Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
My new short story. El arete.
Esta noche, hablé, gozé, bebí y fumé con amigos que conocí hace solo dos días. El de ojos azules y acento de telenovela me besó en el elevador. ¿Ó lo besé yo? No importa quien besó a quien. En el segundo piso, en su cuarto, en el lado derecho de su cama, el miraba mis ojos cerrados, con una sonrisa siniestra que yo no veía.
“¡Qué preciosa!” mi amante de diez minutos me decía. “Mírame. ¿Porqué te escondes? Abre los ojos.” Poderoso como un dictador pero tierno como una nena de catorce.
Me seguía hablando y haciendo preguntas. Y yo, con los ojos apretados para no aflojar nada, decía cosas sin sentido que sonaban muy originales para aliviar mi mortificación de desnudez. ¿Porque me había desnudado si el aún estaba vestido? Me había besado fuerte primero, respirando como si le faltaba aire. Después suave, casi sin tocar mis labios con los suyos. Sus manos estaban igual de indecisas, como si al tocarme en aquel lugar bajo el ombligo hubiese visto todos mis males y se había arrepentido.
Ahí estaba yo, victoriosa ante el debate interno de mi moral, entregada por completo a alguien cuyo apellido era de otra y a la misma vez viendo, por primera vez, los ojos de alguien en su propio debate.
Ahora él, mi amante de veinte minutos, me pide que me ponga mi ropa. Pero no lo hago immediatamente. Pensé que era uno de esos juegos, obviamente influenciada por la historia corta que había leido esta tarde sobre el “foreplay,” en el cual No era Si, y Véte era Quédate.
Lo sabía. Me besó de nuevo, mi amante de veinticinco minutos. Las mariposas salieron de su jaula, pero gracias a Dios, se quedaron debajo de la piel y no escaparon. Y pensé por un segundo que me quedaba, que sí me quería, que por fin había ganado el juego amoroso antes del coito. Pero su beso moría, era lento como un adiós triste. Sin emoción. Sin respirar fuerte ni abrir la boca para dejar entrar mi lengua desesperada.
“Uno más,” susurré. “Uno más.”
Mi amante de cuarenta minutos se despegó de mi pecho. Su mano, la que yo anhelaba en mi pecho, recogió mi blusa del suelo. Tierno, me pegó un beso en la frente como si fuese mi padre. Y ví su espalda amplia mientras se alejaba de mí, su espalda que hacía unos segundos había rayado con mis uñas.
Abrió la puerta de su cuarto de hotel, aún yo sin terminar de abotonarme el pantalón. Y yo, por no dejarlo esperando en la puerta--que considerada--me salí sin ponerme los zapatos ni ajustarme el pelo. Esperaba un “Espera” ó un “No te vayas.” Y hasta cuando la puerta cerró, sentí que se habriría nuevamente en cualquier momento.
Esperé.
Mi cuarto no estaba lejos, pero iba lenta por el casi “walk of shame” a ver si mi ex-amante se arrepientía. La puerta abriría en cualquier momento. En el elevador, el botón de Door Open le mantuvo compañía a mi dedo por diez minutos.
Es la barriga, lo sé, y el aliento de borrachona que heredé de mi abuela paterna. Mi amigo-luego-amante se había convertido en solo otro destrozador hypócrita de mi ego. “Eres linda pero véte. Que suave tu piel pero vístete.”
¿Qué dirá mi marido cuando le pregunte que porqué nunca me acaricia mi cara como me la acarició el casi-casi? Obviamente tendré que reformular esa pregunta para no delatar lo que no pasó aquí esta noche: que mi dictador me mordió el brazo, que todavía siento sus dientes ahí, que me toco la cara como nunca nadie y acarició mi pelo estirado por un buen rato, y que pasó sus dedos de escritor sobre mis labios hasta que me dolían, hasta que no podían. ¿Que dirá mi esposo cuando le diga que se me perdió el arete que me regaló el Dia de las Madres? ¿Qué dirá la esposa de mi casi-casi cuando encuentre ese arete, el cual dejé en su maleta para que me recuerde.
