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Flash Fiction

Isn’t It Romantic?

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*Spoiler Alert*—I got ROMANCE!

When last we met, I blogged about the flash fiction contest I entered this summer. Since then, I have been feverishly reading and commenting on other writers’ entries and following review comments on my own story. To give you an idea, I’ve probably read over 100 stories at 1,000 words a pop, and I’ve received nearly that many reviews back. Good critical feedback is enormously beneficial, and probably the major reason I signed up for the contest, and I have not been disappointed. I’m learning tons from reading so many other short stories, “meeting” other writers, gaining insight, and having a blast!

Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:

Last week, we received the judges’ scores on round one, and while I’m ecstatic I did well, I’m also scratching my head that some of my [extremely well-written] favorites received zero of a possible 15 points. A very good reminder that EVERY kind of judgment on writing is subjective, even if the person is called “judge” [or agent or editor or reviewer].

After suffering through the dreaded HISTORICAL FICTION last round, I came to realize there are, in fact, even scarier genres—political satire and thriller had me particularly anxious. Just before the round two assignments came out on Friday at midnight, my husband appeared at my shoulder, because let’s be honest, it’s not that much fun to be the spouse of the flasher during the writing weekends. We waited together…oh, it was tense, folks. [See what I did there? Practicing in case I get SUSPENSE next time…]

My Assignment: ROMANCE

Imagine my/our sheer joy when this appeared on the screen:

Genre: ROMANCE [RIGHT??]
Setting: AUTO REPAIR SHOP  [Heh. In case you don’t know this about me, our family business was an auto dealership, aka the “what you know” part of “Write what you know.”]
Object: BOTTLE OF BABY FORMULA [Heck, I had a couple of formula-fed babies!]

Okay! Romance, cars, and babies—three things in my wheelhouse!

In round one, I’d wanted to come up with the plot on my own, even though this is not necessary or even encouraged. This time, I chatted with some online friends who are especially helpful with plot coaching [Veronica & Karen], thinking outside the box [Kitkat], fellow writer and invaluable pre-reader [Shell], “specialists” [Meredith, Colin, & Jayme] who know helpful tidbits [about flat tires, for example]. And always, always, always, my most trusted editor [Sue]. A big village for a small story!

I brainstormed with each of them on Saturday, working to ignore the ticking clock. I even considered covering the bottom right-hand corner of my monitor but decided to be mature instead [a stretch for me]. At 3:18, I opened a new Word doc and started typing. It wasn’t pretty, and it didn’t flow, but I had the bones and I could hear some dialogue. I knew my characters and what I was going to do to them [insert evil laughter]. I spilled over 800 words in about fifteen minutes.

That was good and it wasn’t good. Word max is 1,000 in case you forgot. From experience, I knew I’d need at least that many again to make my random wanderings coherent.  I equate this with buying an unfurnished home. You get my meaning. And don’t even get me started on window treatments!

I cleaned it up, connected the dots, put in everything I had…1458 words. 4:05 AM. I went to bed for marination and, presumably, sleep. [No, marination is not a euphemism for sex! It’s my subconscious working the story.]

Sunday was Red Pencil Day—or, more accurately, Red Hatchet Day. I love editing. I’m one of the weird ones, I know, but I love cutting and honing and economizing [Ha! you’d never know it from this blog post!]. But day-umm, this one was rough. One-third of the words went into the garbage can. It’s pretty hard to entangle two people romantically in such few words, especially since my favorite part—and I’m guessing, yours too?—is all that delicious unresolved sexual tension. But I got that sucker down to 992 words and here they are!  I’d love to know what you think! Also, see how much more fun the teaser pictures are with ROMANCE [hot dude] vs. HISTORICAL FICTION [Torah]? ‘Nuf said. Enjoy!

[SPOILER ALERT: We advanced to round three, and you can read about that here!]

*

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

The last noise James MacSweeney wanted to hear as he shook the formula bottle over his wrist was the clang-clang of the driveway chime. The customer can wait, Mac fantasized—until he remembered the pile of bills.

