Losing My Vocal V-Plates

The first piece I wrote for Vocal was called The Squinch. Here it is:

I'd come out of a long spell of not writing very much at all (don't ask how long), so I was very rusty. I knew it.

Vocal had a Little Black Book challenge which enticed me in with its nice-sized prize pot. (I don't remember how much, exactly, let's just say enough.) I didn't expect to place, but it was good motivation to at least try.

I sat and stared at a blank page for a while.

Come onnnn. This is easy. I used to be able to write easier than shitting.

It was hard. I think that is clear from the finished piece. At least, it is to me.

The "little black book" in my story feels very shoehorned in. That's because it is.

When I started, I already had a picture needling away in my brain-hole.

A woman sitting in her flat. It's modest, but nicely turned out. At least normally it is - today, it's a mess. Things broken and overturned, glass on the floor.

I don't know where that picture came from, but from experience I know that the best way to deal with it is to write it. I'd use this picture, make a story out of it, and drop that little black book in there somewhere. Easy, right?

What had happened in that flat? Had someone broken in? Who was the woman? Who had trashed the place? Why?

I didn't know the answer to all these questions at first. If you've played computer games, you know how the things get clearer as you get closer. No that's not quite right, is it? The scenery doesn't even exist until you draw closer to it. Your presence is the catalyst that makes it take shape. Your eyeballs conjure it into being. That's how a story often works for me. It's not always vivid from the beginning (sometimes it is). I just have to jump in, make a start, go along, making sure to explore the side quests a little.

There's something missing from this one. It lacks me. It lacks heart. I wanted to be anonymous, and on some level that probably held me back from really using my voice.

When I write, I make a gash and bleed on the page. That's not to say it always pours out easily (sometimes it doesn't). But there's always something of me in it. There has to be, or it's no good. An offering, a sacrifice. A little death, to bring the piece to life.

Not this one. Here you can see me sharpening the tools and wielding them clumsily. I'm having a go, but I shy away from making that cut. Wouldn't want to splash me everywhere. Nobody wants to see that.

Like many first times, it had a lot of potential. I was excited. I was nervous. But when it came right down to it, I fumbled through it and then just hoped I'd performed well enough. Maybe if my first piece had not been for a challenge, it would have been easier to relax and just enjoy it a little. Just a little fun right? Nothing serious. No strings, no pressure.

I decided to write about how people will fuck each other over, especially for money. Not to say that's a bad thing or a good thing... but it is the thing. People do it all the time. I liked how real my characters were to me when I wrote it, but I've never been sure I portrayed them well enough.

I liked the idea of the corruption that attaches itself to large sums of money being made manifest as a creature, with coins for scales, and greedy talons to grip you with. Like a dragon.

Does it work? I'm not sure. This insertion of a fantasy creature into a mundane tale about human relationships and concerns - is it just a weak metaphor after all?

I think I am better now than I was then. I'm a little braver. Writing is still daunting. But it helps to remember nobody else cares that much most of the time.

I sit with an idea, let it brew. I lean into my voice. I make the cut.

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