The never ending question.

I feel this post has rambled a bit from where I originally started.  Originally I wanted to share my story.  But then I realized my story seems to small and insignificant.  It is not so much my story as where this story has brought me.  You are more than welcome to skip this post, or read here and there as you will. This is my story of that day and my feelings toward what I can and cannot remember.  This is not just about not forgetting, our stories will forever cement that day in our social consciousness.  

Tomorrow marks the ten year anniversary of September 11, 2001 and the question flying both on that day and every anniversary since then seems to be: where were you?

In the ten years since this event, I've answered this question a hundred times and have dissected my actions a million times.

That September I was a teenager, running full throttle through the first full month of school.  Concerned, I'm sure with theater auditions and homework.  In the ten years since the day, I've tried to piece together what I remember.

To put it simply I was in school, walking down a the hallway from my core classes to the gym for PE.  Whispers flew this way and that, snip-its and snatches of what might have happened.  I ignored them.  I didn't have time to get the whole story, because I had ten minutes to get from one end of the building to the other and change for class.

The moment I stepped into the gym--on time--I received my first piece of information.  My teacher asked for a moment of silence because someone had blown up one of the Twin Towers...

...the next thing I can remember is later that afternoon, I was sitting in my babysitter's car (because my parents were supposed to be flying out to a conference--which didn't happen) waiting in a long line for gas.  That one moment on a hot Kansas afternoon sticks out as a lonely island in a sea of obscurity.

I don't know what happened on that day.  Or the events I do remember do not fall into any sort of chronological order.  Even me walking down the hall is the one shining moment before the world changed. I have tried to recall the events from the rest of the that day.  Attempted to bring up feelings or even when I finally got the "real" information.  But for me it's a very large span of time of convoluted emotions--the most prominent of which was fear and confusions nips at fears heels.

I can remember crying and I can remember wanting to see my parents.   I can remember talking to a friend, and the exact placement of furniture in the living room of my parents house.  They bob to the surface briefly and sink back down without any real regularity.

As I'm certain most people in my age group have done, I've recounted this story in a number of classes dissected it for every reason my teacher could want.  But the thing that always frustrates me is my inability to relate the whole story in a way that makes sense.  All that remain are what my script teacher calls "gleaming details."

At least once a year, I pull these details out and sift through them, trying make sense of what happened (then and now) and each time I come to something different.  This year for me it's the loss of time.  The fact that the one day that changed my world, is a day I really can't remember. Do I blame myself, no.  I was thirteen. The mind is just not meant to meant to hold onto those details and I didn't write any of it down.

We come together to share our stories about what happened to remember a day that for many of us will never be forgotten.  This is where I was, and where I go I will carry my stories and the stories I read with me.  They will teach me, hold me and haunt me.  A year from now I wonder where will I be and what will I find among the gleaming details next.

The question I feel that always goes unasked is this: this is where we were on 9/11, where will we go next?  We will always remember, the sheer number of stories being shared is a testament to that, but how will we honor those whose stories stopped that day?

The first time I remember pushing back against the fear was the summer of 2002.  My parents had planned a trip to Washington DC long before what happened on 9/11.  They wanted my brother and I to experience A Capitol Fourth.  We flew out to DC on the 4th of July 2002.  I remember my mother telling me that if I let the fear of getting on a plane keep me in Kansas then the terrorist had done their job.

The initial fear, I feel has morphed, with the new regulations at airports, racial profiling, a war.  We've changed.  And not always for the better.  But not always for the worst either.  Every year we take steps forward and back, but the tally will never equal a time before the fall of 2001.

How will we change the world again?  How do we go forward remembering the tragedy but striving to change to make the future better as a way to honor those who died?  Going forward not with anger or terror, but the small details in our daily lives.  How will your own stories challenge you to change?

Turn Ons

Okay, so before you all think my mind is in the gutter, hold on for five seconds--or five sentences....

Last night on #writersroad chat (for those of you who don't know what this is-- it's a tweet chat held every Monday at 6PM (PST).  It's crazy and a ton of fun!) we talked about taking your writing serious.  Now, we can create habits or just smack words down on to the page, but one thing that always comes out is what if I just don't feel like writing.  If I'm not in the mood, so to speak, should I write?  Because I'm sure it'll be crap and I'll delete it tomorrow.

Now add in me also reading a romance novel last night and it got my brain thinking..... well like other things in life, can we manufacture the mood to make us want to write?

This morning I woke up early--like a whole hour before my alarm.  I thought about laying in bed until my alarm went off then I had the following conversation with myself:

Tiny voice in my mind: Girl, you wanna be a writer, get your butt out of bed and go write.

Me: uhhhhh....no.

Ting voice: No, I'm serious!  Write.  NOW.

Me: I don't feel like it.  Maybe later? Like tomorrow?

Tiny voice: You could make coffee and then write.

Me: Did someone say coffee?

Tiny voice: Yes and music you could listen to that music you like...

Needless to say I hauled myself out of bed and sat down at my computer.  For a moment I stared at the screen.  I don't write in the morning...like EVER.  I didn't really even feel like writing this morning.  Mostly my brain, I feel just isn't in it's fully functional creative state.  But thanks to Tiny voice, I was doing just that.  So to put myself in the mood, I provided something highly caffeinated, music (to inspire me) and my computer spit out some words.