Fué mi culpa. Fué que me gustó demasiado. Mi papá decía que al comprar un auto, no te debes emocionar mucho cuando te gusta porque no puedes negociar. Miré por el agujero de la puerta de mi cuarto a ver si se había arrepentido. Y lloré en luto al hombre que no había muerto, sino que dormía solito en el cuarto 241, sin mí.
¡No! Voy a verlo. Es un juego. Abrí mi puerta.
“¡Qué preciosa!” mi amante de diez minutos me decía. “Mírame. ¿Porqué te escondes? Abre los ojos.” Poderoso como un dictador pero tierno como una nena de catorce.
Me seguía hablando y haciendo preguntas. Y yo, con los ojos apretados para no aflojar nada, decía cosas sin sentido que sonaban muy originales para aliviar mi mortificación de desnudez. ¿Porque me había desnudado si el aún estaba vestido? Me había besado fuerte primero, respirando como si le faltaba aire. Después suave, casi sin tocar mis labios con los suyos. Sus manos estaban igual de indecisas, como si al tocarme en aquel lugar bajo el ombligo hubiese visto todos mis males y se había arrepentido.
Ahí estaba yo, victoriosa ante el debate interno de mi moral, entregada por completo a alguien cuyo apellido era de otra y a la misma vez viendo, por primera vez, los ojos de alguien en su propio debate.
Ahora él, mi amante de veinte minutos, me pide que me ponga mi ropa. Pero no lo hago immediatamente. Pensé que era uno de esos juegos, obviamente influenciada por la historia corta que había leido esta tarde sobre el “foreplay,” en el cual No era Si, y Véte era Quédate.
Lo sabía. Me besó de nuevo, mi amante de veinticinco minutos. Las mariposas salieron de su jaula, pero gracias a Dios, se quedaron debajo de la piel y no escaparon. Y pensé por un segundo que me quedaba, que sí me quería, que por fin había ganado el juego amoroso antes del coito. Pero su beso moría, era lento como un adiós triste. Sin emoción. Sin respirar fuerte ni abrir la boca para dejar entrar mi lengua desesperada.
“Uno más,” susurré. “Uno más.”
Mi amante de cuarenta minutos se despegó de mi pecho. Su mano, la que yo anhelaba en mi pecho, recogió mi blusa del suelo. Tierno, me pegó un beso en la frente como si fuese mi padre. Y ví su espalda amplia mientras se alejaba de mí, su espalda que hacía unos segundos había rayado con mis uñas.
Abrió la puerta de su cuarto de hotel, aún yo sin terminar de abotonarme el pantalón. Y yo, por no dejarlo esperando en la puerta--que considerada--me salí sin ponerme los zapatos ni ajustarme el pelo. Esperaba un “Espera” ó un “No te vayas.” Y hasta cuando la puerta cerró, sentí que se habriría nuevamente en cualquier momento.
Esperé.
Mi cuarto no estaba lejos, pero iba lenta por el casi “walk of shame” a ver si mi ex-amante se arrepientía. La puerta abriría en cualquier momento. En el elevador, el botón de Door Open le mantuvo compañía a mi dedo por diez minutos.
Es la barriga, lo sé, y el aliento de borrachona que heredé de mi abuela paterna. Mi amigo-luego-amante se había convertido en solo otro destrozador hypócrita de mi ego. “Eres linda pero véte. Que suave tu piel pero vístete.”
¿Qué dirá mi marido cuando le pregunte que porqué nunca me acaricia mi cara como me la acarició el casi-casi? Obviamente tendré que reformular esa pregunta para no delatar lo que no pasó aquí esta noche: que mi dictador me mordió el brazo, que todavía siento sus dientes ahí, que me toco la cara como nunca nadie y acarició mi pelo estirado por un buen rato, y que pasó sus dedos de escritor sobre mis labios hasta que me dolían, hasta que no podían. ¿Que dirá mi esposo cuando le diga que se me perdió el arete que me regaló el Dia de las Madres? ¿Qué dirá la esposa de mi casi-casi cuando encuentre ese arete, el cual dejé en su maleta para que me recuerde.
Fué mi culpa. Fué que me gustó demasiado. Mi papá decía que al comprar un auto, no te debes emocionar mucho cuando te gusta porque no puedes negociar. Miré por el agujero de la puerta de mi cuarto a ver si se había arrepentido. Y lloré en luto al hombre que no había muerto, sino que dormía solito en el cuarto 241, sin mí.
