Concisely Claire

Tag: writing

  • Idea Kindling

    Idea Kindling

    This week has been a strong start in my going pro journey.

    I’ve been getting reacquainted with sitting down and just throwing down whatever words come to me in that given moment. The urge to delete still overwhelms me, a roiling pot in the pit of my solar plexus on the verge of overflow, yet I hold my ground, unyielding. I am a word warrior, firm in her resolve, determined to get my message out. Whatever it is.

    I call these sessions idea kindling. It’s a bit more fun than brainstorming (and more accurate, in my opinion), and one I conjured during my latest NNWT session. I just write and write and write and write as many words as will come out onto the page, and eventually, an idea will spark. We’ll strike the flint of this keyboard to the rock that is my brain as many times as it takes to get some idea kindling. And by Jove, we’re gonna have fun while we’re doing it.

    And it has been fun, albeit a couple bouts of creative constipation throughout the session. There may be several starts and stops, but eventually the words come, and the delight of it is unlike any other.

    I subscribe to Writers Write daily writing prompts, as I’ve found them to be the most inspiring. I Googled writing prompts last week, and holy cannoli are there some overly detailed prompts out there. Writers Write’s prompts are shorter and more open-ended. It can be a phrase or a challenge to use several words or phrases in the introduction of a story. Some of these other resources give you a whole bloody introduction to a novel to build off. That’s too much for me. It almost feels like plagiarism with how lengthy some of those prompts are.

    In any case, the Writer’s Write prompt a few days ago was “high maintenance.” I had quite a bit of fun creating several things based off of that that may develop into full-blown projects, but we’ll see! I’m editing the poem I wrote as a result of that session and plan to post it here, but it also provided me with some idea kindling for something else. For now, I’ll just say I’ve met a character named Pamela who has piqued my interest, and I’ve tasked myself with learning more about roller derby. If you know of anyone who partakes or have any resources, kindly shoot ‘em my way!

    I’m a bit short on time today—I am manifesting my wizard era by assisting my MIL with sewing a moon and stars robe on this fine Super Bowl Sunday. I may even get my average 27 minutes of football watching in this season. I wish you all a marvelous, potato skin-filled day. Go sports!

  • Going Pro

    Setting: My bedroom. I sit at my desk, my back to my sixteen-year-old cat napping on the bed I made as best I could while trying not to disturb him. Three pairs of shoes wait patiently in a crooked line for me to finish bringing them to the closet. A neat stack of clean shirts hangs over my keyboard piano, second in the queue of laundry duty.

    There’s a lot I could be doing instead of writing. That’s what I told myself for a very long time, and it’s true. There certainly is. But today is the day I’ve decided I’m going pro.

    I remember the day a friend of mine told me she was “going pro.” The transformation from writing as a hobby to writing as a habit, carving nonnegotiable writing time into her schedule and sticking to it regardless of physical, mental, or emotional disparities. Getting the words on the page is the only way to get it done, after all.

    She said it with such conviction. I could feel the power behind her words, the edge of tenacity’s blade being honed by the statement. I was proud, inspired. She made a promise to the universe in that moment, a captain changing course in her life journey. She was ready.

    I simply was not.

    There were reservations, phantoms of false doubt and fear of creation casting shadows over the blank page. Never mind all the unhoused shoes.  

    So I tucked my writing away for a long winter’s nap, and for quite a while navigated phases of peace and guilt, anxiety and contentment, about where I was in my writing journey. I had several bursts of inspiration and created for a short spell, but they soon fizzled out and left me holding an ashen bag of mixed emotions. Eventually, after much prayer, reflection, and a wayward tear or two, I realized that my dormancy was necessary, critical even, to my journey as a whole, and then there truly was peace. For a myriad of reasons both seen and unseen, I was to put my energies elsewhere in that chapter of my life, and I released all expectations of the timeline I had been clinging to so tightly.

    Now that time is over.

    I am finally at a place in my personal evolution where I feel ready to go pro. To come to the keyboard with resolve, a clean, creative mind, and fearless of failure. 

    For just showing up, even if it’s just for you, especially if it’s just for you—is the greatest success. That is the cake, my friends. Everything else is just icing.

    A handful of lessons I learned while in my dormancy:

    Be nicer to myself. I have a propensity to be hypercritical of my work to the point where if it isn’t to my high standard, I delete it. Instead, I will be kinder to myself and treat myself just as I would any other writing peer or friend. I will hit Publish, even if it isn’t “perfect.”  

    We’ll clean it up in post.  I have work to do on this one. I will write a paragraph, then suffer over it for hours before progressing to the next step. I will now work in levels, and level one is get the words on the paper.

    Don’t let the dust bunnies become the monsters under your bed. By going pro, you don’t wait for the house to be spotless or anything else to write. Just stop what you’re doing and take the time. If you do, you might as well wait for the next Pluto transit.

    Do it your way.  You have to find the way that works for you. The only requirement is that you have to actually do it. I don’t have to publish right away on some blog or feel rushed into the next phase of the project. Just enjoy and have fun, be creative and exercise my imagination, and hit Publish when it’s ready–just be sure to hit the bloody button.

