Camped Out - NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2023

There is no way I'm getting through. I tried and submitted a story, but with no experience of the context at all it was beyond my skill to create it. I'll put it here and let others decide. 

Dear America: be kind! :D

Camping Out

[EDIT] It turns out I'm a fool. The story wasn't based in a Summer Camp, but a Summer School. I made a big mistake. I don't know if my story will qualify, but I'll find out in April. 😖

Camping Out

I'm in trouble. No, seriously.

I've started a new writing competition and the setting I've been assigned for my story is a Summer Camp. Great. I can do some research and reading around summer camps and the experience, but summer camp is a very American thing.

I'm Irish. I remember one summer our school had a summer scheme where we got to go and do some sports and a couple of visits to interesting places around the country. Getting to go to the Böse Factory in Drogheda (now closed) was a great one for me. I loved seeing how the speakers worked and how they were manufactured. Overall, though, Summer Camp as I remember it from Movies, wasn't a thing.

So, I turn where I always go: the internet. For the love of Chocolate, why is so much of this stuff promotional! Trying to find testimonial that isn't promotional is almost impossible. Given 7 days, I had to ask a friend who lived there what camp was like.

They couldn't afford summer camp. They never knew anyone who could. This leaves me in a place I don't like: I'm going to have to make stuff up about Summer Camp from the POV of rich Americans. I don't know them.

But I got lucky. I'm a member of a Discord server for RPG Players and there are a lot of Americans. I got to ask a few about their experiences of Summer camp (there's a lot of religion involved) and got some good feedback. I had to make quite a few adjustments based on what they told me, which left an already struggling story somewhat higgledy piggledy. I'm sure I'll pull something together, but I'm not sure if I can push it enough to make it real enough to get by. I'm pretty certain I'm not getting through. Given time for research and peripheral reading, I could maybe have created something that felt real (I'm remembering the book, "Night of the Moonbow" which would have given me something to work with) but I expect to get the bad news in a couple of months.

I could be wrong, or course.

Hey: wish me luck.

Litany - NYC Midnight 250 Word Microfiction Challenge 2022

It was competition day on Saturday. This one came to me quite quickly on Saturday morning from the Genre/Event/"word" prompts (Drama/Losing a key/"vest"). Once I had it written out with a few edits, my brain blanked, so there was no more work on it after that.

I still like it! I hope it's good enough to get me through to the final I hope you enjoy too.

Litany

The key to the tabernacle isn’t in my vestment pocket. Eucharistic ministers used to do all of this while we performed the rites. Marcella Cochrane had filled that role once. 

I am frozen before the tabernacle. I remembered her coming to me, begging a much younger man to save her from her husband’s beatings and belittlement. “Before the baby comes,” she’d said.

“For better or worse. That was your promise.”

Why had I said those words, that empty litany?

“And he promised to love and honour me. Is this love, Father?”

I had no answer, but she did.

“Oh, what would you know.”

The congregation is growing restless behind me. The Deacon appears with the key. I retrieve the ciborium, almost dropping it. Liver spots on my shaking hands reflect the state of my soul.

Why had I involved the bishop? He had gone to Michael Cochrane, who once again ‘punished’ his wife for embarrassing him. Imagine being more embarrassed about what the priest knew than what he did to her?

She almost died. Tommy Cochrane was born with “profound disabilities”. That was my fault.

As I hold up the Host, the congregation repeats “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world...”

Michael’s body was found yesterday, two miles from home. Of course there were rumours when he disappeared, but nobody involved the police. Justice had been served. Nobody accused her. “Let he who is without sin...”

I cast no stones. I had done what was needed.

As always, I welcome constructive feedback in the comments, or if you just want to tell me I'm brilliant... ;)

A Step Ahead

I've been getting on with the whole "living" thing. It can be tedious, so I like to break it up with a challenge or two to myself. The current endeavour is to enter a writing competition each month. This month's is a short story writing challenge that will begin next Saturday, but that's not what today is about.

