Come chat with me!

I’m tweetchatting in support of @ClarionWest #writeathon on Sunday July 27 at 11 AM PDT. Please come talk with me!

The Clarion West Summer Workshop and the Write-a-thon are heading into the final stretch next week. It’s been exhilarating to cheer on the 18 hardworking students in Seattle, and the 263 writers from 11 countries who are participating in the Write-a-thon.

This Sunday, July 27, at 11:00 AM PDT, I’ll be Tweetchatting with the brilliant Henry Lien about Clarion West, writing, and… well, whatever you would like to chat about. Because it’s not a chat without you there! Please join us at hashtag #writeathon for an hour of conversation.

And please consider supporting one of the many terrific writers participating in the Clarion West Write-a-thon. It’s our primary fundraiser of the year, and every dollar you pledge encourages a writer to meet her goals, supports the creation of new work, and helps to sustain the Clarion West Workshop. Your contribution touches the lives of so many writers, and through them, so many readers. Every writer matters. Every reader matters. Every dollar you give to Clarion West matters.

Enjoy your day.

An evening with Ursula K. Le Guin

Ursula K. Le Guin is a brilliant writer, whose books are part of my personal canon. Ursula is a writer’s writer, and a reader’s writer, and wicked funny, and made an enormous difference to me when she blurbed Solitaire. She told me I used fuck too much in the book (grin). She once sent me a fall-down-laughing email about vanilla. Ursula is fascinating and incisive, with a wide-ranging mind and a gift for conversation. On Saturday, October 13, you have the opportunity to spend an evening in her company.

2013 is the 30th anniversary of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, and we are kicking off our celebrations in the best possible style, as author and Clarion West founder Vonda N. McIntyre interviews Ursula K. Le Guin. Please join us on Saturday evening, October 13, from 7:30 to 9:30 p.m. at Seattle’s Uptown Hideway for drinks, light refreshments, and a splendid evening of conversation and community.

Tickets are $50 each, and attendance is limited to 100 people. All proceeds benefit Clarion West. Reserve your ticket now and come be part of a very special evening!

Enjoy your day.

Photo of Ursula K. Le Guin by Marian Wood Kolisch

Inside this writer’s head

I’m halfway through the Clarion West Write-a-thon and having a great time working on screenplays and thinking about a special project…and telling my sponsors all about my process, technique, thinking and feeling in weekly letters. Nearly 8,000 words so far, with many more to come.

Here’s a taste:

From A Writer’s Journey, Letter #1:
 
It’s not enough to just write every day. Writers have to think as well as write.
 
You might be surprised how many writers do not like thinking. How many writers want creation to be some kind of spontaneous magic. I was one of those writers for longer than I care to admit, and it brought me nothing but heartache and insecurity. I wish I had learned sooner to embrace one of the essential tensions of writing: it requires both unconscious and conscious work; both magic and clear, cold decision-making. Anyone who is unwilling to make their storytelling process conscious will never be a consistently good writer. Ever. I absolutely believe this to be true, and I should know: I spent years wondering why I couldn’t be consistently good before I finally sucked it up and started analyzing – and altering – my own process.
 
—–
 
From A Writer’s Journey, Letter #2:
 
Ideally, I should accomplish this sequence in about 11-15 pages. Currently I’m at page 31 or so.
 
That sound you just heard? That was the producer’s head exploding ☺.
 
The thing is, this is a normal part of my process. I have a basic plan, and as I begin to write to it, I also begin to make deeper discoveries about the characters and their relationships. I am willing to follow my nose down some of those trails to see where they lead, and that means I write long. I write to explore, and I write to discover; but I also discipline myself to write within the basic beats that I have already established so that I can actually achieve some results. If I envision a story about star-crossed lovers in Chicago and then set all my scenes on the moon instead… well, that’s counterproductive.
 
—–
 
From A Writer’s Journey, Letter #3:
 
Let’s talk about “on the nose.” Remember The Sting, when the con men would signal each other by touching their nose? It was how they signaled that something important was happening. It’s also a phrase we use in English to mean exactly or precisely. In writing, it means that there is basically no subtext: the characters tell each other exactly and precisely what they are feeling in dialogue, or the writer tells the reader in exposition (which is like being hit on the nose with a hammer).
 
