Getting to the emotional truths underlying a story.

Do you remember the first time you were afraid or any time you were afraid? Set up the story. Where were you and why? Describe the setting. What happened next and what were you thinking and feeling? What happened after?

In her example from Old Friend from Far Away (pg. 19), Natalie Goldberg tells the story of a girl who likes to catch butterflies. The butterfly dies, she’s told she’s a horrid girl. Later, she fears that something huge is chasing her in the sunlight. She falls and cuts her knee. Her heart is racing and she is too frightened to cry. But when she gets home she cries for a long time. It was the first time that she was afraid of nothing.

Goldberg says it is okay to be ambiguous, leave a little mystery. It is okay to be afraid for no good reason. However, she warns that this doesn’t mean we should hide from the truth.

Why should we write about fear (or happiness for that matter)? Because these are emotions that everyone experiences and will add richness to your story. All good memoir should be rich in feelings. Otherwise, why would anyone care to read it?

Note: This week there will be a Facebook contest for Memoir writing. Submit a blog entry and the link will be posted to Facebook. The entry which gets the most Facebook Likes will win a copy of Natalie Goldberg’s book.

Photo from Flickr by stuart63

© 2010, kimmanleyort. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 25th 2010, Extreme Writing Now went live with the inaugural episode of the Extreme Writing Now Network radio show on Blog Talk Radio. The show opened up a weekly broadcast that can be heard every Sunday at 6:30 EST (-5 GMT) at Extreme Writing Now Network.

The weekly thirty minute show is manned by Bev Owens and myself and will be a relaxed call in affair generally covering topics relevant to the EWN social network. Each week we hope to have readings from individual members of EWN, as well as a guest.

The first episode was themed memoirs and titled Writing Your Butt Off With Memoirs. Kim Ort was our guest as we talked about her vividly active group at EWN, Memoirs Writing, a group motivated by Natalie Goldberg’s book  Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. We also featured a memoir reading by EWN member Karen W.

Kim’s group has had some pleasantly surprising impacts on the site, not the least being the opening up of the writers here. As we mentioned on the show, there seems to be an air of freedom in the writing. Almost as if the memoir prompts have given the writers permission to pour it all out.

Kim quoted Petunia with what is most likely the most on target assessment of what an impact that the memoir prompts have had on the participants:

So much more than just an exercise Kim. They started out like a lovely walk down memory lane, evoking some wonderful, touching memories from so many of the wonderful writers here.

But once you dust off those cobwebs, there’s more that surfaces. With memoirs like Bev’s and Alex’s you can feel those darker memories awakening.

With “sound” I had drafted a blithe tale of the sounds of the city, laid over sarcasm. But searching through those sounds brought up a deep buried memory that overshadowed my draft and compelled me to write about it.

Yes, so much more than an exercise indeed.

Bev recapped the last four weeks at EWN, the time span the doors have been open to the public, by listing the four contests we have held and the winners of those contests. In the past four weeks, members have won four books and the fun ain’t over yet.

There will be a week long contest this week. Keep your eyes peeled for details to be released later on today.

There was also talk about the show’s Producer, Correen, as she created a spectacular  Zazzle store for the network.

Co-producer, Kim Horton, was among the attendees of the show and her efforts at the site did not go unmentioned as we talked about her thrilling 55 word fiction series, The Long Road Home.

The chat room was visited by the likes of Mimi,  Squidrich, the ever gracious Carrie, and others.

Join us this coming week, and every week as we wind down the day in a relaxing fashion. If you miss an episode, you can catch the recorded version at EWNN, or look for a player in the side bars here at Extreme Writing Now.

Enjoy!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Almost every listing on every Freelance Writing job board asks for the resumé and portfolio of all those inquiring about the position. In fact, almost to the tee, we are asked for as link to those items.

If you have your own web site that is dedicated to your freelancing business, then you are ahead of the game; if you don’t, shame on you. With all of the free blogging platforms (WordPress, Blogger, and Typepad to name a few) there is no reason you shouldn’t have a site with a resumé, your portfolio, and contact information.

WordPress.com offers over 1400 templates or themes to choose from, so building a professional looking freelance gun for hire site is fairly easy.

Don’t stop at building your home site. You want to create a network of pages that will help get you noticed by a wider group of  those looking for the hired guns. There are plenty of flexible free platforms that a freelancer can create a resumé and provide links to their portfolio.

One of the newest ones is Weedle, in fact, Weedle is set up to be a site that caters to resumés and portfolios. While the platform is truly a web 2.o publishing site, the pages are straightforward and specifically guide the user in posting work skills, work history, and recommendations. The also allow uploads for work samples.