    I have a few writing goals this year:

    1. Revise the first novel of my series. The roadblock to this gargantuan task has been sheer ignorance of how in the blazes to go about that in a streamlined, organized, checkpoint-oriented fashion, so I am taking a revision course through the Writing Mastery Academy on how to do just that.
    2. Get a draft done of the second novel. The second novel’s been a blast to work with the few bouts I’ve had with it, and I will strive to get at least an initial draft done of it in 2025.
    3. Stick to the plan. I have carved out NNWT (nonnegotiable writing time) and have set word count goals to meet. This will help hold me accountable and keep me on track. Having a set direction is paramount to my success.

    I will come here to share my writing journey, as well as fun little tidbits of my creations along the way.

    If you’ll please excuse me, it’s time for cake.

  • “Jelly”

    Blackberry jelly lies
    between the truth of your lips
    and the bricks of your heart
    Sticky-sweet, seeds sticking to
    the grit in your teeth,
    the gravel in your voice
    as you carry empty sentiments on the wind. 

    The seeds know.

    The untapped potential
    The hate wrapped in denial
    The shame.

    They know the truth.

    Jelly lies drip

    Drip

    Drip
    pi
    n
    g

    from your
    fingertips

    Blackberry blood pooling
    round your ruddy boots.

    Nature always wins.
    You’re an umbrella in a hurricane.
    You didn’t stand a chance. 

  • November: A Haiku

    Dead November eyes
    take me back to sights unseen
    Voices left unheard

  • Page 42: A Novella Excerpt

    Page 42: A Novella Excerpt

    Premise: José, a Mexican-American teen from Florida, discovers he’s the descendent of Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec god of the Sun, and learns what he must do to save the dying god and ultimately the world.

    I’d love to hear your thoughts, so please Leave a Reply or send me an email in the Contact section!

    page 42 cover

    ~

    As José sat in the tub, steam rising from the water, he pondered the day’s happenings. Seeing his grandmother, chest coated in blood, what she told him, the book…

    As promised, the little black book was with him on the bathroom counter. It seemed silly to keep it with him everywhere he went, but José found that he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. It felt wrong somehow.

    Make sure you’re alone, Abuela’s voice echoed in his head. Turn to page 42 and read it aloud. Come back tomorrow and tell me what happened.

    What could she possibly expect would happen?

    He gazed at the book as he toweled off. It was simple-looking enough – just a small, black leather-bound book. But it had a strange image on the front. In gold foil, there was some sort of warrior image that looked very much like something out of José’s history lessons. Some Aztec warrior or something.

    I guess my attention hasn’t been 100% in history class, he thought.

    José retired to his room and dressed for bed. He lit a few candles, then locked the door. His cheeks flushed as he checked his closet, assuring his solitude. He laughed to himself when he found it empty.

    “Ridiculous!” he muttered. “I’m just as bad as Abuela!” He checked his windows next, then closed the blinds.
    “OK…page 42…” José opened the book and thumbed through the pages. It was filled with all manner of peculiar diagrams, recipes that called for ingredients José had never heard of, and bunches of poem-like text.

    Page 42 began with instructions, followed by text to be read aloud. The instructions called for six candles to be lit in a circle at the center of the room. He moved the already lit candles into formation and added a couple more.

    “All right,” José said. “Here goes nothing.
    “Of the Sun and of the ground,
    “Cast your divine energies down.
    “Unto the light and unto the dark,
    “Holy Spirit, transcend into my heart.
    “Hear my pleas and ascend to Earth,
    “I give you the portal to ascend to birth.
    “I invoke… Huitzilopochtli?”

    José’s candle flames suddenly burst, reaching the ceiling. José jumped and tumbled to the floor, eyes saucers. The candle flames surged together on the ceiling, creating a swirling circle of fire. The circle intensified, then descended from the ceiling like a great pillar. José scrambled to his feet and shielded his eyes from the bright light.

    A moment later the flames lessened, and José opened his eyes to find a glorious being standing before him. He looked like a man, but his skin was a brilliant cobalt, and he stood seven feet tall. He wore an elaborate headdress with long, green feathers and shorter red and white feathers. They sat high atop his head like a Mohawk, grazing the now charred ceiling, while more feathers trailed downward across his back. A human skull sat like a crown at the center, the mandible on a necklace below. On his face were intricate black markings, like those painted on for war. But his eyes… it was as if they were two suns blazing. It hurt to look in them. He was huge and muscular, and truly magnificent. José gawked, slack-jawed.

    “Who summons me?” A low voice rumbled through the room. “Who of my descendants has summoned me to Earth?”
    It took a moment for José to realize that he should probably answer, and cleared his throat.

    “I…I did, señor.”

    Huitzilopochtli cast his fiery gaze down to the scrawny Mexican-American boy.

    “And you are?”

    “José,” José replied readily.

    “José.”

