Be a Squirrel

 

Dear Lovely Reader:

I must apologize, first of all, for missing my essay slot two weeks ago. I was, as usual, experiencing technical difficulties, this time with my Google account. I'd changed my password . . . and that set off a chain of reactions that included my phone, my calendars, my contacts, and my email. Things are working again--but I don't feel totally secure. This has always been a seamless process in the past. We are told to regularly change our passwords, after all. But this time . . .

Anyway, much anguish later, and I'm back to work. I think I've finished formatting Strawberry Moon Mystery using the Atticus software. It was quite easy to manipulate, so the test will be how it works with KDP/Amazon. First, though, I want to print out a copy for my proofreader. And I still need to create the full print book cover. That was dependent on formatted pages, so this is the next step. 

So, I will give you both an essay AND a micro-fiction this week. 

***

BE A SQUIRREL

Last week I bought a large bag of bird seed. When I opened it, I almost wanted to dig into it myself. With nuts and seeds galore, it smelled like an earthy granola. It was pricey, too. But I wanted to attract the cardinals and bluejays and woodpeckers along with nuthatches, chickadees, and tufted titmice. 

It worked, but the bounty also attracted the bane of my Maine home existence, the gray squirrels. 

They are so fat, the three of them. I think they are a family: a mom and two grown babies. That's just the feeling I get watching their behavior. They hang upside down from the top of the feeder and feast on the nuts and seeds. 

When I tap the window, they stare at me. Then they go back to eating. If I go outside onto my porch, they may or may not scurry to the lilac tree. It's only when I approach that they will scamper across the lawn to one of several trees. 

Ten minutes later, they are back.

They are tenacious little buggers. 

Lately I've seen a lot of "let's get real about publishing" messaging on blogs and Substacks and podcasts. The general mood seems to be dour and/or resigned. The phrase, "It's okay to subsidize your writing with a day job" is EVERYWHERE. It's coming from agents. It's coming from editors. It's coming from book coaches. 

If I can't laugh about this, I will cry. 

Here's the thing: these people are not wrong. Publishing right now is harder than ever. The trades are tightening their belts. Everyone wants a Sure Thing. For every Taylor Jenkins Reid who hits the jackpot with an $8M/book deal there are countless small and indie and midlist authors begging for scraps from the pubs, desperately trying to carve out a niche in the market, or quietly quitting. 

So what are our choices? Simple. Quit or keep going. 

I've decided to be a squirrel. The market might tap on my window. The market might chase me away from the feeder. I'll scamper to my desk, write the next book or story, and I'll hop back over to the trough to pick up a seed or two. 

I've decided to let go of my expectations. 

By this I mean, I'm not even going to take outcomes into consideration any more. I won't EXPECT to make money on any project. I won't EXPECT, well, anything! 

I've built a lean system around me so I'm not spending a ton of money on my endeavors, probably less than some spend on hobbies like golfing, skiing, snowmobiling, or even fancy cooking! I spend much more on my reading hobby, aka books, than I do on my writing now. I'm a lean, mean, writing machine. A slow one, sure, but pared down to the basics, I think I can do this for the remainder of my days. 

If I gather a readership, wonderful. If I make a little back, lovely. But if I don't, that's okay. I'm gonna be a squirrel and keep reaching for those nuts, baby. 

***

Halloween Story--It's still okay to read one a couple weeks later. Hope you like it. 

Halloween Story

Eloise was the kind of woman who believed in fir swags and twinkle lights at Christmas, forsythia and lilac for spring, red-white-and-blue bunting on the 4th of July.

But for Halloween she went truly bonkers.

The entryway of her ground floor condominium elicited delighted exclamations from her neighbors’ children every year. She hung billowy white sheer curtains that floated eerily in the autumn breeze. She attached bat decals around the door to send shivers up the spine. She piled pumpkins in front of pots holding bare branches which she hung with little sachets of birdseed to attract the local crows whose dark, glossy feathers gleamed in the slanted sunlight of the season.

There was something ghostly about Eloise, herself. Her fair skin and silvery fair hair, her long, thin legs and arms, the ballerina flats that made no sound as she floated past the neighbor’s doors. Nobody knew much about her, other than she’d once been a dancer, maybe even famous, and now she lived quietly alone in their apartment complex in a small city north of Boston, a cold New England place in the winter months but spectacular in the fall with its brilliant foliage and clear blue skies.

One day nearing Halloween, Eloise replaced a bulb in the entryway light, and a crow thwapped from one of the branches and landed on her shoulder. He pecked at the shiny silver hoop in her ear. He whispered, “Suet and peanuts and pumpkinseedfloss; tell me your secrets of heartache and loss.”

Eloise turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and brushed the crow from her shoulder. ”I’ll give you your suets and your seeds,” she said. “But I keep my secrets. Be gone now.”

The next day, when Eloise placed a pot of glorious, deep red chrysanthemums near the front door, the crow landed on Eloise’s shoulder and whispered the same words. Eloise sighed and thought about her lost love, the ending of her career due to an injury, the death of her mother. She shook her head. “Go away. Those are my secrets to keep.”

On the third day, Eloise carved a jack o’lantern, for it was All Hallow’s Eve. She stuck a candle in the grinning gourd as twilight fell. In the flickering glow, two black beady eyes glittered from behind the chrysanthemum pot. The crow cawed softly and whispered his demand for the third time.

A rush of feeling swept through Eloise, and she trembled with sorrow and loss. For a moment she was tempted to give the spirit what it wanted, for of course she knew the crow’s true nature. He craved her sadness and her tears. But then she heard the delighted laughter and chattering voices of the neighbor’s children. They ran to her front porch dressed as pirates and princesses and scarecrows and some cartoon characters she didn’t recognize.

