I've been meaning to post a post which details exactly which story got published where and then provide a link to it and so here it is. Enjoy!
Floodwall Magazine - "Limitations"
Blue Lake Review - "What I Want"
Blue Lake Review - "Buff Was In"
Foundling Review - "Wakulla Manatee"
Black Scat Review - "Setting Sun Inn" (available to order only)
Hobart - "Nubbins"
Prime Number Magazine - "Bubblegum and Heroin"
Litro - "Cecilia"
Charlie Griggs the Writer
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Evolution of an Opening Sentence
Many of you know
I've been working on a long writing project for some time now. It's
been written in chunks, oftentimes out of order, usually formatted to
resemble more closely a series of short stories than a cohesive
whole. This summer, however, as I prepare for my final year of grad
school, during which time I intend to complete the long project, I've
been piecing the text together, making cuts, writing and re-writing
scenes, and I've finally reached a place where the text is beginning
to resemble that cohesive whole I've so strongly been wanting.
Well, in honor of
reaching my fiftieth chronological page of edited, decent prose
today, I've decided to post a couple of my old opening sentences with
a little description of why they were cut. I had wanted to post an
entire scene from the cutting room floor, but, alas, those scenes
which I cut were all cut for a reason and my pride would allow no
such concession. In any case, here are three excised opening lines
presented in the order of which I conceived and, subsequently, cut
them:
First there was
heartbreak, then there was nothing; Max Astor was cuckolded at a
young age.
At first the opening
sentence was only the second independent clause, but I take issue
with beginning a piece of writing with a character's name; it seems
chintzy and cheap, the kind of shitty first line bad pulp novels tend
to use. Then I thought I'd adjust it by adding the beginning, and,
haha, look how clever I was by making the first word of the text the
word "First." In any case, this entire scene, three-four
pages of backstory about a character who has since undergone several
name changes and been relegated from protagonist to secondary
character, was cut for obvious reasons. Namely, it was neither
important nor exciting enough to begin such a long text. Snip snip.
“Truth is this:
used to be people needed to justify their melancholy.”
Oh, no, the quote
didn't end there. For some reason I, at one point or another,
thought that beginning my text with a page and a half long monologue
was a good idea. It wasn't. There were no tags to inform the reader
who was speaking, nor were there any setting details to inform the
reader where the speech was taking place. There was, however, a
whole lot stuffing down the reader's throat exactly what I thought
they needed to get out of the scene: lots of telegraphed intentions,
over-explained motives, the like. This scene underwent several
revisions because I didn't feel the setting was strong enough or
exciting enough to entice any reader. So, finally, I axed the whole
thing. Better to trust one's readers to fill in the blanks than to
overwhelm them with information which you think they might not glean
on their own; always err in favor the readers' intelligence.
Julius, can't you
sympathize?
Something else I
take issue with, similar to beginning with character names, is
beginning with a question. I swore to myself that this would never
be my opening sentence, but I grew complacent and, unable to think of
anything better, almost convinced myself it was okay. Thankfully, I
came to my senses. This sentence - a variation of it, at least - is
still present in my opening paragraph, but has since been replaced
with a much better, more fitting opening sentence. Of course, I say
that now, but maybe in a month as I continue editing, it'll end up
appended to this post.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Excised Exposition
Here's a chunk of not-awful writing from my novel-length project which has been temporarily excised in order to make a certain passage less like a chunk from a novel-length project and more like a self-contained short story.
