FlashFiction.Net

One of the reasons I am as prolific as I am, which really isn't to say I'm prolific whatsoever, but to say that I truly do write, is because my little son takes long naps during which I force myself to write. I can't do housework. Not only do I detest doing dishes and get no enjoyment in scouring ovens whatsoever—but do like a clean house I must clarify—but also I can't clean, because he might wake, so I write. My work must be at least tangentially connected to writing for it to be considered work. Otherwise, what I am doing is wasting time.

I must write quickly and with frequent glances toward the sleeping child. I take notes during the day—scribbles on everything but not with as much organization as say Bruce Holland Rogers who whips out index cards from the pocket of his jacket to surreptitiously take notes. What is he writing there?? We try to peek over his sandwich or arm but just as quickly as he snaked out that card, he whisks it back into the pocket to resume tidily slicing his Rueben. I write on the backs of bills—mostly unpaid of course.

This is a reason I write flash fiction.

When he wakes, the stunning wee one and his amazing childhood cannot be missed. Reading is squashed between writing, the things I must attend to, the things I should but don't, the unmopped floor, dog hair in the corner. The sun graces me in morning, lingers above and then flings down past the trees. It happens extraordinarily fast.

Is this confessional? Am I excusing the shower stains, the crammed sink, the laundry barge? Oh perhaps.

A fellow mother-writer-friend of mine is barely writing. She isn't reading. Her house is clean.

More Confessions: Two Flashes Freele Wants To Steal

Every once in awhile I fall upon such a well-written fabulously-told story it brings me to despair. When this happens, I hang my head and whisper I'll never be that good of a writer. There are entire books like that—David Foster Wallace's The Broom of The System. And longer short stories: Roy Kesey's "Wait."

Usually, when I encounter one of these stories, I get scared. Really scared. Scared my work won't ever come close. And then, I try to get out of my self-absorption and study the piece, see what makes it ascend to that breathtaking place.

I've said it before: Matt Bell's "Custard's Last Stand" is one of those stories I have read and reread and reread. Every single time I read it I simultaneously damn Matt for writing this before me and praise him for getting there first.

Why do I love Bell's story so? Because it provokes me to reread. Is it because the reader has to follow clues to find out who the story is about? Is it the use of the word "bastards" in the first sentence—a shocking term for a first line? Is it the way the story gives you growing energy toward an unknown: sweat, anticipation, a charge? The story would be entirely flat—melted ice cream in itself if it went like this: A bunch of overweight kids organize themselves to raid the ice cream truck. Because, then I'd know everything. I think, the success of this story is based on what isn't told, what is held back.

This, a story like Bell's "Custard's Last Stand," is a reason I read short fiction: time, timing, and the idea that a whole big bunch of schtuff can be packed into one teensy little paragraph-sized missive that shines like a green sapphire on a beach of granite.

A bit of a longer flash, Christopher Helmuth's "Tulip," is another piece I've studied. Here, I stopped word by word, sentence by sentence and wrote a story titled "Boots" (unpublished) using an article, noun, verb placed exactly as he did. An exercise in forcing myself to study varied sentence structure.

"Tulip" has fresh and balanced layers of beat and rhythm. Long sentences are paired with short. The second paragraph is a lengthy run-on that spills out, tumbling onto the page to plop in the end with glorious heaviness.

Even though I've read this story twelve times, fifteen, the ending is a puncher. "Tulip" has one of the most spectacular endings I've ever read.

A Not So Big Finale

So, why two? Why only two flashes Freele wants to steal?

Hardly. There are more. There are many more. But, one must flit and go write. And, nevermind the laundry. You can have it.

Toodles.