Family Story - What's In a Name? Or a Poem?

My parents named me Dianna Lorraine when I was born - the first girl in what would soon grow into a world of boys.

I have a total of five brothers and one sister, who didn't feel the need to show up until I'd had to battle through living surrounded by brothers for ten years - and then she turned out to be a tomboy and my hopes of living with some other estrogen in the family were largely shot.

Still, I took comfort in the diva girlishness of my name. The spelling was weird with the extra 'n', and required that I either correct everyone in the world, all the time, or just give in and let them think my name was 'Diana' when it wasn't.

My mother told me the name 'Dianna' was from the goddess Diana of Roman mythology. She was a huntress, and was the goddess of the moon. This really took hold of me, and I read everything I could find on gods and goddesses from a very young age.

Not to mention that, whenever there was a full moon, I wasn't some little hardscrabble kid who moved all the time and battled lots of dumb brothers. I was secretly a goddess and the moon called out to me to come away with it and go to the woods and live the life I was meant to live.

I had a quiet, wild heart and an imagination that wouldn't quit.

The name 'Lorraine' came from my grandmother Lora Delores Stockwell, who was herself wild at heart, and the matriarchal head of our home when I was a child. She was also a writer herself, as her father was before her, and my mother after her. Poetry flowed from them all, and became me and my four burgeoning writers after me. :-)

Lora's father, Clinton Harvard Stockwell, worked in the factories in Washington State, having had to leave the farm in Nebraska to make a living. After he came home, he would make himself some hot chocolate and read the Bible to his daughter in the evenings, or write poems.

My mother and I still have some examples of his poems, such as this one whose title I added. When I read it, I feel as though I can almost hear his voice:

Can't Anyone Sleep - A Poem by Clinton Harvard Stockwell (1888-1961)

When all the lights are out at night

And there’s no moon outside,

And I awake and hear a noise,

My eyes pop open wide.

I listen, and beneath my bed

Hear sounds of scampering feet –

And I know then, they’re only mice

In search of more to eat.

I move a bit – they hear the sound

And oh, how still they keep!

Then I forget, and close my eyes,

And soon am fast asleep.

My writing 'papa'...Ray Bradbury and the Glory of Short Stories

There's way too much in this video to watch the whole thing, unless you're a nerd like me, in which case, you'll probably watch it several times all the way through.

As I have.

I'm following his writing advice, as he talks about starting at 2:33.

He says that, for him, writing novels right away was a danger. I'd already written my first one by the time I saw this, but I agree with him on the importance of the writing of short stories, that it's good training for a writer. By the time you've written 52 short stories, if you don't know how to write well by then, something's definitely wrong.

So far, I'm up to seven finished short stories (that I still have). There were about five others first drafts I wrote, but I lost them - somewhere in my papers, somewhere in my computer. A hard lesson. When you write, make sure you've got your work saved in several different places. A couple of those stories were really beautiful - I miss them.

The first one was an auction piece for a friend at my church - a children's story, with her daughter as the hero of the story. My youngest daughter did the drawings, and I glued the drawings onto the pages where the story was written - a real professional job, let me tell you.

The second was another gift to my sister and her family for Christmas - wrote a fairy tale with all of them in it. Very fun. Those will probably never see daylight again, unless (with any luck) I'm dead by then.

Some others followed, some real stinkers - a bad redo on a Edgar Allen Poe story, a really bad character piece that came out after David Bowie died, an experimental romance in which I used no pronouns at all (just to see if I could do it, and it almost sorta worked).

The one I'm preparing for next week's story is also an experimental piece. I got the idea from my youngest son, who has really great ideas, but not the patience yet to write them down and work them out.  Still hoping for him, though. If engineering doesn't work out for him, then maybe writing...what am I saying???

I guess that's what I'm saying.

I fully intend on writing those 52 short stories Ray Bradbury recommends...although there's no way I can do it at the clip he recommends. One per week? Written AND edited? I do enjoy having a life.

So far, it seems to take me about 2-3 weeks to crank out one finished story, and I'm happy with that speed. So if it takes me 2-3 years to finish this particular challenge, I'm good with that.

