'accessible' isn't a dirty word.

http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2009/10/reverse-snobbery-of-low-literary.html

if you haven't yet visited nathan bransford's blog, do so immediately. don't even read my entry, just hop on over and save him to your favorites. go ahead, i'll wait.

the linked post is particularly interesting because the question's come up more and more often for me. i'll pass it in my internet browsing, my newsstand browsing, my eavesdropping on people browsing in the bookstore. . . you get my drift.

the barrier between readers who read for entertainment and readers who read to be challenged feels flimsier these days, and that's progress in my eyes. good writing should do both. the growing number of literary stories involving genre aspects is a sign of hope for the reader formerly stodged in character study and dry-rot drama. the higher quality of published writing on the genre shelves can only help raise the overall level of brain engagement in the average consumer. or, the average genre book consumer, anyway. i can't help the guy who reads nothing but the occasional menu or stop sign.

but i've had issues with a strictly academic approach to fiction writing, and have historically leaned more in favor toward writing for fun and profit, falling into that reverse snobbery trap nathan discusses. i've had a recent shift of heart. i'd say it was an epiphany, but i think it was more gradual than that.

good writing is good writing, regardless of the label. i'm in love with the idea of writing a literary genre novel--one which embraces both action and character, transformation and juicy, shiver-inducing shadows. if i can accomplish what i hope i can with my stories, i can offer up a smorgasbord fit for anyone who appreciates a well-told, fun story regardless of labels or shelf location.

okay, except the stop-sign guy. i can offer him a moist towlette for that drool on his chin.

weekly prompt

in my neverending search for inspiring images and writing prompts, i stumbled across this list of top ten worldwide ghost towns. some truly weird scenes, and some haunting (perhaps haunted) places. the town overtaken by sand? wow. buildings held captive by a motionless sea.

http://www.oddee.com/item_96462.aspx

for those who enjoy

being seriously creeped out, visit joshua hoffine's website and try peeling your gaze from his diseased images. vivid, realistic,reminiscent of childhood folklore, sometimes painfully graphic--each one tells a story, and fires up my own synapses in the process.

http://www.joshuahoffine.com/#mi=2&pt=1&pi=10000&s=1&p=0&a=0&at=0

you, too? i know. i know. between this and 'paranormal activity', i think i'm seriously fucked.

and i'm actually prompt this time.

official monday prompt:

i was cruising the interwebs, looking for deals on toed socks, and i found
this-->

http://www.writingforward.com/exercises/fiction-writing-exercises/fiction-writing-exercises-10-fiction-writing-prompts

i like #4 best: "Mom says it happens to all girls, but I think she’s just trying to make me feel normal."

but you give the list a gander, see what floats for you.

official monday prompt!:

Halloween costumes—well, any costumes to an extent—hold promise and escape and fantasy within them. The idea we could be someone else for a little while is enticing, particularly if that person is especially wicked in some way we don’t allow ourselves to be. I found this interesting tidbit regarding costumes:

“Although popular histories of Halloween claim that the practice goes back to ancient celebrations of Samhain, in fact there is little primary documentation of masking or costuming on Halloween before the twentieth century. Wearing masks and other disguises and blackening the face with soot were originally ways of hiding oneself from the spirits of the dead who might be roaming around. This is the origin of Halloween masquerading as devils, imps, ogres, and other demonic creatures.” (courtesy of http://halloween.monstrous.com/halloween_costumes.htm)

I love the idea of hiding within the monstrous. Loads of potential there for a story, don’t you think?

fiddling with scenes

i thought i'd post a scene i've written for a class i'm taking, not for any particular reason except i've realized i rarely post any of my actual writing. i admit, i'm hoarding most of it in hopes of someday getting it published in a paying forum, but i like this scene and thought you might, too.

(if you're a scribophile/writing.com buddy of mine, you may have already seen this one. :))


Buried Alive


Brady stomped the stegosaurus action figure along the mattress, its mouth pausing at my breast for a quick plastic lunch. He made a sputtering, chomping sound as he ate.

“Is that really how dinosaurs sound?” I grinned as the figurine made its way to my hip, following the curve in its ungainly exploration.

“It’s how I’d sound, if I were a stegosaurus frolicking with a beautiful naked chick.”

I giggled and tossed the toy off the bed, rolling on top of my boyfriend. Nose to nose, we breathed each other in before we kissed, my hair a curtain surrounding us to keep out the world. We heard screams outside in the dark and ignored them. Nights were quieting down, but they still found a few during their hunts; those who had chosen their hiding places poorly.

Brady and I had found an abandoned underground bunker in the city park. Everyone knew it was here. Heck, the town had memorialized it with a plaque and ceremony after World War II. Kids played on the sloped mound every Sunday afternoon, and then raced down to the swing sets as they waited for their fathers to finish grilling hotdogs. Or, they used to. Weeks ago.

We were surprised we could get in, assuming the monument would be cemented shut, or the entrance blocked off with rebar at the least. A few swings with the sledgehammer we'd found in a neighbor's garage, and we were in. We got lucky. Luckier than our families, and we didn’t think to find them until we were locked in and the feeding started in earnest. Then it was too late. We'd had to jerry-rig the door shut, wedging a stout branch against it from the inside, but so far it held.