No, today is about the previous competition I entered. Once again, NYC Midnight have their 250 Word Microfiction challenge running and I'm in it. I put my story in last November (the 19th, to be precise) and found out yesterday that I achieved 5th place in my group and I'm through to the next round.

If anyone would like to read the story it is below. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Aquisition by Degrees

Her arm flopped to the other side of the bed. As she twisted, the quilt went with her. My knees were cold, but my head was full of pyrotechnics from the earlier argument.

I heard her teeth grinding, wondering if she was mulling it over too? Or was she asleep already? Without her mouth guard? Oh, but I’m the obstinate one.

I rolled myself back under the quilt. She turned onto her back, taking it further away. My entire right side was exposed to the November cold.

I tiptoed to the cupboard. It was in here somewhere. I banged my head on a Christmas tree and stubbed my toe against the vacuum cleaner. How had the towels ended up under the toilet rolls? Oh, but I’m the disorganised one.

I found the sleeping bag and zipped myself into it in the hallway, penguin shuffling back to bed. Central heating was great but I missed climbing into a sleeping bag fresh out of a hot press. And it smelled sort of mouldy.

Within minutes I was entangled in the sleeping bag. The smell was overbearing. I had to escape, struggling back under the quilt. The heat from her was so inviting, but she rolled away from me. Taking the quilt. Again! Oh, but I’m the inconsiderate one.

To hell with it. I spooned in, putting my arm around her. She relaxed against me, her heart beating softly on my wrist. I wanted to say sorry. She’d won me back again, somehow.

I'll post my story prompts next Saturday, and maybe use this blog as a sounding board for upcoming projects.

Bye!

Out and Out

Having entered the Flash Fiction challenge on NYC Midnight, I was very happy with my first story but really disappointed with the second. Surprisingly, I still got some points for it, but not enough to take me through to round 2.

Anyway, now that I'm out In sharing my first story. I hope you guys like it. 

Keep Company With The Angels

On a day when his homeland finally feels complete to him, Tom needs to decide whether to side with the old enemy to face a worse threat.

 

I’d never awoken to so much excitement. Siobhán cooked oatmeal on the rusty old stove while she hummed that Ella Fitzgerald song that she loved and I hated.

“Porridge again?”

“Dún do bheal is ith do bhricfeasta. Once you’re a history professor we can eat like King George.”

“How can I eat at all if my mouth is closed?!”

“Figure it out, clever clogs,” she said, as I hugged her from behind.

“Do you not have an Irish song in you for the day that’s in it?” I asked.

She lifted a skillet to threaten me with. “Listen, Tom Dolan. You’ll have an Irish pan in that massive brain of yours if you don’t get on.” I kissed her quick but full, realising how lucky I was.

We sat at the tiny table and said a prayer of thanks; for the food, for the one-room flat we lived in (for now), for the day when the last seat of colonial power became Irish. Douglas Hyde, Uachtaráin na hEireann, our own President, would take over the Viceregal Lodge.

I was distracted by Siobhán’s swinging hips as we approached the City Centre, missing Clarkey’s words. My mind wandered to the day she said yes, the first time she’d seen me cry.

Ryan Clarke punched my shoulder. He was my oldest friend, and one of the few that hadn’t treated me like a snob when I started my Masters.

“Are you even listening? I said, it looks like this will be news all over the world,” he said.

“Even London?”

Ryan laughed. “Well, never London, unless they can embitter it somehow, but everywhere that counts. I hear old Adolf is looking to pay journalists shillings to pounds for photos from today.”

“Well, he’d do anything to bother the neighbours, wouldn’t he?”

“Indeed” Clarkey said. “They would be a lot less bothered if Chamberlain would stop pandering and stood up to him.”

“Someone should do something about it.”

“Easy Tom,” he glanced around. “People will think you’re off the join the British Army.”

“Are you coming to Dublin Castle tonight?” I asked him, glancing at Siobhán, looking to change the subject.

“Guests of the Provost of Trinity College. No, I’d be mixing well above my station there,” he said. “At least you have Siobhán to make you look good.”