And nothing happened, I really wasn't feeling it.  But when are you going to find the time? Tiny voice popped in and clearly it didn't get the hint to shut up so it continued, If not now, when?  I go to school and it's picking up work wise, and I gotta prep for NANOWRIMO (my brother's going DOWN...again).  So I put on some music that always screams my story to me and got to it.

By the time the first song wrapped, I was feeling in the mood to write.  In forty-five minutes before my alarm went off I got just under 800 words (and most of them aren't too shabby).

So how to you get yourself into the writing mood? Can you pull it out of thin air or do you wait for it to strike?

Flash-itize me, Captain

So it's the first challenge of the campaign writers and readers!  Rachael has challenged us all to you know write a short tight little piece of fiction.  The challenge as most of you know (because I read your blogs) is a 200 word short that must begin with the words "The door swung open."   I have problems sometimes keeping things small and well, not complicated.  But I think I have managed this.  Hopefully you like my flash fiction.

The Trouble With Glass Slippers

The door swung open releasing me into the night.  A sharp edge on my slipper catches on the fine carpet of the stairs.  The jolt sends me into the marble bannister, searing my blood soaked dress to my skin.

My step-mother constantly informs me I am too impatient, she wants me to learn control.   Washing floors and cleaning house are not my idea of control.  If anything it bred within me the need to prove my skills.  She has no faith in me, preferring her offspring over me.

This assignment wasn’t supposed to be so messy.   The mess has been trained out of me, all I know is slick and silent ways to kill.  I know how to sneak up on targets and divest them of life before they are any the wiser.

Boots pound on the terrace above me.  I don’t suppose I could hope for a clean escape after that escapade.  Who knew a body could hold so much blood or fight back when it had lost so much of it?

I yank at my foot but the chipped glass is caught fast.  I slip off the offending slipper and sprint for freedom.

Wells readers that's it...you can tell me what you think or just read for enjoyment. (And if you'd like to vote/like it I'm number 126) I'm looking forward to popping around to all of the other blogs.

10 Things You Might Not Know.....

Okay so that's a little misleading, because most of you (most of you campaigners) have never met me or communicated with me on a regular basis. But as a get to know you game (because really name games don't work on blogs....they just don't.) So in no particular order here goes ten random things about me, Gretchen Schreiber.

10. I can do a thumbs up with my toes (yes there is a 90 degree angle created between my big toe and the other toes)

9. At one point (like college freshman year) I wanted to be a pediatric oncologist.

8. Number 9 did NOT happen and I am currently getting my masters in film at a kick ass school (yes I am accepting film rights...but be warned I have no money with which to pay you for them. So we'll need to do a Stephen King.)

7. I feel I should mention this, but if something I write seems off it might be sarcasm....actually it's probably sarcasm....

6. The scariest thing I've ever done was throw a book at a doctor's head....yes, I hit him...it was a high fantasy book....I apologized A LOT.

5. I watch way more reality TV shows than I should.

4. I grew up in a state where the only thing that can catch the horizon is the plains....this is a place also known as Kansas. I kinda like it there.

3. Research intrigues me, especially in subjects like war and fairytales....both of which I've written/am writing about.

2. I have a basket that looks like a duck and it holds my favorite writing block solver, a toy called "tangle." Basically, you can twist turn pull through and it never tangles.

1. I drink Pepsi out of my Santa Clause Coke glasses.

There you have it folks, ten random things from my life. Also bonus fact, I seem to love the ellipsis...

Also, Dystopian people I feel we should talk, or do something....cause we're in a group....and you all seem awesome (also you campaigners in general are awesome)....yeah.

You Win, I Win.

Perhaps the most important thing I have learned thus far in graduate school is the title of this blog. "You win, I win."

In the arts it's so easy to get jealous of people, really quickly. Critique partners, writers you follow, new comers who you think might be better than you....the list goes on. They get good news and at least I know I sort of fall into the black pit of I-am-no-good-I'll-never-get-there. They make it look so easy and I just can't seem to put two words together. But I know that is not true. I know that I am totally more than what my brain is telling me.

So jealousy, meet someone who is smarter and brighter than you. I talked to a friend about this who had some help from another friend who we both feel is a better screenwriter (I'm a film student people, I write more than novels). His comment was if you do well that is a reflection of me. So you do well, I do well by association.

This is a business but it's also about people. In fact, like most businesses it depends on people. The only way to get through all of the craziness of the publishing, film, or arts business is to support each other. Because when your critique partner does well, you do well--because you helped them get there. In turn, they will support you on your way to being published because your success is a reflection of them.

Join the party...

So in this nebulous we call the internet, I feel that meeting people and you know finding blogs to follow to be a job in and of itself.

Luckily, there are some great people out there who are all about connecting writers to other writers (I like those people...and you should too). So Rachael Harrie over at Rach Writes is doing this awesome thing she calls The WriteCampaign---perhaps you've seen the twitter hashtag?

Join the campaign and meet some other people who are like you, they blog, they write, they're looking to meet people who are awesome like them. :)

Link: http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/08/third-writers-platform-building.html

Can you pitch and tell?

So I decided to enter a pitch contest, why, because I think it would be cool. You can try this too! Visit here ( http://chanellegray.blogspot.com/2011/07/pitch-contest-with-victoria-marini.html ) for all the details.