Hmm. Interesting challenge.

They say you should write what you know. Well... here goes:

(sorry)

Because my journalism profs would tell me not to bury the lede, let me start by saying I wrote a hitherto-unseen poem that got published here: http://www.sleetmagazine.com/selected/love_v12n2.html. I’ve also had a short story selected for publication by The Copperfield Review, and I’ll post a link to it when it goes live in December.

I owe you people, and what follows is a bit about why. [You should probably go read the poem first; it’s approximately 1100 words shorter than this post.]

If you’re a longtime reader, you might know that I forced myself to create a Prose account a little over a year ago because the creative well was dry. It might be more accurate to say that it was a pretty unproductive well to begin with, and after it went dry I had said, “who needs a well, anyway?” and wandered off to buy Aquafina. But on October 16 of last year, I reopened the browser tab I had just closed and said, “no, you’re going to do this, you’re going to make an account and enter that contest with that stupid prompt.”

Other people commented on what I wrote. And I read and commented on other people’s writing, which made me want to write more, so I did. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

It’s a remarkable thing to have an audience.

It’s a remarkable thing to have a writing community.

A couple weeks ago—exactly on October 16—I clicked my profile and saw a significant number: 365 followers, one a day since I joined. [OK, at least half a dozen of those just wanted me to try the Keto diet and a few more only clicked cuz I was site-suggested and they never read a damn thing and also it was a leap year, but still,] that is far more readership than I’ve had in my life. My responses to them are inconsistent at best, but I treasure every comment.

There’s an extent to which a followers list is a graveyard. Listed alongside the living are users who flew in and out one night and were done, or those who dove in with vigor for a month or so and then disappeared. Seeing names of those writers whom I admired and who trailed off without fanfare, I feel sad; I feel proud. I wonder where they are, if they’re OK, if they’re still writing. I know that I am, and that’s an achievement for me. I’ve written for a solid year. When I told myself, “I’ll get back to writing after this obligation has passed,” it turned out that I meant it. It’s hard to say if those one-time writers are still at it. I’d like to think they merely migrated to a place where the grass looked greener.

I’m not going anywhere. Prose has proven a bountiful pasture for me. Here’s something I posted just a couple weeks into my Prose tenure, I think for my first-ever weekly challenge:

My smaller desire, the one I would confess to few outside of Prose, is for something I wrote to be selected for publication. That would take me beyond this little world. It would mean that I could have my provincial cake and eat it too. I could live a small life but know that my thoughts and passions had been shared, been communicated to people beyond the boundaries of my county. There is a sense in which I am a writer. I would like to feel like a real writer. I would like something I have written to be chosen.

I do not endorse that line of thinking. As a friend once told me, “A writer is one who writes,” and I readily and happily apply that definition to others. Still, I could never feel it of myself, and I hoped that at some future time I might get validation and see beyond my “dilettante hack” self-image. That’s what publication meant to me, and to my amazement, it has happened now. I can check one off the bucket list.

There was a precise point in time when my publication dream worked its way out of the pipe into real possibility. Many Prosers had made many kind comments—too many to thank, and I am genuinely sorry for the omissions; I hope you know who you are and that your words matter. The comments helped me to keep writing and think that someday, if I persisted and worked very hard and had a little luck, someone would choose my writing for publication. The exact tipping point, when I believed I could make it happen now, came after I wrote a story titled “Rideshare.” Several of the writers on Prose whom I most respect said it was genuinely good, in the comment section or via DM. The comment that most directly made a believer out of me was from @Scratch77: “Congrats, man, you’re the real deal…”

Just now, when two inches rather than six months separated the phrases, I finally realized why his choice of words hit home: it was my own. I had written, “I would like to feel like a real writer.” When that word real came back at me, it all became real.

My profile text says “I teach high school English,” and unless I’m hacked or fired, it always will. It’s a declaration of identity and principles. I am not a writer who pays the bills by teaching; I am a teacher. It’s what I love and what I do best. But the writing part, for the first time, feels real, too.

Without many, many users in the Prose community, that reality would not have come. I would not have tried for publication to begin with, and even if I had, I would have given up when the rejection notices started to roll in (and they are legion). But I kept at it.