What I did was a subtle kind of on the nose. By making Rae’s every response driven by her baggage, I hammer home to the reader Look, she’s acting just like a person with baggage, she must have some! Oh look, she’s acting like that again! I think we’ve got some baggage here… It’s not that she says her subtext out loud: she does it out loud all the time, if that makes sense. She is Clearly Troubled. She may as well be wearing a badge.
 

I’m doing my best to give my sponsors a peek behind the curtain, because my sponsors rock. They are helping to ensure the stability and sustainability of Clarion West, and they have become part of my Layla’s. You can be a part of it too, and spend some time inside my writer’s head. Sponsor me with a donation to Clarion West, and I will send you a full set of past letters, and all letters to come. There is no minimum donation: every dollar helps Clarion West change writers’ lives, and we are grateful for them all.

Thanks for considering it.

Enjoy your day.

Spend an evening with George R.R. Martin

If you’re in Seattle on Saturday night, you have the chance for an intimate evening of food, wine and conversation with author George R.R. Martin, to benefit the Clarion West Writers Workshop. There are just a few tickets left to the event, and I want to make sure George’s fans and readers of this blog have every chance to grab them.

On Saturday night, Clarion West will host an evening in which George and 100 guests will eat, drink, and talk about… well, we’ll see (grin). Meet George over a buffet and wine reception; then take a seat and listen as the wonderful Connie Willis interviews him, followed by audience Q&A.

Won’t you join us? Tickets are $75. Email or call Davis Fox, our Executive Director (contact info below) to score that last ticket. Then put your party clothes on and spend an evening with two of science fictions most popular and generous authors. It promises to be a splendid evening, and I can’t wait for the conversation.

Details

Saturday July 7, 2012 • 7–9:30 p.m.
The evening will feature a light dinner buffet reception with wine.

Program: 8–9 p.m. George R.R. Martin will be interviewed by award-winning author Connie Willis, followed by Q & A.

Uptown Hideaway

819 5th Ave North, Seattle
Note: Entrance on Aloha St above Crow Restaurant

Attendance at this event is limited to 100 people. $75 per person

To reserve your ticket email davis_fox@clarionwest.org For more information please call Clarion West Executive Director Davis B. Fox at 206 322 7282.

Tweetchat Sunday June 24

In the spirit of full disclosure, I cribbed most of this text from various posts that Nicola has done. Because I am that lazy! And because she says it so well.

Sunday 24th June, 11 a.m. Seattle time (which is 2 p.m. for folks on the East Coast, and 7 p.m for those in the UK): Clarion West’s first ever Write-a-thon Tweetchat! Hashtag = #writeathon.

This is the place to come and let us know how you’re doing. What you’ve learned. What you hope someone can help you answer.

Nicola will be running the chat, and will be interviewing me as the special guest. We’ll talk about how to keep writing day after day, and how to persuade people to sponsor you. And any other questions you may have! We’ll also have Clarion West staff and volunteers standing by to help with any practical or logistics issues.

But mainly it is my hope that you’ll drop by and talk to each other. Writing can be a solitary business–but in the Write-a-thon we have 228 (the final total after the dust has settled) writers from all over the world aiming for the same goal: to get words on the page and money into the Clarion West bank account. We’re a community. We can help each other.

I recommend you download the twitter client Tweetchat which inserts the #writeathon hashtag automatically and refreshes quickly. That means we can talk faster .

Look forward to chatting with you on Sunday.

Enjoy your day.

Thank you, everyone!

Writer registration for the Clarion West Write-a-thon closed on June 16, and… well, just wow.

Last year, 142 writers participated. This year, we set ourselves a stretch goal of 200 writers, and asked everyone we know to spread the word. And you did! I am thrilled to report that we have 236 writers from all over the world in this year’s Write-a-thon.

Thank you all so much for all you did to get the word out. Here’s the thing: the Write-a-thon is our biggest fundraising event of the year. The money we raise helps us run the organization, including things like renting the workshop venue and offering financial assistance to students. We push so hard to have as many writers as possible because A) we think it’s a great opportunity for writers to reach goals in a supportive community, and B) more writers pretty much automatically means more sponsors. Just by spreading the word, you helped us raise money.