Context: After being betrayed by his significant other, Julius is driving down I-95 on the way to visit his aunt and, eventually, his father. He's not in a good place mentally, so there's that. The story is called "Ninety-Five," but we'll just refer to this particular chunk as:
Context: After being betrayed by his significant other, Julius is driving down I-95 on the way to visit his aunt and, eventually, his father. He's not in a good place mentally, so there's that. The story is called "Ninety-Five," but we'll just refer to this particular chunk as:
"Dense Prose Which Screwed Up the Pacing"
He imagines, on either side of the concrete ribbon down which he
travels, the expanses of green stretching out forever into mountains,
lush and fertile, and forests beyond that. Exit signs of the same hue
hanging over stuttering lanes of traffic, blending in, announcing
cities and towns unreachable from off-ramps which don’t end; they
bend away from the interstate and plunge into that vertiginous
verdigris which swallows drivers and destinations alike. As the sun’s
parabolic descent swings into view through the passenger window, he
traces the fractured effulgence down mountain valleys and up steep
ridges, sunlight breaking across exposed acres of rock standing apart
from the mountains’ otherwise dappled green skin, like geo-skeletal
scabs on the bends of great skinned knees.
Walled
in on either side, tracing the single path bisecting this inimitable
vastness, down down down he drives praying that darkness settles
before humanity confronts him, before his world is once again
industrial parks and commercial districts. At night, by the shadows,
he can lie and pretend the imposing park-and-rides, the empty lots
with their dejected streetlamps are merely the specters of another
sad reverie, but in the yellow shine of wakefulness reality would
loom too near.
In
the right lane, he depresses the brake pedal, settles back in his
seat, and, by the fading light of the sun-rimmed mountains, he drafts
the inarguable map of his world, one in which the Earth is fecund
land interrupted by his trajectory alone, miles of road disappearing
in his wake and reappearing in his immediate stead; this solipsistic
world where the other vehicles are overgrowth, and Julius alone, with
buzzing head and desperate heart, traverses the uncharted.
However, temporal canvas forever shifting from light to dark, the
global chiaroscuro repeats on a twenty-four hour loop, and Julius
crashes into the artist’s all-encompassing shade of black somewhere
north of Fayetteville. He flicks through directions on his smart
phone plugged into the car charger, eyes darting between screen and
road: forty-five minutes until Aunt Payton’s.
To
defend against the dense night outside his midsize, Julius yawns and
lets his energy drain accepting that with exhaustion comes reprieve.
Not yet, though. He has to make it to the small house off the
interstate before succumbing, so he trails cars in the right and
middle lanes, tailgating and flashing his high beams until,
aggrieved, they move, allowing him passage. The game is enough to
keep him alert, or at least entertained, until the exit sign appears,
and, engaging his turn signal, he looks back in his rearview one last
time ingesting the loathsome vehicles and fading billboards
unaffected by his will, standing impervious against his all-consuming
disgust.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Redneck Zombie Work in Progress
Here's a piece I began working on about a three months ago which got placed on the back-burner due to since I wrote myself into a corner and subsequently returned to work on my novel. It's the beginning of a redneck zombie story which, if I can write myself out of said corner, will also serve as a not-so-subtle metaphor for capitalism. The bullet points are actually supposed to by hyphens (a la Gaddis) which unfortunately I was unable to convert from Microsoft Word into the blogging format and I just don't have the time to fiddle with right now. Anyway, here's the beginning and no, there aren't any zombies in it yet. But yes, there are rednecks. Working title is . . .
Affluenza
- Somethin's come over the boy.
- Ask me an' I'd say somethin's been over him.
- Pa, now, you know damn well what I mean.
- I do. Forgive me, Ma. Yup, I do. An affliction, I'd say. Somethin' awful serious.
Ma an' Pa is dangling horny feet
in the creekbed, letting them toes get all sorts o' tangled up in the
algae an' the muckety-muck. I almost didn' pull up beside 'em, but Pa
said that it weren't no matter, see, an' what else we got the spigot
back home for? Well, argument 'nough for me, an' so I sat on down
right there, ass in the mud an' ev'rythin' an' the topic what they
been discussin' ain't no other 'n Simon, my older brother all growed
up who Ma an' Pa named after Simon o' Cyrene, the man what carried
Jesus' cross up Calvary.
- Fixin' to tell us something, Laney?
- Get on with it, girl, no need to be shy all suddenly.
