The Writer's Block Project

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I haven’t posted here in ages and this has nothing to do...

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 22:53:06 -0400

I haven’t posted here in ages and this has nothing to do with writing, but this commercial is VERY important, and I think everyone should watch it because the world gets a little better when we understand the struggles that other people face, even if we’re not going through them ourselves. Empathy is always a good thing.

Tell the story of a job interview that goes badly. The more your character wants the job, the better the story will be.

Sat, 21 Apr 2012 14:54:00 -0400

Claudia is sitting in the reception area of Flash, Ltd., her posture immaculate, though the way she feels, she should be sitting back with her hands behind her head and her legs up on the glass coffee table before her. Her leather portfolio rests on her lap, in which her resume is tucked; her spiel so perfectly prepared in her head, it was as though she had it mental cue cards, and her outfit is tasteful and simple. She’s even forgone her usual five-inch stilettos for flats, which is quite uncomfortable for her, but she’s willing to make that sacrifice for this job.

Which, by the way, is totally hers. “Nobody is better, smarter or prettier than you,” her mother had told her practically from birth, and that’s been Claudia’s motto ever since.

She glances around the office, which is sparsely furnished, but trendy. At the Lucite desk - situated below a pumpkin-coloured wall which bears the company name in bold, all lower case white letters - sits the receptionist, typing furiously at a Mac, whose big flat screen obscures most of her face. Claudia scoffs quietly to herself. Not that it mattered; she wasn’t much to look at, anyway, something Claudia had assessed when she’d breezed through the door minutes earlier – fifteen minutes before her interview time, to be exact – straight to the desk and in a crisp, efficient tone announced “Claudia Slate for Alan Hershey, please. 1:00 p.m.”

The front desk girl was pale and dark-haired; she wore ruby lipstick and black cat-eyed glasses, obviously trying to hard to be hip, but she wasn’t pulling it off at all. Though to give her credit, her looks were so unremarkable that Claudia actually couldn’t blame her for trying. Front Desk Girl looked up and smiled at Claudia. “Sure. Just have a seat and he will be right with you.” To add insult to injury, the girl was wearing a one of those T-shirts from the 80’s that said “It’s Better in the Bahamas” and jeans for Chrissakes. Claudia knew that the dress code in advertising agencies was lax, but this was ridiculous – especially seeing that she was the first stop, and therefore, representation of the business. Claudia had responded with a cool smile and sat down, like a lady, just as she’d been taught.

Now it’s past 1:00 and Claudia is getting impatient – she wants this Hershey guy to come out already so she can ace this interview, go home and be able to say she has a “real job”, get her own apartment and a collection of Louboutins. Then, eventually, she’d win so many industry awards that there would be tons of agencies begging for her to be their creative director. She’d be the industry’s youngest! And next: to run her own shop. Where the receptionist would NOT be wearing outdated T-shirts in a sad attempt to emulate the hipster culture or jeans.

“Miss Slate?”

Claudia shakes away her reverie at the mention of her name, whips her game face on, stands up…and stops short.

“Alan Hershey. Nice to meet you,” says the vision before her, his hand extended. Claudia takes it wordlessly and shakes it a little too vigorously, her mouth hanging open, her heart thumping in her ears. Damn!

Alan gives her a strange look, slowly extracting his hand from her grip. “Sorry for being late – my meeting went into overtime. Thanks for waiting. Follow me, please.” He gestures towards a hallway and starts striding gracefully to where he’s just indicated. Claudia follows suit, but somehow her feet tangle up in one another and before she knows it she’s fallen on her knees to the carpeted floor.

Front Desk Girl stops typing and stands up, hands to her cheeks. “My goodness!”

Alan stops walking and turns around to a flustered, flushed Claudia. “Miss Slate, are you alright?” He steps towards her and kneels to help her up – and this is when she can get a really good look at him. His hazel eyes are large, gold-flecked, framed by long thick lashes and emphasized, rather than obscured, by thick-framed designer glasses. His hair is dark, wavy, and slightly shot through with silver, but his skin is so fresh and smooth he must be graying prematurely. He’s also wearing a T-shirt (a striped polo shirt, however, which Claudia finds much more appropriate than the receptionist’s) and jeans, but she thinks he looks absolutely perfect. She closes her eyes and inhales. He smells absolutely perfect, too.

“Miss Slate?” Claudia opens her eyes to find him giving her that strange look again, his hands outstretched. “Are you all right?” he repeats.

Get it together, Slate. Get. It. Together. Claudia takes his hands – ooh so soft and warm – and pulls herself to her feet. She’s horrified when some of her hair escapes from her ponytail and flops over her eye, but then she decides to work with it, attempting to be charming. “Not a very good first impression, huh?” Alan’s laugh was encouraging – and beautiful – so she went on: “I was hoping to be the one to bring you to your knees.”

His laughter stops abruptly. There’s that strange look again.

All of a sudden, Claudia is hot again. “I mean…knock you to your knees.” From her peripheral vision, she can see Front Desk Girl, who is seated again, raise an eyebrow. “I mean…knock you off your feet.” She clears her throat.

Alan stares at her for a few seconds, then smiles blandly. “Sure. Shall we?” Once again he’s heading towards the hallway and once again, Claudia follows, trying to gather her bearings again – and not stare at Alan’s behind.

“Miss Slate!”

“What?!” Claudia whirls around, irritated at the interruption, then remembers herself. She clears her throat again, and looks at Front Desk Girl, who was holding her portfolio.

“You forgot this.”

Claudia doesn’t like the amused look on her face at all. “Thanks.” From the corner of her eyes she can see Alan standing there, arms crossed. Crap. Enough of these shenanigans.

On the move again, white-knuckling her portfolio, once again trying not to stare at Alan’s behind, Claudia is reassuring herself. I can still salvage this. My first impression may have not been great, but I can still wow him during the interview. Then he will hire me, fall in love with me, we’ll get married and own this shop together. And my first order of business as a co-owner will be to get a more professional receptionist. Then when he retells the story of how we met, he will admit that he was in love with me the moment I fell at his feet. He will say, “She may have tripped, but I was the one who fell.” Or something like that.. And – oof.