I am enormously grateful to all the writers who signed up. You are all Ultra Cool and you will write something amazing in the next six weeks. I just know it.

I am also grateful beyond words to the staff and volunteers of Clarion West who do a massive amount of work to make the Write-a-thon happen. Our Webmaster God, our Write-a-thon team of Deities whose patience and cheerfulness is, well, godlike, our Communications Goddess, our Database Goddess, our Social Media Goddess, every single one of you is Awesome with Sauce on Top. And anyone I haven’t mentioned can smack me through the internet for having a tired brain, but know that I worship you all.

And finally, I want to thank everyone who has so far sponsored a writer. Sponsors rock. Sponsors make the Write-a-thon world go around. Because of sponsors, Clarion West can do more for writers. Because of sponsors, writers dig in and do what they love, even on the days when it’s hard.

I wrote today, and I will be doing more outlining/structural work this afternoon. I am doing this because I love it, yes: but I’m doing it with grit because I have sponsors who put up money expecting that I will bring my best game to this work. I’ve been incredibly moved by the response I’ve had from sponsors so far. And that’s how I know how much it means to a writer when someone sends in a donation of any amount with their name attached. Every dollar matters to Clarion West; and every act of sponsorship makes a writer’s day. So please, please consider checking out this list of writers and picking one or more to support. Read the samples of their work. Read their goals. Read their passion and determination. And help them make it happen!

If you have questions about the Write-a-thon, check out the FAQ!

Enjoy your day.

If you are, or know, a writer….

… do come join the Clarion West Write-a-thon as a participant!

NOW would be good (smile). As I write this, 178 writers are participating. If we recruit another 22 writers in the next 36 hours, Clarion West wins a $2,000 challenge grant from a group of donors.

That’s a lot of money for a small nonprofit. And you — yes, you over there in the corner who isn’t sure you have time, or that you have a story to tell, or that you’re a “real” writer — well, no one has time, and we all have a story, and you’ll never know whether you’re a real writer until you do your 10,000 hours of writing. You can do some of those hours in the next six weeks. So come, come on this adventure!

Why sign up? Oh, my goodness, the reasons. You commit to a writing goal for six weeks. You recruit sponsors (one or one hundred, it’s up to you!) who donate to Clarion West in support of your writing, your goals. In support of you as a writer.You work like a banshee because people spent money to provide you with encouragement. And you by jesus write something wonderful. Something that surprises you, pleases you, frightens you with its possibilities, makes you weep, makes you proud.

The Write-a-thon isn’t just “writing.” It’s a chance to rock your own world and help other writers at the same time. You help by being part of the six-week community on Facebook and Twitter (@ClarionWest and hashtag #writeathon) for updates, encouragement, and chats with other writers. You help by encouraging donations to one of the world’s best writing workshops in any genre. And you help yourself by writing. By reaching.

Summer is a season of open skies and freedom from constraint. Most of us have constraints nonetheless, but for the next six weeks, let’s be summer writers.

Please come join us! And please spread the word to writers you know. Register by the end of the day (Pacific time) Saturday, June 16 to begin creating your Write-a-thon page!

Enjoy your day.

Write-a-thon: for CW and for me

It’s time for the Clarion West Write-a-thon. That means it’s time for me to step up with some writing goals and ask for your sponsorship.

More about that in a minute. First, for those who haven’t heard me talk about the Write-a-thon, here’s the scoop. I am the Board Chair of Clarion West, one of the world’s most highly regarded and prestigious workshops for emerging writers of speculative fiction, taught by the best writers and editors in the field (this year Mary Rosenblum, Stephen Graham Jones, George R.R. Martin, Connie Willis, Kelly Link and Gavin Grant, and Chuck Palahniuk). Six weeks every summer that open the door to artistic transformation and professional careers. Six weeks that change lives.

We are a nonprofit organization. The Write-a-thon is our biggest fundraising event of the year. It’s a six-week writing marathon, like a walk-a-thon with words or a bike ride for cancer. Writers sign up and set goals, and then recruit sponsors. The sponsor makes a donation to Clarion West. The writer writes.

Last year, I was determined to raise the profile of the Write-a-thon, and I took a highwire approach. My sponsors gave me writing prompts; I wrote a piece of fiction to a prompt, and published it, every day of the Write-a-thon. 41 days of writing. Much of it very good.