Mac cursed and scooped the newborn into his palm. “Sorry, girl,” he said, descending the staircase to his shop with quick but steady steps.

“Hello! Are you open?” The voice downstairs grew more demanding. “Anyone here?”

“Coming!”

Mac found the man outside, a dark suit hugging his pacing form. Black wingtips worked the pavement: step, step, pivot. The man’s agitation was positively glorious.

“How can I help?”

“I need—is that a dog?” He peered over expensive-looking sunglasses. “Do you work here?”

“Yes and yes. She’s an English bulldog, and I’m Mac, mechanic-proprietor.” He pointed the plastic nipple toward the red embroidered “Mac’s” on his shirt.

“Stuart Pierce. My tire pressure light came on a couple miles back. It seems I’ve picked up a nail.” Did Stuart know the silver stripe in his tie perfectly matched the monsoon gray exterior of his A4? “I have an important meeting, so if you could just patch me up, I’ll be on my way.”

“Nails are tricky.” Mac crouched by the bulging tire. “I’d have to evaluate the penetration—”

“How long?” Steely-blue eyes bore two holes in Mac’s brain.

“Mounting and balancing a new tire, you’re looking at twenty, twenty-five minutes. If the sidewall’s intact, a patch could save you money and only take about fifteen minutes longer.”

“Longer? Forget it. Just replace it.”

“The good news is I stock these tires—”

“Lucky me.” Stuart checked his phone. “Twenty-five would cut it close.”

“But, as I was about to say, I need to feed this little girl first.”

“Feeding your pet before servicing your customer? Who taught you how to run your business?”

Mr. Fancypants could hold up a suit, but he didn’t know squat about raising a litter.

“True, I’d lose the eighteen-dollar markup on the tire and twenty for labor if you take your business down the road—though I doubt you’d make it halfway to Hilltop riding your rims. On the other hand, my mother will most definitely rip me a new one if anything happens to my little runt here, so no offense intended, sir, but the puppy comes first.”

To his credit, Stuart quickly let go of his customer-is-always-right bullshit. “How long could it take to feed such a little thing?”

“That depends on her appetite, how much gas she takes on, and how quickly her anal glands respond.”

Stuart’s nose wrinkled. “Best guess?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Hmm, what if I feed the dog while you handle my tire?”

“Have you ever bottle fed a puppy?”

“No, but I’m guessing the nipple goes in her mouth?”

Funny guy. “She’s sloppy. Formula leaves nasty stains.”

Stuart switched into striptease mode, shrugged off his jacket, and yanked his tie over his head. Buttons opened, revealing a crisp, white, perfectly filled-out T-shirt. Mac couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn anything that white—or the last time a man had undressed for him.

“You’re not used to taking no for an answer, are you?”

“Nope.”

Mac sighed. “I hope I don’t regret this.”

Stuart answered with a wry grin. “Yeah, me, too.”

Mac led Stuart into the office and grabbed a clean towel from the stash of puppy supplies under his desk. “Have a seat.”

Stuart settled into the side chair. Mac draped the towel across his thighs.

“She’s gonna squirm at first, but she’ll settle down.” Mac lowered the puppy onto her belly. “Angle the bottle like this.” Mac jiggled the nipple inside the puppy’s mouth until she began sucking. “When she’s full, she’ll let go.”

Stuart’s hand snuck beneath Mac’s, gripped the bottle, and batted away Mac’s hand with a playful bump. “We’re fine here,” he said. “Get to work.”

Mac mounted that tire in twenty-one minutes—a personal best for a German car—and rushed back to the office. A lump formed in his throat as he observed the tender scene: the stranger who’d arrived all business and bluster, head dropped forward, his dark hair an anarchy, cooing a stream of endearments to the tiny creature in his lap.

Wildly smitten, thoroughly tamed—man and puppy alike.

“She likes you,” Mac said, his gravelly voice revealing more than he’d intended.

Stuart’s head snapped up. Their eyes locked, honest and raw. “No accounting for taste, right?”

Mac pushed off the wall. “You better get dressed. I’ll take her.”