Another great site to construct a resume at is Squidoo. Squidoo is maybe the most versatile publishing platform available on the Internet as everyone from large businesses to work at home mothers publish content in an effort to market something.

Squidoo offers many different templates to work with; possibly the easiest and cleanest template  to build a resumé with  is the SquidWho template.  The SquidWho theme is streamlined and highly configurable with many more widgets available than you could ever use. Personally, I recommend sticking with the text widgets and creating a simple, yet elegant resumé.

A number of simple, but effective resumés can be created and linked together in a short amount of time. The beauty of these pages is they all can be interlinked and linked back to your home site. Many of the available platforms are dofollow and have established page rank; SEO will be made a bit easier.

Don’t forget about LinkedIn; the social network for professionals. LinkedIn is becoming the standard for employment placement utility for thousands of  potential employers and clients. Make sure your LinkedIn profile is updated with links to all of your resumés and portfolios.

Oh yeah, your email signature is another great place to place links to your resumés as well as contact information. If you are using FireFox for a Internet bowser, I suggest the add-on called Wise Stamp. With Wise stamp, a handsome signature can be easily created that will automatically be placed on all of your outgoing email.

Wise Stamp is damn cool. You can include links to all of your social networking profiles, your latest Twitter updates, and the latest RSS feed from your blog.

By increasing your web footprint with many published resumés, a smart LinkedIn profile, and a dedicated site, you can have a better shot at landing some great freelance gigs you have missed out on in the past.

What are some of the publishing platforms you use to shill your skills?

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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A 55 word flash fiction piece about two very different partners playing the puppets in a grand scheme…

The priest read the document, hit his cigarette,  and looked up, “Why on earth are you chained to me?”

“I was too good for retirement; so you are my personal hell.” Marquis replied.

“I’ll be banished for this sermon.”

“The boss rewards the just. Smoke what you can. You won’t need them after 5:17 a.m., Monday.”

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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A little flash fiction about the current economy? Or is this about a successful ‘career woman’?

As a shaker started to rattle nearby, Tony what’s his name leaned in a little closer. Just over the martini being tossed around with the ice, “I think most men would run from you. But, you being a widow three times over and only forty-three years old rather intrigues me.”

Diana looked at her slender, but very strong hand and replied, “Thanks Tony.”

Tony’s lean turned permanent as the drink was being poured somewhere down the bar, “So, you’re unemployed? I find it hard to believe that someone with the amount of character you exhibit could be without something meaningful to occupy your time. Do you mind if I inquire as to what happened with your last employment?” Then a slight laugh,  “Oh geez. Sorry. I know I sound like an interviewer now.”

Diana gave a slight smile as she touched Tony’s arm, “It is quite all right Tony.” She caught his eyes and cast the spell, ”My last employer struggled in this economy. The fall was too great and he couldn’t survive.”

Tony displayed a bit of cunning as he gently rested one hand on her knee, right at the hem of the slinky black dress, and cradled the stem of his martini glass. As if the glass was a crystal ball, Tony stared at it, “I’ve been extremely fortunate in this climate.” A well calculated pause, then a glance in to Diana’s ocean blue eyes, “Extremely so.”

Diana felt so alive as they drove up the coast to his beach house for drinks and an extension of the evening . Her raven black hair being tossed in the night air trapped every light that pierced the dark. She recalled that her second husband owned a CLK350, just like the one she was in. God, she missed that car, and here she was, once again, but only  after a game that she played so deftly. She, herself, was impressed at her long honed skills.

She looked over at Tony as a vision of a weighty bank book flooded her mind. On the cover of the book read the name of Anthony….”Tony darling, what is your last name again?”…….Ciprio. Yes, Anthony Ciprio.  Forty-nine year old investment broker. Maneuvering funds adeptly in and out of medical concerns as if he were a champion with an epee. Successful Anthony Ciprio likes the martinis served at The Prestige, and slender Italian looking women with long black hair. Anthony Ciprio, a sucker for a tight fitting dress whose hem tugs at the top of the knee.

“I’m sorry Tony. I do have a terrible time with last names.”

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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The Eye of the Dragon is a 55 word flash fiction piece about  planning, and having no contingencies for when a plan goes awry.