¡No! Voy a verlo. Es un juego. Abrí mi puerta.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Excerpt:
Nate took a step back, and I could not help but feel an overwhelming insignificance. A reminder of our vast physical gap. If I had considered myself a nobody in a world full of somebodies, comparing me to him only assured my status as a big-fat-zero. Then again--and I gave myself some credit by allowing this thought to enter my mind--he seemed to be somewhat interested in me. Didn’t he?
A subdued breeze sent leaves tumbling across the graveyard; the lucky ones attached themselves to his jeans, while others merely rocketed and plunged tenderly around him. And he released my hand though I had been the one holding it fast.
“Don’t leave,” I begged. The masochist in me loved every second of this torture.
“You dropped your scarf,” he said.
Nate bent down to grab what looked like a red snake on the green grass. “You ask me not to leave you,” he said, “but have you considered...?” With his hand on his head as he paused, he looked like he could physically massage his brain into giving him the right words. Then, he lowered his perfect finger onto his perfect lips as if to lure the words out of them with a simple,
“Come here.” He said, “I am the one who should ask you to stay.” And he looked at me.
I should have put on a diaper before leaving the house; I was on the verge of messing myself. About to faint and puke at the same time. Was he saying those words, or was I imagining them?
“I, no...” Would it be ridiculous to ask him to pinch me or slap me. Better ask him to kiss me, instead.
He neared my scarf to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled. With his lids closed and the sun hitting him just so, he looked like the angel in my dreams. I imagined him like this. This close to me. This beautiful. Until now, all I’d had was the hope of something amazing. And now, amazing stared at me with his fire-eyes as he walked toward me with my scarf in his hands, extended forward as though it were an offering of peace.
He placed the scarf around my neck. And when I looked up to him, close to me as he was, my knees almost gave out.
“Nate,” I whispered. I cleared my throat to try to mask that ridiculous quiver in my voice.
“Yes?” he asked. Oh, he knew his effect on me. That little smirk. That little beautiful smile between those rose lips.
His hands played with my scarf for just a second before his touch melted on my face as hot as the sun itself, yet a wave of cold hit my face. His breath, it was so cold, and it caressed me with each breath he took. But no matter how used I was getting to his closeness, nothing could have prepared me for the way I felt when his rockstar lips rushed into mine. I could have sworn that this kiss had its own guitar solo playing in the background.
I moaned when his lips separated from mine. And I stared into his eyes as if the meaning of life were hidden there, the code to humankind’s existence. The cemetery began to spin as if a rollercoaster operator had pressed the Go button. His hands were on my face--his hot, blistering hands. They were the only thing steadying me. With his nose on my nose, he smiled a little. My body was shaking, my breath uneven. Oh, he knew what he was doing.
And, as though my arms were entities of their own, they suddenly wrapped around his neck. I raised my body on its tippy toes and leaned forward. This time, he moaned. He was moaning for me.
Victor who? First kiss what?
This was it. The kiss to judge all other kisses upon. His cold tongue danced a mouth-watering ballet, while I gasped for air during the interludes. The guitar solo in its crescendo.
It was love at first sight, second sight, third sight, and forever sight. A storm of love erupting amid the white somnambulistic statues weighing down graves. A volcano of crazy-hot lava that sizzled on my skin with each touch and each kiss.
A subdued breeze sent leaves tumbling across the graveyard; the lucky ones attached themselves to his jeans, while others merely rocketed and plunged tenderly around him. And he released my hand though I had been the one holding it fast.
“Don’t leave,” I begged. The masochist in me loved every second of this torture.
“You dropped your scarf,” he said.
Nate bent down to grab what looked like a red snake on the green grass. “You ask me not to leave you,” he said, “but have you considered...?” With his hand on his head as he paused, he looked like he could physically massage his brain into giving him the right words. Then, he lowered his perfect finger onto his perfect lips as if to lure the words out of them with a simple,
“Come here.” He said, “I am the one who should ask you to stay.” And he looked at me.
