Merciless Unto Your Craft

All---

One of the things that I think marks a professional writer is the ability to be merciless to himself and to his writing when necessary.  I'm not saying professionalism requires selling out, debasing your artistic integrity, or  treating your talents with disrespect.  I am saying that there are times you look at a project, even one you're 25K words into, that part of you loves very much, and realize that you can invest three years into making that one project work out, or you can nuke it and take on something else.

It's okay to be a pure artist, and to say, "No, I cherish this project," and I will work with it as long as it takes to make it right."

I think writers on the more professional end of the spectrum have to be willing to make those calls.

So that's what I'm doing for right now.  Book #2 is being nuked.  Actually, I'm parking it for another day.  There's a lot of potential in it, and there are things I love about it, but while Book #1 is on query right now, I need to focus my energy n having an effective follow-up offering in a timely way.  That's not going to happen with Book #2.

So now onto a new Book #2, which will be a stretching experience that will require plenty of its own merciless attention.

.Nevets.

New Short Story: Black Keys, Red Letters

"Black Keys, Red Letters"
flash fiction by C. N. Nevets

                It’s all about the black keys.  Guitar players like sharps.  Piano players like flats.  Me, I play piano, but I don’t care if they’re sharps or flats.  It’s just all about the black keys.  Small, dark, dynamic, immersed in a suffocating field of sameness.  They sing to my soul. They resonate with my soul.  They call to and command my soul.  If Jesus speaks in the red letters, I’m not sure speaks in the black keys, but I listen to them very closely.

                After the bar closes and the piano man goes home, and I’m done mopping the floors, I sit at the piano, and I listen.

                It’s pretty dark in the bar after closing, just the safety lights on.  Even in low light, the black keys stand out.  The more alone I am, the louder their voice.

                I never drink, but my spirit becomes intoxicated.

                Sometimes, as I play the piano and listen to the back keys, I see people.  People like my ex-girlfriends, or girls from school who never talked to me, or my cousins who used to tease me about wearing glasses, or my mom, how she looked when I’d been bad.  In the dark bar, they look pretty bright and clear.

                Too bright and clear.

                And sometimes the black keys start yelling at me then.

                And it doesn’t matter what I play, I can’t stop listening to them.

                When they yell at me, they lie.  They tell me how my ex-girlfriends still love me.  They tell me how the girls who never talked to me were just shy because they thought I was so cool.  They tell me that my cousins teased me because we were family and that’s what family does.  They tell me that my mom loved me and was just looking out for me.

                Yelling.

                Lies.

                As long as I can hear the black keys, I can’t help listening to them.

                So I have to drown them out.

                So I grab a box-cutter and write the words, “Shut up!” on my arm or my thigh or my belly.

                Jesus speaks in the red letters. 

New Short Story: The Weight of Himself

"The Weight of Himself"

Flash Fiction by C. N. Nevets

The weight.  The weight of the world.  The weight of his sorrows.  The weight of his soul.  The weight of himself.  The weight of the world, he could handle.  The weight of himself was both a crushing and an implosive force that was too much to bear.

A full head of long, permed hair to make up for the grey at his temples.  A pair of gold-rimmed, brown-to-amber aviators to hide the blood-shot in his eyes.  A leather jacket to hide the tears in his Motley Crue t-shirt and a pair of second-hand platforms to compensate for the slump in his posture. 

He was a damn show.  That’s all he was anymore.  A parody of himself, put on for the amusement of others and to distract himself from how desperately painful it was to take himself even a little seriously.

He hadn’t looked in a mirror for God-only-knows-how-long.

He hadn’t written song lyric from the heart for not-even-God-probably-knows-how-long.

The moment a reflective thought crept onto the periphery of his mind, he swatted it away with vigor drawn from desperate self-preservation.  Tapping a drum beat on the counter – clicking a bass-line with hums and tongue-clucks – reciting Queensryche in full, Shakespearean flourish – it didn’t matter what. 

The show had to go on. 

Or the curtain had to come down.

In flames.

Against the embankment.

Engulfing him, his car, his guitar.

And the weight of himself.

New Flash Fiction: Day 7

"Day 7

New Flash Fiction, (c) 2013 by C. N. Nevets

On the first day, I walked into a room full of life and raw animal emotion, and amidst it a person.

On the second day, my spirit soared and then plunged back into its own watery depths.

On the third day, I climbed a ladder of stars to kiss the face of the moon.

On the fourth day, I sunk back to the earth.

On the fifth day, heaven descended upon me.

On the sixth day, I watched the light sink into darkness and obliterate itself into undistinguished chaos.

On the seventh day, I wept.

New Flash Fiction: From the Light

"From the Light"

New Flash Fiction, (c) 2013 by C. N. Nevets

At one time there was nothing but darkness.  It was so thick you could feel it as you moved through it.  It was cold; it was clammy; it was suffocating.  Navigation by guesswork was the only option.  It was no hardship, because it was the only way anyone had ever lived.

Then there was light.

With light came vision, warmth, and navigation by sight.  The light was pale, and though it brought shadows, it also brought clarity and details.  The world was richer and warmer.  Suddenly there were things and there were air, and we were no longer suffocated.

Then there was bright light.

A small light.  A glow that could not be looked at directly.  The light that had filled our world with richness suddenly seemed poor and dim.  Where there had been details there was only shadow, except where it was touched by the new, bright light.

You cannot walk past the light.  When you come near it, it compels you.  It not only draws your attention but motivates your action.  You walk toward it.  You stand.  You bask.  You reach out toward it, as if to caress it or at least to touch it and know it as real.  But your hand burns in the outermost periphery of light, and if if you bask too long, you will be consumed.  Warmth will flash, and flesh will be cinders.

