Category Archives: Blog

Prompt 11/12/2010 i.e. Lauren and her new neighbors, the Campbells

Prompt: A scammer who pretends to be blind is in the long line at the supermarket. She takes note of all the thing she needs to buy. Her secret: Couldn’t believe that night was the third one she/he couldn’t sleep because of the weird noises come from the neighbor’s house.

Lauren adjusted her dark sunglasses but tried to keep herself from fidgeting.  Being at the all night grocery at 3 a.m. can bring out all the weirdos from the town.  She was use to the weirdos from her own town but the town 15 miles up the road had different weirdos. They looked funny. They acted funny. And yes, some of them smelled funny, like when you walked into a room right after someone just sneezed. That smell. That’s how the weirdos in this town smelled like.

And it’s not like Lauren had a choice to be at the grocery store in Ellington, 15 miles away from her warm, safe bed.  Since the Campbells moved into the apartment next door a month ago, it was more and more difficult to sleep. And it was getting more difficult to find things to do while she was waiting for the sweet relief of sleep. All the knobs in her tiny one-bedroom apartment had been polished.  The carpet vacuumed.  The clothes washed, folded and hung by season, color, and yes, size. Bills were paid and paid early. She had made enough advanced meals to save her from cooking for the next couple of weeks. Indeed, her apartment and her life we were already lived in.

So she decided to have adventures. It started off innocently enough. The occasional five finger discount at the Wal Mart.  The pump and drive at the gas station. One time, just because she was tired of the noises from the Campbells’ apartment, she relieved herself on their welcome mat. “Welcome this, you freaks.” She’d say under her breath before chuckling, zipping up her pants, and scurrying back into her apartment.  But that proved problematic when the police were called and all the neighbors were questioned. Damn those Campbells.

But after the adventures in Westchester dried up (the final being the first and last time she flashed an officer of the law) she decided to go some place new and where no one knew her.

Ellington had no Wal Mart, no all night gas station, and no patrolling police officers in the market to see exposed nipples. But they had an all-night grocery and she was food less since she cooked all of it and placed the creations in neat, plastic containers.

She so went shopping but midway through she had forgotten something.

“Damn it, my wallet’s at home.”

But instead of going back home and returning to her warm bed that sat next to the wall that separated her from the noisy Campbells, she picked the darkest sunglasses she could find on the rack—nice pair of aviators— and started walking, pushing her cart into things and people.  She knocked down a display of soda cans, and another of potato chips.  She ran over one of the weirdos who smelled like day old cheese and another that smelled like day old feet.  She asked random strangers for guidance with her grocery list — ham, cheese, spaghetti sauce, hamburger helper, etc.  She did all this until finally she was in line, her cart being emptied and sacked by the check out boy.

“That will be ninety-dollars, madam.”

“Okay.”

Lauren reached for her purse and pretended to look for her wallet. She handed the cashier her library card.

“This isn’t it. madam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t see.”

“How long have you been blind?”

Lauren began to cry. “Ever since the accident. My husband…my children….”

Her heavy sobs soon became uncontrollable  until finally the person at the cash register said: “It’s okay. I’ll just get rid of the receipt. You get on home.”

Before they had a chance to question how a blind woman was able to drive an F-150 in the middle of the night, Lauren was already on the interstate, the aviator glasses tossed out the window, and the beckoning warm bed only minutes away.

Now if the newlywed Campbells were done consummating their union for the night, Lauren could fall asleep quickly and be up in time for work.

What is the truth anyway?

Me at grad school

Lately, my stress levels have been reduced. I attribute this decrease in blood pressure to the last packet of the semester being due in a few weeks.  Yes, I am one packet away from being half way done with my master’s program.

What have I learned so far?

Oh, it’s been a journey of searching for truths. There has been crying and such.  There has been questioning  and there has been reading and writing. Lots of it.

So what have I written.  Brand new pages of a new thesis. These are so different from my original thesis. There is a truth there that wasn’t there before and an undercurrent of me, my experiences, my life. I think that’s what makes every writer unique.  You can study and read and practice all the techniques in the world but what makes the writing pop is you and what you bring to the page. That’s why I can never been Henry Miller or Zora Neale Hurston or Cristina Garcia. I enjoy these writers. I’ve studied them. I’ve marveled. But at the end of the day, my story about life will be different and I think we’re all better for it.

I say this after much reflection on my thesis. I reflected on the type of author I don’t want to be, what I don’t want to be classified as by critics, readers, and the chap at Barnes and Noble who will eventually stick my masterpiece on the shelf. I’ve considered changing my name to something more generic.  I’ve purposefully wrote a certain way and omitted parts of a story because it made it sound too ethnic.

My nightmare is being labeled a Latina writer. That’s not because I am ashamed. That’s just silly. It’s because I’ve seen how that label can pigeon hole a writer and can bring with it a stereotype that the literature is not as good or that the novel is just for people with Spanish surnames. Also with the stereotype comes caricatures, people’s perception of who the characters are. That’s too much for me to bear.  To have the reader assume that my characters all have accents and are somehow not as worthy because of it. That breaks my heart.