O’Connell Street was thick with the crowd as we approached. People hung from windows and lamp posts. I suggested to Siobhán stopping here as we’d never make the ceremony through the throng. I had to almost howl the words in her ear, shouting to be heard over people shouting to be heard. She stood as tall as she could, grabbed my hand and led us through. I watched with a rising, jealous temper as men fell over themselves to accommodate her, just as I had a decade before. When Siobhán turned and said something to me that I couldn’t hear over the crowd, those men didn’t matter. Seeing excitement in her eyes and the tease of her half-smile, I nodded and followed. We lost Clarkey somewhere along the way.

She manoeuvred us opposite the GPO. I realised that today was the culmination of the Easter Rising that had started on those post office steps 22 years ago. That day was itself steeped in centuries of uprisings, assassinations, and political machinations. History was nothing if it wasn’t bloody.

But today was about democracy, increasingly unique in Europe as it seemed dictator after dictator were rising to power. Today, Ireland stood for freedom and exemplified what Nationalism could look like.

Stepping into the cheers of Dublin, Hyde stepped from the lead car of the motorcade, flanked by Irish Cavalry. He was joined by the Tánaiste, Sean Ó Ceallaigh and an Taoiseach, Éamon de Valera, as they approached the steps of the GPO. A whole city fell into near silent reflection and reminiscence. To most it was moment to remember The Rising. Hyde, I’m sure, was remembering his old friend, Pearse. It was well known they’d disagreed on the use of armed conflict. Hyde was no fan of pointless sacrifice.

I took Siobhán’s free hand, putting my other arm around her waist. I thought of the day we married, the second time she’d seen me cry.

“If you return.”

We used the music as cover for the conversation, standing in a side room in Dublin Castle so as not to be seen arguing by Irish dignitaries.

“I know, Siobhán, but Hitler’s a tyrant, that’s obvious. He didn’t earn power, he took it. Today was how leadership should be. I’m fighting for that.”

“By joining the British Army?”

“You know de Valera won’t fight alongside the English. And Hyde’s wife is German.” She was livid, but hesitant. “Clarkey said if I’m right he’d come with me.”

I could see the anger on her face begin to melt. I knew she trusted Ryan, but I wondered what quiet calculations she was making. She was balancing more in her head than I ever could, for sure.

“It couldn’t last as long as The Great War,” I said. “I’d be home before you know it.”

“That’s what they said before The Great War. ‘We’ll be home by Christmas,’” she paused. “Will it really come to war?”

“I hope not,” I said, “but if I understand history at all, it looks likely.”

“Tomorrow, we pray for peace,” she said, taking my hand and leading me back to the reception hall. Clarkey was right. She did make me look good. She greeted with grace, moving among the highest of Irish society like she belonged, like I hadn’t just told her I was ready to go off to war.

Today would be the third day she’d see me cry, for a love I didn’t deserve.

Bad Joke Rising

I've written my RomCom and that's an acheivement for me. I kind of like it. Not enough to want to write the next "When Harry Met Sally" but enough to feel like a at least have a chance to get through to the finals. I haven't seen any of the stories from others in my group, but I have seen some from other groups, including other RomComs. Some are quirky, some strange, some ordinary. Mine (which I will post up here after the decision has been made) fits into the quirky category. 

Is my confidence growing?

Maybe. I'm not expecting to win, in fairness. Getting through to round 2 was already an improvement on previous competitions and I feel like that's enough for now. Any further progress would be a huge bonus, though my expectations are not that high. If I make it to the final next time around, I'll be happy, but I have learned a few things.

I'm getting better at cutting the things that don't help. I used to feel like I was damaging a story by cutting a lot out. I don't really feel that anymore.

I'm getting better at taking criticism. Admittedly it's from strangers, but even my partner is being more honest about my stories. She doesn't try to protect me from things she doesn't like, which is what I want. She's also really good at asking questions that make me think about what the current draft is doing.

I'm learning to let go of stories, rather than be precious about them. The story is written. Could it be the inspiration for other things? Maybe, but that's all it is. I don't have to perfect this story.

That's enough for now. I'll know the result by July 27th. Fingers crossed, but not too tight.