And so I place a glass jar over the orb.  To contain it.  But it still compels, and the glass burns just as hotly as the light itself.

And so I place a boundary at a distance, a line that cannot be crossed.  To keep us from approaching to near.  But it still compels, and a boundary requires compliance.

And so I paint the jar black.  Opaque.  To hide the light.  But we have seen the light, and to see the jar is just  as compelling as seeing the light itself, knowing what the jar contains.

And so I find the first light, the pale but warm light that first brought details and shadows out of the blackness, the light which allows us to see the boundary I have laid out on the floor and the jar which I have painted black and which contains the most compelling force that we have ever known.

And I take a hammer in my right hand.

And I raise my right hand.

And I swing my right arm.

And I shatter the light.

Returning us into darkness.

And saving us from the light.

Saving me from the light.

For in the darkness, I remember that I am all alone.

Flash Fiction: Under Glass

"Under Glass"

flash fiction, (c) 2013 by C. N. Nevets

The creaking of the floor board under my feet provide my only guidance. There is no light by which to see.  There is only the smell of cedar sawdust, book mold, and well-aged dust, blanketing me, the gentle whistle of air above me, and the sound of my walking below.  As long long as it creaks, I know I'm on the floor.  The creaks are loudest in the center of the room.  They became quieter, tighter, as I draw close the large furniture that the darkness conceals.

I hold my hand up in front of my face, just to the side of my vision, cupped slightly, reinforcing the darkness.

On one shelf, there is a light.  A flame.  An ember, really.  Inside a glass jar.    When I stop walking, and there is no more creaking, I can hear the glass crackling.  It can't take much before.  As soon as it cracks, the ember will spark.  It will spread.  The room will be filled with light.

Enough light that I will be able to clearly see my flesh consumed gradually in fire.

I cannot contemplate it.  I cannot bear the thought of it.  The specter of it makes my heart creak.

There's a light switch on the other side of the room.  If I can make it there, if I can only switch on the light, then I can face the ember in the jar.   Then I can see it.  I can face it.  I can mange it.

But until then.


I hold my hand up in front of my face, just to the side of my vision, cupped slightly, reinforcing the darkness.

Short Story - "I was Born to Fly" (Flash Fiction)

"I was Born to Fly"

A new short story, flash fiction (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

I know I can fly.  More than that.  I know, deep within my bones, as sure as I know anything, that I was meant to fly.  When I look out over the cliff at the stretching forth of sea and clouds, I feel my blood soaring.  It is who I am.  I am a man who should be flying.

And.  Yet.

The gods saw fit to birth me onto this earthly plane with no wings.  To leap from this this cliff, to lay claim to my birthright, would surely be the death of me.  I am not suicidal.

And.  So.

I look out at the stretching forth of sea and clouds.

And.  Weep.

Deep within my bones.

I feel my blood sobbing.

New Short Story - "Air Filter"

"Air Filter"

new flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

I could hardly breathe, the air was so thick with rot.  I could hardly hear my own voice as I sang, the air was so blanketed by tinks and clatters.  I could hardly see, the air was so interlaced by a web of smoke.  I could hardly think.

Then door opened.

A breeze drifted in.

The sun light dripped in.

A touch of rain drizzled in.

Then the smoke cleared.  The clamor quieted.  The air became gradually fresher.

But I can’t remember how to think.

Tea Time with Serial Killers

All---

The long wait is over!

At least partly.

It's not a proper podcast yet, but here is the first episode...

Tea Time with Serial Killers

Your chance to hear my voice, get another side of my personality, hear what's new in the world of serial killers, and listen to me read a piece of flash fiction previously published on this blog, "Forensic Anthropology: A Chicken Nugget Story."

The RSS feed is technically available for the audio if you're already subscribed to this blog, but I need to refine that a bit and get the feed to iTunes.  Nevertheless, this is a start.

I hope you enjoy listening as much as I enjoyed recording it.

Man, I miss radio sometimes!  Felt good to act like I was back in the booth for a little while.

.Nevets.

Sublimation: Fin

All---

Last night, I finished Sublimation.  It's hard to describe what that feels like.  I think my emotions are appropriately surreal.  Another author I directed me to this quote by Truman Capote:

Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the backyard and shot it.


The same author described this as a bit of typical melodrama.

Given my own penchant for writing larger than life, it's probably not out of place to feel a bit melodramatic about completing the book.  I would hesitate to describe it as shooting a child, but I also sort of understand.

I have finished books in the past, but this is the first book I have finished with the intent to publish and a belief that it is a good book.  I'm excited about that.  I'm proud of it.  I feel a sense of satisfaction.

At the same time, as I prepare to send off a query, I'm understandably nervous.  At this point in my writing career I've gotten to a point where I can send off stories for consideration without more than a few butterflies and typically with only a little disappointment if they don't immediately find a home.  A book is an entirely different animal (as it were) and I really have no idea how my emotions are going to endure the roller coaster which likely awaits me.

I also know, being fairly pragmatic about my writing, that the form in which Sublimation exists now is not its final form.  It's a good book.  It's in good shape.  Agents, editors, and publishers will nevertheless recommend changes.  Some of those changes will be for quality, others for practical reasons, and others for marketing reasons.  Right now, the book is my work.  Before we're done, it will be much more of a team product.

On top of all that, I've spent a whole lot of life energy on this book.  And now it's done.  There will be a lot of work -- a lot of work -- but it's already time for my emotional investment to move on.  As soon as I send out my query on Sublimation, it's time to shift the energy of my writing life into Ennui and Malaise, my next thriller, which currently sits at about 40,000 words.

So, yeah, I guess in a way I understand what Capote meant.

