Post for May 11th

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Questions: How long did it take you to write this book? Are the characters based on the real people? What was the favorite part of the book to write? What was the hardest part to write?



This is a very different book for me. About four or five years ago I started writing flash fiction which is under 1000 words. I thought this was a good experience because I always tended to be long winded and this really forced me to get to the point quicker. I can’t really say I understood what flash fiction was when I first undertook it and, after taking four of five abbreviated classes, I can’t say I still understand it. As best as I understand it, where in a novel you can meander around some a short story demands you get to the point quicker. A short story allows you to meander around some while flash fiction starts right in the middle and demands you say something profound quicker. What I found is that some of what I wrote took on an artificial quality as you repeated themes that your mind associates with drama.



The first story that stuck in my mind that I might have something here was the story Washington DC 2008 (thank you to my instructor Philip Gardner for the title). This was based on a trip with the union to lobby for the employee free choice act. I saw things that still profoundly affect me but what I wrote certainly wasn’t long enough for a book or even a short story but there was something there. A core. And it just kicked around in my head that I hadn’t given a complete version of what it was like to be down there lobbying as an outsider and observing the trappings of DC.



Were the characters real? Some. There’s an old maximum to never let the truth get in the way of a good story. The basics of many stories are true but the male villain, in that story, wasn’t somebody who was there at all he was just somebody who I wasn’t pleased with at the time. It’s a little like what Joan Baez of the Bob Dylan song “The Ship Comes in.” She observed Dylan getting turned away from a hotel and the next day he plays this great song. As she said, “Who knows what it’s about but, believe me, Bob got even.”

The two DC stories make a complete thought. Émigré and Change are similar. The Greek stories were polished, pared-down, and placed out front to give the collection light. It is like you take a mirror, crack it and you have a jigsaw puzzle. Toward the end, it became filling up the work with perspectives I wanted to touch on. The union experience (only from my wife’s perspective as she often held up our union without getting credit for it) and the alternate media (shout to independent media and Gary Webb). I also wanted to shine a spotlight onto other stories that were going on around the world, which the American-centric press ignores and keep from its own people. The core becomes a collection of its pieces. Some are prose. Many are prose poetry. The ethos of the story is the sum of its parts and hopefully, that’s what makes art. If it doesn’t, it makes for one hell of a bloody mess.

The final part was extended quotes from writing mostly of the 1930s. I saw this almost as another character used to amplify light onto whatever writing came before or after. Why the 1930s is probably for the same reason I wanted to get this out now as we are shifting back into 1930s style economics, employment rates, and business failures. The future just hasn’t caught up with the shocks yet. It is also a way to pay homage to writers who I’ve loved and admired.

The favorite part of this was getting the music right for each section I wrote. I listen to my own voice and go over and over it polishing. I think I’m a perfectionist when it comes to sound. The hardest part was trying to make so many disparate parts look like a concrete whole and I completely got this right but I wanted to keep it under 1000 a flash fiction minimum. I like to think this is experimental and I hope it pushes the envelope of how flash fiction can take on even bigger issues. I’d consider doing a follow-up issue.

May 7th questions

My first question is; "Why did you pick Paros? Perhaps more significantly, why did you choose an island as the setting?" or, I would ask, "Why does everyone "seem to wash up on Paros"? What are the motivations of people for going there? Are people going there because they are drawn there by something, or (my opinion) because they are running away from something? If so, what are they fleeing?"

For those who have yet to read the book the first two stories take place in Paros. For people who have only seen the trailer. The first two slides in the trailer are of Paros. Paros is part of the Cyclade island chain along with Ios, Mykonos, and Santorini. The four Greek stories were written at a much earlier date than a lot of the rest of this. I already had much of the body of the work done before I started crafting the beginning. The work is all basically flash fiction which is under 1000 words. I figured this would give the story a much sunnier or more optimistic start than the rest of the piece. I had been also listening to a documentary of Springsteen making darkness on the edge of town and how, just like a car, he'd swap off pieces so I said why can't I do that.

I was in Paros and Santorini probably two years before the story took place. I was amazed by the hustle and bustle of activity of the European youth. It's a vacation spot in Europe, probably like Spain is. For an American, it might be like Florida at spring break or the California beaches. You wind up doing the same islands so you criss-cross and wind up seeing the same Europeans doing the same things you are doing. The only difference is they had so much more vacation than we had, as I worked like hell to get a month over there. It was no big deal for them. I saw it as a very free, cross-pollination of people from all different cultures who were roughly the same age. The closest I've ever found of that was in the US national parks where you start seeing the same people over and over.

I feel in some ways they are going toward something because they are attracted to something it's probably cross-pollination of the like-minded and yet, at the time, I was just coming off my first serious relationship so I can't say that some of that didn't sink into the story too. It just seemed like a much better world than where I was coming from. Thanks. I appreciate the question.

