The Beacons Are Lit

Props to anyone who gets the film reference in the title.

My girlfriend recently helped me set up a beacon page. All of my publications and social media links are now in one place, basically giving me a proper portfolio. Anyone who wants links to my socials or other works can now access that page, which I will update as necessary. The most recent works are at the top. “Pet Stalker” is currently in the top spot but hopefully my short story, “The Doctor” will join it by year-end.

If that happens the next writing goal I will focus on to land an agent, which I have been working on for numerous years.

Trickle

Trad recently asked for a short story submission for their next issue. The only requirement was that it be fiction and related to the theme of “Time.” I had an idea inspired by a dream, where I saw everyday black people as slaves. Hopefully Trad likes the piece and I get to share it with you all by year-end.

This year has been one of growth, where I have learned more about myself and finally accomplished some writing goals. Getting an agent was a goal for the end of this year, and there is still some time. If not this year, I hope early in the new year.

First Published Story

I have been writing fiction since I was in Grade 8. I won’t pretend like the book I wrote back then was great, or that I am mastered now. I still have weaknesses I am working on, and improvements to make. However, I am happy to announce that I finally got a “yes” from a publisher. It is for a short story, but it is a start.

“Memory Catcher” started off as my sixth book, but I stopped about a quarter of the way through to rewrite Elseworld, and then Hazard.  With “Memory Catcher” I realized that I was not sure where I wanted to go with the story, and I let it sit for a while. Then I thought that maybe the opening could work as a short story.

“Memory Catcher” will now be published by Idle Ink on Saturday, August 1st.

Less than a week before Idle Ink accepted it, the editor of another site said that he found it dull and started skimming before the end. I wondered if I needed to rethink trying to get it published, but then the Idle Ink editor told me she “loved it.”

Sometimes, it is all about finding the right fit.

LinkedIn Articles

Since George Floyd’s death and the subsequent protests I have begun writing about racism on LinkedIn.

As a whole, Floyd’s death has made me more comfortable with being uncomfortable. I am now more inclined to call out friends for racist comments or jokes, and I want to continue doing so. I have gotten into fights with friends over this but I don’t regret anything.

Like my blog, my LinkedIn content isn’t getting much engagement, but it is likely getting more views than content I post solely here. It’s worth a try. I remember someone commenting on a Facebook post I made, saying that an analogy I used help them better understand why everyone can’t say the n-word. It is a small change, but it was good to see that spreading some information around can help combat ignorance, even on a small scale.

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/ignore-racism-until-its-convenient-cadeem-lalor/

Quarantine and Writing

There are times when I might write a big chunk at one time, usually closer to the end of the book, but I have usually been the type of writer who writes a little bit consistently. I realized it’s the same way I approached academic papers, aiming to get a certain amount done per day instead of cranking out a bunch with an all-nighter.

I guess I brought this tweet up since people always ask me if I’m doing more writing during downtimes e.g. this quarantine. I always feel weird saying that it’s pretty much the same, but I don’t like forcing myself to do too much at one point. I’ve much more cautious of my writing weaknesses now and I feel like writing a small piece at a time consistently helps me keep better track of pacing and exposition.

Writing Update

So you may remember me sharing thoughts on my fifth book (Hazard) and my third book (Alive) being skewered by my writing group.

It was a kick in the teeth; my first taste of real in-depth constructive criticism. I had three marked up copies of the first 50 pages of Hazard staring me in the face, and I put them in a drawer and haven’t looked at them since.

However, I did internalize the feedback and went back to my first book, Elseworld, with the Hazard critiques in mind. I ended up cutting a lot of info dumps and exposition, resulting in the newer draft being about 10,000 words shorter. I showed my writing group the first chapter and…it still got picked apart, but I am on a better track.

The prose is tighter and there is less exposition, but it still needs some work. I have put Memory Catcher aside for now, and will focus on rewriting/editing Elseworld. I’ll start on the editing next week so I can return to the work with fresh eyes, and then aim to have it redone by end of the year or February 2020 at the latest. My main goal is to have the first few chapters rewritten in time for my next critique session, which will likely be around year-end. Hopefully feedback will show that the newer draft is better.

My publication efforts will be limited to short stories for now, which I can’t post on here since most publications would then consider it “previously published” and would not want to touch it.

In the meantime, check out The Visitor on Wattpad.

Updates

Since I made the resolution not to make posts on the same political topics (racism, homophobia etc.) I find that the well of blog ideas has grown dry. However, I want to work on coming up, or focusing on, new topics.

I paused writing my sixth book, Memory Catcher, after the skewering that my third and fifth book got from fellow writers. I think the stab of my first real feedback cut very deep and left me more hesitant to get back to something I apparently needed a lot of work on.

However, after editing my first book again I feel like there is a talented (or decent) writer somewhere in me and I want to explore that again with Memory Catcher.

I’ve made the resolution to get back to writing on August 6 and finish a rough draft by the year’s end. I wrote myself into a hole, with my character trapped, but I am looking forward to the challenge of working that out. I find writing gives me more of a sense of purpose, working towards the goal of one page a day. I believe that purpose also transfers to other aspects of my life and can generate more productivity.