What is Sublimation?

I'm so glad you asked!

Sublimation is a dark thriller about surreal evil, good gone too good, and a man whose twisted past just might end the world -- or save it.

Sublimation is a novel of psychological suspense, in which one man's twisted past puts more than himself at risk and one woman tries to figure out if she's too good for her own good, or her family's.

Sublimation is about what happens when a group of men start gambling for the right to set off bombs, and the only people who can stop them are their own figure head and a federal investigator who can't see past the rules.

Sublimation is the story of a man and a woman, each of whom finds past and future twisted together to keep the present shadowed in a darkness that is shadowed by innocent lives lost.

You can read a little more about Sublimation by visiting my official website.

.Nevets.

Swim for It

"Swim for It"

new flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

Like a firefly trapped in a jar full of petroleum jelly that's melted in the sun.

Like a snake that finds his head buried in the mud at the bottom of a still stream, unable to see the line between water and muck.

Like a bird flying through the fog as the air chills and the fog condenses into a mass of droplets that hang like a lake in the air.

Like an old man hose eyes are smeared with the thick oil of lubricating eye drops and whose windpipe is full of the chilly wetness of forced oxygen.

Like a child, trapped in the deepest ocean, smothered by his own asthma, grasping for breath, thrashing about for buoyancy, bobbing for air.

All there is, is to swim for it.

All of Me

"All of Me"

new flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

I shudder with the purest relief I have ever felt, as if the warm blood that is washing over my hands is both a soak for my body and a baptism for my soul.  The smell is horrific, and I have to breathe through my mouth.  I close my eyes.  The sight is just as horrific as the smell.

But the relief . . .

That is real, and that is pure, and that is everything.

Months.  Months of build-up.  Months of taut consideration.  Months of stressing the details and fretting over the plans and projections.  Months of weighing the pros and the cons.  Months of knowing what I had to do, but knowing how much I did not want to do it.

Still.

It’s over.

And now there is relief.

Slowly, I open my eyes, but I do not allow them to drift toward the floor.   They rest on the wall.  They rest on a picture of my wife and me in our dune buggy, the dune buggy I had sold when it became clear that it was a distraction from work.  My gaze slides a little to the right, where it finds a picture of my parents and my brothers and sisters, whom I have not been able to see for about three years; the vacation time just wasn’t there. 

I take a deep breathe.

My eyes turn downward a little.  I can see a little table with a picture of my son in a batting helmet.  I was going to be his coach.  That had always been the plan.  I had never been able to see him play a single game. 

I pivot on my heels.  I can see a pile of books on another table.  The spines of the books are flecked in blood.   I can picture them perfectly, even so.  I know the spines of those books well.  They were my future.  Once the time was right, I was going to ease out of my job and start a business building and repairing sailboats.  I had been studying the craft all my life. I had the tools.  I had a skeleton of a boat that I had started in college.  I had the books.  They were now flecked in blood.  The time wasn’t right.

The phone rang.

I ignored it.

I dropped to my knee.

I looked at what I had done.  What I had not wanted to do.  What I had to do.  Months of build-up.  And now relief.

The phone was still ringing.

Sacrifice.  I don’t take it lightly.  I’m the guy who doesn’t take anything lightly.  I’m the guy who actually cares.  The guy who actually tries.  The guy who puts his personal life last.  The guy who –

The answering machine picks up.

“Ryan, we had a leadership meeting and we’ve decided to go in another direction.  It’s nothing personal.  We know how much work you put in, and you’ve done a good job for us.  The organization just needs to make serious changes, and unfortunately, there’s not really going to be a spot for you anymore.  Take your two weeks.”

– I drop the knife from my right hand.  I sink to the floor.

The blood is drying on my hands, sticky and suffocating. 

Don't Laugh

"Don't Laugh"

Flash Fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets


They told me it was the laughing.  That's what got me thrown in here.  That's what made me a lunatic.

It wasn't that I threw a box of staples at my teacher's head.  It was that when she went down the floor and the box fell to the table, I burst out laughing.

It wasn't that I kneed my principal where it counts over and over again until he couldn't breathe and his eyes watered.  It was that I capped it off with an open-mouth laugh.

It wasn't that I beat a kid's head against the bathtub until he fell unconscious under the water.  It was that I snickered and giggled when the bubbles stopped surfacing.

It wasn't that I punched another kid in the nose so many times that his nose splintered into his brain.  It was that I laughed until my face was red.

So I learned my lesson.

If I don't laugh after I'm done beating the crap out of this guy, can I leave?

Accountability

"Accountability"

flash fiction, (c) 2012 by C. N. Nevets

You work for fifteen years and it’s all routine.  Then you get the kind of phone call that makes your stomach sink as soon as the phone rings.  You let it go voicemail.   Then you hear your admin assistant’s phone ring.  Your stomach sinks even lower.  You hear her answer.  You hear her say, “Oh, oh my gosh, okay, yes, of course.”  Your stomach is in your toes.

Your phone rings again.  It’s a transfer.  When you pick it up, you hold your breath.  The woman give you the typical pleasantries. Her voice is devoid of emotion or sentiment.  You work in government; you’re used to that.  This woman, though, it sounds like she’s trying to push through with uncommon haste to get to the point.  The point is a time and a room number.   A congressional office. 

“You’ll be meeting with the congressman personally,” she says.

You’ve met congressmen before.  You’ve never met with them, however.  That one little preposition seems to change everything.  The trail your stomach left on its slide down your gut tract has turned to ice.  You your inner lip.  You’re sure if you don’t your teeth would chatter.

