What is mathemafiction?

Sunday, September 30, 2012

September drips - drips on the road to Divide by Zero

My first had no words, only sounds with my mother and brother interpreting them. My tale in full flow they’d explain, “Yes, she says no.”

My next, ever-flowing, kept oceans of sixth-graders silent while my tales were told. Said the teacher, “Please write them,” but yes, I still answered no.

When the principal offered a huge microphone to the mouth of small story-born me I said no to her too, then picked up a pencil.

My next was in bright-colored ink, each new set of text in a shade all its own from my fat and glorious many-pointed victorious pen.

I told my tales at bedtimes to brothers but if they annoyed me during the day I’d threaten withholding of fiction. Cruel is the sister.

I told my tales to school friends and learned you can’t just make it so without research but you can make friends laugh and cry.

Pregnant with dreams, sitting in the corner of the bus staring out through the window, pregnant with tomorrow, I wanna be a novelist, paperback writer.

Teacher asked "Do you want a long boring life or a short exciting one?" I chose long and boring with time to write curious excitement.

In junior high I learned it’s not right to write stories where parents meet, marry and carry their first-born infants in six months or less.

In senior high I loved Star Trek, started writing fan fiction but nobody told me such things had a name so I hid them away.

In college I studied math because if my math’s right there’s no one can tell me they still think it’s wrong. Right’s always right, right?

In college my son studied writing ‘cause if his tale’s wrong it won’t matter; he’ll still know it’s right. Should have met him back then.

In college I told my boyfriend I like to write. “Oh dear,” said he. “So does my sister,” so I mistakenly thought he liked writers.

My stories were putting my children to bed. My oldest son said it’s not a story if nobody’s written it down. I started writing again.

My stories were Sunday school dramas and games and ways to keep small children still, little sixth graders too—nothing’s ever new under this sun.

My stories were chess games reformatted into the epic of players competing so lessons be learned so my little club kids could beat the opposition.

My stories were dreams sent out to unresponsive agents and editors and strange magazines but I got a letter published. Oldest son published a poem.

Getting a job with computers wasn't conducive to writing my dreams but I still used words, just didn’t write them down or type them anymore. 

Oldest son left home to be a doctor. Computer job went away and my writing dream turned into hopes I might one day get paid.

Middle son came home to work in town. Still no job, still no writing contracts, still dreaming, gather-ing sweet inspiration, self-publishing, thanking friends for encouragement.

Youngest son followed the writing dream and got a job with computers. Mother followed the computer trek and signed a contract for an ebook—computerized.

Writers read, right? So I read and started gather-ing book reviews—wrote stories on gather.com too—found authors and publishers reading them. Continued to dream.

Writers write, right? So I wrote a blog, left comments on blogs and made imaginary friends, or virtual… something. Friends anyway. Tell tales without words:)

And now my first novel’s come out and it feels like a grandchild held safe in my arms—do I dare trust it to bookstores?

Do I dare trust my precious tale to reviewers? Do I remember why I studied math? But right’s not write and what I’ve written’s mine.

Letting the baby book into the world. Dividing my Zero by singular dreams as they slip the other side of infinity. Yes, she says yes.

Thanking my internet friends for all their encouragement over the years and hoping at least some might like and recognize the book—Divide by Zero!

Thanking my internet friends, gloriously virtual, definitely real, and dreaming in ten years’ time I’ll still be writing books with my friends still reading them.

Thanking my gather friends, blogger friends, facebook friends, linkedin friends, twitter friends, lunch friends and more, my Infinite Sum of friends inspiring an undivided sequel.

 A garden of stone and a shadow of gypsies, a dream without words turned into stories, a wordless child become writer, an author, write on!

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

August drips - character studies from Divide by Zero

He left to make sure he wouldn’t turn into his father. He left a lonely fatherless son who might grow up into somebody else instead.

He left because they looked at him and only saw his father. He returned because his small sons needed him. Not his father after all.

He left because she loved the child more than him, spent all her energy somewhere else. He felt ignored and helpless, left her without help.

He left because it wasn’t the path for him, disappointed others but satisfied his dream. Not what he left but what he chose that mattered.

She wept because she felt alone and then she wept because he wouldn’t let her be alone. Sometimes it’s hard to turn back the clock.