If I tried to thank everyone I should, I’d leave someone out and then just feel guilty, so again, I’m trusting you to recognize yourselves in this letter. I do need to thank three people who directly influenced “the raspberries.” First, @paintingskies, who graciously shared tips for submitting pieces, including the resource where I found Sleet Magazine in the first place. She does not know it, but I also owe Sam for another reason: right at the time I was revising, one of her wonderful poems used the word “watercolor,” and I suddenly realized what line was missing from my own poem. I am further indebted, as has often been the case, to friends and editors @TomJonas and @Posey, who brought the final clarity I needed to get the phrasing just right.

Hopefully you took my advice and already read the poem through that link, because if not, I’ve now built it up way too much. But, from the bottom of my heart, thank you :)

Of Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck wrote, “He never sent anyone running for the dictionary,” yet Hemingway won his Nobel eight years before Steinbeck. So, style doesn’t matter; diction doesn’t matter; even a Nobel doesn’t matter--until you win one.

What matters?

To read someone else’s writing is to crawl into his or her brain, and it’s a brain that will last forever, whether digitally, on a postcard, or--from a 13-year-old, doomed German girl’s attic annex in Amsterdam--on the dusty floor amid the overlooked debris of a hurried seizure and forced exit. The posthumous irony, besides that this book which said it all about oppression generally, the Nazis specifically, and adolescence existentially, is that the abduction scene was secured without noticing the girl’s simple diary--by those who were living their legacy of burning books. Her book rose out of the ashes.

They Saved Hitler’s Brain was a 1968 science fiction film, as bad as it sounds. But actually, they saved Anne Frank’s brain, her neurostylings and thoughts, written for no one but herself. A brain is a very private and isolated thing, so when it is shared for those to come, it isn’t the ghosts who haunt the living, but the living who haunt the ghosts by the simple turning of a first page.

Hemingway’s published works include seven novels, six short-story collections, and two nonfiction works. He won the Nobel Preize “for his mastery of the art of narrative, most recently demonstrated in The Old Man and the Sea, and for the influence that he has exerted on contemporary style.”

Steinbeck’s published works include 16 novels, six non-fiction books, and two collections of short stories. He won his Nobel prize “for his realistic and imaginative writings, combining as they do sympathetic humour and keen social perception.” In his acceptance speech, he fretted, “We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God; Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world—of all living things. The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man.”

Frank’s diary was only a first draft, written in cursive. It was private, personal, unassuming, and heartfelt. It was written for her and not her oppressors, who had--for a few years--usurped many of the powers ascribed to God and assumed lordship over life and death. It was meant to go down easily and not create an obstruction in the borborygmi of history. As such, it stands as an impaction for the biliousness of oppressors.

Whether writing a first draft in cursive or a final draft constrained by the commercial sins of a publisher, if becoming a good writer is the goal, write.

Whether writing about wrathful grapes or bullfights, if becoming a great writer is the goal, open the brain and let future history crawl in so that the sensibilities of what is being said for the generations to come can alter the timeline when needed. Often, it is an emergency.

I’ve written for the vast majority of my life. A few years ago I began seeking ways to get that writing noticed. Eventually I found my way to Wattpad, then here after the Wattpad thing flopped. I’ve checked a lot of sites out, from fanfiction repositories to original posting. One thing I’ve realized. Quality of writing takes a backseat to advertising. And that’s sad to say, but from my experience I believe it to be true. Wattpad is basically the YouTube of aspiring authors. The flashy, the loud, and the conformist succeed—conformist meaning those who write clones of what’s already popular to share in the success. There are so many “good girl meets bad boy” stories on Wattpad that you’d be hard-pressed to find an end to the list. It’s such a simple concept that the avid reception it garnered was a bit baffling to me. I have a taste for the bizarre, the surreal, the complex. The bad boy/good girl dynamic is fine I suppose, but the reader base of Wattpad gives tens of millions of reads to simple stories with common themes. Some of these stories (I’ve heard) are rife with misspellings, flat characters, cookie-cutter or unrealistic dialogue...the bullet points go on. I knew one dude who wrote on Wattpad who was actually amazing at what he did, yet what I read of his original, well-written and pulse-pounding story only raked in a paltry sum of reads. The reception of his work paled in comparison to the reception of eerily hive-minded sameness. Why is that, I wonder. Wattpad is one of the most popular writing sites in existence, boasting a hefty ninety million users. Those users spend over fifteen billion minutes each month trafficking the site. Most of said minutes are invested into what’s already popular. Not many bother to search out the hidden gems.