Government work is all about routine.  It’s all about dotting I’s and crossing T’s and pushing papers.  It’s all about hurry up and wait.  It’s all about endless meetings and committees which nail things in Jell-O.  It’s not about calls out of the blue to congressional offices to meet personally with congressmen.

Out of the blue.  This call was out the violet.

It has to a coincidence.  It has to be.  But out of all the congressmen in this congressman-infested town, what are the odds that you get a sudden summons to meet with the one you’re quietly preparing to investigate for 800,000 missing dollars.

There’s no preamble to the meeting.  There’s no small talk, no typical pleasantries, no Robert’s rules of order.  There’s an angry-looking congressman with a banker’s box on his desk.  “We need talk,” he says.

Your heart might be racing.  You can’t feel it beating, so it’s hard to tell.  You wish you had a sweater.

You manage to nod.

The congressman says, “In forty-five seconds, I’m going to bring my aids in here and you and I are going to talk about $800,000.”

No coincidence at all.  Not out of the violet, the blue, or any other color.  Out of self-defense.

The congressman goes on to say, “You and I are going to talk about $800,000 that must be accounted for.”

An explanation?  An excuse?  Something to preempt your investigation?

The congressman continues, “We’re going to talk about $800,000 that the American people will need an explanation for.”

That’s politics talking, but you’re not surprised.  Fifteen years working here, you’re used to that.  Politics is the pulse of this city.

The congressman concludes, “We’re going to talk about the $800,000 conference extravagance in Las Vegas you authorized for your people.”

Now you feel your heart.  It’s pounding against your rib cage.  Your pupils dilate.  Your mouth is dry.  “What conference?”

The congressman simply smiles.  “Fifteen seconds.”

“There was no conference.  What conference are you talking about?”

The congressman taps the banker’s box.  “Receipts don’t lie, son.  Receipts don’t lie.”  Without cue, the door to the office opens, and a handful of aides enter the room.  “Time’s up.”

Cops and Robbers

"Cops and Robbers"

Original Flash Fiction by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2012

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.”  Tommy slurped at his coffee mug and looked out at the attentive, interested faces of nineteen year-olds clustered around the college coffee shop, staring at him at the table where he sat.  Officer Thomas “Tommy” “T. J.” Jansen, a.k.a., “the Hook,” was nobody special, but he was still the one addressing this class of mostly criminal justice majors.  Check that.  Officer Jansen was nobody special, and so he was the one who couldn’t say no to the request for someone from the department to come down and address this class of mostly criminal justice majors.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” Tommy repeated, following it up with another slurp.  The Hook was 37 years old.  He looked like he was 47.  He felt like he was 57½.  He’d been married for 15 years.  He’d been divorced for 6.  Another 9 to go before he’d be caught up with his own bad luck.  She’d married a cop.  She’d wanted a police man.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” Tommy said again.  The words were echoed by another slurp.  It was a coffee mug.  It wasn’t coffee he was slurping.  He wasn’t sure what it was.  Probably whiskey.  Maybe bourbon.  He hadn’t looked at the label.  He wasn’t really tasting it.

                Tommy “T. J.” Jansen saw the restless, awkward looks shared by the college students.  He saw a similar expression on the face of their professor.  Dr. Somebody Something, Ph. Something.  He realized they wanted him to say more.  In Tommy’s estimation, there really wasn’t more to say.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers,” he said again.  He did not slurp this time.  “That’s what I thought.  That’s what I want on my tombstone.  That’s why I became a cop.”  He was staring into his mug.  Bourbon, almost definitely.  “A cop.  Cops and robbers.”   He snickered at himself.  “Cops and robbers.”  This time, he slurped.

                Tommy looked up.  He made eye contact with a guy in the back.  He was tall, tan, athletic.  He probably wanted to go into the FBI and be an “agent.”  Then he made eye contact with a girl in the front.  She was sweet-faced and bright.  She probably wanted to wear a suit and be an “investigator.”   They would both be cops, or they would be nothing.

                “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.”  He took a gulp.  Tommy felt himself finally finding a groove. He latched onto it, even though he couldn’t see the twists and turns of the dark corridor he was sliding down.  “Maybe for some people that’s some kind of moral issue.  Good versus evil or something.  Maybe for some people it’s about teams.  It’s us versus them.  Maybe, I don’t know, maybe for some people it’s about service to the community or some crap like that.  The people who care about the community against the people who don’t.  For me it wasn’t that complicated.”  Slurp.  “I never went to college like you assholes.”  Definitely bourbon.  “For me, cops and robbers was about doing.  It was about seeing and responding.  I’m a cop.  A see a robber.  I respond.  I act.  I do some damn thing rather than philosophize or religiousize about it.”

                Tommy “the Hook” finished off what was in his mug.  It might have been scotch.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers, but it wasn’t.  It isn’t.  It’s not about to be.”  He looked at the guy in the back.  He looked at the girl in the front.  He looked at Dr. Somebody Something.  He had their attention.  Maybe their pity.  Probably not their confidence.  But he had their attention.   He glanced at his watch.  Yep.  Twenty years in.  Probably didn’t matter what he said at this point.

                “Its cops trying to figure out what the hell they’re supposed to do, every damn time they see something.”  Tommy’s right hand rested on his sidearm.  “There’s a lot of nonsense out there.  Just nonsense, you know?  People doing horrible things to other people for stupid ass reasons.  We make laws against that kind of shit, right?  We hire cops to make sure people follow those laws, right?”

                Under the table, Tommy caressed the butt of his weapon.  Its bulk was smooth.  He could feel the power inside the masculine grace with which it was formed.  He sniffed.  “So you got these guys beating the crap out of their wives.  The law says the women have one basic choice.  If they can get the hell out of there, that’s what they have to do.  When you can flee, you flee.   If they don’t flee.  If they fight back and defend themselves, they better damn well be able to prove they were in immediate peril  and had no option to flee.  The burden of proof is on them.  On these women with the shit beat out of them.  These women who did nothing more wrong than getting trapped by an asshole with a fist, or a belt, or golf club that he can’t stop swinging.”

