Scribbling the Price of Admission

I’ve read the story carefully and, Frances, I’m afraid the price for doing professional work is a good deal higher than you are prepared to pay at present. You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, when you have none of the technique which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell.

This is the experience of all writers. It was necessary for Dickens to put into Oliver Twist the child’s passionate resentment at being abused and starved that had haunted his whole childhood. Ernest Hemingway’s first stories ‘In Our Time’ went right down to the bottom of all that he had ever felt and known. In ‘This Side of Paradise’ I wrote about a love affair that was still bleeding as fresh as the skin wound on a haemophile.

— Letter to Frances Turball from F. Scott Fitzgerald
November 9, 1938

Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.

365 Challenge Question: To Post Daily or Weekly, That is the Question

So what say you all? Should I post a story or poem when it's done or save them all up for a Tuesday posting of the week's work?

Story from Inferno, Take 2

“Dowse and Bleed” came in at about 7600 words of first draft. It left me wrung out and ready to kick the whole thing into whatever promised to take it away—which, in this case, turned out to be my email. I sent it to my beta, who promptly told me to dig deeper, do more, let her see it from the inside out, not the outside in.

I’ve made a fine art of the outside in. Here we go again. Scrapped the whole lot, opened a fresh doc and am pulling from the old as needed, and I see her point.

Rachelle waited until the restless aches dancing through her upper body were outright pain before she finally forced herself to quit making endless cups of coffee and fished a mottled green star out of the embossed pink tin she kept on the granite kitchen countertop. She stripped off her overshirt and held the star to her left arm, braced herself, and pressed the needles on its back into her arm and into her main carrier fluid vein. A light twist—which hurt, but she didn’t wince—secured the star. She could feel the space for her carrier fluid expanding, allowing the wash of genetic entries in her system to head for her central nervous system without making her want to scream.

She leaned back against the open dark wood shelves, which she had stuffed with spices, baking supplies, and potted vegetables. Dishes filled the shelves above the counters, and she kept an open cooler by the telephone. She picked up her coffee—the whole apartment smelled of it—and drank the rest slowly, shifting from one bare foot to the other on the heated tile floor.

Three years ago, cycling didn’t hurt. She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about the fact that the Department never would go away for her or about the look in Sear’s eyes six months ago when she gave her another box of stars, arms covered in blood from doing something they should never had had to do.

Rachelle set the coffee mug in the sink and washed it, ignoring the way the water irritated her skin as she scrubbed harder than was necessary. Over the splash of water and ceramic, she heard the phone ring and glanced up towards where it sat on the higher coffee bar counter. Only a handful of people could keep hold of her revolving number to call. She never answered.

The answering machine clicked on. “Rachelle Winslow. Leave a message.”

Her birth name in her own voice jarred her. It wasn’t her name. She drew the mug out of the sink, turned off the faucet, and set the mug in the sanitizer to dry.

“It’s Ilsa.”

Killinger.

Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.