Claudia was so engrossed in her fantasy she didn’t realize that Alan had reached their stop: his office. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been practically walking on his heels – another thing that escaped her while she’d been deep in thought. So when he stopped suddenly, she ran into his back – and that’s why she fell on the floor, again, this time on her butt.

Alan turns around and sighs. Instead of the strange look, he gives her a adorable half-grin. “Just not your day today, is it, Ms. Slate?”

Claudia sighs. “To say the least.” Then she takes his outstretched hand, pulls herself to her feet again, and flutters her eyelashes at him. “By the way, you can call me Claudia.”

Author’s Note: I have to admit: I like the way this one turned out. It didn’t end the way I wanted - hell, they never even made it to the interview, but my gut told me this was where I should end it.

To Outline or Not to Outline

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 15:06:00 -0400

This exercise is one done in irony. My previous story, generated by the spark word “virus”, did not turn out exactly as planned. This is something every writer has surely experienced time and time again: the frustration of having your own words, your own characters turning against you. But they belong to you! How can they betray you? Well, they just do.

Since this assignment is about outlines, what I will be doing is taking the “virus” story, using the plotline that I originally intended to use, make an outline for that, then write and post the story here! Ties in pretty perfectly, doesn’t it?

Outlines are most common among thriller and mystery writers, for obvious reasons…many non-genre writers use outlines, too…on the other side of the fence are writers who prefer a more organic approach to their craft…If you’re suffering from writer’s block, try changing your approach. Make a detailed outline of the story - or plunge first into the opening paragraph without any idea where you’re going. Either way, the change in routine may be surprisingly effective.

-From The Writer’s Block, by Jason Rekulak

Like I said, I’ve already completed the latter part of the challenge - plunging headfirst. Now it’s time for me to fulfill the latter. So, first, here’s the outline:

Setting

Unnamed town in the province of Ontario, late 1990s.

Starts off on a bus full of high school kids, including main character, Lillie. Their senior drama class is traveling to a junior high school where they’re performing a show made up of several skits, each containing a valuable lesson

Setting goes back to the past: to her junior high school and her current high school, as well as some of the elementary and junior high schools that they visit (maybe). Ends in a hamburger restaurant.

Rising Action

Lillie thinks back to junior high, where she developed a virus that made her an outcast and has carried on through to the present, as all the kids on the bus seem to forget that she is there, even though everyone else seems so close. When they arrive at the junior high school where they’re performing, she sees a poster advertising their graduation buffet and remembers her own, when all her friends got a table together and left her to sit at the “leftover” or “reject” table.

Climax

Turns out the same thing happened just recently, as she is about to graduate high school and also got bounced around from table to table, with no one seeming to really “want” her. So she declines to go after all but is furthermore disappointed when no one seems to care that she’s not going anymore.

Denouement

At this particular school, there are two shows instead of one, so the group goes to lunch at a hamburger restaurant. They all gather tables together in a pattern that effectively cause her to end up sitting alone. And that’s when she decides that they are the ones with the virus, not her, and that she should stay away from them.

Now, here’s the story…after the cut!

We’re on the road, again. This morning, our stop is Buckley Senior Public School. But today is slightly different from our usual days. Instead of doing one show, as per usual, we’re doing two - one at 11:00 a.m., and the other at 1:00 p.m. In between shows, we’re planning to hit a nearby Harvey’s for lunch.

It’s kind of exciting, really, the prospect of doing two shows in one day. You wouldn’t think that’d be such a positive, but it’s seemed to put everyone in a good mood, even more than usual. I mean, we’ve gotten to the point to where we could do this show in our sleep. You could even call us seasoned professionals. After all, we started putting it together since the beginning of second term back in early February, and taking it on the road since late March. Now it’s June, and we’re down to the last few shows - five to be exact, including today - before this, the school year, and high school - is over. So, naturally, boredom has set in, and, as a result, a few pranks have been pulled during the show to mix things up a bit. Sometimes this doesn’t go over well with some of the performers, but everyone always eventually makes up.

Other than that, there’s generally a wonderfully camaraderie among the cast. Three-and-a-half months of this have made them close, like a little family. And creative. They’ve made up their own songs, most of the lyrics being nonsense (at least to outsiders); in the green rooms (usually a spare classroom in whichever school we’re performing) they’ve created private, raunchy jokes, perfected silly impromptu dance routines for their own eyes only, given each other back rubs, shared snacks and candy, read silly quizzes from Seventeen magazine and painted each other’s toenails (yes, even the males get involved).

None of this includes me, you see, because of the virus.

Because of the virus, I sit at the very front seat of the bus - right behind the driver - while the rest of the cast sits further back, singing their strange songs. I sit at the front so even the props aren’t affected by the virus. (None of this affects my drama teacher, who sits at the seat parallel to mine, and gives me a sympathetic smile from time to time).

Because of the virus, I can’t participate in the Green Room Follies. I’m a sideliner; but I’ve long since grown smart and started bringing books as the sand in which to bury my big ostrich’s head, rather than watch from the sidelines.

Because of the virus, eighth-grade graduation was ruined for me.

I am reminded of this as we finally arrived at the senior public school and settled into the green room – yet another empty classroom. While the others get up to what they usually get up to, I take out my book and am about to open it when I spot something on the wall: a poster advertising the school’s eighth grade graduation celebration, including a ceremony and banquet.

Back when I had mine, almost four years ago, I thought the virus had been in remission. I had caught it back in fourth grade, not sure how or when or how or why – all I knew is that it made all the other kids keep their distance from me. No one wanted to sit next to me on the bus or in class or at lunch; at recess, on the playground, they would whisper and stare and point and laugh but never come near. Some even yelled insults or threw things or put notes in my locker and in my desk, advising me how I should stay away. So I did. (Strangely enough, only the kids at school seemed vulnerable to it; everyone else was immune.)