Her heart lifted as they gathered at her doorstep. “Trick or treat!” they yelled in unison. Eloise laughed and the crow was so frightened, he flew away, never to return.

Have a Spooky Day!

XOXO Shelley Burbank

Frame It Up: Experiments in Short Story Structure

 

By Shelley Burbank

Cliff overhanging Gun Beach, Tumon Bay, Guam

I drafted a short story last summer when I was in Maine. I wanted to write a short crime narrative about my female private investigator character, Olivia Lively. Because I was visiting at a home with no internet, I drafted the story by hand on yellow paper. The solstice inspired me to use June's full moon as part of the setting, and the title Strawberry Moon Mystery seemed perfect.

It took me three tries over the course of a day and night, but I finished the draft at 3 a.m. A few days later, I went back to California where I began to transcribe it into a Google doc. However, I failed to get it all typed up before I came back to Maine and then on to Guam. I figured once I got settled, I'd finish typing it and then work on revising and polishing and maybe even submit it somewhere. (Or offer it as a lead magnet to find new readers for my two books.)

I'm excited about this one because I wrote Strawberry Moon as a frame story. 

***

When taking photos, it's sometimes fun to create a "frame" in the foreground in order to highlight something in the background. This creates interest in the whole, as in the above photo I took on Gun Beach. The overhanging cliff hovers over the dimpled sand while framing the blue-green seawater and dark rocks beyond. 

Stories are structured in many different ways, and we writers like to experiment with various plot devices and structures. One of my favorites is the "frame narrative." 

You are probably most familiar with frame narratives in classic literature. The Canterbury Tales collects 24 different stories under one umbrella, or frame, story: Travelling companions amusing each other by telling stories along the way. The Thousand and One Nights is another collection set in one frame. 

Sometimes the frame contains just one story, or perhaps even a story that frames a third story. (I'm giddy just thinking about it!) 

I've experimented with frame stories a few times. Once, I wrote a lengthy short story for a class I was auditing at the University of Maine. The class was Native American & Immigrant Literature and was taught by Rhea Cote Robbins. I wrote about a modern-day character who is told a story by an elder. Within that story was another story. It was complex and probably a little clunky, but I received positive comments from the instructor and like to think there's some good material in there. I'll revisit it someday as I think it would make a good "novel in stories" like Alice Hoffman's The Red Garden.

A second frame-writing adventure wasn't planned. I inadvertently used a frame when I drafted a novel with a very dramatic opening scene which set up the conflict for the main character. I then decided the events leading up to that moment were important enough to include in the narrative. I had a choice: weave in backstory in dribs and drabs or, in the next chapter, go back in time to tell the story chronologically until the events led up to the original scene--which really was the inciting incident for my character's developmental arc and thus the best place to start--and then continue on to the end. 

I did it, but I was never totally happy with it. 

On a second draft, I tried writing the book beginning to end chronologically, but it transformed the story into a different genre, from women's fiction to romance. That's not what I wanted. I wanted the story to be about my heroine's journey, her challenges and growth, not focused on the romantic relationship even though that relationship incited the change she was forced to make in order to thrive. 

No one ever said writing was easy. Stories are puzzles. All the pieces have to fit, and fitting works best when you build in the right order. Figuring out the right order, now, that's the real challenge. 

***

This brings me to the drafting of Strawberry Moon Mystery, the short story I wrote on yellow paper in Maine. Here, Liv goes to a party to celebrate the publication of her client's latest novel and the successful defense of her authorship following a plagiarism claim. Trouble is, Liv felt something was off even though she investigated for the defense. The end brings the missing pieces to light. In the middle, though, I tell the story of her investigation in chronological order from initial client meeting to final report and settling of the claim. 

Now, I could revise and start at that beginning when Liv is approached to do background investigation for the client, make my way to the night of the party, and get to that ending payout scene. But I kind of like the frame. The opening scene of the party being held at a Victorian "cottage" on the coast of Maine, a full Strawberry Moon rising over the sea, and Liv's queasy feeling that something isn't quite right makes me happy. 

I'm hoping it piques the reader's interest, as well. 

However--plot twist--somewhere in between San Diego and Maine and Guam I've misplaced my handwritten draft! Remember, I never did get the whole thing transcribed. I can sort of remember the basics, but I've lost the details. 

Will this author be able to finish her piece? Stay tuned for updates. 

Lizzie Noel

 by Charlotte Hinger

My short story, "Lizzie Noel," was published in the Nov/Dec issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I'm absolutely thrilled to have a story in this publication, which includes such notable writers as Joyce Carol Oates. I've submitted several stories over the years. Only "The Family Rose" was accepted. Ironically, that story was later published in two anthologies, Murder on the Verandah, and Murder to Music. 

The editor, Janet Hutchings, kindly provided an excerpt of my story on the Ellery Queen website. Here it is:

Lizzie Noel
by Charlotte Hinger

The glittery little floozy burst through the door of the Overhours Cafe like she was fleeing the gates of hell. Or her pimp, more likely.

Teresa Wainright had every reason to recognize her kind immediately. But she didn’t want trouble. No telling who might come looking for this one.

She gave a final polish to a stainless-steel napkin holder and scornfully studied the little whore as she swiveled onto the nearest stool. A small woman. Eyes ringed with straying mascara. She wore hot pants and scuffy mid-thigh leather boots and a stained lacy see-through blouse that needed a few extra buttons. Brittle white-blond hair piled on top of her head. Chipped dried-blood-black nails. READ MORE

Obviously, to "READ MORE" you'll have to buy a copy of the magazine.