I should have put on a diaper before leaving the house; I was on the verge of messing myself. About to faint and puke at the same time. Was he saying those words, or was I imagining them?
“I, no...” Would it be ridiculous to ask him to pinch me or slap me. Better ask him to kiss me, instead.
He neared my scarf to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled. With his lids closed and the sun hitting him just so, he looked like the angel in my dreams. I imagined him like this. This close to me. This beautiful. Until now, all I’d had was the hope of something amazing. And now, amazing stared at me with his fire-eyes as he walked toward me with my scarf in his hands, extended forward as though it were an offering of peace.
He placed the scarf around my neck. And when I looked up to him, close to me as he was, my knees almost gave out.
“Nate,” I whispered. I cleared my throat to try to mask that ridiculous quiver in my voice.
“Yes?” he asked. Oh, he knew his effect on me. That little smirk. That little beautiful smile between those rose lips.
His hands played with my scarf for just a second before his touch melted on my face as hot as the sun itself, yet a wave of cold hit my face. His breath, it was so cold, and it caressed me with each breath he took. But no matter how used I was getting to his closeness, nothing could have prepared me for the way I felt when his rockstar lips rushed into mine. I could have sworn that this kiss had its own guitar solo playing in the background.
I moaned when his lips separated from mine. And I stared into his eyes as if the meaning of life were hidden there, the code to humankind’s existence. The cemetery began to spin as if a rollercoaster operator had pressed the Go button. His hands were on my face--his hot, blistering hands. They were the only thing steadying me. With his nose on my nose, he smiled a little. My body was shaking, my breath uneven. Oh, he knew what he was doing.
And, as though my arms were entities of their own, they suddenly wrapped around his neck. I raised my body on its tippy toes and leaned forward. This time, he moaned. He was moaning for me.
Victor who? First kiss what?
This was it. The kiss to judge all other kisses upon. His cold tongue danced a mouth-watering ballet, while I gasped for air during the interludes. The guitar solo in its crescendo.
It was love at first sight, second sight, third sight, and forever sight. A storm of love erupting amid the white somnambulistic statues weighing down graves. A volcano of crazy-hot lava that sizzled on my skin with each touch and each kiss.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Why A Writer's Conference Is Important by W. Terry Whalin
It's a personal investment to attend a writer's conference. Whether you attend for a full day or spend several days in another state, it will involve investing your time, energy and money. In these pages, I will explore some of the reasons to attend these meetings, links and helps to find information about where to find these gatherings along with other resources to help you improve your writing skills.
Like many other kinds of businesses, the writing business is relational. Talent, craft and skill does enter the consideration but it's also who you know. Possibly you are new to this field and you are crying, "I don't know anyone." That's OK. Everyone has to begin somewhere in this journey. You don't have to stay in that situation. Through writer's conferences, you can begin to form some editor relationships.
Almost twenty years ago, I began attending these specialized meetings. I worked on a magazine staff and we understood the benefits and accordingly we used our slim financial resources to send staff members to meetings. It helped their professional development and also helped improve their ability to work on our magazine. I've attended conferences for my own personal development and professionalism.
In recent years, I've represented publishing houses as an acquisitions editor at these gatherings. Now I'm going to these conferences as a publisher. As an editor and an agent, the experience has been eye-opening to me and changed some of my perspectives. I've got some amazing stories about pushy conferees trying to convince me to purchase a particular manuscript. A pushy attitude usually backfires and makes the editor or agent want to run instead of listen carefully to your idea. Always remember that you want to make a good impression on the editor or the agent.
Even as a publisher, I continue to select at least one conference a year that I attend as a regular conferee--i.e. a paying participant and not someone who attends to represent a publisher or magazine and teach workshops. One conference that I regularly attend for my own development is the annual conference for the American Society of Journalists and Authors in New York City.
The schedule is posted on their website and it is a broad reaching event. I've met editors at Ladies Home Journal, Woman's Day, Modern Maturity, Money magazine, and numerous mainstream book editors. Several years ago at the ASJA member meeting, President and Mrs. Carter came to the session. One of the ASJA members wrote a book with Mrs. Carter and they were invited. I managed to give President Carter a copy of my then new book, Lessons From the Pit. Such a connection came from attending a conference.