The Eye of the Dragon

Written and Spoken by Alex Crabtree

For this story and more 55 word flash fiction, visit 55 Words

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3062/2319983641_7a23fca25b.jpg

Most sounds happily fit into neat little indexes in your brain. Crunching leaves under your feet? File under: Autumn. That perfect snap when your sink your teeth into that sour green skin? File under: The Best Kosher Pickle Evaaah. That sickening thud that sounds like someone’s Chevy’s just lost a muffler? File under: Pothole. The combination of all three, coming from a human body? File under: umm..ah..hmmm..nope, that doesn’t quite fit anywhere.

I can still remember that sound so clearly, over 25 years later, as I sit here writing this today. Even the clicking of my fingers on the keyboard echo a nuance of that sound that is burned into my memory. The sight alone was enough to send my 8 year old mind reeling into shock, but somehow it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated it to be. No, far worse than the sight of the puppet-like body split in two, far worse than the strange acrid smell that permeated the courtyard, rising high above the cries and screams and sounds of people vomiting- was that unfile-able, unindex-able, undefinable sound.

It started out just like any other day in the summer streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood. Dew still fresh on the grass, we, the neighborhood kids were gathering in the field between the barrel parks of the surrounding apartment buildings for some very serious business. It was all about NOT getting picked last; it didn’t matter if it was stick-ball or red-rover. I had spent a good portion of the Spring racing against the African-American boys on our block because, well, they were damn fast. I knew if I could keep up- heck-even beat some of them, that word would get out and I’d be a sure first-pick. And I was. First pick. First time ever! This was going to be the greatest day of my life.

We all shuffled over to the barrel park to claim our barrels and vote on which game to play first. I was so excited that I hurdled my barrel before I climbed on- lest anyone doubted my first-pick qualifications. (For those of you who don’t know what a barrel park is- it’s basically a concrete field filled with concrete barrel-shaped climbing structures that some genius thought would be a great design for a kids’ playground. I still have scars from those concrete days, and I’m secretly proud of every one of them!!) Well, it was getting heated between us kids, the kickball faction wasn’t willing to compromise. Thinking we might be there a while, My friend Kathleen and I started drawing up a hopscotch board with a rock on the concrete. But we were wrong. Just as we got to the 9^th square, we heard screaming from across the field. Needless to say, we all ran across to see what was up.

As we entered the courtyard between the two six-story buildings, we quickly realized that the trouble was not on the ground. Everyone was looking up. Now we were too. A man was standing at the edge of the rooftop. Behind him on the ledge were a few other grown-ups shouting and pleading with him. I squinted past the sun to see. I knew this man. He was the Lollipop Lady’s son. I saw my friends running away, but I couldn’t move. What the heck was the Lollipop Lady’s son doing up on the roof? Before I had time to think it through, my question was answered by that awful, unfile-able, unindex-able, undefinable sound. Like leaves crunching, like kosher pickles snapping, like mufflers plunging to their deaths into bottomless potholes, but…not.

He looked kind of peaceful floating down towards me, his eyes gently closed, like and angel- but not- because there were no wings. Only a faint whistle, screams in the peripheral and then…that sound. I suppose it was when he landed on the fence, when his body split in two, backwards, so his face, expressionless, was inflicted upon the crowd, that the sound of wretching started. People started puking on the floor, on the benches, in the garbage cans…everywhere. It was like a movie, like a slow motion scene from the scariest movie I’d ever seen. Did that really just happen? That sound kept pounding in the back of my head. “Yes” said the sound, “Yes that just happened”.

I don’t remember walking back across the field, I don’t remember riding the elevator up to the sixth floor, nor do I remember unlocking the door to our little apartment. I just remember that sound, echoing, pounding through every inch of my body, rising high above the worried voices of my mom, my dad, my grandma…even above my six year old sister’s screeching voice: “What happened? Why won’t you tell me what happened”. She did eventually figure out what happened. She was out there in the field that day, just behind catching us up in the courtyard. She was picked last that day. Oh man, do I wish I was too.

© 2010, Petunia. All rights reserved.

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This is my second submission for this week’s Memoirs Group prompt, Remembering Red. Although I announced that my entry would be a tough one for me to write and post, I decided to keep it personal and submit a second entry that may not be much prettier as depressing images go.

I will talk about some of what I felt when I wrote that personal entry, because I believe that is the main importance of these exercises. The conjuring up of clear, unblemished visions and how we felt about them then and how we feel about now is part of what gives or existence depth and meaning.

No Filters.

When I started penning that entry I could taste the moldy chill of the light stabbed darkness within the cement block and wood garage; an alley facing building that was an afterthought during the 1940’s, and nearly forgotten on a lazy summer afternoon sometime in the late 1960’s.

I could feel the fear and disgust. I could see the dirty carrot colored curls of a boy five years my senior as they danced in and out of the sunlight shards that were allowed to squeeze past cracks and through not completely painted out windows.