Stuart clutched the pup as he lifted his right ass cheek off the chair. “Use my Amex.”

“Of course.” Mac dug out the wallet with surgical precision. He ran the card, shaking his head at the day.

Stuart caught Mac’s grin and smiled. “You never told me her name.”

“I don’t name them anymore. Makes me too sad when they’re adopted.”

“She’s up for adoption?”

“Will be in six weeks. Interested?”

“Yes.”

Damn, unguarded Stuart was hot.

“Ever had a dog before?”

“No. Is that a prerequisite?”

“Not necessarily,” Mac said, “but a new puppy can be daunting, especially for someone used to a very orderly life.”

“So, I’m disqualified because my socks match?”

“I’m just being honest.”

“If it helps my case, my love life is a godawful mess.” An awkward laugh followed.

“Sure, I’d say that’s a positive.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d help me fix it.”

“First the tire, now your love life? What’s next?”

Stuart chuckled. “My career, if I don’t move my ass!”

Stuart’s ass moved, all right, and Mac enjoyed every moment from the kitchen window—was it peeping if the person was getting dressed? Mac fingered the nail on the windowsill as Stuart’s new tire triggered the clang-clang below.

The pup snored in her blanket nest, bringing a smile to Mac’s face. “Don’t worry, girl. Daddy’s coming back on Saturday so you can whip him into shape.”

*

Thanks for reading! See you next time…

Round 1 Story
Round 3 Story
Final Round

P.S. – Did you know you can receive blog updates straight to your inbox? Yup! Just enter your email address in the box below and cut out the middle man. This is a no-spam zone! I post to my blog roughly once a month. (Not to be confused with my NEWSLETTER, which is all the current book stuff, sneak peeks, special deals, etc. And you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking on the big open heart at the bottom of this page.)

Flash Fiction

How To Survive Your First Flash Fiction Competition

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Have I already got your minds in the gutter? Tsk, tsk… not that kind of flash! (But I do like the way you think!) Nope, we’re talking about my first flash fiction contest.

Why in the world did I sign up for this?

One day in July, a post about a creative writing competition called the “Flash Fiction Challenge” popped up on my newsfeed. “Writing” and “competition” are two words I usually try to keep separate, although I have had some rewarding experiences writing on a specific theme for Twilight fanfiction contests in the past. [As you might have guessed, the theme is most frequently related to forbidden passion, wildly romantic first meetings, irresistible seductions, first ILYs…]

So, what drew me to participate in this particular contest?

  • First off, the 8-year-old contest is professionally managed by an organization called NYC Midnight, which means entries are anonymously judged by a diverse group of writing and reading professionals. When the judges deliver their rankings, they also share critical feedback on the writing.
  • Second, writers can submit their stories to a private contest forum, where many of us have been busily devouring each other’s entries and leaving review comments. [Of the 2100 contest entrants, roughly 600 of us posted our stories for peer review, so ask me what I’ve read this summer.]
  • Third, short stories are not my typical go-to for reading or writing, but I recognize how much this genre can teach me. A short story is a microcosm of a long story. Every word absolutely counts. You can’t mess around!
  • Finally, I do love a challenge—and boy, did I get one!

So, how’s that going for ya?

At midnight on Friday, July 22, I received an email with my assignment for the next 48 hours: genre—HISTORICAL FICTION, setting—a SEMINARY, object—SHAMPOO. By 12:02 a.m. Saturday, I’d experienced the 7 stages of writing grief: disbelief, panic, regret, resignation, disappointment, panic (again), and exhaustion. By 8 a.m., my situation hadn’t improved, and time was ticking away. I seriously watched the clock in the corner of my monitor. Of the 1,000 word maximum due at midnight the next day, I had written zero words by 2 p.m.

That’s okay, I told myself, you’re writing historical fiction. That requires research. When was shampoo invented? What was happening in the world around that time? Who were the interesting historical figures that might have been hanging around a seminary? And by the way, what exactly is a seminary? [Most people’s thoughts go immediately to monastery, but they’re not one and the same.]