Conferences have been a large part of my writing career. Often at these conferences, editors and agents are inundated with the wrong material because writers haven't done their homework. So often writers will send the wrong material to the wrong place and wasted everyone time--the writer and the editor or the agent. At a writer's conference, you meet the editors face to face and realize that they are also real people. This process begins to form your relationship. Then when you send in your material, they recall your name (or you can recall it to their attention saying,
"It was great to meet you at ______ conference..."
Three Pieces of Advice
1. Do your homework. Know who will be attending the conference and readin advance what a particular editor needs and acquires (even the Writer's Market Guide is a good place to start). Then craft an idea, a proposal or something to start the conversation with this editor. Give them something they need. Editors read lots of stuff that they don't need at these conferences. Why? Because they are looking for the jewel in the stack, then they can publish that manuscript. It could be your writing if you do your homework.
2. Make a point to get to know different editors--even outside of your particular genre. What you write this year may change next year. Even if you've never written a book, get to know the book editors. Sit at their tables and talk with them about your dreams and hopes. And throughout the week, make little notes of things which strike you--then read your notes when you get home and follow through. You would be surprised how few people actually execute the necessary follow through work.
3. Learn your craft but also look to expand your writing horizon. This advice would be for newcomers but also for the veteran. I'd encourage everyone to take a class outside of what they normally take. If you don't write for children, take a children's workshop. If you have never written a personal experience article then take a one hour workshop on this topic. It might open a new door of opportunity in your writing life.
I've made some dear friends at writer's conferences and that's why I look forward to going to various conferences. It's my opportunity to help others and give back. I'm constantly learning new things as a writer--and a writer's conference is a place to soak it in.
Like many other kinds of businesses, the writing business is relational. Talent, craft and skill does enter the consideration but it's also who you know. Possibly you are new to this field and you are crying, "I don't know anyone." That's OK. Everyone has to begin somewhere in this journey. You don't have to stay in that situation. Through writer's conferences, you can begin to form some editor relationships.
Almost twenty years ago, I began attending these specialized meetings. I worked on a magazine staff and we understood the benefits and accordingly we used our slim financial resources to send staff members to meetings. It helped their professional development and also helped improve their ability to work on our magazine. I've attended conferences for my own personal development and professionalism.
In recent years, I've represented publishing houses as an acquisitions editor at these gatherings. Now I'm going to these conferences as a publisher. As an editor and an agent, the experience has been eye-opening to me and changed some of my perspectives. I've got some amazing stories about pushy conferees trying to convince me to purchase a particular manuscript. A pushy attitude usually backfires and makes the editor or agent want to run instead of listen carefully to your idea. Always remember that you want to make a good impression on the editor or the agent.
Even as a publisher, I continue to select at least one conference a year that I attend as a regular conferee--i.e. a paying participant and not someone who attends to represent a publisher or magazine and teach workshops. One conference that I regularly attend for my own development is the annual conference for the American Society of Journalists and Authors in New York City.
The schedule is posted on their website and it is a broad reaching event. I've met editors at Ladies Home Journal, Woman's Day, Modern Maturity, Money magazine, and numerous mainstream book editors. Several years ago at the ASJA member meeting, President and Mrs. Carter came to the session. One of the ASJA members wrote a book with Mrs. Carter and they were invited. I managed to give President Carter a copy of my then new book, Lessons From the Pit. Such a connection came from attending a conference.
Conferences have been a large part of my writing career. Often at these conferences, editors and agents are inundated with the wrong material because writers haven't done their homework. So often writers will send the wrong material to the wrong place and wasted everyone time--the writer and the editor or the agent. At a writer's conference, you meet the editors face to face and realize that they are also real people. This process begins to form your relationship. Then when you send in your material, they recall your name (or you can recall it to their attention saying,
"It was great to meet you at ______ conference..."
Three Pieces of Advice
1. Do your homework. Know who will be attending the conference and readin advance what a particular editor needs and acquires (even the Writer's Market Guide is a good place to start). Then craft an idea, a proposal or something to start the conversation with this editor. Give them something they need. Editors read lots of stuff that they don't need at these conferences. Why? Because they are looking for the jewel in the stack, then they can publish that manuscript. It could be your writing if you do your homework.
