Literary Roadkill

Writers are miners and scavengers.  We dig into our own and others' pasts for good stories and we scour our present for usable material.

While there are current-day Hemingways out there, living grand adventures at sea or in exotic locales, personally I inhabit a more mundane world.  My daily dramas consist of my righteous anger at that driver who cut me off, or the despair over the old van that, yet again, needs repair.  Or perhaps you'd like to read about my epic struggle against the hordes of Sunday shoppers at the grocery store?

Yes, it's the stuff of legends...um, not.  Alas, my commute and daily chores aren't particularly literary award-worthy.  Or publishable.  So when something out of the ordinary crops up in my pedestrian existence, well, I immediately check see if it's rich vein or a dead-end.

Imagine my excitement, then, when this week I faced a monumental battle in the realm of motherhood.  My child was diagnosed with...head lice.

(Pausing so you can scratch your head and give into that convulsive shudder).

Anyone who's dealt with these pernicious critters knows that my daughter's contagion meant all out war.  Armed with prescriptions and sprays and lice combs and laundry detergent, we marshalled all household forces and forged into battle.

After our initial charge of stripping bedding, spraying and vacuuming carpets and upholstery and treating the infested head, I quickly discovered the demoralizing truth.  Defeating the enemy requires both a head-on attack and a siege.

Here's a little peek at the characters in my war story:

My daughter and her hair:  A nine year old, mercifully compliant and a reader able to sit still for long periods of time.  The hair is long, thick, wavy and prone to snarling.  As was my daughter by day three.

Her cousins:  We'd just ended a visit with them when the diagnosis came.  The one cousin who stayed with us all week, was, of course, the girl with the long, thick hair (but straight, thank goodness).  We sent them back to Texas, potentially carrying the enemy with them across many borders.  Fortunately their dad, my brother, is a seasoned veteran in the Pediculousean Wars, and sent many reassuring text missives.  But no cookies.

Me, Commander Mama: I am patient (mostly) and armed with good bifocals and long fingernails.  Plus I work with public health professionals, with access to good generals to choose my weapons and guide my strategy of attack. 

My husband and mother, the infantry:  Willing to pitch in, they fought brave struggles against the Sisyphian mounds of laundry, and carried fresh containers of soapy water to me (and the occasional adult beverage of my choice) to aid me in my siege.

Mine enemy, the louse:  The adult louse is yucky and fast, but susceptible to chemical warfare.  When louse becomes lice, expect a protracted engagement.

The Nits, aka, the secret weapon: Unfortunately, even when you've vanquished the foe, he and she leave behind sleeper cells, the tiny nits that hide in the dark depths of the hair, like pod-people waiting to hatch a new round of soldiers.

As for the initial battle, well, the term nit-pick took on a whole new meaning.  Imagine something less than the size of a head of a pin, clinging to a single shaft of hair, that needs to be tightly grasped and dragged down the length of the strand to detach it.  Trust me, if you find this enemy, tremble in fear and prepare for tedium.

We came, we combed, and hopefully we conquered.  Alas, the war is not yet over, as I must return to the siege daily to find soldiers that remain behind our lines, waiting to hatch their evil plans to bring forth a second wave of destruction in seven to ten days.

Are you still with me?  God bless you if you are. 

I'm pretty sure there's no gold here, just roadkill.  It's gross, but it's not gripping (well, except for the nits, which grip and grip and grip.), and you'll wish you hadn't looked.

But even if it's just fool's gold, I decided I could still try to cash in on my little personal Public Health hell, perhaps with a moralistic song for the kiddie set - think The Wiggles(TM), with wiggly bugs:

(cue banjo and tissue covered comb)

Pickin' cooties with my mama

While I sit in my pajamas

patiently beneath the morning light

Though she's using all her fingers

Still those buggies they do linger

I suspect we'll be here

till a long hair past midnight

What?!  What do you mean you're not buying my album?  I'm crushed.

(Sigh.)

Okay, how about a simple Seussian tale:

There's a louse in my house
And he's leaping on my head
Hoping to make it his new bed

If it's warm, he'll call the swarm
And tell them that it's nice
And then my lonely louse will turn into lice


Do you like nit eggs in hair?
Do you like them everywhere?
I do not like them, mother dear.
I do not want them here or there.

Can we get them with a comb?
Have they made your head their home?
Mother dear, this rhyme is sick
And you are making me go 'ick'!

(Sigh.  Deeper sigh.  Long, drawn out sigh of surrender.)

Yes, fellow artists, there are some itches you just shouldn't scratch.  So I leave my lousy drama on the side of the road, hoping that it doesn't hitch a ride with you.