To answer your question though, what makes a good writer is simply perseverance. Yes, social media has shortened the general attention span. And there’s a lot of people who find comfort in sameness, so they’re drawn to it. If your work does not fit into the desired categories of the cultural appetite, you’re usually ignored in favor of something already popular that does. You’ve likely heard the saying “the rich get richer and the poor get poorer”. Well, Wattpad exemplifies that in a way. What’s popular commonly gains more and more traction, while those gone unnoticed find themselves wondering why they invested the time it took to write their story in the first place. The ‘good writers’, I’d say, are the ones who don’t give up despite this phenomenon, who stick to their guns amidst perpetual rejection, who write for the love of it, who are content to write for free, who always look for ways to improve, who aren’t afraid to admit taking heavy inspiration from their predecessors, who aren’t afraid to write cringe for years until their young system is purged of it. Heck, I’m still not purged of my cringe. Possibly, by this time next year, I’ll be mentally reeling from the lackluster content I’m creating now. But that shows effort and growth. That shows perseverance. One who dares to write against the grain despite having every odd stacked against them, one who has a story to be told and who will (metaphorically) explode if they don’t tell it—that’s a good writer. Good writers aren’t sellouts or people-pleasers, and they don’t have to be overly loud and flashy because their work stands on its own. Good writers are those who refuse to dumb themselves down for the sake of cultural appeasement, who refuse to compromise in the face of adversity. And chances are, if you’re reading this, it means you’ve persevered. You’re here, after all, Good Writers.

#opinion

Finally away from her mother’s judgmental gaze, the little ocean stretched. North, south, east, and west, she tumbled over deep trenches and shallow sands. There was plenty of room, so her wiggles wouldn’t disturb her siblings or annoy her mother. There was no one to tell her not to stretch even further, no one to care what she did.

Her fist knocked against something, and she twirled, venturing again to inspect it. Hard, unyielding, rough. It didn’t rock at her touch like a boat. It didn’t fly off like a gull. Perhaps this was one of the clouds that often sailed high above, cousins mother required she send a polite wave to.

So, she waved, but no response came. Clouds always called her cute, and sometimes they chuckled, but then, they never saw her so indecently sprawled like this.

The little ocean gathered herself and waved again but was still ignored. How rude of this stiff, immobile thing. She would make it notice her. She whirled, glittering with bubbles, and hunched at the edge of her domain. Then she charged. She dashed against towering rock, glimpsed lounging dry sand, but her mother towed her back and wrapped her in her frothy arms.

“What are you doing, little one?”

The little ocean reached toward the rocks again. “Why does it not answer?”

Her mother embraced her tighter and continued to bear her away. “The shore sleeps. Do not bother it.”

Yet, just before the rock vanished from sight on the horizon, the little ocean grinned. There, where the water lapped the land, appeared a small wrinkle in the sand, a smile.

An assidious aspiration and aegis of aligning utter anonymity ad hoc unto aiming at unwraveling anyone and everyone's utterly untapped aptitudes and ambitions. An allusion on an obviously awestriking orchestration of armageddonesque escapades. An aura, an ambiance, encompassing uncollected accolades accrued out of abbreviated adroitness. An audacious attempt at antithesizing and antagonizing otherwise avarice and allowing online atonement at astute ease. An appraisal apropos antipathy against algorithmic alacrity - ad infinitum.

1. I think I might be in heaven.

I. The first thing I noticed was the smell. How to describe it? It consisted of three

things.

a. Water, the fresh kind you can only get straight from the purifier. I had some for

my birthday last year, I couldn’t believe my parents would splurge like that.

b. Fresh plants, rarer still. This smell particularly reminded me of the carrot that I

was allowed to try once, many years ago. But carrots need too much water, so we

never grew them again.

c. Life. It smelled exactly like the forest I once found around a stream. There were

armed guards around the stream so I didn’t get too close, but from where I was

hiding I could smell the pine trees and it was the best thing I ever experienced.