The Bad Joke Returns

What are the odds that my bad joke that I wrote on the day my friend was buried actually got me through to round 2? Well, that's what happened. I'm actually in the middle of my 24 hours to write the story for round 2 and I don't know what I'm doing. 

So, here's my first round story.

A Most Fetid Fête

“Not those rotten cheeses again?” She was cutting up a musty block of something. The smell filled the whole house. I grabbed a napkin and pen and scribbled the words HELP ME, pretending to choke.

“There’s nothing wrong with my cheeses,” she said.

“There’s plenty wrong with them, most of which double as medical diagnoses.”

“Is there a medical name for getting buried under the patio?”

“Ha!” I barked. “Ha, ha! You’re very funny, you know that?”

She turned and left the room.

“You are joking, aren’t you?”

She didn’t look at me. I reread the napkin and gulped.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the judges said the story flagged a little towards the end and one even suggested that I could have had the female character pick up a shovel on the way out of the house. Given the day that was in it, I don't see that having happened. 

I'm a bit embarrassed by the '"Ha!" I barked.' Don't judge me. I was having a bad day. Surprisingly, none of the judges picked that particular faux pas out. It was a waste of words that could have been used elsewhere. Like dump it and the final "and gulped" and I could have maybe changed the final line to "She didn't look at me as she picked up the shovel. I reread the napkin." It would have been a much darker ending, but not unfunny. And still 100 words or less.

So, I'm on to round 2 and I have to write a RomCom. I'm in better form today and have a story I like. Whether it's strong enough to get me through to the final, I don't know, but I'll find out in August, I guess. Then we have a silly RomCom story to look forward to.

Keep reading. Keep laughing.

A Joke in Poor Taste

It's was an unfortunate circumstance that, on the day of my new competition, I was given a genre assignment of "Comedy". Why? Because on that day I was burying a friend and was in no mood for humour.

The hardest thing about writing humour when you are in pain is to avoid spite. I know this kind of humour is very common now. Gervais revels in it. Many late night talk show hosts have made a living by it. It is the humour of persecution, real or imagined. It wallows in self pity but tries to masquerade as "dealing with the 'real' issues". It's none of these things. Can you tell I don't like it?

And yet it's hard to avoid when you hurt.

I'll wait until we're allowed to share our stories (that usually comes before the judges make their decisions) and then I'll post it here. I honestly think the tone is too ambiguous to hold it's own. We will see. Let the judges decide.

The hardest thing about writing humour normally is that, after very few reads, every word loses it's humour. You have to hold onto the core of the joke(s) against every edit. In this, more than any other genre, you will need readers. Each reader will only be able to read the story a time or two before they too lose the humour from it. You'll probably get the best criticism at this point, but they won't know any more than you if this stale joke is funny.

Once your readers are done, be sure to have a fresh set of eyes to read the final manuscript.

Then finish your work.

Then submit.

No matter what, you have to do this.

AGAIN?!

So, I've done it again. I've entered another microfiction contest. It opens next weekend and I'm a little nervous. The challenge is even deeper this time in that I have only 100 words to craft a story in and only 24 hours to do it!

I find myself thinking about how to make a story unique in that short a time and I imagine it comes down to voice. It will be little more than a vignette or an observation. I'm hoping to focus on something fun, a quirk or surprise that keeps the story interesting. I'll have to see how it goes.

Editorial Advice

I have no idea how to edit. I know this, because every time I have to do it, I end up staring at a page of words and not knowing what to do with them. I've read a few books of being a writer and most of them have a chapter on editing, but I think you're supposed to have picked up the skills that will make this easy in the preceding chapters.

Somewhere in my brain there is a disjoint that doesn't connect one with the other.

A quote attributed to Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the early 20th century aviator:

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.

I'm taking this as my mantra. I've often had trouble keeping to word limits for competitions, particularly in magazines, and I end up stopping halfway through to cut out what I think I don't need. Of course, by the time I realise I did need it, it's too late, and I have to remember what I destroyed.

