Saturday, June 16, 2018

Encouraging Your Fellow Creatives: Why Your Words Matter


Last week, I was in a large conference room with about seventy other writers, actors, and creatives. We had come together as a part of a local playwriting conference, and were getting ready to be assigned into groups to write and produce ten-minute play in the next three days. This was my third year, and it was as amazing as ever. The conference is especially special to me because it was the thing that lead me to the theater. But looking back, I realize that this conference is also a significant mark in my writing journey. 

The first year, the playwright who came to speak to us encouraged me to keep to writing. Her encouragement came at a time when I needed it, and I left the conference with something important. She’s remembered me each year, and each year, I’ve come away from the conference with some advice or encouragement to consider. 

This year, I went up and talked to her after the conference and thanked her for her encouragement and told her how much it meant to me. We talked for a bit, and one of the things that she said resonated with me. 


That as writers, artists, actors, musicians, and creators, it is our purpose not only to create, but to encourage others to create. 

Because we know the struggles. We know the feelings of imperfection and the toiling hours of trying to get this one line or this one chord just right. We know the joy of seeing your character or your poem stand up on its own or the fear that it will never be good enough. We know how the ideas come at crazy times and waking up in the middle of the night groping for a piece of paper or a recorder. 

We know it all. We’ve been there, and we’ve felt that. And these experiences make our encouragement invaluable. 

As their brother and sister creatives, we can speak from experience - because we’ve been there and we got through it - or just from relating to them - because we know their pain and we can sympathize. 

Praise and encouragement from you can be so meaningful because you have authority in the creative world, believe it or not. You have a journey behind you that tells a story. You have the authority to tell the young little hobbits “I think you have the pluck to succeed on an adventure.”

You, my little Bilbo telling stories around the campfire - can’t you remember being a wide-eyed little hobbit-ling and having someone give you that piece of encouragement? Praise about your music might be more valuable when a music teacher or artist gives it compared to your little sister. And praise from you, the hobbit who has been on real adventures can mean so much to a person who needs it.  

You as a creative can remember that piece of encouragement that helped you on your journey. You know how powerful your words can be - why can’t you use them to help others? 

Encouragement can come in so many forms. It can be talking to a person, pulling them aside and telling them how much you liked their work. Leaving a comment, or a review of their book. Constructive criticism. It can be a “Great job” or a like on Facebook. Anything that says “Hey, you. I see you - and I like something of what I see. Keep it up.” 

You don’t have to like everything about their work. You don’t have to like anything except for the fact that they tried, sometimes. Because it costs you so little - and it can build the community so much. 

So today, I repeat what this playwright told me, and I encourage you: when you see a creative struggling, stop if only for a moment and pass on some of the encouragement that you have received. Because as creatives, we need to help one another, because we are the ones who can understand and who can pass it on. 


Thursday, June 7, 2018

All for a Sip of Hot Chocolate // The Penprints Flash Fiction Dash



Flash fiction has always intrigued me. Being able to make an audience feel or being able to capture them in your words seems to be ten times harder when you have so few of them. So when I saw that Rosalie Valentine was hosting a Flash Fiction Dash, I was intrigued.

The Flash Fiction Dash is a challenge where Rosalie gives you either a picture prompt or a words prompt (I can't remember if I chose a words prompt or picture prompt, but since I got an image file with words on it, I'm guessing it was a words prompt), and you write a story from that prompt in under 1,000 words. Here's my prompt:


When I saw the prompt, I was so excited because - guys, it mentions Shakespeare. The theater geek in me was over the moon. I wasn't originally going to make the story actually about theater, but this little sprite got ahold of me a few months ago and has been begging to actually being put down on paper. The prompt had his personality written all over it, so after a lot of resisting I let him run with it. And here's the product. 


     “Hello?”

     As I walked onto the middle of the stage, grasping my thermos of hot chocolate, it felt like invisible eyes were scrutinizing my every move. When an actress is alone onstage, she is meant to be stared at. Now, with no one there to watch me, it felt as if I was defying the rules of theater - or like some unseen person was watching me after all.

     When Uncle Alex said to let myself in through the stage door if Max was late picking me up, I’d thought it would be simple. Stay out of the cold, wait for my chronically-late cousin, and leave. I just didn’t expect my uncle to be serious when he warned me about ghosts.

     Three minutes after I’d settled myself at the edge of the stage and opened my thermos to warm up, the first crash came. I jumped, almost spilling the hot chocolate on myself. Something had fallen, somewhere backstage.

