Mini Goals

Last year I set monthly challenges and tried to adhere to each for 30 days.  I ended up giving up about half way through.

This year, I'm going to set weekly goals (they'll be Saturday to Saturday).  Some of them will be simple and week specific, some of them will be small pieces in the larger puzzle of who I'd like to be a the end of this year.

I've really got to start moving forward again.  I feel so stagnant.  I even occasionally fantasize about moving.  And I hate moving.  I do wish we had a dishwasher and that our laundry was inside our unit, but I digress.

Each Friday I will write a post containing the goals for the coming seven days and each Sunday I'll write to tell you how the previous week went.

This is what I want for this coming "week."  I'm going to keep it pretty easy for this first go.

1. Stick to the training schedule.  Week three of mileage build up training: Sat 3 miles, Sun 5 miles, Mon rest (anaerobic) , Tue 4 miles, Wed rest (anaerobic), Thur 4 miles, Fri rest (anaerobic), Sat 3 miles

2. Clean the litter box EVERY day.

3. Bake banana bread.  (I want to bake once a week, but this is taking it as the weeks come).

4. Finish reading The Wasp Factory

5. Finish writing chapter three and at least 2,000 words of chapter four in the Jecheon book.

6.  Finish the new in house menu (Publisher file) for Oasis.

Alright, that's it!  I'm gonna get to it!

Goals!

I don't feel like I've done a very good job with this blog.  Posts are infrequent and random.  Now, I'm thinking it's time to use it for its intended purpose.

I'm out of practice and I've become pretty lazy.  Diary posts are easy things to bust out.  I need to write more essays, poems and stories.  So, that's what I will be doing.

Sure, I'll still write diary posts.  I'm hoping for one or two drafts of a fiction piece or essay a week.  I'll be starting an essay tomorrow.

Here are a couple of pictures from the Portland Saturday Market:

Pretty flowers...

The man in pink.  He dances around and hopes you pay him for it.  Ian said he ended up in front of Oasis one day.

The little owl that I got for my purse.  I haven't named him yet, but he was hand made!

Alright.  I'll have either a draft of some sort tomorrow.

Good night!

Loose Lips Sink Ships

Most of you are probably aware that the editor of Pure Slush (Matt) isn't very happy with his appearance in the blog, as per his comment (and email to me).

I've emailed him back, but it will need to be addressed here as well, in my opinion, because the whole matter is regarding the public forum of Urban Agrarians to begin with.  I wanted to acknowledge what's happened right out of the gate, but I'm not going to say much until I hear back from Matt. 

I never intended to cause offense or even to show him in a negative light.  Please note, I've never questioned his talent as a writer or editor here, only what decisions I should make regarding his suggestions.

That's all for now.

Good night.

Not Quite Finished...

So, I heard back from the editor at Pure Slush and he wants more edits.  I'm really unhappy with his suggestions, or "tweaking" as he calls it.

Here's what he sent me:

We followed Julia to the car.  Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating.  She waved us to the back as she slid into the driver’s.  I sat.  A sickly sweet floral fragrance drifted from a plastic air freshener, the only marker of ownership on the nearly sanitary, bread-colored interior.  The awkward roil in my stomach was something I was growing accustomed to in the three days I had been in Korea.
“Where are we eating dinner, again?”  I asked Ian in a hushed, mumbled voice hushed hushed mumble, torn between relief at Julia’s sudden neglect and worry for my lack of preparedness for the evening.
“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”
“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand.  I tried to work it out in my head.  ‘Bead-um’ is all I heard her say.   I repeated it over and over in my head, searching for a match.  Beans?  Berries?  Bread?  Nothing logical came to me.  “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued to Ian.
“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I asked.  
“Um.  Julia, will the restaurant be alright for vegetarians?  We don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, yes.  Okay.  You eat fish?”
“No.   No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that.  We do eat eggs and milk, though.”  His shoulders tensed with the effort of explaining, rising and taking his voice with them. His and briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand.  After the last eight hours making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t look at her.  I counted glowing red crosses atop churches.  Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills.  I had thought Koreans were Buddhists.
“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia continued.
“Mine aren’t,” Ian said.  “They eat a lot of meat, actually.  Casey’s mom is, though.”  Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.
“Oh, really?  It’s good to do.  You are nice children, obedient.”
We drove a few minutes more in silence.  Julia began to mumble to herself.  A cab passed us hurriedly.  I leaned toward her, worried she was trying to talk to us.  She wasn’t.  She dialed her phone, a jeweled J swinging heavily from it,. She slowing slowed further as she divided her attention between her phone and the road.  
With a screech of rubber the car suddenly swung 180 degrees, and gripping the door handle, I squinted into the oncoming headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four-lane street.  After a minute-long phone call in more exasperated Korean and punctuated by considerable sighing on her ‘phone, she Julia made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot.  I released my grip on the door.
Releasing my grip on the door, I looked out at I interrogated (interrogated?) the restaurant’s fluorescent sign, moving my eyes over the Korean writing again and again back and forth,. bBut the dramatically written symbols were beyond me.
Small, blocky type iIn the lower right corner, small, blocky type answered my question: “Vietnam Cuisine”.

