Writing (General)

It’s annual meeting time for many organizations and the powerpoint presentations are rolled out and droll on with endless clicks, poorly designed slides, and word upon word on a dim field. It’s a virtual flood of information that often stymies questions.

Thankfully Seth Godin has once again made his powerpoint  tips available since “bullets are for the NRA” and each slide should have “no more than six words”: two lessons that are hard for us to learn.

Writing up short, informative powerpoint slides can be a challenge for any writer, especially a long-winded one such as myself. But communicating through images and a few words certainly works today . . . but so few put it into practice.

One of my latest strategies for writing has been to get out of the house as soon as possible. Staying at home may stunt productivity since a host of distractions abound.

While writing at home there is the temptation to throw a load of laundry in, clean up the bathroom, wash a few dishes, and dither around online. All of these can kill momentum and chew away at time that could otherwise be my most productive writing time.

Try this: get up, shower only if you must, and head out to a cafe, library, bookstore, or any other location where you can sit for a few hours with a computer or notebook. Mornings are typically the best time for cafes. Take along an apple or banana or pick up a light breakfast on the way.

Don’t be afraid to buy a drink and/or a snack at your writing location. Having a drink provides something to do while reviewing what you have written. If the cafe gives out codes for the wireless internet, go without. Don’t let anything stand in the way of your writing.

Pick up a project you already have been working on or something new that is exciting. Whatever it is, make sure you begin with something that will prompt immediate writing. Nothing will make you want to write more than writing. If you have some writing that is dull or difficult, don’t do it first. Wait until you’ve accomplished at least a few hundred words and have a reasonable rhythm established.

Don’t forget to take short breaks, walk around a little, do anything to stretch out and keep yourself feeling fresh.

When you go home there is success to build on and you should be in good shape to write some more in the afternoon. On a typical work day, at my day job that is, I find that my hour in the afternoon is some of my most productive time.

“Making peace?” Melinda inquired.
“Nah, war is too much fun”
“Typical male,” she sneered.
“I was actually wondering, what with all of your free time, if you had any plans for our dinner tonight.”
“Typical,” she whispered. “Well it’s Wednesday, so I guess that means chicken. I’ll pick one up at the Shop and Wait.”
Chuck dreamed of the steaming chicken, the light glaze, and the gentle course of his knife into the moist white meat. He loved Wednesdays.
“Of course I’ll pick up some focaccia bread for myself,” Melinda added.
Chuck didn’t hear this as he slipped into his office. Rotisserie chickens hummed in their endless orbits through his mind.
“Are you even listening to me?” Melinda hollered.
“Mmmm Hmmm,” Chuck replied.
“You’re thinking about your chicken, aren’t you? Little rotisserie chickens are just spinning in that head of yours.”
Silence.

Melinda knew all too well about Chuck’s chicken obsession. He at chicken every night throughout his childhood until the subject was broached during a conversation with Melinda in the high school cafeteria. Over a shared plate of fries the two sweethearts compared the idiosyncrasies of their parents, a relevant topic since Melinda ate dinner at Chuck’s family’s house four nights that week due to a family emergency that called her parents out of town.
After Chuck finished disparaging the abstract sea gull paintings belonging to Melinda’s father, she seized a chance to address the odd pattern she noticed in Chuck’s home.
“By the way, what are we having for dinner tonight?”
Chuck smiled. “I think it’s barbequed chicken. Mom got some drumsticks. I love . . .”
“And what did we have on Monday?”
Startled, Chuck replied, “Chicken salad sandwiches I think, but don’t you remember . . .”
“And on Tuesday?” snapped Melinda.
“Chicken parmesan, why is all of this so important to you?”
“Chuck, we’ve had chicken every night. Is that normal?”
“Of course it is. Are you saying you don’t like chicken?”
“No, I’m just . . .”
“Then what’s the interrogation about?” he cut in.
“All I wanted to say is that people have things other than chicken for dinner!”
A wounded look with disturbed, pleading eyes swept over Chuck’s face. With a quaking voice, he asked, “Are you saying we shouldn’t eat chicken for dinner?”
“Open your ears Chuck,” Melinda countered. “You’re just trying to be evasive.”
“Well, are you at least saying you wouldn’t want chicken for dinner?”
“Not every night.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” Melinda sighed. “Why are you staring at me like that? Buck up and close your mouth. There are plenty of things to have dinner like ham, steak, stir fry, or even tofu.”
“You’d rather have tofu than chicken? Isn’t that white, flavorless, bean goo? Ohh.” Chuck trailed off, dropping his head.
“Snap out of it Chuck. It’s just food.”
“Oh, oh, Melinda,” Chuck groaned with head in hands.