Then, in eighth grade, the virus seemed to have disappeared. Some kids still wouldn’t go near me because they thought I still had it, even though I didn’t. But there were other kids who knew I didn’t, who were actually okay being around me. More than okay: they were actually willing to sit next to me on the bus or in class or at lunch. They were even okay with having me come over to their houses, lending things to me, sharing their snacks.

I guess you could’ve called them my friends.

And then you couldn’t. Because when the eighth-grade graduation banquet rolled around, they all arranged to sit together; a seating arrangement that did not include me as they claimed there was no room. But I knew that it was something else; a fear that was confirmed when I spent the night, post-dinner dancing by myself, because every time I tried to do so near my friends, they moved further away from me on the dance floor, and days after, moved further and further away until they receded into the background, into the rest of the kids who had always avoided me.

And that’s when I knew that the virus had come back.

Then, when I entered high school, I thought that the quarantine was over. These friends started coming out of the woodwork once again – different friends, who this time, seemed to tread lightly, kept me at arms length, should the virus return. And they were smart to, because low and behold it did; it’s the only reason to explain why history has recently repeated itself.

For, you see, prom has rolled around, and once again, so has the matter of the seating arrangements.

I’m sure you can figure out the rest.

Except this time, I took myself out of the equation, refusing - much like I have today, screened from the Green Room Follies with my book – to watch from the sidelines any longer.

With the first show through, we head to Harvey’s a walking distance from the school. (Because of the virus, I’m several feet back from the rest of my fellow cast, of course.)

We all order and take over the dining area, which is inexplicably vacant, for the most part, even though you’d think during peak time – lunch – it wouldn’t be.

Anyway, the Rest gather and bunch of empty tables and chairs together to fashion together a larger seating arrangement to accommodate all of them - all except myself. It’s a little too on the nose how there’s just enough of Them to fit their makeshift arrangement – or just enough space to fit Them. In any case, They’re happy; They sit and start chowing down while I settle at a single table within throwing distance of the washrooms to eat my own lunch, wondering if the virus has made me invisible, too: not a glance nary a word is thrown my way the entire duration of our meal. I sit there, chewing, watching Them laughing and talking and reviving Their private jokes and made-up songs and reminiscing, now with humor, all the pranks that’d been pulled during certain performances.

And then a thought hits me: do I even want to be a part of this? I never realized how much I enjoyed sitting in the green room reading, leaving them to their Follies. I’ve never realized how relieved I am when I think they’ve called my name but I’m mistaken and I can get back to my book so I don’t have to be included. Or even on the bus, when they do what they do and I get to sit among the noise and the haste and not have to smile when I don’t feel like it or pretend things are funny when I don’t think they’re funny or think of something funny just to be one of Them. I don’t have to try hard. I don’t have to try at all.

Maybe not going to prom is a good thing after all, too. Having to dress up and pretend to be nice to people who call me, in what they think is secret a “sad little bookworm”.

Maybe it’s not me: maybe all this time it’s been them. Maybe I’m the one that’s perfectly fine. Maybe they’re the ones with the virus and they’re keeping me from them so I don’t get affected.

Maybe that’s been the case all this time.

NAH. I’m in complete denial. Being ignored fucking sucks.

I finish my meal and slip out – undetected, of course. Time to go back to the green room and do some sabotage of my own.

THE END.

Okay, so I didn’t follow the outline to the T – the last few lines of this story came at the last minute. This story got far too serious for me, so in a way, I pulled a prank on myself. ROFLcopter!!

Edited to add - the above is in jest but I am really frustrated with the way this story went. Perhaps because it didn’t go the way I wanted, even though I wrote an outline and technically, it went according to the outline (disregarding the aforementioned last few lines) I guess this exercise showed me that outlining stories don’t work for me, even though I am outlining and planning the hell out of the novel I’m writing. And I tried to follow The Writer’s Block’s advice and just write whatever comes out but that just wasn’t the case here. I need to loosen up more. So all in all, this exercise showed me that working on an outline just doesn’t work for me (don’t know how that novel is gonna turn out, then) and that I still need to stop thinking so much and just write.

Spark Word: Virus

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 21:54:00 -0400

In fourth grade, I caught a virus. I don’t know where it came from, or how I got it, but all I know is that it made everyone stay away from me.

Okay, not everyone. Mostly the kids at school. Everyone else seemed immune to it.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when they started to stay away. I guess it began with looks of disdain, then whispering, then an unkind word or two hissed or shouted in my direction, but from a distance.

The virus was so bad that people had trouble sitting next to me, so they’d move. If they didn’t think I was far enough away, they’d throw things at me to keep me at a further distance, or left notes in my desk and my locker advising how I should stay away. Because whatever I had was catching and they wanted nothing to do with it.

By eighth grade, the virus went into remission, so a few people had no trouble being around me. They actually didn’t mind me being around more than once, or sitting next to me, or even being in their homes, because I was no longer contagious. There were more than a few who thought I still had it, so they continued to stay away, even though I didn’t. Not anymore.

But by the end of the year, the few who hadn’t stayed away started to back away, slowly, receding far into the distance until they’d fallen in with the rest who’d stayed away all along. After that, I stayed in my room, safe within my womb, under quarantine, because it was clear: the virus had come back.

Write a story about the images on a roll of film - using only 12, 24, or 36 paragraphs.

Mon, 02 Apr 2012 00:47:00 -0400

[Author’s Note - I will be using 12 paragraphs]

Frame 1 – Our First New Year’s Eve!

Us at Nathan Phillips Square. Seconds after midnight. Shiny party hats, identical smiles and half-full plastic champagne glasses (mine in my left hand, camera strategically held in the right, outstretched arm caught slightly in frame). Captured mid-torso. Me, low neckline, emerald silk; him, pea coat chic. Cheeks pressed together, our eyes in happy slits. Behind us a black canvas is alight with streaks.

Frame 2 – Valenwine’s Day

Us at a Thai restaurant. Took pre-drinking way too seriously. On his lap with arms around his neck, gloss coated lips on his scratchy cheek. Fragrances in a close embrace. What he wants to do later imprints itself beneath my short frock between the thighs. (Nothing comes between me and my crepe de chine). Mouth close to my ear; those sweet nothings are gonna cost him: the balance on my dry cleaning bill.