*******

Most of that doesn't really bother me. I don't like the way in which he is changing the voice of my writing. I feel he is editing for style, which I find inappropriate. I'm especially bothered by the line he added about screeching rubber. What is that? He's been pushing for something like that with every edit, blaming it on pacing or asking me to explain how the character feels. Trying to lean that toward fear. I don't even know how to deal with it, it is so out of place in my writing. This is starting to make me feel pretty darn small, cheap and down right bummed out.

What say you? Peter had some good suggestions, which I will definitely put thought into, but I just don't know how to deal with this. How many times will he send it back to me? I don't want to focus all my time on one piece and we're about to go out of town. I don't like feeling this way about writing. It makes my blood pressure go up.

Boo!

Sorry about the weird spacing. The format's being strange since I pasted that.

Good night.

Draft

Alrighty, here is the latest  draft I'm sending to Pure Slush.  I spent two hours on it this morning.  I've had a hard time being motivated to work on it.  I don't think I was really up to taking his suggestions.  At one point in his edits, he told me that my choice of the verb "letting" was something a child would say.

Sigh.

I've spent the last couple of years being subservient to just about everyone I encounter (Korea, Netflix CS, Oasis...), so I suppose I was tired of feeling small and I was unhappy with that feeling creeping into my writing.  But, I sucked it up and made some changes.  It's always good to rework a piece, no matter whether you agree with the direction or not.

********************************

Welcome Dinner

We followed Julia to the car. Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating. She waved us to the back as she slid into the driver’s. I sat. A sickly sweet floral fragrance drifted from a plastic air freshener, the only marker of ownership on the nearly sanitary, bread-colored interior. The awkward roil in my stomach was something I was growing accustomed to in the three days I had been in Korea.

“Where are we eating dinner, again?” I asked Ian in a hushed, mumbled voice, torn between relief at Julia’s sudden neglect and worry for my lack of preparedness for the evening.

“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”

“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand. I tried to work it out in my head. ‘Bead-um’ is all I heard her say. I repeated it over and over in my head, searching for a match. Beans? Berries? Bread? Nothing logical came to me. “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued to Ian.

“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I asked.

“Um. Julia, will the restaurant be alright for vegetarians? We don’t eat meat.”

“Oh, yes. Okay. You eat fish?”

“No. No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that. We do eat eggs and milk, though.” His shoulders tensed with the effort of explaining, rising and taking his voice with them. His briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand. After the last eight hours making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t look at her. I counted glowing red crosses atop churches. Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills. I had thought Koreans were Buddhists.

“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia continued.

“Mine aren’t,” Ian said. “They eat a lot of meat, actually. Casey’s mom is, though.” Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.

“Oh, really? It’s good to do. You are nice children, obedient.”

We drove a few minutes more in silence. Julia began to mumble to herself. A cab passed us hurriedly. I leaned toward her, worried she was trying to talk to us. She wasn’t. She dialed her phone, a jeweled J swinging heavily from it, slowing further as she divided her attention between her phone and the road. I squinted into the headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four lane street. After a minute- long phone call in exasperated Korean and punctuated by considerable sighing, she made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. I released my grip on the door.

I interrogated the restaurant’s fluorescent sign, moving my eyes over the Korean writing again and again, but the dramatically written symbols were beyond me. Small, blocky type in the lower right corner answered my question: “Vietnam Cuisine”.

Second Pure Slush Response

So, I'm not so sure about this anymore.

I got another reply from the editor and Pure Slush.  And, while several of his suggestions are really helpful, most of them are about altering my voice and style.  I'm not sure how normal that is, because I'm so new to all this.

Here's are two examples from his edit:

"“Where are we eating dinner, again?” I whispered to Ian / I asked Ian under my breath. I seemed like Julia had given Ian more details. (I don’t think what you have written works. It would be much better just to say you said this to Ian. Some things just cannot be written without being clumsy or over-written. Even putting it as a question would work better: Had Julia told Ian the details? But really, straightforward is best.)" 