2. Make a point to get to know different editors--even outside of your particular genre. What you write this year may change next year. Even if you've never written a book, get to know the book editors. Sit at their tables and talk with them about your dreams and hopes. And throughout the week, make little notes of things which strike you--then read your notes when you get home and follow through. You would be surprised how few people actually execute the necessary follow through work.
3. Learn your craft but also look to expand your writing horizon. This advice would be for newcomers but also for the veteran. I'd encourage everyone to take a class outside of what they normally take. If you don't write for children, take a children's workshop. If you have never written a personal experience article then take a one hour workshop on this topic. It might open a new door of opportunity in your writing life.
I've made some dear friends at writer's conferences and that's why I look forward to going to various conferences. It's my opportunity to help others and give back. I'm constantly learning new things as a writer--and a writer's conference is a place to soak it in.
Friday, April 09, 2010
In love with this passage.
When my father and I walked back into his house, we found that Sandra’s dog had been possessed by The Tazmanian Devil. It was more funny than scary, but if that thing had been a Pit Bull, it would have killed us both.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Anne Rice commented on my Facebook comment again! I knew it! We're besties now!
This is her facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/#!/annericefanpage?ref=mf
This is the video i commented on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A23wS8EOt4
This was the description of the video: Internationally bestselling author Anne Rice answers questions from North Decatur High School, Greensburg, Indiana, IN.
Stacey Lane's comment:
Stacey Lane I love this. Thank you Anne. I do the same thing. Keeps me up at night, beacons to me in the grocery, the shower..I have to carry a mini notebook these days.
My comment: Frances Mari Burkett Are you in Indiana right now?
Andreea Dee That is sooo right! :D
Frances Mari Burkett I live in Indiana, is why i was asking. I am stuck in three projects right now. I must stop coming up with new ideas!!! LOL!
Ivy Gm Eata ^^ This is very true.
Angelica Ariaga I relished Ms. Anne's detalied and intricate storytelling. Such a special gift in writing.
Julie Wilson I look forward to these video portraits every day. I liked the verb, 'yield' in today's piece, explaining how a story is finally brought to fruition in a writer's mind.
This is where she replied to me:
Anne Rice No, I wasn't in Indiana. This was done via SKYPE or video conferencing, which makes it possible for me to chat with students worldwide. We've got a wonderful set up here for such interviews.
Georgie Pendragon The ideas you can't get away from... I have low resistance 'get away from', lol.
Diana Mistera those ideas that i can't get out of my head...I have so many of them...:)
Georgie Pendragon "Are you in Indiana"..sounds like a title. See!?
Anne Rice and I are BFFs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is the video i commented on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A23wS8EOt4
This was the description of the video: Internationally bestselling author Anne Rice answers questions from North Decatur High School, Greensburg, Indiana, IN.
Stacey Lane's comment:
Stacey Lane I love this. Thank you Anne. I do the same thing. Keeps me up at night, beacons to me in the grocery, the shower..I have to carry a mini notebook these days.
My comment: Frances Mari Burkett Are you in Indiana right now?
Andreea Dee That is sooo right! :D
Frances Mari Burkett I live in Indiana, is why i was asking. I am stuck in three projects right now. I must stop coming up with new ideas!!! LOL!
Ivy Gm Eata ^^ This is very true.
Angelica Ariaga I relished Ms. Anne's detalied and intricate storytelling. Such a special gift in writing.
Julie Wilson I look forward to these video portraits every day. I liked the verb, 'yield' in today's piece, explaining how a story is finally brought to fruition in a writer's mind.
This is where she replied to me:
Anne Rice No, I wasn't in Indiana. This was done via SKYPE or video conferencing, which makes it possible for me to chat with students worldwide. We've got a wonderful set up here for such interviews.
Georgie Pendragon The ideas you can't get away from... I have low resistance 'get away from', lol.
Diana Mistera those ideas that i can't get out of my head...I have so many of them...:)
Georgie Pendragon "Are you in Indiana"..sounds like a title. See!?
Anne Rice and I are BFFs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
My new favorite website!
This is an online writer-to-writer critiquing forum. I am in love with it! You will be too after just one visit!
http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php
http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php
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