Frame 3 – St. Patty Whacks

Us at the parade, full of that disgusting it’s not beer, it’s stout sludge that I hate so much but for today have made an exception. Silly hats redux. Loaded with a crazy amount of beads. Arms casually draped around the other’s waists close but not too close. Teeth and tongue and tonsils on jovial display as we stand among the littered streets and intoxicated crowd that serve only as background. We’re at the forefront.

Frame 4 – Easter Funday

Us hand in hand on holy ground, released from Mass. Hallelujah. I’m pale peach tasteful, (hair floating in the breeze, kind of supermodel-like); his shirt complementary under his navy blue suit of honour. Wide white mirth slightly ingenuine: the Eucharist just ain’t our thang. But there for the grace of God go his parents, who can finally put a face to my name.

Frame 5 – Cinco De Blotto

Us in our shared kitchen in the debris of a celebration: toy maracas, mini green, white and red flags, split piñatas. A third helping of silly hats - wide brimmed monstrosities shading half of our faces, but not our tequila-based grins. Inside those bared teeth are tongues slightly singed from jalapenos and the like. Him leaning in to finger-fondle my red dangling pom-poms, blatantly suggestive. All the pomp and circumstance less about La Batalla de Puebla and more about cohabitación.

Frame 6 – Daddy’s Little Secret

Us on the beaches of Pampelonne – ooh la la. Three very strategically placed, neon-pink triangles are my barely-there uniform (though on this kind of beach, one is all you need); his are tropical swim boxers. My flat tummy’s a marvel. Our sunbaked skin, the smiles (not as effortless as they used to be) and our lounging resplendent bodies on a single chaise with nary a space between them are pretty packaging, one that belies the truth: that us has become a little crowded, that one plus one has become three.

Frame 7 – Codependence Day

Us at Mel Lastman Square, draped in patriotic red and white. Painted maple leaves adorn each cheek. Bodies crowd-crushed together, surrounded by balloons and fanfare. Our warmth feeds off one another, mais seulement parce que nous portons matching crimson Roots warm-ups (mine’s a size bigger than usual). ‘Cause something in the camera-ready grins that don’t quite match up in the eyes that are far and wide from each other. The only fireworks that’ll be going off tonight are in the sky.

Frame 8 – Civil Holiday

Us on a rooftop patio, non-smoking, thank you very much. Snuggled in close enough so we can fit in frame but not enough to touch. The sky behind us on fire. What we thought were grins are uncomfortable grimaces. A collection of glasses in front of us. (Don’t worry: it was iced tea for me). My burned shoulders slouch away from him, hidden beneath a T-shirt because a tank top might show too much.

Frame 9 –Early Labour Day

Us an hour before it happened, in a coffee shop. Me with an expression marred by discomfort but could’ve just be a bad mood – or at least that’s how I played it. Overgrown eyebrows stitched together. Stuffed in a booth bodies stiff as two by fours bulky sweaters suffocating us we communicate by not communicating the harsh light makes us look older enhances what we refuse to see an unflattering pallor for us both especially mine I look ghostly and then doubling over off to emergency we go.

Frame 10 – The Haunting

Us playing make believe, but not in the way everyone else is. But there’s effort in our illusion, for what lacks in originality. Hand in hand at the front door just before we hit the party circuit. Matching skeletal systems going beyond the ordinary, not just bones but also organs (the exposed heart, so realistic it looks like it’s beating), skull-faces so meticulously painted it lets us hide what’s behind. Should be mourning, but instead, it’s relief.

Frame 11 – Non-Remembrance Day

Us at City Hall, wool collars turned up against the cold against most of our faces so it could be anyone but us. The remains of our expressions so stony you could hang those wreaths around us. Our tears are rivers on different continents. Gloved hands side by side, brushing but not touching, certainly not touching.

Frame 12 – The Most Wonderful Time

Us in matching Santa hats and reindeer sweaters by the light of a decked out tree, worn for irony’s sake alone. Genuine smiles (with candy canes in between for camp value) for the first time in a long time, more relaxed than we’ve been in months, amicable and friendly. It’s better this way. Our wishes are well wishes, our kisses last kisses, these shots the last shots, our last shot.

But not needed to remember.

Wanna know more about The Writer’s Block Project? Click here and here.

Opening Lines

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 20:51:00 -0400

What makes a good opening line? It depends on the story. Editors of suspense thrillers often hold manuscripts up to an “Airport Test”: If you were browsing through an airport bookstore, picked up a paperback and read the opening line, would you buy the book before boarding your flight?…Draw up a list of five favourite novels and review their opening lines. What drew you in? A beautiful metaphor? The hint of danger? Try duplicating the effect in opening lines of their own. See where they take you.

- From The Writer’s Block, by Jason Rekulak

Here are the opening lines from five of my favourite novels.

1. “They shoot the white girl first.” - Paradise, Toni Morrison. (Obviously, I wanted to know what was going on - why did they shoot the white girl? Why did they shoot her first? Who else were they going to shoot? And who were”they?”)

2. “They’re all dead now.” - Fall On Your Knees, Ann-Marie MacDonald. (Another obvious reason this intrigued me: who are “they”? How did “they” die?)

3. “A long time ago, I disappeared.” - Caucasia, by Danzy Senna. (Where did this person go? Were they kidnapped or did they run away? Was the disappearance metaphorical or physical?)

4. “It was terribly hot that summer Mr. Robertson left town, and for a long while the river seemed dead.” - Amy and Isabelle, Elizabeth Strout. (Who is Mr. Robertson, and why did he leave town?)

5. “Brooklyn-born I don’t have no sob stories for you about rats and roaches and pissy-pew hallways.” - The Coldest WInter Ever, Sister Souljah. (I chose this one mostly because of the tone. The personality and attitude of this person - conveyed so boldly in less than twenty words - was an instant attraction.)

