Here’s another flash fiction story I wrote during one of my recent practice writing sessions:

by Linda Jo Martin

Daisy ran across the road into the park, glad to get away from the city streets. There she found quiet tranquility in the center of a frantic city, the place where she’d been born, were she she was raised, where she has had always lived.

She made her way to the baseball field. It was empty, deserted, peaceful. She let herself in through the rusty metal gate and walked to the dugout where she could sit in the shade and enjoy a few minutes by herself. Ah, the scent of freedom - a brilliant orbed, blue skied, grass under the feet kind of expansive freedom that comes from a lifetime penned in by huge buildings and asphalt byways.

Daisy mellowed into the joy of aloneness, and relaxed for the first time that day. Between the stress of her job at the grocery store and her crazy, distressing relationship with Arden, she rarely found time for herself, but that was to change, she’d decided. She reached into her pocket where she’d hidden her treasure - a bus ticket to a small town in Idaho - a place she’d never been to where Arden would never think to look for her.

She smiled slightly, and looked out at the ball field as two children came in through a gate on the other side of the field. They had a big red ball with them, and started tossing it back and forth. She watched them wishing she’d had an easy relationship with Arden where both of them had equal rights and an opportunity to toss things back and forth, where neither felt downtrodden or afraid to speak. But that wasn’t the way it was. Her practical side forced her to shrug off the useless thoughts. By midnight she’d be gone along with her savings account, enough for her to live on until she found another job. It was time. It was freedom from Arden and from the dusty city and the tiring job, and it was way too late for remorse.

Remember this always: when you get a rejection from an editor - it isn’t personal. It isn’t about you. Manuscripts get rejected, not people, and there are dozens of reasons why that happens. Here are a few of the most common:

1. A rejected manuscript is most likely wrong for that editor or agent. They have preferences. They are looking for that one gem of a manuscript that will jump out of the slush pile right into their hearts, and say, “Take me, I’m yours!” Every other manuscript gets rejected no matter how skillfully done, fascinating, or amazing. Sorry!

2. Some manuscripts get rejected because they are formatted wrong, or because something an editor or agent expects isn’t included in the submission. For example an editor may have writers guidelines saying she wants three novel chapters, a query letter, and a synopsis. If she gets the wrong number of chapters or no synopsis do you think she would reject a manuscript regardless of its other merits? Of course, she probably will. She wants to work with an author who can follow directions. Sorry! Try again!

3. Suppose a manuscript really is pure nonsense submitted by a person who hasn’t developed his writing talents yet. The only cure for this is to keep practicing. I will serve as your example here. I’ve been writing novels for seven years, but haven’t submitted one yet because I wanted to improve my writing and editing skills. All this time I’ve been learning about what makes novels great, and what publishers need. I don’t want to submit junk novels - I want mine to be excellent in every respect, so I’ve been revising one for the last six years as I struggled to learn all about the editing process. I’m getting ready to submit my first novel manuscript which was originally written way back in 2001. So now I’m writing this blog post to remind myself (and you) that if the manuscript gets rejected, it’s not personal! If you believe your lack of writing skill is a reason for rejection, take time to keep practicing - there’s no dishonor in that. Sorry! Write some more!

At one time back in the 1980’s I planned to publish a poetry journal. Before long I was swamped with submissions. I was flooded with them. I was unprepared for the onslaught. I couldn’t manage the workload, and none of those poets got published by me because I gave up on the project before it got started. It wasn’t their fault they didn’t get published - it was mine. It wasn’t personal! I didn’t even know poetry writing was all that popular at the time. That was back in the dark ages before the internet came into being.

More recently I worked as editor of Happy Camp News. I established the news site in 2001 and sold it recently after seven years as editor, news writer and owner. I would have loved to get more submissions, but those few I did get sometimes didn’t get printed. The problem was the editor’s lack of organization, time, or money. It wasn’t personal! In a perfect world, I would have published them all.

So please, when you submit your work, follow instructions carefully and try hard to target the right editors and agents. But if the answer is ‘no’, don’t take it as a judgment against you.

It isn’t personal!

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” - from the Kristofferson/Foster song, Bobby McGee

When what you have to lose is writer’s block, inhibition, or fear, believe me - you can do without it! Kick that feeling of hesitancy out the door and write anything you feel like writing! Who is looking over your shoulder anyhow? Don’t you know that everything you write is subject to revision later on? Why hold back on the first draft? This is our opportunity to let it all hang out!

Use colorful language. Swear in writing if you want to. Use wild, outrageous adjectives like splendiferous, or hugeamungus, or abstractious. Why not make things up? Why not brighten the world with new words? We wouldn’t even know the word supercalifragilisticexpialadocious if some creative writer didn’t have the guts to make it up and write it down.