"“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand.  I tried to work it out in my head.  ‘Bead-um’ is all I heard her say.  While I internally ran through every food or type of food that started with the letter B, Ian productively narrowed it down. “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued to Ian. (this is not chronological. You have written a chronological story BUT this paragraph is not written chronologically. Plus, how would you know Ina was responding more productively when he then says nothing about it? This works better:

“Uh,” Julia said, then added something I didn’t understand: ‘bead-um’ is all I really heard.

I sat back against the leather / plastic / vinyl and ran through every food or type of food that started with the letter B: b_____, b_______, b______, b________.

“Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia continued.

We already know she is answering Ian. To say this again in unimportant, unless you are feeling excluded.)"

So, he's not only making suggestions, but actively rewriting here.  I don't think he intends to overstep, I think he's genuinely trying to be helpful.  I"m just not sure that his editing style works for me.  I'm afraid I might lose a lot if I go after this.  I mean, it's not even paid.  Maybe Pure Slush isn't a good fit for me.

But, what do you think?  Comment or email me at youknowcasey at gmail dot com.

Pure Slush Response

I heard back from the editor of Pure Slush and he said he wanted to run my story, but that he had some edits in mind for it.

So, I made some changes and hopefully it will be to his liking.  I can tell that this editor has a very particular style and not all of his edits were true to my voice, but I made most of them anyway.  I need the exercise in hubris, as he won't be the only editor with a picky style and I'm not yet in a position to argue.

But, I am pleased.  It was nice to hear back so quickly.  And I know I benefit from each new point of view on my work.

The next story I'm thinking of working on is set in Angkor Wat.  The main characters are a young couple, but not necessarily Ian and I.  I'm thinking that I may need to branch out further, though.  The book will center on us as characters, but I think I need to stretch my creative writing muscles before I lock myself into only fiction-from-fact writing.

And now for something completely different...  Ian left for the STP (Seattle to Portland Bike Race) today.  I miss him so much!  That's weird, because it's not like we're together all that often, anyway.  

Our opposite schedules are really getting to me.  I'm also having a lot of anxiety regarding work.  I work for a great company (and I'm really thankful for my supervisor and team), but I no longer think I'm well suited for the call center environment, though I'm moderately good at it.  It's not uncommon for me to have a panic attack when I think about it.  On top of that, I feel incompetent for having those feelings.

But that's not what this blog is supposed to be!  Beg pardon, but I just needed that off my chest.

Cheer for Ian tomorrow and Sunday!  He's got 204 miles to go.

Good night!

Welcome Dinner, Current Draft

Here is the version of the draft that I submitted to Pure Slush.

**********************

       We followed Julia to the car.  Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating.  The black sedan was matter- of-fact, and though she had probably owned it for months, the interior looked and smelled as if she had bought it earlier that day.  She motioned for us to take the back as she slid into the driver’s.  I sat.  The awkward roil in my stomach was something that I was growing accustomed to in the three days that I had been in Korea.

“Where are we eating dinner, again?”  I felt like Julia had given Ian more details.

“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”

“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand.  I tried to work it out in my head.  ‘Bead-um’ is all I had heard her say.  I spent the next several minutes running through every food or type of food that started with the letter B.  While I was playing my own personal alphabet game, Ian was productively narrowing it down. 

“Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia was continuing to Ian.

“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I was letting Ian take all the falls tonight.  He tentatively reminded her.

“Oh, yes.  Okay.  You eat fish?”                    

                     

“No.   No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that.  We do eat eggs and milk, though.”  His throat tensed with every explanation. His briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand.  After the last eight hours spent making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t manage a look at her.  Shifting on the bread-colored leather seat, I looked instead out the window and let the neon shop signs overtake my train of thought.  I counted glowing red crosses atop churches.  Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills.  I had thought Koreans were Buddhists.

“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia and Ian’s conversation had continued.

“Mine aren’t.  They eat a lot of meat, actually.  Casey’s mom is, though.”  Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.

“Oh, really?  It’s good to do.  You are nice children, obedient.”

       We drove a few minutes more in silence.  She began to mumble to herself and drive more slowly down the street.  I leaned toward her a little, worried she was trying to talk to us.  She wasn’t.  She dialed her phone.  A jeweled “J” swung heavily on it.  I squinted into the headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four lane street.  After a minute- long exasperated phone call punctuated by considerable sighing, she made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot.

       I tried and failed to sound out the elaborately written Korean on the fluorescent sign.  Small, blocky type in the lower right corner answered me: “Vietnam Cuisine”.