   But don't worry about me.  I'm going to a conference next week.  Between flight delays and long hours of meetings, I'm sure I'll strike gold yet!

He laves me, he laves me not?

credit: istockphoto.com/(c)Bulent Ince

I've been brooding and nibbling at my lush pouty lips over the idea of writing a romance novel.  Though not a regular romance reader, I've recently immersed myself in the strong men, lusty women (or vice versa) world to familiarize myself with the genre. Plus the advent of the e-reader makes it so much easier to read them on the down-low.

Like Sci-fi, Mystery and similar serial-type genres, Romance operates under certain set conventions, with the Happily-Ever-After or HEA as the prime directive.  I'm happy with HEAs.  We like to get what we expect - that's why chain businesses are so successful.

Romance novels characters tend to exhibit a stock set of traits:

1) The heroine is (pick one or more):

a. a spunky spitfire from the wrong side of town, or the right side of town, family either tyrannical/abusive/interfering or perfect
b. innocent and unaware of her beauty
c. experienced, with a broken heart in need of healing
d. secretly yearning to be dominated
e. a supernatural being who may or may not know her own power
f. a cowgirl

2) The hero is (again, one or more):

a. fabulously wealthy and powerful, but his life is empty
b. the epitome of male strength and beauty
c. dominant, alpha male who is a player, until he meets the right woman
d. dominant alpha male in need of healing
e. a supernatural, all powerful being, who can be tamed by the right woman
f. a cowboy

After you stir the heroine and hero together in a good stew of a plot, be it gumbo or beef bourgignon, all romance boils down to a handful of fantasy themes.   The heroine changes the man for the better, the heroine gains protection/care from the hero, and/or the hero and heroine alike are loved for their own special selves.  Oh, and the sex is always earth-shattering, vanilla or otherwise.

Again, this is all gravy to me, even if my own feminist sensibilities make me a poor heroine candidate.  Romance novels are works of fiction and, when well-written, I suspend my disbelief to 'The End'.

Where I struggle as a reader and potential writer of romance, is in the down and dirty descriptions.  Romance writers work hard to stroke all our senses, but certain words or phrases pop up so frequently that they feel more like assault and battery.  Here's my list of top offenders:

1) Let's start with laving.  There's a lot of laving in romance novels.  Now I'm happy to be both laver or lavee in real life, but I struggle with the word itself, because it is a writing only word.  The dictionary meaning is to wash or bathe, but in romance novels it seems to be a stand-in for the word "lick".  It's possible that I don't hang with the right water-cooler crowd, but no one uses lave in conversation when I'm around.  You never hear anyone say "Sweetie, lave the edge of your ice cream cone, or you'll get chocolate all over your shirt."  So can we agree to consign lave back to it's archaic origins, except, perhaps, for cats cleaning their fur*?

*Allowable in feline shifter novels, natch!

2) My nose is twitching over my next bugaboo, smells.  Heroines give off a stock stable of aromas, usually peaches, vanilla, or strawberries, or some combination thereof, with roses and honey glopped on every now and then.   These odors pose an irresistible draw to the male, particularly if he is a supernatural being with a heightened sense of smell.

These are evocative scents, likely chosen because they are familiar to a broad audience.  But are they really the types of odors to attract our domineering beast of a man?  I conducted extensive mental research, seeking alternative colognes.  I whiffed and sniffed through other fruits first:  mango, kiwi, cherry, banana, apple, coconut.  All perfectly pleasant bouquets, but I'm not sure they have that necessary alluring impact.  Well, the banana and coconuts combo could work for tropical beach settings, if it weren't so Freudian.

I did the same for flowers, but neither fruit nor flower seemed to truly capture the essential perfume guaranteed to attract men.   I decided to go a primary source, my husband:

Me: "Honey, what's the best smell ever?"

Hubby: "Bacon."

Bacon?  BACON!  Yum.  You-reek-ahh!  The man is a genius.  No predator could resist bacon.  Let's see how it works:

source: istockphoto.com/(c) Andreas Gradin

"Her scent filled the air, redolent of smokehouses and morning after lie-ins at bed and breakfasts.  It tantalized his nose, crackling and popping through every nerve in his body.  His mouth watered as he drew closer and breathed in the porky aroma emanating from the curve of her neck, longing to sink his teeth into her sinew."

Erm, uh-uh.  No.  Evocative?  Yeah. Romantic? Bleah.  I flung my bucket at hubby's well of male knowledge again.

Me: "Okay, what smell turns you on?"

Hubby: "Nachos and Beer."

Me: "Nachos and Beer?"

Hubby: "Yeah.  Reminds me of date night."

