Category: Chris’ Writing

William Safire’s Rules for Writers

Remember to never split an infinitive.
The passive voice should never be used.
Do not put statements in the negative form.
Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be by rereading and editing.
A writer must not shift your point of view.
And don’t start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
Don’t overuse exclamation marks!!
Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
Always pick on the correct idiom.
The adverb always follows the verb.
Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

The Fine Horizon Underfoot

“Look,” he said as he pointed at the distant lake shore where the early-morning mist lingered, depressing the plump tangerine lines of sunlight on the placid surface water. She turned and looked as they walked through the dew-covered bluegrass. “Indistinguishable,” she said. “Which would you choose?” He stopped them from going further and placed his arm on her shoulder so that his finger tips could caress her collarbone. And he pulled her slight frame closer to his, and leaned his head against hers. “I will always choose you, and then, while both will remain indistinguishable, it will not be from one another, but from life without you.” His eyes welled with tears because his eyes often welled with tears when he let his mind wander to the future – to what he would or would not receive from her – to dreams of dreams coming true – to the moments he’d never choose to miss, but sometimes would because that’s what happens when life is folded in two or multiplied by half. “We are, and forever will be, standing on a fine horizon underfoot.”

Written from 7:30 pm to 8:00 pm on Wednesday, February 15th, 2012 in my office in Traverse City, Michigan.

OneWord: Adopt, Maze, Clue, Flirt

Adopt: We learn to adopt at a young age. Oh, wait, scratch that. I was thinking that you said, “adapt.” Well let’s adopt a new direction to this post and think about it for a little bit before we get ourselves in more trouble.

Maze: The fog set in and our pace quickened. “We’re going the wrong way,” John said. “The moss on the tree indicates we’re going south. Camp is north.” We’d been hiking for three hours and none of us knew where north was, let alone camp. I kept thinking that I could smell Lindsey’s cooking – camp roast, mashed potatoes, and caramelized carrots – but my mind was playing tricks. Edna tripped on a root, and screamed. My head whipped around to see the commotion. As the maze of hysteria set in midst the evergreens, taller now than their fading shadows, a discord . . .

Clue: “I have no clue what she wants for Valentine’s day!”
“Really? You have NO clue? I barely hang out with you two, and, man, I can tell you she’s been dropping hints like they’re the sun setting in December.”
“Well.”
“Well, nothing. Get your ass to the flower store, make a reservation at Amical and think of something interesting to talk about for an hour other than golf clubs. And get the bracelet at the jewelry store downtown – the one in the window.”

Flirt: She flirted with me like it was her middle name. Like it was the sun. Like there was a bookshelf full of books and a fresh pot of coffee. Like a dog barks at cars. Like when a President of the United States of America dies and there’s a special report on TV. Like she is something beautiful captured in something cold – like a ripe red cherry in an icicle. Like she was being graded by God. Like her parents weren’t watching.

Summer Shandy

He was sitting on the porch near the shadow of the gazebo, rocking on the coiled-wire hinge of his deck chair. The August sun was waning as evening – and with it dinner – approached. He allowed himself to let his focus blur as he took a long pull that finished the bottle of Summer Shandy he’d been nursing for the past half-hour. The waves of Lake Michigan and the sandy shores had called it a truce for the day, and were in the process of retreating to their front lines. And then the baritone grate of the sliding door jostled him upright in his chair, and as he slowed the pulse of his rocker she said, “dinner’s ready.”

Written from 6:40 am to 7:00 am on Thursday, February 9th, 2012 at home in Traverse City, Michigan.

The Daily: Big Moose Lake

Then again he went down to the frozen waters of Big Moose Lake to see if he could be seen. And when he determined that he could not see or be seen, he returned to the lean-to of branches he built against the uprooted base of a fallen pine tree. He knelt, in the shelter, and placed his hands on the mesh of smooth stone, tangled roots and dry dirt. He looked up, listening, and heard only a pair of aging hardwoods, aroused by the breeze, necking in the distance. It was a polka-dot Heaven through a thatch-work quilted evergreen ceiling. And he breathed deep, as if to pull the stars a millimeter closer. For the companionship of the reflection of a friend’s face that might be found in a faraway moon. For the warmth of a stranger’s hug that might reach for him on a meteoric thundershower of a little bit of love.

Then he lay down on the earth, cleared of snow, his head resting on a pile of fir branches he had gathered many hours ago. His nostrils stung of pine and his ribs pressed hard through his flesh against the frozen ground below. There was little he could do now, but look up, keep his eyes open, and dream of being found.

Forever, he thought of escaping, and now – here in this wilderness that was so brutally foreign – all he wanted was the familiar, generic, daily routine he had left behind. He started to softly sing:

It’s a world of laughter, a world or tears
It’s a world of hope, and a world of fears
There’s so much that we share
That it’s time we’re aware
It’s a small world after all

It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small, small world

There is just one moon and one golden sun
And a smile means friendship to everyone.
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It’s a small small world

This is a 20 minute story, which means I wrote it in roughly 20 minutes. I’ve done this before, and you can read those entries here. This entry was originally written from 10:15 am to 10:45 am on Sunday, January 15, 2012 in the clubhouse at Stokely Creek Lodge in Canada. I revised it on January 17, 2012. It was inspired by nordic skiing in the Canadian wood, where there were many lakes and fallen-over pine trees. The lyrics to “It’s a Small World” were added at the last minute, probably from a subconscious need to lighten the tone of the vignette. At play here is a desire to escape the routine, yet the fear that if or when that is accomplished that there will be nothing there. That it will be for naught. And in realizing that, to recognize the fullness of the present.

The Daily: Write On The Lines

Sam sat on the ledge of building 400 on his college campus. He had kept a key after being a physics TA during his junior year and made his way to the roof when he needed mental space. Sam felt like he was on top of a great pinnacle. An old fashioned modern marvel of plate tectonics, steel beams and brick thrust up from the center of something much larger and much older than he could ever dream of being in any one of his many lives to come. The rough edge of the red brick corner cut into his leg as he leaned back and gazed up, over campus, and at the bright stars and blacked-out moon.

The exposed night was what the little town on a ledge had to offer. And it seemed that the harder he tried to look further into space at the stars, the more he was overcome with memories of the past four years. His first physics class in an auditorium below. Mooning that same class, somewhat inadvertently, as his demonstration of centrifugal force went horribly wrong. Playing poker all night and the incredibly solid feeling of a futon mattress at 9am. The laundromat and gravy omelets.

For awhile, he tried to think of a memory for each star he could see. He sat there on the edge and carefully wrote them down in a notebook. He dragged the blue ink of the ballpoint pen across the smooth white paper – between the light blue lines – and he thought that so much of life had to do with staying close to the lines. That he could wander a little. And he did by writing a page of memories on the lines.

He had done so much, and had so many dreams to come, that there was no way it would all fit between, on or around the lines in the rectangle on his lap. He stopped remembering for a moment. He looked down past his flip-flopped feet at the silhouette of a graduate still wearing her cap and gown. She was laughing into her cellphone and waving her arms sporadically. It was a welcome disruption.

This is a 20 minute story, which means I wrote it in roughly 20 minutes. I’ve done this before, and you can read those entries here. This entry was written from 10:13 pm to 10:45 pm on Wednesday, January 10, 2012 in my home office in Traverse City, Michigan. It was inspired by a the sticker on a Cutie clementine that I ate this morning. The sticker read, “Win a college education” and I thought it would be interesting to write a story about a young man that went to college thanks to citrus. However, as is often the case when I start writing, where I think I will end is not where I actually do end. Thank you for reading.