That's Ma an' Pa t'me an' they
can see right away something vicious rippin' my insides but good. Me
with my habits, what Pa calls my “tells,” some term or other he
done adopted off a card game with Uncle Chewy an' Rupert Lasso not
more 'n two, three months 'fore. Well, my biggest “tell” what
Pa'd told me about is my fingers get all fidgety-like. See, right now
I been busy tying all manner o' knots with the onion grass, just
pluckin' blades an' wrappin' the ends all 'round into figure-eights
an' sheepshanks. 'Nother habit o' mine is I like to smell my fingers
after I've been messing with the onion grass. That one, though, it
don't matter if I'm hidin' nothin' or not, I just like the way it
smells all sharp an' rude.
- Don't rightly know that I'm comfortable talking on Simon like this, Pa.
- Family don't keep secrets, girl. You hear me good now.
Ma pulls her legs up out o' the
creek. She brings her feet, bunions, algae, an' all, back up on the
bank, then tucks 'em underneath her, Indian-style. Usually Ma's a
graceful woman, but seein' her now all dirty an' swattin' mosquitoes
from behind her neck, it's a sight what'd make anyone smirk real
crooked.
- Nothin' funny here, girl. You better be out with it, else I'm liable to yank it outta you.
- Now, Pa. Give her a moment.
- Only one what'd test my patience this much, Ma, the Good Lord Hisself.
When Pa starts bringin' in the
Good Lord or our Savior Jesus Christ or 'specially the Lamb o' God,
these are the times you can tell he's gettin' awful serious.
- Simon'd do my arm a rope-burn worse 'n I ever seen if I say anythin' to you. Made him a promise, I did.
- Your brother ain't hardly more grown up than you yourself, Laney. No authority figure in my house aside from me here in front o' you an' our Savior Jesus Christ. Now out with it.
Well, with two o' the three
Holiest o' Holies already brung, I know Pa's fixin' to get righteous
angry any second now an' Simon can go ahead, rope-burn my arm all he
wants, but ain't nothing worse 'n when Pa loses his temper. Old
Testament kind o' wrath. Kind you don't wanna be 'round.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Untitled Dialogue Exercise
The first three lines of this piece are from John Berger's novel King: A Street Story (p. 102). As an exercise in my fiction workshop last semester we were told to begin a dialogue exchange using these lines and then to proceed with it however we saw fit (paying no mind to the characters, story, etc. from Berger's piece).
Untitled Dialogue Exercise
Where is she?
She's walking between the trees.
Her name is in the air.
I can't see her, he says.
No, you wouldn't. Not yet.
You take jabs at my eyesight
now?
It's something different. This
isn't about seeing or not seeing.
Tell me she'll be here soon. We
miss her so much sometimes, don't we?
Do we?
Don't we?
You do. I do. Yes, we miss her.
How could we not?
No, but it wasn't always like
this. I say sometimes because there were other times before now when
it wasn't so easy to miss her. She would go and we wouldn't wait. Our
expectations, they were lower then.
But now they are higher?
They have to be. We depend on
her now. My eyesight, your compassion, she doesn't have such
weaknesses.
Maybe that is her weakness,
though.
We don't need to talk. We can
just wait until she's here and then things will be fine, they'll be
back to normal and we don't need to fill the air with this – this
shit we say to keep ourselves company.
It's you, always you, who starts
in with this “shit.” Free me from the blame and I won't speak
anymore.
First the blame and then what?
What will you ask to be freed from next? I can only do so much. We
count on her, but sometimes I have to count on you too. Don't get any
ideas. You're pardoned this time only. That's it.
You can speak, he says. I know
what I said, but go ahead. She still isn't here and we could use the
company, couldn't we? Go ahead now.
Sometimes I don't know if I
should apologize to you or just drop it altogether.
You don't need to do that.
Either one.
I wouldn't mean it if I did.
That's good. That's why I like
you. It takes someone special to be honest about their disingenuity.
I couldn't lie about that, no.
You'd know right away.
Exactly. You aren't a very good
liar, he says. That's an admirable trait, lying poorly. Some people
spend their whole lives trying to and still everyone believes them.
Some people, some people. Some people like me.
You're selling yourself short.