When I write now, I don't edit (apart from the occasional grammar or spelling error that chagrins me). These drafts are usually much longer than I want them to be. 3000 word limit? I write what I feel like before I start stripping down. If I end up with 5000 words, I have to almost punish myself to strip out 2000 words. (Thankfully, it is rare that things go that far.)

This is great practice! Getting a story down to the core is the best feeling. Pulling out extra words, worthless turns of phrase, clichés!

I never had a problem with clichés before. I thought of them as being like tropes. Tropes are useful for saving exposition. I don't need to explain a whole pile of techno-jargon for hackers if I can quickly talk about bots, firewalls and spiders. I know these will mean something to most readers, and I can decide whether they are standard pieces of code running somewhere else or virtual creatures and actual walls of fire in a full 3D virtual world later.

But clichés lost their purpose quickly. While I might be able to use a cliché in a novel and get away with it, in a short story a cliché is stopping me from telling my story. This has stolen a blade from my armoury, but has forced me to sharpen other weapons.

A word to the wise (probably not advice most writers need); if you need to work to a tight deadline, make sure you don't waste any time in the editing. It will probably take longer than you imagine. Time is as important as word counts or word choice.

So strip it right down. Become a butcher. Every cut is not a random slice, but is creating a cut of meat that someone will find succulent.

Resources

Writer Craig Hallam has begun a YouTube channel with some advice on writing and the industry.

MasterClass teaches writing skills from people who do this for a living!

Daily Writing Tips has some editing exercises with sample solutions.

If you know of any other resources that could be added to this list, please put them in the comments.

Recognised

 So, I mentioned in my last post that I'd been entering competitions. One of those was in a magazine. It was a flash fiction comp where the first and last paragraphs were the same but the meaning had been changed by the story.

Sadly, I didn't win, BUT...

... I did get into the highly commended section. Seeing your name in print for something positive is a BUZZ, for sure. I will continue entering competitions and honing my craft. JOIN ME! 

Word Abuse

I'm going through a couple of writing courses at the moment, which I sometimes use as a means of inspiration. Some of the more structured courses come with little writing exercises. These are usually enough to whet the appetite, or put a particular skill to the test.
One such exercise was the application of words in unusual contexts. The premise is that an ordinary word used in an inappropriate setting can create a new mood or form for the writing.
Some of the responses to this exercise are excellent (no I won't be sharing them here), but there are others where I feel that someone is abusing the language.
As I'm not trying to embarrass anyone, I won't be giving examples, but it got me thinking about something. Is there anything you've written in the past that you look back on and shudder? Have you ever written a poem, song, story that you now feel is so weak or embarrassing you wish it had never existed?

As for the exercise, my own example is this:

Uninvited, I was overtaken by a vibrant anxiety, filling my head with noise and heat.

Progress Update: Is it Drafty in here?

I'm on my 4th draft
That isn't a boast, and it isn't strictly true. It is kind of my 3rd draft, because my second draft was boring. I mean, painfully boring. I had somehow managed to strip my story of everything that made it interesting. Imagine that. Hahaha.....
Seriously. The 3rd draft became 2.2 as soon as a read 2.1. It wasn't pretty.
So, 3rdish draft is about being a stickler. I'm stripping everything out that I find weak and annoying. It looks like that might include the first two chapters!
Two...
...entire...
...chapters.

My Notebook and my Treacherous Brain

Do you carry a notebook? Something to jot down ideas in, even if it is just a name that pops to mind, or a simple phrase that arises in your head that you can imagine one of your characters saying. It certainly is one of the things that people are advised to do; have a notebook on you at all times.
I have a notebook. I bought it for myself as a little treat. It's a pocket moleskin book, with squared pages, just in case something needs to be sketched, rather than written. In the first two weeks, it never left my pocket. I would scratch down ideas, mispronunciations of words (in case I wanted to have a character to whom English was a second language), small ideas that popped into my head. Tiny observations of the oddest things.