************************

For those of you that read the Jecheon blog, is there a particular "episode" that you think would be good tackled in short story format? I want to get a few more stories (flash or longer) out before I begin to hunker down and work on putting a book together, something I know little to nothing about accomplishing. Let me know!

Good night!

A Few More Changes

It's 476 words.  I'm looking for minimalist expression here.  I want every sentence to accomplish something on it's own and within the whole.  So, am I close?  Oh, and I'm not sure whether the crazy text highlighting will help or hinder you.

*************************

We followed Julia to the car.  Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating.  The black sedan was matter of fact and though she had probably owned it for months, the interior looked and smelled as if she had bought it earlier that day.  She motioned for us to take the back seats as she slid into the driver’s.  I sat.  The awkward roil in my stomach was something that I was growing accustomed to in the three days that I had been in Korea.

“Where are we eating dinner, again?”  I felt like Julia had given Ian more details.

“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”

“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand.  I tried to work it out in my head.  ‘Bead-um’ is what I had heard her say.  I spent the next several minutes running through every food or type of food that started with the letter B.  While I was playing my own personal alphabet game, Ian was productively narrowing it down. 

“Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia was continuing to Ian.

“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I was letting Ian take all the falls tonight.  He tentatively reminded her.

“Oh, yes.  Okay.  You eat fish?”

“No.   No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that.  We do eat eggs and milk, though.”  His throat tensed with every explanation. His briefcase clip made a rhythmic, metallic click under his nervous hand.  After the last eight hours spent making and remaking lesson plans naïvely seeking her approval, I couldn’t manage a look at her.  Shifting on the bread colored leather seat, I looked instead out the window and let the neon shop signs overtake my train of thought.  I counted glowing red crosses atop churches.  Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills.  I thought Koreans were Buddhists.

“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia and Ian’s conversation had continued.

“Mine aren’t.  They eat a lot of meat, actually.  Casey’s mom is, though.”  Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.

“Oh, really?  It’s good to do.  You are nice children, obedient.”

We drove a few minutes more in silence.  She began to mumble to herself and drive more slowly down the street.  I leaned toward her a little, worried she was trying to talk to us.  She wasn’t.  She dialed her phone.  A jeweled “J” swung heavily on it.  I squinted into the headlights of the oncoming cars as we reversed directions on the four lane street.  After a minute long exasperated phone call punctuated by considerable sighing, she made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot.  I tried and failed to sound out the elaborately written Korean on the fluorescent sign.  Small, blocky type in the lower right corner answered me: “Vietnam Cuisine”.

New Draft!

Alright, here's draft two.  It is, thus far, officially untitled.

*************

                We followed Julia to the car.  Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating.  The black sedan was straight to the point and though she had probably owned it for months, the interior looked and smelled as if she had bought it earlier that day.  She motioned for us to take the back seats as she slid into the driver’s.  I sat.  The awkward roil in my stomach was something that I was growing accustomed to in the three days that I had been in Korea.

“Where are we eating dinner, again?”  I felt like Julia had given Ian more details.

“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”

“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand.  I tried to work it out in my head.  ‘Bead-um’ is what I had heard her say.  I spent the next several minutes running through every food or type of food that started with the letter B.  While I was playing my own personal alphabet game, Ian was productively narrowing it down. “Rice, vegetable, fish, soup,” Julia was continuing to Ian.

“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I was letting Ian take all the falls tonight.  He tentatively reminded her.

“Oh, yes.  Okay.  You eat fish?”

“No.   No fish, chicken, beef or anything like that.  We do eat eggs and milk, though.”  His throat tensed with every explanation.  I stared at him lazily.  After the last eight hours spent making and remaking lesson plans for her approval, which I still hadn’t won, I could hardly look at her.  Shifting on the bread colored leather seat, I looked instead out the window and let the neon shop signs overwhelm my train of thought.  I counted glowing red crosses atop churches.  Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills.  I thought Koreans were Buddhists.

“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia and Ian’s conversation had continued.

“Mine aren’t.  They eat a lot of meat, actually.  Casey’s mom is, though.”  Hearing my name drew me down from the hills and into the car.

“Oh, really?  It’s good to do.  You are nice children, obedient.”

We drove a few minutes more in silence.  She began to mumble to herself and drive more slowly down the street.  I leaned toward her a little, worried she was trying to talk to us.  She wasn’t.  She dialed her phone.  A jeweled J swung heavily on it.  I squinted at the headlights of the oncoming cars as we changed directions on the four lane street.  After less than a minute on the phone, she made another U-turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot.  I tried and failed to sound out the elaborately written Korean on the fluorescent sign.  Small, blocky type in the lower right corner answered me: “Vietnam Cuisine”.

