintances and friends, Then there were the space stories with my acquaintances and friends, and then there were engineer traveling the world stories with, yep, you guessed it, me and my acquaintances and friends.  And what tied them all together was ME getting the hot chick and having some neat adventures and then getting married and stuff.

 

And then I got married and I stopped writing that kind of thing because, after all, I had MET the girl here at home and married her and started a family.  I also realized that I was most likely not going to get the kind of job where I was often travelling internationally, and really, I didn’t want to be away from my wife and child all the time anyway.  To grow as a writer, I needed to write about somebody that was NOT me.

 

And so, I decided I wanted to write about my hometown. You’re supposed to write about what you know but literature or mystery or suspense were never the genre I read, only international thrillers and war, but not having been very many places you can’t write about what you don’t know…

 

And maybe I’m a very good scene writer but kind of weak at characterization and absolutely unskilled at plots, but there’s no one to teach me how to do that, anyway.  The one time I went to a writer’s group it was a disaster.  They informed me that I wasn’t even writing in their genre and besides, my story should have started in the middle, and the story I’d spent three years polishing and having people tell me was good was, in fact, not good.  And that shook my confidence, and besides, nobody makes a living as a writer, not really, and who am I, and I’m 37, and isn’t it time I grew up anyway?

 

And these and other thoughts are assaulting me because that thing called Resistance is really strong, and that’s where I’m at, because I haven’t come up with the weapons I need to fight it, namely persistence, perseverance, and so on.

 

And worse is that I’ve read truly good books by masters of the craft, and other people have written badly written books about boy wizards and become runaway successes, and I realize that what I turn out probably won’t be either, and that doesn’t help either.

 

And that’s when I just write in my journal occasionally, whining about how I’m procrastinating and stuck and vowing that I will start to write, and then a week or two goes by and I’m writing the same thing in my journal, and so I have accomplished nothing, and the cycle starts again, because I vowed, and as soon as I figure out what genre and locale and what POV I’ll use, and then there’s that whole pesky plot thing again, and creating characters but who wants to spend time on the villain when I want to work on the characters I like, such as the main character, the hero guy, and the hot chick that he has a romance with – not too deep, mind you, just your typical James Bond coupling, except wait, I want to reflect Christian values, so maybe I’ll make them married, except that then the whole situation changes, so okay, he’s married and no relations with the hot chick, but what fun is that, so now what do I do?  And besides, he’s getting awfully suspiciously like me, and that’s not how it supposed to be, so let’s go back and create this character, the hero guy, who gets the hot chick, except not if they’re not married, and here we go again…

 

War was so easy to write.  Just plop my characters into a battle and off I went, and made sure to describe all the really cool hardware while I was at it.  International spy was easy too, because the character just went to exotic locales had had gunfights with the bad guy’s henchmen, and the girl was the one he rescued and fell willingly into his arms (in both types).  Except that real life, of course, is never that easy but who wants to write about real life?

 

And then I wanted to, and I didn’t know how, because I never read that kind of stuff, and couldn’t think of a plot that didn’t involve a gun battle of some type.  Which is great for potboilers and so-called men’s adventure but not so good for getting published in a magazine.  At least it wasn’t too useful for short stories.  I didn’t want to write potboilers, so writing a book length thing was kind of out, and besides, that took me right back into that whole not writing about what I didn’t know scenario.

 

And so that’s where I’m at today, at least part of it.

 

Scott

Joe Finder and Harvard Business School

Recently, Joseph Finder wrote a fiction book called Power Play, and the situation in that book led to the writing of a Harvard Business Review case.

We worked through a number of these when I was in Pitt’s MBA program and it was always interesting to see what the responses were.  Everyone had a different opinion and often, there was no answer given as it was a hypothetic case.  This one is like that.  It brings up an intriguing question, then leaves you to think about how YOU would solve it.

Basically, on her first day as CEO of a major aerospace company, a woman finds out that there has possibly been corruption (slush funds, bribes, etc.) in the company’s dealings.  She wants to launch an internal investigation but that could cause major problems with things like the stock price, the company’s reputation, and so on, and since at the moment it’s pure conjecture, is it worth it to do it?

Read the whole case and weigh in at the HBR’s site!

Scott

On Writing

That’s the title of a book by Stephen King.  It is, of course, about writing.

I’ve been learning quite a bit from it.  On characterization:

“The writer’s original perception of a character or characters may be as erroneous as the reader’s.”

On grinding through it:

“…Stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea.  Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing to do is to shovel #$%@ from a sitting position.”

On editing:

“When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story…when you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.”

Good writing consists of mastering the fundamentals:

• Vocabulary
• Grammar
• The Elements of Style
• Avoid adverbs
• Avoid passive voice

King writes 2,000 words a day.  Ouch.  Makes my 360 last night feel pretty pathetic!

Anyway, it’s a pretty useful and interesting book and I highly recommend it.

Scott

Of Bellydancing and Adventure

I leaned against the wall of a small teahouse on the outskirts of Marrakech, taking in the exotic locale, the musicians and bellydancers…

Well, sort of. The location was actually a vegetarian cafe – Zenith – on Pittsburgh’s Southside.  The musicians and dancers were very real, though.

     

My wife and I, neither of whom bellydance (Yes, men do it too!) or play instruments, really enjoyed it.  The occasion was Jalsah Pittsburgh.  What’s that, you ask?

“The Jalsah is a Middle Eastern music event that invites all musicians (regardless of instrument) and drummers to sit in and play Middle Eastern music for open floor dancing all night. This is a participatory community event designed to bring together dancers and musicians inspired by Middle Eastern music. Experienced….inexperienced…all are welcome! For those folks who wish to sit and listen, chairs will be provided.”

My son even got into the act, and the dancers were gracious enough to teach him:

   

One of the organizers was the writer of “Your Inner Vagabond” (check out the blog, now!) and his wife.  They also provided the excellent coffee.  The cafe au lait was awesome! Snacks were provided by Zenith.  Zenith is an amazing place.  It has an eclectic decor with stuff from just about everywhere.

We met a lot of neat people, and I know I’m going to miss some, but here’s a few:

AJ and Andrew of Your Inner Vagabond

Claire and Berna of Khafif

Sterling of Yoga and Bellydance

Emay

Sue, Becky, and Dur

The musicians of Ishtar 

And I believe I saw Olivia of Zafira as well.

Guests included Kristina Melike, Carmine Guida, and Umut Yasmut.

Good stuff!  The event is held every few months or so here in Pittsburgh, and each of the artists has their own schedule.  I also would put in a plug for the Globalista Jam being held May 18, which will feature artists from all kinds of traditions, such as Irish dance and of course, bellydance.

Pittsburgh has definitely got a thriving art scene.  Get some culture and try something new!

Scott

But where does she live? Help me write my story!

Okay, for all of you that are writers or party types out there in Pittsburgh:

My latest story has a barmaid that works at a jazz bar in Lawrenceville, and my lead character, an investigator with a security firm is on his way to talk to her.  Problem is, she won’t tell me where she lives!

I’m trying to avoid Oakland and Shadyside.  I pondered the Mexican War Streets. This story takes place a few years in the future, mind you.  I don’t think she’d have the income for a loft.

So, any ideas?

Thanks!

Scott