It mattered to me. I’ll tell you why in a minute. But bear with me. Here is one of those prompted pieces. It isn’t the best of all the stories, but it’s the best one for this conversation.
 


 
Everyday Magic

Serena loved Open Mike nights: the everyday magic of music on the tiny stage of her sidestreet neighborhood joint, the way people settled in over beer and brats and cheered each other on. Her regulars were folks on their way home from the jay-oh-bee, community college study groups, young marrieds whose date-night budgets didn’t stretch to taxi fares, old-timers whose wives were dead or fled. A lot of them couldn’t sing worth a damn, which they’d all learned the hard way during the six-month stint of Karoake Hell before Serena sold the gear on eBay. But that wasn’t the same as making music together.

And tonight it looked like they might have some new voices. The couple at table five who were on their second round of vodka slammers, both wearing the classic Open Mike look, the mix of I cannot wait to blow you all away and Oh jesus fuck please someone shoot me now. The man in his seventies at the bar who put his name down when he thought no one was watching. And maybe the guy at table two. He wasn’t an easy read: the well-traveled guitar case against the wall didn’t jibe with the fresh careful haircut, or the boxed-in look in his eye. He drank his beer slowly, and by the time he was was near the bottom he still hadn’t put his name on the list. He looked like he was so far down his own rabbit hole that he might not even remember it was Open Mike, in spite of the banners over the stage and the adrenaline in the air.

When it was time, Serena stepped up on stage to applause and a wolf whistle from Bernie Ellison, who was still trying to get lucky one day. “Welcome to Open Mike at Layla’s,” she said. “All performers get a round on the house. One song to a customer. Let’s make some real music tonight!”

First up was Lamont Miller, freshly-showered from his construction job, his guitar like a toy in his big hands, singing another one of his unexpectedly delicate folk songs. This one was about a green river in a canyon, an eagle overhead. Lamont, soaring.

As the applause was dying, Bernie called from the back, “That was real good, Lamont, especially the part about the fish.” The couple at five looked startled, and then peered at Serena as if they expected her to shut Bernie down. She gave them a reassuring smile: it always took new folks a while to figure out that audience was a verb at Layla’s.

“Lamont, come on over and get yourself a beer,” she said. “You did good.”

Billie Mae Turcott stepped up with her ever-more-buzzy electric guitar. Punk wasn’t really Serena’s thing, but Billie was so passionate, and she was getting better at staying on the beat; and with every song, she brought a little more Billie Mae and a little less recycled Siouxsie Sioux. She took a Cosmo from Serena and high-fived her way back to her seat. Serena saw the guy at two frown a little: but she wasn’t that good.

The couple climbed on stage. “We’re real excited to be at Layla’s,” the woman said, as she checked the tuning on her acoustic. They called themselves Spider Bob and TJ, and they fulfilled the terrible promise of their names with squeaky voices and off-key harmonies. But theirs was a love song, and their glow touched everyone in the room. “Y’all just married?” someone called from the back, and Spider Bob blushed desperately and nodded while everybody cheered.

The old man was next. “I’ve heard about this place,” he said in a low and fragile voice: then he sang an aching a capella rendition of “Danny Boy” that had them all in tears, and Serena knew without being told, the way she sometimes did when the music and musician were particularly true to each other, that his wife had died in his arms in Intensive Care two nights before. It was all there in his music. He got a hug from everyone between him and the Jack Daniels that Serena had waiting on the bar.

She felt a touch at her elbow. The guy from table two said, “Can I still sign up?”

“You’re next,” she said, and waved him up to the stage.

As soon as his fingers touched the strings, as soon as he opened his mouth, Serena knew he and music were in one of those passionate long-term relationships, that they rode and rolled each other like a rollercoaster. He played clear and strong and true, and what he played made Serena shake her head as she drew a beer: a heartbroken it’s-all-over song. A breakup song. By the time he finished, Spider Bob and TJ were clutching each other’s hands and sniffling. He let the last chord die. He gave the crowd a thousand-yard stare. He said, “Thank you very much,” held his guitar for a moment, and then leaned over to put it away.