Somehow the relationship survived this watershed moment. Fifteen years of counseling, therapy, and a steady stream of beverages consisting primarily vodka brought stability to their marriage.

No one really knew what exactly Melinda did at the small chamber of commerce office. She rarely answered the phone, stored nothing in her filing cabinets, and kept her desk meticulously, if not suspiciously free of paper. In fact, a computer, a few pens, and a slim planner kept a lonely vigil amidst a sea of polished mahogany.

Every visitor to her office noticed the sparkling clean neatness of every single surface. Instead of the mish mash of furniture styles in Chuck’s office, every piece of furniture matched as if she had ordered a complete set from the catalogue. In fact, Melinda often told guests that such a catalogue is exactly her office came to look so magnificent.

Tactfully waiting until Melinda was cheered by the completion of her golden wine, Church sauntered down the hall and leaned against the right side of Melinda’s door frame with his entire left arm pressed along it. His legs angled to the left while his slumped forward. Melinda pondered Chuck’s endless visits to the chiropractor.

“Making peace?” Melinda inquired.

The phone began to ring for the eleventh time but a golden glass of chardonnay demanded complete control of her mouth. Swiping her straight black hair away from slim shoulders, Melinda sipped at her 4:00 pm tension tamer. Settling back in her chair she crossed her legs and admired the gleaming high heels that peeked out below her flowing black pants.

“You could at least answer the phone for one in ten calls you know,” came booming from the next office over.

Chuck did not understand the difference between office hours and working hours. Office hours, 9-5, meant a physical presence in the office. Working hours, 9-4, denoted the actual time spent working. Therefore, 4:23 pm should tell him that while glad to be at her desk, Melinda had no need to do actual work. She reasoned that including Chuck was the best way to deal with him in these moods.

“You’ve got to try this Chardonnay Chuck. It’s the best I’ve had in weeks.”

“Well I suppose I can justify keeping you on the payroll if you pour me an occasional glass of wine.”

“Oh stuff it. Here, try this.”

Melinda passed a fragile glass of wine and waited for Chuck to agree with her.

After sipping he replied, “Of course you’re right. It’s splendid. Did they teach you how to pick out wine for your boss at secretary school?”

As the word “secretary” departed his lips, he began slipping down the hall with his trophy. Melinda detested any connection between herself and women in such a station. A hostile cork flew in silent protest, but only dropped to the floor.

If Chuck couldn’t fire Melinda, there was more to his reasoning than her excellent choice in wine. First of all, Melinda did not occupy a formal position at the Chiselville Chamber of Commerce. She merely occupied an office and received a modest stipend each week.

The second reason for Melinda’s job security tied directly into the stability of her marriage: Chuck and Melinda have been married since 1972.

“I’m all done with the sign Tom.”

“Thanks Clint. How’d it turn out?”

“Well, I really didn’t have a whole lot of space to work with. OK I guess.”

“Sure, but did you at least fit all of the letters in?”

“Oh, I got it all in, but I had to paint the last works about a quarter of the size of the originals.”

“Do you think drivers will at least be able to read ‘Antiques’ when they drive by,” inquired Tom.

“I suppose,” murmured Clint with a scratch of his head and a gratuitous dig of yellow wax from his wobbling ear. “But Tom, the original design worked so much better. I could cover up the antique part if you like. The coffee mug on the top is brilliant. It’s my best work since I painted Ginny Smith’s Victorian.”

Tom smiled. Everyone in town knew that Clint is a repressed artist doomed to painting houses. This was his big chance to display his skills to the entire town.

“And the words ‘Cafe, Gallery, and News’ were enough,” Clint continued. “What are you thinking of doing with antiques anyway?”

“Look Clint, you’ve got a point, but you have to understand I have a chance to really synergize the generation of some revenue streams through my antique wing.” Tom knew that didn’t sound quite like the small business book he once read in a Border’s rest room, but he figured Clint wouldn’t take him on toe to toe if he tossed in some jargon.