Suddenly, it all dried up. I had gone for more than a month with nothing to add to the notebook. I put it down to my perception. My force of attention was obviously being directed elsewhere. I had other concerns (family issues and university tasks). I had not used the ideas I had already recorded. My brain wasn't on form, but it would probably come back.
After two months, I stopped carrying the notebook with me. I didn't see the point.
And the ideas started coming back!
This has perplexed me my entire life. How can I be so full of ideas when I have no way to record them, yet when I have a notebook, smartphone, sketchbook to hand, my brain falls silent?
A concept struck me that I think answers the question: My notebook had become a reminder of a responsibility. The more I attempt to write, the more I feel the duty of output. This made the notebook no longer a tool to aid in my collection of ideas, but a task master, demanding ideas to feed it. This has never been a good place for my brain to be.
How do I escape this panic? I have to listen to my own advice. The muse is not inspirational of itself. Inspiration comes from being the muse. I write something in the notebook every day, even if I end up scribbling it out the following day. That way, inspiration will come, if only intermittently. When I have one good idea, it sets me up for the next good idea. If I can connect enough good ideas together, then I have a story.

Where art thou, Muse

Inspiration is easy.
I'm not kidding. Honestly. I walk around with my little notebook, hearing snippets of songs, snatched segments of conversations, or being dumbstruck by a view or image I encounter. All of these go into the book.
Then all I have to do is write!

Yeah, cause that's easy.
Thats where all of the ideas, inspiration, moments, and observations come unstuck. Transferring the things you've collected onto the page without simply recording something verbatim is hard. How does this astounding sunset become part of the story? How can I transfer the awe I felt as I watched the clouds explode with light into a story about a woman who has just been shot? Why do I never find anything that fits with what I'm trying to write?
Well, I probably do, but I need to put the language into context. I need to get the reigns on it and make it do what I want it to do. I need to be the writer.

An Incredibly Short Story

A long, long time ago, I posted about incredibly short stories. I was about to enter a competition that required a 10 word story in the vein of Hemingway's "Baby Shoes" story. I tried, and I didn't win. This is my story. Please comment below. Let me know what you think.

I love that you're into me, but I'm a bot.

In Praise of Katniss Everdeen

It was without doubt that The Hunger Games trilogy is full of many of the tropes that pervade YA fiction. Present and correct is the tyrany of the elders. Those in power have redesigned society for their own protection. Having been subject to a revolution, which they resisted at great cost (District 13). Once the revolution was suppressed, the ruling classes put in place a punishment to remind the Districts who was in charge, taking two children from each of 12 Districts, one male, one female, and putting them in an arena in a fight to the death.
President Snow is an unforgiving, totemic villain. He was, presumably, a child when the revolution happened, if he was even alive when it happened. Although his title is President, was he elected? He certainly seems to behave like a dictator.

Brevity is the soul of Wit

I'm trying to enter competitions. It is a challenge I'm setting myself that if I want to be successful as a writer I need to write. Many competitions out there aren't really competitions, but serve other useful purposes.
For example, competitions that offer a critique of your work if you pay a larger entrance fee are not really competitions. Although there is a prize, and at least having a chance to recoup the loss is probably worth the risk, these competitions are almost certainly a way for writing consultants and agents to drum up business.
So, what do I do instead?

Unbelievable

[Spoilers for Catcher in the Rye, Life of Pi and Atonement. Potential spoilers for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, Fight Club]

So, do we then depend on a narrator that we know is untrustworthy for the sake of having secrets? H.P. Lovecraft had narrators in his stories who were as much adrift in the worlds in which they found themselves as we, the readers. They could only report on their own thoughts and the activities they observed around them. They were assumed to be trustworthy until such a time as they were lost in the mystery as it unfolded. We are as weak as they are, thus we empathise, particularly in the face of such spectacular power. Almost inevitably, such narrators become unreliable, even if this isn't obvious from the start.

Ursula K. Le Guin Is Dead

It was inevitable, I know. She was old and had been ill, but it was now, and that was unexpected. I suppose it normally is.

Ursula Le Guin died last evening, or afternoon, or morning, depending on where you are in the world, and for the first time in a long time I’m crying for a stranger.