My larger story is providing most of my motivation at the moment, but I'm not ruling out other inspiration taking me in different directions.

When Writing Turns a Corner...

Yesterday I finished the first draft of another short story branching off my novel, 'Sanctuary'. And I had an interesting experience, one that I'm starting to have more and more, as I push myself to work more consistently.

These writers describe what it's like to write from the subconscious mind. I remember listening to Ray Bradbury talking about his writing this way - the legend is that he wrote Fahrenheit 451 in ten days, sitting at a rented typewriter at the Los Angeles Public Library, and that it largely emerged as we read it today, but only after he'd written many, many shorter stories first. That's the subconscious mind working.

Most days I'm very methodical, because I have to be. Glue butt to chair. Write 1,000 words, and I'm done for the day. It helps me to feel like I've accomplished something. Writing Sanctuary took two years, and I was done with the first draft by my 40th birthday, because I desperately needed something to point to and say, "Look, I haven't wasted my life after all. I followed my dream."

But the process of that was largely mechanical and methodical - until I tweaked my process.

I started to read more. A short story a day, an essay a day, a poem a day. The best stuff I could get my hands on - time-proven writing, more than the latest and greatest.

And then my writing changed. I started to recognize what I'd read in what I'd wrote. But it wasn't old. It was something I'd never seen before.

The story that came out yesterday surprised me. The ending surprised me to no end. I'd never thought of it happening that way, but when it came out, it made perfect sense.

It made my larger story new again, even though I've read it countless times by now. I love that there's nooks and crannies that haven't been explored or expanded upon yet that are still in me somewhere. It's as real a universe to me now as Harry Potter, or Star Trek, Star Wars, or any other fictional universe that's endlessly discussed and dissected on the web.

Letting go of it was a challenge, but it outgrew my mind at last, and I'm better now at sharing, I hope. Looking forward to seeing what else my subconscious mind will cough up over time.

The Song of Judge Sabin - Conclusion

If you missed Part One or Part Two of the story, head back before you read this one, or it won't make any sense, of course...

And there's something else you need to do before you read the rest - you need to listen to this to get the full experience. At least the first part of it.

This is the 'song' part of 'The Song of Judge Sabin'. :-)

Okay, now to the rest of the story...

***

The Song of Judge Sabin - Conclusion
A side story from the novel 'Sanctuary' - Book One in the Gilesian Trilogy

April dropped to her knees in alarm, and held Crystal by the shoulders. “Crys, you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I…I didn’t know this part…really damaged.”

“Do you need to go away again?”

“Not…not yet…have to finish this side…keep talking…” Crystal’s head dangled loose at the end of her neck.

“Wait…talk? Okay, I can talk. I told myself that if I ever get out of here and back home, that I would quit being a judge. Go back to law work. Maybe become a…a prosecuting attorney. Only I would do it different this time. Instead of throwing everyone in jail, I would throw them out of jail. Get them jobs and lives, y’know?  – I don’t have the strength to see what happens to them anymore. It must be a lot like this…”

Crystal’s eyes closed and fluttered. April lifted her up, and put her head on her lap, her legs folded under Crystal for a pillow.

“Crys…now, don’t you go and take on more than you can now. We can’t both be stuck here.”

“Keep talking. It helps.”

April looked around, searching for something to say.

“Uh…John…he’s a music teacher at the Maryland Academy, and Audrey… no, Audrey’s my daughter-in-law, not my daughter. I remember.  I remember now. He met her when he took up with that rock band. He played keyboards, and she did the drumming. He was so stubborn about dating her, and then marrying her.

“I can’t do any more now.” Crystal sat up. “Can you wait a little longer?”

“Child, where else am I gonna go?”

The young girl stood and stumbled across the road to an empty shack with an old truck in front of it, and some rusty barrels in front. April watched her for a moment, then followed her across and around the back of the building.

“What do you want me to…?”

She ran around to the back, where Crystal had turned, but again, she found herself alone.