And now, here is my own opening line…with the story that follows after the cut!

“There’s a bull loose in the building!”

“There’s a bull loose in the building!”

This exclamation, preceded by the office door flying open and into the wall, stops everything. Some of us pause in the middle of typing; the rest of us pause mid-sentence. There’s not really much of us: only six. And I am the only girl. Thusly, my friends and I refer to my workplace as “The Sausage Factory.”

I’ve only been here for a month and already I’m sucking hard at this position. I think my boss is beginning to regret hiring me. About an hour ago, he handed my copy back to me, saying that it lacked finesse, so since then I’ve been sitting here trying to re-work it in between checking my Facebook profile. I know I should be focusing exclusively on my work, seeing that it’s so horribly inadequate, but I can’t really concentrate right now. So I tell myself that I’m just taking a break, that once inspiration hits me, I can get off the web and back to writing. Sitting there staring at it wasn’t helping anyway.

Besides: how much finesse could one put into copy about a document destruction company?

Not that I’d say this to my boss. He’s super nice but I doubt he’s interested in excuses. If he were, I would also tell him: Maybe my writing lacks finesse because my life lacks finesse.

The man who bursts into our office works across the hall from us. He heads some web design company. There’s so many of them in this building – at least on our floor – which is located on the fourth. It’s all design and print shops: communication-based companies. I’m not sure what’s on the second and third floors, but the first is populated with a café, a furniture store, and some kind of boutique that sells soap so pungent we can smell it all the way up here. There’s some other retail stores down there, too, but I’m not sure what they are. After all, I’ve only been here a month.

The building is old but under construction, so getting inside is a challenge, with all the cranes and other such types of equipment nearly barricading the entrance. Throughout the day you can constantly hear hammering and drilling and sawing. But you can also tell that this is going to be turned into something great. This girl who works in the building’s main office is friendly with The Sausage Factory, so she often comes in with the latest developments, showing us floor plans and prototypes both on paper and on the website. For the latter, we usually gather around my boss’ computer to take a look.

The girl is skinnier than me. She’s got freckled skin and a turned up nose and shiny, sleek hair. She wears a flat Gucci waist pouch that she never seems to take off and walks into the office with a confident stride, her high heels clicking confidently on the tiled floor. Unlike myself, for when I walk outside the office and down the hallway to the washrooms, the sound of my own pumps (which I bought to treat myself for getting this job, which don’t quite fit) make an uneven, erratic staccato beat.

This office is like nowhere I’ve ever worked. It’s open concept, and right now, completely makeshift, because my boss relocated shortly before he hired me. Our desks are tables topped with desktop computers – the old school kind, boxy – and are shoved against the wall. So while some of us are sitting next to each other, the rest sit with out backs to each other, which is my situation: I’m practically spine-to-spine with the sole account manager.

There’s a kick-ass cappuccino machine on top of the filing cabinet, whose third drawer contains a Costco purchased family-sized pack of assorted granola bars. Grimy multi-paned windows, facing east, diffuse a lemony light onto the faded wooden floorboards. The walls are rough and black; suspended from one of them is a large flat-screen TV hooked up to iTunes, blaring out songs by The Fray and Snow Patrol and My Chemical Romance.

I didn’t think I’d like working somewhere that looks like this, so divorced from glamour. I guess I’m fond of the way it’s rough around the edges: a work in progress.

It’s too bad my writing sucks. I actually like working here. Everyone is so nice and I get a kick out of being the only chick here. I like that it’s a more liberated workplace than my previous positions (including the one where they had constant champagne lunches), which I thought were as liberated as one could get. You’d think it would be the perfect atmosphere to give my writing the kick it needed, to light my ass on fire, anything. But no. A little over a month into the job and my boss is already questioning my work.

Which makes me feel sorry for him. Because I feel like I’ve let him down, wasted his time. He’s really nice. He’s always reminding me about the granola bars in case I haven’t eaten breakfast. He treats the office to lunch every Friday, taking us to fancy restaurants in the nicest parts of the city. He lets me leave slightly early everyday to catch the bus since it’s a two-hour journey – each way – every day. When I had to take a couple of days off for my grandfather’s funeral less than two weeks into the job, he asked how my mother was coping with her father’s death. And just now, when he’d returned my copy to me, he was even super-nice about that. He encouraged rather than scolded; made suggestions instead of criticisms. Told me he knew I could do better, told me that lately he’d been noticing my lack of passion, that I need to push myself, to keep writing and rewriting until I found it. His tone was almost that of a concerned parent.

Yet here I am, being a shit and scrolling through Facebook. If I was so concerned about not letting this man down, you’d think I’d buckle down and do the job for which I was being paid. But I can’t seem to. I get restless – raiding the granola bar stash more than once; making myself cappuccino after cappuccino and taking more-than-necessary trips to the bathroom, making the vast, wide hallway echo with the off-key rhythm of my high-heeled pumps.

Also: my boss feels sorry for me because of the long commute I have to take to get here. I have a driver’s license, but no car, so I have to take a bus, a train, a subway and a streetcar every day. The Sausage Factory often teases me about it, but my boss asks me almost every day: “How was your commute?” I’m always good-natured about it, saying that it gives me a chance to read or catch up on sleep. The other dudes think I’m a superhero for putting up with such a long-ass commute because they “could never do it”. They either live in the city or have cars, so they don’t suffer the same fate I do: staring out the window, sitting in a mass transportation tube that, at the end of the day, brings me right back to where I started.

A while back, I was pleased to discover that someone with whom I used to work with at the mall years ago took the same train as I did to work. For then on, we planned to meet up in the mornings so we could sit together. Still, while I was glad to run into her after all these years, I was kind of disappointed to see that I’d be missing out on my reading time.

Except I wouldn’t be.

