Upon death, you decompose.
Previously, you were composed.
A composition.
Something pieced you together, note by note.
Each note placed just…so.
A part of the symphony.
You were orchestrated.
Are you an echo?
Perhaps a variation on a theme.
Will anyone hear you?
At best, you are a sonata of unknown duration.
Noted.
It’s a very small story for an organization with a very big purpose.
And I’m more proud of it than all my other publications combined. The stories, the poems, the novel, the magazines, the anthologies are dear to my heart, but The Market at Night for StoryShares.org is imbued with a purpose that rests at the very center of my heart.
StoryShares.org’s mission is to bring books and reading to those who, for one reason or another, have been denied access to the magical, transformative world that nestles within the printed page.
For me, reading at an early age wasn’t merely enjoyment.
It was survival.
Today, as an adult, I know I have Asperger’s syndrome. But growing up, all I knew was that making friends was a skill that eluded me. When the rare, treasured connection of companionship did come along, it wouldn’t last as long as I’d wish. Friends would fall away with distance or time or their frustration at the odd disconnect that characterized relationships with me.
The hell of Asperger’s is that you can know you have it, but you still can’t recognize it. The brain is just hard-wired differently and, to usurp a phrase that is over-used, you are what you are.
Reading was my survival skill. Escape into different worlds, lives, situations. Books would never think I was strange or different. Books opened areas of the brain that might otherwise have remained closed.
That’s the gift StoryShares.org endeavors to bring to those who have yet to be enchanted by reading. The present waits for them to unwrap it. StoryShares.org tries to make it so enticing that they can’t pass by without taking a look.
The Market at Night is the winner of the 2021 Story of the Year, 50 States Award.
It makes me proud, but more than that, it makes me hopeful.
Reading is too enormous a gift to be left on the sidelines.
I am grateful to be allowed to help invite non-readers into the ranks of the enchanted.
I would say more, but I am speechless.
Seeing my story officially for pre-sale (with the correct cover image this time!) at Barnes and Noble is beyond anything I imagined.
I have no words…
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sara-when-she-chooses-cat-jenkins/1127073094?ean=9781945805653
I signed the contract.
My book, “Sara When She Chooses,” will be published.
The process begins and I’m a sponge eager to absorb every step, because this! this! is what I’ve been hoping, dreaming, working toward.
It’s a strange sensation; a combination panic and anticipation. I really want to work. My literary energy is foaming and fomenting. At the same time, I want the luxury of staring at each step and memorizing it, wallowing in it. I’ve had years of rejections and have learned to appreciate them as sometimes inspirational, sometimes instructional, but mostly as proof to myself that I don’t give up. I’m proud of my incessant head-banging on publishers’ doors.
One of the most important lessons I learned was that sometimes the work is rejected because it’s not done. Revisit. Revise. Don’t be afraid to cut and abandon. You created this thing. It lives inside you. Nothing you do to it on paper will destroy the source from which it came.
You’ve got more in you.
In my own journey, I’ve been asked to submit a brief bio and photo…(visions arise of the nod to the writer contained on the back flap of most dust covers, or the last page of most paperbacks).
I’ve been asked to think about what I’d like to see in the way of cover art. This engendered an internet foray, shamelessly pirating images to try and convey my ideas to the publisher’s illustrator.
I realize I’m about words, but not pictures.
Then came the marketing questionnaire. A weighty list of queries delving into hitherto unexplored areas. What bookstores and radio and TV stations are in my locale? What questions would a reading group enjoy exploring in relation to my book? How would I describe my work to someone interested in buying it?
I realize I’m about words, but not salesmanship.
I begin to realize how much I need the expertise embodied in the publishers, Bedazzled Ink and its subsidiaries.
For a moment, my brain…shifts. This is real.
My life is in the hands of my publishers and then, if all goes well, in the minds of my readers.
It’s a feeling unlike any other. I won’t be the same person at the end of this process. I’m kind of scared.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve been obsessed lately with the difference between telling a story, and showing it. So…some vagrant thoughts on a dull and dreary day:
Tell: A melancholy day
Show: Silver laces the canopy of green. Rain shoots down the leaves like tiny prison bars. This maple tree, ancient and immense, is no match for the vast, heavy lead of the sky.
Tell: She is a writer
Show: A single tear leaks from one corner of one eye. Cradled within it are the words that will never coalesce; words whose pressure builds to a vacant explosion. Stories everywhere. But she cannot tell them all.
Tell: Her words hurt him.
Show: When she had finished her tirade, he felt slow awareness of a spot of damp on his chest. His fingers quivered a path upward, but stopped short; afraid of dipping into his own hearts-blood.
Tell: My cat has me trained.
Show: Evil, yellow slits track my progress. Or maybe they are counting the welter of red scratches on my ankles. Feline amusement. Also, a warning. I change direction and head for the kitchen where kibble and cans await. She is hungry, and I am running out of bandaids.
Consider the simile.
The simile can be a thing of beauty. It can strike a respondent chord in its audience, both illuminating and inspiring. Used to effect, the simile is like a grace note, adding a touch of richness and life to the overall musical score.
I’m a big fan of the simile, so it cuts me to the quick when I find it wantonly abused. This doesn’t happen often, because most writers have an innate simile-sense. They can test and taste and savor and know when they’ve hit the proper target; when the chemistry is compatible; when the simile zings and flies.
But some writers feel obligated to overreach the simile’s simple purpose. They imagine themselves dazzling the reader with hitherto unperceived comparisons that melt away boundaries and elevate communication to a newer, higher art.