Don’t panic. Once you get going, the story will flow.

You can quit now and not embarrass yourself.

If you’re doing this, you better get started!

But I don’t have a plot!

Yeah, good times. 

It’s all about trust.

At some point, I decided to trust myself and start writing the plot bunny bouncing hardest on my brain. My characters usually reveal themselves to me while I’m writing, if I’m not too tense to let them go, and thankfully, that happened. A trusted writer-friend “pre-read” for me and helped me hone the story, and my trusty editor-friend made sure I had all my ducks in a grammatical row. [Don’t worry, it’s all legit to have help! In fact, I probably should have done more plot consulting early on, but I was trying to do as much as I could by myself.]

So far, this tale has a happy ending. I did, in fact, finish my first flash fiction and submit my story (around 11 p.m. Sunday) to the judges and the forum. The critical feedback has been exciting and illuminating. Not surprisingly, the better writers give the best feedback! Some are veterans at short story writing, but many are newbies like me. Everyone is kind.

If I haven’t bent your ear too long already, please feel free to take a look at my flash fic and let me know what you think! I’ll keep you posted on round two [coming up Sept. 16-18].

*

HONORABLE INTENTIONS

Sweet talk the Torah with a few blessings, and she’ll unlatch her girdle and open her scrolls, but if you want to truly take her into your heart, you’ll have to work for it. And work they did, these fourth-year rabbinic candidates at the Jewish Institute of Religion in New York. The class of 1939 was a motley crew of fifteen men and one woman—the first ever enrolled at JIR, Helen Levinthal. Daughter of an eighth-generation rabbi, Helen could hold her own, even when the Talmudic debate turned to intimate topics.

“We learn in this tractate that shampooing is permitted—”

“Hey, did you hear that, Fisher?”

Helen chuckled along with the others. Boys will be boys.

Rav Stern waited for the room to settle. “Mr. Bromberg, since your vocal cords are obviously warmed up, why don’t you tell us the distinction the rabbis draw between a Nazirite using a comb or his fingers to part his hair.”

“Rashi argues the person using his fingers does not intend to remove any hair, so it’s permitted.”

“And if some hair comes out anyway?”

Bromberg shrugged. “If it wasn’t his intention to remove hair, the action is allowed, regardless of the result.”

A new voice entered the conversation. “So, basically, Rashi would sanction any action as long as one’s intentions are honorable?”

Helen forced her gaze to the page of Babylonian Talmud on the table in front of her, her cheeks filling with heat. She knew full well where Jacob Saltzman was going with his pointed question. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to woo her with Torah know-how. She could have fallen for his sharp intellect and fierce curiosity, but credibility mattered to her. Helen could afford neither the distraction nor the gossip. Her silly crush would have to wait.

A respectful silence descended upon the room. Her classmates may not have inferred Jacob’s motives, but they certainly recognized a “Big Question” when they heard one. Rav Stern tugged on his salt-and-pepper beard, a gesture that always seemed to Helen as if he were literally pulling the answers from his brain.

“Would anyone care to address Mr. Saltzman’s question?”

Helen cleared her throat. “As we’ve learned throughout our studies, much of Talmudic law relies on intent.” She caught the slight pivot of Jacob’s head in her direction and, with it, the beginnings of his sly grin. “However, we’ve also studied examples where intention is not required. For example, if a Jew is forced to eat matzoh against his will, he is considered to have satisfied the commandment. We have to pay attention to both the spirit and letter of the law.”

If Helen had expected her answer to discourage Jacob, she’d underestimated him. He seemed to grow two inches taller in his chair from determination alone. As far as Jacob Saltzman was concerned, Rashi himself had flung the gates wide open. Helen fully expected Jacob would soon charge through, Torah scrolls cradled against his right shoulder.

As it turned out, Jacob waited until the week of their ordination to call on Helen at her Upper West Side boardinghouse. She was summoned downstairs, where Jacob shot onto his feet when she walked into the sitting room.