     I got more unsettled as three more things crashed in the next three minutes. When the speakers above me unexpectedly screeched with feedback, I let out a small scream, and looked around wildly.

     “Who’s there?” I tried to sound brave; but no one answered. I took a deep breath, then took a sip of chocolate to calm my nerves. Max couldn’t be much later, and I could leave.

     My heart was still pounding when the speakers screamed again and something landed at my feet with a clatter. One of the whiteboards that Uncle Alex liked to use, with writing on it. Can I have some chocolate?

     Someone was watching me. My nerves, the shivering, building mass of them that were threatening to overflow, snapped a second later when another whiteboard came flying from nowhere - Pretty please?

     “No!” the words escaped me before I could think. “No, you sneaking, wide-eyed, cowardly sprite - I’d let you turn to ice cream before you’d get some!”

     The echo hung over the auditorium, which seemed to scream its silence back at me. And then -

     “Shakespeare would be proud.” The voice came from above me, and I froze.

     It continued. “Maybe. I mean, I don’t know him personally.” I inched my head up, and almost screamed again.

     Sitting on a beam high above was a boy hardly older than me. As I watched, he stood - and hovered roughly twenty feet in the air. I could almost see through him.

     “But I mean - poisonous bunch-backed toads, cream-faced loon - the guy’s a master of insults. I think yours fits right in.”

     He floated between the rafters, not even looking at me. He spied a board on the scaffold across the stage, and a wicked grin appeared on his face.

     The crash the board made when it hit the ground was only half as loud as the beating of my heart.

     The thing turned around, laughing. “Did that scare you, little g-” Blue eyes met mine and his smile faltered. The theater must have gone silent again, but my heartbeat could have been magnified in the hall for all I knew.

     Then it spoke again, a slow smirk forming on its face. “You can see me.” When I didn’t move, it floated towards me. “You can see me, can’t you?”

     Eyes wide, I nodded.

     It let out sudden whoop that made me flinch, and did a flip in the air. “I knew it! Finally - someone new to talk to. You have no idea what a bore Alex can be-”

     “What are you?” Again, the words tumbled out unplanned.

     It - he - cocked an eyebrow at me, unfazed. “Well, every good theater needs a ghost, wouldn’t you say?”

     I stared at him, unable to connect the dots. “You’re a ghost.”

     “Spirit, haunt, spook, monster, devil, handsome - whatever you want to call me. But yes, I’ve been called ghost most often in the past ten years.”

     I remembered my uncle’s warning. I’d thought he was joking. “Ten years?”

    He glided over to me and sat down, cross-legged. “July 14th. Car crash. Screech of tires, metal and - boom - end of Theo Lancaster. I wake up here and barely anyone can see me.”

     “I’m sorry.” My heartbeat was starting to return to normal, and I relaxed a little.

     He waved his hand. “There’s worse that could have happened - and apparently I don’t age, so I’ll stay handsome forever!”

     I laughed, then cocked my head, studying him. “Were you an actor here?”

     Theo nodded. “Nine shows in a row. But I’ve learned to do pretty much everything backstage now. Too much free time.”

     “Do you still act?” I motioned at the empty stage. “I mean, you have the whole theater to yourself.”

     He shrugged. “Not really. What’s the point of acting if no one can see you?”

     I didn’t know what to say to that, and sipped my hot chocolate. Then I glanced up at him. “Well, you have an audience now.”

     He stared at me. “You want me to act?”

     “Why not? It’s not everyday I get to see a theater ghost perform.”

     Theo eyed the thermos in my hands. “I was serious when I asked for hot chocolate, you know.”

     I laughed. “Alright, you can have some. But I get to see you act first.”

     “You’re bribing me?”

     I grinned, and held thermos in front of him. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

     He glared, but grinned as he floated to his feet. “You’ve known me for less than an hour and you’ve already found my weakness.” He took a position in the middle of the stage. “My performance is dedicated to the hostage hot chocolate.”

     Anyone else would have thought I was alone in the theater. They wouldn’t be been able to see the performance of a lifetime. 


     Overall, I had so much fun writing this, and I think that it was a great exercise. I'm generally a rambler and struggle to stop myself from writing just a little more. This story was no exception: at 951 words, I'm just there at the 1,000 word limit. But the challenge was so much fun, and it definitely made me want to explore flash fiction some more. 

What do you think? Have you ever written flash fiction before? Are you interested in writing some now?