Even though it had been five years since we last saw each other, it didn’t take but twenty minutes into our first official ride together to discover that neither of us have progressed much since. We both still live at home, and have upgraded job-wise: she settles estates for a major bank and I, of course, write copy. Neither of us are dating anyone. Neither of us own vehicles, have traveled lately, or have so much as purchased an interesting nail polish colour. (Though once she showed me this elaborately designed, raw silk scarf that she felt guilty about buying and was debating whether she should return it.) So our subsequent rides have consisted of something barely resembling small talk; sometimes we end up repeating the same stories. Once in a while, another one of her friends – a male one – would join us and we would be spared such painful conversation. On days when he was not there, she would take to falling asleep minutes following our attempt at small talk, and I was once again free to read.

Yet, ironically, I feel lonely on the trips back home. (I get off work an hour after my work friend does.) Sometimes the streetcar does not sync up with the train’s schedule, so I often miss it and have 45 minutes to kill before the next one. Sometimes I’ll wait on the platform, chatting with an older man I run into quite frequently; he tells me about his job at the public library where he works in archives. I imagine that he goes home, sits in a room smelling of mahogany and leather and drinks an aged cabernet – or, perhaps, a snifter of cognac – and listens to NPR or something. He tells me he’s going to retire next year and plans to spend it travelling extensively with his wife after he walks his daughter down the aisle. I hang on his every word, envying his impeding freedom. I imagine he’s very good at his job, is very meticulous, puts care into every single detail and has never failed to have a positive, upbeat attitude – albeit in a subdued way. I can’t imagine his voice carrying with any significance, but I think that’s okay.

Other times, I will venture into the mall that’s right across from the subway station – where the streetcar drops me off - and parallel to the train’s platform. I have dubbed it The Worst Mall In The World, because, ugh. It looks like it was built in the seventies and never renovated. The only decent store within is the pharmacy; the rest are a smattering of discount stores with merchandise that no one in their right mind would purchase. There’s a hair salon but I never see anyone patronize it. And the postage stamp-sized food court contains a grand total of three restaurants, none of which are recognizable names, or seem to serve food that’s even close to edible. Need to go to the washroom? Sure! Just ask one of the tenants for the key, which is attached to a long bacteria-ridden (probably) stick of wood. Which of these tenants have the key? A select few, so it’s like rolling the dice. Does the key prevent the washrooms from being vandalized and poorly kept? That would be a hell no.

That’s why most of the time that I spend in The Worst Mall In The World is done so in the drugstore. It’s the kind where the pharmacy is secondary among all the beauty products and groceries and other sundries. I go in there intending to just browse until my train arrives, but almost always end up coming out of there with a bag full of something I don’t necessarily need: a bag of chips (usually Lay’s BBQ) candy (jujubes) chocolate (two-for-one is my favourite), a gossip magazine (sometimes Cosmo, which I always regret buying) and some sort of cosmetic: a bright palette of eyeshadow, liquid eyeliner, or a mascara that promises to make even the puniest of eyelashes look fake. Even though the latter product never fails to disappoint me, I keep buying, hoping that I’ll finally find one that satisfies me.

Oh yeah: the bull.

So after Web Design Owner bursts in with this bizarre lead-in, and we all freeze, waiting for the punchline, we soon discover that he wasn’t pulling a prank to shake up our ordinary workday.

Later, Skinny sashays her freckled self in and gives us the 411:

Turns out that a bull or cow or some kind of bovine creature, all 1000 pounds of it, busted out of the trailer in which it was being transported to the agricultural fair. Once it came across our building, it found its opportunity for mischief in the open door of an automation shop, which had left it that way as it was an unusually warm November day. After smashing its way through the store, and trampling the shit out of a piece of equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, it moved on to the warehouse adjacent to the shop, shattering dry wall and leaving steel bolts in its wake – but not before pitching an employee up against a shelf, causing scrapes and bruises.

By then, the police had come one the scene, trying to contain it with a wood table, but the bull/cow made quick work of it before making its way back into the automation store. Bloodied and battered by its own rampage, it calmed at the voice of its trainer, who had since showed up to join the cops. In the end, the creature was tied to a forklift stowed back into its trailer, and transported back to where it came.

Leaving a nice parting gift on their carpet: a big, stinky steaming dump.

“I can’t believe all of that was going on and we didn’t hear any of it,” says my boss.

“Same here,” I concur. I also want to say: I feel cheated.

After Skinny leaves, we chat about today’s incident a little more, searching on Google to see if the story has already been reported to any news outlets: so far, it has not.

“All right,” says my boss, after about twenty minutes of discussion, after the shock has worn off. “Back to work.”

We all head back to our desks, and I start writing again.

If you don’t know what The Writer’s Block Project is all about, educate yourself here and here.

Spark word: Diet

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 11:18:00 -0400

Penelope takes a deep breath, says a silent prayer, squeezes her eyes shut, and steps forward with her right foot. Then the left one.

Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

She pops her right eye open. Then the left one. At first, she keeps her gaze directly on her feet, rather than the numbers, which are just above her scarlet painted toenails.

I’ve done all the right things. I’ve eaten all the right foods.

But as Penelope pinches at her midsection, she already knows she’s going to be disappointed. Especially with the way her jeans fit her yesterday - ugh.

Let’s just get this over with.

Finally, Penelope raises her eyes to the digitized numbers on the little LED screen.

“Shit!” Immediately, her eyes fill with tears. She hops off the scale, storms back into her bedroom, collapses on her bed and shoves her pillow over her head.

Moments later, there’s a knock at her door.

“What?”

Charma enters. “What’s up? I just heard you cursing in the bathroom.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. Sorry if I woke you.” Penelope’s voice is still muffled by cotton.

Charma sits on the bed next to Penelope’s prostrate form. “You went on the scale, didn’t you?”

Penelope’s only response is a moan.

“Oh dear.”

Penelope finally takes the pillow off of her head. “I’m never gonna fit into the dress now. You might as well find another bridesmaid.”

“Oh, Penny,” Charma’s rolling her eyes. “Don’t be such a fucking drama queen. It can be altered, you know. There’s still time!”

Now Penelope’s sitting up, managing to produce a weak smile. “Or I could just get ‘the surgery.’”

Charma throws an arm around her friend, chuckling. “I’m so gonna miss living with you.

