Peg Kerr's Journal

Today, for the first time in over twenty years, I sent out a short story for an editor’s consideration. It’s almost humorous how proud of myself I feel.

The story is called “The Hall of the Muses.” I wrote it in the hopes that Greg Ketter would take it for his anthology on bookstores (eventually published as Shelf Life), but Greg decided to pass on the story. I always thought it deserved a home, though, so I had a few writing friends take a look at it to suggest markets. And today, I sent it off. Given recent events in Minneapolis, it feels oddly topical.

Good heavens, I feel old. The last time I sent out a short story, I had to send it on the mail and include an SASE.

I will be reading the story aloud at a meeting of the Rivendell discussion group this Saturday (via Zoom). It’s one of the “Readings From Rivendell” series, so there will be other readers. Check out the invite on Facebook here to learn more. (Edited to add: I dunno why that Facebook hyperlink isn't working, but here is the link: https://www.facebook.com/events/736244700529880/).

mahoney started a journal thread about first lines of novels; so have been thinking the past hours about beginnings of stories.

One mistake that beginning writers often make is equating writing with sculpting marble with a chisel. Make one slip of a chisel and damn! You've broken off the arm, and the statue is ruined. In reality, working at the beginning of a story is more like starting up a potter's wheel. How much clay should you put on? How wet should it be? What the hell are you making, anyway? You don't know at first. You just play.

[Note: I say "beginning writers make this mistake" but I have to remind myself of this truism constantly, too. My inner critic is really too vociferous at times for my own good.]

I always have a file called "the dump file" that corresponds to whatever story I'm working on. It's just another file window I keep open. Whenever I've written a sentence, and I know it's not quite right, although it's close--but it annoys me to look at it, I stick it in the dump file. For some reason, my dump file is always "thickest" at the very beginning of a story. I really flailed around when I was trying to figure out how to start my first book, for example. The dump was about seven pages long before I got to the sentence that I actually used to start the book. (I remember Joel Rosenberg's acidly good-humored remark at the writing group critique session on the first draft of that chapter: "So . . . she sits around for a bunch of pages watching a sunset. I dunno, Peg . . . could you have possibly started it any . . . slower?)

To show you what I mean: Here's the dump so far on the story I'm working on now. (Note: I have removed all the swear words in the dump file. There are a lot of them--swearing at myself, I mean.)

The old school bus lurched alarmingly as the driver maneuvered slowly around another hairpin turn, and I caught Doug Olmsted's eye as

We saw

The trail up to Drop Point-9 meandered in a series of switchbacks ending in hairpin turns that climbed steadily up Rocky Ridge until we were high above the tamarack tree line.

I would have felt better about the old school bus that our strike team had been assigned if it hadn't lurched so alarmingly on the hairpin turns as it climbed slowly up to Drop Point-9. The veterans didn't seem to be bothered, so I tried to

The school bus rolled into the fire camp at 1800 hours, three hours after we were initially expected

We arrived at the fire camp at 1800 hours, and although our Squad

The scenery would have been beautiful, but the air was thick with the pall of smoke

"We'll be arriving at the strike camp at 1800 hours," Mike Hoigaard said.

By the time the lurching bus had rolled us into the fire camp, the sun had sunk low enough that it was impossible to see much of the view

Our bus lurched into the fire camp at about 1800 hours. The sun

What the hell am I doing?

What I want to do is to talk about how they arrived at camp. We arrive at camp. The initial impression is of activity, but everyone has something to do. Mike, our Squad Leader goes to check us in and get our assignments. We think that maybe we'll be spiked out, that is, sent out into the wilderness and supplied by air drops. The camp is surrounded by tamaracks and mountain holly.

Everyone needs to check in with the Medical Liaison.

How come? We signed all our forms

There're more forms. This is a phoenix call.

I can't write this *($(#@*! story. Why does it seem so impossible? I don't know the *&#@(! problem

scorpions in the boots

I jerked awake as the school bus lurched and groaned, winding around yet another hair pin turn. Doug Olmsted nudged me in the ribs and pointed out the window. "Check it out." Peering out the window, I saw a Douglas fir torch

>>>>

Here's Our Actual Story So Far:

The ancient school bus lurched up the sides of Sharpton's Ridge, following the maze of hairpin turns and switchbacks back and forth along the rugged slope. I squinted out over the canyon and muttered a silent prayer to whatever gods watched over fire bums that the damn bus wouldn't break a tie-rod.

"It's a moneymaker, all right," Whiskey Jack said, nodding at the smoke boiling up above the trees. "Lots of heavy action, I'll bet." I nodded soberly. The terrain looked tough, too, with plenty of boulders and snags among the Douglas firs, and duff baked to tinder dryness by the scorching August heat. Several ridges over, we could see flames crowning, belching up in spectacular torchouts that showered the canyon with sparks.

Up ahead at the juncture of a pull-out road a National guardsman stood, waving to the left, and the bus turned and lumbered up the trail into the fire camp. Another guardsman flagged the bus over to the check in area, and with a last grinding of gears, the engine coughed to a halt. With the sound of the motor cut off, we all could hear the drone of a helicopter, coming in for a landing in the roped off helitack section of the airstrip. The camp looked busy–it was almost chow time at the canteen, so a group of firefighters were milling in a line waiting for their food. They looked tired and grubby, their yellow Nomex shirts smeared liberally with red fire retardant mud.

The driver of the bus exchanged a few words with the guardsman, handed out a piece of paper through the window, and accepted a square of cardboard back which he stuck in the front windshield. "Everybody out," Mickey, our crew leader said. We all piled out, dumping our PG packs into the dirt.

>>>>

So: you see. I like the beginning of what I've got pretty well, but I've gone through a helluva lot of flailing around to get there.

Note: at this point, I don't intend to post any more of the story publicly as I work on it. Assuming I finish it, I'll be concentrating on trying to market it. I'm just including this bit here as an illustrative sample of the process of "feeling out" a beginning.

Peg

P.S. If anyone has read Growing Up Weightless by John M. Ford (Mike Ford) and understands the ending, e-mail me, wouldja? I'd really like to know.