                Tommy Jansen looked out at the students.  He definitely had their interest now.  They weren’t comfortable, but they were interested.  He glanced at his watch.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers, right?  So who’s the robber?  The wife who shoots the guy who’s beating the shit of her, or the guy who makes her wipe her own bloody face before he’ll let her go out in public?”  Tommy looked at the professor.  She was interested, too.  “Morals say one thing.  The law says another.”

                To hell with it.  Tommy  reached between the third and fourth button on his uniform shirt.  He slid his hand inside and slipped out a silver flask.  He unscrewed the top.  He poured some into his mug.  He smiled.  “So we change the law,” he said.  “We make it more moral.  We say, okay, this is shit.  That woman had a right to feel threatened even if she didn’t know for sure he was about to kill her.  That woman had a right to stand up for herself.  We can’t demand that she gives in and runs away and hides or else stands there and lets herself be a punching bag.  She can defend herself.  Feeling threatened, we say, is as much a justification as being threatened – and we should never demand people run away.”

                The students were nodding.  The guy in back had his jaw set with a smug, John Wayne sort of satisfaction in the power of the American male to make wrongs right.  The girl in front was positively beaming with something close to a romantic attraction to the ideal of ordinary people changing the world for the better.   They didn’t know anything.  It’s not cops and robbers.  It’s cops, trying to figure out what the crap to do. 

                “So the burden of proof’s not on the woman anymore.”  Tommy felt his own jaw set.  It wasn’t smugness.  “She says she felt threatened, the only way she gets in trouble is if the cops prove she had no reasonable right to feel threatened.  The burden of proof is on them now.”  Tommy felt the tension in his jaw.  There was power there.  Maybe once there had been masculine grace.  Now there was just stubble and power.  “And it don’t matter if the guy had a gun or a weapon or anything else.  If she felt – felt, I tell you – threatened, we can’t say, ‘you could have just walked away.’  All those women with the shit beat out of them, they can now stand up for themselves.”

                One student clapped.  Tommy couldn’t bring himself to look around and see who it was.  He felt the vibe from the group.  He could tell that some of them were uncomfortable.  He could tell that they all thought it was good, even if they were maybe uncomfortable with how a woman could potentially abuse that privilege.  They didn’t know anything. 

                Slurp.  “Only, when you write a law you can’t write a law that says, ‘women who get beat up can stand up for themselves.’  That’s too specific.  It leaves out abused men.  It leaves out psychological torture.  Whatever.  So you say, ‘people who feel threatened can stand up for themselves and don’t need to run away.’”  Slurp.   “Cool beans, right?”

                There were nods out there.  He didn’t look for them, but he knew they were there.  Tommy’s hand was back on his side arm.  His jaw was practically locked, even as he talked.  “Only now I got some white guy who shoots a black kid and says he felt threatened.”  Gulp.  “I got some white guy who gets scared when he walks around his neighborhood and he sees black kids wandering outside their own neighborhood and into his.  Maybe his dad’s store was robbed by some black kids.  Maybe his mom was harassed by a black guy.  Maybe he got beat up once by a couple of black dudes.  Maybe he just listens to too much rap music and watches too much shit TV and thinks all black teenagers are gangsters.  Point is, he feels threatened.”  Slurp.  Slurp.  “People who feel threatened can stand up for themselves and don’t need to run away.”

                Now the college kids were confused.  They looked to their professor, but she wasn’t  offering them much help.  None of them really wanted to look at Tommy anymore.  His fingers wrapped around the butt of his weapon.  “It was supposed to be cops and robbers.  Instead, it’s cops trying to figure out the hell to do.   I’ve got a white guy who shot an unarmed black teenager, saying he felt threatened.  I’ve got a family who lost their boy, saying there’s no way he was a threat.  I’ve got civil justice people saying there’s no way it was self defense.  I’ve got black people saying I’d make an arrest if the kid were white.  I’ve got black people saying I wouldn’t bother with an arrest if the kid was white and the shooter was black.  I’ve got white people saying that the case is only still open because we’re being pushed around by black activists.  I’ve got neighborhood watch people saying that if the cops protected people then people wouldn’t have to make these tough calls.  I’ve got a kid who was doing nobody no harm and is dead.  I’ve got a guy who shot him, saying he felt threatened.  And it’s up to me to prove he didn’t feel threatened, because I can’t say, ‘you could have just walked away, asshole.’”

                Slurp.  Gulp.  “I’ve got women’s rights people saying that this distorts their law.  I’ve got women’s rights people saying that anything we do mitigate the law for this guy waters it down too much.  I’ve got people on the internet who think the cops aren’t doing their jobs.  I’ve got cops busting their asses, looking for evidence that isn’t there, to try and make an arrest that will stand up in court so we don’t lose any chance we have at getting justice.”

                Officer Thomas Jansen downed the last of whatever he’d poured from his flask and stood, his right hand still on his sidearm.  “So that’s what I want on my tombstone.  ‘It was supposed to be cops and robbers.’”

                Tommy, “the Hook,” walked out of the college coffee shop and slid into the driver’s seat of his city car.  He cupped a hand around mouth and blew.  He could smell the drink on his breath.  It was brandy.  He blew again.  The last thing he needed was another DUI in uniform.  He unhooked  the strap that held his sidearm in place.

                He glanced at his watch.

                Yep.

                He’d said his piece.