Jacob’s light blue, cable-knit cardigan was more casual than his usual vest and tie, but he certainly did not seem more comfortable. In fact, she’d never seen him more fidgety. Only his familiar, crocheted yarmulke looked as if it belonged on his body. From the way he studied her weekend attire—a pair of rolled-up trousers and frilly peasant blouse—he seemed equally caught off-guard.

“I hope you don’t mind my stopping by,” Jacob said. “I would say I was in the neighborhood, but . . .” He shrugged, and Helen saw Jacob Saltzman blush for the first time. “The truth is, I wanted to bring you this . . .” He held out a small brown bag with the Grove Drugs logo stamped on the side.

“What’s this?”

“It’s just a little something I probably should have wrapped in fancier paper,” he said with an embarrassed huff.

Helen pushed aside the white tissue to reveal a tube of Lustre-Cream shampoo and a wooden brush. “What on earth, Jacob?”

He swept the pad of his thumb across the bristles of the brush. “I asked the sales clerk if they had a brush that would be sure not to pull out any hairs. She practically guaranteed me this one wouldn’t. You can use it with perfectly pure intentions.”

He was standing too close for Helen’s intentions to be pure, and she strongly suspected Jacob felt the same.

“Thank you so much. I can’t wait to try it tonight after my shower.” The mention of the shower caused them both to look away.

“The shampoo is just . . . I liked the way this one smelled, and I thought . . ..” She imagined him nuzzling the base of her neck, breathing in the smell he’d imagined in her hair.

“That was sweet.”

Jacob swallowed heavily. “I also wanted to tell you, Helen, I know you’re going to make a great rabbi.”

His compliment warmed her, but it didn’t change the reality. “I’m not receiving my ordination. The faculty isn’t ready to ordain a woman yet.”

“That’s terrible. You’ve been through all the courses just like the rest of us, and they’ve had you believing, all this time—”

Helen placed her hand on Jacob’s arm. “It’s okay. I have a pulpit for the High Holidays and a few speaking engagements lined up.”

“But I waited all this time to kiss you.”

“You are truly an honorable man, Jacob Saltzman.”

He pressed his lips to her smile, and thus began their own commentary.

Set aside the silver crowns and fancy gown, and for all her majestic trappings, the Torah is a gal with a million secrets to give away.

*

Thanks for reading! See you next time…

Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:

P.S. – Did you know you can receive blog updates straight to your inbox? Yup! Just enter your email address in the box below and cut out the middle man. This is a no-spam zone! I post to my blog roughly once a month. (Not to be confused with my NEWSLETTER, which is all the current book stuff, sneak peeks, special deals, etc. And you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking on the big open heart at the bottom of this page.)

Life, Writing

The Double Life of A Proper Housewife

I can pinpoint the exact moment my double life began: True Blood, S1:E2. Beaten and left for dead, Sookie Stackhouse latches on to Vampire Bill’s gushing wrist and guzzles his life-saving “V” straight from the source. I was grossed out, turned on, and changed forever.

From vanilla to… something more flavorful

I’ll admit, I’ve lived a seriously “vanilla” life. Raised by loving Midwestern parents who instilled a solid work ethic and offered every opportunity, I met my husband at age 17, married at 21, and worked in public accounting before raising two kids in an idyllic suburb of Boston. Please, I’m not complaining by any means, but I was a “midlife awakening” waiting to happen.

Whether hormones or vampires were to blame, off I went down the rabbit hole that led to my secret identity. Cloaked in my invented fanfiction.net screen name, I went scavenging for the longest True Blood—and eventually, Twilight—stories I could find. The more I loved those characters, the more I ached when the story was over. I’d never possess the “real” Edward Cullen or the lovely actor who portrayed him. Heck, I couldn’t even have the “Faux-wards” my favorite writers had created. Hundreds of stories later, it struck me: the only Edward I could control and possess was one I created myself. [I soon learned this, too, was a fallacy.]

Okay, then. I’ll write!