But I cannot write about about a character unless I know them.  It’s the curse of the writer — writing what we know. Who knows more about me than me. Writers are very narcissistic. We have to be, our art depends on it.

So, my dear readers, in truth, it breaks my heart that readers would stereotype my characters because they stereotype me, the under estimate me, they generalize me.  That is hurtful .

However, I can’t control that no more than I can control the rain or the stars in the sky. I can only be me. I can only write what I know, who I know, question my characters in a way that brings out the truth. That is, and should be, my only endeavor. Everything else be damned.

And so, amid the writing, rewriting, reading, annotating, and long critical paper, the truth was defined and sought. Where I found it was in the pages of my thesis where it currently sits like a happy baby recently changed.

Why writing crap is important

One of my very good friends called me courageous the other day for following my dream of writing.  She also asked me about how she would start down this path.

 

The answer I gave her was probably the most profound thing I’ve written about the writing experience.  It tells me that perhaps I’ve turned a corner and that I’m not as crazy as I think I am…I’m crazier.

 

This is what I told her: writing crap is important.

 

I’m not joking, the most important things are the things people should not read or see or examine. The stuff that’s on your desktop that you’ve gone back to read and may have tinkered with that makes you shudder, that piece of awfulness, that is the most important thing you’ve written. Forget the stuff that got into a literary magazine or got published. That’s polished and nice and great but that couldn’t have happened without the crap you have hidden away like a red-headed step child.

 

One thing I’ve learned in my MFA program is the importance of play and experimentation. This is really important especially with new writers or those trying to find their voice. You don’t know if what you’re thinking about writing and how you plan to write it will work unless you do it.  It’s like any artist, there’s the painting or the song that just isn’t all that great but they kept going an viola! Art worth noticing.

 

It’s part of the journey to fall on your butt as many times as possible. The more you fall the better. It’s part of the evolution of you and your art.

 

So crap is good. Crap is needed. Crap will set you free.  Crap, crap, crap.

 

Now go forth and write the worst thing you’ve ever written.

What I did today or a reporter’s frustration

In the past, I have been on the other side of frustration and have lost. 


Talk to any reporter and they’ve felt that, lived, struggled with that frustration at least one time. It comes from feeling the story, wanting to cover the story beyond the doubts of editors and naysayers. 


I’m familiar with that feeling.


So today, I did a thing. Smart? I want to say yes. I donated $20 to help another reporter cover an important story. 


A website called Spot.us helps connect reporters and average citizens. Folks pitch a story and if accepted, folks donate money to help make it happen. It’s like a reversal of the boss/reporter relationship.  


This isn’t a way for those doing the reporting to get rich. In fact, there are some projects there that I think are underbid. That tells me it isn’t about money but story and that’s what I’m about. 


This is the story I contributed to:
Luis Eduardo Ramírez Zavala, a 25-year-old undocumented Mexican immigrant, was beaten to death in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania in July of 2008. His death was at the hands of four white teens who targeted and beat him simply for being Latino. 

Two of those implicated in the killing got a deal from authorities while the other two faced a state trial. On May 1 of last year, a Schuykill County jury acquitted the two teens charged with third-degree murder and ethnic intimidation despite several witnesses testifying they had been the ones who killed Ramírez Zavala while yelling racial epithets and punching and kicking Ramírez Zavala in the body and head so severely it caused the victim to foam at the mouth and sustain two skull fractures. 


I don’t know the reporter doing this or the publication that will run the story.  In fact, the story doesn’t take place anywhere near me. I just know I’ve been there. I know. 


Not only have I offered my money but my time and skills as a peer review editor. Just like I really didn’t have the money, I really don’t have the time. But again, I’ve been there. And if they’ll have me, I’d love to help them how best I can. 


So this is what I did today. Stupid? Not at all. Just wish I could do more. 


To give to this project, or to know more, click here

Being a good alumna!

Yes, this is my first post in a while and it’s not a writing post. That’s because I came across this Facebook post from one of my acquaintance, Russell Contreras, about the UH-UTEP  game. My beautiful Coogs are scheduled  to beat the Miners on Friday. Beat, yes. Like they owed them money.

Right or wrong, win or lose, I’m all about my alma mater. GO  COOGS!

Here’s his list. (And I GUESS there’s a writing connection cause Russ does have an MFA from Columbia U in non-fiction.)

Checklist for UTEP Miners going to Houston for UH-UTEP game.

 

1) Get in El Camino or Cutless Supreme for long drive on I-10. After 500 miles, wonder why you haven’t seen the New Mexico/Texas border yet. Then you remember: Oh yeah, El Paso is in Texas…not New Mexico.