You do this again and again and you wonder why we have to rely on
her, why you have to rely on me. Don't sell yourself short. You're a
terrible liar and she loves you for it.
Flattery, flattery. I wonder how
much longer. How much longer she'll keep us waiting. You say she
loves me and then she keeps me waiting, keeps us both waiting.
We keep ourselves waiting. We've
made her too important to us and now we haven't got any other choice.
I suppose we could leave if we
wanted to. Just us two and maybe she'd catch up to us or maybe she
wouldn't, but we would prove that we can do it. Make it just the two
of us, like we did before her.
As you said, though, your
eyesight, my compassion. Before we didn't know how weak we were.
Again with my eyesight. You
don't relent.
She's stopped.
Somewhere in the forest? Where
is she?
No, somewhere else. I can't pick
her up. I wonder –
She's still coming.
I can't say.
You have to, though. After what
I've just said about counting on you and now you'll deny me this?
She's stopped. I can't say
anymore. I can't taste her. The air grows thick.
This is unlike you. Usually so
alert, so adept. And now this.
There's nothing I can do.
You can lie.
Okay. She's still coming. Okay?
Friday, January 4, 2013
Top 5 Mainstream Hip-Hop Albums of 2012
Back in 2012 it seemed like every other week there was a new hip-hop album dropping and, more often than not, the album was a blast to listen to. Of course, there were a handful of disappointments (most notably Nicki Minaj's Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded and Wiz Khalifa's O.N.I.F.C.), but for the most part I was overwhelmingly satisfied. Enough to craft this handy-dandy top five list.
5) Meek Mill - Dreams and Nightmares
Meek Mill did the right thing when it came to building hype for his debut album. Despite being Rick Ross's protege (in a manner of speaking), the Philly rapper opted to drop the track "Amen" featuring Drake as his first single rather than any of the three songs featuring Ricky "Humdrum" Rosay. The song is catchy, funny, and it has Drake, so you pretty much can't go wrong. It was enough to get me interested at least.
So, intrigued, I gave the whole album a listen and I wasn't disappointed. Meek Mill kicks it off with the title track on which he starts slow before going off which sets the pace for the rest of the album. Despite the obligatory Maybach Music collaborations with other label artists (the aforementioned and interminable Rick Ross, Louie V, Sam Sneaker), Meek shines here and doesn't let his album get bogged down with too many featured artists. For the most part, those who are featured are done so in good taste (Kirko Bangz, Drake, Mary J. Blige, Big Sean, etc.) and the solo tracks remain impressive.
A solid debut from a talented rapper.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Hip-Hop Stars and Their NFL Doppelgangers Pt. 2
Hip-Hop Stars and Their NFL Doppelgangers Pt. 2
Finals are done which means I can get
back on my blogging grind, so enjoy!
Here's my next batch of hip-hop stars and
their NFL doppelgangers:
LMFAO = Rob Gronkowski
LMFAO just recently broke up which is
heartbreaking, but their legacy of party-rocking lives on. Similarly,
Rob Gronkowski just broke his forearm, but his legacy of being the
best damn tight end in the NFL and also one of the league's hardest
partiers remains.
These guys are all good at what they
do, but more importantly they're even better at having fun. LMFAO's
song “Get Crazy” is the theme to Jersey Shore, they made a series
of sick music videos all spoofing horror movies which I totally dig,
and their songs “I'm Sexy and I Know It” and “Shots” will be
heard in bars and nightclubs for decades to come.
What about Rob Gronkowski? Dude
absolutely kills it week after week. He had a record-setting season
last year, got into all kinds of controversy by lending his
jersey to a porn star for a quick photo op, and supposedly got tangled up with some jailbait while out raging.
No one parties harder than the Gronk,
though I'd put some money down that LMFAO could give him a run for
his money.
Labels:
50 Cent,
Albert,
Brees,
Drew,
Gronkowski,
Haynesworth,
LMFAO,
NFL,
Patriots,
Redskins,
Rick,
Rob,
Ross,
Saints
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