                He closed his eyes, and he hoped that they remembered what he wanted written on his tombstone.

Sublimation - It's Nearly a Book!

All---

Just quick post to let everyone know that Sublimation, the psychological suspense novel I've been working on for far too long, has reached the next milestone.  I've completed my writing and main revising, and have sent the 99K manuscript to a couple of key readers and my personal editor.  When I get all that feedback in, it's one last round of revisions, and then (assuming the revisions aren't too major), it will finally be time to begin querying.

In brief, Sublimation is a psychological thriller about good and evil, order and chaos, a woman who loves the rules and man who loves finding ways around them.  There's plenty of action and suspense as the surreal narrative winds through the personal history of two people: a business man who bluffs his way through every situation and an agent who who clings to the order provided by the law.  Beginning with a high stakes poker game that turns into a bombing, Alec Smith quickly finds out that he can't bluff his way through the blood on his hands.  Grey Kinjou stakes her reputation, her job, and her family on stopping Smith.  And in the corner, in the darkness, one man cackles and fiddles with the pearl choker around his neck, hoping for their mutual destruction.

You can read more about Sublimation, including an excerpt on my new Books tab.

In the mean time, I'm shelving the MS until I start getting back solid feedback, even though there are still formatting issues to take care of and other little details I want to wrap up.  I'll be using this time to tidy up and submit some of the huge stack of short stories that are sitting here, just about complete.

Maybe soon you'll hear news about a new Nevets story of psychological self-destruction -- of twisted action on an inherited houseboat -- or about a forensic anthropologist in the old west.

Stay tuned!

.Nevets.

Old Folks Playing Ping Pong but not on Horses

as dared by Frances Garrood

"Between the Stars"


by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011


Everyone knew Effie. Effie was the one who went into the common yard every morning, sitting with her back to the sunrise. Effie was the one who was full after eating half a dozen of the tapioca seeds from her pudding. Effie was the one who lamed her tooth loss on soft bristles, her hair loss on hard bristles, and her loneliness on a bristly daughter-in-law. Effie was also the one who was convinced that if she put butter on her peas, her belly would swell until it burst.


A man’s face in the clouds had told her so.


“You gonna play ping pong tonight, Effie?” Vince liked Effie despite all that. There was a prettiness about her eyes that shone when she was being cantankerous, and a vitality in her voice that came out when she talked about Sherlock Holmes or cats.


“Nope.”


“There’s gonna be prizes!”


“Don’t want a ribbon for beating old folks at a game. Don’t want a book that I don’t have someone to read to me. Don’t want a picture frame. Ain’t got a picture.” Effie’s mouth curled up. “Prizes. Hmmph.”


“Come on, Eff, everyone’s playing. It’s a tournament! It’s gonna be a lotta fun! We’ll all be there, laughing and having a good time.”


She looked at Vince sharply and then looked outside a small window, toward the clouds. When she looked back at him, her expression was more vague. “If I play . . .” Her voice trailed off into an extended pause before she finally said, in a serious but quite matter-of-fact tone, “I will die.”


“Die? What?”


Effie looked back out the window. “He told me.”


“Who did?” Vince was puzzled. He was indulgent of Effie’s quirks, but that did not mean he understood them.


Effie shifted around and adjusted herself, as if pulling herself more cozily under a blanket or shawl, albeit without actually being under a blanket or shawl. After a moment she nodded toward the window. “He did.”


“The face in the clouds?”


“Yes.” Her voice caught in her throat. “He told me.” Her gaze slid back to Vince, though she did not turn her face from the window. “You might die, too.”


Vince huffed and tapped his chest twice. “Good as gold, Effie, you know that. Never had the high pressure, never had the cholesterol, never had the arterio-scoleosis . Whiskey and sea air keeps the heart strong and the blood clean. No ping pong’s gonna take me down.”


Effie shrugged her right shoulder, and looked back out the window. There was the foreshadowing of a smirk on her lips, and a glint in her eyes. “He’s never wrong.”


“Will you at least watch?”


A shadow fell over her. “I would rather not.”


“Come on, Eff, cheer me on, at least.”


“If you wish.”


He did wish, and he gave her hearty thanks for her concession. She took his thanks graciously and then retreated into her room. She closed the blinds and turned out the lights, but left the door open onto the hallway. She then pulled the blankets and sheets off the bed, and arranged them into a nest on the floor. She curled up in the nest – eyes open – staring into the darkness – it was the only way she could not see the man’s face in the clouds.


Effie did not emerge from her room for lunch. Effie did not emerge from her room for afternoon crafts. Effie did not emerge from her room for dinner or desert. When she heard groups of people moving through the hallway, she listened for the end of their shuffling feet, their thumping gates, their loud, insensible chatter. Then, finally, Effie emerged.


“Old folks,” she muttered with distaste.


She oozed through the Z of hallways until she wound up in the multipurpose room. It was a large room that resembled an elementary school gym from 1978. Two ping pong tables were set up. A group of volunteers were opening boxes of ping pong balls and emptying them into a couple of large bowls. They were counting on lots of lost balls, and not many people wanting to scramble around and collect them.


The balls dripped out of their cartons and pik’ed and ping’ed against the other balls in the bowl until they settled into place. It was nearly hypnotic.


One, then another, then another, then another.


Effie's chin dipped with each ball that dropped, rebounded as it settled.


One, then another, then another, then another.


Perfectly white spheres. Hard. Firm. Hollow. Each one the same as the one before it.


One, then another, then another, then –


But there was one that was different. She didn't know why, but Effie was sure –


Then another, then another, then another.


And the ball that seemed different was lost. It hadn't looked different. It hadn't bounced different. Effie could never have said a single thing that was actually different about it. She just knew it was. She turned her head, looking for a window that might look at at the night sky where the clouds were hidden between stars, taking the man's face with them.


