Collaborate to fabricate

Collaborate apparently is the one "ate" word that isn't in that one song by INXS. (I asked the computer. It told me so. The song's Mediate, by the way. At 98 we all rotate. Etc. Now try to get it out of your head. JUST GO AHEAD AND TRY.)

I'm new-ish to writing collaborative fiction, but thanks to Indianapolis literary guru Bryan Furuness, we currently have a project up at Ninth Letter along with writers Andrew Scott and Matthew Simmons. The premise: what would you do if you had use of a time machine for a day? I immediately loved the idea, feeling as strongly as I do about time travel and the potential mechanisms for such.

We all wrote our own contest entries for the Tempus Fugitive (c), which Bryan then assembled and submitted to magazines. In addition to corralling writers from across the land, Bryan also has been published by Ninth Letter's print edition, and his story, Man of Steel, will appear in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2010. How cool is that? The answer, my friends, is very.

Check out all of the above if you're so inclined.

True confession time

Our confessional culture finally has come up with something more genuine than slickly scripted reality television "reveals," and it's coming to a stage near you. It's Mortified, a chance for people to dig up their adolescent writing, art, and media, then perform it on stage. It is described as a "comic excavation." Motto? "P.S. It Totally Likes You." There is a not-small part of me that wants to get on that stage and start telling about the time that I...um. I can't even say it. I AM STILL TOO EMBARRASSED.

So maybe "Mortified" is out for me. Still, confessing holds an allure and appeal. But I perhaps most enjoy the distancing mechanism of confessing lies: that is, writing fiction. In my fiction writing classes, sometimes we play the game Two Truths and a Lie. It's a first-week ice breaker, and each student tells three things, one of them false. But they're not allowed to reveal which is the lie -- at least not until the end of the semester. My point in playing this game is to show that it doesn't really matter what's true and what's made up, so long as it's convincing. Some students become madly curious to know the truth, and will try to ferret it out of the guy in the next desk. And sometimes that guy realizes it's a little fun to withhold, to build suspense around a great reveal. Also not a bad lesson to learn if you want to write fiction.

I always play along, too: it's no fair (or fun) to sit back and let students do all the work. I try to change it up each semester. This was one of my favorites, mainly because of the wild rumpus of a reaction from my students:

1. I was kicked out of Brownies in third grade.
2. I sang lead vocals in an '80s cover band.
3. I once was able to dead-lift/squat 225 pounds.

None of these things are mortifying, though, at least not to me, which is why I share them here. For true mortification, I need only return to my journals from junior high, high school, even college.
Plenty of writing, bad drawings, notes and letters from lost friends and lost loves. I rarely read them these days, yet I keep everything stored away in basement banker's boxes and Rubbermaid bins. I am a fan of preservation, not to mention containers and containment policy where confessing is concerned. I am also a fan of boxes with lids.

Maybe you are braver than I, or more of a confessor. By all means, have at it. Because even if I don't want to share, I completely want to snoop.

It's September! Please remember...

IN
Rhyming, but not stealing
Homemade decaf chai lattes
Reading soul-crushing allegories followed by lighter office romps
Being Prepared, a la the Boy Scouts
Toast. Yeah, toast.
Drafting something new: it's done when it's done
The new happy


OUT
Stealing, but not rhyming
Almost all caffeine (sniff)
Self-diagnosing at Big Al's Internet Health Source/Tackle & Bait Emporium
A whimsical "Que sera, sera" attitude
Page/word counts as measure of progress
The old sad