You know who your biggest censor is? It’s your own internal editor. That’s the first line of defense against increased creative expression. Your inner editor will get to you every time before any professional editors ever have a chance to go over your work.

If you want to grow as a writer, one of the first things you need to do is to kick the internal editor to the back of your brain. Tell that critic to hush… until it is time for a revision. Your first draft does not need any criticism. It only needs your full range of free expression. It needs word freedom, and thought abundancy.

Allow yourself to write down whatever comes to mind. If you find yourself hesitating, move past it. Refuse to back up and change things, and if you write longhand, don’t cross things out. That should wait for the revision.

First drafts are for literary play.

If you’ve forgotten how to play, take an hour to visit a children’s playground and sit on the swing for a while. Meditate on that. And remember that you’re allowed to have fun, to leave your cares and worries behind, and to play as long and hard as any child on the block.

You are a free being! You are free! Let your words reflect the freedom of your heart.

I’ve decided to add a flash fiction section to this website. I write a lot of flash fiction during my daily practice writing sessions, and can’t see that I’ll ever have any opportunity to sell it unless I add it to a chapbook someday. In the meantime, I’ll post some of my little stories (500 words or less) here at Perspectives on Writing. Here’s one I wrote a few days ago. The prompt was to “write about something white”.

From the White Light
by Linda Martin
February 26, 2008

Out of the white light, a cloudy, shimmery effulgence, an angelic figure stepped forth. He was clothed in a silky, flowing gown trimmed in shining gold, but there were no wings, so Cassandra wondered if he was a real angel, or only a saint. The man smiled gently, and she shivered, not knowing what would or could happen next.

“You called me forth,” the man said. His voice sounded like peeling, chiming, harmonizing bells going off in her head. “I am here for you, Cassandra.”

“I don’t know what to do.” She felt no fear.

“You don’t need to know. Let me lead you. I know the way.” He took her hand and gently guided her forward, then into the air. They flew together through blue sky looking down at a peaceful green earth. Everything seemed brighter than she’d ever seen it before. Bright, like great joy lit everything from within.

“I just wanted to see,” Cassandra said.

“And now you are seeing.”

“When can I see more?”

“When you know what you want to see.” The man paused in mid flight, still holding her hand, guiding her to a stop in the air beside him. “Your vision is complete, and now you go back to whence you came.”

Cassandra wanted to cry out, “NO! Let me stay!” Decorum prevented it. Instead she felt herself drifting back into consciousness, back to her bedroom where she sat cross-legged before a candle’s golden, flickering flame.

Everyone needs a creative outlet - even those who don’t think they do. It is part of being human. For many of us, writing is that opportunity to share a bit of our hearts with the world.

The writing life begins when a person makes a commitment to write. Most of us who are serious about writing try to write every day. As this becomes a ritual habit, we enjoy the exciting fulfillment of our creative urges when we see the results: a viable story, article or poem. This feels so good, we want to do it again and again.

The daily writing habit can be as simple as writing to a prompt. For me, sometimes the key to working with prompts is to let my imagination run free, feeling loose enough to write down whatever comes to mind. At other times I plan a bit ahead of time and then see where the story takes me. Most of my prompt writing takes the form of flash fiction - stories less than 500 words. 

Prompts give immediate writing practice, and do not need to produce masterpieces. Writing done for practice can be turned into something worth sharing and submitting, but it doesn’t need to be perfect every time. It just needs to be a daily ritual, to help us develop our writing talents. Every creative artist needs to practice, and this is how many writers do it.

When you write to a prompt, it doesn’t matter if you write poetry, a script, fiction, or non-fiction. All genres are good for writing practice. It only matters that you set down your words, crafting them to the best of your current ability. Save your practice writing for later inspiration, for development into larger pieces, or for posterity. But whatever else you do, don’t stress over it and don’t waste time comparing your writing skills to others. Every writer has a different voice. You need only express yours.

The more you write, the better you will get at it. Don’t be afraid to play with your words, using outlandish descriptions and wild dialogue. Remember, if you don’t like the result, nobody will ever have to see it but you. The goal is to be free with language, getting away from any stilted prose, getting closer to the true expression of your inner creative light.

One of my novels is about a girl who lived in the Haight-Ashbury during the sixties, so I regularly do research on everything having to do with the hippie movement. The novel, Far Out: The Journey to Oblivion…, is one I intend to revise during the next year or two. I wrote it in 2004.

Here are some things I’ve learned through my research, added to personal recollections and perspectives:

The hippie movement started in the Haight in the early to mid-sixties. (We who have been associated with that location generally say Haight rather than Haight-Ashbury District.) At that time many young people moved into the neighborhood because it provided cheap rental opportunities. A college student could rent a room in a flat there for $25. Because so many young people gravitated to the area, a community spirit came into being that included community newspapers and other shared creative experiences.