“Don’t you dare,” Serena said. He jerked, and blinked in her direction. “Don’t you dare come to my Open Mike with all that music inside you and then tell it goodbye. Not on our watch. Oh, please,” she added at his look of shock, and jerked her chin at the haircut. “What, you got a real job?”

He nodded slowly.

“Well, boohoo for you, big guy. All these people have real jobs, and they still make real music.”

“I just–”

“You just nothing,” she said. “You promise me right now that you are getting your ass back here next Tuesday to play, and nobody gives a damn about your presentation deadlines. You got that?”

He stared at her. Finally he said, “What is this place?”

“This is Layla’s,” she said. “Open Mike, every Tuesday. Come make music.”

“Shit,” he said. “Okay.” And Serena handed him the beer, and everyone cheered. He nodded, and drank, and she knew he felt it. They all did. A little everyday magic.
 


 

And now we come to the point. I am asking you to help me find my everyday magic.

Last year, I walked a wire in public for Clarion West. And I did it for me, too. I did it to stretch toward a vision of myself and my work that I thought perhaps was impossible to reach. I did it because I finally had to find out if I’m really a writer. Not an author: I am one of those. Not someone who has written beautiful words, been praised, won prizes: done that too. But am I, today, right now, capable of being the writer I want to be?

Last year I found my yes. Many of you helped me with that by sponsoring those works, and I am forever grateful.

But I am not being the writer I want to be. I am writing, a lot. Mostly screenwriting, and also building towards some new fiction. But I am losing the time war: I am slowly but surely giving ground to a thousand responsibilities and other challenges of my life right now. I’m doing my best to find the balance. But I need more help to sustain it.

Nicola is the best partner, editor, cheerleader and wellspring of love and support that any writer can have. But I need to know that my writing matters to people who don’t wear my ring. Right now, I need my Layla’s.

I commit to write on one of my projects every day for the six weeks of the Write-a-thon. I commit to write something good every single day. I won’t be doing flash fiction on my blog — I’ll be working on long-term projects that are deeply important to me. I won’t be walking the highwire in public, but I guarantee I will be doing so in private.

And I will take my sponsors on that journey with me. Every week, I will send my sponsors an email talking about my process that week. What I accomplished. My struggles and successes. The writing challenges and the aha! moments. What I’m thinking about as a writer. Whether I’m finding the balance, and how. This writer’s life.

If you support me by donating to Clarion West, you are not only helping a wonderful organization — you are helping me. You are telling me that it matters to you whether I show up in spite of whatever is going on in my life. That it matters to you whether I write.

You’ll be giving me some everyday magic.

Thanks.

CW 41: Sound and Silence

And so we come to the end of 41 Days of Story in support of the Clarion West Writers Workshop. I’ll have more to say soon about what it’s meant to me to do this work. For now, I want to thank all my donors for your wonderful support, and all who have taken time the last 6 weeks to read my work.

If you’ve enjoyed these pieces, please consider a donation to Clarion West to show your support. The Write-a-thon links will be active for several more days, and you can also always make a donation through our usual link.

Here’s all the work of the 41 days. You’ll also find these pieces cross-posted at Sterling Editing as incentive for writers to practice their editing and story-building skills.

Enjoy.


Sound and Silence

For Caryl Owen, who knows music. Thank you for your friendship and support.

Anyone who wishes can read more about Mars, Duncan, and the band in Dangerous Space.

Duncan and I weren’t speaking to each other, which meant we only talked in the studio, and even that was becoming harder. Lacerated hearts are what they are, but if we let them interfere with a new album, we would really be in trouble. And so everyone was worried.

Johnny said diffidently one night, as he was unplugging his guitar, “So you and Duncan…” He had a strategy of leaving questions unspoken, and most people can’t stand silence; they will rush to answer whatever they think they hear, which often means whatever question is loudest within them. And those moments can be so revealing. So astonishing. Sometimes so cruel.

But I’m an engineer, and I know better than anyone that music is silence as well as sound. I just raised a polite eyebrow.

He gave me the look that meant Fine, make me say it. “Are you two okay?”

I put up a hand. Keep out. Johnny said, “Mars–”

Duncan stepped into the open doorway. He was too thin, and the circles under his eyes were darker even than music makes them: some of it was from me. I knew I didn’t look much better.