 

2) Come across the big city of San Antonio and look in awe at a place that has more than one highway.

 

3) Pass the River Walk and wonder what all that blue stuff is. It’s called water.

 

4) Pass Seguin and wonder what all that green stuff is. It’s called trees and grass.

 

5) Stop at Flatonia gas station and wonder why you all of a sudden get sweaty every time you get out of the car. It’s called humidity. (And it will get worse.)

 

6) Hit traffic just outside of Katy, Texas and complain that this isn’t the bridge to Juarez, why should there be this much traffic?!

 

7) Drive in confusion that you’ve seen more than one Barnes and Noble on I-10. Hey! You thought this was an El Paso bookstore!

 

8) Look at Houston skyline for the first time and get scared until friendly man with his window down in traffic tells you not to worry, King Kong was about New York.

 

9) Stop at Ninfa’s to eat and get shocked that the Mexican food is so much better in Houston. Get laughed at when you ask for green or red chili. Look at awe of such “imported beers” like Shiner Bock and Sam Adams.

 

10) Go to UH-UTEP game, watch UH’s Case Keenum break passing records and complain that a football team shouldn’t be allow score more than 100 points in one game.

GO COOGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Guest blog: Following the writing bug, no matter what

Margo Candela

Editors note:  Our guest blogger is Margo Candela. She has released her fourth novel, Good Bye to All That, is available now.  She was recently named by LA Magazine’s Best Beach Read of 2010. To know more about her, click here to go to her site or here to see her Twitter page


I don’t recall ever taking a vocational test in high school. You know the test guidance counselors used to figure out what a teenager should do with their fast approaching working life? Even if I had, I doubt my answers would have pointed toward author. At that time, I was just an avid reader with horrible penmanship but with great typing skills. (Hand’s down, typing was not only the best elective, but the most useful class I ever took.) I was never worried about graduating, but was slightly concerned about what I’d do with myself afterward. In any case, I made it through high school without ever seeing a guidance consoler or anyone asking me what I planned to do with my life.

My parents, though, did expect me to do something that involved some form of honest work that paid enough for me to eventually move out of their house. They assumed I’d get an office job like my older siblings had done before me and be content with the security of steady employment. Instead, I enrolled at my local community college, figured out that I didn’t want to be a pre-school teacher or a social worker and went on to major in journalism.

It took a while, but I knew I wanted to write and that I needed to get a job. Journalism merged the two for me and, as my parents weren’t paying my college tuition, they had no say in my decision. After getting my degree, I wrote for magazines and websites and did well enough to pay my rent and go out to dinner once in a while, but things like health insurance and someday retiring were out of my reach. When I’d visit my parents, they’d invariably ask at some point when I planned to settle down and get a real job. And each time I’d tell them that I would as soon the one I wanted opened up.

You’d think with four novels published, my parents would worry less but, if anything, they worry a whole lot more about me. They’ve realized that having a daughter who insists on writing means she’s committed to a risky way to make a living. They’re proud of me and what I’ve achieved, but I’m no more special than my siblings who’ve settled into jobs that they’ve been at for years, if not decades.

I, on the other hand, never kept a job longer than six months during the height of the dot.com boom and I was never happier. And I was happiest yet when I committed myself (and my future) to writing even knowing there were inherent risks and uncertainty in my choice. I always assure my parents that I have no plans to retire and will keep on writing until there’s nothing left type. What I do makes me happy and, in the end, it’s what parents want for their children.

Look who’s coming to visit tomorrow?

So I am excited to have Margo Candela as a guest blogger to my blog tomorrow.

How excited am I?

Instead of finishing some work, I’m writing this post and I really don’t have to.

I know, right? Whoa!

Margo Candela has written four books with her latest, Good-bye to All That, picked as a 2010 best book in L.A. by Los Angeles Magazine.  To read an excerpt, click here.

I had the pleasure of being able to read a copy of the book before it was released.  After a semester of reading Kafka and Kerouac, I was excited to read something just for the pleasure of it.  No annotation. No circling key phrases unless I wanted to. All pure fun.

And it was. This book is pure fun. Margo lives up to her slogan, writing modern women’s fiction the old fashioned way.

Here’s her bio.  And don’t forget to come back tomorrow when she highjacks guest blogs on my site.

She’s awesome. You’ve been warned.

I was born and raised in Northeast Los Angeles and moved to San Francisco to attend college. I ended up staying there for a decade before moving back home in 2005. My first three novels, More Than This (Touchstone, Aug. 2008), Life Over Easy (Kensington, Oct. 2007) andUnderneath It All (Kensington, Jan. 2007) are set in San Francisco.

More Than This was a Target stores Breakout Book and an American Association of Publishers national book club selection at Borders Books with Las Comadres. My current novel, Goodbye To All That (Touchstone, July 13, 2010) is my first novel set in Los Angeles and is the only novel picked by Los Angeles Magazine for it’s 2010 Best of L.A. list.