Bad Advice Wednesday: Let’s Write Some Fiction
categories: Bad Advice / Cocktail Hour
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Let’s write some fiction. First, we need a character, a time, and a place, everything as usual.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall.
Status quo. Now we need to make something happen. Anything, really. Just so long as it interrupts life as usual. So:
He heard a crashing, then saw the dinosaur. At first he thought it was another wild Macy’s promotion, but the creature held Fred the security guard dead in its mouth.
Now we have to spend x number of pages getting Jack and the mall back to usual. Let Jack be a hero, let Jack be a coward, let Jack be the guy who cloned the dinosaur, whatever. In the end we want to see order restored.
Jack tidied shoeboxes. This was going to take a while. The rubble of the mall was everywhere around him, and the shoes from his store were strewn over miles of what once was his town. Ah, Nike size 10 right, Nike size 10 left. Nike box. Prop up a shelf, place the box. Repeat.
Or something. Doesn’t matter what happens. Doesn’t matter how it disrupts status quo. Doesn’t matter how we get back to normal, or if normal is now impossible. What matters is the telling. So include a sentence of description for every for or five other sentences.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. The woman came in so quietly he didn’t know she was there. Her feet looked strong, turned slightly outward, the toes biting hard into her ten-cent flip-flops like claws, veins popping in her ankles, nails polished green, tattoo of an indeterminate fruit on each toe.
And keep trying till you get something that takes off.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. Martin, his boss, arrived as always, at eleven. “Jack,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.”
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. He knew instinctively it would be one of those days without a single sale. Rent was due at the end of the day.
Jacqueline arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. In her bra was the combination to the safe, and in the safe were the proceeds of the holiday weekend, enough to get her to Seattle.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. I can’t do this anymore, he thought. And leaving everything as it was, he hiked back to the employee parking area, climbed in his Taurus, and drove away.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. He felt a rumbling, heard a roaring, then the crashing of glass, and screams.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall. He took his position at the cash register, and waited, full of the pleasure of anticipation.
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine Monday morning as usual, tidied as usual, unlocked the door as usual at ten to the quiet mall.
When you’re done, throw it all away. Hit delete.
Repeat thousands of times.
There—you’re a fiction writer!
Such bad advice,I’d add that worst word to it
-Submission-
Jack arrived at the shoe store at nine, as usual. His Father’s voice rumbled in his head “access to weapons ,access to egress ,then open the door”.He was searching for the right key on his ring when the lights went out. He put the key in the lock and turned it anyway-the ” chunk”of the heavy bolt somehow reassuring him that this was just a result of some car wreck taking out a power pole, or some maintenance person bumping a breaker. He didn’t realize the pistol was even in his hand until the blaze of the flashlight blinded him and there really wasn’t any time at all between that loud “Drop it!”and the pirouette his body did without any volition as the tumbling projectile entered his leg and spun him crashing into the rack of high heels by the door. When the newsman asked how it felt to be a hero he woke up and felt his cellmates hand over his mouth- again .How could that girl have hidden from him when he closed up? Why did she try to bolt past him in the dark? Why had he left that bag Joe asked him for right there under the counter?
Perhaps it was like the public defender had consoled him after the verdict-everything bad in life got balanced by good somehow, perhaps Rooster would finish soon and announce the start of another day, perhaps he would not end writing hour with “delete” today, or some answer to the submissions would come…
I always thought “submission” was a telling word choice for what writers are forced to do when it comes to placing stories, since we’re talking about stories. Dancers and actors audition, that is, they’re heard. Writers are more like vanquished rebels looking for a post in the new bureaucracy of the new order after devastation. Or S&M partners on the painful side of the equation. AS for your fine work here, the answers to those questions about the girl will provide more story, especially if they are answered having never been asked…
Yep, you nailed it.
Hm.