He ignored me, and said to Johnny, “Can I get a ride home?”

“Don’t forget your notebook,” I said. He had taken to leaving his lyrics on the floor by the wastebasket every night, as if it were a test to see if I would toss them out.

Now he looked at me. He would have seemed relaxed enough to anyone who didn’t know him. But I could see the set of his jaw, and the anger and hunger and hurt in his eyes. He stepped into the room long enough to retrieve the notebook, and then returned to the door.

“We should go,” he told Johnny. “There are fans three deep across the street, it’s going to take a while.”

Johnny looked unhappily back and forth at us. I felt for him. It’s hard to be between two people whose distance is so crowded with things unsaid that it’s like sirens going off.

“Have a nice night,” I said. And looked at Duncan. Say something. Show me you forgive me. But he turned and left. He’s the best singer I know. He can do things with his voice that make people hear their own deepest questions, whether they like it or not. And he is good with silence, too.

I waited until I was sure they were gone. I imagined them in the car, not talking about it. Then I locked up the studio and went upstairs to have a glass of wine or three, and go to bed alone.

#

When my doorbell rang an hour later, I was so startled that I spilled my wine. And then my heart began to drum inside my chest, Duncan, Duncan, and I was so scared that I nearly didn’t answer, because he had finally come to say something and I didn’t think I could bear to hear it.

But when I did open, Lucky marched past me with two bags of Thai food and another bottle of wine, and the determined look she gets when there is a problem to be solved. She headed for the kitchen.

“Come right on in,” I said, with the bite that dodging a bullet sometimes brings to the moment.

She stopped and wheeled, bags swinging from her hands, bottle precarious under her arm. “Enough bullshit,” she said. “I am tired of getting fretty midnight emails from the band, so you are by jesus going to tell me what’s going on. What did he do? Did he say something rotten? Did he fuck somebody you really can’t stand?”

And I was never, never going to talk about it to anyone, but my heart was still on the disco beat and the wine was wailing within me, and I said, “He wants to move in.”

“What?” It was her turn to nearly drop the wine, and her face was as shocked as if she had just seen the world turned inside out, the shape of everything changed. It was one of the Truths of Our Musical Generation that Duncan Black would never, never commit.

“Holy shit,” she said, and now she was beginning to smile, and I couldn’t let that happen.

“I said no,” I said. But actually, I hadn’t. Actually, when he asked, when his question was there between us singing of love and hope and never before, when the joy of it was shimmering in his eyes and trembling on his mouth, all I could find in answer was silence. Silence. Until he finally said, “You don’t want to?” with so much surprise and despair that I felt his heart break as if it were in my own body, I felt it break.

“But you love each other,” Lucky said. And I held up my hand: Keep out.

#

The next day in the studio went so badly that we stopped early. The entire band was frantic with frustration and something deeper; the great unspoken question, Are we all breaking up? Angel jerked his bass case from the floor and snarled, “I thought we used to have drama, jesus fucking christ,” and stalked out. Con, the steadiest of them all, was shaking when he left. And Duncan forgot his notebook.

I looked at it for a while, there by the trash can. I couldn’t leave it. So I locked the studio and took it upstairs, and dropped it on the living room table. It sounded heavy in the silence of my house.

When the doorbell rang, I wasn’t surprised at all; Lucky would never give up until she understood why, and when I opened the door I was so busy trying to find the words to explain that I had no answer, that I was completely unprepared to find Duncan instead.

His face was in neutral, and he had shut himself up behind careful blank eyes. “I left my book,” he said. “Can I have it back?” And in the silence that followed, I understood he was saying I left my heart, can I have it back? and that the answer was already drumming within me. Duncan. Duncan.

“I do want to,” I said. “I do. I want it so bad that I’m scared we’ll break it.”

Silence.

Duncan closed his eyes. Then he opened them, and opened his arms, and I stepped in and we leaned against each other. The sound of our breathing, the sound of our hearts, the silence in which everything sang.

CW 40: Shake It

I wrote this today as part of my commitment to the Clarion West Write-a-thon. A dedication means that person sponsored it by donating to CW, and then provided me a writing prompt that sparked the piece. All the story slots are sold, but if you are enjoying the pieces, please consider a donation to show your support.