“Now, instead of sitting here moping, how about we go pack you a special lunch to take to work? That oughta help you out, at least a little. We still have a month to go.”

Penelope sighs. “I still don’t think that’s enough time, but it’s worth a try.”

“That’s the sprit!” Charma says, and they head to the kitchen.

***

“So – what’s for lunch?”

It’s a ritual at Penelope’s workplace; like school-aged children, they compare their afternoon meals in the cafeteria. But her co-workers have become even more fascinated with hers since she’s been watching her weight.

Penelope sighs. She wishes she’d never gotten them involved, but then again she thought it would be easy. It wasn’t their fault that she was failing miserably, so she might as well indulge them.

Reluctantly reaching into her insulated lunch bag, Penelope starts to verbally list its contents. “I have got: half a sausage pizza; a BLT sandwich; four red velvet cupcakes; a bag of Doritos and a large carton of chocolate milk. Oh: and some peanut butter M&Ms.”

“Do you really think that’s gonna help you gain enough weight to fit into your bridesmaid’s dress?”

Penelope shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.” Then she picks up the Tupperware container that holds her pizza and heads to the microwave.

Want to know what this “Project” is all about? Click here and here!

"Describe your first brush with danger."

Sun, 25 Mar 2012 22:00:00 -0400

“Matt, no!”

Lisa catches him just in time. He’s got a bundle of matches grasped in each fist from the large box in front of him on the kitchen table. There’s a scarily determined, concentrated look on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lisa snatches the miniature sticks out of his fat, sweaty hands; most of them snap in half, but Matt’s face is expressionless, as though nothing’s happened at all. “Don’t you know that if you get in trouble, I get in trouble?” She dumps the wet, broken remains back in the box and slides the lid closed. “Where – how did you even get a hold of these?”

Matt slowly raises his freakishly large, watery blue eyes to Lisa’s. His chipmunk cheeks lift into the faintest of smiles as he responds with a single shrug.

Lisa tucks the box beneath her arm. “Creepy bastard,” she mutters under her breath as she leaves the room to search for a good hiding place.

***

Lisa’s pissed because she has to spend Saturday afternoon looking after this fat, farting idiot instead of at the movies with her friends. So what if she’d skipped one stinking class to see her boyfriend? If her parents weren’t so freakin’ uptight and would let her see him, she wouldn’t have to do so. So what if he was a little older than her? Lisa didn’t like any of the boys in her eighth grade class. None of them drove, like Sean did.

“Now, we hope that we can trust you to look after your brother for an afternoon,” they’d chided her before they left for downtown to go antiquing. She’d responded first rolling her eyes, and, when they’d turned their backs, with a double dose of the finger: one hand each. Lisa had been impressed with herself, but when she turned around Matt was standing right behind her. He’d said nothing, but his gaze had a hint of reproach in them, which actually made her stomach flip over.

Then she’d glared at him and walked away, trying to shake it off. It a ridiculous idea, being intimidated by her seven-year-old brother. He still picked his nose and ate it, for God’s sake.

***

After stashing the matches into a secure hiding place, Lisa goes back to the kitchen to find Matt still sitting there, his big eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. He swings his feet back and forth, each blow striking the table in front of him in a very measured, almost rhythmic fashion.

Lisa claps her hands together. “All right, Matty-Matt, here’s the deal. Sean is going to be here any minute, and we are going to spend some time in my room. While we’re doing that, you are going to sit in the family room and play with this.” From behind her back, she produces a copy of Grand Theft Auto IV. Predictably, Matt reaches for the game console with his chubby little paw, but Lisa immediately yanks it out of his reach, holding it over her head.

“Now, I know Mommy and Daddy would never let you play this, but they’re not here, so I’m in charge. Since I’m in charge, I will let you play it. And to sweeten the deal, so to speak…” Lisa trails off and goes to the cabinet, pulling an unopened package of Double Stuf Oreos from the very top shelf, watching Matt’s eyes light up. “You can eat this while you’re playing…as long as you keep your mouth shut and stay in the family room at all times. Do not come upstairs and disturb Sean and me, and most importantly, when Mom and Dad get home, do not tell them that Sean was here. Got it?”

Matt nods so aggressively that Lisa thinks his blond blurry head is going to fall off. Not that it would bother her much. “Now let’s go,” she commands, and takes his hand. It’s so wet and warm and soft that it makes her shudder. She leads him to the family room where she sets up the game, makes sure Matt is comfortably seated, then hands him the package of cookies.

“Remember,” Lisa reminds him, wagging her finger because she thinks it’s appropriate, “you gotta stay here. Do not disturb me and Sean when we’re upstairs, or I’ll shut off the game. And Mom and Dad is not to know about this!” But Matt is already so engrossed in the game that Lisa doesn’t even bother to wait for his nod of consent before she leaves the room.

***

Sean arrives shortly after, and Lisa immediately takes him to her room. They’re ten minutes into it when Sean pulls away with a strange expression. “What’s that?”

Lisa’s exasperated sigh blows her bangs slightly off of her face. “I told you – my brother’s downstairs playing video games!”

“No, I mean, I smell something smoky.”

Lisa grins. “It’s me, ‘cause I’m so hot.” But just as she pulls Sean’s face back to his, she realizes that he’s right. “Wait, I smell it too – oh, my God!” She leaps from the bed and rushes to her bureau, yanking open her underwear drawer and frantically rummaging through it. Then she dumps the contents onto her bedroom floor when she can’t find the box of matches.

“HOLY SHIT.” Sean’s screamed expletive causes her to whirl around abruptly. He’s opened the bedroom door. The hallway is an inferno, giving off the heat of several furnaces. Angry red and orange flames are quickly and furiously scorching their way to Lisa’s bedroom door and the thick, blue smoke is making them cough and choke violently.

“CLOSE THE DOOR! CLOSE THE DOOR!” Lisa shouts hysterically, heading to the window. “WE GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE!”

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR BROTHER?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? HE’S ALL THE WAY DOWNSTAIRS! WE CAN’T GET TO HIM! LET’S JUST GO!”