More power to them, because, usually, they fail. They become so entranced with their own words and labored imagery that they force the simile into place with all the finesse of a jackhammer. Such was the case in a book I only today finished reading. The author was working in a decidedly Gothic arena, but was flitting between two disparate timelines. It was ambitious; not totally successful, but palatable. Or would have been except for her slavish inability to write more than a few sentences without feeling the need to bolster her efforts with a simile.
An awful, inappropriate, misguided simile.
For instance: “Momma [was] buried beneath the soil like a broken butter dish.”
Eh? Am I the only one who hasn’t embraced the practice of consigning ruined crockery to the ground? Who takes a broken plate or bent fork out to the back yard and digs it a grave?
Strike one.
And then, at the apex of a particularly emotional scene wherein the heroine realizes her family secret: “…the disparate parts are coming together like bits of a space station locking soundlessly in airless black…”
What the…? Remember, this is a tale written in a very Gothic atmosphere. The space-age imagery was so jarring, it became comedic for me. Instead of aligning myself with the heroine and participating in her turmoil, I was laughing at the writer’s strained effort.
Strike two.
And finally: “…the past dropped over her like a lobster pot…”
That did it. My chuckle became a guffaw. I suppose I could have googled ‘lobster pot’ and tried to discern where this simile was meant to take me, but by then…
…Strike three.
I considered the book a lost cause.
In retrospect, it reminded me of Brechtian theatre where actors suddenly address the audience, make eye contact and explain, the purpose being to snap everyone out of being passive observers and jolt them into a different level of thought and participation. But this wasn’t live theatre. It was a book; a book rife with similes that grasped and labored and went off-track with tedious, and then comic regularity.
So, please, let’s all try to respect the simile. Don’t force it. It’s a marvelous tool that should strike a respondent chord…not one’s funny bone. At least, not in most instances.
And now, I move onward…like a dog scooting its rear across a newly waxed floor…
She follows me,
a slinking, silent presence filled with expectation.
Her coat is dusty.
She’s been rolling in dead leaves,
rubbing her skin against pavement and stems.
She itches;
a pleasure that will turn to torment with age.
A black ghost, a shadow.
I offer food, water, play, affection.
Green-flame eyes bore into mine.
Stupid human not to understand.
They are everywhere.
She is near the end of her life
and her world is thick with spirits
I can’t see.
Yet.
The weather is savage.
Wind churns the bay into frothing whitecaps.
The waves batter against the bulkhead with force that resonates through the cottage’s foundation. Two feet of concrete seems like a flimsy barrier upon which to depend when salty droplets pepper the windows.
Leaves and pine needles fall before the gusty assault, turning into missiles that sting the flesh, scoring it with reddened welts.
You feel small and mortal and anxious before such force.
It’s the perfect start to Halloween weekend.
To make it even better, the online literary journal Goreyesque has published my poem ‘Ogre’ in their Halloween edition.
http://www.goreyesque.com/cat-jenkins
Always a fan of the subtle, sublime, and unsettlingly brilliant author and artist Edward Gorey, I am honored.
Once again…
…Happy Halloween…
A raging beast, the disease came back.
At the end her memories rose to the surface,
effervescing.
A champagne distillation of her life.
Words halting and slow.
‘City lights,’ she said. ‘I saw them
like a belt of stars against the night.
Do you know, I could find their echo in the streets…
Fairy lights twined through iron balconies
like a giant’s brush of glitter.’
Her eyes closed.
‘Smiles. I never realized I’ve seen so many…
so many…
Do you know, thinking of them makes me feel warm…
in here…’
A decimated hand touched the hospital gown
over her heart.
Eyes opened, so earnest.
‘I think the most precious thing is trust.
I used to think it was love, but…
Do you remember the rabbits I found?
How the mother let me help her babies?
That wasn’t love. It was trust for love’s sake.’
Her words grew fainter.
‘Maybe it was born of love,
but trust comes first.
I’m going to miss all of you.’
For the last time, lids lowered.
‘I’m going to miss weather.
I hope there are storms…’
She left us
with the image of a woman
raising her face to taste rain and thunder.
Dear Outlook.com,
Hello there, my old friend.
We’ve been together for quite some time now, haven’t we? Long enough for me to overcome my trust issues and learn to lean on you. Long enough for me to rely on you, making you the guardian of some of my most precious information.
You know…things like email correspondence with agents and publishers…contracts for the work that’s been or is going to be published…critiques and encouragement that mean the world to my shriveled, degenerate writer’s soul.
You know…all the stuff I crammed into a custom folder with the unoriginal title of ‘Writing.’
You know…all the stuff that disappeared today.
I can’t tell you, dear Outlook, how thrilled I was to find a completely different program in your place when I logged in after lunch. That’ll teach me to take a midday break, I guess.
But…back to you, the star of this love letter.
Can you imagine that ‘special’ feeling I got when I realized my old friend had been transformed into a cumbersome, lumbering, inelegant troll?
I bet you can’t.
Do you know how great it was when I tried seventeen times to access the live chat Help Desk only to find you are now so buggy, you cut every attempt off as soon as the chat begins?
I bet you don’t.
Can you imagine the rage of loss that had me considering legal action for the wanton destruction of years of accumulated information?
I bet you can’t.
Do you know how much fun it is to now have to employ numerous mouse clicks and maneuvering where before one click sufficed?
I bet you don’t.
So thank you, dear friend, for a day devoted to panic and anger.
It’s special times like these that remind me how much you care. We are so in sync, you just know you don’t need to warn me.
So, thank you, dear Outlook.com. After that heavy cup of yogurt for lunch, I really needed that shot of adrenaline to get me through the rest of the day. You know…the reaction to finding years of effort…gone.
No, I bet you don’t.
And you wonder why so many writers become raging alcoholics.
Cat Jenkins 
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