A metallic banging broke into my reverie. I realized I’d been staring off into the dark again, leaving Brady to stroke my back and wait. The banging grew insistent.

“Hey! Open up!” A man’s voice, pitched high with fear.

Brady slid me over and covered me with the wool blanket. He sat up. “Who is it?”

A pause. “Brady? Shit, that you, man?” The man murmured something we couldn’t make out. “It’s Joe! Joe Shrike, from city works. C’mon, dude. They’re gonna be back around in a minute or two. It’s me and Molly out here. Chuck’s gone. They got him last night.”

I fumbled for his hand, finding and gripping it in mine. I hated opening that door. Even knowing people were dying out there, eaten alive by the infected, I couldn’t make myself do it.

He shook his head, the movement telegraphing down his arm, and released me. “Babe, I have to. What if they get killed because we don’t let them in?”

“What if we all get killed because you do?”

He stood and pulled on his sweatpants, and walked to the heavy steel door, listening. “I can’t live with that. We gotta try to stay human, right? Try?”

I clutched the blanket to me and bit back a protest as Brady opened up. Night air swept in, breezing over me and letting in the moonlight. God, trees. It’d been days since I’d seen them. Two figures blocked the doorway as they entered, and then Brady swung the door shut. The bunker felt smaller, now. Even breathing felt like an intrusion, we were so close to each other. I hoped the ventilation system kept working.

“Nat? That you?”

I nodded and sat up. “Hi, Joe. Molly. Sorry to hear about Chuck.”

They didn’t say anything, and I felt guilty for mentioning him off the cuff like that.

Brady said, “So, what’s it like out there? You were able to make it across the park okay, I guess?”

I heard them remove their coats and feel around for a place to sit. After they settled on some boxes against the wall, Molly answered.

“You wouldn’t believe it, Natalie. Jesus, but it’s like Armageddon out there.” She sniffled, and then started to cry. “I didn’t think we’d make it here, not when Joe almost got pulled inside Mr. Hanson’s shop. I thought we were done for.”

Joe’s shirt rustled, and I figured he was reassuring her. “It was close, Moll. But we got through.” He paused. “You guys got any light in here?”

“Heh. Sure, hang on.” Brady lit a match and then the lamp hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Firelight danced over us and the bunker, illuminating how small a space we were in, how scared we all looked. “We’re trying to save on lamp oil.”

Joe had dark smears on his shirt, and his hair stood up, crusted with blood. His eyes were hollow, and I thought shock would set in soon. God knows what he saw out there. Molly didn’t look much better, but she seemed to be clean of any wounds. Brady had noticed the same blood I did, and nodded at Joe’s head.

“You okay?” At Joe’s nod, he continued. “What happened?”

Joe sighed, and felt at his hairline with his fingertips. “At Hanson’s. We were skirting by, keeping close to the buildings, when one of them grabbed me outside his door. Fucker woulda got me, too, if Molly didn’t get him in the face first.” He smiled darkly, lifting the fireplace poker that leaned against the box next to his knee. “She kinda scraped me in the process, but damned if I’m not grateful.” His hand shook as he set the iron down. “Have anything to drink?”

Molly stared at him, her skin tight, her eyes pleading. I managed to slide on my tank top under the blanket as Joe recounted their story, and passed a thermos to them. They nodded thanks. They must be exhausted, coming down off their adrenaline high. I wondered what they’d be like after getting some sleep, and suspected they’d be near-catatonic, like we were at first. I opened a can of 1940s Spam and stuck a plastic fork into it, and offered that, too. Amazing how long that stuff lasted.

“We’ve got plenty of food, a good supply of water. What we need is a plan. We won’t last forever in here.” I started shifting boxes to make room for another cot, judiciously leaving off the end of that thought: not with four of us, now. “At least, I bet they’ll last longer out there than we will in here.”

Brady raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not. Maybe they’ll finish dying before long, especially if they run out of food.”

Joe looked dubious and passed the Spam back to Molly after a quick bite. “I don’t know. They’re pretty vigorous out there, and most of the town was wiped out in the first few days. It’s been, what, three weeks now?”

“So, what do we do?” Molly sniffled again, and I handed her a paper towel. She dabbed at her eyes with it.

We all looked at each other.

“Well, Nat and I are doing a hell of a job hiding out. I say we do that for a while longer.”

“Working for me so far,” I said. I tried a smile, but it felt stiff. “We can start serious planning in the morning, after you guys have gotten some sleep. Don’t worry, you’re safe in here.”

Molly and Joe glanced at the door and then around the interior. They nodded. Molly watched him as he laid their coats down on the narrow cot, and then settled against the wall. She lay next to him, the expression in her eyes unchanged, the tension in her face still present. I figured she’d need time to come down, for her body to unclench. I smiled, catching her eye before Brady extinguished the lamp, and for a second I saw raw fear staring back at me. She clung to the edge of the cot, tense as a board, and I wondered if she didn’t want Joe touching her. He moaned to himself, already half-asleep, and I settled back into Brady’s arms on our cot across the small quarters. We’d sort it out in the morning."