Oh look, a deadline

Those of you know me, know that I do not function without a deadline.

Do. Not. Function.

Notice, if you will, that I haven't worked on the flash fiction piece at all since I had you read it.  Yeah, lack of structure gives me writer's block and eternal frustration.

Hooray!  I found a contest.  And I'd better hurry, too.  Look for a draft in the coming days.  I want to send it over to Pure Slush by Tuesday evening at the latest.

I wish I could stop working and devote 40-a-week to writing.  I really want to write my book.  And, I know,  I just have to do it.  But, I generally feel pretty small and crummy after my work day, so I've had a terribly difficult time being creative.  Sad writing is unmotivated, flitty writing.

This is Pizza Oasis at this very moment:

No business, no bueno.

I like to work on writing stuff here.  I get distracted by the quietness at home.

Good night!

Kitties Galore

I went to Jezebel.com today to grab the email address that we're supposed to submit our stories to and found out that they stopped accepting stories early due to overwhelming response.  Bummer.  But, no worries, I'm going to use this opportunity to expand the story into the full version I intended.  I'll post a new draft when I reach the new ending.

Satchmo has been out in the apartment since Tuesday and both cats are doing well.  Ava seems to have caught a bit of his cold, but we're giving them both the herbs now to help.  

Here's one photo from his release day.  I'm in Whole Foods on lunch and the internet isn't being timely with the upload, so I'll post the rest of the photos and good stuff later.

Micro Story

Since I've been out sick, I've been trying to be productive all the same.  It's time to start getting the Jecheon book in order.  I need to build a portfolio and put together an outline so that I have something to show potential editors.

First thing's first, though, I need to start clearing out the cobwebs in my ol' brain.  Jezebel, a women's interest site that I follow, is having a very general short fiction contest.  They're calling for stories 500 words or less with a female protagonist.  The deadline is Friday and the prize is a pile of books penned by awesome lady writers.  

I figured this was a good opportunity to stick my big toe into the water.  So, I took a post from Everybody Jecheon Tonight and turned it into a micro story.  Here's the first draft, criticisms and comments, chuseyo (please).  I'm also not sold on the title, so let me know your thoughts.

Welcome Dinner

We followed Julia out to the car. Like her, it was stately, expensive and a little intimidating. The black sedan was straight to the point and though she had probably owned it for months, the interior looked and smelled as if she had bought it earlier that day. She motioned for us to take the back seats as she slid into the driver’s. I sat. The awkward roil in my stomach was something that I was growing accustomed to in the three days that I had been in Korea.

“Where are we eating dinner again?” I felt like Julia had given more details to Ian than to me.

“I don’t know. “ He leaned forward. “Julia, where are we going to eat?”

“Uh,” then she said something I didn’t understand. I tried to work it out in my head. ‘Bead-um’ is what I had heard her say. I spent the next several minutes running through every food or type of food that started with the letter B. While I was playing my own personal alphabet game, Ian was productively narrowing it down. “Rice, vegetable, fish, rolls,” Julia was continuing to Ian.

“Does she remember that we’re vegetarians?” I was letting Ian take all the falls tonight. He tentatively reminded her.

“Oh, yes. Okay. You eat fish?”

“No, no fish, chicken, beef or anything like that. We do eat eggs and milk, though.” His body was tight with discomfort. He was able to talk to her, however. After the last eight hours spent making and remaking lesson plans for her approval, which I still hadn’t won, I could hardly look at her. She exhausted me. I looked out the window and let the neon shop signs overwhelm my train of though. I counted glowing red crosses atop churches. Eleven if you count the ones just past those hills. I thought Koreans were Buddhists.

“Your parents are vegetarians?” Julia and Ian’s conversation had continued.

“Mine aren’t. They eat a lot of meat, actually. Casey’s mom is, though.”

“Oh, really? It’s good to do. You are nice children, obedient.”

We drove a few minutes more in silence. She began to mumble to herself in Korean and drive more slowly down the street. I leaned toward her a little, worried she was trying to talk to us. She wasn’t. She was lost. She dialed her phone and made a U-Turn. I squinted at the headlights of the oncoming cars as we changed directions on the four lane street. After less than a minute of what we could only infer as a frustrating conversation by the way it was punctuated by sighs, she made another U-Turn and we pulled into a nearly empty parking lot. “Vietnamese Cuisine” was written in small, blocky type on the bottom of the brightly lit rectangular sign.