I decided that Hubby is an unreliable source.  Plus, we are clearly in a rut and I am wasting money on scented body products.  I suppose I must reject Bacon, Nachos and Beer, at least as aphrodisiac scents, but let's agree to expand beyond roses, strawberries and their over-used compatriots.

3) In the realm of sound, I only have one small quibble.  Too often, in the midst of their passionate nookie, the heroine performs some sort of move that causes the hero to make a "nonsensical sound."

At the risk of exposing the limits of either my imagination or experience, I confess, when I read the phrase "nonsensical sound", the soundtrack from a Three Stooges movie starts running through my brain, all nyuck,nyuck,nyuck.  Then the heroine falls off the bed in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, never to share a  booty call with our poor hero again - though she will dine out for years on the nyuck-nyuck story with her BFFs.  I vote we stick with the usual snarls, growls, groans and moans and relegate the nonsensical sounds to the Stooges, the Marx Brothers, and kiddie lit.

4) Cup size.  I'm not talking about Grande vs. Venti here.  Let's just say that some authors repeatedly feature heroines who bemoan that they must do more with less, while others prefer to cast the same buxom lass with the bodacious ta-tas.  Here's the problem:  When I read multiple books by the author whose heroines always display that barely a B-cup, or overflowing double DDs bosom, I assume that the author's sporting similar-sized lingerie and is working through her own body image issues.  And that's TMI.  Change up the girls, girlfriend!

credit: istockphoto.com/© Cathy Keifer

5) Last on my list of poetic peeves comes romance novel lip action.  I want to keep this PG, but too often in books, the hero starts thrusting his tongue in the heroine's mouth to "mimic", um, lower thrusting activities.  While it's possible that hubby and I don't possess the right skill set to pull this move off successfully, when I read this, all I think is "Ewww."  Then I think about that boy from that week at summer camp, whose name I've mercifully forgotten, who lives on in my memory only as "Lizard Tongue."  There's also a whole lot of biting going on in Romance novels.  I'm all for the occasional nibble or nip, and I concede its necessity when it comes to the supernatural set, but otherwise, isn't that a habit we actively discourage from toddler-age on? Keep the teeth for the nachos and bacon our lovers consume in their pre- or post-coital munchies periods, or someone's gonna get hurt.

So Alpha males and Spunky gals, let's recap our new romance rules:

1)  Limit laving - one lave per novel, please!
2) Start sniffing around for new scents.
3) Nonsensical sounds are nonsensical, unless your name is Curly or Moe, or you're the Toon dating Jessica Rabbit.
4) Women come in all shapes and sizes and so should your leading ladies.
5) Less tongue is more and sheath your teeth at the door.

Happily Ever After Writing!

Ridiculously pleased

Each day I visit my writer friend Mysti Parker's blog.  I enjoy her work and I appreciate how supportive she is of fellow writers. Today's visit brought an unexpected treat - I was chosen as the second place favorite in her May Flash Fiction contest!  Here's the link to my piece, Banished.

If you have time, read all the entries.  So many wonderful authors submitted moving works.  I've been impressed by the poignant moments each expressed in so few words, using the same writing prompt.

I like to win anything, so I've been beaming all day.  I'm going to use this as inspiration to ratchet up my Camp NaNoWriMo novel, Camp Vamp.

Thank you Mysti and all my other writer friends out there for your support and encouragement.

And if you haven't read Mysti's Serenya's Song, or her first, A Ranger's Tale, do yourself a favor and pick them up!

Happy writing!

The Folded Flag

Memorial day was yesterday, but the words didn't come to me until today.  For my father...

The folded flag sits
inside its plastic sleeve.
Medals hang from the dark blue cloth of the covered cotton batting
inside the cherry wood case
on the middle shelf of my china cabinet.

Forty three years passed by
since you died at twenty-nine.
My aunts and uncles grieve together,
sending your picture into your hometown paper.
My mother grieves alone,
her memories still too private to share.

The anniversary of your death comes each year,
so close to Memorial Day,
Two chances to remember, two chances to forget.
There is no grave to visit.
The markers bearing your name
stand miles away from my home.

You're just a picture to my daughter.
An old scar, not a fresh wound.
You're just a picture to me too.
Gone, before I grew old enough
to remember you.
Dead, before I really lived.

Still, I pause for a moment,
after we unpack the camping gear,
to notice the flag waving from my neighbor’s porch -
A vet who fought in your war
(One who came home
One who truly never forgets).

And I think of you,
my black and white photo father.
A two-dimensional man,
occasionally made flesh and blood,
with borrowed memories,
because I have no memories of my own.

I wonder who you are,
who I would be if you had lived,
what I would lose if you survived.
My husband? My child?  My home? 
You created me, first with your life
and then with your death.