“Get lots of rest, Crys. Come back to me. God, please bless that child and bring her back to me.” April sat down hard on the ground and clasped her hands in prayer in front of her face.

She ran her fingers over the dusty earth. Lifted a handful of pebbles and rocks, and felt them slide through her fingers and hit the ground again.

“Might as well be dead…can’t do nothin’.”

April sat on her knees and looked around in all directions. The air, the landscape…everything sat as still as she. Then she stood and brushed the dust off her legs.

“John?”

The sound of her voice fell flat, with no echo in it.

She started to sing, with no recollection of the words until one line ended and another began…

All to Jesus I surrender

All to Him I freely give

I will ever love and trust Him

In His presence daily live…

“Keep going. It helps.”

April whipped her head around to see Crystal, up and walking around. She smiled and kept singing with more strength.

I surrender all

I surrender all

All to Thee my blessed Savior

I surrender all

As Crystal stepped around her in a circle, green grass started to grow beneath their feet. In no time, it became a thick carpet of cooling softness, a very welcome change from the rocks and hot dust.

“What does that song make you think of?”

April closed her eyes. “My mother singing in the choir in church, her arms out like this” – she lifted her arms to her sides, her fists upheld and closed – “and the sun streaming in the high windows and lighting her face like she would fly. It helps me feel like she’s standing with me, and I’m not afraid anymore.”

“So what do you think?”

April’s eyes came open, and her eyes were met with miles of green, with trees and sunlight lowering softly through the canopy.

“You’re done, April. You can wake up whenever you’re ready.”

April turned to Crystal. “It’s beautiful. So what happens when I wake up? Am I a vegetable?”

“You’ll be fine. Fully recovered. But you need to forget me.”

April shook her head. “That I cannot do, child.”

Crystal’s eyes grew wide. “If other people knew about me…”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone about this if you don’t want me to. That I can do. But I can’t forget any of this.” She looked around at the nodding branches of the trees, felt the cooling breeze in her hair.

Crystal smiled. “Yes, please. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I do wish I could know more about you.”

She shrugged. “I hide. That’s all I can tell you. But I’m glad you’re better.”

They embraced, and Crystal walked away into a nearby grove of trees.

April watched her go, and laid down on her back in the thick cool grass, a patch of sunlight lighting her face and hands. She closed her eyes, feeling the comfort. She sang lightly to herself this time, almost a lullaby.

I surrender all,

I surrender all,

All to Thee, my blessed Savior,

I surrender…

***

Thanks for sticking with me to the end. Remember, Crystal's story can be found in the novel, 'Sanctuary', on Kindle at Amazon.

The Song of Judge Sabin - Part Two

If you missed Part One yesterday, click here.

The Song of Judge Sabin - Part Two
A side story from the novel 'Sanctuary' of the Gilesian Trilogy

Thick grey smoke swirled around her ankles, rising up from the sides of the road, coalescing together into a solid wave of smoke that rose to her knees.

April panicked, and turned back to the twisted car wreckage out of needing a sense of comfort, something that she knew and remembered, in these strange circumstances, but the gray waves rose higher, a steaming noise rising with them. Up to her waist now. She couldn’t see the car. Billowing smoke in every direction.

“You’re all right. Don’t be afraid.”

April jumped as she turned around to see Crystal again, up to her neck in smoke.

“Take deep breaths. You really need this.”

April took a breath, and winced. “It smells musty. What is it?”

Crystal’s face couldn’t be seen through the smoke. Only the straight brown hair on the top of her head stuck out. “It’s an antimicrobial treatment, to keep you from getting pneumonia while you’re using your ventilator.”

April raised her face out of the fog, but soon it closed around her face and eyes, and she choked and coughed. “I can’t see anything!”

“Go ahead and breathe. It won’t hurt you. I’m over here. Hold my hand.”

A small hand squeezed around April’s as she struggled to breath. The fog obscured everything, and she stopped to sit down, fighting back fear.

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I can’t see my hand before my eyes, and I've got a little girl talking crazy at me.”

“I’m not crazy, April. Neither are you. You’re injured, and I’m trying to make you better.”

“You? What are you doing anyway?”