There were no surprises in how play began. The volunteers had been right. There were plenty of lost balls, and none of the old folks were inclined to go chasing after ping pong balls. Vince had also been right. The old folks were having a lot of fun. The women were easily embarrassed over their lack of skill. The men were easily frustrated over their loss of former skills. But both the women and the men were laughing and smiling more than anything else.


Ellie pulled her arms and legs in, tucking herself into a metal and plastic chair that had never seen better days. Her face drooped. Her eyes turned down. She just listened. Listened to the pings and pongs of the table tennis balls. Paddle to table. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.


A ball skipped off the surface of the table and skittered across the floor, where no one wanted to fetch it.


Another ball from the bowl. Ping, then pong. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.


Effie wondered if that ball – the different one – if it would sound different. Maybe it would pong before it pinged. Maybe it buzz off the paddle, rattle at it hit the table.


Skid – skitter.


Another ball. Ping, then pong. Paddle, table. Paddle, table.


She knew it was different, but she didn't know how different or why it was different. She was sure she would know it if she saw it. She wondered if she would know it if she heard it. She wondered if it mattered. Different didn't always matter.


Effie wondered.


Skid – skitter.


Effie felt cold.


She looked up. It was Vince playing.


Her heart began to pound. She didn't know why.


Vince reached into the bowl for another ball.


Vince, she wanted to say, but her mouth was too dry to get the words out.


Vince pulled out a new ball. That ball.


Effie half-rose from her seat. She started to take a step, but froze as she saw Vince eying the ball. Perhaps he noticed that it was different. Perhaps he would put put it back. Perhaps –


But no.


Vince lined the ball and paddle carefully up for his serve.


Would it ping? Would it then pong?


Ball in left hand. Paddle in right. A subtle movement. A little arm. A lot of wrist.


The ball burst in a flash of white.


Effie's pupils constricted so rapidly that she couldn't see for several minutes. But she heard. She heard the bustling and panic of old folks.


As the dimness gave way to vision, she saw Vince, lying on the floor. She looked for a window. A window that might have looked out onto the sky, where the man's face would be hidden in the black between stars,
waiting to emerge with the morning clouds.


This story was written as a flash in three sittings.  As a flash, I didn't edit it.  That's Heather Hansen's rule, and I'm sticking to it.  The original conceit which I was kinda sorta dared to right was supposed to be old people playing ping pong on horseback.  I forgot that once I started writing.  Oops.  Maybe I'll have to do another go at the concept sometime.


.Nevets.

---

This story was written as a flash in three sittings.  As a flash, I didn't edit it.  That's Heather Hansen's rule, and I'm sticking to it.  The original conceit which I was kinda sorta dared to right was supposed to be old people playing ping pong on horseback.  I forgot that once I started writing.  Oops.  Maybe I'll have to do another go at the concept sometime.


.Nevets.

MC Escher's Evil Identical Cousin Cathy

"Waterfall"
by Andrew Kepert

All---

I don't have time to catalog all the writing myths I've run into over the years.  I don't even have an interest in doing so right now.  But here's one that I think is especially pernicious because it just makes so much sense that it resonates without explanation: write what you like to read.

I'm not disputing the value of being familiar with and well read in the genre you're publishing in.  I think even that can be made a little too much of, but I have experienced its value first hand so I at least get it.

But that's not the same as writing what you like to read.  New writers sometimes ask, "I want to write, but I'm not sure what to write."  Developing writers sometimes ask, "I feel like I should settle on a genre for this story, but I'm not sure which."  Readers sometimes ask writers, "How did you decide what to write?"  And too often the answer is, "Write what you like to read."

But, as the saying going, here's the thing.  I read sci fi.  I read westerns.  I read mysteries.  I read fantasy and historical fiction.  I read literature with very internal story lines.  I read spy thrillers and psychological suspense.  Most of the time, what I read isn't telling the stories I want to tell.  Most of the time, authors I read aren't telling the stories in the way I would.   When I'm writing I take human psychology, brutally force it through a sieve that distorts reality, and then chunk it violently together with philosophy.

And every time I try to step away from my role as Escher's verbal dark side, the stories break.  They don't work.  They don't click.  No matter how much I might appreciate the story if told another way.

Truth be told, I'm already reading people who tell the stories I want to read.  I'm telling stories to tell them, not to read them.  And, strangely, in the end, I don't like stories that I write how I might like to read them.  But I love the stories that I write how I like to tell them.

And so, when I want to tell an existential story about the need to matter, it includes a shotgun and a man in a chicken suit ("The Best Medicine," Genre Wars).  When I want to write a story about coping with death, it centers on a forensic anthropologist reveling in gore ("Death, Be Not Me," Genre Wars).  When I want to tell the sweet love story of a man breaking free of isolation, its course runs through the imagery of serial killing and dead insects ("Terminal Instar," Notes from Underground).  When I want to tell the story of the two-edged sword that is heritage, I take a main character with an attitude problem and throw a ticking bomb in his pocket ("Kansai Oniisan," Stores for Sendai).

And when I try to write about the human struggle for patience in a busy world, employing airport observations as partial metaphors (see my last blog post), it doesn't click until I wrap it around a revenge plot turned mercy killing.

So here's my verdict:

Write the story you want to tell, and write it the way you want to tell it -- and the way only you can.


.Nevets.


p.s. Someday maybe I will take a stab at what, "and the way only you can," means.