And the parade passes by.
Old men stick paper poppies
into the button holes of their lapels.
Mothers and wives adorn themselves
in red, white and blue, and gold star pins
dressed up to hear the bugler blow "Taps".

They lay flowers at graves and markers, 
wiping away the tear that escapes as the last mournful note plays. 
Then they move on with their lives
breaking bread at parties and picnics. 
And I wonder if they know, too,
that we are your memorials.


copyright May 2012, Cristina Rehn

Writing prompt, anyone?

It's so lonely over here at Quiet Content that I've been forced to fill my time with frivolous pursuits.  Thanks to a FB friend, I've been having fun messing around with my photos at this site: http://pixlr.com/o-matic/. 

After you've whiled away hours of your own valuable writing time playing with all the options, come  back.  In the interests of dragging you all kicking and screaming to my blog, I've posted a few of my altered works here to spur your imagination.


Either post a prompt sentence to go with one of these in my comments section, and I'll add it as a caption, or send me a flash fiction of 700 words or less for one and I'll post you here as a guest blogger.   I'll accept R-rated stories, but no X-rated, please (you can send the X-rated ones, but those will be for my reading pleasure only - no guest spot).  I will post all comers!  Email your flash fiction to me at c.rehn43012 at gmail.com.

If you're interested in knowing where I took these pictures, post a comment.  Feel free to email me your own photo creations to share as prompts and I'll put those up in my next post too.

Road Blocks, Stumbling Blocks and Building Blocks

I am suffering from a case of writer's block.  It's not writer's block in the traditional sense.  I don't sit at my computer screen, staring at the white space, waiting for my muse to descend and unleash a torrent of creativity.

My writer's block is more of the logistical variety.  It started in February, when the hard drive to my new netbook crashed.  The one I hadn't yet made back-up disks for, because I hadn't yet purchased an external disk drive. Off it went, mummified in bubble wrap, across state lines to anonymous techs.  Between the crash itself, communicating the problem, sending it off and waiting for its return, I lived without it for six weeks.

This shouldn't have presented a stumbling block.  I'd written my NaNoWriMo novel on our PC in our upstairs home office.  But the netbook spoiled me.  It allowed me to perpetuate the illusion to my family that I interacted with them, by virtue of sitting in the same room.  My family liked that.  The cats liked it too.  Without the portable writing tool, I stopped writing.  Oh, I know, you'll throw the suggestion of pen and paper in my face.  I have two words for you: chicken scratch.

The netbook's been home since mid-March, so that particular block is long gone.  But then I got sick.  It was just a mild head cold, a few days of rest and I was fine.  For a week.  Then I got sick again, with a slightly more pernicious cold virus.  A fuzzy, mucus-filled head, hacking cough and a need to keep a tissue in hand at all times do not lend themselves to writing.

By the time I recovered, we headed out on our spring break trip to Disney.  I managed to dash off a guest blog post when I returned home.  I powered up my netbook and started sifting through the ideas in my brain.  A civil war shifter romance novel formed.  That little germ of a novel about the recent floods floated by.  My fingers wiggled in glorious anticipation.

Busy as a Bee!

Then softball season started.  My daughter's playing in majors, the youngest girl on the team and at that level.  Turns out there are a lot more games and practices in majors.  And her science fair is coming up and she chose a project that "requires adult supervision".  My van broke down - again - requiring elaborate transportation-related square dancing between my husband, mother and me.  The diet I started back in February means I grocery shop more often, to keep us stocked in fresh veggies and fruits. Yay weight-loss!:)  Boo time loss.:(   Laundry is endless, my full-time paying job is busy and I confess, in my initial writing hiatus, I rediscovered my love of sleep.

My writer's block is a really just a series of road blocks, the construction zones of daily living.  The great thing about construction zones is that they generally come with detours.  It takes longer to get to your destination, but you'll get there.  I'm getting around my blocks by seeking out some building blocks.  I picked up Strunk and White's Elements of Style, at last, an overdue addition to my reading list and writer's tool box.  As long as I watch when my daughter's at bat, my husband doesn't scold me too much for reading at her game.

I started this blog too.  I whipped up a short piece of flash fiction for Mysti Parker's May blog contest.  I'm reading a lot in the genre I'm thinking of writing in next.  These may be detours that take me further away from sitting down and actually writing that novel, but they're pleasant detours.  I'm hoping these detours will unblock my creativity so that I begin to block out the time I need to write.

No time for a lengthy post today, so I'll just send you over to Mysti Parker's blog, where my May Flash Fiction contest entry is up today.  Thank you Mysti!