“Right now I’m healing your brain. What I’m actually doing is pretty complicated, but you sustained a lot of cerebral damage in the accident, and I’ve got to fix that first. Here, let me show you…”

 

Before April could protest, she saw herself behind the wheel of her car, as she lost control in the rainy night. The 4X4 in the oncoming lane raced up in her field of vision, turning sideways. She screamed…and the image evaporated into the gray mist.

“You don’t have to watch all of it. I want you to know what happened, though. It’ll make your return easier…”

“Return? I’m dead, aren’t I? Must be dead. I can’t have lived through that.”

The warm, small hand continued to hold hers, and April didn’t dare let it go. April grasped onto her with both hands, kneeling and taking deep breaths.

“You did live, actually. Barely. Glanced off the side instead of a direct hit. Very lucky.”

“But…what am I now? Is there anything left of me to go back to?”

April wanted to crawl back inside the cramped wreckage of the car, now submerged in smoke. At least she remembered it. Her head felt empty. Words came to her lips, and she barely comprehended anything she said. She felt wobbly and uncertain now, thinking about how all this made no sense. She focused on her small companion, terrified that she might vanish.

“How…how did you end up with a boy’s name?”

She listened to the sweet, thin voice out of the fog. “It’s not a boy’s name. C-R-Y-S. Short for Crystal.”

“Oh, I see. I thought you meant C-H-R-I-S.”

She waited again for the voice, but heard nothing.

The tiny hand slipped from hers.

“Wait! What…Crys! Where are you?”

She reached out for it, just as she saw sunlight through the fog again, as it faded into swirling wisps and sunk back into the ground.

She stood alone, once again beside what was left of the car.

“Crys? Hey Crys!”

The same long and empty black asphalt road lay at her feet, and she turned to walk away the same way she’d started. Her steps halted, now that she couldn’t be sure of where she was, or what was going on, or anything.

“Hallucinating? That’s it. I hallucinated a young girl. My therapist will have a field day with this, but how do I get back home?”

She walked, and the sun felt hot on her back. She remembered the dark leather of the therapist’s chair, how it almost hugged her. Dr. Khan. He wore Bermuda shorts and Birkinstocks. Wiry, reedy hair. Jewish. She remembered!

“If I ever get out of this, I am quitting my job. I’ll never live long enough to make that judgeship worthwhile.”

“Are you a judge?”

April jumped, and put her hand over her heart.

“Crystal…Crys. How long have you been there?”

“I’m helping someone else too. Sorry.  I needed time to recover.”

April stopped walking. “Recover? What do you have to recover from?”

“I heal people by taking on their pain. I can’t do it all at once, or I’d go comatose too. A little at a time.”

“Oh.” She kept walking, with the young girl staring at her as they walked. “I don’t know how I feel about that now…hurting you so I can get better…”

“You want to see your family again, right? Son John, daughter Audrey?”

“John…Audrey…” April wrinkled her eyes. “I don’t…”

“You don’t remember them. I know. I’m rebuilding that part of your memory right now. You should be proud of him. John got his master’s degree in music performance, and teaches piano…”

April jumped in place as Crys’ words took life in her mind. “He went to UMCP! UMCP! I remember! And they hassled me so hard about his tuition, but we got him through…oh! How has he been?”

Crystal lifted one hand to her forehead. “I dunno, I never met…unh…” She sank to her knees on the ground.

***

Quick! Click here for Part Three! :-)

The Song of Judge Sabin - Part One

This is another side story from my book, 'Sanctuary' - an expanded story of a character from Chapter One.

The person whose character this was originally based on had broken her arm at the time I was writing this chapter, and I'd gone to visit her in the hospital. My subconscious mind neatly pulled her up for the character when the time came.

Since then, she's taken on the characteristics of about three other people, plus someone I saw in a TED talk once.

Enjoy!

The Song of Judge Sabin

A Sanctuary Short Story from the Gilesian Trilogy, Part One

By Dianna Zaragoza

 

“All my life I’ve been waiting…doing what I’m told. What’s it gotten me?”