“Hell Tom, it’s a corner of left over junk from your Aunt Emmie’s estate sale. And all I’m saying is you ruined a perfectly good sign because of it. Do you expect anyone to take your seriously with a sign saying, ‘Cafe, Gallery, and News, and Antiques?”

Silence crept over the two men. Tom realized there was no end to this conversation, and Clint must have as well. It could go on forever. They both were sticking with their views and a long conversation is the last thing such men desire.

“Well, I’d best be going,” said Clint.

“Got any more signs to work on?” offered Tom.

“Nah, I’ve just got an estimate at the Red Spruce Inn. They’re finally trashing that hideous Victorian wall paper.”

“Oh, excellent,” replied Tom. “Good luck with it.”

Clint stooped over slightly as his over-sized hiking boots clumped out the door. Tom watched him drive off in his rusty blue Ford pick-up truck. An all-knowing, devious smile passed over Tom’s face as if he had just stolen Clint’s wallet and charged his first organic coffee shipment on the painter’s Visa card that does not give bonus airline miles.

“Clint knows nothing. This antique corner is just the beginning,” Tom declared as if Clint was suddenly back in the room and curiously more agreeable. “People have to do something while they drink coffee. And that something is going to be shopping for antiques.”

I had a false start this week. I began writing a series of posts that were aiming to become a mini-novel on this blog. Yet, after mulling things over for a few days, I decided to create a slightly different story that I think will fit my purposes perfectly. Same plan, different material.

I’m calling it Chiselville for now, though the final product will probably be something like: How Melinda Saved the Chiselville Cafe. Our protagonist is a man named Tom who opens an ill-conceived cafe in a town that couldn’t care less about it. Tom’s dull wits lead to a series of circumstances that turn the entire town against the cafe. Only Melinda, the energetic wife of the president of the chamber of commerce can save Tom and his tiny cafe.

We’ll see how things shape up. I’m not sure how well blogs are suited for stories like this. For now I’ll publish it under the Chiselville category and also date the title of each entry from here on.

I hope you enjoy reading it at least half as much as I enjoy writing it.

It wasn’t the first time Tom intoxicated himself. Yet, he had never induced himself into such an alcoholic stupor at a wake.

He was sure no one minded all that much. He regarded Aunt Emmie in the same way as Christmas lights: he only put up with them once a year and wouldn’t come near either for the remaining 364 days. Besides it was not every day that he hit an open bar. Stevie really pulled out all of the stops for his dear mother. She would have wanted it this way.

Tom’s wife still wasn’t on speaking terms with him when the second surprise hit the small community of Chiselville at Aunt Emmie’s estate sale.

“You see Tom,” cried Steve waving a tattered wooden frame in one hand, “You see this, I told Mary she was marking everything too high. Now we’re stuck with all of this junk.”

“Mary always was the optimist out of the three of us. How much did we make?”

“I made six dollars. But who cares? I just want to get rid of this stuff so we can sell the house. We can’t show it with all of this rotting furniture littering the place.”

Tom’s head snapped backwards with the impact of a life-altering idea.

“Are you alright?” inquired Steve. “Don’t throw a fit on me. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, no,” cut in Tom. “I’m, I’m fine. Really just fine.”

Steve threw a suspicious stare at his brother. “Tom, I don’t like the look on your face. You had that same look before you made Marge an engagement ring out of bottle caps.”
“Hey, it all worked out because I wouldn’t have met Jenny if she didn’t toss the ring into the river and leave town. But anyway, listen, I can take care of Aunt Emmie’s stuff.”

“Are you sure? I thought you hate old furniture.”

“I’m not dragging it home or anything. I have just the place for it all. Just leave it to me bro!” Tom enthusiastically jabbed Steve before prancing out the door.

“Wait!” yelled Steve. “Why are you so chummy all of a sudden, and where are you going?”

“Just leave it to me Steve. I’ll have this place cleaned out in a few hours.”

While I will still use this site for my Bethany Network project and some Open Source news, I have decided to focus this blog on my writing. All Vermont non-profit info will be transferred to another blog: vermontblog.wordpress.com.

One of the projects that I really want to invest in at this site is a short story or mini-novel. I have already written out quite a bit in my moleskine journal, but wanted to write more regularly.

Over the following months I’ll be posting new segments of the story at this site. With the posting format on blogs being shorter than chapters, it should make for a unique feel to the story. Stay tuned for more!