Here’s all the work of the 41 days. You’ll also find these pieces cross-posted at Sterling Editing as incentive for writers to practice their editing and story-building skills.

Enjoy.


Shake It

For Liz Butcher. Thank you for your friendship and support.

Maybe it was the goddamn rain, or the guy next door with the relentless topiary sculpture impulse and the chainsaw; or maybe it was simply everyday life that was starting to get Danny down. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that he was on a treadmill, a little hamster going round and round. It made him want to roll over and go back to sleep, just say fuck it for once… But oh my god the Lawrence file deadline, was that today? And now he was already late.

Out on the street, he discovered his car boxed in by SUVs, bumper to bumper. He maneuvered out carefully, and took a deep breath, and launched himself into the mad rush of the commute. Everyone with day jobs will now please do the crazy chicken to get onto the expressway. Everyone on the expressway will now please immediately come to a stop and proceed to your destination one meter at a time. Thanks for playing our game! Enjoy your day!

He didn’t have time to stop for coffee, so he called his admin and begged. By the time he got to work, he was totally off schedule. He slung his briefcase in the corner and sat. The desk was a mess. Did Marshall even know how to file?

“Here’s your fix,” Marshall said. One ear was plugged into his iPod; the other earbud dangled down his shirt front, next to his tie. Tinny music leaked out as he leaned to put Danny’s grande non-fat fair-trade macchiato on the corner of the desk. Was that the Miami Sound Machine? Apparently, it was: Marshall plugged back in and did a little conga step out the office door. Must be nice to have nothing more to do than dance. Like filing.

Deep breath.

He opened the Lawrence file. Jesus, what a giant spaghetti mess this meatball’s life was; everything turned upside down in a single bad-judgment moment of signing an employment contract without reading all the words. The document itself was a masterwork of convoluted language and parenthetical clauses, a solid one-way trip to Don’t look now, you’re fucked, and Joe Lawrence was just another schleb who had followed a boss cow into a chute and then gone white-eyed at the slaughterhouse door.

Deep breath. It was his job to help this guy. Dig in and figure it out. So he got to work. But then there was a crisis on the McCready filing and he had to do an emergency conference call. And then just as he got back into the zone on Lawrence, there was a fucking fire drill. Blaaat blaaat wroop wroop wroop. Effectively loud: he wanted to keep working but he couldn’t stand the noise, so he grabbed his coffee and headed for the stairs, and wow, he needed a caffeine blast right about now, and that’s when he found out the coffee was cold.

There was a garbage can by the stairway door. He ditched the latte. Marshall saw, and said, “I’ll get you another,” and they joined the throng funnelling into the stairwell and trotting down two by two, side by side, very orderly in the stairwells and then shifting and jostling as new people came in at the landing on each floor. The alarm racket made any conversation impossible, and the flashing red and white lights made it all seem more urgent. He was glad to get out into the parking lot, where there was more space.

When he got tired of standing, he opened his car doors and windows and sat in the driver’s seat. He put his hands on the wheel. Maybe he should just say fuck it after all. Get on the expressway and move with ease between lanes, because everyone with day jobs was jobbing. Text in his resignation from the airport while he was boarding for Guadelajara or Venice or Vegas. But then what? The fact was that he liked his house in spite of the chainsaw artist next door, and he liked his car, and he even liked his job saving dumb fuckers like Joe Lawrence from the axe. He didn’t want to be free of those things. He just didn’t like the feeling sometimes that he was in a chute.

Deep breath. Soon it would be time to go upstairs and make more documents for Marshall to not file. And here came the Dancing Queen himself with Danny’s latte, plugged into his iPod again.

Something inside Danny shook itself awake.

Danny said, “Give me that.” And when Marshall offered the coffee, Danny said, “No, that,” and pointed to the iPod.

He was conscious of Marshall staring as he found the song and plugged the player into his car system. And turned it up loud. Marshall’s eyebrows were in the stratosphere.

Danny said, “Come on, shake your body, baby.” And showed him how. Marshall grinned, and took hold, and did. People stared. People smiled. And people lined up and followed Danny, just like he was the boss cow leading them to greener pastures, and they did the conga around the parking lot until it was time to get back to work.