April Sabin could feel the cold plastic molding under her aching fingers, and see out of a small hole ahead the warm sunlight just ahead of her fingernails. She stretched her fingers forward to reach for the sun. Such a welcome sensation. If any part of her could get warm…

This curled-up fetal position with one leg stretched out grew more uncomfortable. She tried to stretch, but found she just couldn’t. She hid for a purpose, she reminded herself, even though, as much as she tried, she couldn’t remember the reason now.

No…wait. She did remember.

A car accident outside her house in the woods cut a tree in pieces. She feared to approach the car; a gnarled wreck of metal and electronics sparking in random showers.

“No doubt those poor people dead. No doubt. What help could I be?

And then, she saw a pair of white Keds in the pool of sunlight on the floor in front of her; the one she warmed her fingertips in. Immediately she retracted her fingers. Go away.

“Mrs. Sabin?”

She kept silent. The young girl voice repeated itself.

“April? I know you’re in there. Are you ready to come out?”

Still she said nothing. The girl didn’t sound dangerous – how dangerous can a little girl be? What was she afraid of?

“Mrs. Sabin, I know it’s hard to believe this, but I should tell you – you’re in a coma at the moment. You’ve been in an accident that damaged your brain…”

She couldn’t resist the sunlight any longer. Her fingers poked forward – the only part of her that could still move. She moved her mouth, and sound came out, her voice reaching forward with her fingertips towards life.

“I’m cold…”

The sneakers moved closer to her, and April felt the touch of other fingers on her own, and a flood of noise and visions entered her mind.

“Come out now, April. It’s safe.”

A terrible sound of twisting metal greeted her ears, and light poured down on the left side of her face. She covered her face with her hands, and realized she could move again. Looking up to the left, April saw the side of a long metal door – the entire inside of her car - rising up into the sky and away from her body.

She struggled out of the small, confining space and felt the aches in her back and joints. The sunlight sprayed her body with warmth, and she basked in it. The contrast from the cold felt particularly welcome. Her skin soaked in the radiance, even though her eyes were still closed.

She stood in the midst of her flattened car. As her eyes adjusted to the light and opened, she found herself in the middle of a long desert freeway she didn’t recognize. The road went forward into a shimmering horizon, with rolling hills beyond that.

 

“Where are we?”

“You’re dreaming right now. A lucid dream. That’s why it feels really real, but it isn’t. Not totally.”

“It doesn’t feel like a dream. And I don’t know this place.”

The young girl reached out a hand to assist her in stepping away from the car wreck, smiling a thin, toothless smile. April stood in front of the girl, taking in the incongruous sight on the side of the desert road. She wore jeans and sneakers, with a jean jacket zipped-up to the neck over the top of that.

“Who are you? Were the police here?”

The girl looked around. “There’s no one else here. My name is Crystal Hanson. You can call me Crys if you want. We’re going to be together for awhile, until I can pull everything back together.”

April’s breathing increased. “But I feel fine.”

“You almost died on the operating table three times. No one expects you to recover at this point, but you will.”

April’s hands went to her neck, and she stretched out her sore muscles. “Now, that’s just plain ridiculous. I feel fine. I need a phone or something. Is there a rest station somewhere around here?”

She started walking down the empty road, looking back for other cars. No cars came into sight.

The young girl walked beside her, looking at her blankly as she walked. She watched with growing annoyance out of her left eye’s peripheral vision.

“You don’t have to follow me, you know…”

But as she turned around to tell her off, she couldn’t see anyone. The girl vanished.

“Crystal? Was that your name? Or Chris?” She looked all around. Nothing and no one could be seen but desert and patchy grass and rocks and distant mountains.

“Talking to myself…” April’s anxiety grew as she walked.

Only then did she notice the smoke...

***

If you'd like to read more, head on over to Part Two.

Today...I Will Make Good Art

I can't say enough about this commencement speech by Neil Gaiman - I feel such courage to write and create after listening to this.

And I've got another story ready to go up tomorrow...stay tuned!

Family Story - My First Ever Superhero Memory

Sundays are for family, so I don't write fiction on those days.