In the meantime, check out my second book on Wattpad.

Red Christmas

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently joined a creative writing group. Part of the weekly homework was doing a stream of consciousness writing exercise, similar to “The Rose.” We got a different image emailed to us and got 20 minutes to write, as opposed to 10. Like “The Rose,” this piece is intended to be completely organic, no scratching out or deleting, no hesitation. I broke the rules a bit again, even finding my mind wandering as I wrote. However, I think this exercise is a good one to practice for strengthening focus and mental clarity. The result of my second writing exercise is below, with the image for reference.

He sat still for a few minutes after the crash, everyone did. Maybe it was shock, or maybe it was the logical thing to do after a collision. Everyone wanted to make sure everything was still in place; bones, organs, teeth.

Looking across the aisle showed that some people were luckier than others. There was one woman in the left row, near the front. She was the center of everyone’s attention. A piece of the plane’s wall had come loose and a jagged edge was buried in her chest. Blood-stained metal protruded from the back of her seat, and Malcolm could have sworn he heard panicked, gargled breaths for a few seconds, before her body went still.

Malcolm was seated one row behind, and one to the right, occupying the plane’s center. He flexed his fingers and his toes almost like a reflex, relaxed that movement didn’t bring any pain.

His coat, like everyone else’s, was stowed in the overhead cabin. He knew he needed to get it now, but he still hesitated to move. As snow and cold air began to pour in from outside, everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to take charge. The captain and c0-pilot hadn’t moved from the cockpit yet, and Malcolm was sure they wouldn’t be moving again.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, with the clasp sounding like a thunder strike in the cabin’s eerie quiet. He scuttled past his neighbour, whose feet recoiled like a snake. He could feel eyes burning a hole through him as he put his coat on, and soon a voice broke the silence.

“Where are you going?”

It was a woman one row behind him. He remembered seeing her earlier; the happiness as he took in her features, and the dismay at seeing the wedding ring on her finger.

“Out of here. The pilots would have come out by now if they were alive. I don’t see the flight attendants taking much action here. We need to try to find shelter, or we’ll freeze and starve in here.”

Malcolm looked to the flight attendants as she spoke, an even smattering of men and women among the four. There seats were just ahead of the cockpit, facing the passengers. They all looked to be in their twenties, picked for looks, not experience. They didn’t look like they had any plans of moving either.

Malcolm made his way to the opening in the plane, wanting to leave before the inevitable squabble broke out among the panicked passengers. The tear was almost at ground level, only requiring a high step for Malcolm to get outside.

He took a second to peer out, dismayed to see that a winter wonderland was all that greeted him. He took a step out, avoiding looking at the corpse to his left. Behind him, he heard arguments breaking out, but he also heard footsteps following him. Then he heard a voice calling out. He thought he was hearing a name, it was a word he didn’t recognize. Then he realized someone was calling to him, and that the footsteps following him didn’t belong to a passenger. The snow revealed six hulking shadows behind him, assembled much too fast to be other passengers.

 

The Rose

I’ve been thinking about joining a creative writing group for a while, and finally made the plunge on Wednesday. I made excuses for avoiding it before, ranging from time to money. Money wasn’t an issue because this group is free. I have Wednesdays off work at the moment, so I decided it was time. It was great interacting with other writers, some of whom are published. The class has motivated me to try to expand Memory Slave into a novella or novel.

One of my favourite parts of the lesson was a writing prompt at the beginning. A teacher handed out tarot cards and instructed us to write for ten minutes, using the image as our inspiration. I used to do something similar with my wmoviegrapevine posts: I would search for images using vague descriptors like “darkness” or “depression,” and then write about whatever the image brought to mind. Unlike my wmoviegrapevine posts, this writing prompt was meant to be stream of consciousness: No hesitation, no scratching out or deleting. It was a challenge and I know I broke the rules a few times. However, I persevered and wrote about half a page based on an image of a wilting rose. The result is below. I will likely share the piece I do for each class from this point on.

***

It was linked to me now, and it took me too long to realize. I spent most of my time away from it, seeking affection and love from the outside world. There were days when I came home feeling like I found the one. On those days, the rose’s petals stared up at me, blemish-free, blood-red, the stem standing in defiance.

Then there were the other days. Ones where a call or text wasn’t returned. Where “something came up.” The veneer of confidence broke. My insecurities rushed to fill the void and I would come home to a wilted rose. Blackened petals, red ones decorating the ground like autumn leaves. The stem would hang on its pedestal, twisting like a broken limb.

Then came the distractions. The mindless scrolling, the frantic flick of the remote. The rose would remain on the verge of death until I was blessed with the attention I craved. A call, a smile, a kiss. The rose would change in front of my eyes, with its petals rising from the ground to return to their home. Their colour would be replenished. The stem would snap back into place and I would feel whole again, if only for a few minutes at a time.

I don’t know where it came from, only that it hung where only I can see; a spectre, a puppeteer guiding my actions. If I cut the strings, I can find freedom in death.