. Spinning .

I have a story up at 52/250 this week but I’ll place it here for easier reference:

How I Came to Live in The Palm of His Hand

I snuggle down between the deepest creases of it, between the heart line and the head line of his left palm. His fingers curl over in a blanket. I am safe and warm.

On windy days he puts me in his pocket. Though still I feel the turbulence of the flying sand against my back, I face the warm beat of his heart and fall asleep sometimes, I am so safe.

It is easier now–though one would never think so–to cook his meals and clean our little house. I fly through as light as a cottonseed on the wind. My feet never touch the floor. I peek into the pots of simmering soups, stand on the edge and stir aromas into the air with my arms. I sleep upon a pillow by his side and barely make a dent into its silken softness. He smiles at me more warmly now and kisses me sweetly as he holds me in the palm of his hand. His hand I need no longer fear. His hand that is caressing, warm and safe.

I feel loved and cared for. I feel his admiration. I am the perfect wife, the perfect woman, here in the palm of his hand.

When is subtle too subtle? The first few comments showed me that this story was taken as a lovely little fantasy tale. Of course, the stories in this weekly series often number 30 or so which means that the folks who have dedicated themselves to reading them all are reading quickly. Still, I’m wondering if my years of training towards close-reading has affected my writing to the point of being too vague with meaning. Or, I could still be adamant that people read my stories the way I think the story goes. I don’t think so, though. I’m pleased that it seemed light and airy a piece, but still, I wonder how much is lost by mismanaging the clues to give each reader the information needed to come to at least the same conclusion about the general facts of the story while still leaving the nuances up to the individual reader.

In this story, what sounds fairy tale-like is not even magical realism but really, a simple metaphor. The speaker is not physically small, but her identity, her self-awareness has shrunken to this wisp of near nothing in her mind. The strongest, most telling sentence in the piece is:

“His hand I need no longer fear.”

These seven words are in direct conflict with the rest of what the story has laid down. That should be the turning point, the climax of the story. What follows would be considered the denouement, the explanation or in this case, the resolution of the conflict by her decision to let go of herself as a person, to survive by acceptance, presence without mental involvement.

There’s a fine line between ambiguity and confusion. I’m not sure I’ve yet learned how to balance on that edge. It is presumptuous of a writer to assume the reader will read the story as the writer intended, but it is foolish of a writer to mislead by not granting the same information of which the writer is aware.

I’m done of course with the 100 Days Project now, but I’ve been involved since June with the 52/250 Project which is a group of 30 plus or minus writers, each of whom are producing a flash fiction or poem under 250 words every week for a year (that’s the 52 part). Created by Michelle Elvy, John Wentworth Chapin, and Walter Bjorkman, the challenge has been running since May and will continue for 52 weeks with an average of 30 artists participating. There are no requirements to maintain or write every week, so many authors join in when the mood hits.

An anthology of selected pieces was put together at the quarter-mark, and THIRTEEN was produced.

Here’s the link to the site: 52/250 A Year of Flash

Here’s the link to my work in it:  52/250 Flash

It’s been a great experience to take part in this, among friends who I’ve met through Fictionaut and elsewhere, and who are very supportive and inspiring. It’s interesting to see what diverse concepts of story and poetry result from a simple idea that forms the prompt, usually just a couple of words. Truly a fun project, and some of the best work online.

Again with the apologies for the lack of literary comment, but I have been reading, and reading, and reading. Really, that’s not just homage to Cormac McCarthy’s repetition style.

It’s mostly flash fiction, short story, and poetry, and mostly in lit journals online and at Fictionaut, but it does help curb my writing to remain away from the traditional and plodding story that I’m all too capable of setting down.

The 52/250 challenge is particularly helpful: a story a week for a year from a prompt, must be less than 250 words. To see what at least a couple dozen other writers do when handed a few words as inspiration, is wonderful–though I make sure I don’t read anyone’s until mine is done. I’m afraid I’ll be influenced by their input. Did this for the 100 Days Project as well; first finished my story, then went around looking at what everyone else had produced.

So while I haven’t gotten back into reading the novels and classics and philosophy as yet (since last summer!), I AM reading up a storm. I love the edge in some of today’s writing. It took me five years to know what edge was, ten years to learn how to write it. Still, I slide back sometimes into overwriting–not just imagery, more of the explanatory, step by step following of the character. Like white space hadn’t been invented for that very reason.

And I’m reading more poetry than normal, which is great, because poetry helps prose tremendously both in precise imagery and concise storytelling. Some of the poetry is fantastic. Some of it–and now I can more easily recognize it as amateur in the same way I can see it within storywriting–is green, meaning it rings of me, me, me, and (xxx) usually, him, him, him. Rhyming is still considered dated, yet done well, it still works. It’s harder than ever to do it well, though, because we have a tough audience that’s up-to-date and fully trained to hate it.

Genres in story are still around, but they cross borders. Obviously vampire stories have always been romance as well as horror, but now it’s becoming a trend in itself. I am getting tired of the tendency to float a story on a bed still stinking of sex. That seems to be a popular thing, though to me it would scream amateur, as it did in any creative writing classes I took and any writing groups I’ve been involved in (Fictionaut not included; not really being your typical writing group, but more of a collection of dedicated and accomplished writers.).

Something I do spend some time on is hypertext because I like it. Because I want to share it, and there’s a need to break down doors of literary sites to show them what it is, how easily they can present it, how some–not all–of their readers would enjoy it once they tried it. Little by little, even as some of the old sites close down, new sites are out there that still hold that sense of adventure and are willing to expand into the new media arena.

So I’ve had some great successes in writing this year, but it was a long haul to this point. A serious effort for ten years; a lifelong desire. After the first couple of publishing credits, it took me a while to come out of the clouds. But the ground was no place for a creative soul, and so I do seek further publishing–but not for the credits. I get a great boost from someone remarking about reading one of my pieces. That’s what it’s all about for a writer: all we need is a reader who was moved or touched or entertained enough by our words to acknowledge it.