Doesn't mean that I don't write though, and lately I've been thinking about my kids, and my many nephews and nieces who I don't get to see on a regular basis. They need to know from whence they spring - so Sundays at this blog will be a different kind of 'Zaragoza story' - a much more personal one.

Don't worry - those of my human family are welcome to read too, if you're so inclined.

Today is the story of my first remembered experience with superheroes.

I'm not necessarily talking about real people, although I did have that. My mother and father, who raised me and my three brothers somehow on seven dollars an hour grinding eyeglasses, and I never knew how broke we were until I was much older.

My grandmother, who helped teach me to read before I ever set foot in a school.

The man at my church in Salt Lake City, Utah who sang with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir - every Sunday I could pick his sonorous baritone out of the whole congregation. 

No, today I'm talking about fictional superheroes. The Saturday morning cartoons of Hanna-Barbera, that introduced all those spandex-filled stories to me and my brothers over the most sugary cereal General Mills could provide. The intro below sent a thrill through my body that I can still remember today:

The biggest impression on me was Wonder Woman. The live-action show starring Lynda Carter I never missed on our black-and-white, analog TV with the foil-draped rabbit ears that sometimes needed 'adjustment' - meaning gymnastics, on our end.


I loved her, mostly because her name was Diana. Missing 'n' notwithstanding, I was sure, in my young girl heart, that this was a clue for me. I didn't belong here, with my goofy brothers. This wasn't really my home, here on a tiny rundown neighborhood in Utah. I was really from Paradise Island, the daughter of Zeus, and all I needed to do was spin around, and lightning would reveal who I really was.

I spun until I fell over dizzy - nothing.

Despite feeling cheated somehow, I loved those superhero stories. Still do. They get better all the time.

When did you first become aware of superheroes?

Impromptu Short Story Contest Entry - Ten Second Waves

Ordinarily I don't like writing prompts, because I'm usually so focused on my own projects that doing other things takes too much brainpower away from those - a kind of creative procrastination.

However, I'm really enjoying playing around in this new discussion forum. I found their latest little writing contest, to write a story that's 300 words or less, science fiction or fantasy, based on this picture:

This was what I came up with this morning, and since it's non-exclusive rights they have, and they won't let me share my blog yet and won't see this anyway, I have no compunctions about posting it here. Hope you like it! 

Three hundred words or less is really challenging!

Ten Second Waves

“Marry me, kitten! Before the next wave come in…”

“Fool – you broke ma boat! Everthin’ I own’s gone to the fish.”

Tern turned a mournful eye towards the blue and white tip of the top of her houseboat, a single painted daisy on the hull still visible.

“Sorry, Bebe. Wave knocked me over before I could git the anchor down. I’ll park it here; we’ll scavenge when the tide go out – ‘bout ten days.”

Bebe clung to the railing of Tern’s houseboat as the waves every ten seconds swallowed the trees and cattails, and then up and over like a carnival ride – they must be over her boat now. The skyline of Oklahoma City gleamed like shiny broken teeth against the moon that glowed orange in the sunset. Broken, like every other city she’d seen.

“You water-gatherin’, I hope?”

“You think I wanna be without water for two whole weeks? Filter’s back over ther – radio’s down the other end - “Tern gestured towards both sides of the boat. “

Bebe chomped on her wet cigar, her wet dirty brown curls cascading down over her bare brown shoulders. “Whassat? Radio? You got a radio?”

Tern smiled, showing the gap in his back teeth. “You want a preacher? I can hail ‘im fer ya right now. Marry us good ‘n proper.”

Bebe exhaled. “I ain’t heard no radio, not since the Event. What else you git?”

“Anywhere, dahling. Since all the satellites run smack into the moon, my ham radio’s the new Internet. I get stories…I get music…people still out there, somehow.”

“Mnn…all right. I’ll ride with ya. Pull ‘im up.”

Soon Preacher Man Jack’s voice over the little box buzzed out. “Tern…you want her?”

“I do.”

“Bebe…you want him?”

“I does.”

“Yer good. Fix it up right then.”