Writing News - Stories for Sendai Anthology

All---

You may have already heard the news, if you're following  the Stories for Sendai blog, or if you keep up with either of the upcoming anthology's authors, JC Martin or Michelle Davidson Argyle.  In case you haven't heard, though, my short story, "Kansai Oniisan" was selected for inclusion in Stories for Sendai.  The anthology will features twenty works of fiction or poetry and is scheduled for publication at the end of June.  It is an incredibly deep, diverse field of writers, and I am truly honored to be included alongside authors such as Domey Malasarn, Phil Loring, Roland Yeomans, Michelle Davidson Argyle, and JC Martin.

There's a lot going on with this story and this publication that make it extra meaningful for me.

Phil Loring is a very good friend of mine from grad school.  Some of our best memories of Alaska are times that my wife and I spent with Phil and his wife.  Some of my own best memories of grad school are the widely-ranging, no-holds-barred intellectual, philosophical, political, anthropological, and speculative conversations held in the grad school bull pen between Phil and myself on everything from real-world concerns to science fiction geekery.  I am very excited to share space with Phil's, "Population 1," in this anthology.

After learning from and being inspired by Michelle Davidson Argyle and Domey Malasarn for a long time, it's also a treat to be published alongside them.  Domey and I write in very different ways, but we have both found interesting parallels and connections in our writing from time to time.  I can't tell you how much I smiled when I say that, like my own, "Kansai Oniisan," his story, "Obaachan," is titled with a Japanese family word packed with all sorts of implications that would have been lost if presented in English.  Michelle is the author of two of my favorite books I read last year: the literary fantasy Cinders, whose main character resonated with me more than virtually any other I've read; and the soft psychological thriller Monarch, set to be released this September by Rhemalda.

The anthology itself is also important.  You should read the entire mission statement, but here is an excerpt summary of the excellent work this anthology is doing, as presented on their blog:

We are compiling an anthology of inspirational short stories loosely themed around the strength of the human spirit. All proceeds will be donated to GlobalGiving in aid of victims of the earthquake and tsunami. GlobalGiving will disburse the funds to relief organisations and emergency services on the ground, including International Medical Corps and Save the Children.  

I am excited to playing even a small part in that relief effort, and I hope you all will help spread the word, too. This anthology is a great way for readers and writers to do something bigger than stories, and to connect in a real and not only figurative way to the broader world.

But, at the end of the day, what's most meaningful to me is my story itself, "Kansai Oniisan."  Like any story, there are things I think I did well, things I wish I'd done better, and things I can't decide whether I like or not.    One of the things I think I accomplished was transporting the reader to a context with which they might be unfamiliar.  When I used to write fantasy and science fiction, that was a big part of what I did.  Now that I write psychological suspense, it's something I go to less frequently.  In, "Saturation Point," I loved the opportunity to transport the reader to the crowded Delhi  markets.  In, "Kansai Oniisan," I really wanted to take the reader to Osaka, Japan.

I've mentioned before that I have a lot of connections of varying depth and seriousness to Japan. It was really important to me that I use this opportunity, not to represent Japan, but to convey some of complex layers of Japanese culture and society which are compelling to me and which make Japan an important and special part of our world.  While that's a very challenge for a short story, I believe that, whatever else I accomplished with, "Kansai Oniisan," I did capture some of the tension and hope which are uniquely Japanese.

Osaka
photo by JKT-c

And, so, with no further ado, the opening to, "Kansai Oniisan," (c) 2011 by C. N. Nevets:


Tanaka Jun popped a takoyaki into his mouth, took the toothpick which had speared it, and flicked it over his shoulder.  As he slowly savored the fried octopus, he set the container of remaining treats on the counter and, to the chef’s confusion, walked slowly away.  The slim young man adjusted his dark sunglasses, pulled down his hat and, even though it was a hot Osaka summer day, he wrapped a knit scarf around his mouth.


In his pocket, the last mail his cellphone had received still shone with a single character: the stark cross-shaped mark that meant 10.




Watch the Stories for Sendai blog for updates on when the anthology will be available, so you can read the rest of this, as well as all the other stories!

.Nevets.

Kansai Oniisan

All---

So I managed to grab some time this weekend to work on the story I plan on submitting to Stories for Sendai, an anthology edited by JC Martin and Michelle Davidson Argyle than plans to raise money to support recovery efforts in devastated Japan.

My story is called, "Kansai Oniisan."  It is a literary thriller in short form, erring a little more to the psychological side than the suspense side, though both are present.  I think the story fits in nicely with the rest of my work, and in some ways will give readers a bit of a bit more taste for how my long form fiction feels in some ways.  If, "Kansai Oniisan."  is not accepted into the anthology, I will likely post it directly to to my website as a Websclusive.

If you've followed any of my conversation about writing, you know that I don't always follow the best advice out there, and this is a case in which I have mostly violated one of the wisest principles of fiction writing: don't write with a point in mind.  I routinely violate this rule in varying ways.  In this case, because I am answering the call for stories that emphasize the triumph of the human spirit not by finding an appropriate story from my stash, but by writing one from scratch.  Which means I'm writing with a very definite point.

That said, I'm also taking a a little bit of a chance and I'm sticking to my guns on it, sink or swim.    I don't write very well on the community or cultural level.  I'm all about individuals.  I'm also less interesting in prevailing against external forces than I am in conquest against the forces within the individual.  "Kansai Oniisan" is the story of one young man, under anonymous threat, and how his personal character fares when passed the crucible of the horrible.  For me, it's definitely the triumph of the human spirit.  It may not fit the tone and mode of Stories of Sendai, however, and I'm willing to let my story fit or be rejected on its own terms rather than try to turn it into a story it's not.

I like to think my being brave makes up for my other failings in this particular pursuit...

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for this blogpost provided by Alaap, Daler Mendhi, and Sardool Sikander!