(Except maybe the carrot)

II. The second thing I noticed was when I opened my eyes. Green. I had never seen

that much green before.

a. Fluffy little cushiony things covered the ground, interspersed with square bits of

dark brown, moist dirt

(I have never seen dirt like this before)

b. The square bits of dirt had other green things in them which looked like they

used more water than even carrots had.

c. A couple green leafy things had other colored items hanging from them,

impossibly large and impossibly bright.

(There is a round red one lying in the dirt, broken open. Inside is so much water

I could die).

III. The third thing I noticed was something that had been in the background the

entire time, and that I only then became aware of.

a. A buzzing, humming sound which appeared to emanate from several dozen small

flying insects.

b. As I watched, one landed on a leafy green thing and stopped buzzing.

(I’m starting to thing the green things must be plants, although I didn’t know

they could be that color)

2. The fourth thing I noticed was the enclosure. This told me that I was not in heaven.

I. It surrounded us and the greenery, about thirty meters in diameter.

a. Gray walls arced high over our heads and back down to the ground behind us.

b. It seemed to be made of metal, although how someone got that much metal is

beyond me. And why use it on a building?

(Strange that a material so necessary on the Dead Planet should be in so much

abundance here)

II. I hadn’t noticed it at first because many strange glowing things were attached to it

and they created the illusion of sky.

Dialogue: “What- what’s up there? On the round metal thing?”

“Hm? Oh, the lights. They just create light on the inside of this dome.

Without them the crops don’t grow. They use electricity - too

complicated to explain right now. I promise we’ll discuss it some other

time.”

a. The ‘lights’ were large and round, and looked a bit like the moon but instead of a

large thing a long way off, they were small things close up.

b. I asked whether they reflected the light of the sun, but no one said anything.

III. I turned around slowly to look at the interior of the dome. As I did so I noticed

several things.

a. There was an opening where I had entered. It was made of the same smooth metal

as the dome but folded outwards. As I watched, it slowly folded inwards once again.

(The smooth, unhurried movements of inanimate objects here remind me of the

sinuous darting of what few fish are left back on the Dead Planet)

b. There were two other patches on the wall which appeared similar to the entrance.

I surmised that these must be other doors, although to what I had not the slightest

clue.

c. Based on when I was able to see through the door I entered by, the walls were at

least a metre thick. No natural light shone in from anywhere.

3. As we walked towards it, the door in the other side of the dome opened. We entered.

I. I was standing in a small, cramped space with several things in it.

a. Near the wall a tiny bed was set up. It had no covers and a single, black sheet.

Dialogue: “Don’t we need covers? I hear it can get freezing here.”

“You don’t think we’ve managed to survive without learning to regulate

temparatures inside the domes, do you? Don’t worry, the nights are hot

to help the plants grow.”

b. Besides the bed there was a small chest of drawers, which was the only other piece

of furniture.

(Between them the bed and the chest cover about seventy percent of the space

in the room)

Dialogue: “This is your room. Sorry it’s cramped - you won’t have to spend much

time in it. Tending the plants is the main requirement of your job, but there is

plenty of other work that we would be more than happy to give you.”

II. Cramped?

Dialogue: “Oh.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s so beautiful. I think I might cry.”

4. Three months later, I went to the infirmary.

I. My head hurt and I’d been feeling weak for days, but I couldn’t just stop working.

a. If I stopped, they might send me back to the Dead Planet.

b. If I stopped, I wouldn’t be able to smell the plants.

II. I started vomiting after two months of work, but it wasn’t until I

began to see blood that I signed myself up for a check-in.

a. There was a slow turnaround - it was a month before they could see me.

III. By the time I arrived I could barely breathe, I was choking on blood and my vision

was blurring. My hair had been coming out by the fistfuls for days.

IV. The nurse took one look and got a syringe. I felt it enter my arm.

a. I didn’t feel anything else.

b. I think I was wrong.

c. I think this is heaven.