The movement was, at its inception, a creative movement. The spark of creativity sent showers of bright brilliance into the hearts and minds of hundreds of young adults there, causing artists, musicians, writers and others to be empowered to bring forth amazing creative works in a massive inner-community sharing. This light was seen by others, and many were attracted to it. At that time the movement was still young and pure.

Then the media got hold of the story. They degraded the movement by emphasizing the role of drugs (marijuana and hallucinogenics) and free-love (promiscuous sex). Plus the message of “love everyone” was added to the media version of what the Haight was about. All this served to attract thousands of young people from around the country, who flooded the neighborhood in search of. . . . something. Perhaps some came for the drugs, others for sex, others for the joy of participating in a movement where everyone was loved and shared love. But while they enjoyed the creative works of the founders of this revolution in human thought, they did not, for the most part, share or understand the creative spark that got it started.

I was one of those that found the Haight after it had already been changed by the media. At the time I was a teenager living across the Bay, in Richmond. My father always subscribed to the San Francisco Chronicle so I had access to all the early articles that brought attention to the neighborhood. At some point in early ‘67 our family drove through the Haight just to see what it was like. There were thousands of young people milling about on the streets, newspapers being sold, and other than that, I mainly remember the outlandish clothing and happy faces. Later that year a friend of mine wanted to cut school for the day and go to the Haight, and I agreed to go with her. It was a memorable day, and more of the same. I thought it was all beautiful; I saw no fault with it - but I was only fifteen that year and couldn’t remain a part of it.

My recent research revealed that at one point all the marijuana and LSD became unavailable for a few weeks, and then heroin flooded the area. It must have been intentionally done, by someone, somehow, for some reason… to further destroy and degrade the movement. Most of the people who started the movement were long gone - often to communes where they could continue what they’d started and live in peace with people who shared their values.

Only a few years later I was 18 and moved to the Haight after spending the summer working in a cannery in Santa Cruz. I met the man who would become my first husband the night I got there, and later we lived together in a room at the back of a flat at 1649 Page Street. That was on a block that was one of four that surrounded the infamous intersection of Haight Street with Ashbury Street.

By the time I moved there in 1971, the Haight-Ashbury was dead. Most of the happy faces were gone and a few distressed-looking drugged out street people remained. The head shops and poster stores were all boarded up. Only the Masonic Cafe survived at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and down the street there was a small store selling handmade soaps. Compared to what it once was, the neighborhood was depressing! A saving grace was the proximity to Golden Gate Park, and that’s where we spent a large part of our time. The park was and is a magical, joyful place.

Years later I watched The Beatles Anthology and heard George Harrison make a disparaging comment about the “dirty” street people he’d seen during his one visit to the Haight-Ashbury when it was in full bloom. A few days ago I mentioned this to a high school friend who said he’d literally bumped into George while he was there. I was surprised my buddy agreed with George’s assessment, since I tended to see only the beautiful aspects of what was happening, and ignore the negatives. So I’ve done some analysis of what those comments are based on. I believe George was looking for spiritual enlightenment within the Haight’s community, and that he arrived way too late. He may have sought out that original creative spark that motivated the early artists and musicians, but instead found the massive assault of wannabes who flooded the area looking for cheap thrills and that ever-elusive “something”, and love.

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My last article in this blog (Be God-Like; Create Beauty) may have come off a bit religious-sounding, but it wasn’t meant to be religious… as a matter of fact, my spiritual understanding of the universe is nothing like any organized or formal religion I’m aware of. I wrote that in a moment of cosmic consciousness … in my notebook, right before going to sleep the night before. It was something I felt so strongly I wanted to share it with all of you - and it served another purpose in getting me to write in my blog again, something I hadn’t done since I finished my last NaNoWriMo novel in November. Maybe that was MY creative spark. It felt like a writing epiphany… and though I may not see “God” as being the same thing many religious people believe He is… I do remain a believer in the Great Spirit as the supreme creative conscious force bringing benevolent joy into our lives.

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My character in Far Out: The Journey To Oblivion… is a 100% fictional teenage girl who lived near where I lived in the East Bay Area. Though her life is far different than mine was, I drew on my personal experiences of having lived in the San Francisco Bay Area during the 1960s. A lot of what my fictional character experiences in the novel may be my wild fantasies of how I wish things had been for me. Other parts of the novel would have been a nightmare for anyone… but that’s the way it is for fictional characters. You have to make them suffer to make them interesting at all.

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I’d like to hear from others who experienced the Haight-Ashbury and who have additional information or opinions they may want to share, whether they agree with or differ from mine. Please write to me by leaving a comment to this post, or by using the ‘contact’ link in the left-side column of this blog. I like blog comments better so please do that unless you need the privacy of an email.