I opened a Word doc, uncaged my feistiest plot bunny, and watched him trounce on my keyboard. So what if I had no idea what I was doing! I was a woman on fire! I wrote my first chapter in a matter of hours [a whopper of a wet dream, because let’s start off with a bang], edited myself [another rookie mistake!], invented a screen name [hello, double life!] and clicked that thrilling button—publish. [With no outline, no second chapter, and not a lick of support.]

Wow! How liberating … until sheer terror set in. 

What if people hate it? Worse—What if nobody ever reads it? With hundreds of thousands of Twilight fanfics online, how would readers find mine, and why would they bother with an “author” they’d never heard of? I somehow collected a few decent reviews, but my new “career” was nothing to write home about.

Finding my unique voice

That first story was PG-13, but after my initial (tame) experiment, I quickly identified my signature theme—Edward Cullen as sexual dominant. It wasn’t a leap from vampire to dom, as many others [you may have even heard of!] discovered, but the genre married a long-standing fantasy with my current favorite character … and I was off and running!

My second fanfiction, a kinky Cinderella-Twilight mashup, caught the attention of a mega-blog. Suddenly, readers around the globe were reading and reviewing my daily updates. L’il ol’ me had fans!

The behemoth of a sequel—over 500k—drew a couple thousand hits each chapter. I turned people on and told their truths and drilled my characters into their hearts. Virtual strangers shared intimate stories, asked my advice [imagine!], and extended outrageous invitations to chat rooms and private scenes. Heady stuff! The earth rumbled again, splitting the chasm between my halves even wider.

My two identities pulled me further apart.

“Secret me” stole increasingly more of the total. I’d bolt from bed to computer most mornings and write furiously as much as the day and night allowed. Less sleep, more double espresso vodka. Thousands of strangers knew more about my secret fantasies than anyone in my “real life”—with one important exception—my husband. He’s read [almost] every word, accepted and supported my obsession, eaten cereal for dinner when he couldn’t pry me from my keyboard. No need to pity the erotica writer’s husband though. *wink*

At times, my secret threatened to burst out—no more so than on the day my tennis teammate asked me if I’d heard of “this Fifty Shades book” [formerly the uber-popular fanfic that helped inspire my kinky trilogy].

My “OH SHIT” meter hit a solid 8.5 out of 10. What were my country club people doing in my secret world?

Five years into this, my “real life” friends and family members know (generally) what I write and understand why I don’t send them my stories, but I’ve inadvertently hurt feelings by holding back pieces of myself. A pout usually accompanies the predictable, “I like sex, too.” Sure, but what if I tell you my best piece is a Male/male BDSM story? 

How do I share enough without handing over the keys to the castle? What about professional colleagues? My husband’s? My kids’ friends? Is it fair to toss my skeletons into their closets, too?

On the flip side, most “Twihards” don’t know my real name, even many I’ve met at conventions. Much like my most recent protagonist, a closeted MLB pitcher, part of me is always shrouded.

The seams between my two selves are fraying.

“Alternate me” feels awfully familiar these days—giving back through writing and creating meaningful interpersonal connections—while leaking a little more adventure into “real life me” every day. I’ve met fellow romance enthusiasts from online friendships spanning the globe, introduced myself to strangers as a writer *gasp*, and struck up a wonderful friendship with the two gorgeous—and also talented and brilliant, by the way—men adorning one of my book covers!

Here’s the thing—I’ve written a manuscript, and I hope to publish under my real name [see byline]. Is it sexy? Heck yes! Life is sexy, especially when you’re Cupid! I’d love to share this book enthusiastically with both worlds because I am tired of leaving half of myself behind. Wish me luck, and please, try not to judge that buttoned-up auditor scouring your books … she might just be the author behind your favorite bodice ripper!

[Note: This piece was originally published in July of 2016 and reposted at Living the Second Act in October of 2018.]

*

P.S. – Did you know you can receive blog updates straight to your inbox? Yup! Just enter your email address in the box below and cut out the middle man. This is a no-spam zone! I post to my blog roughly once a month. (Not to be confused with my NEWSLETTER, which is all the current book stuff, sneak peeks, special deals, etc. And you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking on the big open heart at the bottom of this page.)