I felt long forgotten threats. I felt hurt for my parents, who may have never known what happened on that day.

Remebering Red

The stories I could tell about my days as a paperboy in the inner city of Dayton, Ohio. Whore houses, 220 Sunday customers, fresh donuts on Sunday mornings, the Island Park Band Shell, losing 195 Sunday papers to a group of  strong arm thieves in a 1965 Impala, home run derby in Danny Davis’ backyard, struggling customers who always tipped, well off customers who never tipped; the poor elderly woman who worked at Cassano’s Pizza on Salem Avenue.

Christmas week was always a thrill for paperboys. If we busted our ass providing good service all year, we could take home handsome holiday bonuses from some of our better customers. Oh, believe me; we knew exactly who would fill our pockets, as well as those who would give us the usual dime tip for the week.

Just because we were 10-12 years old didn’t mean we thought of money as nothing more than a shiny object.

There were several apartment buildings on my delivery route, and in one of the lesser ones I had a fairly new customer. She was an elderly woman that worked at the pizza place a couple of blocks away; I knew this because I saw her working there, in her dogged white shoes and pizza sauce stained white service dress, on several occasions as I waked to and from school.

Christmas week.  I show up at her apartment door on time for the weekly collections (sounds hauntingly like an extortionist) and knock. The door opens and the loud smell of bean soup races out to punch me in the  nose.  She is standing there, wearing nothing more than a bleached crimson nightgown and a lifetime of tired.

She was shaking,  I could tell she was anxious, yet she started a pleasant conversation about the season and the service I had given since she moved into the building.

She was also peeing down her leg.

I thought I smelled the pungent odor mix in with the soup beans, and I also heard a slight trickling, but I didn’t have the heart to take my eyes off of hers as she was talking.

Finally, she apologized for never tipping me on a weekly basis, but she didn’t make any excuses, she didn’t have to; we 10-12 years old paperboys knew money was more than a shiny object, and we knew that we weren’t the only ones in that boat.

She eventually reached into one of the patch pockets sewn to her gown and retrieved an envelope. Handing me the envelope as she wished me a Merry Christmas, she closed the door; but not before I glanced down and saw the puddle she stood in.

The envelope contained two five dollar gift certificates for Cassano’s.

I never saw her again and the rumor was that she was dead before the New Year rang in.

That was forty years (an entire lifetime) ago, and though I have often thought of that poor woman, I never told a soul; not even back then.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Jake took off his jacket and folded it into a pillow, as he had done so many times before.

Laying down, he was thankful for the somewhat cooler temperature of the concrete tunnel.

It wasn’t long before exhaustion overtook him and he drifted off to sleep.

His dreams filled with visions of actually going home.

© 2010, kimsworld. All rights reserved.

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As a freelance writer, are you  saving words on the back end of a job by spending a few on the front end, or do you not care that every re-write you do as a freelancer cuts your pay in half? That’s right, every extra word digs into your pocket by taking time away from potential projects, as well as diluting your charge per word by fifty percent.

The best way to avoid unnecessary reworking is to ask questions up front. When was the last time this happened between you and the plumber you trust:

“ABC Plumbing,”

“Hey Bill, it’s John Doe over in Anytown”

“Hey John! What can I do for you?”

“I have a water problem at the house, and I’m at work.”

“I’ll be right over to fix it.” Click.

I’m betting on never. Even the best plumbers know to ask the right questions before getting off the horn and heading over to the trouble site.

Being a freelance writer means that you should too.

Ask the obvious as well as any not so obvious questions:

• What is the target audience?
• What SEO are you expecting?
• Word count minimums and maximums?
• Do you have examples of what you want?

Of course, you should always wait until the first submission has been accepted and signed off before you submit the next piece (for those jobs on a run of submissions); this way you have a reference in case of a rewrite request later.

Another very important step to take is to keep communication between you and your client open, friendly, and clear. Sort of like that refrigerator magnet with the plumber’s name and number on it.

On long running jobs, it is natural to drift off course, even slightly, so it is a good idea to perform a reality check with your client from time to time to ensure that the course is kept true. Most clients will tell you when things are running out of whack, but by showing the initiative and asking  your client how your work is looking can help keep re-writes down to a minimum.

Beware though; too many inquiries and you are a spineless pest. At least that’s what your client will be saying about you around the water cooler.

Get the answers up front, monitor your work along the way, and you will be well down the road to earning exactly what you contracted for as a freelance writer.

Can you think of any questions or tips to be added here?

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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