Just coming out at the end of April and May2020: The little book with big ideas

Liberté is the little book with big ideas. A novella of loosely connected flash fiction (1000 words or less), interspersed with prose poetry as well as inserts from the early 20th century. in a mosaic of turbulence.

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Youtube: https://youtu.be/8PlREy4MyE0

1990: Optimism. The cold war ends. The Berlin Wall falls. The European Union forms. For those in their twenties, a better world appears possible, if not probable. A new and better international future…

2020: The world spins out of control. Long-distance, computerized wars. Riots erupt around the globe. New voices are stifled. Heads of state, along with their militarized police, cling to power by suppressing their citizenry. Orwellian algorithms determine which media story is worthy. A depression-era ethos bubbles up. A society primed for pandemic refuses to see the destruction of its planet. It's beyond one person's control but a solution that requires collective action. It's not me but us.

A dizzying array of voices and outlooks:

* A twenty-something male backpacking through Europe

*The wife of a union leader forced to take on larger roles

* A Community activist learning the ropes of the Washington D.C. swamp

*A Latin American activist turned politician

* An independent journalist trying to navigate the worlds of Youtube and Twitter

* A birds-eye view of protest movements around the globe.

Grief

Slightly used tombstone. Near mint condition. Perfect for someone named Robert Fuller. $1000 dollars or best offer.

Everyone makes mistakes. Fuller or Fulton, what’s the difference? One slip-up and I’m out a thousand bucks. Thank God, I own the company because I can only imagine how angry my boss would be over such a costly mistake. I can only imagine my wife’s anger when she learns we’re out a $1000. I’m not telling her either. My company is close bankrupt. There’s not many people who still hand carve their own tombstones any more. I’m a craftsman who can’t afford mistakes like this

I have an idea. Phonebook: Fuller, Chris…Fuller, Paul…Fuller R (possibly)… Fuller, Robert (more exact)… another Fuller, Robert (better). I know where second Robert Fuller’s address is. Better yet. I’m unsure where the first address is. It’s that Robert Fuller’s lucky day. The second one isn’t so lucky. I’ll plan to leave my business card where his wife can find it. Maybe she’ll look at it as an omen or maybe as a happy coincidence for everyone but her husband.

I chuckle, imagining Wile E. Coyote unwrapping a package from the ACME Company. It’s an anvil and the directions inside read: be careful when dropping from high places. Mr. Coyote’s plans rarely work as planned so I go to plan B. A high powered rifle, a scope, and something to muffle the sound. With my ingenuity, that’ll be all folks.

I scope out the first Mr. Fuller’s neighborhood. It’s lovely: big houses, large yards, and tree line drives. Perfectly laid out for a man to leave his vehicle, slip into a wooded glen, shoot someone, and casually return home for dinner. There is no time delay. Mr. Fulton’s rush order is overdue. I try to be conscientious but the thousand dollar mistake has killed my savings.

Tuesday: I assemble my rifle while perspiring. I calmly track the man who walks between the Fuller residence and a car, several times. He looks to be in his fifties which is what I expect from the information I found on the internet. I’ve spent the last week practicing on Call of Duty. I worry I’ll miss and that screw up will cost me hours of planning.  I don’t want to start over. I’m leave the car and I hide in a patch of trees. A car drives slowly around the bend. I stay still waiting for it to pass. I hope he didn’t notice my brother-in-law’s truck parked along the road. If he did it would be bad luck for my wife’s brother.

The moment passes. Nothing but birds and rustling leaves. The man is outside again. I raise my rifle and squeeze my trigger. I hear a distinct pop and the man buckles in the driveway, just like the Germans do in Call of Duty. I don’t even get to enjoy my kill as I believe the place will soon be crawling with police. I quietly walk back to the truck.

I wait all day by my phone… and then another… and soon another. Nobody calls. Two weeks pass. After a lot commotion things die down. The television crews, yellow tape, and the police pack up and leave. My long suffering bank account still hasn’t recovered from the incident.

I’m back on the street mindful that the police are still probably following leads. I ask a boy on a bicycle, where the Fullers live. He says they moved six months ago. I pretend this doesn’t shock me. I wonder if I could even find the second Robert Fuller’s new address or is it still too new or maybe he moved out of the area. I think how I’ll have to look up first Robert Fuller’s address on Mapquest. I maintain my composure, swallowing deeply while subtly asking, “Any idea where the Fullers moved to?”

He shakes his head no and moves on like I’m some kind of weirdo or something. I put my brother in law’s truck in drive and slowly troll the neighborhood.