The smoke is starting to seep through the closed door. Lisa can feel her eyes stinging and streaming. Frantically, she feels her way around the windowsill, her fingers scraping at it to force it open.

“SEAN! CALL 911!”

“I CAN’T - THE PHONE’S DEAD!”

Then woosh – the fire blasts the door open, crackling its way across the room.

Lisa screams, her fingers working faster to open the window, but she’s unsuccessful. She immediately empties her bladder into her pants. “SEAN! HELP ME!” When she’s finally able to open her eyes just a crack, she sees that the smoke inhalation has caused him to pass out.

With another woosh, the fire starts making its way towards her. Her fingernails are bloody and broken from trying to force the window open; now she’s pounding at it hysterically with her palms. She looks behind her and what she sees nearly makes her pass out. Matt is standing there with the fire bordered around him as though it isn’t even there, and he’s wearing the same strange little smile he had earlier; his eyes are more alight then she’s ever seen them. They look positively electric.

“MATT! MATT!” is all Lisa can scream.

In a blink, she’s back in the kitchen, staring at Matt as he sits at the kitchen table with a bundle of matches grasped in each fist from the large box in front of him.

“I – uh…” Lisa shakes her head, completely disoriented. What the hell was that? Still completely weirded out, she grabs the wet, broken matches out of his hands and dumps them into the box, sliding the lid shut. “You shouldn’t…don’t play with those. They’re, um dangerous. Let’s…maybe we should go outside, to the park or something. I’m just gonna make a phone call.” With that, Lisa leaves the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling to herself, just as Matt uncurls his left fist, dislodges the match he’s hidden between his forth finger and pinkie. It lights up the first time he strikes it against the table.

He smiles, then blows it out.

Confused? For more about what’s going on here, click this and then click that.

More about "The Project".

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 10:45:00 -0400

Here’s some more information about the purpose of The Writer’s Block* and its exercises within, as quoted from the introduction.

Goal:

Writing is hard for everyone. We all get stuck. Every short story and novel presents its own unique set of challenges, and a writer encounters them for the first time with every new project.

Some people develop writer’s block halfway through a first draft - they find themselves in the middle of a short story and discover that they’re stuck. The words just won’t come…Other people claim to live in a perpetual state of writer’s block. They say they want to be writers, but they’re waiting for inspiration to strike, or a really good idea to sink their teeth into.

This book offers solutions to all different kinds of writer’s block, but it is not a how-to manual. There is so much contradictory advice within these pages, I don’t think a how-to manual on writing can ever be written…

Aside from this introduction, The Writer’s Block is not meant to be read in a linear fashion. [Author’s Note - However, this is how I will be using it.]

Then, author Jason Rekulak describes the three different exercises featured in the book.

1. Writing Challenges

These short assignments are designed to get you writing as quickly as possible; don’t ponder the exercise for more than a minute or so before putting pen to paper. With all of these exercises, it’s more helpful to think as you write - you can always go back and revise it later..resist the urge to plan, outline, chart or map, and just get the pen moving.

All of these exercises are paired with photographs. For example, the charge “Describe your first brush with danger” is accompanied by by a photograph of a boy playing with matches. Some writers may answer this challenge with an autobiographical piece; others may choose to write about the boy in the photograph. [AN - This is the first challenge; I will be using the latter option.] Either approach is okay. And perhaps you’ll want to develop the exercise into a longer piece…

Welcome these kinds of changes, and remember that each exercise is only a jumping-off point; if your story veers into new terrain, consider yourself blessed and stay along for the ride.

2. Spark Words

Many spreads throughout this book consist of a single word that is paired with a photograph (or photographs). These “spark words” carry different meanings for different people; ask ten different women to write about the word “diet” and you’ll receive ten very different responses…other spark words offer direct challenges to your imagination. Can you write a scene or story that centres around words like “Oops” or “Ouch”?…just remember, as with the exercises, you shouldn’t plan very long before setting pen to paper. And you should only treat these spark words as a jumping-off point - follow the story into new territory if that’s where it wants to go. By obeying the lead of your imagination, you may end up with a perfectly wonderful short story that doesn’t mention the spark word once.

3. Writing Topics

From choosing a title and selecting an opening line to coping with negative criticism, these topics feature advice and exercises from legendary and contemporary writers…When appropriate, these topics conclude with a related exercise or writing challenges, but feel free to ignore them if your instincts pull you in another direction. Again, the key here is to let your imagination take the lead.”

With that, I am ready to start writing the very first exercise, which, as noted in the first quote, is “Describe your first brush with danger” and is paired with a picture of a boy playing with matches.

~~I will post the story later today~~.

*Rekulak, Jason. The Writer’s Block: 741 Ideas to Jump-Start Your Imagination. Pennsylvania: Running Press, 2001

First post.

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 20:36:00 -0400

A couple of years ago, I started a blog to get myself writing more often. I got sick of procrastinating, of never completing any of my projects.

So, I decided to make use of a Secret Santa gift I received years ago at a staff Christmas party: a little book called The Writer’s Block, which is actually shaped like a block, and promises to cure textual frustration with its enclosed 786 ideas. Some tidbits of inspiration include “spark words”, such as Trespass, which can be used as a jumping-off point for a story idea, or writing challenges which offer a scenario, such as “Describe your experiences with an illicit substance.”

Anyway, the premise of the blog was to write and post a story inspired by each and every one of these ideas. Yup, all 786 of them. At first, I was quite successful in fulfilling this premise, until it backfired in a strange way; I got so inspired that I began writing stories based on my own ideas and completely abandoned the original goal of the blog.

Said blog still exists, but I still want to fulfill what I’d originally set out to do.

Hence, this blog.

I will post the instructions of each exercise above the story it inspires in italics. Each story will be posted as written, as the point is to write the first thing that comes to mind, meaning that what you’ll be looking at is a first draft. Aside from a light spelling/grammar check.

Hopefully I won’t get side-tracked. And hopefully, my followers will enjoy what I post!