In Which I Gush a Little
& First Snow (a work of flash fiction)
When the lovely and inimitable Julie Gammack invited me to be a part of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, I said yes because one does not say no to Julie. Not because she’s intimidating, but because she’s brilliant and usually right and often a step or two ahead of us all. You want to be on the train when Julie pulls out of the station.
But I have to be honest and admit that I didn’t expect much. Not this warm and welcoming outpouring of support by fellow Iowans (columnists, readers, and friends), and certainly not the encouragement of champions from much farther abroad than my little Midwestern hometown.
Thank you.
My gratitude seems insufficient, so I will offer what I have: my words. In a weekly format, with what I hope is an abundance of thoughtfulness, grace, and occasionally humor. You can expect essays, book reviews, recommendations, the odd piece of fiction, and perhaps even a podcast episode or two, all influenced in some way (because how could it not be?) by my small town, Iowa life.
Believe it or not, most authors (unless you’re Colleen Hoover or a celebrity) do not make anything close to a livable wage. We write because we love words and creating worlds and we simply can’t imagine doing anything else. If you’d like to support our work in some small way, consider becoming a paid subscriber at just $5 a month. This keeps us caffeinated and flush with our favorite pens and notepads (Sharpie fine tip and yellow legal pads, in case you’re wondering). And if I’m not the author you’d like to support, may I suggest contributing to at least one of the columnists of the Iowa Writers Collaborative (listed below). They’re an impressive bunch.
As a fun way to say thanks to our paid subscribers, the Iowa Writers Collaborative is hosting a Christmas party. Join us on Thursday, December 7 from 5-6:30 at the Witmer House in Des Moines for appetizers, cocktails, and a chance to hang out with the Collaborative. We’d love to see you there. Please use the link below to RSVP so we know you’re coming.
You can also make a one-time donation with Buy Me a Coffee, a site that allows content creators to get compensated in small but meaningful ways for their work. It’s basically like saying: “Thanks! I know you spent time and energy creating this for me. I enjoyed it!”
Of course, you can simply read, be amused, tap the like button, or enter the conversation. Writers love interacting with readers in any way.
Thanks again, dear friends! I’ll be back next Monday with a new article—and I promise, no more small town sports. At least, for now. 😉
Thanks for reading. xo - Nicole
PS - As a parting gift, and because this post was more business than pleasure, here’s a work of flash fiction I wrote during the first snow of the season on Saturday. At the Okoboji Writers’ Retreat, new friends Scott Garson and Grant Faulkner introduced me to this genre, and I’m hooked. For those of you unfamiliar with flash (as I was a month or so ago), it’s a very short (less than 1000 words) story with a complete plot (beginning, middle, end) that usually incorporates an element of surprise. I love reading it and I love writing it, and I may share it here from time to time. This piece is about snowstorms and motherhood.
First Snow
They leave their dishes on the table, soup congealing in speckled ceramic bowls, because outside it has begun to snow. Flakes fat and round as silver dollars, glinting in the streetlights like a universe of falling stars. Stocking caps, mismatched gloves, a plaid scarf knotted loosely. In the garage, they discover some boots are too small (it’s true that kids bloom quick and wild in the lush summer months), and a swapping game ensues. On the spot hand-me-downs and wellingtons repurposed with layers of wool socks until everyone is more or less weatherproof. And then: the door thrown wide, the earth transformed. Snow falling so heavy they are almost instantly white as they wade through powder that swallows the littlest’s legs whole. They plow down abandoned sidewalks to the place where the streetlights end. There: a blade of golden light on deepening snow, the known world an edge snapped so clean it snicks the night in two. Courage is required for that first step, but they take it, and then spill into the darkness, a ragtag constellation. They are perfect in this moment, sparkling, laughing, together. Celestial objects in her heart’s astronomy. And she, the axis, holds fast and flings far, tethering them all to her hope-filled gravity. (Nicole Baart, October 28, 2023)
Really wonderful flash piece, Nicole! It's wonderfully lyrical. A poem. Which is one reason I like the short-short form: the pieces can be like little prose poems, even as they're stories.
One warning to your readers: flash fiction is highly addictive. Proceed with caution.
Beautifully said, prompting so many memories of my own childhood and years of raising children. First snowfalls were moments of magic, thanks for reminding me! I also missed flash fiction writing, I’ll need to learn more about it!