Later that night, I’ll return to the neighborhood. Park somewhere and return on foot. When there’s no one in the driveway I’ll slip a business card into the mailbox of the grieving family’s porch. I’ve always had a work ethic and it’s never too late to drum up business. Originally published Diverse Voices Quarterly http://www.diversevoicesquarterly.com/Vol8Issue30.pdf

Some thoughts for a writer to live by

Emigre

Every day he takes a rolled newspaper to the pool. He wears a long Hawaiian swimsuit: overweight, slightly paunchy, shuffling along in slippers. His wife, Conchita, watches their child Lupe alongside the pool. She talks to ladies about their trips to the market for supplies. After reading the paper, he leaves it on the pool’s lip and steps into the pool. He’ll wade into neck deep water careful not to take one step too far. He watches a lady, preoccupied with leisure, sip on a frozen drink as she floats on a raft. Another man, in a white cotton suit, studies his racing form before noticing the recently arrived couple. He mops his brow as his scalp glistens and his skin continues to turn brown from the sun.

Everyone wonders what the man does for work. When asked, he vaguely answers, “I’m in business.”

No further explanation. The man is focused on nothing but the political situation back home. The fat cats suckle off of the overtaxed peasantry using the government’s coffers as their personal piggy bank. Some days, the man sends political screeds to the papers back home or to government officials. He hopes the right words will awaken their missing conscience; on other days, he feels hopeless. At first, he politely asked the local officials to actually enforce the laws. His requests were initially met with silence, and then their actions got worse. He found that the newspapers were nothing more than conduits of the generalissimo’s lies.

The man occasionally sends letters to political allies, in the south. Many have disappeared. Others are in hiding. A tragic ending always appears possible. The man remembers a BBC reporter coming to his pensione. The reporter asks, “How have you survived, when so many of your comrades haven’t.”
The man considers the question before answering, “I go forward.”

The statement is vague but both understand its meaning. The man attacks as a means of protection. No one is certain if the man has special powers or if he’s just crazy. Losing heart and trying to escape has often proved fatal. Both, he and the reporter, have heard stories of captives being shot while trying to surrender. Perfectly healthy men have heart attacks while detained. The man believes he’s a soldier so, if captured, he expects no better treatment.

A month earlier a confidante, Marcos, warned him of trouble brewing. He had asked too many questions about how certain important individuals made their money. A week later, a bomb under his car detonated. The concussion rocked the neighborhood, flattening Conchita and Lupe as they walked toward the car. The man’s allies smuggled his family out of the country. They were given new identities. He became an independent businessman still unsure of what exactly he sold. His family was set up in a modest, comfortable cottage.

The racing enthusiast, sitting alongside the pool, asks the man why he’s constantly reading foreign newspapers. He asks, “Are you an émigré to our country?”

“Yes,” the man says. “My wife and I came to enjoy your fine climate. We are emigreing.”
The racing fan looks confused. He wipes his brow again. The man chuckles. He and Conchita have invented this word. It means: conducting armed insurrection across international borders.

Conchita looks tired. Lupe is cranky. She cries as her teeth break through her gums. Everybody is weary of the constant movement. No place is safe. Conchita sometimes rubs his brow to alleviate his headaches. It helps when he’s under stress. The man is in awe of his government’s reach. The totality of the struggle is overwhelming. He merely concentrates on taking a few steps forward at a time.
The man longs for a simpler life. In this pool, in this complex, he feels like he’s on the verge of achieving such a life.

The genteel lady slips off her float. She leaves the pool as the float bobs freely on the water. Conchita follows her out of the pool area trying to quiet crying Lupe. The women, who Conchita spoke to, have left for the market and the bartender is busy out the back. The only people at the pool is the man and the racing enthusiast.

The man decides to take a turn on the float. He slides onto it. He reaches over to the side to grab the news from back home and places it on his stomach. He’s tired, just so bloody tired. He’d like to float away. Allow his troubles to float away with him. The people he fights have so many weapons and he can only rely on his own stubbornness. The man closes his eyes and allows the pool’s current to carry him along. He can’t let go of the struggle. He and the struggle have become one.

He doesn’t notice the guy, in the white cotton suit, putting his racing form down and moving to the edge of the pool. He doesn’t notice or sense the racing fanatic hovering above, or making contact with his shoulders like a participant of a bizarre baptismal ritual.

The man goes into a life or death spasm. He never actually sees who or what is dragging him under, for the second time, but he eventually surrenders to the inevitable. The paper, no longer on his chest, floats to the surface. It’s wet, its ink bleeds, and as it texture dissolves inside the pool. The racing enthusiast doesn’t let go until the man goes limp. It’s only then that the man in the white suit rises, smooths his wrinkled suit, folds his racing form, and walks away before someone realizes that there’s a corpse in the pool. Somewhere in the distance a baby cries. It could even be Lupe.

One Lone Sock

Laundry, isolated and cut off, tumbles inside an industrial-sized washing machine

Soapy clothes - socks, shirts, bras, and underwear – are pressed up against the glass before they slide deeper into the wash drum.

What did you say before you took your clothes and books out of our apartment?

A misplaced sock, probably yours, passes by; pressed up against the glass before it slides down into the machine again

The soap scrubs it clean – taking a little of your essence from me - even as it bleeds onto the rest of my clothes.

I feel a little melancholy doing laundry alone.