    “S-Sí, señor. José — José Martin Gutiérrez Ramón. Señor.”

    Without a word, Huitzilopochtli thrust his right hand into José’s chest. José tried to scream, but his voice died in his throat. Huitzilopochtli grasped onto José’s heart and clenched it tightly. Pain scorched through José like he never knew. It felt as if his heart had gasoline poured on it and was set ablaze. With each beat, the fire coursed through his veins; through his arms, his legs, feet and fingers. Each beat pounded in his brain like a great drum.

    Twenty beats passed, then Huitzilopochtli released him, and he collapsed to the floor.
    ~

  • A Controversy

    A Controversy

    (Two scantily-clad men are at a secluded, grungy bar in the south of Wales, seated in a dark corner. Each has a beer.)

    A: I can’t believe that just came out of your mouth! That’s absolutely ridiculous!

    B: What? It’s not like you haven’t done anything like that before.

    A: Are you delusional? I’ve never even considered doing anything remotely like that!

    B: What about that time in Bristol?

    A: That was completely different! I was young, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Doing anything of that sort now would only lead to trouble.

    B: Trouble? The closest thing to trouble that we found in Bristol was the old gypsy, and even she wasn’t that bad!

    A: Easy for you to say! You didn’t wake up with her beside you, snuggling up in your blankets and attempting to flog your dolphin!

    (B chortles)

    A: It is not a laughing matter! I still have nightmares of that wrinkly wench! Her floppy tits sagging… Eah! No! It’s out of the question!

    B: Oh, come on! What were the chances of that? She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you settled it the only way you could… (Snorts trying to hold back his laughter)

    A: It’s NOT funny!

    B: I know. I’m sorry — Completely out of line. Forgive me. (Tries really hard not to smile)

    A: (ignores B) And she wasn’t the worst of our troubles! Have you forgotten the kangaroo?

    B: Bonkers? Are you kidding? He was the best thing that ever happened to us!

    A: You’re mad! And I suppose that the high speed chase against the clown car and getting sent to the hospital by the bearded lady was your idea of tea and crumpets?

    B: Well, we did technically steal the star of the show.

    A: No, you stole the star of the show. In case you’re twisted sense of reality has failed you, which, no doubt, it has, I was busy with the true purpose of that mission: Getting our hands on the jewels of the Princess. It was you who thought that the kangaroo needed saving.

    B: And if my twisted sense of reality has not failed me, which, no doubt, it hasn’t, I believe it was you who thought that that lovely young acrobat needed (gestures quotes) “saving” too.

    A: She had cuts everywhere! How was I supposed to know she was the lion tamer’s lover? She looked like she was being abused!

    B: And I’m sure you took the time to ask her how it was she came across her wounds.

    A: Like she would have told me the truth! People that are being abused hardly ever reveal the reality of the situation. They’ll say they tripped, or they ran into that guy’s fist…

    B: Yeah, like you ran into Bonkers’. (Tries hard not to laugh)

    A: He was a champion boxer! I swear that roo could’ve been the next Ali. I mean, I’m a pretty accomplished fighter, but –

    B: Please! Ogling Kelsie Daniels on “Pump, Jump, and Jab” does not make you an accomplished fighter.

    A: But I –

    B: Nor does taking down Buzz in the 5th grade.

    (A is silent)

    A: In any case, it’s out of the question. I refuse to pick up that old life again. I have an honest job, a lovely wife…

    B: (Chuckles) Really? Delivering Rodney’s Pizza and being married to a horse is good enough for you, then?

    A: Yes! Yes it is! And Gertrude is not a horse! She’s a wonderful woman with a great personality!

    B: Whatever you say… (Mutters, “That’s what they all say about the ugly ones…” before he puts the beer to his mouth.)

    A: What did you say?!

    B: (finishes pull from drink) Nothing! We’re getting off-topic. Don’t you still dream of the jewels, man? We were this close to getting them, but that damn bearded lady…

    A: You just had to take the roo with, didn’t you? If you hadn’t done that, we’d be millionaires right now! Sitting on our yachts with our martinis and beautiful women…

    B: I won’t make that mistake again. See? Even you still dream about them. You could dump the pizza joint, dump the old broad –

    A: She is not an old broad!

    B: (ignores A) And we could be living the high life. Come on, man! What’s stopping you?!

    A: My conscience, that’s what!

    B: And when, might I ask, did you pick up one of those?

    A: When I realized I was going to be a father.

    B: Oh, don’t pull that paternal malarkey on me! It’s all the more reason for you to want to be wealthy! Don’t you want to provide for that child as best you can?

    A: I’d rather set a good example and show him that hard work pays off.

    B: Yeah, at $7.50 an hour.

    A: I don’t care what you say. Mock me all you want, but I refuse to become a petty thief again. I gladly shoved those days straight to hell!

    B: I’ll convince you soon enough. Before long you’ll realize that you need to do this, whether you want to or not.

    A: Yeah, yeah… Whatever you say…

    (Scene fades to black)

     

    © 2017 Claire Fiori