She wept because everyone else was okay and everyone got what they wanted out of her except for him, the one she wanted to please.

She wept because they told her right and wrong and she didn’t understand but that’s alright. She passed their message on and then she wept.

She wept because the child won’t grow. She wept because it’s surely wrong to know the child’s alright when everyone cries, the child won’t grow.

He shouts like a thunderstorm tearing down trees in the park. His anger’s a tornado and she sees a spark in him of coming danger.

He whispers like the trickle of a brook, his face an open book where words look on all unconcerned, unworried if they’re noticed or unheard.

He laughs like summer but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. One day he’ll choose which grandfather’s past should track into his future.

He watches, oh so quiet and so reluctant to be heard. Like a bird on the windowsill, pecking at glass, he watches. Let him pass.

She talks like boulders rolling in a stream, plums in her mouth, building a curious accent all her own. She wants you to know her.

She chatters about her hopes and fears then buries her nose in her studies then yells to the world about the cat that saved her.

She purrs like a cat, stretches with feline grace, and watches the face of her feline friend to be sure the new boyfriend is true.

She stares at her shoes, doesn’t want to be seen, then complains that no-one cares to notice her. Doesn’t see the contradiction. She’s a teenager.

They cut down trees for fields and planted crops, grew farms and then grew families. The forest left its seedlings behind to watch over them.

They cut down trees for roads and ran the wheels of monsters through their dreams. The forest closed its boughs overhead to keep them warm.

They cut down trees for houses, built their subdivisions, bricks and rocks and stone. Their children ran on paths. The forest’s children waited, all alone.

They fenced the trees but still they watch and rustle warnings, weep sweet rain for passing children’s pain then shed their leaves to comfort them.

She rings her bell and they think her all demanding. No-one understands her cries.  She rings her bell because only one hand’s answering her mind.

She doesn’t speak and they think she must be deaf and doesn’t hear but she’s listening still. She doesn’t speak but she answers them silently.

They offer duty and she asks for love. They offer control; she wants freedom. They offer what they think she needs and no one’s listening.

They offer instruction; she’s seeking peace. They offer noise; she wants silence. They offer to make her the same as everyone else but she’s herself.

A flock’s a strange thing. Not sheep he says. A flock of people with all their different needs who think a priest might have answers.

A customer. She leaps to her feet and puts on the character of a great saleswoman. This is her show and she likes this voice.

They sit on the park bench watching their children and everything’s going well and she’s watching them, she whose child won’t be like everyone else.

Strong, decisive, powerful, that’s him till he sees her again and he wishes perhaps the past had turned out differently. Could she have loved him?

A card for you. A card for me. A bid for you. A rule for me. It goes to game. A hand you see. Bridge-players.

Mommy and Daddy are playing bridge so the children spill their orange juice and build a bridge of leaves for matchbox lorries to cross over.

When the whole community falls apart, someone might need to build a bridge to redeem them. A little child might lead them. Love brings healing.

July drips - 22 to 31

The breeze’s banners flutter bright and colorful against the green of trees. Olympians are heralded. Spectators loudly scream. Inspire a generation colored gold for victory.

Proclaiming city, year and date, there is no pity in this fate. The runner runs and cyclist rides while glorious countryside looks on. Everyone wins.

A bike of flowers adorns the roundabout. Cyclists fly past on wild mercurial heels. Glorious power is shown about this city, praising wild Olympic dreams.

They’ve built a fortress, built a wave, built magic, built a dream. They’ve cheered the athletes, watched their flags wave high. They’ve built a fire.

Winners just to be there. Victors just to see the crown. Champions play the melody. And future medalists set sparks to light the Olympic flame.

See the towers of history, the fields of long-gone battles, shores where conquering heroes stood. Hear the cheers of victory’s parade, long-gone, renewed again today.

When soccer balls and beach balls, volley balls, replace the cannon balls of war, then nations sing a different triumph, victory and unboundedness  of sports.

Like seedling rising from the earth, like slender branches reaching up to sky, his tall bird flies, this diver like a seal beneath the water.

Make a table, nations tell who’s winning, who’s been felled by foul finances. Make a table of the athlete’s names, each hope belongs to all.

Superheroes they’re proclaimed, the ones whose bodies long betrayed, who win despite the soaring pain, the ones who stay behind. We watch them win again.